Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
lowdown ☆ you leave the door unlocked. soldier boy takes that exactly as seriously as he wants to.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2925 ride style ☆ bedroom tense
danger on the trail ☆ intense kissing, suggestive touching, soldier boy being possessive/crude
liv's log ☆ please, do not bring an angry mob to my door 🙂↕️ i don't know how to stop the slow burn
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the knife stays by the sink. your door stays unlocked. for tonight, that is as brave as you get.
you tell yourself that means nothing once you’re in bed, because denial has been carrying half this safehouse on its back for weeks and you see no reason to stop contributing now. the little metal lock sits untouched in the door, too loud for an inanimate object. you look at it once, then twice, then make yourself look away.
you are not waiting.
you’re in bed because you’re tired. because training left your arms heavy and your legs sore. because the safehouse has finally quieted down. even the tv in the living room is off for once, which feels unnatural enough that the silence seems suspicious.
so, bed. phone in hand. blanket pulled to your waist. clean shirt. damp hair from the shower drying against your pillow—normal. except your screen has been dark for three minutes and you’re still holding the phone like you’re busy with it.
you tap it awake. no notifications. no messages. no convenient distraction from the fact that your entire body keeps listening for footsteps in the hallway like a pathetic little surveillance system with feelings.
you hate this. you hate that you know the difference between everyone’s steps now. butcher’s uneven stomp. mm’s solid, practical tread. hughie’s lighter, hesitant shuffle. annie’s careful quiet. frenchie’s restless, almost musical movements when he’s thinking too fast. kimiko’s near-silence.
and his. soldier boy doesn’t creep. he doesn’t know how. he moves like the world is supposed to clear a path because most of the time, it does. even when he tries to be quiet, there’s weight to him. wood gives him away. old floorboards complain. air shifts.
so when the hallway finally answers, your stomach drops and lifts at the same time.
you keep your eyes on your phone.
one step. then another. a pause outside your door.
you scroll down a page you have not read.
the door opens without a knock.
soldier boy fills the doorway in an old shirt and sleep shorts, face set into that bored, irritated expression he wears whenever he is doing something very intentional and pretending it’s just happening to him. his eyes move over the room once. quick. bed, you, window, chair. then back to you.
you lift your brows. “ever heard of knocking?”
“door was open.”
“unlocked isn’t open.”
“ah, it’s close enough,” he waves you off.
you stare at him over the top of your phone. “that legal argument work often?”
“worked tonight.”
he steps inside and shuts the door behind him with his heel—final enough that your pulse makes a stupid decision about it. you don’t move. he crosses the room like he’s done it a hundred times, which, by now, he almost has. still, there’s a difference tonight. something in the way he doesn’t hover, doesn’t sit on the edge, doesn’t arrange himself like he’s staying because you might fall apart.
he just lifts the blanket and gets in. fully. under the covers.
your mouth opens. “excuse me?”
“what?”
“make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
he settles onto his back with a rough exhale, taking up an offensive amount of mattress, one arm behind his head, the other already stealing warmth from your side of the bed because apparently conquest begins at the blanket line. “been fucking my back and neck on this tiny-ass bed for a week,” he says. “you’re welcome.”
you blink at him. “for what?”
“my sacrifice.”
“your sacrifice is stealing half my bed?”
“and not smothering you for snoring.”
“i don’t snore.”
he turns his head just enough to look at you. “you also don’t drool, right?”
your eyes narrow. “you said we weren’t making that weird.”
“didn’t say i’d forget.”
“that’s cruel.”
you huff, but it almost becomes a laugh, small and reluctant at the back of your throat. his eyes catch it immediately. the room changes by a fraction, not softer exactly, but closer. his gaze drops to your phone.
“you using that?”
“yes.”
the screen is dark in your hand again. he looks at it. then at you.
you hold his stare with great dignity before his hand moves. he takes the phone from your fingers with the casual entitlement of a man who does not believe small objects deserve to stand between him and what he wants. you make a sound of protest, but it’s weak and both of you know it. he glances at the black screen, scoffs, and tosses it onto the bedside table.
“hey!”
“you weren’t using it.”
“i was pretending to.”
“badly.”
“you came in here for attention?” you ask, and immediately regret giving the sentence a voice because it feels too close to the middle of the room.
soldier boy’s mouth curves. “you offering?”
you should say no. it’s the obvious answer. safe, clean, sensible. one syllable that would put the phone back in your hand, put him back on his side of the bed, put tonight into a shape you can survive tomorrow.
instead, you look at him for half a second too long.
that’s all he needs.
he rolls toward you, not fast, not careful either, the mattress dipping under his weight as his hand comes to your waist over the blanket and drags you closer by a few inches, the movement, blunt and sure, like the unlocked door had already answered enough for both of you.
your breath catches. “entitled.”
“accurate.”
you laugh then. quietly. unwillingly. it slips out of you before you can make it sharper, and he watches it happen like he’s been waiting for that sound all night. his hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing through the blanket.
“that better be appreciation,” he says.
“for your sacrifice?”
“damn right.”
“thank you for ruining your ancient spine in my bed.”
“there you go.”
“beautiful moment.”
“shut up.”
“you first.”
he kisses you before you can win.
the first kiss is slower than it has any right to be. his mouth meets yours with heat held back behind his teeth, almost testing, though soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than call it that. his hand stays at your waist, not soft, not gentle, but keeping you close. your fingers curl in the blanket between you because for one second, your body doesn’t know where to put all the wanting.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his breath brushes your mouth. you should say something. probably something mean. you don’t.
so he kisses you again.
this time, you move closer before he pulls you, knee sliding under the blanket, shoulder turning toward him. his hand comes out from under the covers and grips your waist properly, fabric bunching under his palm as he drags you into the space against him. your own hand catches the front of his shirt, not with panic this time, not to stop a blast, not to ground him through fear. just because you want him there.
that thought is dangerous. you kiss him harder to avoid it.
soldier boy makes a low sound against your mouth, rough enough to send heat straight through your stomach, and then his hand slides under your shirt.
his palm finds bare skin—warm, broad, rough against your stomach, fingers spreading over the place he’s been touching all week in training with excuses stacked higher than the manuals on mm’s table.
your whole body reacts and he feels it. of course the bastard feels it. his mouth pauses at the corner of yours, and you can feel the smugness before he even speaks. “that all it takes?”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
his hand presses once against your stomach, enough to make your breath hitch. “too late.”
“asshole.”
“there she is.”
you bite his lower lip for that. not hard enough to hurt, enough to make him pull in a breath through his nose and grip your waist tighter. his eyes darken when he draws back a fraction. “careful.”
“or what?”
his answer is his mouth on yours again, the restraint thinning out fast. the third kiss opens with tongue, and your body gives up the pretense of being reasonable. your fingers slide up into his shirt, catching at his side, his ribs, the warm hard line of him beneath cotton. he shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours under the covers, while his hand under your shirt moves from your stomach to your side, then back again like he’s memorizing what makes you forget to breathe.
and god, you do forget.
for a while, there is no knife by the sink. no blood under your nails. no freezer manuals. no warehouse. no ugly little fear waiting in every corner of the safehouse. there’s just his mouth and his hand, the heat of him under the blankets, the scrape of his stubble when he changes the angle of the kiss, the way he takes every small sound from you like he has earned it and intends to collect.
you moan into his mouth when his thumb drags higher under your shirt, skimming the lower edge of your ribs.
his hand stops. “quiet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to scrape. “or you trying to wake the whole damn house?”
your face heats. “maybe you’re just bad at keeping me quiet.”
his eyes lift to yours. wrong answer. or exactly the right one. “that right?”
you swallow. “maybe.”
he moves over you in one smooth, heavy shift, and the mattress dips beneath your back before your brain has time to organize a defense. suddenly, he’s above you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still under your shirt, palm flat over your stomach. too much in the best and worst possible way.
your breath goes thin. he looks down at you with that unbearable focus, hair falling slightly forward, mouth swollen from yours, eyes dark and alive with a kind of satisfaction that makes you want to shove him and pull him back at the same time.
“you gonna keep that mouth under control for once,” he says, “or do you want marvin kicking this door down and butcher making jokes until i kill him?”
you should laugh. you almost do. instead, your hand slides up his chest and hooks around the back of his neck, pulling him down the last inch.
“then do something useful with yours.”
his expression flashes.
the fourth kiss turns the room into something else entirely. his weight settles more firmly between your bent knees, not pushing too far, not crossing the line you both know is there, but making the existence of it very, very difficult to respect. the blanket tangles around his hips and your legs. your shirt rides higher under his hand. your back arches before you can stop it, and he uses the movement, palm sliding to your spine, dragging you closer while his mouth works yours open with rough, greedy patience.
his hand moves like he has been denied for too long. stomach, ribs, waist. a squeeze at your side that makes you gasp. a drag of his thumb just under the band of your shirt. his fingers pressing into your skin when your hips shift beneath him without permission. every touch says mine with the arrogance of a man who has no right to say it.
your fingers push into his hair. he groans at that, low and sharp, and the sound nearly ruins you. his mouth leaves yours, dragging along your jaw, not gentle, not sweet, teeth catching once near the edge of your throat before he pulls back just enough to breathe.
“fuck,” he mutters, and it sounds angry.
you blink up at him, chest rising too fast. “what?”
“nothing.”
“that didn’t sound like nothing.”
“sounds like you’re talking again.”
“maybe you’re slacking.”
his eyes narrow. “brat.”
his mouth crashes back onto yours, and this time you really do make a sound too loud to be safe. he catches it with the kiss, hand coming up from under your shirt to cover your mouth for half a second when he breaks away, eyes glittering with wicked amusement.
“what’d i just say?”
you breathe against his palm, eyes locked on his, and because you have learned nothing about survival, you lick the heel of his hand.
his expression goes still.
then his palm drops, and he kisses you again with enough force to push your head back into the pillow. your hands grab at him, his shirt, his shoulder, his arm, anywhere you can reach. he lets you pull, lets you scratch a little through the fabric, lets your knee hook around his side under the covers. he takes the contact like it is owed and gives back more, mouth rough, breath hot, body heavy above yours.
somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny practical voice tries to remind you there is a mission coming. vought. homelander. chamber parts. the knife.
soldier boy’s hand slides down to your thigh and pries it higher against his hip.
the practical voice dies immediately.
you break the kiss with a shaky inhale, head turning against the pillow. “jesus.”
“not even close.”
his mouth finds the side of your neck again, and this time you don’t stop the sound fast enough. it leaves you soft and broken, and he freezes for half a second, then exhales through his nose against your skin like he’s barely holding the leash on himself.
“you keep doing that,” he says, rough, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
your fingers tighten in his hair. “sounds like your problem.”
he lifts his head. there is no humor in his face now. there’s heat, yes, and arrogance, and that old entitlement he wears like it was issued with his shield and suit, but beneath it is something more focused. more dangerous because it’s not careless.
he looks at your mouth, your flushed face, the place your shirt is rucked up beneath his hand, then back to your eyes.
“tomorrow,” he says.
it takes you a second to understand. “what?”
“tomorrow matters.”
you almost laugh, except you’re breathing too hard and he’s still half over you. “are you giving me a mission briefing right now?”
“i’m saying not tonight.”
your body, traitor that it is, reacts with immediate offense. “excuse me?”
that gets the corner of his mouth to move. “heard me.”
“you start this and then pull strategy?”
“you need sleep.”
“oh, fuck off.”
“and i need you sharp.”
that shuts you up. not because it’s soft—it is. not because he says it kindly—he doesn’t. his voice is still rough, still edged with want, still low enough that it feels like another hand on you. but it lands with the same ugly tenderness all his almost-care does: badly dressed, uninvited, impossible to ignore.
you stare at him. he stares back, breathing hard through his nose like restraint is personally insulting him.
“you’re annoying,” you say, because anything else would expose too much.
“yeah.”
“and bossy.”
“mhm.”
“and in my bed.”
“yup.”
“under my covers.”
“got comfortable.”
you huff, trying not to smile and failing enough that his eyes drop to your mouth again. the heat is still there. not gone. absolutely not gone. it sits between you, waiting for one of you to be stupid enough to touch it again.
soldier boy shifts his weight off you slowly, and somehow the absence is worse. he rolls onto his side beside you, but his hand stays under your shirt, palm settling warm against your stomach like he’s decided that part remains his for the night.
you should move it. probably. you don’t. you turn onto your side too, facing him. the room feels wrecked though nothing is out of place except your shirt, your breathing, and possibly your entire common sense.
“so what,” you murmur, “you’re being responsible now?”
“don’t insult me.”
“sorry. tactical.”
“better.”
you snort, then yawn before you can stop it. his brows lift.
“don’t,” you warn.
“wasn’t gonna.”
“liar.”
“yeah.” his thumb moves once against your skin, absentmindedly. too intimate to survive if either of you names it.
you look toward the door. still closed. still unlocked. the safehouse remains quiet beyond it. nobody barges in. nobody ruins it. butcher doesn’t appear in a doorway with terrible emotional timing.
your eyes drift back to soldier boy. his face is close enough in the low light that you can see the faint shadow under his eye, the stubborn set of his jaw.
“you’re staying?” you ask.
his gaze flicks to yours. “you kicking me out?”
“i asked first.”
“i’m staying.”
your chest does something unbearably small. you ignore it with the strength of a woman who has ignored worse things and been wrong about all of them. “fine.”
“generous.”
“don’t drool on my pillow.”
his mouth twitches. “that’s your job.”
you shove his chest with one hand. he doesn’t move. not even slightly. instead, he catches your wrist anyway and tugs you closer, not enough to start again, but enough that your forehead brushes his collarbone. his hand returns to your stomach after, warm and heavy beneath your shirt, grounding in a way you refuse to unpack tonight.
but for now, his body is warm beside yours, his breathing slower than yours until yours starts copying it. you close your eyes and feel his thumb shift once, barely there, against your skin.
you still don’t touch the knife.
your sheath is still empty.
tomorrow is still coming.
but for the first time all week, you stop feeling it in your hand.
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary: Ryland Grace remembers the nickname he used to call you when you were on earth together.
pairing: ryland grace x reader
tags: bit of angst, rocky being curious about human mates, reader lying to Grace, partial amnesia, no established relationship, Stratt haunting the narrative
author note: this fic is just an excuse to write a headcanon i have of Ryland calling his significant other "Sunshine". Also english not my frst language so I apologise in advance for any mistakes.
“Rocky not understand.”
The robotic voice of your alien crewmate echoed through the Hail Mary, cutting through the low mechanical hum of the ship.
You sat alone in the cockpit, shoulders hunched toward the observation console, focused on the glowing Petrova line wrapped around Tau Ceti like threads of red ropes. Beyond the reinforced glass, space stretched endlessly in every direction. It was silent, black, immeasurable. The nearby star burned brighter than it should have, golden light spilling across the cockpit panels in dim reflections.
It was wrong.
A sun infected with Astrophage should have been weakening. Dying. And yet Tau Ceti still shone defiantly against the darkness. Against the odds. Your fingers adjusted the smaller lens of the spatial telescope, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach as equations and theories circled endlessly in your mind. You were not particularly good at it. But keeping an eye on it and listening to Ryland’s lessons helped you pick up some basic math and scientific understanding.
However hearing your small companion bickering with Grace finally pulled your attention away.
You leaned back slowly from the instrument, exhaustion tugging at your muscles. Leaning into the chair. How long were you hunched over that console ? It felt like hours to your back.
Rocky and Grace had a very… particular relationship.
Grace had been the first human to make contact with him. The first to bridge the impossible gap between species. The first to understand the music hidden beneath Rocky’s vibrations and clicks. And in return, Rocky trusted Ryland in a way that seemed almost instinctive.
Not that you and Rocky disliked each other. Quite the opposite, actually. But what existed between those two was rare. The kind of connection forged under impossible circumstances.
The kind that only happened once in a lifetime.
Soulmates, maybe.
Even if Rocky frequently declared: “Rocky think male human stupid. Rocky prefer female human.”
You heard Ryland answer him from the lab module, his voice lowered deliberately, like he was trying to keep the conversation private.
Which, naturally, made you suspicious immediately.
You pushed yourself out of your seat and made your way through the narrow corridor connecting the cockpit to the lab. The ship creaked softly around you, metal expanding and contracting with temperature shifts. Pipes rattled faintly behind the walls. Somewhere deeper in the Hail Mary, the life-support systems breathed with rhythmic consistency.
It was home.
Or at least the closest thing any of you had left.
“What are you two whispering about?” you asked as you stepped into the lab, leaning against one of the walls of the wide entrance.
Grace nearly startled hard enough to fall backward off his stool.
Rocky, meanwhile, remained perfectly still inside his xenonite enclosure, several of his limbs tapping rapidly against the floor followed by a quiet musical rhythm, what you had learned to be amusement. His body angled slightly toward the vibrations of your footsteps as he mapped your position through echolocation.
“Nothing,” Grace answered much too quickly.
“Grace lying,” Rocky announced immediately.
You crossed your arms. “Obviously.”
Grace groaned and dragged a tired hand down his face. His beard had grown a bit again. There were dark circles beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep ever seemed to fix anymore.
“Okay, fine,” he muttered. “Rocky asked me a question.”
“A weird question?” you guessed.
“An extremely weird question.”
Rocky’s translator crackled softly.
“Rocky ask why human female not choose mate. Grace explanation confusing.”
You blinked once.
Then twice.
“Oh no.”
Grace pointed accusingly toward the glass enclosure. “Hey, pal, this is your fault. You started asking questions after movie night.”
“Then movie inaccurate,” Rocky replied. “Human mating process efficient. In movie, humans mating process done in approximately 78.5 minutes.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Grace looked wounded by the betrayal.
“Don’t encourage him.”
“Rocky correct,” the Eridian continued proudly. “Human spend excessive time signaling. No ammonia exchange. No carapace touching. Very bad system.”
That did it.
You burst into laughter, the sound filling the cramped little lab and bouncing off metal walls that had become far too familiar over the weeks since you woke up.
Grace stared at both of you with exhausted resignation.
“I crossed eleven-point-nine light-years to save humanity,” he said flatly, “and somehow I became an alien relationship counselor.”
Rocky angled himself toward you.
“Friend,” he said, “explain why Grace not have mate.”
Grace froze.
The humor drained from your face almost instantly.
You didn’t answer right away.
He has one. Well… Had one.
For one terrible moment, your mind betrayed you. Your memories surfaced too fast to stop. A building hallway filled with fluorescent lights. Ryland walking beside you with two coffees balanced dangerously in one hand because he refused to make two trips. The smell of rain on warm pavement outside the lab in Chicago.
The sound of his laughter at two in the morning after both of you had been awake far too long.
And then-
“Sunshine.”
The nickname drifted through your memory with aching clarity. You could hear his voice saying it so easily back then. Soft and amused and warm in ways he rarely allowed himself to be anymore. The problem was that Ryland barely remembered Earth now.
Not really. The coma had taken too much from him.
Sometimes he remembered scientific formulas perfectly while forgetting entire conversations from the week before. Sometimes he recalled the molecular structure of Astrophage but stared blankly when you mentioned a restaurant the two of you used to visit near the camp.
But some things remained. Fragments. What felt like instincts to his body or to his soul.
You crossed your arms tighter against your chest, hiding the nervous movement of your fingers. Grace looked up at you from where he sat slouched over the table, one hand buried in his hair.
Waiting.
Expecting something.
Something you had promised yourself long ago that you would never give him again.
The mission comes first.
Stratt’s voice still haunted you sometimes. Cold. Absolute. Unavoidable. You close your eyes trying to shoo away the picture of the blod-haired woman sitting in front of you in that cold office.
You shall not be a distraction. No more attachments like they allowed you both on earth .You needed him to save Earth first. You were just here for psychological and physical medical care, in case the robot was not enough.
You swallowed carefully.
“Careful, Rocky,” you said lightly, forcing humor into your voice. “That’s a sensitive topic.”
And as those words left your lips, you could see Ryland’s body relaxing. Not from relief. But what looked like disappointment.
“Rocky aware,” he replied immediately. “Grace emits stress sweat.”
“I hate both of you,” Grace muttered. Face nuzzling between his arms in a defeated sigh.
“Incorrect. Grace affection levels high.”
Your smile softened despite yourself. Because beneath the teasing, beneath the absurdity of discussing human dating habits with a giant alien spider-crab engineer in another solar system, there was something painfully genuine between all of you.
Friendship. Real friendship. The kind built in isolation and fear and trust. The kind strong enough to survive the end of the world.
Rocky shifted slightly, listening to the subtle changes in both your breathing patterns.
“Female human heart rate elevated,” he observed.
Grace sighed heavily, now straightening up. “Rocky…”
“Male human also distressed,” Rocky continued. “Both humans display unresolved bonding behavior.”
You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from reacting.
“That’s not what this is,” Grace said quickly.
Rocky tilted slightly, one of his “hands” up.
“Then explain.”
Grace opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
You looked away before he could catch the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. Ryland was struggling. And you couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't his first time being at loss for words on this topic. Did the children ask him those questions too ? Did he blush the way he was right now ?
Unfortunately, Rocky noticed everything.
“Female human avoiding direct orientation,” he said thoughtfully. “Classic behavior of mating ritual.”
“Rocky,” Grace warned.
The Eridian ignored him entirely.
“Grace explained how human mating rituals inefficient. Rocky now understand why species struggle.”
A snort escaped you. Of course, he would tell Rocky about his sentimental problems in life. Grace was an introvert at heart. And when he tried to stick to the “conventional” ways of flirting… Well. It was usually a failure.
Grace looked personally offended.
“Oh, so you’re enjoying this now?”
“A little,” you admitted.
He shook his head, but then he smiled too. It was small, tired. But familiar. And it hit you with painful force. Because for one awful second, it felt like being back on Earth again.
Like late nights in the camp observatory. Like arguing over topics, that you pretended to not understand, while sharing takeout containers. Like Ryland absentmindedly calling you sunshine without realizing he was doing it. Life before the mission. The life you had before the distance.
Before becoming ghosts of the people you used to be.
Grace’s expression softened as he looked at you. Putting his glasses up his nose once more today. Something flickered there suddenly.
Recognition. Not a full memory. Fragments.
But something buried deep inside him reached toward the surface. His lips parted before he seemed to realize what he was doing.
“Careful, sunshine- ”
Silence swallowed the room almost immediately. Grace froze, lips still parted. Your breath caught painfully in your lungs. You didn't expect to hear that word from him again. Tears prickled behind your eyes. Oh you missed it. You miss him so much, it hurts.
Even the endless hum of the ship suddenly felt distant. Rocky’s claws tapped loudly against the xenonite floor. Breaking the silence between you all.
“New designation detected.”
Grace stared at you like he couldn’t believe the word had come out of his own mouth.
“I…” He rubbed a hand over his face slowly. Moving his glasses in a weird angle again. “Wow. Okay. I don't think I have said that in a while.”
Your chest ached. You blinked faster trying to hold back those tears in place. Because he remembered. You shouldn't be mourning the Grace you knew. Cause he was still right here. Maybe not fully. Maybe only fragments.
But somewhere inside the damaged maze of his memories, he still remembered you. He still remembered what you had together.
Rocky angled himself toward Grace.
“ ‘Sunshine’, affectionate title for female human?”
Grace looked absolutely anywhere except directly at you. He frowned for a second trying to hold onto the memory that just resurfaced.
He could only picture your smiling eyes in a hazy memory. Your laugh is echoing in his brain. You were probably making fun of him ? Golden light filled the room. The kind of light that warmed the Earth when night was close. He could decipher a white board in the corner of his eye. His chest warm with the love he knows he holds for you. “Careful, sunshine.”
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly but with certainty.
Rocky considered this carefully. A “oh” coming from the computer in the center of the room. Then his body turned toward the vibrations of your breathing.
“Appropriate,” he decided. “Friend improves Grace mood immediately. Similar effect to sunlight on Earth plant life.”
Heat rushed to your face despite yourself, and a soft laugh escaped you.
Grace groaned. “Rocky, please stop helping.”
“Rocky excellent helper.”
Your eyes met Ryland’s again. This time neither of you looked away.
Outside the observation window, Tau Ceti burned against the endless dark like a living ember.
And somewhere in the silence between you, buried beneath years of restraint, fading memories, and the crushing weight of humanity’s survival, the old nickname lingered quietly like something nothing or no one could take away.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Six: Made for Me
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: Once Brendon has you safe and comfortable at home, your shared heat and rut take over. You finally learn the perfection that comes with accepting your fated mate.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, scenting, mating time yay, oh god so many smut tags here we go, musk kink, fingering, fisting, piv, riding, mating press, missionary, creampie, breeding (they even talk about it youre welcome), knotting, mutual mating bites, multiple orgasms, everyone cries during sex, just so much smushy lovey pillow talk
Content Warnings: smut smut smut, minor blood (from bites)
Author's Note: i love this one so much everybody be nice!! also i Think this is the final chapter but i Might write an epilogue
Word Count: 7.6k
Brendon’s on high alert until he has you – softly crying, anxious, needy – safe in his car, strapped in, protected from the rest of the world. Even then, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, unable to relax while you’re still so upset. He holds you close with his right arm, tugging you to his chest, kissing the top of your head at every red light.
Meanwhile, you’re restless. Your hormones and your emotions are all over the place. Arousal pools in your gut and spills out between your legs while anxiety grips your brain stem. There’s an unreality that you’re not sure how to deal with in the liminal space of Brendon’s car. All you know is that you need him. So you keep your nose at his neck and try to breathe.
Once Brendon has you inside your apartment, the scents and sights and sounds familiar, the anxiety slips behind the raw need that comes with your heat. As Brendon gets his bearings in your space for the first time, you follow him around like a lost puppy, your limbs getting weaker and your brain going squishy. While he puts your things away from your backpack, you yank on his scrub top and stand on your toes to kiss him.
Brendon wraps you in an all-enveloping embrace, his huge arms sturdy around your shivering form. You whine and palm at his cock through his scrubs, consumed by how badly you need him, but he catches your hand and presses kisses to your knuckles instead. “Not yet, baby, you’ve gotta relax a little first. Your nervous system’s fried. We’re gonna eat something and then we’re gonna sleep a bit and then you can have whatever you want whenever you want until your heat’s over.”
You grip his shirt tight and your eyes are wide and teary. “You’ll stay with me?”
He’s never felt his heart splintered in so many pieces. This is the time where he can turn all your fear to safety. Solemn and assuring, he cradles your face and vows, “Nothing on earth could stop me from being with you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Tilting your chin upward, he kisses you. Sweet and warm and slow. You melt against him. Suddenly, you can see sturdiness in his eyes, complete authority that you can yield to. Looking down at you sternly, knowing that you’re beginning to fold into the role of omega to his alpha, he asks, “Now what do you want to eat, sweetheart? We can order in or I can make something from what you have here for now.”
You shake your head and reply, “You pick. Can’t think.”
Brendon sighs and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “That bad already, huh?”
“I always have a hard time,” you start, trying hard to focus on what you want to say. “During my heat, I mean. With talking.”
He gives you another soft kiss. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of everything.”
When you gaze up at him this time, he can see any of your worries evaporating and turning to nothing but trust. “I know you will.”
So Brendon steps away from you and into the kitchen. Immediately, you whine at the lack of closeness. Brendon knows why, of course, because you’re his. So he smiles, rolls his eyes overdramatically to make it clear he’s playing, and opens his arms for you. “Come on, koala, hop up.”
You let out a happy squeal and jump onto him, wrapping your legs around his hips and your arms around the back of his neck. You nestle your nose against his scent gland and breathe deeply as Brendon walks around your kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and fridge to see the state of things. He’s pleased to find that you’ve definitely been preparing for your heat. Not only is the place loaded with baked goods from your days of nesting, but there are plenty of groceries. All your favorite snacks, fruits and vegetables, the works.
Brendon presses a kiss to the side of your head and says, “Good girl. I’m really proud of you for taking care of yourself.” You grin and squeeze him tightly, all awash in happy chemicals having him in your space and, frankly, having an alpha strong enough to carry you around like it’s nothing in the first place. Brendon collects a Tupperware of baked goods and a few Gatorades before telling you, “After you get a little rest, you’ll need to eat something with protein and nutrients, but this’ll do for now. Where’s your nest, kitten?”
You nod over toward your bedroom and he obediently goes that direction, one arm beneath your ass and the other balancing the snacks. He can balance your whole weight with only one of his huge arms. His strength is intoxicating.
After pushing open the door to your bedroom, Brendon sees your nest and stops in his tracks. You’ve always been a little intense about your nest and it doesn’t necessarily match with the cutesy homemaker image that a lot of omegas aspire to when it comes to designing their space. Instead of dreamy, gauzy linens and low lights, it’s a bit more…chaotic. Like you’ve turned your bed into a blanket fort. The bed is pushed into the corner and you’ve tented it in beneath sheets and blankets tied to your ceiling. The far wall has built-in shelves where you’ve painstakingly arranged everything you could possibly need during your heat in overflowing baskets: All your sex toys, your favorite snacks, lotions you like, scents that make you happy, a speaker you can connect to your phone with its own remote.
On the opposite side of the bed from the bookshelf, Brendon notices a large swath of canvas rolled up and attached to the ceiling; with just a bit of observation, he realizes that, when it comes down, you can use it as a screen with a projector on the bookshelf. Your own personal movie theater. There’s an ocean of stuffies in the far corner, mostly Jellycats, and he wonders how you’d decided which ones to collect. Among them, there’s a collection of lots of fuzzy blankets and favorite pieces of clothing. You’ve got miniature paper lantern string lights criss-crossing along the top of the whole space, their pastel colors shining soft rainbows on everything.
A serene smile spreads over Brendon’s face as he takes in the space, imagining himself curled up with you as often as you’ll have him. You pull your face from his neck, eyes wide with worry at the idea of being rejected, and whisper, “I know it’s messy.”
He squeezes you tight, meets your eyes seriously, and assures you the way he always does and always will, “It’s perfect, princess. I promise.”
As Brendon sets you down on your own two feet again, you straighten up and give him a sweet, proud smile. “You really like it?”
“I really do,” he confirms. As his eyes chase every detail of your most intimate space, there’s a vibrant enthusiasm about him right now that you haven’t seen before. His energy is high and bright and addictive. Now that you’re totally safe, away from any real or perceived danger, he can relax into being the loving, supportive, affectionate alpha he really is. “Everything is just so…you. I love that; it feels so special.” He draws a step closer and breathes deeply. “And, god, it smells fucking incredible.”
Before he can fold into the incredible display of coziness, you wrinkle your nose, nudge him in the bicep, and tell him, “No outside clothes.”
Brendon nods like that makes sense. To him, it does. You’re his perfect, precious girl and everything you do is just as perfect and precious as the rest of you. So he strips off his scrub top and discards it in the nearby hamper. Then, seeing your pupils dilate as you get your first real look at his body, Brendon turns to you with a cocky smile on his face. He steps out of his pants and kicks them away, leaving him in only his tight heather gray boxer briefs.
On his next breath, the mild, sweet scent of your slick coats his lungs. Beside himself as your pheromones unfurl into their most primal level, Brendon grips the door frame to your en suite bathroom and groans, “Oh, fuck. You smell so- God.”
He surges forward without thinking and grabs you. His fingers find yours and he lifts your wrist to his nose. You’ve never seen such a peaceful, ecstatic expression on his harsh features as when his nose touches the scent gland at your wrist. He knows that, between your legs, it’ll be ten times as intense, your slick and your sweat and your scent all mingling into a cocktail designed specifically and exclusively for him to consume.
Your hands go uselessly to the tie on your scrub bottoms to try to get your clothes off, but your fingers are shaky and awkward. You pout and demand, “Help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, taking the reins for you. Brendon makes quick work of your pants and then your tee. When he has you in only a sports bra and frumpy panties – thankfully your heat stops you from feeling any embarrassment that you aren’t wearing something ‘cute’ underneath your clothes – Brendon can hardly breathe for how gorgeous you are. It’s his turn for shaky hands as he tentatively touches your waist, not wanting to push you too hard too soon. He breathes out slowly, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You bite your lip and glance down at the floor, swaying gently under his praise. “Thank you.”
Brendon tilts your chin up, needing to see your eyes, and checks, “Do you want to put on some pajamas?”
With a sheepish, flirtatious smile, you shake your head no and start to remove your bra and underwear. Brendon steps forward to help you, thinking of nothing but making sure you’re comfortable. It’s strange, this rut. On one hand, the sight of you naked in front of him has his cock throbbing with desire. But, on a much deeper, more visceral level, the singular focus on his mind is ensuring that you’re safe, comfortable, loved. He thought he’d want to claim and mark and fuck his mate until you were both numb, but, first and foremost, he wants to give you whatever you need. It goes beyond ‘want,’ actually. If you aren’t perfectly content, he can’t even breathe.
So, when he steps out of his own boxer briefs to join you in nakedness, it doesn’t even feel sexual to either of you. It’s comfort, simply speaking. You take his hand. Unable to disguise your nerves at the vulnerability, you pull him into your nest, immediately curling your arms around your knees because it feels so intense to have an alpha in here. To have his heady spicy scent filling the cracks and crevices of all your most beloved things.
Noticing your strained posture, Brendon rubs your back and murmurs, “You don’t have to be worried about anything, pup. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Right now. Just being with you here. Let’s just relax a while, okay?”
You smile easily at that and suggest, “Music?”
“Music sounds good,” he confirms. He takes your phone from your discarded clothes, connects to the speakers with bluetooth, and scrolls through your playlists. He smirks and offers, “How about ‘Heat Wave’? Is that for your heat?”
You giggle and nod, so he hits play. As “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” flits through the speakers, Brendon nestles backwards, sprawling out his large body, and pulls you to his chest. You sling your leg over his, your warmth permeating him, and everything starts to make sense for the first time today. You take a deep breath and let it out. Finally. Skin on skin. Body on body. Self on self. This is what you’ve needed to fully relax.
Brendon can’t believe how calm he feels. The irritation, the anger, the restlessness are all gone with your weight on him. When he’s had to deal with his rut alone, he’s always so damn frustrated that he can barely breathe, let alone think. He thrusts into fleshlights or his hand until his cock can’t do anything more, but he’ll still be agonizingly turned on, seeking out something to fuck.
Now, though? With you? He can feel the pulse of his cock, a quiet hum reminding him of what he craves, but it doesn’t feel urgent or consuming. Just there. Because it’s yours now, not his. His rut isn’t something to fight through; it’s something to give to you. It’s his biology knowing how to protect and nurture yours.
After a few songs swing by, your breaths are even and slow and you start to purr. Brendon’s whole body shimmers when he feels that soft vibration against his chest. He kisses the top of your head and checks, “Feeling better now, sweet girl?”
“Mhmm,” you coo, eyes still closed. “You’re comfy.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles, shifting his weight so you can have even more of his body as a pillow. As he adjusts, his hand moves to your comfort pile, where he finds a pair of suspiciously familiar basketball shorts. And a navy tee. Followed by a white tank top and boxer briefs. Eyes widening with surprise and amusement, he straightens up slightly to get your attention. “Baby, are these mine? When the hell did you steal these?” Tears prickle at your eyes and you whimper, guilt tightening around your throat at the idea that he might be upset with you. But he laughs and hugs you close, flipping you into his lap, quick to assure, “No, don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m not mad at all. It’s really sweet. I’m…impressed, honestly. I’m so crazy about you that I didn’t even notice my fucking gym bag going missing.”
You giggle and avert your eyes, telling him dreamily, “They smell good.”
“Yeah?” With you seated on his thighs now, Brendon rests his hands on your lower back, nips gentle kisses up your neck, and teases as you smile, “My gross gym clothes do it for you?”
His joking tone dies in the air when you pull back to answer. Your pupils are blown so wide he can’t see the color of your irises at all. You’re not teasing or bashful anymore. Every feature reveals pure and simple lust.
You nod slowly, the admission not at all shameful with your heat prickling through your body. Without thinking, following desires that don’t have names or words, you take his hands in yours and lift them up above his head. He just follows your lead with wide eyes; he’s not going to stop you from doing anything you want to him. With him. For him. He’s yours.
With heavy lids like you’re high, you nuzzle into his armpit, breathing deeply. After morning surgeries and the high intensity of his search for you, Brendon smells like his gym clothes. Warm, masculine, animalistic. It adds a richness to all the smells that have already sent your logical brain far, far away. His breath catches in his throat and his cock twitches against your stomach. He’s never been wanted so viscerally and it has his hips bucking involuntarily, his toes curling into your sheets, his mind racing.
You lick a long stripe up the center of his chest, chasing a bead of his sweat until the salt coats your tongue. His breaths speed up until he’s on the border of panting. His eyes lock onto your drunken expression while you burnish his chest with your cheeks, scenting him and inhaling him at the same time. You move lower, no agenda or intention to your movements. When you reach his thick, dark pubic hair, you brush your nose deep against his skin. The mix of his pheromones has slick dripping from your core.
Not a thought in your pretty little head as you lavish at the scent glands of his inner thighs, you rub your bare cunt over his shin because it’s the closest thing you can get friction with.
Brendon’s hand goes to the side of your face. You look up at him with nothing behind your eyes. Breathless, he groans, “Christ, baby, you’re gone, aren’t you?”
All of a sudden, as your alpha, he understands what you need more deeply than you do. His logical mind wants to make sure you’re fed and clean and well-rested, wants to make good on his initial plan, but it’s like he can see through you right now. And he knows that you need him. You won’t even feel the hunger or the tiredness until that first, most primal need is filled.
So he orders in his lowest, most wanting voice, not disguising the plain want, “Come here, omega.”
Your brain tingles. You crawl upward and sit in his lap and wait patiently. In the next millisecond, he locks his mouth with yours. He’s all teeth and tongue and you let him claim every millimeter of the kiss, leading it, demanding from you. The smell of your slick is overwhelming, soft and almost floral and spreading like a secret you only want to share with him.
His dominant hand drops between your bodies, fingers plunging into your ample wetness. With no resistance, he twists his wrist to curl his two middle fingers up into your cunt. For all the times he’s imagined your hot wet pussy inviting him in, he still couldn’t have gotten all of the delicious, divine details right. Everything is in technicolor, ultra high definition, his brain operating on a different frequency than it’s ever been able to access before. You cry out when he adds his third finger, feeling your need, and you both already need so, so much more. Against your mouth, he growls, “Fuck. Fuck.”
His thumb barely touches your clit and you’re in outer space. Your hips chase his touch and your tits bounce in his face as a result and he has to take one of your nipples between his teeth or he’ll fucking die right here and now. His free hand flies up to grab your other breast as he sucks and nibbles your sensitive nub relentlessly. Moans drip down the edges of your lips and he drowns in them as they pour over your tits.
Brendon’s sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your breast and you gasp. He shoves you forward, flopping you onto your back, without releasing you for a single second. His nails dig into your hip as he holds you down, mouth going to the other side to torture you equally. He shoves a fourth finger into your cunt and you wail in response. It doesn’t hurt, not when you’re in heat, but it stretches and it sings. Your back arches and pleasure zaps up your spine alongside the pain. You throw your head back as your clit thrums and your cunt devours and your whole body vaporizes into delicious agony.
You cum without warning and without preamble, swallowing his hand nearly to his knuckles. Your thighs thrash back and forth as ecstasy strangles you. The presence of your mate’s pheromones, his presence, his eyes locked on you, his everything, shatters you.
“You’re doing so good for me,” Brendon purrs as you clamp down around his fingers over and over, the orgasm refusing to let up until he does. And he’s not going to. The hand on your hip crushes you into the bed, refusing to let you squirm away. His thumb leaves your clit and you whine from the loss – until his thumb joins his other four fingers inside of your sopping cunt.
Tears crest over your waterline out of nowhere. The intensity of having most of Brendon Park’s massive, surgically precise hand inside of you has your brain on fire. But you breathe through it. You grab at his hair and yank to ground yourself, forcing him into another kiss. This time, you’re the one who bites at his lips, his jaw, his throat, his ear, whatever you can get. When you tighten your teeth around his trap, biting down hard enough to draw blood, Brendon growls, “There you go, pup. Good fucking girl. Don’t you ever hold back with me.”
Your thighs clamp around his wrist as your cunt tightens again, if it ever even stopped in the first place, and he chases you up the bed, not letting you get away. With the orgasm at its peak, beside yourself, unable to think of anything else, you cry, “Breed me, Bren, please. I need- I need your knot right now. Right now.”
Brendon snarls and pulls his hand from inside of you, using the slick that drips from his fingers to lube his fat cock. You realize with a thrill that he needed to use all his fingers to warm you up like that because his cock is positively monstrous. In his full rut, it has to be the size of a can of Monster. Fitting. Even with your heat making you loose and drenched, you have a hard time imagining it fitting between your legs. But all doubt dies when Brendon shoves your legs back next to your ears and lines himself up with your entrance.
He straightens up just enough to watch, rapt, as he slides his cock into you for the first time. It stretches you wide. The sight of your slick coating him, the sight of each inch sinking into you, the sight of your eyes closed and your mouth open in rapture – it’s all too much for him to bear. His hand slams into the wall above you, the drywall cracking and chipping beneath his cruel fingers, and he finally bottoms out at your cervix.
When he actually starts to thrust, each one opening you like never before, your hands scramble upwards, nails clawing into his biceps. He shivers when you leave behind harsh red lines that trail down his stomach before grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him in impossible closer.
“Baby, I’m not-” He gasps in a breath when you moan, unable to handle him using pet names while he’s deep inside of you. “I don’t have an implant or anything. You could actually- Fuck. Fuck. Jesus. You can’t- you can’t grab me like that, honey, I won’t last.”
“Don’t care,” you pant, rolling your hips up to meet every pump of his cock. You need him closer. Deeper. More. More more more. You manage to find words only because they’re identical to your thoughts: “Wanna give you so many pups, Bren. Wanna be yours for good.” Your voice breaks and you beg, “Please, alpha, please. ”
“You don’t have to beg. You never have to beg for anything from your alpha,” he rumbles. His lips go to your neck and his cock drills into you and he swears warmly, “Anything you want, princess. Anything. It’s all yours. Everything I have is yours now.”
“Knot,” you gasp. Back arching. Lungs burning. Stomach flipping. You can see fireworks in your mind and Brendon’s eyes are so fucking intense as they bore into you and all you can do is whine and groan, “Need your knot. All I need.”
When you feel him beginning to swell, his balls tightening and his thighs stuttering, your brain goes totally flat from everything but pleasure and need. It’s a white-out of thought and logic. Nothing exists but Brendon and the fact that only he can give you what your body truly craves.
His lips connect with yours one more time as his cum paints you with vibrant adoration. Your breath is his breath and your body is his body. You hold his knot so well, immediately wrapping your legs around his hips to encourage him to stay there, with you, as long as he can. His chest against yours. Breathing together. Lazily kissing and scenting and nuzzling each other. You’d stay here forever if you could.
“Brendon,” you whisper reluctantly against his ear, “this is really nice, but you’re squishing me to death and I need to pee.”
His low chuckle vibrates your whole body. Without taking his cock from your body, he slides his knees forward so he can take more of his own weight on his legs. It relieves the pressure on your chest just enough, but he’s still playfully holding you down. He kisses the tip of your nose and teases, “Is that better, princess?”
Not quite able to get to a better comeback, you cut back, “If you want me to piss myself.”
“Mmm. Don’t tempt me. I’m pretty sure I could get off on anything you’d give me.” As you laugh, he gives you one more kiss, deep and knowing, and shifts off of you as his knot softens. You reach up with grabby hands and he smiles as he tugs you out of the bed and into his arms. Cum and slick drips from you and onto his skin as he steadies you against his torso. God, you’re burning up. They don’t call it heat for no reason. Bringing you to the en suite bathroom, he touches the back of his hand to your forehead and murmurs, “You want a nice cool bath, sweetheart?”
You nod with heavy lids. “Mhmm. Sounds nice.”
“Good.” He sets you carefully on the toilet – your limbs are clearly still out of commission for the time being. Brendon draws you a bath, swirls in some sweet-smelling oils, and helps you in once you’re finished. With a firm kiss to your forehead, he orders, “Stay here a minute to get your temperature closer to normal. I’ll change the sheets and get you something to eat, okay?”
You nod again, happy to do whatever he tells you.
While you soak and get sleepier and sleepier, Brendon does what he said, yes, but he also indulges in some behaviors he knows are maybe slightly silly alpha things. He checks your door locks over, makes sure your windows are properly secured, checks to see if there are batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. You’ll forgive him for feeling a bit crazy right now. When you’re not in his arms or in his sight, the edginess returns, something at the base of his brain stem insisting that he do anything he possibly can, no matter how minor, to care for you.
By the time he goes back to the bathroom to collect you, you’re asleep in the tub, head against the wall, mouth open slightly. Brendon takes a minute to gaze at you, so open and vulnerable, certain that you’re completely safe with your alpha in your apartment. He rumbles a bit with pride at knowing he makes you feel that way – fucked out and content.
Ever so gently, he kneels down and touches your cheek. You stir slightly, turning your head and giving him a sweet, innocent smile. Then you once again lift your arms for him. Brendon’s addicted to the sight of you so easily expecting his strength. He guides you to your feet, helps you step out, and then dries you off with the closest soft towel he can find. All the while, you put your weight on him, trusting him, yielding to him. Your brain is fuzzy and happy and your body is loose and calm.
Brendon guides you back into your nest, where he’s replaced your sheets with the ones he found in your laundry room specifically for your heat, extra silky soft and moisture-wicking. You sink into the coziness, thoughtless in the most wonderful way. Before joining you, he pops into the kitchen for a minute and then presents you with a makeshift charcuterie board on a plate that he’s put together from your fridge, focusing on meats and cheeses to try to get you enough protein and fat to get through your heat comfortably.
The moment you see the food, you realize that you’re ravenous. Your stomach growls loud and Brendon laughs affectionately as you snatch the plate greedily from him. Looking for all the world like a wild animal, you wolf down food fast and furious until your stomach stops screaming for more.
Brendon rubs your back as you eat, praising, “Good girl. Need you nice and strong.”
When you’ve finished the actual food Brendon wanted you to eat, you look at him with bubbly hope and ask, “Dessert?”
He grins and cracks open the container of your homemade snickerdoodles, chewy and pillowy. You open your mouth obediently and he happily feeds you a piece, taking another for himself. He groans loud, “I hit the fucking mate jackpot; these are insanely good.”
You preen like a peacocking alpha as he feeds you another cookie, happy and giggly in the best way. As you lazily lick the extra cinnamon sugar from his fingers, lips wrapping around his digits, he watches with dilated pupils and praises, “That’s my good girl.”
You giggle and lean forward to nuzzle his neck with yours, mixing your scents unabashedly now that it’s just the two of you in your happy cocoon. “You already said that.”
“It’s still true,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pull you into a kiss. He sets the container aside and then takes your hand in his. “Now that you’re with me again, sweetheart, I need to ask if you were being serious earlier. About- about giving me pups.” He cradles your face in his hand and studies your expression. You can’t quite read all the details of his. “I can send someone to pick up some emergency contraception for this week that was just-”
“I was serious,” you tell him softly. Your eyes run over his, wide, needy, scared of rejection. Searching for love and stability in the one place you need to be able to find it. “But if- if you’re not ready to do that with me, or if you don’t want-”
“I want to,” he whispers. It sounds like an admission, like something he’s never been willing to say – or maybe something he’s never been allowed to want. He touches his forehead to yours and, so soft you can barely hear, he says, “I love you.”
You maul him with a hug, shoving him onto his back. He catches you with a wheezing laugh as your weight knocks the wind out of him. As your hands push down his broad shoulders, your tentative smile glows into something huge. “You do?”
With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, he rests his hands on your waist and tells you, “I knew I loved you the day you shoved your finger in my chest and chewed me out for being an ass to Frankie. Nobody talks to me like that.” Then, much more urgently, he goes on, “I’ve been working to be good enough for you every day since. So if- if you think I’m good enough to be- if you’re willing to give that to me.” He can barely breathe as he almost cries, “Yes, please.”
You throw your arms around the back of his neck and nestle into his chest and say, on the verge of giggling and crying at the same time as it bubbles out of you, “I love you so much, Bren. You’re gonna be such a good dad.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replies with a sigh, “but I think, maybe, if I follow your lead, I could become one.” He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Now get some rest, princess. Your body’s working really hard; gotta keep your energy up.”
You nod and shift onto your side, bringing him to face you. All teasing and sweet, you tangle up your limbs with his and ask, “Does this mean you’re gonna buy me a nice house and a big fat diamond?”
Needing to kiss you again, he nods and holds you and promises, “And anything else you could ever want. They pay me way too much money at that damn hospital; you need a new car and a better place and a huge ‘fuck you’ ring that stops other alphas from even looking at you.”
“Mmm.” Your eyelids start to feel heavy as that settles into your cells. You have it now. The mate, the life, the dream you’ve always had. Sleepy and adoring, you breathe, “Tell me you love me again.”
Brendon kisses your cheek as he cradles your head, making sure you’re comfortable no matter how you position yourself. “I love you, cherry.”
When you’re woken up by the need pulsing between your thighs, you’re curled up between Brendon’s legs, enveloped by his body that seems much larger in rut. He’s sitting up straight, watching the door like a hawk, with his hands resting on your hip and your waist like he’s ready to scoop you up and haul you to safety at any second. He notices the change to your breathing and focuses all his attention on you right away.
“Hi, baby.” With gentler hands than you would’ve thought him capable of, Brendon cups your flaming cheek and murmurs, “You’re burning up. What can I do?”
Your tongue feels weird and heavy in your mouth again, your brain flickering away as another wave of heat starts to wash over you. It’s always been hard for you to put words together when you’re in heat. So you just sit up, turn yourself around, and maneuver so you’re in his lap. He instinctively shifts his weight to make space for you, arms coming to rest on your lower back. You drop your mouth to his neck, lap your tongue over his scent gland until you feel his cock rapidly hardening beneath you. Right against his ear, you whine, “Knot.”
Brendon kisses you warmly, like he’s greeting you after a long time away. His hands trail down to your hips and he manhandles you to push your hips back and forth, your slick running over his shaft. “Your wish is my command, princess.”
You nod your heavy head and feel your cunt beginning to pulse just from the way he’s looking at you with complete adoration in those blue eyes. As he lifts you up a bit by the waist so he can notch himself against your entrance, you coo, “My alpha. Love you.”
Brendon plunges into you in one slow, needy thrust. An uninhibited wine spills from his lips when he’s once again enveloped in your perfect warmth. He slowly grinds his hips up into yours, groaning with every little twitch of your pussy, “Fuck, kitten, I’ve never- never felt this good with anyone. It’s like you were made for me.”
Beginning to bounce on him because you can’t stand any teasing right now, you whimper, “I was.”
Brendon snaps when he hears that. When he knows it down to his core. Because this isn’t a choice between the two of you. Not really. It’s destiny. It’s fate. It’s fucking magic. You were always going to mold to him. His cock was always going to be the only one that could satisfy you fully.
He growls under his breath and flips you onto your back, needing to have you closer. You’re powerless to his strength, limp, and that’s exactly how you want it. You want to be a small, helpless thing that he takes charge of. Protects. Possesses. He links his fingers with yours above your head, holding you down but grounding himself, too. With his lips hovering above your scent gland, he asks softly, “That better, baby?”
“Perfect,” you moan. “Yours.”
“That’s right.” His thrusts speed up, the sound of his cock plunging inside of you obscene in the timeless quiet of your bedroom. “All mine.”
Brendon drops one hand to your clit and the contact has you keening upward. Your legs snap him in closer, locking around his muscular ass. Your eyes close and your back arches and you can only moan and take whatever he’ll give you. Finally, finally, you’re being taken care of the way you’ve always wanted, your whole body held and tended to and ravished.
As your orgasm threatens, in Brendon’s complete and total control, a droplet of water hits your chest and your eyes flicker open. It’s not sweat from his shiny forehead like you’d thought, though. When you look up at Brendon, you find his forehead wrinkled, his eyes pink, his breaths shaky. You reach up and brush his cheek, bringing his focus back to you. Barely able to speak with everything swirling around your mind, you breathe, “You’re crying.”
He nods and sniffles and swallows hard, trying to come up with the words. Unable to stand making eye contact while he’s being so fucking vulnerable, he buries his face in the side of your neck and nearly weeps, “Never thought I’d have this. Never thought I’d have a mate as perfect as you. Never thought I could deserve a woman who’s so fucking beautiful and kind and smart and who wants to give me a family and I just- I just-”
His voice chokes off as a wave of pleasure billows through you, making your cunt clamp down around him. Feeling overwhelmed with light and softness and adoration, you tilt your head to the side and whimper a request Brendon Park’s been waiting his whole life to hear without even knowing: “Bite.”
He doesn’t second-guess you. He doesn’t challenge you.
He bites.
Brendon doesn’t fuck around with claming you once he has permission. When he hears your true need for his ownership. His cock is pistoning like a machine designed for your pleasure and he’s thrumming on your clit with his thumb and his teeth don’t hesitate to pierce your neck. You loose an orchestral crescendo cry when the perfect, blissful, heavenly pain stamps you as his. There’s no stopping the orgasm that slaps you across the face and holds you down by the throat while Brendon grips your hand above your head, keeping you in place while his teeth forever mark you as his possession.
As he tastes your blood – strangely sweet with your hormones swelling – Brendon kisses your neck, leaving the shape of his lips all over your skin. You’re whimpering and crying and you can hardly move with the intense, addictive pleasure that’s boiling you alive. He flips you so he’s on his back and you’re in his lap, barely able to keep yourself upright, insanely cute to him in your woozy lust. Then he tilts his head to the side and taps his own scent gland with two fingers. “Your turn, princess. Don’t be shy.”
He’s expecting you to protest, to giggle, to turn bashful at the idea.
Not you.
Not his omega.
You bend down, rolling your hips all the while, and kiss your own blood off his lips before lathing your tongue up his neck. You drag your teeth over his pulse, his tendons, breathing his scent deeply and licking up his sweat. You’re drunk on him. On the pheromones you can only produce together. When your teeth graze his scent gland, you feel him shiver beneath you. His hands lock onto your hips to keep your bodies grinding together as you lose control at last.
Opening up your mouth wide, you start off by sucking his flesh into your mouth, enjoying the way his breath stutters and his thrusts deepen with each added sensation. By the time you add your teeth, you can feel his knot starting to swell up as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm to stay with you longer, panting and groaning and right on the edge with your teeth meeting his skin.
When you break the skin, tasting the fat and iron of his blood, Brendon’s world explodes into the second Big Bang. Sparks and stars and fire. Everything is you. Every molecule, every atom, every neutron and quark and particle. You pull off him with a proud smile, his blood at the corners of your thrilled lips. His pupils turn to pinpricks so he can memorize it, the light of your bedroom a flashbang that burns the memory into the film of his soul. He’s never cum so hard in his life, his knot quickly filling and locking the two of you in place.
You collapse onto his chest and he holds you so close. His soft voice is a constant stream against your ear as his hands run up and down your back and sides. I love you. I love you. I love you. Your sopping pussy keeps gently pulsing around him, the aftershocks still rattling you both. There’s no ecstasy like the one that comes after mating. Neither of you need to speak to know it to your cores: This is it. It’s the end of dating, the end of craving, the end of begging. Never again will you go without.
As the haze of broken skin begins to recede, you gently kiss across Brendon’s chest. You bring your lips to his and you both half-smile against each other. It’s perfectly simple, the two of you, and it makes more sense than anything you’ve ever known. Still hard inside of you, Brending shifts you both upwards so he can hold you in his lap. His hands roam lazily, happily, knowingly. He’s learned the curves and edges of you now.
With both your brains turning on again and your bodies still intertwined, Brendon kisses your temple and murmurs against your ear, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? About us?”
You brush your thumb over his chin – there’s evening stubble there now, rakishly handsome – and admit gently, “I knew the first time we met.”
With a sigh, he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve been together so much sooner.”
You give him an ‘as if’ sort of look. “Because you’re kind of an asshole, Bren.”
“Fair enough,” he laughs. “God, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t imagine my life without you now.”
“I know. Me too.” You go back to kissing him for another minute, unable to resist with him completely at your mercy. After a minute, you explain further, “I just wanted to see if we liked each other beyond, y’know, the whole biology thing. If we could fit together.”
“I always liked you,” he says back, fingers tracing beads of sweat that fall down your body, “even before I could smell you.”
You giggle and smack his chest. “Liar.”
“No, I swear,” he insists urgently. Even though he’s softening now, neither of you goes to move, too enamored with one another. “I thought you were competent. Good with patients. Funny. Pretty.”
“Those are just facts, Brendon. Everyone thinks I’m wonderful.”
“And I thought you were so modest,” he needles. While your laugh brushes against his skin, he tells you, much more softly now, “Every time there was a page for me to the ED, I hoped it was you because, every time we worked together, I left so fucking frustrated.”
You scoff and tease, “Weren’t you trying to say you’ve always liked me a second ago?”
“No, baby, I mean…” Brendon struggles to find the right words, but you wait patiently, beyond curious. Nobody gets to see this version of him: Reflective, sweet, innocent. He meets your eyes again and tries to explain, “I wasn’t frustrated the way I always am with Robinavitch or the Ken doll or the mousy one or- God, they’re all so fucking stupid compared to you,” he laughs, making you do the same. “I would leave every consult with you frustrated that I wasn’t good the way you are. Frustrated that you put people at ease without trying while everyone’s scared of me even when I try to be softer. Frustrated that you don’t let anything stop you when sometimes I get so fed up I have to punch a wall. Frustrated because you made me want to be better – a better doctor, yes, but a better man and a better alpha, too. Nobody’s ever made me feel like that.”
You pout your lower lip and hold back tears. You can’t help but kiss him. There are no alternatives. And he really, really likes being kissed by you. With every touch of your lips, he can taste the rest of his life. When you pull back at last, you’ve sniffled back the tears and replaced them with an adorable, mischievous smile. You tell him cheekily, “I didn’t like you back then, if you were wondering.”
“You made that plenty clear, baby,” he chuckles, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze. “What changed your mind?”
With a soft shrug, you give him the truth: “You told Frankie you’d go to his track meet.”
“It meant that much to you?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. It feels like a secret, but you want to tell him all your secrets, especially the ones you’d never share with anyone else. “Becaues you listened to me. Apologies don’t count if you don’t change your behavior – and you did. But I could tell it wasn’t just for me. You really wanted to make it up to him. To fix what you’d broken.” You gingerly trace the harsh angles of his face with your forefinger, memorizing the lines. When you touch his lower lip, he sighs and smiles contentedly. You tell him, “That’s the sign of a good man, I think. A good partner apologizes and means it. A good father screws up and then fixes it. I didn’t have a choice in being your mate, but I made the choice to love you.”
Brendon blinks hard. He covers your hand with his and kisses each of your fingers. Rough and thick with love, he breathes, “Christ, kitten, are you trying to make me cry here?”
You kiss him so softly it could be a butterfly’s wing. “You already did, softie.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
doctor's visit (ryland grace x gn!reader)
summary: you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings
wc: 7k
cw: smut! submissive ryland and the glasses stay ON !! MINORS DNI !!
a/n: little nervous about this one :’) why’s ryland’s character so hard to get right?? enjoy! (cross-posted on ao3)
It took everything in you to squash the laugh that threatened to bubble out of your throat when you beheld the person dubbed the “leading scientist in Astrophage”. You weren’t sure what you expected, but the lanky man stumbling out of the jet, nearly falling backwards off the little ladder, wasn’t quite what you pictured. The second his foot touched the concrete landing pad, he hunched over to pick up a small orange traffic cone sitting next to the plane and proceeded to hurl whatever he’d last eaten into it.
Stratt grimaced, fidgeting anxiously next to you to get moving, and gestured for you to follow her once the scientist seemed to gather his bearings enough to stop heaving.
“Doctor Grace, how was your flight?” She asked.
He only replied with a thumbs up. A set of glasses were askew on the bridge of his nose and he didn’t move the orange cone far from his mouth when the two of you neared.
“Doctor Grace, this is Doctor (L/n) who’s here to make sure you’ve made it in one piece before we discuss your findings. Excuse me for a moment.”
As Stratt moved to discuss something with someone on the landing strip a couple of feet away, you took that as your queue to approach the man. He looked pale, watching wearily as you approached with a smile.
“Enjoy the view on the way here, Doctor?”
You wasted no time, moving to find the doctor’s free hand that wasn’t holding the vomit filled cone, to feel for his pulse. It was frantic, pounding against the pad of your fingers but unwavering. He let his hand fall limp in your hold, out of strength to do much besides stand in place.
“Well… I can’t say I saw much. I was unconscious for most of it. Loved the last bit though, when we’d landed and weren’t in the air anymore. Hey, do you have any water? Some guy gave me a pill and I think it’s still stuck in my throat.”
A smile creeped onto your face. You’d known this man for barely a minute but you could feel that he had a gravitating way about him. Something charming and sweet. Dropping his arm, you nodded to him and gave him the water bottle you’d brought along. You also held out a small white pill. He instantly shook his head.
“Ah, no thank you. Last time I took a pill from a stranger, I woke up on an aircraft carrier.”
“It’s dramamine, Doctor.”
A pause.
Defeat.
“Okay.”
You helped him open the bottle, as one of his hands was still occupied holding his puke cone, and watched as he gulped down mouthfuls of water to chase the dramamine.
“Pulse is strong. How’s your breathing?”
“Uh- fine, I guess?”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He adjusted his glasses with his wrist to finally properly fit over the bridge of his nose and blinked. “Two.”
You gave a firm pat to his back, which he groaned at. “Welcome aboard, Doctor Grace!”
-
While your first meeting was brief, that was not the last time you saw Doctor Ryland Grace. After he finally found his sea legs, he became a regular presence at every meeting in regards to Project Hail Mary.
You weren’t invited to many meetings, only joining when they were about the health of the crew during their journey to Tau Ceti. The robot being constructed to care for the comatose astronauts was an impressive piece of technology unlike anything ever built but it needed to be programmed perfectly to ensure the crew’s safety. If it went wrong- the crew would die and so would the rest of Earth.
That’s why you were brought aboard, to help bring up any possible problem that could happen with the crew on their trip and how the robot would handle it. You worked closely with a slew of other doctors, each of you bringing your own experience to the table.
As a Doctor specializing in neurology, your input was crucial. Being in a coma for several years was not ideal and could do some irreparable harm to the brain, which you disclosed as such in your meetings. It was an intricate dance, trying to solve the multitude of potential problems that came up with so many people with differing opinions
They also occasionally had you stationed as an on-call doctor when you weren’t discussing the mission, setting you up in the medical wing of the giant aircraft carrier to handle any ailments of the crew. You didn’t mind the busy work, it gave you something to do when you weren’t in the lab helping with the robot or fighting with a room full of scholars.
The first time Doctor Grace showed up to one of the medical meetings, he was 15 minutes late.
Stratt gave him a look that exuded annoyance as he scrambled to sit in the only empty chair at the table, which happened to be between you and the most powerful woman in the world.
“Sorry everybody,” he waved quickly in apology with an awkward laugh and dumped a folder of papers on the table. The room was dead silent. “This place is a maze! I got lost somewhere on deck C I think. They should really put up some signs.”
If Stratt wasn’t five feet away, you would’ve giggled. There were signs all over the ship. In several languages.
A cardiologist from Brazil tapped his pen against the metal table in agitation. “As I was saying…”
While the conversation buzzed on, discussing circulation and muscular atrophy that would arise from the crew's prone state for several years, you felt a shoe knock into yours. Turning your eyes away from the table, you were surprised to find Doctor Grace looking at you.
“Do you have an extra pen?” He whispered, not very quietly. He was leaning towards you like you were swapping secrets. The soft fabric of his quarter zip brushed against your arm.
Getting some glares from those sitting closest to you, you only nodded back and slipped an extra pen out of the spiral of your notebook.
“Thank you. Hey, you’re that doctor that checked up on me on my first day here, right? Thanks for that, by the way, the pill really helped. I nearly filled up that cone though, that was a little embarrassing.”
He laughed, another awkward chuckle that had you glancing sidelong at him.
Someone who used humor when they were uncomfortable, it seemed.
Taking a quick look around the room to make sure no one was watching, you leant towards him, bringing your heads closer together. He startled back a bit but didn’t pull completely away.
“When I first got here, I got so seasick I puked all over my tour guide’s shoes. At least you made it to a cone.” You whispered, smiling at the memory.
Doctor Grace looked at you in shock, eyebrows raising into his hairline. “Really?!” He was really bad at whispering.
“Doctors, do you have an idea you’d like to share with the room?” The leading creator of the nurse robot, Doctor Lamai, peered at your hunched forms.
Jerking away from each other, Doctor Grace and yourself didn’t talk for the rest of the meeting but you had to fight a smile when he slipped you a folded note that just had a crude drawing of a puking face.
-
Any meeting that you attended after that, Ryland- as he’d asked you to call him- would find a seat next to you. After learning how tough of a crowd most of the medical crew was, the two of you didn’t talk during the discussions again. But you did start passing notes like a couple of school children.
-
Did you know that the brain is a human’s fattiest organ? -R
Yes -(Y/n)
Really? -R
I’m a neurologist, Ryland. The brain is my job -(Y/n)
Oh yeah -R
Did you know that a human brain produces enough energy to power a small lightbulb? -R
-
This robot is basically like that big marshmallow doctor robot in that one movie -R
Baymax? -(Y/n)
Yeah that sounds right -R
Ours probably won’t be as cute as Baymax is -(Y/n)
Probably not. Maybe we should suggest something to make it cuter. Paint it in pink glitter and give it some eyes -R
Somehow I think that’ll make it even scarier than it already is. Go back to the drawing board -(Y/n)
-
I saw a bird today -R
What kind of bird? -(Y/n)
Seagull -R
Well, we are out at sea -(Y/n)
It’s a little too far out in the ocean to be seeing birds, don’t you think? They get tired -R
Maybe it was a stowaway? -(Y/n)
Poor guy :( -R
-
You learned a lot about Ryland over the next several weeks.
Ryland was full of fun facts and interesting thoughts. He’d barrage you with them any chance he had, and you would listen. While medical facts were mostly common knowledge to you, fun facts about anything else was always a pleasant conversation starter.
He taught you everything there is to know about Astrophage and how it works, once even letting you visit him in his little personal lab to see the little microorganisms yourself. He’d carefully prepared a slide for you, making sure the focus was perfect before stepping back to let you peer into the microscope. When you started barraging him with questions, he was more than excited to answer- leading you around his mini lab with a hand on your back.
You learned that he has a mild shellfish allergy- a rather unfortunate finding. He spent a couple of hours in the medical wing laying on a cot, popping Benadryl like candy and breaking out in hives after some cross-contamination with shrimp in the cafeteria kitchen.
His favorite animal is a fox and he has a surprisingly large collection of fox related things to prove it.
He was a molecular biologist, now turned loud-and-proud middle school science teacher. He loves his students dearly and spent the greater part of several years revolving his life around their education.
He rarely ever swears. At least, not the actual words, but their modified, kid-friendly versions. He’d have teachers knocking down his apartment door if he swore in front of his class, unintentionally expanding their vocabulary.
When he was trying really hard not to laugh, he’d make this tiny snorting noise that sounds an awful lot like a spray bottle.
He doesn’t know how to use chopsticks. Not the right way, at least.
He has no immediate family, no pets and no partners.
He was an enigma really; someone that felt so out of place on this ship. Ryland felt too… normal to be here. Not in a negative way, just a… he-should’ve-never-been-dragged-into-this kind of way. He was too warm compared to most everyone else here. The aircraft carrier was bursting at the seams with cold government officials and specialists in every science or space related field to ever exist. Many were too professional, too self absorbed to realize they had a stick up their ass.
Ryland was a breath of fresh air and you felt increasingly drawn to him every time you interacted.
It also didn’t hurt that he was attractive. Like… insanely attractive. His hair was perfectly messy every single day. He wore his glasses in such a way that you’d never seen anyone wear glasses before, hanging off one ear when he wasn’t using them. A near constant 5 o’clock shadow was always gracing his face. Despite his clothing choices which some around you found unprofessional, he pulled off everything he wore. His fox cardigan, his yellow rain coat, his cringy science-pun t-shirts. It shouldn’t, but it made him that much more alluring and it was getting harder and harder for you not to make a move.
You were friends- acquaintances at the least- but he’d never shown any interest. At least not that you’d seen. He was awkward sometimes but he was awkward with everyone. You didn’t want to make things weird, so you stuffed those feelings deep and filed them away for later. Plus, he was technically higher ranking than you in the Hail Mary hierarchy. He was Stratt’s right hand man. Maybe he didn’t want to ‘pull rank’.
These sorts of thoughts kept you up at night while you tried to ignore the sounds of the 3 other medical staff sleeping around you in your shared bunk. He wouldn’t get out of your head and you weren’t sure how much longer you could ignore that tightening string in your gut.
-
On Friday nights, the room on the ship that served as the social meeting place for many of the crew, equipped with a bar, was packed to the gills. You usually dropped by to say hi to the couple of coworkers and other doctors that you were friendly with but never staying for long. You just didn’t know anyone well enough to want to stay and chat. At least you didn’t… until one particular Friday night.
The hunched form at the bar clad in that unmistakable fox cardigan caught your eye almost immediately. He was hard to miss.
This was the first time you’d seen Ryland here. You weren’t sure why he never came, but he was the one person on his whole ship you’d actually consider sharing a drink with.
Immediately making a bee-line for the bar, you saw that the doctor was flipping through several sheets of paper, head in his hand as he read. The people surrounding him at the counter were making light conversation, enjoying a beer and enjoying their Friday night.
Ryland was working.
“Y’know this room is supposed to be a reprieve from work, not somewhere you bring your work to, right?”
The blonde looked up in surprise as you squeezed to stand in the small empty space between him and the guy sitting on the barstool next to him. It was a tight fit, and Ryland immediately shuffled over an inch in his seat to give you some more room.
Or to avoid touching you, which didn’t sit right in your stomach.
His glasses were near falling off his nose. He looked tired.
“I know but I couldn't sleep so I decided to come here. I brought some homework because I needed something to keep my mind busy and so I don’t look like a total loser sitting here by myself. Is it working?”
“Well,” you hummed. “I don’t think you’re a loser but I might be a little biased.”
He smiled, twirling a pen between his long fingers over the papers. You nodded over to where a karaoke machine sat and the 3 Hail Mary crewmates sat with their extra counterparts. “Why don't you go join them? You know them well enough, right? You’re working with them all the time.”
Ryland shifted in his seat to look over his shoulder. His knee pressed against your thigh which made it extremely hard to focus on his answer.
“No, I don’t think I really fit in with their crowd.”
“Why not?”
“They’re brave. Strong. Sometimes I don't even know why I'm here to be honest. Why Stratt dragged me here. A humble middle school science teacher.” He laughed lightly, but it wasn’t a genuine one.
Your heart squeezed into a knot for this man who’d been uprooted from his comfortable life as a teacher and thrown into this madness without his consent just like many others. He felt unsure about his place here and besides Stratt who had him on a leash, he had no one, it seemed.
Besides you, you hoped.
You prayed he enjoyed your company enough to feel a little less alone.
“Well,” you leant back against the bar to properly look at him. He looked up at you over the golden frames of his glasses. “I’d say you have every right to be here. You discovered how to kill an Astrophage and see what it's made of. You discovered how they breed and now we have the means to create a powerful fuel for the mission that will save humanity. All important things we might not have right now without you.”
Ryland huffed and drew a little circle on his paper. “I’m sure someone would’ve thought to poke Astrophage with a stick eventually. And learning how they breed didn’t take too much thinking either, surely someone would’ve-”
“You can't spend your whole life focusing on the ‘what if’s’, Ryland. We're here now thanks to you, whether you wanna see it that way or not.”
Finally, a real smile split his face and he nodded slowly. You couldn’t tell if he’d accepted your words as truth or not, but they at least lifted his spirits a little. Plus, a tiny bit of red painted his ears.
“Thanks, (Y/n). Can I… buy you a drink?”
Your stomach fluttered. “Yes, as long as it’s not anything too hard. I’ve got a shift tomorrow.”
He nodded quickly and signaled to the bartender. “Two beers please.”
Bottles in hand, you continued to lounge against the counter next to him, nursing the beverage and making small talk. He’d offered his seat to you but you refused.
Looking out over the crowd, you spotted two individuals huddled together in the dim corner of the room. Ryland noticed your gaze and turned to look too. When he beheld the two scientists tangled together, he shook his head and turned back to you with a raised brow.
“I think DuBois and Shapiro are hooking up.”
“Seems that way.”
“Dont you think it’s a little crazy? I mean, he’s going to be trucked off into space soon and she’ll be left here. What's the point in hooking up when it'll only end in tragedy? You’re just asking for heartbreak.” He shook his head, fiddling with the plastic label of his beer.
You shrugged. “I don't see any harm in it. Sure it’ll hurt eventually but why not live in the moment? Humans yearn for connection, it makes sense they’d want to have some sense of normalcy before the end of the world. It's probably nice to forget about the apocalypse and enjoy someone's company for a while, take your mind off the doom and gloom.”
Ryland was quiet after that, suddenly turning anxious if his ducked head was any indication. Had you said something wrong? You drained the rest of your beer.
“Is that something you find yourself doing?” He asked quietly, feigning nonchalance but his foot was bouncing erratically against the bar stool.
Nervous.
A smile began to creep onto your face. “Not currently.”
His foot stopped.
Relief.
“But… if the right person came along I wouldn’t be opposed.”
His hand squeezed the bottle and his shoulders drooped.
Disappointment.
“Oh… haven’t found the right one yet?” He picked up his head with a painfully fake smile and a nod, looking around the room like he was helping you scout the place. “Lots of interesting people on this ship. A pilot would be cool, huh?”
“Yeah but they’re a bit too cocky for my taste.”
He tapped his finger against his stacks of paper. “Okay, what about… another doctor? Or one of the government officials?”
You grimaced and he cringed back. “Right, no doctors or government staff If not them, then… what are you looking for?”
Ryland’s eyes were searching yours for a glimpse, a hint of what you might be feeling.
With the tiniest bit of liquid courage running through your veins, you tapped your beer bottle against your leg and lightly began playing with the sleeve of his fox cardigan. He became impossibly still.
“Someone real. Down to earth. Not afraid to be themselves… a nice smile and a pretty face sure helps too.”
The doctor gulped and you reveled in the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing in the soft light of the room. He inclined his head once, fingers twitching against the bar. “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he whispered.
Neither of you broke the heated eye contact until the man you were standing next to fell back in laugher and knocked you off your balance. You were able to recover quickly, but not before pressing even closer to the scientist and nearly falling into his lap. His hand had immediately planted onto your hip in an attempt to keep you steady. Being this close, you could feel the breath from his nose on yours. Your heart was pounding.
The room grew in volume as people flocked to gather around the karaoke machine that was playing a song you couldn’t even bother to name. Not while Ryland held all of your attention.
While his chest heaved, you slowly moved to stand properly on your own two feet but holding his gaze. You took the hem of his cardigan in your hand. It was so soft.
“Want to go for a walk?” You asked quietly, glancing at his stack of papers that had been forgotten about.
Ryland said nothing but started brushing his work into a haphazard pile good enough to hold in one arm and stood up. Standing at his full height, you were reminded again how tall the man was. When he offered his hand as a silent question, an inquiry to make sure he wasn’t reading anything wrong, you didn’t hesitate to take it. No one batted an eye at the two of you as you led him through the crowd and out into the silent metal hallways beyond.
-
Ryland could not unlock the door to his room fast enough.
He only had one key to his name while on the ship, you’d think it would be pretty easy to manage. In theory it was, but when his nerves were blasting through the roof and you were fiddling with the belt loop on the back of his pants, he got a little distracted.
You giggled as the scientist finally fished his key out of his pocket and proceeded to drop it on the floor with a clink.
“Sorry,” he strained, scooping it up from the floor and finally fumbling with the lock.
Once the door swung open and the two of you stepped inside, you did a quick observation of the room. It was extremely small, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. There was just enough space for a twin bed and a small desk attached to the wall. Rylands’s belongings were strewn everywhere there was space. While it was cramped, there was something he had in his room that you didn’t.
A window.
A tiny circular porthole- so small you couldn’t fit your head through it if it was able to open- but a window nonetheless. Your room was deep in the middle of the ship so no windows for you. As it was around midnight, there was nothing but inky blackness on the other side but you wondered what it would look like when it was daytime and the ocean was blue. For now, the soft glow of a tiny lamp kept the room illuminated.
“Oh god- don’t mind the mess. I don’t get many visitors.” He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, brushing some discarded clothes aside with his shoe. “But to be fair, it’s impossible to keep a room this small clean. I mean, no dresser, no closet. I’m not 100% sure but I think this used to be a storage-“
You liked to think you knew Ryland pretty well now, and knew when he was about to spiral into a rambling fit. He was especially prone when he was anxious. As much as you loved to hear him talk, now wasn’t the time.
When you took a step forward and fisted the lapels of his cardigan in your hands, his words died immediately.
When your hands tugged his body down and your lips slotted against his, his whole body froze up.
You didn’t push beyond a couple of seconds before pulling away a hair- keeping him close but giving him the room to decide if he wanted to stop or come back for more. For all you knew, he was just bringing you back to his room to show you his collection of fox things. Through lidded eyes, you watched as his eyelashes fluttered, dazing down at you in shock.
Suddenly worried that maybe you had indeed read things wrong, you began to ease up your grip on his collar. When his hands shot up to keep your head in place, cradling your jaw in his large palms and returned the kiss with eagerness, you smiled against him.
Months of brushing around each other snapped.
Your mouths were tangled in a heated dance- his body moving closer and pressing yours against the door, like he was trying to melt into you. He still had his glasses on, which meant you were being a little cautious of how close you pressed your face into his. You didn’t want to stab your eye on the rims, what a mood breaker that would be. But you didn’t want to ask him to take them off. In fact, you wanted to beg him to keep them on.
When his hands dropped to your waist to pull your hips together, you wound your arms around his neck, your hands immediately finding the back of his head- finally able to feel the mussed hair that snagged your attention day after day.
It was extremely soft, just as you’d imagined. Perfect, just like the rest of him.
Time blurred and you weren’t sure how long the two of you stood there, tasting each other like you were starving. Eventually, you decided it was much too hot in the tiny room and you were both wearing way too much clothing.
Dragging your hands from his hair to trail down the strong column of his neck, you dipped your hands into his cardigan, sliding your fingers over his shoulders and pushing the cream knitwear off in the process.
He shivered under your touch, when your fingers glanced over his biceps as the cardigan fell to his elbows. His hands let go of your waist to allow the fabric to fall to the floor in a pile. When his hands returned, they planted themselves on the door next to your waist.
It wasn’t to tower over you, or to trap you against him. No, it was because he needed something to keep him upright or he was at risk of squishing you entirely against the metal when his knees gave out.
You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, chest heaving against his where his shirt stretched over the muscle.
You’d never seen Ryland without something thrown over the top of a t-shirt- always wearing some type of jacket or lab coat or something. Now that he was without one, your hands mapped over his arms and shoulders.
As he busied himself with your neck, gently nosing at the soft spot just behind your ear, you swore.
“Shit, Ryland. What are they feeding you in the cafeteria? Protein powder?”
He laughed against your skin, dipping his lips down to your shoulder. His scruff tickled and the metal of his glasses were ice cold compared to your heated skin. “No. I just… go to the gym sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“Mhm-“ he choked on his affirmation when you slid your hands up his abdomen to feel underneath his shirt. The muscle was warm and fluttered against your fingers.
“Can I see what else you’ve been hiding under all these layers?”
Clothes were shed in a record amount of time, save for the couple of extra seconds Ryland took to take off his pants because he almost tripped over his own feet. He did seem to hesitate when he got to his boxers, fiddling with the hem, but when you hooked your fingers into the elastic, he let the fabric fall.
Once every part of you was exposed to the chill, circulated air, Ryland began chasing your mouth again but stopped with a grunt when you pushed him back onto his bed.
The look on his face was priceless, enough so that you laughed as you knelt on the hard mattress and swung a leg over his hips to straddle him. If Ryland had been red before, it was nothing compared to the color of his face now. His eyes glanced over your body, appreciating but not lingering out of nervousness as he stammered.
“You want to-?”
Straightening his glasses to fit properly on his face, you nodded. “Is this ok?”
“Yes! Yes- I’ve just never… my ex was more traditional I guess so we never… She always liked me to be on top.” He let out a breathy laugh and a shy smile.
Everything about this man was so endearing.
“As fun as that sounds, I want to try this first. I can see you better this way.”
Another audible hitch in his breath as he nodded. “Okay.”
His large palms found purchase on your thighs and he sighed blissfully through his nose when you bent forward to kiss along his jaw. It feathered under your lips and he tilted his head back to happily give you more surface area to work with.
When you finally ground your hips down onto him, he bucked under the pressure. A completely unintentional gesture that had him apologizing. You chased that response, rhythmically moving your pelvis in tandem with his.
Ryland whimpered.
You’d be damned if you didn’t try to get him to make that sound a hundred times more before morning.
You spent several minutes exploring his neck with your tongue while keeping a firm pressure with your hips, gently swaying in circles against him. You found a spot right at the juncture between his neck and shoulder that had him moaning. By the time you eased up, red marks bloomed along his throat and Ryland was already breathless. Chest heaving against your palms, he looked heavily up at you through those glasses of his and gave you a shy, lopsided grin.
“That was nice.”
You raised a brow. “I’m gonna have to work harder if all I get is a ‘that was nice’, Ry.”
His smile dropped. “No! That’s not what I meant- I just… I’m gonna be honest it’s been a while since I’ve…” his voice quieted, letting you fill in the blanks.
You knew he had an ex- he’d brought her up occasionally in your conversations when the moment called for it- but you didn’t know how long ago that had been. If you had to guess, it was probably before he became a teacher. Which if what he was saying was true… then he’d hadn’t been with anyone since then and had gone several years without being intimate with anyone (besides himself, anyway).
Ryland took your momentary pause as a bad sign.
“Not that I haven’t wanted to! I’ve just been really busy. Teacher stuff. Grading. Lesson planning. And with a teacher’s salary on top of crippling student loan debt? Fancy restaurants can be a little too steep. Even fast food is getting expensive. I don’t even have a car! I bike to work! Can’t afford a coffee date some months.”
Another rambling tangent. One of his pointer fingers tapped erratically at your thigh.
“Well, you’re in luck Ryland,” you state, pressing a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, just like you had when you first met. Just like before, it was pounding but for a whole different reason this time. “I don’t think there’s any high-end restaurants on this aircraft carrier so I don’t need any of that fancy treatment. What if we have cafeteria oatmeal and orange juice on the flight deck together tomorrow morning instead?”
He was nodding before you’d even finished your sentence. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
“Good,” you smile, raising yourself up to kneel properly over him.
His neck bobbed when you finally took him in your hand. He was warm and firm, the perfect length and size without being too much.
You felt him resist the urge to buck into your fist, instead throwing his head back against the mattress with a groan, tightly squeezing your thighs with his hands to ground himself. He was already leaking into your palm within a couple pumps.
“I-I don’t know how long I’ll be able to-“
“We’ve got all night, Ry, don’t worry.”
He nodded, comforted by your words. He was soft as silk and overly sensitive, it seemed. With the help of your hand, the scientist came quickly, just as he feared he would, painting his abdomen white. You shushed him before he could even think about apologizing.
One positive thing about him going so long without intimacy meant his refractory period was minuscule. He was hard again in minutes, which he’d blushed about.
When you finally sank onto him, moving slowly both for yourself and Ryland’s sake, all thoughts left your mind besides the ones that revolved around the man underneath you. You didn’t care about the dying sun, or Project Hail Mary, or your job. By his expression, Ryland was feeling the same.
His hands were surely leaving bruises on your thighs but you didn’t care one bit. Not when your bodies fit together beautifully. Fully seated, hips locked, you could’ve cried at how he felt inside you. He was just the right size, brushing every spot he needed to and then some without being too overwhelming.
When you began to move, Ryland helped where he could- offering your body stability and putting those muscled arms of his to good use. The veins on his forearms were bulging and the tendons in his neck were prominent against his skin.
You didn’t know how soundproof the metal boxes the higher-ups deemed bedrooms were, but you doubted they would do a good job of masking any of the noises the two of you were making. Ryland was keeping quiet as much as he could manage, teeth grinding. You were a little less reserved, gasping and groaning as you bounced. Let his neighbors hear, you didn’t care. Not when you finally got your chance with the scientist you’d been eyeing since the moment he stepped out of that jet.
Just like he was perfect for you, you could tell you were providing enough relief for him in return because you could feel his thighs begin to quake.
When he bucked up into you again, your hold on that string deep in your gut snapped and you saw white. Feeling you finish brought Ryland to the edge too. He was just barely able to lift your body high enough to free himself and release over your abdomen.
The next several seconds were spent breathing in tandem. Ryland was watching you like you hung the stars in the sky. With all of the movement, his glasses had skewed again. Huffing a laugh, you bent forward to straighten them and then pressed a long lingering kiss to his lips. You felt his fingers glide up to your ribs then wander to your spine, pressing your chest tightly to his.
His glasses were foggy by the time you pulled away, your shared breath heating the lenses.
“You ok?” You asked, brushing a thumb over the dusting of facial hair along his jaw. He nodded into your palm.
“More than ok.”
-
You woke up to snoring.
Not the loud, reverberating kind, but a soft and soothing hum that blended perfectly with the constant moans and groans of the ship you’d become so accustomed to.
Blinking open your eyes, you stared at the metal ceiling. It took several seconds to remember where you were. For a moment, you assumed you were in your room but when tiny glimpses of sunlight danced over the walls and when a hand twitched lightly against your waist, the memory of last night came rushing back.
The bar, your conversation with the scientist, and then-
A soft smile erupted across your cheeks as they warmed. Ever so slowly lifting your hand, you brushed your fingers through the head of hair that was tucked into your neck.
Indeed, Doctor Ryland Grace was laying by your side, pressed impossibly close to your body due to the cramped nature of his bed, and blissfully asleep.
All feelings of hesitancy and shyness he’d had hours earlier were gone as he slept, the doctor partially draped over you- an arm slung over your waist, a leg thrown over one of yours and tucked between your thighs. He was snoring against your neck where his face was pressed. You were pretty sure he was drooling. His feathered hair was soft against your fingers, even more unkempt than usual.
You could’ve stayed like that for hours, warm and comfortable even in the pathetic excuse for a bed.
Several minutes passed before he began waking up, stirred by the gentle pass of your fingers along the short hair at the nape of his neck. He shifted around slightly but didn’t move to pull away from your side.
He sighed against your skin, the fluttering of his eyelashes against your throat telling you he’d finally opened his eyes.
“Good morning,” you said quietly, not wanting to break the peaceful tranquility of the room that was rare to find on the bustling carrier.
You felt him blink a couple times before he responded, a smile sounding on his lips. “Morning.”
God, his voice was perfect- a rough, deep baritone thanks to hours of sleep. It had you turning your head towards him, pressing your lips to his hairline. You couldn’t see his face, but the stretch of stubble across your throat told you he’d smiled even more.
Several minutes went by in companionable silence, neither of you wanting to pull away. His fingers brushed lazily against your waist and yours didn’t stop thumbing through his hair.
You wondered after a while if he’d fallen back asleep before he mumbled a question. “What time is it?”
Peering over his head, you squinted at the small digital clock that sat on the tiny built-in desk.
“8:58.”
A pause.
Then panic.
Ryland shot upwards, unsticking himself from your body and scrambling out of the bed in a flurry of limbs and movement.
“Shhhhhiitake mushrooms!”
You watched from the bed, lightly amused as you watched him stumble around the cramped space in a frantic search for clothing. Lord above, he looked just as good from the back as he did the front.
“Something wrong?”
“I was supposed to go with Stratt to a crew meeting an hour ago.” He threw his legs into a pair of boxer briefs (which you were pretty certain were on backwards but he didn’t seem to notice or care), followed by a pair of jeans. “Kinda surprised she hasn’t barged in here already to get me up, actually. She’s done it before.”
You just hummed, watching him slug a blue button up across his shoulders and struggle with the buttons. He threw a glare at you that had no fire behind it. “Will you show at least a little sympathy? She could probably throw me into the ship’s jail for this.” He missed a button at the top of his shirt, which meant the whole shirt was now fastened lopsided. He didn’t seem to notice that either.
“I’m not going to complain that we got an extra hour or two of sleep together.”
His cheeks bloomed. There’s that shyness. He didn’t fight your statement, instead busying himself with tugging a beanie over his bedhead. When he sat on the mattress next to you to start putting socks and shoes on, he searched the room with squinted eyes.
“Do y’know where my-“
You held out his glasses. At some point last night, you’d relieved him of the spectacles for his own comfort (and so you could kiss him as senseless as you wanted to) and carefully placed them under the bed where they’d be safe from being squished.
“Thank you.”
Looking a little less than put together, he started collecting the notepads and folders stuffed with papers on the small desk, gathering everything into his arms.
“Uh- well, we missed breakfast so how about we meet up for lunch? Or dinner? Or breakfast tomorrow? Or we don’t have to do anything together at all if you don’t want to. Totally your call, really.” He kept his gaze down at the papers, avoiding your eyes. You smiled.
“Well, I start my shift in an hour and can’t leave the medical wing until I’m relieved.”
His shoulders dropped a little.
“But… there’s no rules against having visitors.”
Ryland looked at you over the rims of his glasses, starting to smile himself. “Yeah? Ok! Yeah, I’ll- Do you have a preference for lunch? I’ll bring you something. Or I can get you a little bit of everything from the cafeteria? Do they allow that?”
You sat up with a laugh, holding the thin bedsheets against your chest to keep the last little bit of warmth from him against you. “I’ll get the same thing you’re having. I’m not picky.”
The doctor nodded to himself, shuffling toward the door with large strides. Twisting the handle, the door opened barely an inch before he doubled back like he forgot something. You expected him to search for something else he needed, not expecting him to rush over and press a fast kiss to your lips. It was your turn to blush.
“Right! Ok, I’ll get us something good. See you in a little bit! And lock the door on your way out, will you? Thanks!”
With his goodbye, he rushed out of the room, gently shut the door and began racing away. You heard his pounding footsteps reverberate the walls as he ran down the hall.
His room was too quiet now that he was gone, only the sounds of the ship keeping you company.
It took you several minutes to shake out of your star-struck stupor.
When the blonde showed up in your quiet office in the medical wing at 12pm sharp, precariously balancing two to-go boxes stuffed full with cafeteria food and harboring a broad smile, you quickly realized just how tightly Doctor Ryland Grace already had you wrapped around his finger.
a/n: ryland grace: the people’s pillow princess. thank you for reading!
summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace. (part ii here and part iii here!)
pairing: ryland grace x reader
word count: 4.5k
tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader
cross-posted to ao3
What would you do if the apocalypse started?
It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.
She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.
Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too.
The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.
—
The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.
Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.
You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.
“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.
“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.
“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.
“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”
“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”
He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”
“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.
“And, your family—?”
“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”
He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”
Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”
—
It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.” Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.
When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.
He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.
More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.
The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.
This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything.
—
You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit.
You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.
“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.
Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”
You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about. You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”
“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?
It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.
“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.
“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.
He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.
It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.
It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.
—
Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.
You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.
It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.
You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”
You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.
“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”
He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.
Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”
“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”
“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.
“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.
You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.
He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.
“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”
“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”
You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.
“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.
Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him.
“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.
There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you.
Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”
Synopsis: "Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing." In which supposedly one of Lord Medgar Tully's sons participate within the tourney, yet their face is constantly shielded by a helmet. (Final part of 'Mask On, Fuck It, Mask Off' and 'Chase A Check').
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Tully!Reader
Word Count: 14k+
Tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, eventual smut at the end, fem!reader, hate at first sight, kinda manipulative reader (you just don't realise it), love at first hit (?), ooc Aerion, canon inaccuracies, very self indulgent, unreciprocated!Valarr x Reader (on your side), (mainly onesided) enemies to lovers, reciprocated yearning, happy ending
Note: I tried editing, but there is a very high chance that I might have missed some mistakes. Hope you enjoy <3
You should have known that it was too simple.
Perhaps you were simply too foolish; did you truly believe that escaping the Dragon would be that simple? That easy? That you would be able to withdraw to the safety of your home with no issue?
You almost wanted to laugh.
Almost.
Perhaps you would have if you didn't feel shit scared at the sight of billowing onyx flags, crimson three-headed dragons fluttering on their surfaces. The sound of hooves thundering across the drawbridge caused your heart dropped, dipping deep within its cage, the muscle feeling as if it had been pierced by the sharp of one of your ribs, as you saw him. The one leading the banners was Aerion.
Sliver-gold hair glinting in the pale sunlight, his sharp violet gaze surveilling the courtyard as he guided his steed to slow down. You were petrified in your place, unable to move as you watched him dismount, the horse being guided away by a stablehand as the Targaryen prowled towards you, a triumphant smirk curling at his lips.
"My Sweet Lady Rivers." He murmured, grasping your hand, his thumb tracing along the rivets of your knuckles, before pressing a kiss to the skin, his lips lingering for a moment longer than appropriate. "A pleasure to see you again."
His words sounded mocking, as if he could read every thought that was racing in your mind.
You heard your voice respond, it sounded weak and disjointed, not truly believing that he was here, before you in Riverrun, here in your home. "My Prince."
The grin he bared was threatening, draconic teeth flashing, amusement twirling in his violet irises at the shock you failed to conceal. He tilted his head slightly, chasing your gaze as you looked behind him, watching bannermen and knights dismount, noticing another flash of silver-gold hair amongst the small crowd. Maekar Targaryen.
The Anvil commanded the space surrounding him, his presence overwhelming as he walked further into the courtyard, scowling as he observed the castle before him. Medgar approached him, greeting him cordially, yet from this distance you could see something tense within your father's demeanour. Clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, speaking formally yet you could tell that he was biting his tongue.
There was something wrong.
And the presence of the Targaryens only cemented this.
Aerion noticed your wavering attention, how your confusion was no longer directed towards his presence but rather your father's reaction, his grin twitched slightly, annoyance gnawing at his mind.
How could you direct your attention away from him so easily? How could you deprive him of your wicked gaze?
His cruel Lady Tully, always unwilling to give him exactly what he wants.
"It reeks of fish here." He lied, tone scornful and demanding. scrunching his nose as if offended by the alleged smell. If it truly did smell of fish, he did not notice; all he could smell was you and your damned lavender soap. "Will you not guide your Prince into your home?"
"Of course, My Prince." You replied, offering him a tight-lipped smile as you began to lead him into the castle, sparing one last glance to where your father was conversing with Maekar. Even as you guided him through the winding hallways, aware of how he seemed to linger closer than what propriety demanded, your thoughts were consumed with what the older Targaryen might have been saying to your father; what was the reason for their arrival?
If your father had requested their presence, you would have known — secrets scarcely survived long in Riverrun, not when you had so many siblings. Someone would have mistakenly uttered the truth if your father had confided in them, yet you had no inkling that Maekar was to come. You could assume that neither did your Lord Father.
Your thoughts were quickly interrupted, lithe fingers harshly curling around your wrist, brushing beneath the gold bangles on your wrist, dragging you into a desolate hallway. The cold metal of his rings seared against your skin, firm against your racing pulse.
You could only offer a soft gasp in response, mind coming to a blank as he crowded you against the wall, the uneven surface of the stone pressing uncomfortable into your back, scraping against your shoulder blades. One hand remained curled around your wrist, unwavering, as the other was splayed against the stone beside your head, supporting him as he leaned in slightly, dark violet chasing your gaze.
Blood rushed to your head, feeling lightheaded as you swallowed harshly, words getting stuck in your throat as you found yourself unable to speak.
"Have I rendered you senseless?" Aerion murmured, the question mocking and cruel as his thumb traced the veins of your inner wrist, feeling how your pulse fluttered unsteadily like a trapped bird. "How disappointing, I do enjoy listening to you."
You blinked rapidly, your breathing shallow as you pulled at your hand slightly, trying to release yourself from his grasp.
"This is improper—"
"You did not seem to care about propriety when you kissed me." He reminded you, lips curling with mild amusement as he watched your blush deepen. "Or have you already forgotten? I can reignite the memory if you wish? Ensure it will never be extinguished again?"
"That was a mistake." You whispered, and he flinched as soon as the words left your mouth, a wounded look flashing briefly in his violet irises, before quickly being replaced by a harsher emotion. A certain fury that compelled him to lean closer, breath fanning against your face as he scowled at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, hesitating for a moment.
"Perhaps." He replied, low enough that it barely disturbed the silence of the deserted corridor. "But mistakes are doomed to be repeated, and perhaps you will find that your mistakes are simply an echo of what your heart truly desires."
He left you there, retreating as he withdrew his hands away from you, leaving only the scent of sandalwood and ash as evidence of his presence once lingering.
—
Dinner was accompanied with an immense tension that threatened to suffocate you.
It tightened the air, lingering within the space between chairs as only the sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain and forced conversation filled the silence. Your mother had taken up the responsibility of (attempting to) making the new guests comfortable, of playing the role of a gracious host, yet it was unwanted by the two Targaryen men, who shared side glances laced with judgement each time she spoke.
"I hope that your journey was not tiresome, Your Grace." Orysia attempted, her tone all cordial and grace, as she offered a small smile to Maekar. The Prince did not care for her words, huffing out a scoff as he adjusted in his seat, groaning slightly.
"Tiresome is an understatement. The Riverlands have the worst roads in all of Westeros." The Anvil grumbled, rolling his eyes as sipped at the Arbor gold a servant had poured into his goblet, scowling slightly at the intense saccharinity. They could not even get his wine preference correct, and he was expected to remain here for some mindless whim?
Fuck Riverrun and all of the Riverlands — if it was up to Maekar, he would never step one foot into this damned territory, or this damned castle. But he had to, perhaps with skewed intentions, allowing himself to be dragged into this land under the guise of mediating an alleged 'tense' situation.
Tense. The only tension he had witnessed was his second eldest pacing the halls of Summerhall, baring his teeth at anyone who dared look in his direction. Maekar had first assumed it was a result of Highgarden, of being forcefully banished by Baelor for his actions. He could have never guessed that his son's ire was actually due to matters of the heart.
And the very object of Aerion's desire was sitting so prettily across from him, unable to even look up from your plate, as if engrossed by the appearance of roasted lamb and parsnips.
He had recognised the Tully girl, it was difficult not to, especially when his nephew had also displayed interest in the same girl. The last he had recalled, you had accepted Valarr's offer of courtship. But now according to his eldest brother, Valarr was sulking at Dragonstone, mourning his short-lived first love.
He would have never expected for his son to be so enamoured by the same girl, but apparently you were simply so desirable, and who was Maekar to dissuade his son from pursuing his first love. He himself had enjoyed the thrills of youth and the beauty of love; wedding Dyanna had brought him joy that he was certain he would never be able to experience again after her passing.
Perhaps Aerion would simply have to experience the same emotion — it may calm him, reduce the wicked fire that raged rampant within his mind.
And so despite his own displeasure, Maekar was determined to help his son reach this joy. Even if it meant convincing Baelor to mandate this visit, even if it meant lying to Medgar and potentially insulting his leadership. Even if it had annoyed Maekar to no bounds.
He was unable to display his annoyance subtly either, as your Lady Mother quickly noticed. Afterall, she was a Redwyne before she was a Tully; where your father was skilled in the craft of swordsmanship, she was skilled in the art of translation, of deciphering an individual's words and actions, dissecting them to expose their true intentions.
So soon, she too gave up, choosing to silence her words with sips of Arbor red, letting any attempt to converse die with her quietness.
You kept your gaze fixed on the plate before you, knife cutting through the slice of roasted lamb, picking at the parsnips on your plate — anything to appear busy as you tried to ignore the weight of Aerion's gaze.
There was a strange familiarity that filled you at the scene; him watching, you ignoring. A routine that seemed to surpass location, because even now, even in your own territory, you willed yourself not to meet his gaze, only lowly conversing with your good sister. But unfortunately for you, Elodie was not blind.
She saw exactly what you were wilfully ignoring — the cracks in your facade, the flush that threatened to spread across your entire face each time you submitted to the urge of stealing a glance. She witnessed it all with an avid fascination, she truly could not believe her eyes.
Her head tilted slightly, gaze wandering despite the fact that you were still mindlessly speaking about the silks you had commissioned, watching as Aerion's focus was fixed on you, violet gaze tracing your lips as you spoke.
"What do you think, My Prince?" Elodie interrupted, your voice immediately silencing as you watched your good sister with wide eyes. What in the Seven Hells was she doing? Involving him into your conversation? For what reason?
"I believe Lady Tully is mistaken." Aerion replied, voice silken as his fingers curled around the stem of his goblet, unashamedly betraying the fact that he had indeed been listening in on your entire conversation. He had heard every word, no matter how quietly you had tried to speak. "She should order more of the crimson silks, they suit her better than the blue."
You immediately scowled at the Bright Prince, unable to hide your reaction. The dress you were currently wearing was a soft blue, lighter than the sky and softer than the clouds.
"I think she looks quite beautiful in blue." Elodie rebutted, watching how despite the fact that Aerion was responding to her, his gaze did not once wander from your frame, remaining unwavering on your person,
"Beautiful in blue, yes. But I believe she does look divine in red." He responded unashamedly, voice sincere, no hint of jest as he continued to look at you, not bothering to hide his blatant gaze.
There was a strange awkwardness that befell the table after his proclamation, everyone witnessing his words.
Elodie could only respond softly, her hypothesis being proven. "I do agree."
She remained silent afterwards, and it appeared that you could not speak either, a furious blush warming your face as you found yourself unable to even look at the Prince.
She had never seen you behave in such a manner, had never seen you try to control your reactions to such an extent, to exercise such restraint. It was truly a riveting sight.
And it was then that Elodie realised that you did not only garner the attention of one Targaryen Prince as Mervyn had whispered. If that was the case, the Bright Prince would not be watching you like that. With a certain reverence reserved for all things divine and wicked, like he was willing to worship the very ground you walked upon, all sincerity and fury while doing so.
And you would not be shying away from his gaze.
Even through your inaction, you exposed your heart. It was written all over your face — in the words you refused to say, in the glances you would try to forbid yourself from stealing. Yet no one seemed to notice that the only daughter of Medgar Tully was acting strange, simply because that was the norm in this very situation.
You had the perfect alibi; everyone was acting strange. You were not the only one.
The Tully household had been shocked by the arrival of the two Targaryen Princes; Riverrun simmering with a restrained nervousness, anxiety chilling the stones as the two Dragons prowled the premises.
Maekar would inform your father that the reason for their visit was to help resolve a quarrel between two riverlords. But riverlords always quarrelled, and the Crown hardly cared to interfere with issues that predated their dynasty. But Medgar complied with the Prince of Summerhall, and obeyed his wishes when they decided to call upon the respective houses to discuss such matters, regardless of how futile such conversations were destined to be.
The riverlords did not even know the source of their ire, yet they knew of its presence, and insisted that it still existed for valid reasoning.
You would simply have to survive this Royal visit — until the Anvil would recognise that it was a wasted pursuit.
Maekar seemed like an impatient man, as did his son. You could only pray that Aerion's patience would not run out before his father's.
—
You had a routine.
One that you very much obliged to each day, with very little variation unless previously planned.
You would rise before any other individual in your family, seeking the undisturbed serenity of the morn, watch the sunglints as the cold nipped at your face; the sun only providing rays, no warmth. Then your morning prayers would occur within the seven-sided Sept, gaze tracing the small reflected rainbows upon the painted marble, the faces of the Seven watching you. If there was no rain, which was not very often, you would pray at the altar that resided out of the Sept, knees pressed against the grass beaded with morning dew.
You found more peace outside of the Sept, with the wind whispering and the birds chirping, your prayers seemed to be far more easier to utter.
And, if everything up till this point had occurred smoothly, you would spend the excess of your time within the godswood, occupied with a book or attempting to embroider until you were called to break fast with the rest of your family. (Attempting to embroider was certainly the key idea, your Septas had long given up on trying to make you master the craft.)
Yet it seemed that since you had risen this morning, you had been followed by a shadow.
From the courtyard, to the Sept, to the godswood — Aerion followed.
He did not even bother to disguise it: in the courtyard, he simply remained several paces behind; in the Sept, he did not bother whispering his own prayers, instead was more invested in sharpening his dagger; and in the godswood, he lingered. Ghosting around the redwood you were seated beneath, your skirts pooling against the grass, the scent of dew seeping into the fibres.
Yet you refused to acknowledge his presence, in turn simply treating him like a spectre that haunted Riverrun. No matter how heavy the weight of his gaze was; no matter how you tried to suppress the urge to shiver as you felt his attention sear into the side of your profile, tracing the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the softness of your lips.
You busied yourself with your own embroidery, focusing instead on the piece of linen that had been stretched within the embroidery hoop, your needle piercing through the fabric creating a trail of blue thread. The needle dipped in, you pulled the thread taut, and the needle pierced the linen once more — stitch after stitch.
"You are not very talented in needlepoint." He stated, tone bored as he tries to decipher what you are stitching. He was becoming fatigued by your determination to ignore him, his voice disturbing the silence you were content in remaining in. "What is that? A fish perhaps? Very Tully like."
You couldn't help but frown at his words, your gaze flickering up to where he was standing above you, finding no hint of jest in his features, just pure seriousness.
"It is a bird." You mumbled, embarrassment pricking at your skin as you felt your ears redden slightly. You knew that you were not the most skilled at embroidery, yet you quite liked the process, the thread and needle creating something physical, something you could hold. And perhaps your bird was not that handsome (and maybe appeared more like a trout rather than a blue jay), yet it was still something that you had created.
He was caught off guard by your response, crouching to join you, not fully sitting, tilting his head slightly to try and discover any resemblance to a bird within your stitches. He could not.
"Oh." He replied dumbly, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to conceal his amusement. "It seems, My Lady, that you are more skilled in handling larger blades."
Your fingers slipped slightly at his words, the needle moving too fast, catching onto your skin, tearing a shallow cut onto the surface. You hissed slightly, dropping the hoop as pain stabbed at the small wound, blood beading along the torn akin, threatening to spill. You had not expected him to say that. If anything, you had been praying that he would never mention the tourney, hoping that his accusation would have been forgotten by now.
He had not persisted when you had accused his behaviour from stemming from jealousy, yet perhaps that was simply because he had received what he wanted. But now…
Now you were once again denying him, and his conspiricies returned.
"I do not know what you mean." You responded, your heart racing as your hand reached from the hem of your skirt, intending to blot the blood with the smooth silk, hoping the pressure would stop the bleeding.
Aerion did not respond, instead grabbing your wrist, pulling it close to him, twisting it slightly before you could press the silk of your skirt against the injury. He watched the weeping blood, the trail of crimson that began to travel down your finger. His tongue darted out, lapping at the glistening blood, copper lacing his mouth as he drew your finger closer to his lips, gently suckling at the injury.
You could not find it in you to react. Your heart quivering unsteadily, breath hitching as his teeth scrape against the soft flesh of your finger, catching along the torn skin slightly. You could only watch as he finally released your finger, saliva slightly coating the reddened skin.
He could only smirk while taking you in, lips slightly parted, tense shoulders, spine of steel, bracing yourself as if experiencing an attack. Yet this could not distract from your other, smaller reactions, blown pupils, not retreating, unsteady breathing, gaze chasing his unashamedly as you swallowed harshly.
And he was finally satisfied with your response, retreating to leave you alone in the godswood, with the carved faces of the trees as the only witnesses.
—
You were truly going mad.
No matter where you turned within the castle, all you could see was him.
Sparring with your brothers, lounging in the hall, speaking with your mother. You simply could not escape Aerion. So you fled, seeking the refuge of your room, certain that he would not disturb you there.
But his presence was unneeded for him to disturb you, your mind constantly wandering back to him, curious about what he might be doing or seeing or anything. It was truly becoming concerning, yet you knew exactly what you needed to do. You just needed distance.
Like before, distance would cure all your issues. He would return to Summerhall once Maekar became bored of the riverlords, his attention would be drawn elsewhere, perhaps he would find another Lady to entertain him. Your heart clenched at the thought, a scowl marring your features as you slumped at your desk, staring at the parchment before you.
You had no right to jealousy, you were rejecting him.
And for good reason, you reminded yourself. This was simply a temporary fixation of his, something he believed he needed to conquer, and once he would become bored, he would move onto another conquest.
Every word he said to you was a lie, yet no matter how much the mantra filled your mind ('He was a liar, and a deceiver, and a manipulator', the words pirouetting round and round), you could not find yourself completely convinced.
So you retreated, forcing your mind to be occupied with reading the perfumed letters that Aster had sent you, reading tales of wolves, and snow, and ice to drown out the thoughts of dragons, and fire, and ash. She spoke of a world you could not truly comprehend, about her duties as a Lady of Winterfell, how her husband, the Heir of the North, spent his days dealing with issues of land and coin, yet would always return to her at night, showing her a warmth that caused her heart to flutter. She spoke of other things too, of things you would not even be able to voice, cheeks flushing as she described acts typically reserved for a Lord and his Lady.
Yet she was Tyrell, and she did not seem to shy away from such talk, although you were certain her Northerner husband might faint at the idea of their nightly endeavours being exposed.
Your mind couldn't help but wander. No matter how adverse you were to the idea, one day you would be expected to wed (and wed well if your mother had anything to do with it), and you too would have a Lord Husband. You were unsure of what you would even want within a spouse — would he be gentle like Valarr, offering patience and understanding where you were otherwise undeserving?
Or would he be like Aerion? Relentless and wicked, his patience threadbare and fraying, sensitive to insult and injury to his ego?
And why did your heart seem to quiver at the latter, having seen the cracks within his demeanor, moments of softness betrayed within private, where you could almost believe that Aerion was gentle and kind.
If the gods were kind, they would ensure that you would never wed. It was a destiny unwanted by you, no matter how pretty of a picture Aster painted of her new life. To wed another was to sacrifice the little autonomy you had left, to leave your home to create another, to become a stranger to yourself while trying to navigate a new way of life.
You did not have the patience required. Did not have the grace required.
Would you have to be a blushing bride, to pretend that you were more well equipped with a needle rather than a sword, to lie that you preferred calm despite your heart yearning for adrenaline?
Each time you thought about this or Aerion too much, you found yourself unable to breath.
You did not mention any of these terrorising thoughts within your response to Aster, instead allowing the edge of your quill scratch onyx ink along the parchment, cursive formalities filling the first paragraph as you thought of what to say. You wrote about the gossip you had heard from your good sister, who in turn had received the gossip from her sisters when she had visited her family's home. Wrote about a disgraced lordling, a thieving maid, of the rumoured matches being made — rumours filled the page, second-hand gossip to entertain her within the frigid cold. (She had once complained that Northerners rarely gossiped, far too engrossed with the fact that 'Winter is coming').
Within your final paragraph, you finally gathered the courage to reveal the fact that Aerion and Maekar were here, in Riverrun, and it appeared that they were not leaving any time soon. You kept it vague, yet even while rereading the letter, you could sense your nervousness despite not communicating it within the written letter.
You completed the letter, wishing her and husband good health and happiness, signed your name, and sealed it with wax, the imprint of a leaping trout carved into the navy wax.
For the first time in hours, you left the safety of your room, your velvet slippers barely making a sound against the cold stone as you travelled to the raven post for the third time that day. You had sent a letter to her during the morning, an urgent message sent as a reaction to a letter she had sent that had been delayed (the poor raven had arrived in a mess of loose feathers, and scratches upon its face — according to the Maester this was normal for ravens travelling such distances, as they would often encounter danger). The second time was to retrieve the newest letter that you had spent most of your afternoon reading and responding to. And now this was your final time visiting the raven post that day.
However all these visits did not go unnoticed, Aerion had witnessed the giddy manner in which you sprinted to the post, tying your letter to the claw of the raven, wrapping a vermillion piece of linen to secure it.
And he quickly came to his own conclusions.
This was the cause of your change of heart, of why you now retreated from him, denied him your attention. His wicked Lady Rivers had clearly promised her heart to another.
Was your attention so easily shifted? That as soon as his presence wavered from your life, you were able to become distracted by another lordling? Was pretty words and constant letters all that was required to occupy your heart?
Once to the raven post was understandable, twice was perhaps slightly questionable, but there was a chance that it could have easily been explained away. But thrice? Within one day? Who were you so desperately trying to communicate with? And why had this man been able to distract you from him.
He was a Prince of the Blood, a Dragon — you should have been enraptured with him.
Was his affections so easily dismissed that you had rid yourself of the burden once becoming bored? Did you distribute your kisses so easily that any you shared with him held little value to you? Who else had you kissed? How could you have deceived him so, to allow him to believe that he could have had you?
But he was a Dragon, and dragons do not surrender their treasure at the sight of the first obstacle.
Aerion would simply have to remind you of his promise.
'Your soul is mine, and mine is yours.'
They were not words he had spoken lightly, he meant every bit of them.
So now, watching you struggle to suppress your grin as you tied the letter to the raven, he could not refrain from confronting you.
"This is the third time you've visited the post." Aerion called out, stepping out of the shadows, noticing the way you immediately stilled, spine steeling as you felt your heart drop at the very sound of his voice. You barely were able to comprehend his words before he continued, voice sharp and cutting. "It seems you cannot stand being away from someone."
There was a suggestion within his words that caused you to frown, turning to finally face him after you had released the raven. He was already glaring at you, lips curled into a scowl as he continued to advance towards you, gaze flickering between your beguiling eyes, and the fluttering dark wings that carried your words.
What had you written, he couldn't help but wonder. Had you written confessions of the heart, soul-piercing prose to express affection to another man? Word you denied him, time and time again? Or had they always been reserved for another?
"You seem determined to confuse me, My Prince. It seems each of our conversations are one-sided as I hardly know what you are referring to." You snarked, your hands smoothing your skirts, once, twice, gathering your nerves as you responded to his glare with your own.
This was your home — you would not be so easily frightened out of it due to an ill-tempered Prince 10th in line to the Iron Throne.
"How devastating." He snidely remarked, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms behind him, nails biting half-moons into the soft flesh of his palm. "Unfortunately, My Lady, I am not so easily convinced that you do understand my meaning. I am referring to your suitor."
The word dripped with disdain, spat out like an accusation, an insult to your character, and all you could do was scoff out a laugh.
"My suitor?" You question incredulously, brows furrowing in disbelief as you tried to discern whether the Bright Prince was being serious or not. It felt like a dream, having him 'accuse' you of having a suitor that held your heart, when in reality you were simply sharing letters with Aster.
"Or perhaps it is a lover. I do not know how you occupy your time when you are avoiding me. Perhaps this other man has taken up the space in your heart reserved for me."
You gawked at him in bewilderment, stuttering out a response as a certain fury restricted your lungs, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you advanced towards him.
"I am unsure how insulting my honour will make any space within my heart for you." You gritted out, fingers curling around your skirts as you grounded yourself, restricting them from striking him across the face. What were you to do, to 'confess' that this alleged man was Aster, that it was she that occupied the attention he sought for? A Lady in Winterfell?
"Are you accusing me of lying?"
"I am accusing you of speaking idly, such manner of speaking is unbecoming of a Prince."
He laughed lowly at your response, head tilting as his dark violet gaze traced your features, committing the picture of your anger to his memory. It was a shame that you looked so pretty like this, all fury and wicked words, it almost distracted him from his intentions.
"Is that not why you are rejecting me? Due to previous commitments to another, or perhaps you simply enjoy being cruel?"
You could not respond, your jaw clenching as you found yourself unable to voice why you were rejecting him. It almost sounded stupid. Because you did not trust him, did not believe his words, did not believe that you were suited for marriage. That you had convinced yourself that you would rather be wedded due to duty rather than a result of shared affections.
He closed the distance between you, so close that you could feel the warmth of his person seeping into your skin.
"You refuse to even say my name." He murmured, his hand cradling your jaw gently, watching as you did not retreat. He noticed a glimmer of gold on your neck, a thin chain that dipped into your neckline, concealing the pendant. "Do you fear it so?"
He pulled at the chain, revealing the garnet ring in place of a pendant. The very ring he had stolen from you was now hanging from your neck, pressed against your heart. He could not ignore the implication.
"You do not know what you speak of." You repeated, the words meaningless as you tried to quell your racing heart, ignoring his silent plea, his attempt to hear his name from your lips once more. "You have no right to this jealousy. You act upon intentions that hold no weight coming from you. In Riverrun, in Highgarden, all your actions have been your own and I do not wish to be associated with them."
Your hand ghosted over his, fingers curling into his palm as you drew his hand back, depriving him once more of your touch. Yet it did not discourage him from continuing to touch you, instead it simply served to redirect his efforts, his hand resting upon your hips, thumbs tracing the smooth silk of your bodice.
"You are cruel." He whispered weakly, his forehead pressing against yours lightly, eyes screwing shut as he breathed in the soothing scent of chamomile and lavender, not yet willing to let you go. "I had promised you that I would follow if you denied me, so here I am, and yet you still deny me. How much longer until you deem me worthy?"
You could not respond.
—
Maekar had insisted that your father should accompany him to go to the land that the dispute was occurring for.
It was a small parcel of land, verdant grass and fruitful rivers that bore many fish, yet there were no clear boundaries, resulting in many riverlords tending to claim it as their own.
You were unsure of why you were being dragged along, Malger had pleaded for you to come also, claiming that he did not want to be stuck with the two older men, citing that he would need some entertainment while they survailed the land. And you obliged as he failed to tell you the entire reason.
He did not reveal that he also wished for your presence so that he would not be stuck with Aerion, and you would not discover this fact until it was far too late, standing at the drawbridge, trying to ignore Aerion who stood far too close. You were just thankful that most of the journey would consist of you alone within the carriage, finally able to escape his stare.
Yet the journey was not long, it simply took the better part of an hour until you had reached the desired destination, the sun still glaring from its zenith, rays blinding you as you opened the door of your carriage.
And in front of you was Aerion, who had dismounted his horse and was now offering you an open palm, a silent offer of help. You took it, your hand hesitantly pressing against his, his fingers firmly curling around yours, gripping your hand as he helped you down. His palm was unbearably hot, the skin feeling as if it could sear into yours from touch alone, and you quickly released his hand as if burned.
You did not see how his hand clenched slightly, the skin sparking from the contact.
You did not see how he had stilled, his gaze following you as you joined your brother, muttering lowly to him as you stood upon the unstable ground, feeling the silk of your slippers become stained by the grass beneath your feet.
Medgar and Maekar were several paces infront of you, walking on the bank of the river as they discussed the past history of ownership, of the conflicting boundaries drawn on varying maps that failed to place this land into a particular territory.
Malger grinned at you, heart light as he took in the sight of the sunglints reflecting off the undisturbed surface of the river, occasionally blinding.
"I do believe, sister, that we should take advantage of this moment." He winked at you, his hands busy with untying the bundle he had secured onto his horse, the taut knot proving difficult to loosen.
"What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?" You grumbled, hand pulling slightly at your neckline as you felt your skin burning from the glare of the sun, feeling the telltale signs of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. It was far too hot to even think.
With a final pull, his bundle exposed the contents within — fishing rods and bait.
"Truly?" You scowled at him, yet your gaze was studying the bank of the river, trying to find if there would be a spot to fish comfortably. You found it quickly, a dock that had been built near an abandoned building, the house now decrepit, yet the wooden dock structure still stood — algae crawling up its legs.
Malger offered a slight shrug, watching as the two elders seemed engrossed in conversation, showing no hint of stopping. "It is better than waiting idly by?"
You were unsure of when Aerion had approached during this conversation, but he quickly made his presence known, his hand reaching out to grab for a fishing rod, leaving for the dock.
Malger could only continue to grin at you, his gaze flickering to the retreating Prince as he grabbed for his own fishing rod. "It appears Prince Aerion approves of the idea. Do be quick, sister, or you will catch the least amount of fish."
You wanted to retort, but Malger quickly joined the Bright Prince, bait in hand, leaving you behind. You could only scowl and gather the last fishing rod, your fingers curling around the smooth hilt as you gathered your skirts and marched onwards, cringing as you felt the wet mud beneath your feet.
Damn Malger, and damn you for allowing him to convince you to come.
By the time you had reached the dock, the hems of your skirts stained slightly green by the grass, the two men had already began to fish, occupying two different sides of the dock, making it so that the only remaining place to sit was right in the middle.
Aerion's gaze flickered up at the sight of your arrival, and grabbed at your fishing rod. You shot him a strange look, yet allowed him to take the piece of equipment from you, instead focusing on sitting down in such a manner that would not result in you plunging into the freezing river.
Once your attention returned to him, you noticed that he had steadied his own fishing rod between his thighs, his hands busy with preparing the bait onto the hook, ensuring that the line of nettle-hemp was secure, before wordlessly returning it to you. You took it, finger brushing against his, offering a small smile in silent thanks as you found yourself unable to verbalise your appreciation.
You were unsure of why he was acting strange.
Perhaps his fire could not reign here, not when the rivers surrounded you, ready to douse him at any hint of a spark.
The rest was silence; the soft whistling of wind, branches rustling, birds singing. You were content within the serenity, your brother mindlessly humming a half-forgotten song as he was successful in reeling in another fish. A pike this time.
He would grin, brandish the fish like a trophy, before releasing it back into the river.
You were less fortunate, nothing biting the bait you offered, your hook helplessly submerged within the water, waiting.
Aerion was more successful than you, his lips curling into a triumphant smirk each time he managed to catch a fish larger than his palm. And like Malger, he released them to the river, watching as the fish would writhe before he would fling it far, the water rippling as it's body splashed along the surface.
"Perhaps we should get you a trident." Aerion murmured, his voice low enough that Malger could not hear, stealing a quick glance at your face to gauge your reaction. "I do believe that you are certainly far more skilled wielding that sort of equipment."
You shot him a warning glance, lips twitching slightly as you leaned closer to him, suppressing the urge to just push him into the river. "It will do you well to remember that perhaps you do not want me holding a trident."
You had whispered the words, so quiet that they had almost been muffled by the winds, but Aerion had caught them. And he could not help but grin at your admission.
You had finally admitted it.
The final fish caught was done so by Aerion. A silver trout.
—
"Again."
You heard Delmar laugh out, jumping back to his feet as Mervyn had finally been able to tackle him. They had been sparring for most of the morning, drifting here after they had broken fast.
You were guided to the courtyard by the sounds of gasped laughter and pained grunts.
Mervyn had lost most of their matches, wishing to just retire his sword and to return to the solace of the library. But Delmar was unrelenting, forcing his youngest brother to abandon the training swords and pick up a real blade.
"Father will want you to fight at the next tourney." Delmar goaded, smirking as Mervyn picked his sword up once more, weakly grasping the hilt. "You cannot be the first son to fail their first duel."
"Do not torture him." You called out, feet kicking the loose rocks scattered, watching as it skipped along the dusty surface of the smooth stones.
"It is not torture if it is true." Delmar responded, yet the grin on his face suggested that he enjoyed tormenting his younger siblings. He had become a true menace after healing, his ankle no longer restraining him. It still ached from time to time, and he complained that he could hear the bone crackling whenever he would roll the joint, but it did not stop him from training as soon as the Maesters had removed the bandages.
"And speaking of torture, dear sister, when was the last time you had trained. I am certain that Father will not be satisfied that you have been neglecting your practicing."
You could only roll your eyes with silent amusement, sharing a knowing look with a smiling Mervyn, who offered his sword. You took it readily, suppressing the urge to laugh.
If only your dear older brother knew that your skills were certainly not neglected.
"Perhaps we should see how terrible my swordsmanship had become?" You offered, twirling the blade slightly, allowing yourself to become accustom to the familiar weight, feeling it calm the uneasiness that had been terrorising you for days.
"We certainly shall." Delmar replied, grinning as he retrieved his own sword.
You and Delmar were evenly matched — parrying when he slashed at you, the arcing blade glinting in the harsh sunlight. He skilfully dodged your stabs, predicting them before they even occurred, and you blocked each attack he attempted, deciphering his tell-tale signs from his very footwork. He would steady his feet in place when planning a feint, when advancing, his feet would move before his mind.
He was too predictable, and so were you. You had both become too accustomed with each other's fighting styles. He who favoured attacking, you who skilfully deflected, swiftly returning your own blows.
And quickly you found yourself in a stalemate, stupidly grinning at your brother and exhaustion began to nip at your mind, movements lazied as you swung at him. Delmar was your mirror, and finally he declared a truce, a temporary break until the next time you duelled.
You swiped at the sweat that began to gather at the base of your neck with the back of your hand, preventing it from travelling into the neckline. You twirled your sword once last time, watching as the blade reflected a blinding light as it completed the turn, about to abandon it, until you were interrupted by a silken voice.
"Perhaps we should spar, My darling Lady Rivers." Aerion purred out, his own sword already brandished, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk once he realised you were not throwing the blade away.
You did not bother speaking, just huffing out a sharp exhale as you nodded, trying to steady your uneven breathing. Your heart was jolting in its cage, and despite this you offered him a grin as you gripped your sword, wild and unbridled as you adjusted yourself into the correct stance. You rolled your shoulders, forcing them to relax as the muscles of your biceps screamed at you, an ache beginning to travel across your muscles.
He haltered at the sight of your smile, his own smirk faltering as he became distracted, creating the perfect opportunity for you to advance, not caring if he was not prepared.
You swung, the blade slicing through the air in a sharp arc, aiming for his arm. He quickly deflected, the glint of your blade drawing his attention back to the duel, the edge of his sword clashing against yours, creating a grating scraping noise to emit from the contact. He swiftly parried, steel sparking as the blades met once more, his defense getting blocked.
He grunted lowly, the sound low as he struggled against your attack, your blade catching along the sleeve of his raven doublet, the fibres tearing, revealing pale unblemished skin.
You were striking to injure, to draw blood. You did not care that you were duelling against a Prince, that perhaps you should have shown some restraint.
You justified it with the fact that you knew he would be disappointed if you inhibited your skill, controlled how adept you truly were with a blade. And a part of you, the more selfish, shameful part of you, whispered that you simply wanted to hurt him. To see him wounded with your mark, to know that you had scarred his skin, and that would force him to never forget you.
He began to circle you, his blade catching each attack you attempted, halting them before they could develop, and you reciprocated the action, causing you to slowly orbit each other. You could see his chest trembling slightly, his breathing quickening into short gasps as no matter what he did, you seemed to respond.
The swords seemed to dance, metal grinding as each slash, each stab was blocked, and returned with skilfull ripostes.
Your gaze flickered to his feet, trying to predict his next move, watching how the blade became an extension of his arm, how his grip adjusted to the slightest fraction. And then you saw it, his feet moving left before his sword, as if to steady himself for the next blow he would deliver.
You began to deflect the blow, but it never came. He had feigned.
Instead Aerion lunged right, kicking at your knees, immediately causing them to buckle. Your grip loosened slightly, but it was enough for your sword to fall, clattering against the stone as your hands gripped at his doublet, forcing him to fall with you.
Your eyes screwed shut, whimpering as pain stabbed along your muscles, awaiting for your skull to ache.
Yet that pain never came.
His hands had cradled the back of your head, his knuckles scraping against the stone as he stopped your skull from splitting open. You could only swallow harshly, gaze fluttering between his dark irises, the pupils swallowing the purple making his irises appear onyx rather than violet.
His face was close, too close, nose brushing yours as he adjusted slightly, removing his hand so that his weight was no longer pressed against you. Yet he didn't move.
Aerion remained above you, his gaze dipping to the curve of your lips, tracing them as they parted, your chest heaving as you struggled to calm your breathing.
"Yield." He murmured, his breath fanning across your face.
Yet your response was not what he expected. Instead of shying away, instead of immediately yielding, to retreat as swiftly as possible, you simply smiled brilliantly at him, your eyes brightened with excitement.
And within the span of the second, your palms harshly pushed at his shoulders, forcing him to tumble slightly, caught off guard. You quickly took advantage of his bewilderment, grabbing his wrists as you straddled him, barracading him between your knees, forcing him to be helpless beneath you. Hands restrained above his head, your weight steady upon his abdomen — he was trapped.
Before he could struggle against you, to wrench his hands out of your grip, he felt the cold kiss of a blade against the soft of his neck, brushing against his fluttering pulse.
"Yield?" You parroted, tone mocking as you grinned at him.
He was unable to speak, his mouth dry as very certain thoughts began to flood his mind — the thought of you taking this position under very different circumstances.
The blade pressed more firmly into his skin, scraping it slightly, a miniscule drop of blood gathering where the skin had torn infinitisimally.
He gasped out his response, yielding as he felt the blood course through his body, his skin sparking at the contact.
You removed yourself from on top of him, offering the Bright Prince a hand to help him up. But he strangely rejected your help, instead fleeing the scene, seeking the refuge of his chambers.
You would continue to be confused as this behaviour seemed to span throughout the full day, Aerion being the one to avoid you for a change.
—
Aerion truly did not mean to linger.
You would not believe him if he ever did voice this to you, if he confessed that his behaviour was only strange in your presence, that it was truly your fault as to why he was acting so uncharacteristically. He would not dare confess this to you, knowing that this was different to his confessions of affection.
This was an admission of weakness.
And no matter how fond he was of you, he was not sure he was willing to sacrifice that bit of information to you, unsure of how you would wield his weakness against him.
So instead he blamed his behaviour on his lack of sleep, which was half true. He did recently have struggle sleeping, the very thought of you resting just down the corridor constantly haunting him.
At first it began quite innocently. He would ponder over how you slept, which side of the bed you favoured, if you moved much in your sleep. But as the hour grew later, his thoughts grew more wicked. He would imagine you beside him, cheeks flushed, dreamy smile, hair sprawled across the feather pillows, watching him with an enamoured gaze.
His breath would turn ragged at the very thought, feeling himself hardening against his breeches, whimpering softly as he tried to chase his own release, biting into his own arm to stifle the noise. He would soon spill his seed, your voice on his tongue as he tasted copper.
And through the haze of pain and pleasure, all he could imagine was you.
—
You had noted Aerion's behaviour growing stranger.
The first few days he had been within Riverrun, it seemed as if the Prince was determined to torment you, following you around like a malicious spectre. No matter where you had turned, you had always found him there, and his gaze would quickly find you.
But it seems that the very skillset he had used to follow you had allowed him to become skilled in avoiding you.
He no longer seemed to linger in the morns, following you as you completed your daily routine of praying at the Sept, and then reflecting within the godswood. He no longer ghosted the hallways you often travelled in, yet at times it felt as if you could catch glints of silver-gold in your peripheral.
But as soon as you turned to the familiar glint, you could not find him. It was beginning to become unnerving.
Because you were certain you could still feel him watching you.
The sensation of his gaze was one that you had long become accustomed to — it was heavy and unforgiving, piercing into your very soul as it refused to waver. And yet despite not being able to see the Bright Prince as much as you originally had, you knew he could see you.
In the Sept, in the godswood, at times it even felt as if he was watching you in your own chambers.
Which was why when you were playing cyvasse with Malger, you were truly shocked that you had not sensed his presence earlier.
You were talking mindlessly with your oldest brother; he was recounting the first tourney he had ever participated in while baby Medgar was cradled in your arms, contentedly snoozing. You made your move, nodding along to what Malger was vividly expressing, his hands nearly knocking over his own pieces as he retold the tale of his eventual defeat.
He had fought against a Lannister cousin, who proved to be a far more skillful foe than he had anticipated, and just as he was reaching the crux of the story, you felt your spine tingle slightly, skin pricking.
Your gaze darted to the entrance of the library, to find the younger Targaryen lingering at the entrance.
"My Prince." You called out, voice betraying your surprise, eyes widening a fraction at the sight of him. Baby Medgar made a perturbed noise, and you were unsure if it was because the babe was dreaming, or if your voice had disturbed him. Regardless you cooed at the babe in your arms, adjusting your grip slightly as you traced a finger over the minuscule slope of his nose, feathering over his chubby cheeks.
Aerion was certain you wished to kill him. This was true cruelty.
He had heard the whispers that swarmed him; that he was cruel, that he was wicked, that he was vain. Yet he was certain that what you were doing to him now was far more torturous than any act he had ever inflicted.
His heart stuttered at the sight of your softness, how your features melted at the sight of the babe, fondness dancing in your irises.
And it only got worse as the glare of the sun intensified, the harsh ribbon of white light spilling through the window, streaking across the babe's light hair, appearing more silver than blonde. And in that moment Aerion allowed himself to imagine that it was true.
That you were cradling a babe with his hair and your eyes, and he found it difficult to breath as the image infiltrated the forefront of him mind, rendering him senseless as Malger called out to the Prince, inviting him in. And he obliged, truly unable to think as he witnessed you act so maternally.
All he could do was curse himself, knowing that it was simply more fuel for the thoughts that would haunt him at night, the moon taunting him as he tried to refuse returning to his bed, believing that if he tired his mind out just enough, that perhaps it would just allow him to succumb to sleep.
This would be fruitless, of course, as you often visited his dreams.
So even now he tried his best to not look at you, instead focussing his attentions to the cyvasse board that laid before him, watching as you and Malger exchanged skilful moves; claiming pieces and laying useless traps. He could barely even begin to comprehend what was occuring before him, you and your brother playing at a complete different wavelength than anything he had even witnessed.
(He quickly realised that you were taking it easy during your cyvasse match with him, perhaps out of pity.)
"I am surprised you were even knighted in the end." You teased, smirking at Malger as he huffed at your words, his hands moving one piece that dismantled the trap you had been attempting to lay. You could only pout slightly at his move, before quickly making your own move, moving the dragon vertically to defend your king.
"Well, unfortunately for the rest of our brothers, they did, and Father has been chasing that pride ever since." Malger retorted, smirking slightly as a thought entered his mind. "I must admit that I am surprised Brynden was knighted."
You could only offer a weak smile at his words, your gaze fluttering to Aerion who had seated himself at the table. He was already looking at you, amusement filling his gaze as he realised that you truly did not tell any of your brothers. Only the individuals involved knew the truth of Brynden's knighthood.
"Disappointed that Father is more proud of him than you?" You responded snidely, watching as he moved an elephant. You responded, moving a catapult.
"I gave him his first grandchild, I do not need to be disappointed over such trivial matters. The truth is that you all cannot compare." Malger moved his final piece, and declared the result. "Stalemate."
And so he rose, collecting his Heir with him, baby Medgar being gently transferred from your arms, leaving you with the Bright Prince who now was unable to look away from you when he had finally permitted himself to be close in your presence once more.
Aerion's gaze traced over each of your features, re-familiarising his mind with the image of you from a closer distance. You seemed to have been doing the same, content with remaining silent with the Prince, simply watching him.
He looked exhausted. Weak.
You could not help but frown at the sight, unsure of what to say. You were not even sure of the source of his tired appearance. Instead you rose, guiding him to copy your movements, your fingers ghosting the sleeve of his doublet as moved through the library, entering further until you reached a quiet a corner deep within the wing; undisturbed, hidden.
There was a cushioned settle, the wooden back was an ornately carved redwood piece, and Aerion simply copied your movements as you sat upon it.
You did not expect him to become fully comfortable, just assuming that perhaps the Prince required a quiet place of refuge, and as soon as you began to leave, his hand darted out, wrapping around your wrist, a silent plea for you not to leave.
You did not.
And instead of receiving any thanks, Aerion simply rested his head against the plush of your thighs, his legs draping over the rest of the settle as he allowed himself to completely relax, the scent of chamomile and lavender lulling him into a dreamless sleep.
Even in his sleep he was relentless, his fingers curling around the silk of your skirts, bunching the fabric into his fists, ensuring that you truly could not leave.
—
The waning moon twinkled lowly in the inked sky, its luminescence blurred by grey clouds.
The gardens were almost completely dark, only brightened by the warm light spilling out of the lantern clutched between your hands. You did not intend to delay your evening prayers this long, finding yourself preoccupied by the many requests of your Lady Mother. She was planning a banquet to officially celebrate the birth of baby Medgar now that he had lived for over a moon. So in between scratching down the guest list your mother had rattled off the top of her head, and finally penning your correspondence to Aster's latest letter, you found little time to retreat to the Sept, to mutter your absentminded prayers and finally retire to the comfort of your chambers.
Yet even though you were stifling a yawn as you lit your lantern, you could not find it within you to simply return to your room and complete your prayers there.
No, you had to complete your routine, to pray at a designated altar, that was the only way you were certain that you would be able to sleep undisturbed.
So that was why you were shuffling in the gardens, the vicious cold nipping at the exposed skin of your face, your nose feeling numb as you advanced to the seven-sided Sept. And despite the frigid cold, you found yourself kneeling at the altar that resided at the eastern side of the Sept, facing the godswood as your fingers fumbled to retrieve your moonstone beaded rosary, the star of the Seven falling against the back of your hand as you began your supplications.
You began as you always did, praying to each component of the Seven, the names of the Father and the Mother being the most frequent on your tongue as you begged for forgiveness and requested health for your loved ones.
You had been so engrossed within your prayers, your eyes screwed shut, head bowing slightly as you moved the beads along the rosary, completing prayer after prayer, that you did not notice the weight of a familiar gaze.
You had assumed your spine had steeled due to the cold, that your skin was sparking because of the nipping wind.
You failed to realise that Aerion was watching you.
He had first noticed you when he had been staring aimlessly out of his window, wishing for his mind to finally surrender to sleep, until a certain golden light drew his attention to the gardens that were below his window. He had quickly deciphered that it was you. And he could not help but be curious as to why you were in the gardens, especially at such a late hour.
He would claim that he followed you out of concern, out of the need to protect you — if he had noticed you, there was a chance that others could have too. Others with far more wicked intentions.
But truthfully, he was following you out of pure curiosity, wanting to see what would attract his Lady out of the comfort of her chambers at this late hour.
Yet curiosity was not the reason he lingered. That was out of his own selfish desire, watching you kneel against the cold grass, elbows resting upon the altar as you grasped the rosary in between your palms, muttering out prayers like you had done so a thousand times in the past. He was not entirely sure as to why he had remained, he had heard you whisper these prayers every morning.
But his heart haltered once he heard you murmur his name.
"And Mother, I know I have prayed for him many times in the past, but please, continue to protect him. Look over him, ensure his health remains firm and unwavering. Let no harm befall him." You whispered to the wind, your fingers curling as you pushed the last few moonstone beads with each plea, feeling your hands tremble slightly, the cold seeping into your very bone.
His breath hitched sharply, the sudden intake of cold air burning his lungs as his lips parted, watching you with narrowed eyes and shocked mind.
'Many times in the past?'
And that single thought drew him out of the shadows, finally making his presence known.
You immediately flinched at a sudden sound behind you, grass crunching beneath heavy boots, and you swivelled to find the source, half prepared to fling your lantern at the intruder.
But the urge immediately diminished once you realised who it was. Instead a different sort of fear seized your heart, retreating slightly as you noticed the predatory look glinting in his glare, the back of your calves pressing into the cols marble of the altar.
"My Prince." You managed out, voice barely a whisper as your gaze darted around the garden, searching through the void. Yet your eyes continued to be drawn back to his endless violet gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Many times." He repeated incredulously, confirming your worst fears. He had indeed heard you. "You claim that you had made a mistake in Highgarden, that you hold no space for me in your heart. You reject me, deny me, yet you still pray for me? I am not foolish enough to believe that you truly hold no affection for me."
"My Prince." You tried once more, continuing to back away from him as he continued to advance. "Please—"
"And you continue to refuse calling me by my name?" He interrupted, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. "Must you also deprive me of that?"
"It is just a prayer." You whispered weakly.
"It is not just a prayer." He retorted, voice cutting and sharp as he mirrored your movements, taking a slow step forward each time you took one back. "You come every morn, before the rest of your household have even began to rouse from the depth of their sleep, reciting prayer after prayer. You pray for the health of your loved ones, for their protection. And now you add my name to the list and you claim that it is just a prayer? Nothing more? Do not kid yourself."
"Because it does not matter."
"If it did not matter you would not be here in the dead of night. If it did not matter, it could have waited for your morning prayers." He whispered, his hand reaching out to grab at your wrist, to stop you from retreating further into the godswood. His palm was startlingly hot against the coldness of your skin, his warmth seeping into you, melting the ice that laced your bone marrow.
"What is it that you want me to say?" You hissed back, your heart quivering as you frowned at him, your tired mind wishing to cry. To release the emotions that tormented you. "To confess? To admit that I too share your affections? That I have not only denied you, but myself also out of fear? Is that what you wish to hear, Aerion? Are you satisfied now that I have bared my heart to you?"
He almost groaned at the sound of his name, shuddering slightly as his eyes screwed shut.
But this relief was short lived as the meaning of your words finally registered on his mind.
"Fear? What the fuck do you have to fear?" He interrogated harshly, intending to eliminate the very source of your fear.
"You, Aerion." You gritted out, pressing your forefinger into his chest roughly. "Because you lie and manipulate and I am unsure if this is all some grand deception you have orchestrated for you own entertainment."
His hands travelled to your hips, flexing slightly as he pulled you closer, silk brushing against the linen of his tunic.
"I do not express my affections lightly." He growled out. "I have meant every word I have ever said to you. I have never once lied to you."
He swallowed harshly, his Adam's apple bobbling unsteadily as his gaze dipped, flickering between your dazed eyes to your parted lips. He could hear his own blood rushing, pulse hammering as he watched you, awaiting a response.
You never verbalised your retort, instead your fingers curled around the neckline of his tunic, dragging him down to you, lips crashing against his, your fingers threading through his short silver-gold hair.
The kiss was bruising and fervent, his lips travelling the expanse of your exposed throat as you forced him to part from you, pulling at his strands as you gasped in the cold air, feeling your lungs burn. His teeth nipped at the flesh, suckling softly, promising bruises where ever his lips travelled.
His hands travelled the curve of your waist, steadily mapping the figure of your silhouette, pinching and grabbing at your hips as he pushed you further back, your back crashing against the trunk of an elm, the bark roughly digging into your spine.
He had you pinned against the tree, his hand travelling to grab at your thigh, guiding the knee to bend, pressing himself firmly into the space made. He continued to kiss you eagerly, swallowing the small noises you made, his touch searing against your skin.
You no longer felt cold.
Your head spun the longer he kissed you, desperately and dizzying, his hand around your throat, unable to even think as all you could feel was him.
His warmth, his hair, his lips, his wandering hands.
And then finally you noticed something firmer pressed against the slot of your legs as Aerion rocked against you slightly, his hips rolling.
"Aerion." You gasped out, keening as his lips latched onto the curve of your jaw, peppering kisses as his hands grabbed at your waist. "We cannot."
He moaned lowly against your skin, biting at your shoulder to muffle the sound, causing you to hiss slightly.
"Tell me to stop." He choked out, yet his grip tightened, as if fearing you would truly send him away.
You could not gather the words, could not tell him to leave you, because you truly did not want him to.
"Do not stop." You urged, whining softly as his hips dragged against yours, feeling his hands begin to bunch up your skirts, the cold nipping at the exposed skin of your legs.
There was a sharp rip, the sound piercing through your heavy breathing, your gaze immediately darting down to find that Aerion had torn through your smallclothes. You had no time to react, gasping sharply as his fingers travelled, smearing the slickness of your cunt, listening to how he moaned slightly at the realisation that you were just as aroused as he.
He began with one; the long digit dipped into your warmth, brushing against your walls that seemed to tighten around him with each curl, listening to the melodic whines that fell from your lips. Soft pleas of his name being uttered as a mantra, your hips rolling against his hand.
You could only gasp out as he added another, your hands gripping at his shoulders as he silenced your needy moans with a swift press of his lips against yours. You reciprocated, gnawing at anything he offered — the fat of his bottom lip, his tongue.
But your mind was dizzy, feeling full as you felt something strange occurring, biting at the skin of his neck as his fingers curled deeper, in and out. There was a certain pressure building, something unlike anything you had ever experienced, your walls clenching around his fingers as you felt your hips stutter slightly, your pearl beginning to feel too sensitive.
You cried out his name, trying and failing to muffle the sound with your own hand, feeling stars blur your vision as he nipped at your neck, lips lowering to bite at the top of your breasts as he yanked at your bodice slightly.
"Call me 'valzȳrys'." He commanded, cooing as you stumbled over the foreign syllables, mind hazy from the peak you had just experienced, unable to even think about what he had demanded you call him. You did not even know High Valyrian, not to the extent your Septas had tried to teach you, the word holding no value to you as you repeated it. But hearing you say it had almost pushed Aerion to the edge, feeling himself almost finish untouched as you babbled the title. (Husband.)
"Valzȳrys, please." You pleaded, although you were not entirely sure what you were asking for. More? Him? You could not truthfully say, simply begging for whatever he might give you.
He whispered your name against your lips, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches as he finally freed himself. "Of course, ñuha ābrazȳrys." (My wife.)
Mind dizzy, you were unable to comprehend the promise he kissed along your skin, one he was intending on completing. He would wed you. It was not a matter of if but rather when, and if it was up to Aerion, he would have uttered those damned vows in Highgarden.
He entered you swiftly, the head of his cock bullying itself through your entrance, stilling as he felt your warmth flutter around him, his eyes screwing shut as he heaved out a heavy breath, moaning lowly.
But you did not grab at him, instead your hands pushed at his shoulders, a choked sound escaping you as tears pricked at your waterline, your face twisting into a pained expression.
"Stop." You managed out, the word scraping against your larynx as you suppressed the urge to cry out, to curse him.
And he obeyed, his hands cradling your face gently, thumbs brushing away the stray tears that fell, his lips kissing at your cheeks, muttering soft apologies.
"I'll be slow." He promised, trying to comfort you as his hands travelled to smooth your hair slightly, before grabbing at your thighs to lift you, your legs curling around his waist. It only served to push him deeper within you, tip kissing your cervix as you clawed at his clothed shoulders, nails scraping against linen.
He withdrew slowly, and you whimpered, feeling him scrape against your walls at an agonising pace. Aerion cursed lowly as he looked at where you were joined, his cock slowly revealing, glimmering lowly with slick and with something that caused him to whimper.
Blood.
He had taken your maidenhead.
His thumb brushed against his length, his head still buried within you, gathering the thin blood with the pad of his fingertip, watching as it bloomed like spilled ink. He dragged a small line on your forehead, the glyph of 'fire' blotted against the skin. He wiped the remaining blood against the fat of your lips, wordlessly grabbing your hand, guiding your thumb to do the same, tracing the glyph of 'blood'against his own skin.
He kissed your lips harshly, teeth clashing as he lapped at your maiden blood on your lips, the copper tasting sweet as he moaned lowly, slowly rocking into you, hips pressing against yours.
He continued to push into you, feeling you clench around him as he whimpered softly, eyes screwing shut as he felt your hands travel, pulling at silver-gold strands, scratching at the skin beneath his tunic, nails scraping against his back, red welts raising on the pale skin.
He gasped out as he heard your small pained noises shift, turning into whiny whimpers as you whispered his name, pleading for more, pleading for anything that he could give you. He could feel himself almost finish, his finger travelling to the small bundle of nerves between your legs, drawing clumsy circles as you trembled against him, your head snapping back, feeling the bark scarpe against your scalp. He bit at your exposed neck, feeling the taut skin beneath his teeth.
Stars blurred your vision once more, your body going limp as you felt his breathing become ragged, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside of you. He withdrew himself from you, listening to the soft whine that fell from your lips as he no longer filled you, your cunt clenching around nothing as you felt his seed begin to dribble out of you.
Aerion unwrapped your legs from his waist, trying to set you down, but your legs betrayed you, trembling like a fawn as your knees buckled, hands grabbing at his forearms as you tried to steady yourself. He chuckled lowly at you, grabbing at your waist as your skirts fell, hiding any sign of what had occurred.
"My poor Lady Rivers." He mocked, fingers brushing at the strands of hair that stuck to your neck, curling against the cold sweat. Your chest heaved as you watched him with enamoured eyes, your heart stuttering as you struggled to catch your breath. "Has your man rendered you so weak?"
You huffed out a soft laugh as the title he bestowed upon himself, smiling stupidly and you avoided his gaze.
(If only you knew what he had you calling him).
Your blush only deepened each time your eyes betrayed you, wandering back to the smirking Dragon who watched you as if he had finally won. As if he had finally conquered his treasure.
Yet looking at him it would appear as if he was the one conquered, skin reddened with sharp bites and long scratches, unforgiving reminders of where you had marred his skin. You could already see where bruises had begun to bloom across his skin, in areas that would be difficult to conceal with clothing.
You did not even want to begin to think about your own skin, knowing that he had been as unrelenting as you, the flesh still tender from where his teeth had gnawed and nipped.
His hair was mussed, a result of you tugging and pulling, and the foreign symbol seemed to cling to the skin of his forehead.
(Later, on the day of your wedding ceremony, once your vows had been uttered to the Seven, you would be guided out of the Sept, Maekar muttering ancient oaths as he offered you a dragonglass blade, guiding you to do the very same thing to Aerion once more, only this time with the blood of his cut lip).
You could not continue to look at him, instead resting your forehead against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sighed softly, smelling ash mixed with lavender.
You yelped as his own hands gathered you, sweeping you off your feet as his arms steadied you; one at the bend of your knees, the other secured against your back, fingers curling against your skin.
He did not say a word as he carried you, his feet light against the smooth stone floor of the castle, not even making a sound as he followed the familiar path to your chambers, walking through the dark corridors with ease. A part of you wanted to question why he knew the route so well, but you chose to stifle the thought, resting your head against his shoulder, your lips kissing as the side of his neck.
His grip tightened at your sudden ministrations, suppressing the groan that threatened to grumble out of his chest, instead quickened his pace. You noticed the urgency in his step, pressing soft giggles against his carotid as your teeth scraped against his pulse.
"Witch." He growled out, roughly dropping you onto your bed, your body bouncing on the mattress slightly as kicked off his boots, crawling on top of you.
The Bright Prince would finally leave your chambers when the sun began to teeter along the horizon, the soft sound of birds chirping filling the silence as he wrapped his arms around you, face pressed against your bossom as he tried to gather the courage to leave.
You had long been asleep, body exhausted from the sheer amount of times he had pushed you to your peak, skin sheening with a slight radiance. He desperately wished to stay, to see you wake up, to witness your dreamy smiles. But he could not. He had to gather the courage to leave.
Aerion would storm into your father's solar, with every intention to demand your hand, to cause chaos until your father obliged (or he would simply have to steal you away if Medgar refused, because you cannot deny a dragon), only to find his own father conversing with the Lord Paramount of the Trident.
Maekar levelled Aerion with a glare, a subtle snarl on his lips that threatened the young Prince to remain silent.
The land dispute had been settled, Medgar grumbling his thanks. But Maekar had only one way that he wished to receive the Lord of Riverrun's thanks. To wed his son to Medgar's only daughter.
When the Targaryens finally left the solar, Aerion dumbfounded into silence as he mindlessly followed his father, only one thought clattered within his mind.
You were betrothed to him.
You were to be wed to him.
He could not help the stupid grin that invaded his features, even after his father scowled at the sight of his stretched lips. But Maekar could not complain. He could only pray that Dyanna would have been happy with the result.
When you had finally managed to rouse from your sleep, the sun had reached its zenith, rays glaring into the windows of your chambers, spilling onto your face. You had never awoken this late, and rushed to get ready, suppressing the urge to call for a maid to help you.
But you stopped yourself, heart dropping at the sight of your neck.
What the fuck had you done?
Your hand immediately covered your mouth in horror once you had caught a glimpse of yourself within the reflection of a mirror. But that fear immediately diminished as you could not help but laugh at yourself. You should have been more alarmed, to be brimming with anxiety, yet you could not find it within you, your heart fluttering each time you looked at the bruises, your mind forced to replay the events of last night.
His hands, his lips, his —
You shivered slightly, eyes screwish shook as you shook your head, hoping to dispell the thoughts haunted your mind. No — you had to gather yourself. To appear presentable. To show no hint of what had occurred last night.
So you carefully dressed yourself into a crimson gown, neckline high enough to conceal any marks, but not too high that it was suspicious. You kept your hair loose, hoping that too would provide some coverage, the strands acting as a veil that helped cover your neck. Your skirts were heavy, the swish of the fabric was enough to conceal the slight limp within your step.
Everything had been curated perfectly to hide any evidence that terrorised your body. For you to disappear into the background of the castle, to avoid any potential interactions.
This would immediately fail however.
The moment Elodie had seen you, she sprinted towards you, poor baby Medgar jostling in her arms as she grabbed at you with her free hand. She chattered excitedly to you, asking about the preparations you had considered — flowers, decorations, gowns. And when you only responded to her rambling with a blank stare, she grinned at you, believing you were jesting.
"For your wedding, of course! I know it has only been announced, but we must begin preparing."
Once Elodie finally noticed the way you gawked at her, she realised that you truly did not have any clue about what she had been talking about, she grew silent, brows furrowing with confusion as she suggested you talk to your Mother.
Yet even talking to Orysia seemed to provide you little insight. You were to be wed to Aerion. No question about it.
Yet your mind could not help but wander — were they marrying you to him due to what had occurred last night? To restore your honour? But the more you talked to your parents, the more confused you grew.
No one talked about question to your honour, no one suggested that you had failed your duty as a daughter.
No one knew anything.
It was only in the evening that you would see Aerion again, whose gaze lingered on your neckline, smirking as he knew exactly what lay beneath the crimson fabric. He simply pulled at the gold chain on your neck, finally reclaiming the ring he had stolen from you once before, letting it lay in place of a signet ring.
He would smile and talk, any tension that had once suffocated the hall now diminished as both Targaryens seemed finally satisfied, as if they were content in the outcome of their visit.
Aerion would never confess that he had begged his father to bring him to Riverrun, that the true purpose of their visit was not over some silly dispute between riverlords, but that you were the intended focus the entire time.
But he would slowly confess other things. His father had been the one to initiate the betrothal. That he knew he wanted you the moment you had seen you. That if you truly looked back at all of your encounters, he had been the one to ultimately win. In the end, his words rang true.
Synopsis: "Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing." In which supposedly one of Lord Medgar Tully's sons participate within the tourney, yet their face is constantly shielded by a helmet. (Final part of 'Mask On, Fuck It, Mask Off' and 'Chase A Check').
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Tully!Reader
Word Count: 14k+
Tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, eventual smut at the end, fem!reader, hate at first sight, kinda manipulative reader (you just don't realise it), love at first hit (?), ooc Aerion, canon inaccuracies, very self indulgent, unreciprocated!Valarr x Reader (on your side), (mainly onesided) enemies to lovers, reciprocated yearning, happy ending
Note: I tried editing, but there is a very high chance that I might have missed some mistakes. Hope you enjoy <3
You should have known that it was too simple.
Perhaps you were simply too foolish; did you truly believe that escaping the Dragon would be that simple? That easy? That you would be able to withdraw to the safety of your home with no issue?
You almost wanted to laugh.
Almost.
Perhaps you would have if you didn't feel shit scared at the sight of billowing onyx flags, crimson three-headed dragons fluttering on their surfaces. The sound of hooves thundering across the drawbridge caused your heart dropped, dipping deep within its cage, the muscle feeling as if it had been pierced by the sharp of one of your ribs, as you saw him. The one leading the banners was Aerion.
Sliver-gold hair glinting in the pale sunlight, his sharp violet gaze surveilling the courtyard as he guided his steed to slow down. You were petrified in your place, unable to move as you watched him dismount, the horse being guided away by a stablehand as the Targaryen prowled towards you, a triumphant smirk curling at his lips.
"My Sweet Lady Rivers." He murmured, grasping your hand, his thumb tracing along the rivets of your knuckles, before pressing a kiss to the skin, his lips lingering for a moment longer than appropriate. "A pleasure to see you again."
His words sounded mocking, as if he could read every thought that was racing in your mind.
You heard your voice respond, it sounded weak and disjointed, not truly believing that he was here, before you in Riverrun, here in your home. "My Prince."
The grin he bared was threatening, draconic teeth flashing, amusement twirling in his violet irises at the shock you failed to conceal. He tilted his head slightly, chasing your gaze as you looked behind him, watching bannermen and knights dismount, noticing another flash of silver-gold hair amongst the small crowd. Maekar Targaryen.
The Anvil commanded the space surrounding him, his presence overwhelming as he walked further into the courtyard, scowling as he observed the castle before him. Medgar approached him, greeting him cordially, yet from this distance you could see something tense within your father's demeanour. Clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, speaking formally yet you could tell that he was biting his tongue.
There was something wrong.
And the presence of the Targaryens only cemented this.
Aerion noticed your wavering attention, how your confusion was no longer directed towards his presence but rather your father's reaction, his grin twitched slightly, annoyance gnawing at his mind.
How could you direct your attention away from him so easily? How could you deprive him of your wicked gaze?
His cruel Lady Tully, always unwilling to give him exactly what he wants.
"It reeks of fish here." He lied, tone scornful and demanding. scrunching his nose as if offended by the alleged smell. If it truly did smell of fish, he did not notice; all he could smell was you and your damned lavender soap. "Will you not guide your Prince into your home?"
"Of course, My Prince." You replied, offering him a tight-lipped smile as you began to lead him into the castle, sparing one last glance to where your father was conversing with Maekar. Even as you guided him through the winding hallways, aware of how he seemed to linger closer than what propriety demanded, your thoughts were consumed with what the older Targaryen might have been saying to your father; what was the reason for their arrival?
If your father had requested their presence, you would have known — secrets scarcely survived long in Riverrun, not when you had so many siblings. Someone would have mistakenly uttered the truth if your father had confided in them, yet you had no inkling that Maekar was to come. You could assume that neither did your Lord Father.
Your thoughts were quickly interrupted, lithe fingers harshly curling around your wrist, brushing beneath the gold bangles on your wrist, dragging you into a desolate hallway. The cold metal of his rings seared against your skin, firm against your racing pulse.
You could only offer a soft gasp in response, mind coming to a blank as he crowded you against the wall, the uneven surface of the stone pressing uncomfortable into your back, scraping against your shoulder blades. One hand remained curled around your wrist, unwavering, as the other was splayed against the stone beside your head, supporting him as he leaned in slightly, dark violet chasing your gaze.
Blood rushed to your head, feeling lightheaded as you swallowed harshly, words getting stuck in your throat as you found yourself unable to speak.
"Have I rendered you senseless?" Aerion murmured, the question mocking and cruel as his thumb traced the veins of your inner wrist, feeling how your pulse fluttered unsteadily like a trapped bird. "How disappointing, I do enjoy listening to you."
You blinked rapidly, your breathing shallow as you pulled at your hand slightly, trying to release yourself from his grasp.
"This is improper—"
"You did not seem to care about propriety when you kissed me." He reminded you, lips curling with mild amusement as he watched your blush deepen. "Or have you already forgotten? I can reignite the memory if you wish? Ensure it will never be extinguished again?"
"That was a mistake." You whispered, and he flinched as soon as the words left your mouth, a wounded look flashing briefly in his violet irises, before quickly being replaced by a harsher emotion. A certain fury that compelled him to lean closer, breath fanning against your face as he scowled at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, hesitating for a moment.
"Perhaps." He replied, low enough that it barely disturbed the silence of the deserted corridor. "But mistakes are doomed to be repeated, and perhaps you will find that your mistakes are simply an echo of what your heart truly desires."
He left you there, retreating as he withdrew his hands away from you, leaving only the scent of sandalwood and ash as evidence of his presence once lingering.
—
Dinner was accompanied with an immense tension that threatened to suffocate you.
It tightened the air, lingering within the space between chairs as only the sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain and forced conversation filled the silence. Your mother had taken up the responsibility of (attempting to) making the new guests comfortable, of playing the role of a gracious host, yet it was unwanted by the two Targaryen men, who shared side glances laced with judgement each time she spoke.
"I hope that your journey was not tiresome, Your Grace." Orysia attempted, her tone all cordial and grace, as she offered a small smile to Maekar. The Prince did not care for her words, huffing out a scoff as he adjusted in his seat, groaning slightly.
"Tiresome is an understatement. The Riverlands have the worst roads in all of Westeros." The Anvil grumbled, rolling his eyes as sipped at the Arbor gold a servant had poured into his goblet, scowling slightly at the intense saccharinity. They could not even get his wine preference correct, and he was expected to remain here for some mindless whim?
Fuck Riverrun and all of the Riverlands — if it was up to Maekar, he would never step one foot into this damned territory, or this damned castle. But he had to, perhaps with skewed intentions, allowing himself to be dragged into this land under the guise of mediating an alleged 'tense' situation.
Tense. The only tension he had witnessed was his second eldest pacing the halls of Summerhall, baring his teeth at anyone who dared look in his direction. Maekar had first assumed it was a result of Highgarden, of being forcefully banished by Baelor for his actions. He could have never guessed that his son's ire was actually due to matters of the heart.
And the very object of Aerion's desire was sitting so prettily across from him, unable to even look up from your plate, as if engrossed by the appearance of roasted lamb and parsnips.
He had recognised the Tully girl, it was difficult not to, especially when his nephew had also displayed interest in the same girl. The last he had recalled, you had accepted Valarr's offer of courtship. But now according to his eldest brother, Valarr was sulking at Dragonstone, mourning his short-lived first love.
He would have never expected for his son to be so enamoured by the same girl, but apparently you were simply so desirable, and who was Maekar to dissuade his son from pursuing his first love. He himself had enjoyed the thrills of youth and the beauty of love; wedding Dyanna had brought him joy that he was certain he would never be able to experience again after her passing.
Perhaps Aerion would simply have to experience the same emotion — it may calm him, reduce the wicked fire that raged rampant within his mind.
And so despite his own displeasure, Maekar was determined to help his son reach this joy. Even if it meant convincing Baelor to mandate this visit, even if it meant lying to Medgar and potentially insulting his leadership. Even if it had annoyed Maekar to no bounds.
He was unable to display his annoyance subtly either, as your Lady Mother quickly noticed. Afterall, she was a Redwyne before she was a Tully; where your father was skilled in the craft of swordsmanship, she was skilled in the art of translation, of deciphering an individual's words and actions, dissecting them to expose their true intentions.
So soon, she too gave up, choosing to silence her words with sips of Arbor red, letting any attempt to converse die with her quietness.
You kept your gaze fixed on the plate before you, knife cutting through the slice of roasted lamb, picking at the parsnips on your plate — anything to appear busy as you tried to ignore the weight of Aerion's gaze.
There was a strange familiarity that filled you at the scene; him watching, you ignoring. A routine that seemed to surpass location, because even now, even in your own territory, you willed yourself not to meet his gaze, only lowly conversing with your good sister. But unfortunately for you, Elodie was not blind.
She saw exactly what you were wilfully ignoring — the cracks in your facade, the flush that threatened to spread across your entire face each time you submitted to the urge of stealing a glance. She witnessed it all with an avid fascination, she truly could not believe her eyes.
Her head tilted slightly, gaze wandering despite the fact that you were still mindlessly speaking about the silks you had commissioned, watching as Aerion's focus was fixed on you, violet gaze tracing your lips as you spoke.
"What do you think, My Prince?" Elodie interrupted, your voice immediately silencing as you watched your good sister with wide eyes. What in the Seven Hells was she doing? Involving him into your conversation? For what reason?
"I believe Lady Tully is mistaken." Aerion replied, voice silken as his fingers curled around the stem of his goblet, unashamedly betraying the fact that he had indeed been listening in on your entire conversation. He had heard every word, no matter how quietly you had tried to speak. "She should order more of the crimson silks, they suit her better than the blue."
You immediately scowled at the Bright Prince, unable to hide your reaction. The dress you were currently wearing was a soft blue, lighter than the sky and softer than the clouds.
"I think she looks quite beautiful in blue." Elodie rebutted, watching how despite the fact that Aerion was responding to her, his gaze did not once wander from your frame, remaining unwavering on your person,
"Beautiful in blue, yes. But I believe she does look divine in red." He responded unashamedly, voice sincere, no hint of jest as he continued to look at you, not bothering to hide his blatant gaze.
There was a strange awkwardness that befell the table after his proclamation, everyone witnessing his words.
Elodie could only respond softly, her hypothesis being proven. "I do agree."
She remained silent afterwards, and it appeared that you could not speak either, a furious blush warming your face as you found yourself unable to even look at the Prince.
She had never seen you behave in such a manner, had never seen you try to control your reactions to such an extent, to exercise such restraint. It was truly a riveting sight.
And it was then that Elodie realised that you did not only garner the attention of one Targaryen Prince as Mervyn had whispered. If that was the case, the Bright Prince would not be watching you like that. With a certain reverence reserved for all things divine and wicked, like he was willing to worship the very ground you walked upon, all sincerity and fury while doing so.
And you would not be shying away from his gaze.
Even through your inaction, you exposed your heart. It was written all over your face — in the words you refused to say, in the glances you would try to forbid yourself from stealing. Yet no one seemed to notice that the only daughter of Medgar Tully was acting strange, simply because that was the norm in this very situation.
You had the perfect alibi; everyone was acting strange. You were not the only one.
The Tully household had been shocked by the arrival of the two Targaryen Princes; Riverrun simmering with a restrained nervousness, anxiety chilling the stones as the two Dragons prowled the premises.
Maekar would inform your father that the reason for their visit was to help resolve a quarrel between two riverlords. But riverlords always quarrelled, and the Crown hardly cared to interfere with issues that predated their dynasty. But Medgar complied with the Prince of Summerhall, and obeyed his wishes when they decided to call upon the respective houses to discuss such matters, regardless of how futile such conversations were destined to be.
The riverlords did not even know the source of their ire, yet they knew of its presence, and insisted that it still existed for valid reasoning.
You would simply have to survive this Royal visit — until the Anvil would recognise that it was a wasted pursuit.
Maekar seemed like an impatient man, as did his son. You could only pray that Aerion's patience would not run out before his father's.
—
You had a routine.
One that you very much obliged to each day, with very little variation unless previously planned.
You would rise before any other individual in your family, seeking the undisturbed serenity of the morn, watch the sunglints as the cold nipped at your face; the sun only providing rays, no warmth. Then your morning prayers would occur within the seven-sided Sept, gaze tracing the small reflected rainbows upon the painted marble, the faces of the Seven watching you. If there was no rain, which was not very often, you would pray at the altar that resided out of the Sept, knees pressed against the grass beaded with morning dew.
You found more peace outside of the Sept, with the wind whispering and the birds chirping, your prayers seemed to be far more easier to utter.
And, if everything up till this point had occurred smoothly, you would spend the excess of your time within the godswood, occupied with a book or attempting to embroider until you were called to break fast with the rest of your family. (Attempting to embroider was certainly the key idea, your Septas had long given up on trying to make you master the craft.)
Yet it seemed that since you had risen this morning, you had been followed by a shadow.
From the courtyard, to the Sept, to the godswood — Aerion followed.
He did not even bother to disguise it: in the courtyard, he simply remained several paces behind; in the Sept, he did not bother whispering his own prayers, instead was more invested in sharpening his dagger; and in the godswood, he lingered. Ghosting around the redwood you were seated beneath, your skirts pooling against the grass, the scent of dew seeping into the fibres.
Yet you refused to acknowledge his presence, in turn simply treating him like a spectre that haunted Riverrun. No matter how heavy the weight of his gaze was; no matter how you tried to suppress the urge to shiver as you felt his attention sear into the side of your profile, tracing the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the softness of your lips.
You busied yourself with your own embroidery, focusing instead on the piece of linen that had been stretched within the embroidery hoop, your needle piercing through the fabric creating a trail of blue thread. The needle dipped in, you pulled the thread taut, and the needle pierced the linen once more — stitch after stitch.
"You are not very talented in needlepoint." He stated, tone bored as he tries to decipher what you are stitching. He was becoming fatigued by your determination to ignore him, his voice disturbing the silence you were content in remaining in. "What is that? A fish perhaps? Very Tully like."
You couldn't help but frown at his words, your gaze flickering up to where he was standing above you, finding no hint of jest in his features, just pure seriousness.
"It is a bird." You mumbled, embarrassment pricking at your skin as you felt your ears redden slightly. You knew that you were not the most skilled at embroidery, yet you quite liked the process, the thread and needle creating something physical, something you could hold. And perhaps your bird was not that handsome (and maybe appeared more like a trout rather than a blue jay), yet it was still something that you had created.
He was caught off guard by your response, crouching to join you, not fully sitting, tilting his head slightly to try and discover any resemblance to a bird within your stitches. He could not.
"Oh." He replied dumbly, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to conceal his amusement. "It seems, My Lady, that you are more skilled in handling larger blades."
Your fingers slipped slightly at his words, the needle moving too fast, catching onto your skin, tearing a shallow cut onto the surface. You hissed slightly, dropping the hoop as pain stabbed at the small wound, blood beading along the torn akin, threatening to spill. You had not expected him to say that. If anything, you had been praying that he would never mention the tourney, hoping that his accusation would have been forgotten by now.
He had not persisted when you had accused his behaviour from stemming from jealousy, yet perhaps that was simply because he had received what he wanted. But now…
Now you were once again denying him, and his conspiricies returned.
"I do not know what you mean." You responded, your heart racing as your hand reached from the hem of your skirt, intending to blot the blood with the smooth silk, hoping the pressure would stop the bleeding.
Aerion did not respond, instead grabbing your wrist, pulling it close to him, twisting it slightly before you could press the silk of your skirt against the injury. He watched the weeping blood, the trail of crimson that began to travel down your finger. His tongue darted out, lapping at the glistening blood, copper lacing his mouth as he drew your finger closer to his lips, gently suckling at the injury.
You could not find it in you to react. Your heart quivering unsteadily, breath hitching as his teeth scrape against the soft flesh of your finger, catching along the torn skin slightly. You could only watch as he finally released your finger, saliva slightly coating the reddened skin.
He could only smirk while taking you in, lips slightly parted, tense shoulders, spine of steel, bracing yourself as if experiencing an attack. Yet this could not distract from your other, smaller reactions, blown pupils, not retreating, unsteady breathing, gaze chasing his unashamedly as you swallowed harshly.
And he was finally satisfied with your response, retreating to leave you alone in the godswood, with the carved faces of the trees as the only witnesses.
—
You were truly going mad.
No matter where you turned within the castle, all you could see was him.
Sparring with your brothers, lounging in the hall, speaking with your mother. You simply could not escape Aerion. So you fled, seeking the refuge of your room, certain that he would not disturb you there.
But his presence was unneeded for him to disturb you, your mind constantly wandering back to him, curious about what he might be doing or seeing or anything. It was truly becoming concerning, yet you knew exactly what you needed to do. You just needed distance.
Like before, distance would cure all your issues. He would return to Summerhall once Maekar became bored of the riverlords, his attention would be drawn elsewhere, perhaps he would find another Lady to entertain him. Your heart clenched at the thought, a scowl marring your features as you slumped at your desk, staring at the parchment before you.
You had no right to jealousy, you were rejecting him.
And for good reason, you reminded yourself. This was simply a temporary fixation of his, something he believed he needed to conquer, and once he would become bored, he would move onto another conquest.
Every word he said to you was a lie, yet no matter how much the mantra filled your mind ('He was a liar, and a deceiver, and a manipulator', the words pirouetting round and round), you could not find yourself completely convinced.
So you retreated, forcing your mind to be occupied with reading the perfumed letters that Aster had sent you, reading tales of wolves, and snow, and ice to drown out the thoughts of dragons, and fire, and ash. She spoke of a world you could not truly comprehend, about her duties as a Lady of Winterfell, how her husband, the Heir of the North, spent his days dealing with issues of land and coin, yet would always return to her at night, showing her a warmth that caused her heart to flutter. She spoke of other things too, of things you would not even be able to voice, cheeks flushing as she described acts typically reserved for a Lord and his Lady.
Yet she was Tyrell, and she did not seem to shy away from such talk, although you were certain her Northerner husband might faint at the idea of their nightly endeavours being exposed.
Your mind couldn't help but wander. No matter how adverse you were to the idea, one day you would be expected to wed (and wed well if your mother had anything to do with it), and you too would have a Lord Husband. You were unsure of what you would even want within a spouse — would he be gentle like Valarr, offering patience and understanding where you were otherwise undeserving?
Or would he be like Aerion? Relentless and wicked, his patience threadbare and fraying, sensitive to insult and injury to his ego?
And why did your heart seem to quiver at the latter, having seen the cracks within his demeanor, moments of softness betrayed within private, where you could almost believe that Aerion was gentle and kind.
If the gods were kind, they would ensure that you would never wed. It was a destiny unwanted by you, no matter how pretty of a picture Aster painted of her new life. To wed another was to sacrifice the little autonomy you had left, to leave your home to create another, to become a stranger to yourself while trying to navigate a new way of life.
You did not have the patience required. Did not have the grace required.
Would you have to be a blushing bride, to pretend that you were more well equipped with a needle rather than a sword, to lie that you preferred calm despite your heart yearning for adrenaline?
Each time you thought about this or Aerion too much, you found yourself unable to breath.
You did not mention any of these terrorising thoughts within your response to Aster, instead allowing the edge of your quill scratch onyx ink along the parchment, cursive formalities filling the first paragraph as you thought of what to say. You wrote about the gossip you had heard from your good sister, who in turn had received the gossip from her sisters when she had visited her family's home. Wrote about a disgraced lordling, a thieving maid, of the rumoured matches being made — rumours filled the page, second-hand gossip to entertain her within the frigid cold. (She had once complained that Northerners rarely gossiped, far too engrossed with the fact that 'Winter is coming').
Within your final paragraph, you finally gathered the courage to reveal the fact that Aerion and Maekar were here, in Riverrun, and it appeared that they were not leaving any time soon. You kept it vague, yet even while rereading the letter, you could sense your nervousness despite not communicating it within the written letter.
You completed the letter, wishing her and husband good health and happiness, signed your name, and sealed it with wax, the imprint of a leaping trout carved into the navy wax.
For the first time in hours, you left the safety of your room, your velvet slippers barely making a sound against the cold stone as you travelled to the raven post for the third time that day. You had sent a letter to her during the morning, an urgent message sent as a reaction to a letter she had sent that had been delayed (the poor raven had arrived in a mess of loose feathers, and scratches upon its face — according to the Maester this was normal for ravens travelling such distances, as they would often encounter danger). The second time was to retrieve the newest letter that you had spent most of your afternoon reading and responding to. And now this was your final time visiting the raven post that day.
However all these visits did not go unnoticed, Aerion had witnessed the giddy manner in which you sprinted to the post, tying your letter to the claw of the raven, wrapping a vermillion piece of linen to secure it.
And he quickly came to his own conclusions.
This was the cause of your change of heart, of why you now retreated from him, denied him your attention. His wicked Lady Rivers had clearly promised her heart to another.
Was your attention so easily shifted? That as soon as his presence wavered from your life, you were able to become distracted by another lordling? Was pretty words and constant letters all that was required to occupy your heart?
Once to the raven post was understandable, twice was perhaps slightly questionable, but there was a chance that it could have easily been explained away. But thrice? Within one day? Who were you so desperately trying to communicate with? And why had this man been able to distract you from him.
He was a Prince of the Blood, a Dragon — you should have been enraptured with him.
Was his affections so easily dismissed that you had rid yourself of the burden once becoming bored? Did you distribute your kisses so easily that any you shared with him held little value to you? Who else had you kissed? How could you have deceived him so, to allow him to believe that he could have had you?
But he was a Dragon, and dragons do not surrender their treasure at the sight of the first obstacle.
Aerion would simply have to remind you of his promise.
'Your soul is mine, and mine is yours.'
They were not words he had spoken lightly, he meant every bit of them.
So now, watching you struggle to suppress your grin as you tied the letter to the raven, he could not refrain from confronting you.
"This is the third time you've visited the post." Aerion called out, stepping out of the shadows, noticing the way you immediately stilled, spine steeling as you felt your heart drop at the very sound of his voice. You barely were able to comprehend his words before he continued, voice sharp and cutting. "It seems you cannot stand being away from someone."
There was a suggestion within his words that caused you to frown, turning to finally face him after you had released the raven. He was already glaring at you, lips curled into a scowl as he continued to advance towards you, gaze flickering between your beguiling eyes, and the fluttering dark wings that carried your words.
What had you written, he couldn't help but wonder. Had you written confessions of the heart, soul-piercing prose to express affection to another man? Word you denied him, time and time again? Or had they always been reserved for another?
"You seem determined to confuse me, My Prince. It seems each of our conversations are one-sided as I hardly know what you are referring to." You snarked, your hands smoothing your skirts, once, twice, gathering your nerves as you responded to his glare with your own.
This was your home — you would not be so easily frightened out of it due to an ill-tempered Prince 10th in line to the Iron Throne.
"How devastating." He snidely remarked, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms behind him, nails biting half-moons into the soft flesh of his palm. "Unfortunately, My Lady, I am not so easily convinced that you do understand my meaning. I am referring to your suitor."
The word dripped with disdain, spat out like an accusation, an insult to your character, and all you could do was scoff out a laugh.
"My suitor?" You question incredulously, brows furrowing in disbelief as you tried to discern whether the Bright Prince was being serious or not. It felt like a dream, having him 'accuse' you of having a suitor that held your heart, when in reality you were simply sharing letters with Aster.
"Or perhaps it is a lover. I do not know how you occupy your time when you are avoiding me. Perhaps this other man has taken up the space in your heart reserved for me."
You gawked at him in bewilderment, stuttering out a response as a certain fury restricted your lungs, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you advanced towards him.
"I am unsure how insulting my honour will make any space within my heart for you." You gritted out, fingers curling around your skirts as you grounded yourself, restricting them from striking him across the face. What were you to do, to 'confess' that this alleged man was Aster, that it was she that occupied the attention he sought for? A Lady in Winterfell?
"Are you accusing me of lying?"
"I am accusing you of speaking idly, such manner of speaking is unbecoming of a Prince."
He laughed lowly at your response, head tilting as his dark violet gaze traced your features, committing the picture of your anger to his memory. It was a shame that you looked so pretty like this, all fury and wicked words, it almost distracted him from his intentions.
"Is that not why you are rejecting me? Due to previous commitments to another, or perhaps you simply enjoy being cruel?"
You could not respond, your jaw clenching as you found yourself unable to voice why you were rejecting him. It almost sounded stupid. Because you did not trust him, did not believe his words, did not believe that you were suited for marriage. That you had convinced yourself that you would rather be wedded due to duty rather than a result of shared affections.
He closed the distance between you, so close that you could feel the warmth of his person seeping into your skin.
"You refuse to even say my name." He murmured, his hand cradling your jaw gently, watching as you did not retreat. He noticed a glimmer of gold on your neck, a thin chain that dipped into your neckline, concealing the pendant. "Do you fear it so?"
He pulled at the chain, revealing the garnet ring in place of a pendant. The very ring he had stolen from you was now hanging from your neck, pressed against your heart. He could not ignore the implication.
"You do not know what you speak of." You repeated, the words meaningless as you tried to quell your racing heart, ignoring his silent plea, his attempt to hear his name from your lips once more. "You have no right to this jealousy. You act upon intentions that hold no weight coming from you. In Riverrun, in Highgarden, all your actions have been your own and I do not wish to be associated with them."
Your hand ghosted over his, fingers curling into his palm as you drew his hand back, depriving him once more of your touch. Yet it did not discourage him from continuing to touch you, instead it simply served to redirect his efforts, his hand resting upon your hips, thumbs tracing the smooth silk of your bodice.
"You are cruel." He whispered weakly, his forehead pressing against yours lightly, eyes screwing shut as he breathed in the soothing scent of chamomile and lavender, not yet willing to let you go. "I had promised you that I would follow if you denied me, so here I am, and yet you still deny me. How much longer until you deem me worthy?"
You could not respond.
—
Maekar had insisted that your father should accompany him to go to the land that the dispute was occurring for.
It was a small parcel of land, verdant grass and fruitful rivers that bore many fish, yet there were no clear boundaries, resulting in many riverlords tending to claim it as their own.
You were unsure of why you were being dragged along, Malger had pleaded for you to come also, claiming that he did not want to be stuck with the two older men, citing that he would need some entertainment while they survailed the land. And you obliged as he failed to tell you the entire reason.
He did not reveal that he also wished for your presence so that he would not be stuck with Aerion, and you would not discover this fact until it was far too late, standing at the drawbridge, trying to ignore Aerion who stood far too close. You were just thankful that most of the journey would consist of you alone within the carriage, finally able to escape his stare.
Yet the journey was not long, it simply took the better part of an hour until you had reached the desired destination, the sun still glaring from its zenith, rays blinding you as you opened the door of your carriage.
And in front of you was Aerion, who had dismounted his horse and was now offering you an open palm, a silent offer of help. You took it, your hand hesitantly pressing against his, his fingers firmly curling around yours, gripping your hand as he helped you down. His palm was unbearably hot, the skin feeling as if it could sear into yours from touch alone, and you quickly released his hand as if burned.
You did not see how his hand clenched slightly, the skin sparking from the contact.
You did not see how he had stilled, his gaze following you as you joined your brother, muttering lowly to him as you stood upon the unstable ground, feeling the silk of your slippers become stained by the grass beneath your feet.
Medgar and Maekar were several paces infront of you, walking on the bank of the river as they discussed the past history of ownership, of the conflicting boundaries drawn on varying maps that failed to place this land into a particular territory.
Malger grinned at you, heart light as he took in the sight of the sunglints reflecting off the undisturbed surface of the river, occasionally blinding.
"I do believe, sister, that we should take advantage of this moment." He winked at you, his hands busy with untying the bundle he had secured onto his horse, the taut knot proving difficult to loosen.
"What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?" You grumbled, hand pulling slightly at your neckline as you felt your skin burning from the glare of the sun, feeling the telltale signs of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. It was far too hot to even think.
With a final pull, his bundle exposed the contents within — fishing rods and bait.
"Truly?" You scowled at him, yet your gaze was studying the bank of the river, trying to find if there would be a spot to fish comfortably. You found it quickly, a dock that had been built near an abandoned building, the house now decrepit, yet the wooden dock structure still stood — algae crawling up its legs.
Malger offered a slight shrug, watching as the two elders seemed engrossed in conversation, showing no hint of stopping. "It is better than waiting idly by?"
You were unsure of when Aerion had approached during this conversation, but he quickly made his presence known, his hand reaching out to grab for a fishing rod, leaving for the dock.
Malger could only continue to grin at you, his gaze flickering to the retreating Prince as he grabbed for his own fishing rod. "It appears Prince Aerion approves of the idea. Do be quick, sister, or you will catch the least amount of fish."
You wanted to retort, but Malger quickly joined the Bright Prince, bait in hand, leaving you behind. You could only scowl and gather the last fishing rod, your fingers curling around the smooth hilt as you gathered your skirts and marched onwards, cringing as you felt the wet mud beneath your feet.
Damn Malger, and damn you for allowing him to convince you to come.
By the time you had reached the dock, the hems of your skirts stained slightly green by the grass, the two men had already began to fish, occupying two different sides of the dock, making it so that the only remaining place to sit was right in the middle.
Aerion's gaze flickered up at the sight of your arrival, and grabbed at your fishing rod. You shot him a strange look, yet allowed him to take the piece of equipment from you, instead focusing on sitting down in such a manner that would not result in you plunging into the freezing river.
Once your attention returned to him, you noticed that he had steadied his own fishing rod between his thighs, his hands busy with preparing the bait onto the hook, ensuring that the line of nettle-hemp was secure, before wordlessly returning it to you. You took it, finger brushing against his, offering a small smile in silent thanks as you found yourself unable to verbalise your appreciation.
You were unsure of why he was acting strange.
Perhaps his fire could not reign here, not when the rivers surrounded you, ready to douse him at any hint of a spark.
The rest was silence; the soft whistling of wind, branches rustling, birds singing. You were content within the serenity, your brother mindlessly humming a half-forgotten song as he was successful in reeling in another fish. A pike this time.
He would grin, brandish the fish like a trophy, before releasing it back into the river.
You were less fortunate, nothing biting the bait you offered, your hook helplessly submerged within the water, waiting.
Aerion was more successful than you, his lips curling into a triumphant smirk each time he managed to catch a fish larger than his palm. And like Malger, he released them to the river, watching as the fish would writhe before he would fling it far, the water rippling as it's body splashed along the surface.
"Perhaps we should get you a trident." Aerion murmured, his voice low enough that Malger could not hear, stealing a quick glance at your face to gauge your reaction. "I do believe that you are certainly far more skilled wielding that sort of equipment."
You shot him a warning glance, lips twitching slightly as you leaned closer to him, suppressing the urge to just push him into the river. "It will do you well to remember that perhaps you do not want me holding a trident."
You had whispered the words, so quiet that they had almost been muffled by the winds, but Aerion had caught them. And he could not help but grin at your admission.
You had finally admitted it.
The final fish caught was done so by Aerion. A silver trout.
—
"Again."
You heard Delmar laugh out, jumping back to his feet as Mervyn had finally been able to tackle him. They had been sparring for most of the morning, drifting here after they had broken fast.
You were guided to the courtyard by the sounds of gasped laughter and pained grunts.
Mervyn had lost most of their matches, wishing to just retire his sword and to return to the solace of the library. But Delmar was unrelenting, forcing his youngest brother to abandon the training swords and pick up a real blade.
"Father will want you to fight at the next tourney." Delmar goaded, smirking as Mervyn picked his sword up once more, weakly grasping the hilt. "You cannot be the first son to fail their first duel."
"Do not torture him." You called out, feet kicking the loose rocks scattered, watching as it skipped along the dusty surface of the smooth stones.
"It is not torture if it is true." Delmar responded, yet the grin on his face suggested that he enjoyed tormenting his younger siblings. He had become a true menace after healing, his ankle no longer restraining him. It still ached from time to time, and he complained that he could hear the bone crackling whenever he would roll the joint, but it did not stop him from training as soon as the Maesters had removed the bandages.
"And speaking of torture, dear sister, when was the last time you had trained. I am certain that Father will not be satisfied that you have been neglecting your practicing."
You could only roll your eyes with silent amusement, sharing a knowing look with a smiling Mervyn, who offered his sword. You took it readily, suppressing the urge to laugh.
If only your dear older brother knew that your skills were certainly not neglected.
"Perhaps we should see how terrible my swordsmanship had become?" You offered, twirling the blade slightly, allowing yourself to become accustom to the familiar weight, feeling it calm the uneasiness that had been terrorising you for days.
"We certainly shall." Delmar replied, grinning as he retrieved his own sword.
You and Delmar were evenly matched — parrying when he slashed at you, the arcing blade glinting in the harsh sunlight. He skilfully dodged your stabs, predicting them before they even occurred, and you blocked each attack he attempted, deciphering his tell-tale signs from his very footwork. He would steady his feet in place when planning a feint, when advancing, his feet would move before his mind.
He was too predictable, and so were you. You had both become too accustomed with each other's fighting styles. He who favoured attacking, you who skilfully deflected, swiftly returning your own blows.
And quickly you found yourself in a stalemate, stupidly grinning at your brother and exhaustion began to nip at your mind, movements lazied as you swung at him. Delmar was your mirror, and finally he declared a truce, a temporary break until the next time you duelled.
You swiped at the sweat that began to gather at the base of your neck with the back of your hand, preventing it from travelling into the neckline. You twirled your sword once last time, watching as the blade reflected a blinding light as it completed the turn, about to abandon it, until you were interrupted by a silken voice.
"Perhaps we should spar, My darling Lady Rivers." Aerion purred out, his own sword already brandished, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk once he realised you were not throwing the blade away.
You did not bother speaking, just huffing out a sharp exhale as you nodded, trying to steady your uneven breathing. Your heart was jolting in its cage, and despite this you offered him a grin as you gripped your sword, wild and unbridled as you adjusted yourself into the correct stance. You rolled your shoulders, forcing them to relax as the muscles of your biceps screamed at you, an ache beginning to travel across your muscles.
He haltered at the sight of your smile, his own smirk faltering as he became distracted, creating the perfect opportunity for you to advance, not caring if he was not prepared.
You swung, the blade slicing through the air in a sharp arc, aiming for his arm. He quickly deflected, the glint of your blade drawing his attention back to the duel, the edge of his sword clashing against yours, creating a grating scraping noise to emit from the contact. He swiftly parried, steel sparking as the blades met once more, his defense getting blocked.
He grunted lowly, the sound low as he struggled against your attack, your blade catching along the sleeve of his raven doublet, the fibres tearing, revealing pale unblemished skin.
You were striking to injure, to draw blood. You did not care that you were duelling against a Prince, that perhaps you should have shown some restraint.
You justified it with the fact that you knew he would be disappointed if you inhibited your skill, controlled how adept you truly were with a blade. And a part of you, the more selfish, shameful part of you, whispered that you simply wanted to hurt him. To see him wounded with your mark, to know that you had scarred his skin, and that would force him to never forget you.
He began to circle you, his blade catching each attack you attempted, halting them before they could develop, and you reciprocated the action, causing you to slowly orbit each other. You could see his chest trembling slightly, his breathing quickening into short gasps as no matter what he did, you seemed to respond.
The swords seemed to dance, metal grinding as each slash, each stab was blocked, and returned with skilfull ripostes.
Your gaze flickered to his feet, trying to predict his next move, watching how the blade became an extension of his arm, how his grip adjusted to the slightest fraction. And then you saw it, his feet moving left before his sword, as if to steady himself for the next blow he would deliver.
You began to deflect the blow, but it never came. He had feigned.
Instead Aerion lunged right, kicking at your knees, immediately causing them to buckle. Your grip loosened slightly, but it was enough for your sword to fall, clattering against the stone as your hands gripped at his doublet, forcing him to fall with you.
Your eyes screwed shut, whimpering as pain stabbed along your muscles, awaiting for your skull to ache.
Yet that pain never came.
His hands had cradled the back of your head, his knuckles scraping against the stone as he stopped your skull from splitting open. You could only swallow harshly, gaze fluttering between his dark irises, the pupils swallowing the purple making his irises appear onyx rather than violet.
His face was close, too close, nose brushing yours as he adjusted slightly, removing his hand so that his weight was no longer pressed against you. Yet he didn't move.
Aerion remained above you, his gaze dipping to the curve of your lips, tracing them as they parted, your chest heaving as you struggled to calm your breathing.
"Yield." He murmured, his breath fanning across your face.
Yet your response was not what he expected. Instead of shying away, instead of immediately yielding, to retreat as swiftly as possible, you simply smiled brilliantly at him, your eyes brightened with excitement.
And within the span of the second, your palms harshly pushed at his shoulders, forcing him to tumble slightly, caught off guard. You quickly took advantage of his bewilderment, grabbing his wrists as you straddled him, barracading him between your knees, forcing him to be helpless beneath you. Hands restrained above his head, your weight steady upon his abdomen — he was trapped.
Before he could struggle against you, to wrench his hands out of your grip, he felt the cold kiss of a blade against the soft of his neck, brushing against his fluttering pulse.
"Yield?" You parroted, tone mocking as you grinned at him.
He was unable to speak, his mouth dry as very certain thoughts began to flood his mind — the thought of you taking this position under very different circumstances.
The blade pressed more firmly into his skin, scraping it slightly, a miniscule drop of blood gathering where the skin had torn infinitisimally.
He gasped out his response, yielding as he felt the blood course through his body, his skin sparking at the contact.
You removed yourself from on top of him, offering the Bright Prince a hand to help him up. But he strangely rejected your help, instead fleeing the scene, seeking the refuge of his chambers.
You would continue to be confused as this behaviour seemed to span throughout the full day, Aerion being the one to avoid you for a change.
—
Aerion truly did not mean to linger.
You would not believe him if he ever did voice this to you, if he confessed that his behaviour was only strange in your presence, that it was truly your fault as to why he was acting so uncharacteristically. He would not dare confess this to you, knowing that this was different to his confessions of affection.
This was an admission of weakness.
And no matter how fond he was of you, he was not sure he was willing to sacrifice that bit of information to you, unsure of how you would wield his weakness against him.
So instead he blamed his behaviour on his lack of sleep, which was half true. He did recently have struggle sleeping, the very thought of you resting just down the corridor constantly haunting him.
At first it began quite innocently. He would ponder over how you slept, which side of the bed you favoured, if you moved much in your sleep. But as the hour grew later, his thoughts grew more wicked. He would imagine you beside him, cheeks flushed, dreamy smile, hair sprawled across the feather pillows, watching him with an enamoured gaze.
His breath would turn ragged at the very thought, feeling himself hardening against his breeches, whimpering softly as he tried to chase his own release, biting into his own arm to stifle the noise. He would soon spill his seed, your voice on his tongue as he tasted copper.
And through the haze of pain and pleasure, all he could imagine was you.
—
You had noted Aerion's behaviour growing stranger.
The first few days he had been within Riverrun, it seemed as if the Prince was determined to torment you, following you around like a malicious spectre. No matter where you had turned, you had always found him there, and his gaze would quickly find you.
But it seems that the very skillset he had used to follow you had allowed him to become skilled in avoiding you.
He no longer seemed to linger in the morns, following you as you completed your daily routine of praying at the Sept, and then reflecting within the godswood. He no longer ghosted the hallways you often travelled in, yet at times it felt as if you could catch glints of silver-gold in your peripheral.
But as soon as you turned to the familiar glint, you could not find him. It was beginning to become unnerving.
Because you were certain you could still feel him watching you.
The sensation of his gaze was one that you had long become accustomed to — it was heavy and unforgiving, piercing into your very soul as it refused to waver. And yet despite not being able to see the Bright Prince as much as you originally had, you knew he could see you.
In the Sept, in the godswood, at times it even felt as if he was watching you in your own chambers.
Which was why when you were playing cyvasse with Malger, you were truly shocked that you had not sensed his presence earlier.
You were talking mindlessly with your oldest brother; he was recounting the first tourney he had ever participated in while baby Medgar was cradled in your arms, contentedly snoozing. You made your move, nodding along to what Malger was vividly expressing, his hands nearly knocking over his own pieces as he retold the tale of his eventual defeat.
He had fought against a Lannister cousin, who proved to be a far more skillful foe than he had anticipated, and just as he was reaching the crux of the story, you felt your spine tingle slightly, skin pricking.
Your gaze darted to the entrance of the library, to find the younger Targaryen lingering at the entrance.
"My Prince." You called out, voice betraying your surprise, eyes widening a fraction at the sight of him. Baby Medgar made a perturbed noise, and you were unsure if it was because the babe was dreaming, or if your voice had disturbed him. Regardless you cooed at the babe in your arms, adjusting your grip slightly as you traced a finger over the minuscule slope of his nose, feathering over his chubby cheeks.
Aerion was certain you wished to kill him. This was true cruelty.
He had heard the whispers that swarmed him; that he was cruel, that he was wicked, that he was vain. Yet he was certain that what you were doing to him now was far more torturous than any act he had ever inflicted.
His heart stuttered at the sight of your softness, how your features melted at the sight of the babe, fondness dancing in your irises.
And it only got worse as the glare of the sun intensified, the harsh ribbon of white light spilling through the window, streaking across the babe's light hair, appearing more silver than blonde. And in that moment Aerion allowed himself to imagine that it was true.
That you were cradling a babe with his hair and your eyes, and he found it difficult to breath as the image infiltrated the forefront of him mind, rendering him senseless as Malger called out to the Prince, inviting him in. And he obliged, truly unable to think as he witnessed you act so maternally.
All he could do was curse himself, knowing that it was simply more fuel for the thoughts that would haunt him at night, the moon taunting him as he tried to refuse returning to his bed, believing that if he tired his mind out just enough, that perhaps it would just allow him to succumb to sleep.
This would be fruitless, of course, as you often visited his dreams.
So even now he tried his best to not look at you, instead focussing his attentions to the cyvasse board that laid before him, watching as you and Malger exchanged skilful moves; claiming pieces and laying useless traps. He could barely even begin to comprehend what was occuring before him, you and your brother playing at a complete different wavelength than anything he had even witnessed.
(He quickly realised that you were taking it easy during your cyvasse match with him, perhaps out of pity.)
"I am surprised you were even knighted in the end." You teased, smirking at Malger as he huffed at your words, his hands moving one piece that dismantled the trap you had been attempting to lay. You could only pout slightly at his move, before quickly making your own move, moving the dragon vertically to defend your king.
"Well, unfortunately for the rest of our brothers, they did, and Father has been chasing that pride ever since." Malger retorted, smirking slightly as a thought entered his mind. "I must admit that I am surprised Brynden was knighted."
You could only offer a weak smile at his words, your gaze fluttering to Aerion who had seated himself at the table. He was already looking at you, amusement filling his gaze as he realised that you truly did not tell any of your brothers. Only the individuals involved knew the truth of Brynden's knighthood.
"Disappointed that Father is more proud of him than you?" You responded snidely, watching as he moved an elephant. You responded, moving a catapult.
"I gave him his first grandchild, I do not need to be disappointed over such trivial matters. The truth is that you all cannot compare." Malger moved his final piece, and declared the result. "Stalemate."
And so he rose, collecting his Heir with him, baby Medgar being gently transferred from your arms, leaving you with the Bright Prince who now was unable to look away from you when he had finally permitted himself to be close in your presence once more.
Aerion's gaze traced over each of your features, re-familiarising his mind with the image of you from a closer distance. You seemed to have been doing the same, content with remaining silent with the Prince, simply watching him.
He looked exhausted. Weak.
You could not help but frown at the sight, unsure of what to say. You were not even sure of the source of his tired appearance. Instead you rose, guiding him to copy your movements, your fingers ghosting the sleeve of his doublet as moved through the library, entering further until you reached a quiet a corner deep within the wing; undisturbed, hidden.
There was a cushioned settle, the wooden back was an ornately carved redwood piece, and Aerion simply copied your movements as you sat upon it.
You did not expect him to become fully comfortable, just assuming that perhaps the Prince required a quiet place of refuge, and as soon as you began to leave, his hand darted out, wrapping around your wrist, a silent plea for you not to leave.
You did not.
And instead of receiving any thanks, Aerion simply rested his head against the plush of your thighs, his legs draping over the rest of the settle as he allowed himself to completely relax, the scent of chamomile and lavender lulling him into a dreamless sleep.
Even in his sleep he was relentless, his fingers curling around the silk of your skirts, bunching the fabric into his fists, ensuring that you truly could not leave.
—
The waning moon twinkled lowly in the inked sky, its luminescence blurred by grey clouds.
The gardens were almost completely dark, only brightened by the warm light spilling out of the lantern clutched between your hands. You did not intend to delay your evening prayers this long, finding yourself preoccupied by the many requests of your Lady Mother. She was planning a banquet to officially celebrate the birth of baby Medgar now that he had lived for over a moon. So in between scratching down the guest list your mother had rattled off the top of her head, and finally penning your correspondence to Aster's latest letter, you found little time to retreat to the Sept, to mutter your absentminded prayers and finally retire to the comfort of your chambers.
Yet even though you were stifling a yawn as you lit your lantern, you could not find it within you to simply return to your room and complete your prayers there.
No, you had to complete your routine, to pray at a designated altar, that was the only way you were certain that you would be able to sleep undisturbed.
So that was why you were shuffling in the gardens, the vicious cold nipping at the exposed skin of your face, your nose feeling numb as you advanced to the seven-sided Sept. And despite the frigid cold, you found yourself kneeling at the altar that resided at the eastern side of the Sept, facing the godswood as your fingers fumbled to retrieve your moonstone beaded rosary, the star of the Seven falling against the back of your hand as you began your supplications.
You began as you always did, praying to each component of the Seven, the names of the Father and the Mother being the most frequent on your tongue as you begged for forgiveness and requested health for your loved ones.
You had been so engrossed within your prayers, your eyes screwed shut, head bowing slightly as you moved the beads along the rosary, completing prayer after prayer, that you did not notice the weight of a familiar gaze.
You had assumed your spine had steeled due to the cold, that your skin was sparking because of the nipping wind.
You failed to realise that Aerion was watching you.
He had first noticed you when he had been staring aimlessly out of his window, wishing for his mind to finally surrender to sleep, until a certain golden light drew his attention to the gardens that were below his window. He had quickly deciphered that it was you. And he could not help but be curious as to why you were in the gardens, especially at such a late hour.
He would claim that he followed you out of concern, out of the need to protect you — if he had noticed you, there was a chance that others could have too. Others with far more wicked intentions.
But truthfully, he was following you out of pure curiosity, wanting to see what would attract his Lady out of the comfort of her chambers at this late hour.
Yet curiosity was not the reason he lingered. That was out of his own selfish desire, watching you kneel against the cold grass, elbows resting upon the altar as you grasped the rosary in between your palms, muttering out prayers like you had done so a thousand times in the past. He was not entirely sure as to why he had remained, he had heard you whisper these prayers every morning.
But his heart haltered once he heard you murmur his name.
"And Mother, I know I have prayed for him many times in the past, but please, continue to protect him. Look over him, ensure his health remains firm and unwavering. Let no harm befall him." You whispered to the wind, your fingers curling as you pushed the last few moonstone beads with each plea, feeling your hands tremble slightly, the cold seeping into your very bone.
His breath hitched sharply, the sudden intake of cold air burning his lungs as his lips parted, watching you with narrowed eyes and shocked mind.
'Many times in the past?'
And that single thought drew him out of the shadows, finally making his presence known.
You immediately flinched at a sudden sound behind you, grass crunching beneath heavy boots, and you swivelled to find the source, half prepared to fling your lantern at the intruder.
But the urge immediately diminished once you realised who it was. Instead a different sort of fear seized your heart, retreating slightly as you noticed the predatory look glinting in his glare, the back of your calves pressing into the cols marble of the altar.
"My Prince." You managed out, voice barely a whisper as your gaze darted around the garden, searching through the void. Yet your eyes continued to be drawn back to his endless violet gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Many times." He repeated incredulously, confirming your worst fears. He had indeed heard you. "You claim that you had made a mistake in Highgarden, that you hold no space for me in your heart. You reject me, deny me, yet you still pray for me? I am not foolish enough to believe that you truly hold no affection for me."
"My Prince." You tried once more, continuing to back away from him as he continued to advance. "Please—"
"And you continue to refuse calling me by my name?" He interrupted, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. "Must you also deprive me of that?"
"It is just a prayer." You whispered weakly.
"It is not just a prayer." He retorted, voice cutting and sharp as he mirrored your movements, taking a slow step forward each time you took one back. "You come every morn, before the rest of your household have even began to rouse from the depth of their sleep, reciting prayer after prayer. You pray for the health of your loved ones, for their protection. And now you add my name to the list and you claim that it is just a prayer? Nothing more? Do not kid yourself."
"Because it does not matter."
"If it did not matter you would not be here in the dead of night. If it did not matter, it could have waited for your morning prayers." He whispered, his hand reaching out to grab at your wrist, to stop you from retreating further into the godswood. His palm was startlingly hot against the coldness of your skin, his warmth seeping into you, melting the ice that laced your bone marrow.
"What is it that you want me to say?" You hissed back, your heart quivering as you frowned at him, your tired mind wishing to cry. To release the emotions that tormented you. "To confess? To admit that I too share your affections? That I have not only denied you, but myself also out of fear? Is that what you wish to hear, Aerion? Are you satisfied now that I have bared my heart to you?"
He almost groaned at the sound of his name, shuddering slightly as his eyes screwed shut.
But this relief was short lived as the meaning of your words finally registered on his mind.
"Fear? What the fuck do you have to fear?" He interrogated harshly, intending to eliminate the very source of your fear.
"You, Aerion." You gritted out, pressing your forefinger into his chest roughly. "Because you lie and manipulate and I am unsure if this is all some grand deception you have orchestrated for you own entertainment."
His hands travelled to your hips, flexing slightly as he pulled you closer, silk brushing against the linen of his tunic.
"I do not express my affections lightly." He growled out. "I have meant every word I have ever said to you. I have never once lied to you."
He swallowed harshly, his Adam's apple bobbling unsteadily as his gaze dipped, flickering between your dazed eyes to your parted lips. He could hear his own blood rushing, pulse hammering as he watched you, awaiting a response.
You never verbalised your retort, instead your fingers curled around the neckline of his tunic, dragging him down to you, lips crashing against his, your fingers threading through his short silver-gold hair.
The kiss was bruising and fervent, his lips travelling the expanse of your exposed throat as you forced him to part from you, pulling at his strands as you gasped in the cold air, feeling your lungs burn. His teeth nipped at the flesh, suckling softly, promising bruises where ever his lips travelled.
His hands travelled the curve of your waist, steadily mapping the figure of your silhouette, pinching and grabbing at your hips as he pushed you further back, your back crashing against the trunk of an elm, the bark roughly digging into your spine.
He had you pinned against the tree, his hand travelling to grab at your thigh, guiding the knee to bend, pressing himself firmly into the space made. He continued to kiss you eagerly, swallowing the small noises you made, his touch searing against your skin.
You no longer felt cold.
Your head spun the longer he kissed you, desperately and dizzying, his hand around your throat, unable to even think as all you could feel was him.
His warmth, his hair, his lips, his wandering hands.
And then finally you noticed something firmer pressed against the slot of your legs as Aerion rocked against you slightly, his hips rolling.
"Aerion." You gasped out, keening as his lips latched onto the curve of your jaw, peppering kisses as his hands grabbed at your waist. "We cannot."
He moaned lowly against your skin, biting at your shoulder to muffle the sound, causing you to hiss slightly.
"Tell me to stop." He choked out, yet his grip tightened, as if fearing you would truly send him away.
You could not gather the words, could not tell him to leave you, because you truly did not want him to.
"Do not stop." You urged, whining softly as his hips dragged against yours, feeling his hands begin to bunch up your skirts, the cold nipping at the exposed skin of your legs.
There was a sharp rip, the sound piercing through your heavy breathing, your gaze immediately darting down to find that Aerion had torn through your smallclothes. You had no time to react, gasping sharply as his fingers travelled, smearing the slickness of your cunt, listening to how he moaned slightly at the realisation that you were just as aroused as he.
He began with one; the long digit dipped into your warmth, brushing against your walls that seemed to tighten around him with each curl, listening to the melodic whines that fell from your lips. Soft pleas of his name being uttered as a mantra, your hips rolling against his hand.
You could only gasp out as he added another, your hands gripping at his shoulders as he silenced your needy moans with a swift press of his lips against yours. You reciprocated, gnawing at anything he offered — the fat of his bottom lip, his tongue.
But your mind was dizzy, feeling full as you felt something strange occurring, biting at the skin of his neck as his fingers curled deeper, in and out. There was a certain pressure building, something unlike anything you had ever experienced, your walls clenching around his fingers as you felt your hips stutter slightly, your pearl beginning to feel too sensitive.
You cried out his name, trying and failing to muffle the sound with your own hand, feeling stars blur your vision as he nipped at your neck, lips lowering to bite at the top of your breasts as he yanked at your bodice slightly.
"Call me 'valzȳrys'." He commanded, cooing as you stumbled over the foreign syllables, mind hazy from the peak you had just experienced, unable to even think about what he had demanded you call him. You did not even know High Valyrian, not to the extent your Septas had tried to teach you, the word holding no value to you as you repeated it. But hearing you say it had almost pushed Aerion to the edge, feeling himself almost finish untouched as you babbled the title. (Husband.)
"Valzȳrys, please." You pleaded, although you were not entirely sure what you were asking for. More? Him? You could not truthfully say, simply begging for whatever he might give you.
He whispered your name against your lips, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches as he finally freed himself. "Of course, ñuha ābrazȳrys." (My wife.)
Mind dizzy, you were unable to comprehend the promise he kissed along your skin, one he was intending on completing. He would wed you. It was not a matter of if but rather when, and if it was up to Aerion, he would have uttered those damned vows in Highgarden.
He entered you swiftly, the head of his cock bullying itself through your entrance, stilling as he felt your warmth flutter around him, his eyes screwing shut as he heaved out a heavy breath, moaning lowly.
But you did not grab at him, instead your hands pushed at his shoulders, a choked sound escaping you as tears pricked at your waterline, your face twisting into a pained expression.
"Stop." You managed out, the word scraping against your larynx as you suppressed the urge to cry out, to curse him.
And he obeyed, his hands cradling your face gently, thumbs brushing away the stray tears that fell, his lips kissing at your cheeks, muttering soft apologies.
"I'll be slow." He promised, trying to comfort you as his hands travelled to smooth your hair slightly, before grabbing at your thighs to lift you, your legs curling around his waist. It only served to push him deeper within you, tip kissing your cervix as you clawed at his clothed shoulders, nails scraping against linen.
He withdrew slowly, and you whimpered, feeling him scrape against your walls at an agonising pace. Aerion cursed lowly as he looked at where you were joined, his cock slowly revealing, glimmering lowly with slick and with something that caused him to whimper.
Blood.
He had taken your maidenhead.
His thumb brushed against his length, his head still buried within you, gathering the thin blood with the pad of his fingertip, watching as it bloomed like spilled ink. He dragged a small line on your forehead, the glyph of 'fire' blotted against the skin. He wiped the remaining blood against the fat of your lips, wordlessly grabbing your hand, guiding your thumb to do the same, tracing the glyph of 'blood'against his own skin.
He kissed your lips harshly, teeth clashing as he lapped at your maiden blood on your lips, the copper tasting sweet as he moaned lowly, slowly rocking into you, hips pressing against yours.
He continued to push into you, feeling you clench around him as he whimpered softly, eyes screwing shut as he felt your hands travel, pulling at silver-gold strands, scratching at the skin beneath his tunic, nails scraping against his back, red welts raising on the pale skin.
He gasped out as he heard your small pained noises shift, turning into whiny whimpers as you whispered his name, pleading for more, pleading for anything that he could give you. He could feel himself almost finish, his finger travelling to the small bundle of nerves between your legs, drawing clumsy circles as you trembled against him, your head snapping back, feeling the bark scarpe against your scalp. He bit at your exposed neck, feeling the taut skin beneath his teeth.
Stars blurred your vision once more, your body going limp as you felt his breathing become ragged, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside of you. He withdrew himself from you, listening to the soft whine that fell from your lips as he no longer filled you, your cunt clenching around nothing as you felt his seed begin to dribble out of you.
Aerion unwrapped your legs from his waist, trying to set you down, but your legs betrayed you, trembling like a fawn as your knees buckled, hands grabbing at his forearms as you tried to steady yourself. He chuckled lowly at you, grabbing at your waist as your skirts fell, hiding any sign of what had occurred.
"My poor Lady Rivers." He mocked, fingers brushing at the strands of hair that stuck to your neck, curling against the cold sweat. Your chest heaved as you watched him with enamoured eyes, your heart stuttering as you struggled to catch your breath. "Has your man rendered you so weak?"
You huffed out a soft laugh as the title he bestowed upon himself, smiling stupidly and you avoided his gaze.
(If only you knew what he had you calling him).
Your blush only deepened each time your eyes betrayed you, wandering back to the smirking Dragon who watched you as if he had finally won. As if he had finally conquered his treasure.
Yet looking at him it would appear as if he was the one conquered, skin reddened with sharp bites and long scratches, unforgiving reminders of where you had marred his skin. You could already see where bruises had begun to bloom across his skin, in areas that would be difficult to conceal with clothing.
You did not even want to begin to think about your own skin, knowing that he had been as unrelenting as you, the flesh still tender from where his teeth had gnawed and nipped.
His hair was mussed, a result of you tugging and pulling, and the foreign symbol seemed to cling to the skin of his forehead.
(Later, on the day of your wedding ceremony, once your vows had been uttered to the Seven, you would be guided out of the Sept, Maekar muttering ancient oaths as he offered you a dragonglass blade, guiding you to do the very same thing to Aerion once more, only this time with the blood of his cut lip).
You could not continue to look at him, instead resting your forehead against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sighed softly, smelling ash mixed with lavender.
You yelped as his own hands gathered you, sweeping you off your feet as his arms steadied you; one at the bend of your knees, the other secured against your back, fingers curling against your skin.
He did not say a word as he carried you, his feet light against the smooth stone floor of the castle, not even making a sound as he followed the familiar path to your chambers, walking through the dark corridors with ease. A part of you wanted to question why he knew the route so well, but you chose to stifle the thought, resting your head against his shoulder, your lips kissing as the side of his neck.
His grip tightened at your sudden ministrations, suppressing the groan that threatened to grumble out of his chest, instead quickened his pace. You noticed the urgency in his step, pressing soft giggles against his carotid as your teeth scraped against his pulse.
"Witch." He growled out, roughly dropping you onto your bed, your body bouncing on the mattress slightly as kicked off his boots, crawling on top of you.
The Bright Prince would finally leave your chambers when the sun began to teeter along the horizon, the soft sound of birds chirping filling the silence as he wrapped his arms around you, face pressed against your bossom as he tried to gather the courage to leave.
You had long been asleep, body exhausted from the sheer amount of times he had pushed you to your peak, skin sheening with a slight radiance. He desperately wished to stay, to see you wake up, to witness your dreamy smiles. But he could not. He had to gather the courage to leave.
Aerion would storm into your father's solar, with every intention to demand your hand, to cause chaos until your father obliged (or he would simply have to steal you away if Medgar refused, because you cannot deny a dragon), only to find his own father conversing with the Lord Paramount of the Trident.
Maekar levelled Aerion with a glare, a subtle snarl on his lips that threatened the young Prince to remain silent.
The land dispute had been settled, Medgar grumbling his thanks. But Maekar had only one way that he wished to receive the Lord of Riverrun's thanks. To wed his son to Medgar's only daughter.
When the Targaryens finally left the solar, Aerion dumbfounded into silence as he mindlessly followed his father, only one thought clattered within his mind.
You were betrothed to him.
You were to be wed to him.
He could not help the stupid grin that invaded his features, even after his father scowled at the sight of his stretched lips. But Maekar could not complain. He could only pray that Dyanna would have been happy with the result.
When you had finally managed to rouse from your sleep, the sun had reached its zenith, rays glaring into the windows of your chambers, spilling onto your face. You had never awoken this late, and rushed to get ready, suppressing the urge to call for a maid to help you.
But you stopped yourself, heart dropping at the sight of your neck.
What the fuck had you done?
Your hand immediately covered your mouth in horror once you had caught a glimpse of yourself within the reflection of a mirror. But that fear immediately diminished as you could not help but laugh at yourself. You should have been more alarmed, to be brimming with anxiety, yet you could not find it within you, your heart fluttering each time you looked at the bruises, your mind forced to replay the events of last night.
His hands, his lips, his —
You shivered slightly, eyes screwish shook as you shook your head, hoping to dispell the thoughts haunted your mind. No — you had to gather yourself. To appear presentable. To show no hint of what had occurred last night.
So you carefully dressed yourself into a crimson gown, neckline high enough to conceal any marks, but not too high that it was suspicious. You kept your hair loose, hoping that too would provide some coverage, the strands acting as a veil that helped cover your neck. Your skirts were heavy, the swish of the fabric was enough to conceal the slight limp within your step.
Everything had been curated perfectly to hide any evidence that terrorised your body. For you to disappear into the background of the castle, to avoid any potential interactions.
This would immediately fail however.
The moment Elodie had seen you, she sprinted towards you, poor baby Medgar jostling in her arms as she grabbed at you with her free hand. She chattered excitedly to you, asking about the preparations you had considered — flowers, decorations, gowns. And when you only responded to her rambling with a blank stare, she grinned at you, believing you were jesting.
"For your wedding, of course! I know it has only been announced, but we must begin preparing."
Once Elodie finally noticed the way you gawked at her, she realised that you truly did not have any clue about what she had been talking about, she grew silent, brows furrowing with confusion as she suggested you talk to your Mother.
Yet even talking to Orysia seemed to provide you little insight. You were to be wed to Aerion. No question about it.
Yet your mind could not help but wander — were they marrying you to him due to what had occurred last night? To restore your honour? But the more you talked to your parents, the more confused you grew.
No one talked about question to your honour, no one suggested that you had failed your duty as a daughter.
No one knew anything.
It was only in the evening that you would see Aerion again, whose gaze lingered on your neckline, smirking as he knew exactly what lay beneath the crimson fabric. He simply pulled at the gold chain on your neck, finally reclaiming the ring he had stolen from you once before, letting it lay in place of a signet ring.
He would smile and talk, any tension that had once suffocated the hall now diminished as both Targaryens seemed finally satisfied, as if they were content in the outcome of their visit.
Aerion would never confess that he had begged his father to bring him to Riverrun, that the true purpose of their visit was not over some silly dispute between riverlords, but that you were the intended focus the entire time.
But he would slowly confess other things. His father had been the one to initiate the betrothal. That he knew he wanted you the moment you had seen you. That if you truly looked back at all of your encounters, he had been the one to ultimately win. In the end, his words rang true.
Synopsis: Inspired by the quote: "Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing." In which supposedly one of Lord Medgar Tully's sons participate within the tourney, yet their face is constantly shielded by a helmet.
Pairing: Aerion x Tully!Reader
Word Count: 16k+
Tags: fem!reader, fluff, slight angst, yearning, hate at first sight, kinda manipulative reader (you just don't realise it), love at first hit (?), ooc Aerion, very self indulgent, unreciprocated!Valarr x Reader (on your side), (mainly onesided) enemies to lovers, canon inaccuracies, happy ending
Note: He wants that fish lol. TLDR he negs her until she decides to beat him up. She ragebaits him. Unedited.
Part 2: Chase A Check
Part 3: Never Chase A Bitch
Aerion Targaryen did not do things in half measures.
Say whatever you would like about the Prince — cruel, vain, wicked — you could not deny that he was committed. Once his heart was set, it did not waver. Dragons did not hesitate, they simply destroyed.
Fire flowed in his veins, he was more divine than mortal. A beauty gifted only by the gods.
Which was why you had to beat the shit out of him.
See, the Prince was not the only one who was obsessive. From the first moment you had seen him, a foreign emotion flooded through your veins. Your heart quickening, your skin flushing, the thought of him unable to leave your mind.
You had never felt this way before.
Loathing; deep, ugly loathing.
This was more severe than hatred — you could ignore hatred. Hatred was simple, hatred was brief. Hatred did not compel you. This emotion interfered with your life; it was all-consuming, addictive.
Your Lady Mother often remarked that you were a gentle child, that despite the fact that you were raised with four brothers, despite your Lord Father raising you as a son also, ensuring that all his children were skilled in swordcraft and combat, you would never resort to violence the way they often would. Unless you were pushed too far.
And Aerion seemed determined to test your resolve.
"Tully." The Prince spat out, sparing a glance to your brothers as he approached your tent. He did not even bother looking at you, presuming that you were simply some fawning lady, and decided his efforts were better used for taunting your brothers.
"Your Grace." Delmar greeted, ever the conciliator. He was the second oldest, the Spare, and unlike your eldest brother, Melgar, he possessed patience and grace. Two components it seemed the Prince was sorely lacking also.
Your other two brothers, identical twins, Brynden and Mervyn, simply observed with apt interest, watching as their older brother dealt with the temperamental dragon. The twins were a few years younger than you, yet despite this they had already reached your height and were certain to surpass it soon.
Aerion continued, either wilfully ignorant of the tension that followed him like thick smoke, forcing everyone around him to choke on its intensity, or just plain stupid. "I will enjoy unhorsing you once the tourney commences, ensure the mare is not a favourite."
You scowled at his words, scoffing slightly as you turned away, trying to find something else to entertain you. You had heard of his brutish behaviour, of how ignobly he acted, harming animals in the pursuit of victory. It was embarrassing.
How pathetic must he be to have to go to such lengths just to secure a win? Either he is a poor jouster, or simply a weak man. You could not decide which was more appropriate.
If you were allowed to publicly engage in such tournaments, you would never resort to such cheap tricks and crookidness — it was behaviour beneath you. No, you were certain that your skill would be able to carry you; you were as accomplished as your older brothers, the only advantage they held over you pertaining to their height and strength. But you were quicker, in both body and mind, able to adapt, treating the sparring matched like a game of cyvasse, always thinking three steps ahead.
But despite the fact that your Father may have raised you as a son, you could never forget that you were still a daughter. You would never be allowed to join the lists of the tourneys, regardless of how skilled you were, regardless of how worthy you were.
His head snapped towards you, sourcing the soft sound, only to find you scowling as you sat so prettily. Sharp violet eyes narrowing, finally addressing you. "Do my words amuse you?"
"I am not so easily entertained, Your Grace." You drawled, your words dripping with vexation as your gaze languidly dragged back to the Prince, only to find him already glaring at you.
The corner of his lips twitched, jaw clenching as you refused to give him the reaction he had anticipated. He had expected swift apologies, stuttering words, fearful glances as many often reacted when he would address them. Instead he received you.
He mimicked your tone, ensuring to speak with equal vitriol. "Well you will certainly be entertained once your brother loses. I will have to dedicate my win to you, My Lady."
The honorific was purred in such a manner it sounded more like a threat rather than a courteous address. You offered a tight smile as a reply, glaring at the Prince who seemed to finally realise that you too were a person; certainly a shocking discovery.
He would hover for a moment, taunting your brothers with spiteful slights despite the fact that his eyes seemed to unknowingly drag back to you, trying to gauge your response. You were not generous however, and steeled your features, not providing him the gratification of your disdain any longer. However, you had done this far too late. Aerion had seen your true colours once, and desperately wished to witness them again.
You appeared like a docile creature at first glance, but you had mistakenly bared your teeth at him, and now he wanted to get bit.
—
There were many times you wished to strike the Prince, but you had more sense than that. You would rather keep all your limbs.
Instead you waited; you were patient. All you had to do is wait for the tourney to complete, and the chances of you interacting with the Prince again were slim.
You had to be patient.
You would not condescend yourself by acting so lowly, by allowing the Prince to cause you to become so volatile — it was not in your nature, you reminded yourself. You were a Lady, and you would act as such.
So even now, when you were in the middle of a cyvasse match with a Ser Knight of Some Small House you had not paid much attention to, you forced yourself not to notice the prowling dragon who watched the game with apt interest, instead claiming the knight's onyx rabble with one of your own ivory pieces.
The knight, whose name had escaped you the moment he had uttered it, responded quickly, far too quickly. A mistake. He claimed the rabble you had left vulnerable.
The knight's knee continued to bounce, impatience possessing him as he waited for your next move, his gaze flickering up to watch you. You appeared to just be analysing the board, fingers busy with twisting your golden rings, the garnet glinting each time it turned around the digit.
You suppressed the grin that threatened to unveil your glee, instead forcing it down. He did not realise he had fallen straight into your trap.
But Aerion noticed the shift that occurred within you. You may have looked as if you were carved from marble, the perfect statue of the Maiden reborn, yet there was a glimmer within your eyes.
"You have lost." Aerion proclaimed, his eyes travelling across the board to decipher how the knight had lost, yet he could not find it. What was the source of your eyes softening? Certainly not the knight… His eyes narrowed as he failed to see your victory. Surely not, it could not be the knight who had caused the smile in your eyes, for your irises to brighten. Yet the knight was not exactly ugly, and perhaps you were as simple as he had initially assumed.
He was so focused on discovering the reason for your sudden joy, he did not realise that it quickly diminished at the sound of his voice, shooting him a glare once he had exposed you.
"Pardon, Your Grace?" The knight managed out, his eyes widening once he realised the Prince was addressing him. Aerion did not bother answering him, only leaning over you to see the board from your perspective. It was beginning to irritate him, what could you see that he could not?
"I am afraid His Grace is correct, Ser." You finally spoke, your skin flushing as the Prince crowded you against your chair, seemingly not caring at the proximity he had forced upon you. You cleared your throat, your pulse racing unsteadily as his arm rested against the back of your chair, lithe fingers brushing against your shoulder causing you to sit up straight to avoid his touch. "Your king will be trapped, defeat in five moves."
Aerion smirked at your confirmation, glad to know that the only thing about the knight that caused you joy was his defeat, and not his stupid face.
"But how?" Aerion demanded, not allowing the knight to react to your words, continuing to lean forward until his head was beside yours. He stilled for a moment, eyes screwing shut as he inhaled from his nose, the subtle scent of lavender and chamomile hitting him.
The knight simply observed, riveted by the scene that was unfolding before him. Perhaps the princeling was drunk, he concluded. It was not strange to see members of the royal house of Targaryen to be publicly intoxicated, the Prince's brother Daeron had long ago normalised such behaviour, even earning the moniker 'The Drunken'. Intoxication was the only reasonable explanation for why Aerion was conducting himself in such a manner.
You stood up suddenly, becoming far too aware of how the knight was watching you, desperate to desert the situation. "My catapult would claim his dragon, leaving his king defenceless."
"But could I not—" The knight began, trying to get you to sit back down, to complete the game. You were leaving so soon, and the knight felt disappointed at losing the opportunity to speak to you longer.
"It is called laying a trap." You quickly interjected, jewelled hands smoothing your skirt as you tried to pardon yourself as smoothly as possible. Yet your pride — the disastrous, fragile thing it was — compelled you to explain how you had won, how you had bested the men before you. "I had baited you through a technique referred to as the 'Ruined Rabble', and through sacrificing one rabble, you were defeated. Now you must excuse me—"
Your voice was quickly interrupted by Aerion placing his hands roughly onto your shoulders, harshly guiding you to seat yourself once more.
"Move." He demanded. The knight quickly obeyed, abandoning you with such swift ease. What a knight he was, you thought bitterly. Leaving you with the dragon.
And the Dragon continued to watch you, scrutinising the prey that refused to flinch under his narrowed gaze. You did not utter a word, simply collecting your pieces with unnecessary detail, purposefully trying to waste his time.
And it worked. Like the knight minutes prior, Aerion could only watch you with a clenched jaw, getting irritated by the amount of time it took you to retrieve your pieces. For Seven's sake, they were all laying before you, it should not take that long!
His index finger drummed a frantic beat against the table, his own pieces already gathered in a cluttered pile (although you quickly noted that he had arranged his dragons in a neat line, as if they were cavalry awaiting for his next command).
"Will you hasten your movements?" He sharply interrogated, his tone mocking as if your actions were motivated by incapability rather than deliberation. You refused to look at him while he addressed you, keeping your attention captivated on your ivory pieces, only furthering his irritation. Why he wanted your sole focus, he was unsure, the sensation foreign as he tried digging it deep, hoping that if he ignored it long enough, it would not haunt him any longer.
"I will try." You replied, your tone light, laced with sincerity despite your movements slowing further. He simply huffed in response, slouching in his seat as his impatient nature demanded for something else to entertain him while he waited. His head swiveled, neck straining as violet eyes travelled along the perimeter of the tent, only to observe the knights that had gathered at another table, his dear cousin in the centre of them. He scowled, the sight of the flock that seemed to gather around Valarr served to irritate him further. They only trailed behind him because he was the Heir's Heir, nothing more. If he did not possess that title, they would flock around Aerion instead, because he was certainly far more interesting than his cousin. Or so he comforted himself.
A smirk threatened to break onto your face as you noticed his distracted demeanor, your hand reached across the board into his territory, selecting your ivory rabble. And while you were certain that he was not paying attention, you grabbed one of his dragons in one swift movement, concealing it in your palm as your hand retreated, allowing it to fall within your sleeve.
"Shall we arrange our boards, My Prince?" You questioned, drawing his attention back to you as you slid the opaque inklike screen into its place, obscuring your vision of his half of the board. Your hands were already moving before he could respond, routinely placing tiles in a sequence your older brother Malger would often use.
Malger was far more skilled in cyvasse than you were, and he was the most skilled jouster in your family; it was a shame he was not attending the tourney, you were certain he would put the temperamental princeling in his place. Your good sister was in the later stages of her pregnancy, and despite your fathers insistence, Malger refused to join the travelling party, meaning that your other brother Delmar would take his place in the tourneys.
Your Lord Father Medgar Tully, also a proficient jouster and swordman, skills hardened through the battlefield, would have participated in the tourney if it were not for the arm injury he had sustained during a hunt. As a result of his inability to participate, he commanded that one of his sons must. You did not bother requesting if you could join, already knowing the answer would be a resolute refusal.
At times you could not help but wonder why your Father had raised you in such a manner, why put a sword in the hand of a child and be surprised once they were accustomed to the weight, the blade becoming an extension of one's self.
Aerion grumbled a halfhearted reply, his attention continuously being drawn to the knights fawning over his cousin, haphazardly placing the tiles. What was so great about Valarr anyways? He hardly possessed the Valyrian features, and he was not that skilled in combat either.
He began to position his pieces, only to still. There was one missing. One of the most important pieces was missing.
His dragon was gone.
"Where is my dragon?" He demanded, his voice rising as he frantically looked around, finding one of his dragons missing from the position he had carefully placed it in.
"Pardon?" You questioned, feigning ignorance as you tilted your head at him, watching with great amusement as he quickly lost his remaining composure. You kept your hands on your lap, the inky dragon's wing digging into your forearm as it remained veiled from his sight. He swiftly stood up, looking over the board to find your pieces attentively placed into their correct positions. "My Prince, you cannot—"
"Do not inform me of what I can and cannot do." He hissed, leaning over the screen to search for his piece. Yet despite his meticulous search, he could not find it. "You have stolen my dragon, return it this instance."
"My Prince, I did no such thing." You lied blatantly, and it simply infuriated him further as he could tell. Your eyes were smiling once more, and they never did that when you were looking at him. Your movements were subtle, your arm dragging forward just an inch, the dragon tumbling onto the floor, released from your sleeve. Your foot found it quickly, gently kicking it forward. You quickly added another remark, unable to stop yourself. "Perhaps your dragon flew away?"
His hands clenched, teeth grinding as he desperately tried to not curse you. He was finally getting the attention of the knights, but not in the way he had wanted.
"Stand. Up." He demanded, his words slow as they gritted out of his mouth. You obeyed, once more moving languidly as you raised your palms in mock surrender. He was making a fool out of himself, and you had orchestrated it perfectly. However you had to admit that you did not expect it to happen so perfectly. And it simply got better, the scene being witnessed by multiple bystanders.
"Is that not your dragon by your feet, cousin?" Valarr called out, feeling an indescribable embarrassment for his cousin and the poor Lady he was harassing. He wished he could rescue the pretty Lady, but it appeared that you were able to handle the situation, offering Valarr a bashful smile.
Aerion looked down, the dragon pathetically laying on the floor. It was certainly not there before… right? His jaw clenched as he nodded, biting his tongue, a subtle metallic taste emerging as he refused to speak.
He grabbed it quickly, suppressing the urge to hurl it across the room, preferably hitting Valarr. Of course, out of every individual within the tent, it was his cousin who had found his dragon. Great Valarr, perfect Valarr. How utterly infuriating.
Aerion sunk back into his seat, huffing like a petulant child as he forcefully placed the dragon into its place. He shot a glare at you, gesturing for you to sit down. This was your fault, he decided. It had to be.
"Witch." He muttered under his breath, his tone accusing as he shot you a glare, and you could only roll your eyes at him.
You pulled the screen, placing it gently on the table, frowning as you took in his board. What in the Seven Hells did he do? There was no rhyme or reason to the position of his tiles and you struggled to decipher what technique he may have used. Another mistake you had made, assuming that he even knew cyvasse techniques.
And it quickly became apparent as you played with him — he barely moved his rabbles, used his catapults when it truly was not necessary, and allowed his dragon pieces to dominate the board. Which, unfortunately for him, led to the death of all his dragons. Truly a reenactment of the Dance of the Dragons, and how fitting that it simply led to the defeat of a Targaryen.
Yet despite how amusing it was to mess with the Prince, the game was a terrible bore. It felt as if you were playing with a child rather than a man grown. You were certain your younger brothers were more skilled than him, all his moves were seemingly motivated by an undeserving arrogance rather than an understanding of the game. He was truly unworthy of your time, you concluded — you had spent more time playing with your rings than actually playing the game, absentmindedly removing and rewearing them, twisting them as you felt your brain ache.
"Defeat in four." You stated, tone bored as your head rested against your fist, suppressing a yawn. You had expected more, but clearly your greatest mistake was just having expectations for the Prince. You had heard the whispers that followed him, of his cruelty and anger — such behaviour was surely sourced by a lack of intelligence, perhaps he would not act so rashly if he simply thought. Advice that was applicable to both the game before you and his life. But you had more sense than to voice such an opinion, so you would simply apply it yourself. It would be for your betterment to avoid the Prince, as each encounter with him only served to increase the urge to strike him.
And you were certain to oblige to such desires.
You could almost forgive the cruelty, it was a common fact that Targaryens were mad — his lineage cursed by the gods for their unnatural practices. But his arrogance, his self-conceited nature was unforgiveable. How blind must a man be to not understand that his birthright could only carry him so far? What did it matter that he were a Targaryen Prince if his character failed in every other aspect?
He remained silent, his hand pressed into his jaw as he leaned towards the board, his head inching closer to yours as he tried to see where his defeat laid. It took its time to register in his mind, but, eventually, defeat was processed. And you stood up as soon as it did, hands smoothing over your silk skirts, the opulent fabric whispering as you moved.
Aerion had never lost before. And he was not entirely sure of how he felt — bitter at the loss, yet it was the addictive sort. He would not mind experiencing it once more if it came from you.
"There are pieces other than the dragon, My Prince." Your tone mocking as you smiled at him sweetly, your eyelashes fluttering as you perfected the facade of innocence. He glared back at you, scowling at his loss.
"The dragon ought never lose." He seethed, his voice low as he leaned over the board, his forearms barracading the game that demonstrated his defeat. Then why are they all dead, you thought sardonically, forcing yourself not to utter your true thoughts. They would certainly get you executed, despite being the truth.
"Certainly, Your Grace." You responded, rolling your eyes deeply the moment your back was turned from him.
Your first victory against Aerion.
It was only afterwards in the silence of your own tent did you realise that your garnet ring was missing.
—
"Lady Tully." A voice called out, forcefully dragging your attention away from the ladies you had were seated amongst.
The tourney was being held in honour of the daughter of Lord Leo Tyrell, Aster Tyrell. It was clear that Leo Longthorn was trying to recreate the famed Tourney of the Field Roses, wanting the beginning of his daughter's marriage to be embroidered with success and greatness. She was to be wed to Karlon Stark, the only son of Lord Barthogan Stark. It was rumoured that Barthogan was not in favour of the tourney, believing it was a waste of time and resources, claiming that war was not a game, but his son managed to persuade his father, hoping that his Winter Rose would be pleased.
Yet Aster did not speak one word of her good father's dislike of the event, instead distracting the ladies around her with the Myrish silks her betrothed had commissioned for her. Not that she would have much use for such luxuries in the North, the Lady would have to sacrifice her low necklines and thin silks for furs and wools.
But you ignored that thought, instead fussing over the beauty of her gifts, fawning and cooing in all the right moments, until a silver-streaked Targaryen had distracted you.
Prince Valarr Targaryen, the very definition of beauty and grace, stood before you, directing a smile so gentle and charming that it had caught you off-guard. Your gaze flickered between his bi-coloured irises; warm amber and soft lavender. It was only until Aster nudged you slightly did you realise that the pleasantness of his smile was intended for you, the Tyrell Lady ushering you to follow the Targaryen Prince.
He shared pleasantries with the other ladies who were seated among you, congratulating Aster so sweetly that she blushed as if she was not to be wed within the moon.
"My Lady, I must apologise for my cousins behaviour earlier." He began, offering his arm as he began to guide you further through the famed courtyards of Highgarden, the ambrosial scent of roses and grapes wafting through the air. "Aerion is quick to temper at times, but he means well."
Valarr did not dare look you in the eyes as he spoke those words, as if recognising the lie he recited so often to excuse his cousin's behaviour. But you simply smiled, fingers curling around the soft velvet of his sleeve as you offered your appreciation, making liars of the two of you.
"There is no need to apologise, My Prince. I have many brothers and am accustomed to such behaviour. I was not offended." You responded, offering false sympathy with ease, watching as his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, as if you had released a weight he was shouldering stoically.
But your heart dropped, unable to truly experience the satisfaction of getting away with such a small lie, as you noticed something strange.
From your peripheral you saw the glint of silver-gold — platinum glimmering under the harsh sunrays, motionless. A shiver travelled down your spine as you finally registered his unwavering attention, like a prey noticing a predator far too late. You were unable to escape, to return to the refuge of the ladies, to hide behind propriety and decorum. Your smile faltered slightly, yet Valarr did not notice, instead he continued to speak, his attention flittering between your enticing eyes and the flowers before you, finding it difficult to look at you for too long.
Valarr was uncertain as to why he felt this way, why his heart seemed to skip each time your attention was solely on him. So instead he forced his efforts back to his initial intentions — to apologise for Aerion. But why was he so determined to receive your forgiveness, to ensure that you would be pleased? He did not have an answer for that either, and imstead tried to silence the mocking voice in his head.
"You are very kind, My Lady." He responded, stopping briefly before a bed of golden roses, plucking one from its place. He withdrew a small dagger, allowing the blade to glide along the stem, removing the thorns, before returning the blade to its place. "Yet I still feel indebted to you, I should have intervened earlier—"
The silver-streaked Prince was interrupted by a curt voice.
"Cousin." Aerion addressed, hands behind his back as he pinned you beneath his scrutinising stare, not even sparing a glance at Valarr. He had already witnessed enough; how his cousin dared to apologise on his behalf, how you offered your enchanting smile and charming words, clinging onto Valarr's arm as if he were your saviour.
It was pathetic.
And it would stop this instant.
"Aerion." Valarr countered, offering a tight smile to his cousin.
"Lady Tully." You included, smiling slightly at the stupid joke, but it quickly diminished when you noticed the two men remained silent, with Valarr glaring at his nonreciprocating cousin. Instead Aerion seemed more interested in your eyes.
Alluring, beguiling eyes. His steadfast focus remained on them, even as his cousin continued to speak, even when you looked away from the silver-haired prince. His attention remained solely on you.
"As I was saying, My Lady…" Valarr began again, his smile slightly strained as his cousin remained unmoving, offering the rose to you. The blossom was quickly accepted, your fingers tracing the smooth stem, your gaze wandering back to the silver-streaked Targaryen. But once again Aerion disliked the scene unfolding before him, meaning that once again Valarr was interrupted.
"My Uncle has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately." Aerion declared, his nails biting half-moons into his palms as he noticed the glimmer in your eyes return. How dare you direct that look towards Valarr? How dare you deem him worthy of such a privilege?
Valarr shot a look at his cousin, half disbelief, half annoyance. He knew Aerion's nature, deception and bitterness coursing through his veins. And despite this universally acknowledged truth, Valarr could not ignore his words on the off-chance that his cousin was truly not lying.
Of course he was lying, but truly what more could you expect from Aerion? It was Valarr's fault for being gullible.
And so he turned towards you once more, the words he desperately wished to voice dying on his tongue, tasting like ash.
"You must excuse me, My Lady." He murmured, voice laced with regret and disappointment as he hesitantly pulled away from you, allowing his fingers to brush against the flow of your skirt for just a moment. "It appears that my Father requires me."
You responded gracefully, voice soft as you bid farewell to the Princes, grasping the opportunity to flee as soon as it appeared. But this was futile, a steady hand grasping your elbow, fingers digging into the skin as you were guided further into the verdent gardens, further from your refuge.
You inwardly cursed, heart dropping as you allowed Aerion to drag you to a remote corner of the courtyard, the only witnesses being the chirping cardinals and twisting ivy on the sun-bleached courtyard wall.
He did not bother asking what you were discussing with Valarr, did not bother asking why you were in the gardens — instead he simply stared, completely taking you in, searing the image into his memory.
You refused to meet his gaze, nails gently scratching against where the thorns had been removed, fingers travelling to caress the soft petals as they yielded to your touch, the gold parting. This was not supposed to occur. You were not meant to interact with the Prince this much, surely you were cursed.
"Why were you with him?" Aerion interrogated, taking the rose from your hands, scowling at the blossom as if it had caused him offence, throwing it to ground. Deep violet eyes settled on you once more, piercing you with chilling precision.
"Prince Valarr wished to converse—"
"I did not ask about what you were doing." He clarified, stepping towards you, his fingers tracing along the curve of your neck, catching onto the chain of your necklace, the golden links glimmering as he observed your pendant. He could smell chamomile and lavender once more, the addictive scent calming his mind. "Why were you with him?"
Your brows furrowed in confusion, suppressing the urge to flinch at his touch, wishing desperately to create some distance. But you could not, his grasp remaining on your pendant as he watched the garnet stone glint in the sunlight.
"I am not sure what you mean, My Prince." You confessed, your heart racing as he finally yielded your necklace, the cold metal of your pendant hitting the skin above your neckline. The question itself was some sort of trap, you decided. How could you answer as to why you were with the Heir's Heir? There was no option for you, the reason was simply because you could not deny the requests of the Blood of the Dragon.
"You will refuse him in the future." He murmured, closing the gap between you as he caught a lock of your hair, twisting the strand around his finger.
"That would be an insult." You responded, instinctively retreating from his warmth, creating the distance you yearned for. He was far too close, far too much — the scent of sandalwood and ash flooding your senses, perforating into your mind, burning your thoughts and self-control.
He scowled at the movement, before yanking the strand, pain flaring at the base of your scalp as you hissed sharply, your head snapping with the harsh movement. And you quickly responded before you could even think, digging the heel of your foot into his, smiling as he flinched, a curse rasping out his larynx.
But the gratification of satiating your desire was temporary, immediately vanishing as the severity of the situation dawned on you.
Seven fucking Hells.
What did you do?
Terror seized you as you backed away from the glaring Prince, watching as his breathing became unsteady, his lips curling with an emotion you truly could not identify. You turned on your heel, submitting to the fear that guided you as an instinct older than your lineage possessed you.
You had to run. You could not think, your mind haunted with the impending future, of the consequences that would occur. Even if you ran, you would not be able to get far. He would still chase you. He would find you, make you pay for daring to strike a Prince of the Blood.
There was simply no escape.
Yet despite this realisation you still tried, only to be dragged back, his fingers curling around your biceps, nails stabbing through the silk fibres of your sleeve, roughly pulling you into him. You stumbled, back hitting his chest, and you could swear that his nose brushed against your hair as he inhaled sharply.
You struggled against his grip, his hands turning you to face him as your mind racing with thoughts and possible solutions. But they all fell flat as you came to one conclusion.
He wished to strike you. To punish you for such impudence, for such disrespect.
But your mind was silenced as his lips crashed against yours, teeth clashing as he desperately kissed you, chasing the taste of honeyed wine. His hands had travelled, one carded through your hair pulling the strands while the other cradled your jaw, holding you in place.
You froze, your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders, not pushing him away.
What the fuck?
You had accounted for every possible outcome, crafting swift resolutions for the worst scenarios, but you could have never expected this. How in the Seven Hells could you escape this?
Instead of reciprocating his actions, instead of returning his kisses, you bit his bottom lip harshly, the flesh tearing against the sharp of your fang. The metallic taste infiltrated your mouth, blood staining your lips as he finally withdrew wincing at the sudden pain.
His fingers immediately raise to his lips, tracing the torn skin as blood weeped at the injury, a crimson drop trickling down his chin. Your own lips were stinging, swollen and bruised by his harsh kisses.
His pupils were blown, black darkening the deep violet as he watched you with a certain satisfaction. Yet the hungry look in his eyes remained, not completely satiated, gaze fixed on you like a dragon following its cornered prey.
He allowed you to run away this time, to flee from him. He did not bother chasing you.
He had won.
—
Aster had requested a favour from you.
A gift for her wedding, she had clarified, eyes pleading as she grasped your hands. She wished to attend the merriments occurring within the Baratheon tent, but could not conjure up the courage of going alone.
She did not dare ask her betrothed to take her, unsure of how that may have seemed. However she heard that Delmar was acquainted with the Laughing Storm, and it was certain that your brother would attend.
He would be your chaperone, and in turn hers as well. You had hesitated for a moment, your mind still reeling from your encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen. You did not want to risk another interaction.
But you could not deny her, pity striking you at the sight of her furrowed brows and doe eyes. You were weak, and so you joined her, Delmar many paces ahead of you as she whispered excitedly in your ear.
Lyonel Baratheon exceeded any expectation you had for the man; he was loud and boisterous and utterly charming in a way that commanded attention. He was impossible to ignore.
He was already a tall man, yet seemed insistent to tower above every person in the tent as he danced upon tables, his antler crown lopsided on his head of salt and pepper curls. You could not deny that he was handsome, and clearly neither could Aster, allowing the Baratheon Lord to spin her, viridescent silk skirts twirling to the discordant melody of unharmonious singing crashing against the sound of fiddles and flutes. She danced with him, and any other man she ran into, her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, breathless as she grinned so brightly.
Your smile could only mirror hers, watching her joy from the sidelines as you settled into a corner of the tent, sipping costly imported Myrish firewine, the spiced wine burning your throat. But you did not mind the subtle pain, quickly becoming accustomed to it as the feeling was more enticing than any that the offered Arbor gold could provide.
Delmar was also engrossed within the celebrations, stood upon a rickety table that swayed as he sung a bawdy tavern song with one of Baratheon's bannermen, Arbor gold spilling out of his goblet, the fruity wine dripping off his fingers. You wanted to laugh, to mock your brother while he was in a drunken stupor, to share Aster's glee, but you were unable to.
You could not even stomach the food offered during the feast, your stomach turning at the sight of the roasted duck, and instead just sipped your firewine. The thought of the Targaryen Prince haunted you; harming the Prince, kissing the Prince, harming him once more. Your heart was conflicted on how to feel, scandalised at your actions, scandalised at his, fearing what is to come.
But there was one emotion that did not waver. You truly hated him.
You almost wished you could have inflicted more damage. To make the crime worth the impending punishment.
You flinched, the sound of harsh laughter drawing you out of your suffocating thoughts. It soon faded however, but not due to distance. Cerulean eyes found you, the candle light faintly glinting against his irises as his gaze narrowed with a heavy intensity that interrogated you. You returned Lyonel's attention, watching him for a moment before allowing your focus to be drawn back to where Aster whirling, your mind pirouetting with her once more.
But Lyonel's gaze lingered, unwavering as he noticed your demeanour, as if noticing a flaw within the atmosphere he had carefully curated. You were not sharing the merriment.
"Lady Tully." He commented, your name sounding more like a fact rather than an address. "I did not know that Delmar's sister was a terrible bore."
"Perhaps I am, or perhaps I do not see the point of these festivities." You drawled back, your tone bitter despite allowing him to steal the goblet you were grasping like a lifeline. He took a quick swig of the wine, wincing as he ignored the urge to spit it back out. He would have insulted it if he did not quickly realise it was the very firewine he had brought with him from Myr. "No victories, yet you knights are celebrating as if you had won every competition."
He barked out a laugh at your response, not expecting you to cut back, the sound sharp and invasive as it pierced through the loud music of the tent. "How dull would life be if we only celebrated when there was cause to do so?
You remained silent, your focus drifting to your brother who seemed to detest his feet being on the ground, instead having them planted upon chairs as he travelled across the room, another knight placing them to aid his journey. The idiot was going to get injured, but you made no move to stop him, instead taking your goblet back from Lyonel, taking a long sip.
He noted your silence, and was unsatisfied with the response, his hand resting against the small of your back, palm firm against the smooth silks as he placed his antler crown upon your head. It hung loosely on your head, and you quickly stabilised it with a palm as you shot the Lord a questioning look.
"Do you like to dance?" He asked, eyes twinkling as he grinned at you, determined to change your mood. He decided that no one was more deserving of the happiness that was infecting the participants of the festivities, especially with how jaded you seemed. You rolled your eyes at his question, but he could tell he had won you over, your lips stretching into a grin as you began to respond.
But no response came.
The warmth of Lyonel's hand quickly disappeared, replaced by a familiar heat as you felt someone press against you, a hand wrapping around your bicep, laying a silent claim. Sandalwood and ash. Your eyes darted down to the offending hand, heart dropping at the sight of pale lithe fingers that curled around your arm.
And your garnet ring glinting from where a signet ring should lay.
"Baratheon." Aerion's voice called out, you could feel his voice vibrate against your back, his grip tightening as he greeted the Stromlander.
Lyonel responded curtly, his gaze hardening as it darted between you and the dragon that grasped you. He could not identify the emotion on your face, stuck between anger and regret as you glared onwards, not truly looking at anything. But you did not move, did not flinch, simply allowed the volatile Prince to hold you as if you were his possession.
"Leave us." Aerion demanded, dismissing the Lord as if this were not Lyonel's tent, as if Lyonel was the one causing the disruption. His free hand grabbed the crown by the antlers, gently removing it off your head before roughly shoving it against Lyonel's chest.
The Baratheon opened his mouth, mind fuzzy by the liqueur he had indulged in, the border between logic and stupidity blurred as he began to argue against the command. But he was quickly silenced by your glare, your head subtly shaking once to dissuade him. And so he pursed his lips shut, offering a tight smile as he obliged to your wishes, taking his crown and abandoning you to the dragon.
Aerion's hand travelled down the expanse of your arm, tracing the inside of your forearm, following the trail of the veins of your inner wrist, before settling around your wrist, fingers pressed against the skin as your pulse fluttered like trapped bird beneath his grip.
"My sweet Lady Rivers." Aerion murmured, warm breath hitting against the skin of your neck as you suppressed a shiver at the sensation, trying your best to ignore the mocking nickname he had decided to bestow upon you. He moved slightly, finally in front of you as he stole your goblet, unflinchingly drinking the firewine, gesturing for a knight to refill the cup. The knight quickly obliged, before disappearing into the refuge of the crowd, and you could only yearn to do the same. "You seem determined to ignore me."
You did not bother granting him the privilege of a response, instead your gaze was fixed on the fingers curled around your wrist, the garnet stone of your ring mocking you as it glimmered in the low candle light.
"Return my ring." You muttered, your voice drowned out by the intensity of the festivities, your mind clearing as the wine seemed to no longer course through your veins. He pulled you closer, his head lowering so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.
"No."
Cunt.
Your gaze finally drifted up, head tilting slightly as his face was inches away from you. Violet irises dark and unwavering, restless as they flickered across your face, shimmering like the softness of twilight. The violet was swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, almost seeing your own reflection within the void that threatened to consume you. His lips curled with amusement as he noticed the glare that had settled into your features. You were truly beautiful when you were angry; divine and wicked, appearing like justice personified.
Your eyes dipped to his lips, lingering for a moment as you noticed the wound beginning to scab on his bottom lip, evidence of your bite. Your head spun at the sight, a strange delight coursing through your veins that was quickly extinguished once you remembered exactly why you had inflicted the injury.
He could only swallow harshly as he noticed where your gaze travelled, his mind flashing back to the very moment you were reminded of.
"Then perhaps you will release me, My Prince." The title dripped with thinly veiled vexation, the vowels dragging as if it were an insult. His smile twitched at your request, grip tightening slightly as if the very idea was a slight.
"So you can run off to that Lord?" Aerion accused, his voice low and heavy with a strange insecurity that you could only furrow your brows at. His behaviour was confusing you; perhaps you were more drunk than you had assumed. Why in the Seven Hells was he mentioning Lyonel? A Lord who you had never truly talked to before, finally sharing your first sentences devoid of any courtesy moments prior.
Despite your inhibitions being blurred by the firewine, your mind still functioned to the best of its capabilities. You quickly noticed the poorly concealed accusation, your anger flaring once more. Was he questioning your honour? There was no greater insult to a Tully, no greater insult to a woman. You were just thankful that you did not drink as much as you had truly wanted, as you would have certainly struck him if you had. The desire to do so coursed through your veins, the fingers of your free hand twitching slightly as you denied to fall into the temptation.
You twisted your wrist slightly, trying to release yourself from his grip as you responded. "I am not sure what you are suggesting, Your Grace, but I would like to be dismissed now."
Any trace of a smile vanished from his features, a cruel look brightening his eyes as he scowled at you, displeased by the reaction you provided. Why did you always flee from him? Did you enjoy withholding your presence from him? To make him yearn for your attention?
First his cousin, now some Baratheon lord — his patience was wearing thin, threadbare and fraying from your insistence to entertain the pursuits of lesser men.
His cruel, darling Lady Rivers.
The sound of heavy crashing tore through the charged moment, ripping your gaze away from him, your heart dropping at the sound of cursing and groans. The music stilled, a moment of tense silence washing over the tent.
Delmar, that damned fool.
You wrenched your arm from Aerion's grip, possessed by a newfound strength as you tried to push past him. But Aerion, like he often was, was disappointed by how your interaction was progressing, and grabbed at your skirts to interrupt your escape, vermillion silks bunched around his fist, spilling out between his fingers.
"Do not leave." He whispered, his voice going unheard as you tugged at your skirt, pulling the fabrics from his grasp as you shot him a glare, your eyes wild as you continued your pursuit of finding your brother. You did not hear his plea, soft and vulnerable and wanting, instead your mind was paralysed with a certain blankness as logic evaded you, the thought of your brother being injured anchoring your wits. And so you denied the request you did not witness.
Your heart thudded uncomfortably in your chest, certain to break your ribs as you pushed past the small crowd that was beginning to form, with your fool of a brother stemmed within the centre, unable to move. Your eyes darted around, taking the scene in completely as your mind began to race once more.
The wood had splintered at its leg, shards of mahogany exposing the wound as Delmar gritted his teeth at the pain throbbing through his ankle, desperately trying not to make any more noises. His foot was at a strange ankle, clearly a consequence of landing on it incorrectly.
Lyonel was beside him, grinning wolfishly at the stupidity of your brother while Aster gravitated to your side, her hands grasping yours as she tried to not look Delmar.
Any initial fear that you had experienced was replaced by an anger that you could not explain. Why in the Seven Hells would he act so stupidly? If he could not handle being so intoxicated, why would he indulge?
"You dimwitted wretch." You scolded, scowling at Delmar who certainly seemed more clearheaded, the fall sobering his mind as he offered a sheepish smile. The music began once more, the fiddler clearly dissatisfied by the lack of grievous injury as quick paced notes began to fill the air.
"Such kind words, sister." Delmar grumbled, hands grasping at the slant of the broken table as he attempted to become upright once more. He winced, a shallow gasp escaping him as pain sparked at the weak movement, and Lyonel quickly steadied him, grabbing at the injured man's forearms.
"And truthful." Lyonel added, quirking a brow at you as he struggled to suppress his own smirks, guiding the wounded Tully to lean against him. It would not be a celebration until someone had become injured. And unfortunately that individual just had to be your brother.
You abandoned Aster, your hand tracing against hers in apology as you went to Delmar's other side. A heavy arm draped over your shoulder, and you suppressed the urge to flinch at the smell of sweat and sickly Arbor gold.
"Idiot." You hissed out, the cool night air nipping at your face as you left the tent. "You will wish that the fall would have killed you, because Father certainly will now."
Delmar paled, either from the pain or fear, but you could not find it within you to care.
Instead your mind wandered back to garnets and ash.
—
Your mind felt as if it were splintering.
Cracked shards of incomplete thoughts as pain coursed through the wits that you tried to grasp onto.
"Damned fools." Medgar Tully cursed, face flushing with rage as a vein protuded on his forehead. His gaze dragged over his second eldest son, who was pathetically seated by the table, his ankle bandaged tightly with linens and silks, a wooden crutch beside him. "You have turned us into a laughing stock. House Tully fallen before the tourney has even begun, that is what everyone will be whispering."
You flinched at the sound of his voice, feeling it ricochet against the inner curves of your skull, piercing your thoughts. You groaned slightly, grasping your head as you allowed it to fall against the oak table, trying to block the sunlight that fell in slim ribbons through the ripples of the tent's fabrics. Your head hurts so much. Myrish firewine was clearly something not to be indulged in, yet despite the pain it caused you (during and afterwards), you still craved the numbing feeling it would cause. Perhaps you should seek out Lyonel, delay your hangover by drinking once more…
"Father—" Delmar attempted, unable to look the older Tully in the eyes.
"Silence. You have done enough." Medgar turned to look at you, concern briefly flickering in his eyes at the sight of his slumped daughter. But he steeled it swiftly, he will pity you later. He barked out your name, sharp and quick, the intrusive sound causing you to wince further as you begrudgingly lifted your head. "Your brothers are half-wits, but you should have known better. How could you allow him to become injured? I expected more from you, girl."
You lowered your gaze, the pain of your head throbbing fiercely as your heart began to ache at your father's words. You had disappointed him — you did nothing yet you still managed to disappoint him. It was unfair, it was unjust, yet your lip still quivered at the harshness of his disappointment even though you knew it was unwarranted. You let your head fall onto your arm, shielding your face as you screwed your eyes shut, trying to soothe the sting of tears.
"Brynden will take your place in the tourney."
Your head shot up, neck aching at the sudden movement as you began to protest. "Brynden is hardly even a man, and you expect him to fight? He is not a knight."
Your gaze flickered to the twins, who had simply been loitering around the perimeter of the tent, simply witnessing your father's anger, pleased to not be at the receiving end of it. But now the winds had shifted, and they were getting burnt. Brynden paled, eyes wide with horror as he gaped at your father, unable to utter a single word as his mind stalled.
"He is Delmar's squire, and the rules will permit it." Your father stated, voice stern, his words set in stone. You could not convince him to change his mind, his resolve was set.
But you could try. You began once more, trying to sweeten your tone to not anger him further. "Father, there is no need—"
"Do not speak to me of what our House needs. Brynden will fight, and he will bring us honour. I will go meet with the Master of the Games, to ensure that this change will be made." He hissed, turning to face Delmar, gesturing for him to rise. His voice softened slightly, his gaze travelling over your tired features; dulled skin and shadowed under-eyes. "And perhaps you should not attend the first events, your energy would be better spent resting and gathering some strength."
You did not need him to clarify why. You looked like shit. You could only offer a tight-lipped smile as he left, Delmar following suit with his clutch.
There was whispering in the corner of the tent, hushed and layered, voices arguing over each other.
"What are you whispering about?" You called out, slouching in your chair, feeling the wood dig uncomfortably into your back as you felt your whole body ache slightly. Either you needed to find more firewine, or never drink another drop of liquor for the rest of your life.
The whispering halted for a moment, the twins sharing glares at each other.
"He is saying that he cannot do it." Mervyn revealed, the words quickly tumbling out of his mouth, cursing when his twin punched him. "What? That is what you had said!"
"Well it does not matter anyways, I have to do it." Brynden mumbled, dragging his feet to sit beside you, frowning as he refused to meet your gaze. He was a man of ten and two, yet despite this, the pout on his face made him look even younger. Your heart tugged at the sight, pity striking you as he fidgeted in his seat. Mervyn quickly followed, shadowing his technically older brother (the difference was mere minutes, by Brynden would hold those minutes over his head for the rest of eternity).
"And Brightflame will beat you into the mud, so perhaps we should call the Maesters now." Mervyn taunted, seating himself on the table
"Do not call the Prince that." You scolded, scowling at the mention of the silver-haired Targaryen.
Mervyn rolled his eyes, muttering a response about how the aforementioned Targaryen bestowed that title upon himself.
"But it is true." Brynden complained, letting his head fall against the mahogany in an ungraceful thud. "He had mocked us yesterday, saying that he will be going fishing for trout during the first round."
You cringed at the poorly created threat, scowl deepening at Aerion's gall. How dare he threaten your brothers? First he taunted you, and now them also? You wish that you could beat the audacity out of him.
You could beat it out of him.
Mervyn watched how your features began to neutralise, brows furrowing as you seemed to be absorbed in a hidden conversation in your mind. You were thinking, certainly a dangerous thing.
"I will take your place." You suddenly stated, head snapping to look at Brynden, who only huffed at your relevation.
"She is still drunk." He mumbled to Mervyn, who began to laugh at your suggestion.
"How potent was the liquor Lord Baratheon was serving?" Mervyn questioned in a mocking tone, shooting you an amused glance.
"Potent enough to offer me enlightenment. It is brilliant."
"Brilliance or madness?"
"They are one and the same." You grinned at him, leaning forward, your tone almost conspiratorial. "And we all know that I am as skilled as Delmar, I will actually be able to win, unlike you."
"The man is ruthless, you will get injured."
"Fact." Mervyn interrupted, gaze flickering between his two siblings.
"Not as injured as you would have gotten." You deflected "And must I repeat that I can win?"
"Also a fact." Mervyn interjected once more, a slight downward smile on his face as he shrugged at a glaring Brynden. "She has a better chance than you, and Father would be furious if you lose."
"Are you seriously agreeing with her?" Brynden accused, jaw hanging as he glared at his twin. They were meant to have twin solidarity. Traitor.
"I believe that I have won." You grinned, watching as the squire slowly shut his mouth, his gaze flickering between you and his twin, trying to weigh the decision he would make. Consider the risks and potential issues. But it would be futile.
He would agree.
—
Cyvasse was a great game.
You had hated it initially when your older brother Malger would force you to play it, finding it boring and repetitive, each round ending in your loss. You had no idea how Malger was able to continuously win, as if the Fates had decided that he would be the ultimate Cyvasse champion. All your other siblings refused to play the board game with him, knowing what the outcome would be. But you were determined. You had to win at least one time before abandoning the game. You had studied books on the art of Cyvasse, learning about techniques and methodology foreign to you, even managing to convince your Septa to play with you when you should have been studying the Histories of Westeros.
After your fiftieth loss, he would finally reveal his secret.
There was no point being able to master the game if you were unable to dissect your opponent. Malger would disclose how it was not Cyvasse that you should be playing, but rather your opponent. To investigate their quirks and tells, see what would irritate them, make them impatient. And ultimately distracted. Because when your opponent was distracted, they were unable to think ahead. And this failure in planning their next moves would secure your victory.
You would later learn that this advice was not only applicable to Cyvasse, as Malger would win over his Lady Wife using these same methods. Your good sister was promised to another, but Malger dissected his character, learned his weaknesses and allowed his new opponent to expose his flaws to his betrothed. And she was not impressed, breaking their betrothal while Malger was able to win her over, already having planned this since he had met her. He would soon marry your good sister, the couple stupidly in love, and he would never confess that he had done this.
But regardless you knew, you recognised the very game techniques he had taught you. And you learnt that they were more valuable than you could ever expect.
You knew your opponent.
Aerion Targaryen, an arrogant and wicked man. Impatient and impulsive, all faults that you despised and yet that was exactly where your victory lay.
Aerion did not know that it was you beneath the visor. He did not know that the one upon the steed brandishing the tourney lance as if it were a lethal weapon was the woman he enjoyed to torment. He did not know that you had planned everything perfectly.
Your absence was easily explained, no one would be looking for you resting in your tent, for fear of disturbing you. Brynden was easily concealed amongst the congregation of smallfolk, his face blurring in with the masses. And Mervyn had easily distracted your father, ensuring he would be seated amongst the other nobles while you were steeling your nerves. All you had to do was don his armour, and everyone would be none the wiser.
Your heart rattled in its cage, a heavy anxiety pressing harshly against your lungs as you tried to steady your breathing, sweaty palms adjusting the grip you had on the lance. And despite this, you could not help the stupid grin on your face. No wonder men loved war — if this was simply a taste of the battlefield, you could find yourself becoming addicted to it. The thrill, the liveliness; blood rushing through your veins, your head clearer than it has ever been before.
You could only chase the feeling.
The horn blew, and you pressed your thighs firmly into the steed's sides, guiding the horse to charge. Hooves thundered against the dead grass of the listfield, and you gripped the tourney lance tightly, aiming it at your opponent's shield, the sigil of the tri-coloured Dragon glaring back at you — red, orange and gold. The only thing between you and Aerion was the wooden tilt barrier and space awaiting to be disturbed.
Your lance shattered, splintered through the center as he had deflected the blow with his own.
You scowled slightly — his lance did not break. He would be awarded points for being able to break yours. You returned to your side, gesturing for Mervyn to provide a new lance, biting your tongue so you would not speak. You could not speak, not now. You had to complete this and not be discovered.
Hands brushing against the steed's caparison, tracing over the Tully red and blue, following the embroidered leaping trouts, you took the lance from Mervyn's hand, guiding the horse to turn as you screwed your eyes shut. You could not hear anything. Just blood rushing and your racing heart.
You exhaled forcefully, and charged once more, gaze focused upon the dragonhead helm of your opponent, your lance aiming for his shield once more. At the last possible moment, you tilted the lance upwards, allowing it to crash against the protruding spikes. His own shattered against your shield.
You laughed sharply as the horse rounded the turn once more, the sound harsh and brittle, fueled by adrenaline while hearing Aerion bark out a curse behind you. You were ahead now; breaking a lance against your opponents helm was viewed more highly than anything he had done so far. You simply had to unhorse him now. Finish this before it could continue any further.
"Fucking Tully." You could hear him growl behind you, grabbing the replacement lance as you tried to silence your giggling, your shoulders trembling as you bit your lip, tasting copper as you struggled to suppress your giddiness. You already knew what the crowds were thinking, hearing chants of Tully.
He was losing to a squire. The Bright Prince, son of the Anvil, was losing to a mere squire — a boy who had never even participated in a joust, much less win one. The Dragon was losing to a Trout.
The truth however, was far more cruel and delectable.
He was losing to a Lady.
He was losing to you.
You could not suppress your grin, wild and unbridled, veiled by your helm, only your eyes shimmering through the gaps. There was a strange elation that flooded through you; the power of being able to see without being seen. To assume the identity of another and having the knowledge of your success, despite it being attributed to another. You were unlike the other knights, all fighting for honour and recognition. No, you were fighting to settle your heart. To finally quell the loathing that burned your mind.
To truly win against Aerion — receive the revenge that you had been yearning for.
And he would never know.
He would simply believe that he had lost to your younger brother, and perhaps that would be humiliation enough to deter him from ever interacting with you again. He would truly learn how brave a Tully of Riverrun could be. A pity that he would not know the truth, but it was for the best.
You would just have to be satisfied with besting him, despite no one else knowing.
Your chest heaved unheadily, greedily gasping in air as you readied yourself once more, your gaze skirting over the numerous faces of the smallfolk. Until you finally saw him. Brynden, his face mostly masked by the shadow of his hood, head low but he was watching you. You nodded twice at him, the movement quick as it was quickly disguised by the movement of the horse. But he had seen it and had understood the underlying message. You were to finish it, and Brynden would have to retreat to the tent and change into his twins armour so that he would be waiting for when his congratulations were to come.
Your attention returned to your opponent, violet glaring at you as you charged once more. You aimed your lance towards his shield, planning on shifting it at the last second like you had before.
But there was something strange.
His lance was aimed too low.
Too low to hit you, too low for a rightful victory. He was aiming for the neck of your horse. You snarled beneath your helm, fury biting its unyielding jaws into your psyche. Cruel, monstrous Aerion. How more ignoble could he be?
Was he so insulted by his own inadequacy that he intended to kill the horse? To perhaps injure your darling brother for life? He truly was pathetic.
The joy you had momentarily indulged in was torn away from you, dulled by an inexplicable sadness before being replaced by the ugly poltergeist of your loathing. He was no longer just a participant of the joust, no longer just an opponent — he evolved into something far more unforgettable. He was now a combatant, a hostile foe that you had to deal with.
The sound of hooves firmly planted against dry dirt filled your ears, exhaling sharply as you neared him once more, allowing him to believe that he was truly going to succeed. And perhaps if you were a knight, a lesser individual, he would have. But you kept your lance aimed towards his shield, shifting yourself upon the horse so that you were closer to the tilt barrier despite being slightly unstable, before striking it against his lance before it could touch the soft flesh of the horses neck. The wood splintered immediately upon impact, , and with the remaining lance you firmly gripped, you forcefully pushed at his chest plate.
The impact was unexpected, the edge of the exposed wood scraping against the panelled black steel of his armour, your full body weight pushing against it. He was unseated, his foot tangled amongst the saddling of the horse as it dragged him along the floor, his armour tearing at the dead grass beneath him as he struggled violently, his body writhing as he tried to release himself.
Despite the sight, you did not even smile. The glimmer in your eyes dying, just glaring at the pathetic Prince as a squire ran onto the arena, trying to calm the horse. You prayed the horse would kick its hind legs, let the Dragon suffer blows from both a horse and a Tully. But the gods were cruel, and your prayer went unanswered.
Instead the Dragon snarled at the squire to leave, struggling to his feet as he roared for his morningstar. Dark violet glinted at you beneath the visor of his helm, glaring as he watched you as you dismounted slowly, brushing a soft hand against your horse's neck as you steadied your breathing.
"Get me a trident." You whispered to Mervyn, his panicked eyes frantically flickering over you, his breathing shallow as he guided the horse away.
"This was not meant to happen." He hissed back once he returned, hands gripping the weapon you had requested. You did not bother giving him a response, just turning to face the Targaryen once more.
The cool metal seared against your sweaty palms, your mind racing as you weighed the possibilities. If you lost, all would be exposed — he would remove your helm and force you to yield. You would be punished for your deception, for attacking a Prince of the Blood while disguised. They would claim you had malintentions, that you were acting treasonously, And they would conclude that you were not acting alone, that your kin would have known of your plans, and that they would have aided. Not entirely false, but the truth would be manipulated into a grievous farce.
You could not afford to lose.
You would not lose.
You did not even flinch as the Master of the Games announced that the fight was to continue, now a contest of arms. Instead you steadied yourself, steeling your heart as you advanced towards Aerion, rolling your head slightly, the bones crackling under the motion.
He appeared larger now, the height no longer equalised by being seated upon horses. More menacing too, the dragon helm snarling at you as he prowled towards you, the spikes of his morningstar dragging across the ground, scraping at the dirt.
You whispered a prayer, a silent plea to any god that would listen, your heart clattering unsteadily as you gripped the trident with your dominant hand, twirling it to familiarise yourself with the weight.
Truth be told, you were more comfortable with a sword, the trident being Malger's preferred weapon.
The trident was not truly a weapon utilised in war — it posed too many risks. It was too specialised, its effectiveness relying upon the skill of its wielder. You would have to be fast; swift and agile while you tried to strike.
Your eldest brother would say that it was easier to defend with a trident, especially against weapons that you were not used to fighting with. You had never fought against a morningstar, the club-like weapon foreign to you. Your gaze remained stuck on its spikes, watching as Aerion swung it up, ready to strike you with it.
You gripped your shield tightly, raising it to meet Aerion's attack, the wood splintering slightly under the spikes, the weight of the shield trembling against your forearms. A grunt escaped you at the sudden impact, stumbling back as you tried to create distance as he swung once more, unrelenting in his attack.
You panted out harshly, eyes wild as you tried to look for a flaw amongst his defense, searching for somewhere to strike. Muscles straining, arms weak as you struggled to deflect him blows. You could hear a sharp laugh, the bitter sound mocking you as the situation dawned on you.
You were going to lose if you did nothing. You were going to lose because you were truly not thinking. Because you had forgotten who your opponent was.
He was not some fierce contender — he was simply a cruel, pathetic boy. The realisation repeated itself over and over in your head as you continued to raise your shield in defense, the mantra reminding you of what you had to do.
You had to beat the shit out of him.
Aerion continued to laugh, the sound choked through gasps of air as he raised the morningstar once more, intending to break your shield.
And you struck the trident at his wrist, the spears unceremoniously crashing against his gauntlets, his grip wavering, the weapon crumbling out of his hands as he hissed out a curse at the blooming pain. His arm had moved awkwardly, his shoulder snapping back under the sudden impact.
You did not allow him to recover, ensuring that he would remain distracted by the pain. You could not afford him gaining the opportunity to gather himself. Using your shield to roughly shoulder against him, the metal of his armour grinded against the splintered wood, pushing him away from his abandoned weapon.
He stumbled backwards, both hands gripping at his shield as he deflected at the jabs of your trident. You struck at his head, his chest, his arms, truly any part of him that entered your vision.
You twirled your weapon before swinging the hilt of your trident against his legs, his knees trembling at the blow. Yet he remained standing, trying to use his own shield to hit you as he retreated. The tri-prongs piercing against the wood of his shield, scratching at the painted dragon, defacing the gold.
Sweat trickled down your neck, catching onto the neckline of the linen tunic you wore beneath the armour. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but you ignored it, simply advancing your attack. You could not become distracted. You had to focus, think ahead.
Your head spun, dizzy with adrenaline and rushing blood as you dug your heels into the dirt, feigning left before dodging the way he tried to hit you with the edge of his shield. He stumbled slightly, expecting resistance only to find himself striking at emptiness. And you took this opportunity to pirouette, appearing behind him, trident and shield still in hand as you planted your foot firmly against the middle of his back, kicking strongly while he was still distracted.
Knees trembling, he fell face forward, helm crashing against the floor with a heavy thud, the impact disorienting him. You stabbed your trident at his arm, the prongs piercing into the dirt, barracading his arm between the space of the spikes. You knelt above him, one knee digging into his injured shoulder, smiling as he cried out in pain — the other knee remained planted against the floor, armour rattling as you adjusted your position, effectively trapping him. You discarded your shield; you had no more use for it.
He was unable to move, struggling against you as you grabbed at the spikes of his dragon helm, dragging it back, his neck snapping at the movement.
You did not utter a word, instead just lifted his visor so his face was exposed to the crowd of nobles. You could not see his face, could not see who he was looking at. But you could see them through the obstructed vision of your helm. Were his eyes even open? Could he see that they were all watching in awe as Brightflame was bested by a green squire?
You did not have to demand for him to yield, the words escaped his lips soon, a pathetic whimper as he realised that there was truly no escape.
"I yield."
You released a sigh at the declaration, knees weak as you rose clumsily, hand grasping at the trident that still held his arm hostage, wrenching it out of the ground.
Your heart had finally calmed.
A squire rushed onto the tiltyard, aiding the Prince as you retreated, relishing in the victory that vibrated through every fiber of your being. Your legs felt numb as they guided you swiftly through the tents, finally appearing before Brynden's.
"What took you so long?" He hissed out, watching as you collapsed onto a chair, filling a cup with cool water that you greedily drank. Poor Brynden was dressed in armour identical to yours, his twin's armour that did not witness a moment of fighting. He was practically vibrating with nerves, his heart thudding unsteadily as he feared being uncovered. You had discussed this before the joust; no matter what, he had to wear Mervyn's armour in case anyone else reached the tent before you. You would simply have to hide if that were the case, conceal the armour and retreat to the refuge of your own tent.
"You won." You grinned out, tone teasing, ripping the helm of your head as Mervyn rushed in, his head swivelling, darting between the entrance of the tent, and you, his darling sister that had bested the Dragon.
Mervyn began rattling on about everything that had occurred, his hands busy with untying you from the bindings of the armour he had secured before the joust as he spoke of how your victories, plural. Brynden copied his movements, removing your greave, and then the cuisse, and then moving onto the next leg to do the same. They had to be quick, it would only be a matter of time before your father and Delmar would be storming through the tent, sickened with joy as they would congratulate Brynden for his supposed victory.
All the armour was removed, revealing Mervyn's clothes that you had worn underneath, the linens baggy upon your figure. You grabbed at the cloak Brynden had worn amongst the smallfolk, the heavy fabric swallowing you whole, concealing your face as you snuck out of the tent.
The cool air nipped at your exposed face, shivering as you felt sweat trickle down your neck, the strands that had escaped your tight hairstyle slick against the moisture.
You would return to your tent, giddy at the silence as you removed your clothes, replacing them with a light cotton gown, feeling your body cool, the heat that coursed through your body subsiding as the truth finally settled in.
You had won.
And no one knew.
—
All anyone could talk about was Brynden's victory.
You would later learn that once the commotion of his victory subsided, he was dragged back out onto the tiltyard by your father. By this point, he was no longer wearing armour, he had managed to remove it before Medgar had entered the tent, being found holding the helm that had concealed your face.
The Lord of Riverrun clasped the shoulders of his young son, chortling with pride as he praised him for winning his first joust, against a Prince no less. Delmar beamed at his brother, unable to speak as he watched him with shock.
They would never know the truth, a mercy you forced the twins to oblige by.
Your father would guide Brynden back to the tiltyard as he was summoned by another Targaryen. The Hammer. And so Brynden would have knighthood bestowed upon him by the Heir Apparent, smiling sheepishly as guilt gnawed at his psyche.
He did not deserve the title, he would argue later with you. You would hiss at him, demand that he would be grateful for such an honour as the unsaid truth hung between you.
That should have been your knighthood.
But you would have never been able to receive it. The Realm would never be able to accept that a Lady could be as skilled as a man, that she could be as honourable as a man. Despite the fact that history sung stories of how time and time again women could also be skilled warriors, evidenced by Visenya the Conqueror (although that was a title seemingly reserved for her male counterpart), they would deny this fact. They would claim that the nature of women would never allow them to be worthy of the title of Knights.
It was why no woman sat upon the Iron Throne, despite there having been many opportunities — their claims were always refused in favour of a male's, despite it being weaker.
So now you sat in the main hall of Highgarden, sipping at the sickly saccharine Arbor gold offered, smiling as your father regaled about the way he had trained his children, trying to ignore a bruised Aerion that glared at you.
"From the moment they could walk." He emphasised, tongue loosened as he gushed to the men around him. Lord Tyrell had invited your family to dine with the royals, claiming that the new knighthood was cause to celebrate. "I would train them with wooden swords. Each of my children…"
His voice seemed to drone on, the two senior Targaryens nodding along, although you could tell that Prince Maekar had checked out of the conversation long ago, his eyes distant as he chewed on the roasted venison.
"You must be proud, My Lady." Valarr whispered lowly to you, seated right beside you as he cut through the red meat on his plate with ease. Your head instinctively tilted towards him, drawing closer so that you could hear him more clearly. "Your brother has brought your House honour."
Your smile widened slightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you responded. He did not even know the truth; no one did. It triggered a certain glee within you, to be able to get away with such a large lie.
"He truly has." You replied, your voice matching his, hushed as if it were a secret. "And I am certain that if you spoke to my Lord Father, he will tell you exactly how his victory came to be."
Your gaze flickered over to a flushing Brynden, who was being needled by the youngest of Maekar's children, Rhae and Aegon. They were investigating him, pestering him as they shot rapid questions about his supposed performance, how he had been trained, how he had managed to win against Aerion.
Your attention dragged to the other side of you, trying to involve yourself with the conversation Aster was having with Daella, but your replies were sparse, hesitant as your heart skipped as you became aware of being observed.
The eldest of the royal children, Daeron, was silent beside Aerion the entire time, his gaze fixed on you as if he were seeing something no one else could. And Aerion seemed to mirror his older brother, watching you unwaveringly, his glower mirroring the one upon his father's face. Except he was seething, fury flaring at the sight of you whispering with his cousin, sharing secrets and smiles.
Daeron interrupted his sister, who had been talking about Aster's exquisite embroidery, voice loud as he drew your attention back to him.
"A victory like that must truly feel like your own then, My Lady." Daeron commented, tone lazy, almost mocking. Despite that, there was something heavier unsaid, an insinuation that he should not have known the value of. You furrowed your brows slightly, forcing yourself to continue to smile as your mind raced, trying to think of an appropriate response. But he interrupted you before you could even say a word. "You must have been so excited witnessing such a scene."
"Unfortunately my daughter was ill." Medgar intervened, gaze hardening as he observed the three Princes that seemed to prowl around you. He was not blind, he could see how they were looking at you. How Daeron's words carried a strange tone, how Valarr whispered to you. The worst was how Aerion refused to look away from you, his gaze laying a claim on you, unwilling to speak. "But she will be able to witness the excitements of the next. Will you be joining the lists, My Prince?"
Daeron did not respond, scowling at how you were able to escape, sipping the wine. His father responded for him. Daeron was to fight. And there was no arguing against it.
But the Drunken continued to watch you, an unsettling feeling prickling along your skin as you refused to look at the sons of Maekar. The only truly normal one was Aegon, who was busy twittering to your brothers. No wonder the young Prince did not sit amongst his own, insisting to sit with yours instead. He was probably accustomed to their strangeness.
You sat up straight, your fork piercing into a boiled potato, watching as the prongs sank into the carbohydrate.
"Are you also a skilled fighter, My Prince?" You questioned, your gaze returning to challenge Daeron's. You forced your gaze not to waver, ensuring it to remain on the golden-haired Prince and not waver to his brother, who you could see was glaring at you from your peripheral. You smirked slightly, unable to look at Aerion as the sight of the purple bruise that bloomed against his high cheekbone elicited a surge of delight through you. Your own bruises had begun to deepen, littered across the body, mainly concentrated at your forearms when the vambrance had supported your shield to block his blows. You had favoured tight full-armed sleeves, ensuring that they would not be exposed. Aerion did not have the same privilege of hiding his bruises.
"Not as skilled as Aerion." He responded succinctly, offering you a tight-lipped smile as he gestured for his goblet to be refilled once more. This was his third goblet since you had seen him, the plate of food laying untouched as he indulged in the drink provided instead.
Not as skilled as you.
You hummed softly, offering your own smile in response as you bit into the potato you had speared. What excellent boiled potatoes, the flavour sweetened by your own joy. You would not allow these Targaryens to dim your glee, you would ignore their strange words and strange glances.
Valarr drew your attention once more, talking to you about the other jousts that had occurred, of a Lannister that challenged a Stark, and so on.
"I too will joust in the eve." He revealed, his fork sinking into a slice of venison. He hesitated for a moment, gaze flickering to yours, hopeful, almost reverent. "I hope that you will attend. If you no longer feel ill, of course."
"I do not." You replied, voice soft as the Prince nodded gently, your response encouraging him.
"Then…" He began, his throat suddenly dry as he met your unwavering gaze once more, flashing a shy smile as he continued. "Then would you allow me the honour of wearing your favour?"
Your smile dropped slightly, mind stalling as you did not expect those words to leave the silver-streaked Prince.
What in the Seven Hells?
You were unsure of what you had truly expected for him to say, but it had been anything but that. Perhaps you were more dull than you had believed. Your brows furrowed slightly, trying to think of a response (truly any response would do, anything to interrupt the sudden silence that fell on the table), gaze flickering between amber and lilac, trying to search for any hint of jest.
You found none.
"I would be honoured." You managed out, the words stumbling slightly, feeling blinded by the brilliance of his grin as he sighed softly, the fear of rejection finally evading him. Perhaps he is simply asking to be nice? Or as a friend?
But you were not that dimwitted to truly believe that that was the case. Favours were usually bestowed upon the victors of the competitions (something you had regretted not doing, but truly you had no time). You knew why men would ask for the favours of ladies before the joust.
It was an offer of courtship.
And you had accepted.
—
The silence of your tent threatened to consume you.
The only sound was your shallow breathing as you paced across the expanse of your tent, the base of your palms pressed firmly into the sockets of your eyes, small stars dancing along the darkness that obscured your vision.
Fuck.
You were meant to avoid the Targaryens, not court one. How in the Seven Hells did this even occur? What had you done to provide the illusion of even wanting to be courted?
You tried to calm your breathing, steady the sharp gasps that expelled out of your lungs — it was not the worst thing to occur to a person. Being sought after was a compliment, and by a Prince no less.
But you did not want this.
You were greedy and selfish and cruel, and what you wanted was something that you could never have. Something Valarr could never give you. You wanted more.
Perhaps you would have accepted it more willingly if you had never participated in the tourney, if you had never tasted the thrill of victory. But you had, and now the offer of courtship tasted bitter upon your tongue, an unrelenting reminder that you were just a Lady.
People would simply believe that you had one victory, that you had won over the Targaryen Prince with your pleasing smiles and shy words. But this was a victory that held no value to you. Not when you had truly bested a Prince that day, felt him submit beneath you, won on a field forbidden to you.
So you schemed. You could make this situation positive, you simply had to think ahead.
Princes courted ladies often, yet not all courtships ended in betrothals. You would simply have to ensure that neither would this one. You did not know what Valarr had liked about you, every time you had spoken to him, you had lied to the Prince. But you knew that once he saw you for what you truly was his adoration would vanish, disillusioned to all your flaws.
You could still win. No one cared over a failed courtship, rather this would simply increase the amount of betrothals you would receive, in turn allowing you to choose who you would wed. Your Lord Father would be disappointed when the courtship would fail, but perhaps he will be happy if you wed soon after.
Despite trying to dissect the situation for its advantages, your heart remained heavy, the joy you had been experiencing extinguished as you came to the realisation that this was the only was you could make your father proud. Your brothers brought him honour on the battlefield, sword in hand, while you could only bring him honour by wedding well, spilling blood in childbirth.
Was this your next battle? To convince yourself that you could be satisfied with the prospect of marriage?
And that was how Aerion found you, half agony, half hope, pacing in your tent.
He remained silent, prowling through the entrance, steps light as he remained unnoticed.
You did not notice the sudden gust of cold air, did not notice the heavy gaze that followed you, did not notice the presence of another.
Until you shivered. Your spine steeling as you halted, listening to the whispering of the wind that whipped against the side of your tent, the fabric rustling as you sighed out a curse, fingers brushing against your skirts. You smoothed the silks once, twice, a self-soothing act as you finally turned.
You gasped lightly, a sharp inhale of cold air burning your lungs as you grasped at your heart, feeling it jolt in its cage while you suppressed the urge to flinch, finally noticing the Bright Prince.
"Prince Aerion." You stumbled out, your gaze flickering to the entrance of the tent, wishing that he had simply entered the wrong tent. He had not. You finally allowed yourself to look at his face, to memorise the sharp lines, the bruises that marred his unblemished skin. He looked tired, like his mind was haunted by the events of the joust, continuously turning them over and over in his head.
He shuddered at the sound of his name, but did not respond to it. He did not return your greeting either, slowly advancing towards you. Sandolwood and ash, the familiar scent swirling around you as he crept closer.
"Ruined Rabble." Aerion suddenly stated, violet eyes baring into your soul as he gauged your reaction
"Pardon?" You questioned, despite having heard his words as clear as day. You swallowed harshly, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to show no sign of weakness. The last time you had interacted with Valarr, it had displeased the silver-haired prince greatly, resulting in impulsive strikes and stolen kisses.
What would he do now that you had not obeyed him? That you had not denied Valarr, but rather accepted his courtship?
Aerion continued swiftly, inching closer, his fingers twisting your garnet ring that laid upon his pinky finger. "That is the move you enjoy performing in cyvasse, is it not? A signature of sorts?"
"I suppose…" Your voice betraying a sense of nervousness as you backed away from the Prince, suddenly feeling trapped in your tent.
"I had questioned my uncle on the move, see he enjoys playing cyvasse, you must play with him one time."
"If that is what the Hand wishes"
He ignored your words. "He explained it very well. The art of laying a trap. Of decoys and deflections, setting bait."
You could not respond, your mind reeling as he closed the distance between you. You could not escape. There was no escape.
"The issue is, My Lady." The title laced with derision, leaning in as he grabbed your jaw. "You cannot trap a dragon."
"I am afraid I do not understand your meaning." You felt your jaw tremble slightly as you spoke, your words weak as it failed to carry the weight of your lie.
"Do not act dimwitted, My Lady Rivers, I enjoy your cleverness. It was you who I fought, not your brother." His words were casually cruel, hiding his adoration as he continued to interrogate you.
Your forced a laugh. "Surely you jest, My Prince. How could it have been me?"
He watched you quietly, unsure of how to answer, before pulling up your sleeve, revealing the early stages of a bruise, the skin darkening. "Explain your injury."
"I am terribly clumsy, My Prince. I had fallen." You lied, ripping your arm out of his grasp.
"A simple fall caused this great of an injury?"
"A bruise is not a great injury." You replied, forcing your features to remain neutral. You had to think, you had to escape. "Unless this farce is regarding the injury to your pride."
"My pride?" He hissed out, eyes narrowing, his breath hitting against your face as you forced yourself to glare back.
"Is that not what this is about? I did not deny your cousin, and I do not intend to do so either." You murmured, voice low and cutting as your blood rushed once more, your mind clearing as adrenaline guided you. "Is that why you accuse me of performing such deception?"
"You witch." He growled out, his hand snapping out to grasp at your forearm, his fingers digging into the bruises hidden by your sleeves. A soft pained moan escaped your lips as you struggled to conceal your wince. "This is deceit, your wicked tongue lying so easily? You truly believe that he is worthy of you?"
You glared at him, your irises darkening with detest and an emotion you were horrified by, chest heaving as you allowed your free hand to cradle his jaw. His eyes immediately screwed shut, his cheek pressing into your hand as if he were committing the touch to his memory.
"What does it matter?" You whispered, thumb caressing his silken skin, before pressing it firmly into the bruise upon his face. He flinched, sharply inhaling, yet he did not move.
"He does not see you." Aerion replied, his hands travelling to your waist, trembling fingers brushing against the silk, movements reverent as if worshipping at an altar. "He only views the beauty and grace, only what you allow him to see. But I see you. I know you better than you know yourself. Your soul is mine, and mine is yours. Do not delude yourself into believing that you could ever be his."
You frowned slightly, brows furrowing as you took him in. He was weaker than you had expected. You had to give him credit, you did not expect him to deduce that it was truly you at the joust, but he abandoned his accusation so quickly once you insulted his ego.
"You have known me less than sennight, you do not know me." You responded, tone disappointed as you withdrew your hand, prepared to retreat, to abandon him to remain with confessions that would linger unanswered.
His hand quickly covered yours, fingers curling around yours, the gold of your ring searing into your hand as he pressed it firmly to his face, ensuring it would not leave. He pressed a kiss to the palm, fingers brushing against where your pulse raced, the quick pace soothing him.
"I know that you are more like me than you would ever admit." He whispered, pulling you closer, the grip on your waist tightening infinitesimally. Your chest brushed against his, chaimail dragging across silk, the space between you disturbed. "And that you are my better."
The words hung in the small space between you, your gaze flickering between his darkened violet irises, trying to discern whether he was lying, whether he was trying to manipulate you. You did not find what you were looking for. Instead you found something that terrified you.
Complete, utter devotion. A gentleness that was uncharacteristic to the cruel prince (perhaps you had struck him too hard within the combat of arms, scrambling his wits, you tried to justify).
"And if I deny you?" You questioned, the words hesitant as you became aware of his touch, how close he was to you, sharing the air between your faces.
His lips curled slightly, stuck between amusement and fear, a wounded look flashing through his eyes, fingers flexing against the warmth of your waist as his head dipped low, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. Chamomile and lavender. The familiar scent soothing him.
"Then I would simply have to follow you until you deemed me worthy." He finally answered, the words hesitant, unsure, as if he feared that you would push him away, reject his request.
Your thumb brushed against the softness of his lips, tracing over the healed skin, his breath stuttering at the gentle action. Your eyes were glimmering.
Guiding his head, you captured his lips, revelling in the hungry growl that escaped him as he gripped at you. You swallowed his muted whimpers, nipping at the softness of his lips as he sounded as if you soothed a pain that hauntedhim.
His lips continued to chase yours as you departed, gasping for air as they travelled along your neck, determined to place bruises not gained through combat. Your fingers tugged at the soft silver strands at his nape, grinning stupidly as he kissed you.
During Valarr's joust, Aerion would grin upon the stands, stealing glances at where you were seated. Aegon would be disturbed by his brother's happiness, unsure of what the root of such strange behaviour was.
But Daeron knew. He had dreamt it. He had seen you in his dreams defeating a golden dragon, had seen you with the sigil of fire smeared with blood upon your forehead, your lip and palm cut open with dragonglass.
But he allowed his brother to indulge in his happiness, glee at his victory.
summary: an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection.
contents: 18+ minors DNI fm reader, no use of y/n, power imbalance (nurse reader/attending ortho surgeon), unspecified age gap, mentions of head trauma/concussions/medical procedures, jack abbot using pet names, swearing, drinking, oral (f/m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, reader has a praise kink, use of the pet name ‘bunny’, slight choking, reader is fairly nondescript besides mentions of having long-ish hair. nasty and self indulgent bc i need that big mean man!!
wc: 7.6k
dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼
a/n— this is not yet proofread, please excuse any typos pls!
You were almost certain this wasn’t the right hallway.
Realization crept in somewhere between the identical looking beige walls and the third “Authorized Personnel Only” sign you’d passed in the last two minutes. Everything looked the same. Same floors, same lights. Directional signs all ran together, and suddenly your head was spinning.
You’d been working at PTMC for right at a year, but venturing out of the ED was rare. Each time you had to do it ended up the same— an extra ten minutes added onto whatever trip you were taking because you got lost. You were far more familiar with small, rural hospitals.
Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest with every hurried step, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek. A familiar nervous habit. It didn’t help that it was nearing four in the morning and the familar buzz of caffeine in your system from the energy drink you’d chugged thirty minutes prior had you moving a little faster than normal. You were jittery and starting to panic a little and oh! Familar double doors came into view and you immediately thanked your lucky stars you hadn’t had to ask anyone for help to get back to the ED, shoulders dropping as you visibly relaxed.
Picking up your pace, you nervously tugged at your badge reel. Surely Abbot was about to send out a search party for you if you didn’t return in the next five minutes.
Hurrying through the wooden double doors, you turned down yet another corridor, finally familiar with where you were. Your eyes fell to your feet for just a moment. Only one more door until—
WHAM!
You’d been walking too fast to hear the click of the handle, or register the large stairwell door swinging open.
You only feel the sudden, stinging impact of metal meeting your head, followed by a delightfully ungraceful stumble backward that somehow manages to be both dramatic and deeply humiliating. You’re on your ass in less than a second, your right hand flying to your face as a string of profanities spew from your chapped lips.
“Jesus Christ.” A familar voice mumbles, and then he’s on his knees next to you, tugging to pull your hand away from your face to check for bleeding. “You alright?” He asks, voice tense. Park.
Certainly there were other people you’d have rather hit you with a large metal door than him. But it wasn’t everyday that something brought the six-foot-something ortho surgeon to his knees.
You blink hard, trying to orient yourself through the pain, your ears suddenly ringing. “Do I look alright?” You hiss, snatching your wrist from him, hot tears suddenly threatening to fall. You manage to meet his eyes, his expression emotionless as usual. Lacking any visible concern or regret.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, actually.” He replies sarcastically, gripping a shoulder to steady you as you sway a little. And admittedly, you are a little more dizzy than you’d like to be because this could definitely be a concussion or intracranial hemorrhage or—
“Hey.” Park’s voice cuts through your racing internal monologue and fuck you’re annoyed. He’s painfully aware of the panic in your squinted eyes and the way you’re growing paler, cheeks burning red from embarrassment. “Can you stand up? You need to get checked out.”
“Yes, I can stand up.” The words come out harsher than you mean them to, and as big and bad as you sound, your actions unfortunately don’t hold their end of the bargain. You’re slow to fully stand, clumsily swaying as you smack a hand against the wall for leverage. And there’s the nausea.
“Alright, up you go.” Park huffs, sweeping you into his arms in a quick motion, surprisingly not earning any protest from you— only a pained sound. “Don’t even think about vomiting on me.” He says quickly, carrying you with ease through the short corridor until a door opens and you’re met with the familiar sounds of the ED.
You slump against his broad chest, the beaming fluorescent lights only making you feel sicker. That and the strong smell of antiseptic.
Park is desensitized to the looks of fear he usually gets when he marches into the ED for a consult. But these— the ones he receives when he enters with a nurse in his arms.. were very different.
“What the fuck?” Abbot calls, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he rushes over to Park. “What happened?”
“She walked into the door I was opening— smacked her head pretty hard.” Park grumbles, clearly unamused. He’s still cradling you, his expression almost cracking when you sniffle, clearly in a lot of pain.
“What the hell, hun?” Abbot taps your leg but you avoid his eyes, stuck somewhere between pure embarrassment and searing pain. “Let’s get her to a room.”
So, Park follows, avoiding the many eyes on him as he carries you with ease through the bustling ED.
As soon as you’re sat on the stretcher, you whine. “I feel sick.”
“Okay, okay.” Jack’s voice is soothing as he reaches for a emesis bag, handing it to you quickly before he snaps a pair of gloves on. Your heavy eyes meet his own as he leans over you, fingers prodding at the growing bump on your forehead. “She lose consciousness?” He asks Park who’s leaned against a nearby wall looking annoyingly nonchalant as he mumbles a quick ‘nope’.
Jack reaches for his penlight, retrieving it from his shirt pocket in a quick motion. “Let’s see those eyes, sweets.” The nickname settles deep in your stomach, nearly making you smile a little. You wince at the bright light, following his instruction as he raises a finger and urges you to follow it with your eyes. He shakes his head after, dropping the light back into his pocket as he looks at you. “Pupils are a little sluggish. I don’t like that.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you a head CT, yeah? Make sure nothing is happening that we can’t see.”
You groan, letting your head fall back onto the stretcher, and regretting it immediately when pain shoots through your skull.
“I’m gonna handle this consult real quick.” Park speaks up, starting for the door. “Let me know how she does.”
Jack nods, sitting on the edge of the stretcher as the monotone surgeon exits the room. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Park is gone, then back at you with a goofy look on his face.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see him walk into my ED with one of my nurses in his arms.” Jack chuckles, and you muster a weak laugh that turns into more of a whimper.
“I hate him.”
Jack smiles. “He means well. And I don’t think you hate him.. You don’t look at him like you hate him...”
“Jack, don’t.” You huff. “He seemed more inconvenienced than worried.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just Park.” Jack pats your shoulder, sympathetic.
The next few hours blur together. Between the steady pounding in your head and the way you keep replaying the painfully embarrassing accident in your head, it’s hard to focus on anything. It’s nearing shift change when your head CT results finally return, and thankfully Abbot says you’re all clear. No fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. Just a gnarly bruise forming on the right side of your forehead— and on your ego too, probably.
All is well for a while. You’re accepting the day off tomorrow that Jack mentions you’ll have out of precaution. The embarrassment eventually starts to ease, along with the pain. You’re waiting to be discharged, curled up on the stretcher when you hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. You almost flinch because you know it’s Park. It’s almost as if he sensed your moment of peace and had set out determined to ruin it.
You meet his eyes, and when he doesn’t talk you give him a look that says ‘I’m waiting’..
He steps closer, letting the door close. “CT clear?”
“Yeah.” You mutter, turning towards him a little. “Thankfully you didn’t give me a brain bleed.”
You notice the way his jaw clenches. “I could’ve left you on the floor you know. Walked away.” He seethes. “I’m not responsible for you not watching where you’re going.”
Rolling your eyes, you fake a smile. “Thank you for saving me in my time of need Dr. Park.”
“Everytime I’ve seen you down here you’ve always been so cheerful. Interesting to see your true colors now.” He nods, returning the sarcastic smile. And you think it’s the first time you’ve seen any sort of expression besides a blank stare from him.
You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just having a bad night.”
“And you’re taking it out on me?” He asks, leaning up against the wall.
“Coming from the person who is constantly a dick during consults.” You retort.
Thankfully, Abbot entering the room ends your playful pissing match. He’s holding a few papers, and raises a brow at the sight of the two of you clearly having some sort of moment. “Right— you ready to go?”
You start to slowly sit up. “Dying to.”
“Well, you two be safe and I’ll be texting you to check in.” Jack says, pointing a finger at you.
You blink. “You two?”
“Park is taking you home right? He offered.” Jack smiles a little. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you drive with a possible concussion, sweets.”
Something bubbles up in your chest. It’s not anger, but rather something you can’t exactly put your finger on. You close your eyes for a second, looking up at Park next with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “You were too busy fussing at me— I didn’t get the chance to mention it.”
“I can take an uber.” You protest, shaking your head.
“Let me take you home.” He sounds annoyed, but then again— that seems to be his normal. “It’s the least I can do since apparently I intentionally hit you with the door, right?”
And you unfortunately laugh a little at that. The sound eats Park alive, and he’s suddenly mentally cursing himself at the feeling. He’d always seen you. Noticed you more than the other nurses or residents. Not only were you clearly quite a bit younger than him, but you were bubbly— a stark contrast to himself. You seemed fearless, and maybe that alone intrigued him a little. Though, having only spoken to you a handful of times, he didn’t truly know you. And he didn’t expect that to change.
So, at the sight of you climbing into his SUV, he’s interested. Observant. You take in your surroundings, straight faced as your eyes rake over the spotless interior of his Porsche Cayenne. He hands you his phone without a word, clearly wanting you to put in your address.
You glance at him after, smiling a little when you hand it back to him. “This is somehow exactly what I pictured you driving.”
“Yeah?” He looks both ways as he turns a corner in the parking garage.
“Mhm.” You hum, eyeing his side profile before you turn your gaze forward.
“How are you feeling now?” He eyes you for a second next, and you’re genuinely surprised the typically cold surgeon is making small talk. You’d pictured a silent drive, uncomfortable even. But then again, he was probably just asking questions out of pity.
“Better.” You confirm, voice soft. “Head still hurts a little but that’s to be expected I guess.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you weren’t paying attention and I opened the door fast.” Park says, and is he smirking a little?
You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re such an ass.”
“So they say.” He half-smiles, long fingers moving to flip the turn signal. Your eyes shamelessly rake along his hands. His livelihood. Large and thick. Prominent veins on top. You blink, averting your eyes back to the road yet again and leaning your head on the headrest.
“Thank you for driving me.” You speak up, following a few moments of silence, your apartment building coming into view.
“Where should I park?” He asks, slowing the car. Your hands are busy gathering your belongings, and you don’t even look his way when you mutter “You can just stop at the front, I’ll get out there.”
“Where should I park for a few hours, genius.” He corrects, meeting your eyes.
You shoot him a confused look. “Hours?”
“I’m not leaving you alone with a concussion.”
“Possible concussion.” You correct, just wanting to be in your bed already. “I probably don’t even have one and I’m fine. You don’t have to stay. Plus I have very nosey roommates.”
“Abbot told me not to leave you alone.” Park stares at you blankly, convinced he’s going to win this. He’s pulled the car to the curb now, one hand still on the steering wheel.
Fucking Jack Abbot— he absolutely did this shit on purpose.
You sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”
“Either you let me stay, or you go pack a bag and you come stay with me.” He commands, and you’re about to bust a fucking blood vessel.
“Okay, okay.” You huff. “You can’t stay here. We don’t have an extra bed and someone’s crashing on our couch for the weekend.”
“So go pack a bag.” He says simply, shooing you. “Do I need to walk you up?”
“I’ve got it.” You grumble, carefully climbing out of the car and hoisting your bag over your shoulder, trying not to slam the door even though you’d love to right now.
It isn’t until you’re in the elevator that you fish your phone from your pocket, cursing into the empty space as you type a message to none other than Abbot.
You: Why did you tell this man not to let me stay alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HATE YOUUUU
He replies almost immediately.
Jack: Well that’s easy. Because you don’t need to stay alone 🙂
You: I think I’m gonna block you 🤭
Jack: Have fun sweets!
It was well past seven in the morning now, and closing in on seventeen hours that you’d been awake. Not to mention the head trauma. You had minimal energy left and you weren’t gonna spend it arguing with Park. You’d get a few hours of sleep and then he’d take you to pick up your car. It seemed manageable.
And so, you watched with sleepy eyes a half hour later as his black SUV pulled into the driveway of a large brick house, nestled in a quaint neighborhood outside of the city. You could tell he was just as tired, both of you silent as he parked in the garage.
You followed him in without a word, watching him toss his keys in a nearby basket. His home was modern, but cozy. Exquisitely neat. Nothing looked out of place. It even smelled clean. You glanced around, impressed.
“I’ll show you the guest bedroom.” Park said lowly, words laced with exhaustion.
You nodded simply, following him up a flight of stairs.
“Bathroom is here.” He pointed, still walking. “There’s clean towels on the rack and some of my sister’s products in the cabinet you can use if you want or need to. Spare toothbrush in the drawer— Oh, and Tylenol too. If you need anything else just let me know. And if you don’t feel good, call me.” As he finishes, he swings open the door to a large spare room.
“Thank you.” You smile politely, offering him a small nod.
He acknowledges you with a hum, heading down the hallway, itching to get out of his scrubs.
You decide on a quick shower, hoping the steaming water will relax your aching muscles. And then, you’re crawling into cool linen sheets, sighing at the feeling of the soft mattress. It’s not your bed, but boy is it doing the job. Such a good job in fact, that you don’t even recall drifting off.
When you come to hours later, the sound of distant thunder greets you, gloomy skies allowing a slight darkness to fall over the room, rain tapping softly against a nearby window. Then, you smell coffee. You stretch a little, wincing when your forehead brushes against the pillow, a reminder of what you’re sure has turned into a nasty bruise. Your bare feet meet the cool hardwood as you stand up, tugging on some leggings before heading to the bathroom.
Crossing the hallway, you immediately head for a mirror, and audibly groan when you flick the light on and catch a glimpse of your head. Bruised indeed. A nasty purple and yellow bruise at that, one that thankfully wasn’t too large but was absolutely noticeable. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you begin to pad down the stairs. And there was Park, looking much more presentable than yourself, on the couch with some sort of medical journal because ofcourse he reads those. A pair of dark glasses perched on his perfect nose. He looked edible. So painfully domestic.
You can’t help the nervousness that blooms in you when he looks up, eyes following you as you walk towards the opposite end of the sectional he’s seated on.
“Sleep good?” He asks, eyes locking onto your bruise.
“Feel like I just woke up from a coma.” You chuckle. “So yeah.”
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He inquires next, sitting his book down.
“No, Dr. Park.” You hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel fine. Just sore.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, moving to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna cook dinner. You okay with pasta?”
You just look at him for a moment. “And when are you going to take my back to my car?”
“It’s about to storm pretty heavy. Staying another hour or two won’t kill you, you know?” He looks back before he disappears into the kitchen. You huff, moving to follow him.
“I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” You say as you breach the doorway, voice wary. His kitchen is beautiful, one you could only dream of cooking in. Gorgeous marble countertops and dark cabinets. Sparkling appliances.
He plants his large hands on the kitchen counter, looking at you with that look he frequently sports at the hospital. One that typically strikes fear in people. “You are not overstaying your welcome, nor are you bothering me in any way. So can you let me be nice to you?”
You nearly physically recoil. “Not used to you being nice, but I guess I’ll take it.”
He nearly smiles a little at your reply, eyes softening. You can’t help the way your eyes float along his sharp features, then along the broad expanse of his clothed back when he turns toward the refrigerator.
“Glass of wine?” He offers.
“Will that help my alleged concussion?”
You hear him chuckle as he retrieves two crystal stemless wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “You claim you don’t have one, so why do you ask?”
Darn him for being just as much of a smartass as you are and darn you for enjoying it.
You bite at your lip a little, fighting a smile as you watch him place a glass of red wine before you. Settling onto a barstool, you pull the glass closer, humming a quick ‘thank you’.
“You cook often?” And now you’re the one fueling the small talk.
“I try to.” He says, shuffling around to gather ingredients from the fridge, then a pan and some utensils. “It’s one of the few things that keep me sane.”
You laugh a little, taking a swig of the wine, playfully swirling the glass afterward. “And what are the others?”
“Mmm, the gym.” He starts. “Running. Reading. Hitting people with doors…”
And you’re giggling, the sound making something twist deep inside him. He switches on the stove, turning to lean on the counter and watch you afterward. He drinks you in. Your slightly messy hair that dances along your shoulders. Oversized teeshirt, clearly worn for sleep only. Gnarly bruise on your forehead that somehow you make look good. It’s different here. Out of scrubs. Out of a bustling hospital. He’s never gotten the chance to truly look at you, and he’s starting to hate the way you fit in so effortlessly in his kitchen. In his house.
“I like seeing you like this.” You admit sheepishly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Almost as if you’d read his mind.
He blinks, crossing his arms. “Like what?”
“Not so mean.” You chuckle. “Relaxed. Making jokes. Trying not to smile even though you want to.”
“Maybe I like everyone thinking I’m mean.” He teases in return.
You lick your lips after taking another swig, and he can’t help but notice. “Seems like you’re just misunderstood.”
Park shrugs, smiling a little as he turns back to the stove, trying to silently convince himself that you aren’t having any effect on him. Because fuck, you’re cute. You’re clever and funny and so easy to talk to.
You keep talking, feeding your want to know more about the mysterious surgeon. And it doesn’t stop there. The conversation flows through dinner and beyond. When you’re watching him wash dishes (ones he wouldn’t let you help with because you’re a guest..) and when you take to the couch afterward. When he learns you’re afraid of storms because you jump at a crack of thunder, despite how loose you feel from the wine.
Before you know it, it’s totally dark outside and you’re still talking. The bottle of wine is long gone, and you’re purely giddy. It had been too long since you’d opened up to someone the way you did with him. Your roommates weren’t much for talking, usually retreating to their rooms as soon as they arrrived. To be fair, you’d met them in a ‘searching for Pittsburgh roommates’ group on Facebook and nobody bothered to really get to know each other. You’d spent so much time alone recently that you were shocked how euphoric it felt to simply hang out with someone. Park the Shark of all people, at that. The two of you were an unlikely combo, yet surprisingly had a lot in common.
Once you’d covered work, college, family, siblings, hobbies, etcetera— you retreat to the bathroom, slightly buzzed and accepting the fact that Park hadn’t mentioned anything else about taking you home. Likely due to the storm and he obviously wasn’t going to drink and drive now.
So, when you return to the living room to all the lights dimmed and the sounds of hockey flowing from the tv, you sit closer to him without a second thought. After all, your view was better there— or atleast you told yourself that. He doesn’t mention it, but he notices the way you’ve inched closer, sprawled out next to him now, reaching for a nearby throw blanket.
And for the first time in a while, he’s truly content.
Content enough to fall asleep apparently. The long hours of shift work that frequently rotate are a pain, and Park has mastered the art of falling asleep just about anywhere. But he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep infront of the tv. When he opens his eyes he starts to stretch, mind in a sleepy haze. The TV is still playing Pens highlights, even though the game is long over. Rain is still falling outside. And you— you’re curled up next to him, head resting on his leg. Chest rising and falling every few seconds, mouth partially open. He blinks, just watching you for a moment, reaching a hand out without thinking to push some hair from your face. That alone makes you stir. You’ve always been a light sleeper.
You twitch, breathing in as your eyes blink open. It registers quickly, the way your head is resting on the soft material of his sweatpants. Sucking in a breath, you move to start sitting up, hand flying to where your head is aching. Likely from where you’d been laying on your bruise.
“You okay?” Park asks, sitting up and adjusting his shirt.
“Yeah.” You breathe. “Sorry, I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“Stop apologizing.” He chastises. “I don’t either.”
Tapping at his phone, his eyes are met with the time. 1:47.
“Want to get in bed?” He doesn’t mean the way it sounds like an invitation.
You rub your legs together, still cozy beneath the blanket. “I’m comfy.” You groan. It’s a weak protest, but not a lie. You can’t help the way you shamelessly itch to lean back into him, and for once you don’t fight yourself. Without a word he lifts his arm, accepting your presence as you curl into his side. He kicks his feet up and leans his head back, something happening in his chest at the feel of you pressed against him. Fuck.
Letting out a long relaxed breath, you look up at him, eyes meeting his jawline and neck, then locking with his own when he moves to look down at you. Your stomach flips, heat ripping through you at the proximity of his face to yours. Then his eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know. You know he wants to kiss you. Everything feels heavier, especially the way his hand rests on your back, fingers starting to trace over the soft fabric of your teeshirt.
Neither of you dare speak a word, eyes saying everything that needs to be said. Park watches your tongue peek out to wet your lips, and he immediately starts to move in, giving you ample time to pull away even though he’s sure you won’t. And when you grab at his shirt, moving in a little yourself, he seals the deal.
Your lips meet, pressing firmly together, neither of you in any rush. Just taking in the feeling. Inching closer, you don’t dare pull away. His hand moves to slide against your jaw, holding firm as your lips leisurely move with his. When his tongue slides against yours you can’t help the way your thighs press together. You let out a small whine into his mouth, one that does not go unnoticed. Infact, the oh so pretty sound starts playing on a loop in Park’s head and he’s a goner.
He hadn’t dreamt of stopping until you moved to climb into his lap. Raising a hand, he pulls back to look at you.
“We shouldn’t.” He says softly, his rational side taking over.
But then, you’re pressing a kiss to his jaw. Then another. One leg sliding along his lap as you climb onto him.
“But do you want to?” You breathe.
He swallows. “You know I want to.”
“So yeah, we probably shouldn’t— but what if we want to?” You say softly, pressing yet another feather soft kiss to the spot right blow his ear. He groans a little, moving a hand to gently grab at the back of your neck and pull your lips back to his.
The way you move together is effortless, but growing increasingly messy. Teeth starting to clash. Tongues fighting. And when you roll your hips against his, the noise he lets out against your lips is sinful. Breaking apart, he runs his hands through the hair on the side of your head.
“You’re trouble.” His voice is deep, taunting. “Grinding against me all needy, huh?” Lips dancing along your ear as he speaks. Chills roll over you, heart fluttering. You move your hips against his lap again, relishing in the way his hands fly to your sides, your lips meeting yet again. The feeling of him hard beneath you only spurs you on, whimpering into his mouth when your clothed core slides directly over the length of him through his sweats.
“Shit.” He spits, deep voice floating around you. “You’re determined, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna torture you a little.” You purr, forehead pressing to his, careful to avoid your bruise. “As payback.”
“This isn’t the same kind of pain, baby.” He chuckles. “You should be focused on your head injury, not me.”
“Can you stop being responsible Park for twenty minutes?” You look at him, that sweet little smile doing a number on him.
“Which Park do you want right now then?” He teases, shifting beneath you, painfully hard.
“The one that fucks me.”
He’s nearly choking at your words, tangling his hand in your hair and yanking your head back in response. “Used to getting what you want, aren’t you? Stubborn little fucking brat.”
You mewl at his harsh words, eyes fluttering when he drags his teeth along your throat, hot lips leaving wet kisses along the sensitive skin. He’s so much stronger and bigger, hands ghosting wherever they touch, keeping you right where he wants you. Watching you as you helplessly grind over him again. He grips your hair tighter. “Use your words or we’re done here.”
“Want you, please.”
“Want me how?”
You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. “Want you to touch me.”
“M’ already touching you, baby.” He reminds you, so fucking annoying.
You grunt, frustrated, and he releases his tight grip on your hair. Returning to his waiting gaze, your eyes are soft, lips plush and swollen from his kiss. “Want you to make me cum.” You say next, voice timid. “Please.”
He pushes some hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” His tone is laced with faux pity, almost mocking. Hips steady as you continue to rock against him, your breaths unsteady.
“I think you can cum like this.” He counters, grip tight on your waist. Neither of you had yet to shed any clothing, and you didn’t mind. He was right, the friction was delicious. “Think you can, baby? Think you can cum from rubbing that pussy against me?”
You clench around nothing, heat bubbling in your chest as you whine. “Just want you.” And you’re begging so pretty, calm little voice filling his ears, thick with want. Before you can form a coherent thought, you’re being lifted. Park’s hands cradle the underside of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around him as he starts to venture toward the stairs. Your arms snake around his neck, giggling a little as he stumbles around a table.
Moments later when you’re being gently sat on the edge of his bed, you can’t help but glance around at his room. Neat and spacious. Black out curtains. Dark comforter beneath you. It’s so him. His familiar scent dances around you, your eyes floating up to watch him yank at his shirt.
“Lay back.” He instructs with ease, so used to being in charge. Spitting commands and watching everyone obey. You want to playfully object just to see where it gets you, but you listen instead, and his long fingers are gripping at the waistband of your leggings. He makes quick work of dragging them off, sighing in defeat at the sight of your simple grey panties, the obvious dark patch of wetness on the crotch mocking him.
“You wet from just a little teasing, bunny?” Between the tone of his voice and the pet name that came out of nowhere, you think you might actually pass out. He taps at your knee, urging you to spread your legs. Warm hands slide along your thighs and you watch him settle onto his knees on the floor, yanking you with ease until your ass is right at the edge of his bed. The look in his eyes is sharp enough to kill, eyes cloudy with pure lust. Jaw tight in concentration as he runs a finger along the damp crotch of your panties. You hiss and whine at the contact, hips raising to chase his touch.
“Please.” You whimper, begging. “Want your mouth.”
“There she is.” He praises, satisfied with your communication. It takes no further persuasion, and he’s working to drag your panties down your legs, revealing you to him fully.
“Fucking perfect pussy.” He growls, pressing a kiss to your pubic bone. “Pretty little thing. You’re so pretty.”
“Park.” You plea, barely able to stay up on your elbows to watch his motions. Body weak with need.
“Brendon.” He corrects immediately, hot tongue flattening to lick a thick stripe up your pussy, and your head falls back. The sound that leaves you goes straight to his cock. So do the ones after it. He’s skilled in more ways than one, clearly. Experienced. You’re blissed out from his mouth alone, fingers gripping at the comforter beneath you. He watches your every movement, working with delicate precision, and it’s been so long that you’re embarrassingly close already. He can sense it by your breathing and movements, deciding to push his middle finger into you with ease. One finger shortly turns into two and your mouth is hanging open, eyes closed. When you start to squirm, he holds you down by your waist, mouth still working and two fingers plunging deep, curling up to hit the spot that nearly has you in tears.
“Ohmygodddd.” You mewl, reaching to claw at his forearm that’s pinning your hips to the bed, but he moves it to intertwine your fingers. It’s thoughtful, the way he tends to you. “S’ so good Bren.” The words leave you in a choked sob and his response is a long, deep hum against your pussy— and you’re done. Breath hitching, you wiggle a little, legs starting to shake as you helplessly dangle over the edge and he knows. Somehow he can read you. Sense exactly what you need. His fingers curl once more, oh so deep, and you’re crashing beneath him, a high pitched squeal leaving you and he’s totally entranced. Working like a starved man and not daring to stop as he drinks in the way you look when you fall apart. All by his doing. He swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, actually.
And when you’re trying to push him away because it’s all too much, he presses a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh before he moves to stand up. You watch him in awe, and if you weren’t completely at his mercy before you definitely are now.
He laughs at little at your blissed out face as you eye him. “What?” He asks.
“I hate you.” You murmur. And it’s a lie, you both know it. A playful lie you’re just throwing around because how fucking dare he be so good at everything. Good looking and polite and considerate and talented. It’s not fair. Nothing about it is fair.
“You don’t hate me.” He smiles— a true smile as he starts to work at his sweatpants. You don’t try to tease any further, and he watches as you move to kneel infront of him, your hands moving to stop his. Then you continue his work, yanking at the stretchy material and leaving him in his dark briefs. You nearly salivate at the outline of his hard length through the material. That’s gonna hurt. The thought is there and gone, because you’re tugging them down next, eyes meeting his thick cock. He watches intently, teeth gnawing at the inside of his bottom lip as your much smaller hand wraps around the base of him. You press a kiss to the underside of the tip, eyes locked on his as you lick a stripe up the side teasingly.
He shakes his head a little because you’ve got him right where you want him and he knows it. When you take him into your mouth he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest and only spurring you on. You wanted to make him do it over and over again. A large hand brushes over the side of your face as you take him to your limit, starting to gag against him. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, moving to tangle his fingers into your hair again. Holding your hair up, he lets you work at your own pace, one that has him weak in the knees and muttering curses.
You’re relentless, taking him slow and deep until tears are brimming in your eyes and spit is starting to trickle down your chin. It’s a fucking sight. And he’s committed it to his memory forever, though a mental picture would never do the real thing justice. He pulls you off, admiring the string of spit that draws from your mouth that still connects you to his cock.
Up until now, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how soft he was being. The Park you’d shamelessly thought about more than a few times was far from a gentle lover. Though, your thoughts are interrupted by a rough manhandle that nearly has you squealing. He tosses you back onto the center of his bed, watching you bounce a little— and when he crawls over you next, he’s making quick work of your teeshirt that he wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t taken off of you yet.
The sight of your tits has his head spinning. Every part of you he’s gotten to see is perfect to him. He works his palm against one before pinching at the pebbled nipple. You writhe beneath him, so whiny. “Want you to fuck me, Bren.”
“You’re fucking bad.” He moves to growl in your ear, kissing at the lobe. “Dirty little fucking mouth on you. Took my cock so well, didn’t you?”
You nod a little, suddenly bashful at his praise. Pulling his face to yours, you kiss him. It’s rushed and messy, but you don’t mind a bit. Your manicured nails move to claw at Park’s biceps, and he hums against your mouth at the contact. When he pulls away, he just looks at you for a second, totally bare beneath him. Before you realize, he’s leaning down to your forehead to press a soft kiss to the dark purple bruise there.
Then, he’s adjusting himself between your legs, smacking the length of himself teasingly against your wetness. You just watch, gnawing at your lip when he lines up at your entrance. “Please be gentle.” You mumble out quickly, already wincing in preparation. His brain short circuits for half a second, and he silently curses himself for being too drunk on you to reach for a condom, but he trusts you and god— he wants to feel it all without any barrier.
“M’ not gonna hurt you, baby.” He promises. “You can take it.”
He starts to push in, aided by how soaked you were for him. You’re gripping at his arms, tense and eyes clamped shut at the stretch. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to your cheek. “That’s it, let me in.” You pulse around him at his words, leaning into his touch. He peppers your cheek and jaw with kisses as he continues to push in, slowly coming to a stop when he’s fully inside. It’s so fucking much you think you might just fall apart right then and there. Deep. Full.
“Mmm— there we go.” He coos, moving up again to admire the way you wrap around him when he slowly pulls out almost fully and then sheathes himself back inside.
You squirm, moans and whimpers flowing freely. “Fuckfuckfuck, s’ so big.”
“Yeah?” He presses his palms to the backside of your thighs, urging them higher until your knees are nearly up against your chest. “Taking it so well. I knew you would.” When he starts truly fucking into you, you’re a whining mess, fingers tangling into his comforter for leverage. He watches your hair scatter around you, painting the prettiest picture of you beneath him.
“Talk to me, baby.” He mumbles, urging you yet again to use your words but you’re so fucked out already you can hardly think.
“Feels so fucking good.” You cry, voice sounding pathetic.
“Yeah it does, bunny. You feel so good. Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking me like this.”
You never want him to stop talking. He speaks so eloquently. Fucking filthy and you’re obsessed.
His hips rock into yours at a devastating pace, a large hand reaching up to hold your throat. He presses gently, experimental almost, not enough to fully constrict your airway. Your eyes are lidded, blinking slow and he notices the tears in your eyes. He moves his hand to soothe against your cheek, worried for only a second until you offer him a weak smile to ease the concern on his face. And something about you feeling so good that you’re about to cry nearly makes him explode.
He lets go of your legs, feeling the warmth of your skin when you wrap them around his waist. Moving to kiss you, his hips continue to smack against you, the sounds of your wetness putting on a show. Your nails dig pretty little crescent moons into his large biceps, and you clench around him as you start to shatter. “Gonna cum on my cock, sweet baby? Huh?”
Your eyes nearly roll back in your head, his pace quickening when you nod, clinging to him. “Bren—”
“I know, bunny. I know.” He coos, smoothing your hair back. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”
You arch against him, body feeling like it’s suddenly shattered into a million tiny pieces. Hot tears rolling down the side of your face as you let out a long, broken whine. Vision blurring and hands clawing.
“There it is.” He drawls his words out, tone full of praise and admiration as he continues to slam into you, chasing his own high that’s burning through the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, Good fucking girl.”
You’re wrecked, absolutely spent as you cling to him, pulling him in for a long kiss, tongues thrashing.
“Where—” He starts to mumble, the rhythm of his thrusts growing messy.
You cut him off immediately, whimpering against his lips. “Inside.” You breathe. “Inside please, I’m on the pill.”
He groans, letting you hold him as he offers one more particularly hard thrust before he stills, fully burying himself deep inside, the warmth of him filling you. The sound he makes is otherworldly, a broken sounding growl. “Fuck, baby.” He whispers, staying buried in you as you both fight for air.
He lays there for a moment, skin sticking to your own. Breathing ragged. Then he presses one more sweet kiss to your lips before he slowly removes himself, exhaustion filling him as he heads for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a damp rag. And he cleans you softly, the sight of it tugging at your heart. It’s so simple but it means so much.
“Go pee.” He nudges you next, the command swimming around your head.
With weak knees, you ease up and follow him into the bathroom.
You freshen up alongside him, neither of you speaking but rather finding comfort in each others presence alone.
And when you’re wrapped up in him again moments later, legs brushing along his as you settle beneath the cool sheets, you’re smiling. Smiling up at him, as sweet as honey.
“You alright?” He checks, hoping your head wasn’t bothering you again.
“I’m fine.” You assure him. “In fact, I think you healed me.”
“Oh, whatever.” He chuckles, pulling you closer.
It’s four days later when you see Park again. This time though, he’s marching into the ED for a consult. You were standing at the nurses station, and manage to spare him a quick glance before he disappears into Trauma 2. You’d spoken everyday, mostly by text. He’d promised to cook you dinner tonight, as it was the last day of a 3 day stretch. A proper date, he called it. He’d brought up a fancy steakhouse downtown, but you’d much rather watch him cook and share a glass of wine in his kitchen. Just be alone with him. He gladly agreed, assuring you that the day would go by quickly. That however, had not been the case.
The ED had been slammed, and though that usually makes for a quick day, maybe the anticipation eating at you had turned it into the opposite.
You speak briefly to Dana about the patient in South 16 that you’d just finished up suturing, and when you turn to round the counter again to check on another patient, you’re face to face with Park.
He’s sporting his typical intimidating demeanor, but you see right through it. For the sake of the rumor mill you know the ED can be, you offer him only a quick casual smile. “How’s your head?” He asks, voice low. And ofcourse, his extended presence has already conjured a few questioning glances.
“It’s fine.” You squeak. “Bruise looks more nasty than ever, though.” His eyes meet the mark, and it’s definitely gnarly. Yellowing and splotchy. But that’s normal for healing.
“It’ll get better.” He hums, his lips threatening to turn up into a smile but he fights it. One hand reaches up to tug playfully at the end of your messy braid, and then he’s turning to head back toward the elevators, leaving you biting your lip— cheeks rosy.
You blink, snapping back to reality and noticing far too many eyes on you as you start to walk towards your next patient in Central 14. Heart pounding in your chest as you scurry out of sight.
Dana stands still, having seen the entire exchange, and she’s nearly shook to her core. Surely not… She hadn’t worked with you much, as you were usually on nights, but she would’ve heard about this right? The infamous, brooding Park— and a sweet little ED nurse?
Robby slaps a hand against her shoulder, making her jump a little.
“I might be mistaken.” He starts, eyeing Dana. “But I think someone tamed the Shark.”
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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