living dead girl

jezzy . she/they . 22 . indigenous tasmanian

[mustyrosewater]

𝖎𝖋 𝖛𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘 𝖉𝖆𝖞 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖔 𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖋𝖚𝖑 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑

jezzy! twenty-two, she/they <3

minors do not interact, if you are openly underage you will be blocked

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

hot and sexy people LIKE, COMMENT & REBLOG

chat with me any time! inbox is always open my lovlies!

[mustyrosewater]

are you still open to asoiaf roleplays?

i could be lovely! drop me a message and we can chat!

[charonsferry]

doing actual worldbuilding for a story that is 100% porn is the best thing. yes i know you're here to flick your shit. analyze my weapon design boy

[niuniente]

No foreplay without loreplay.

[babybluebex]

Benson x reader where she’s a party girl (leaving the house at 8, coming home at 5, sleeping, then repeating) and the dinner is a open 24/7 type of restaurant so when it’s time to go home she stops by with her group, and while she’s ordering her and benson hit it off

Idk what comes next but angst would be amazing!!

(You’re like the only person writing for Kyle rn #mysavior)

anon you are sustaining my life force PLEASE feel free to dm me cuz ur giving me such juicy concepts omgggg i'd love to pick ur brain, also UGH benson we hate u and we love u rip justice for benson </3 wc: 6.1k, tags: angssstttt yay :3, party girl stuff (drinking, mentions of doing drugs, general irresponsible behavior), a randy cameo (a randeo?), references to sex/sexual situations, benson kinda gives bad vibes but it's fine everything is fine / make sure to follow my taglist blog @babybluebex-writes to be notified whenever i post a new fic!!

The sun was just beginning to peek over the trees as the car rolled into the parking lot. You felt at least a little responsible that none of you that had been drinking were the ones who were driving, but that’s about where your responsible nature ended— you feared what your bank account looked like after a full night on Bourbon Street, and you were genuinely a little surprised that you hadn’t gotten a text from your bank saying your account had been overdrawn. You winced as you wrenched your door open, and you gave a strangled little gargle as the fresh sunbeams hit your eyes. Fuck, were you already starting to sober up? This didn’t bode well at all. 

“Oh my God, I need to piss,” your friend groaned as she stepped out of the backseat. Her glittery eyeshadow was smeared across her eyes. “C’mon, come with me, please.”

“I think you need a bathroom key here or whatever,” you told her, and she hastily came over to you and linked her arm with you. 

“Right,” she snorted as she laughed. “‘Cause a 24-7 diner is a high-brow place where you need a fuckin’ bathroom key. C’mon, they got a picture of a cinnamon roll in the window, let’s go.” 

She was right. You were fucking starving, and, moreover, the smell of bacon floating from seemingly the bricks the building was made of was making your drunk stomach rumble. Suddenly, you were entranced by the idea of a breakfast platter.

The chimes on the door tinkled as you pushed it open, and you lost your balance and started to laugh as you tugged your friend in behind you. Your other friend, your designated driver, had stayed in the car, and you could see the glow of his phone screen as he waited on you two. Well, he was gonna be waiting a fucking second. “Alright,” you told her softly. “Looks like the pisser is over there… I’ll wait out here.”

“Dude, c’mon, no, you gotta come with me,” your friend whined. 

“I’m not gonna get whatever gonorrhea’s in there,” you told her. “Go on, take your piss, I’m gonna order breakfast.” 

Your friend gasped. “Oh, good idea,” she giggled. “Get me an omelet, but, like, no onions in it. I’ll vomit.” 

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that,” you said, and you jokingly slapped her as she skittered away, aiming for her ass but landing mostly on the back of her thigh. Oh, whatever. 

There was a little bartop next to the register, and you settled yourself into one of the seats as you waited for the waitress at the other end of the car to notice you. She was currently chatting with a gaggle of uniformed police officers, surely coming off of graveyard shift patrol, but they weren’t the only patrons of the diner. There was one other guy, sitting a few seats down from you at the bartop. You couldn’t see too much of him, what with the tattered baseball cap he wore, but you liked what you did see— thick, toned arms, sleeveless muscle tee, slacks and work boots. His profile looked nice, a smooth cheek and nice nose and a little facial hair. He looked good, in a way you knew your friends would make fun of you for liking. Maybe you were just in your Ethel Cain era— works with his hands and smells like Marlboro Reds or whatever. 

Before you could ruminate on that guy for much longer, the waitress came over with a smile. “What’ll you have, hon?” she asked.

Right! Food! You were so busy ogling that guy that you totally forgot your original mission. “Umm,” you began, your eyes scanning the menu for an option. “Oh, umm, can you do that Southwest omelet without onions?”

“Sure,” the waitress replied. Her nametag said Marsha. She seemed nice. “What side?”

“Just bacon, I guess,” you shrugged. “And one of these hashbrown bowls too.”

“Anything to drink?” 

“Coffee’s probably a good idea,” you mumbled with a sigh, flapping the menu closed. “Sober up a little.”

“Been out on Bourbon Street?” Marsha asked with a smile, and you nodded tiredly. “You look like you had fun.” 

“We did,” you said. “It was nice… Oh, uh, could we get all that to-go?”

Marsha departed with your order, and you mashed your fingers into your eyes. The lights were so bright, and a headache was starting to needle at your brain. Jesus, you were sobering up fast. You just hoped that you got home before the barfing portion of the hangover began. 

“You good?” you heard a graveled voice grunt out, and you pulled your fingers from your eyes to see who could possibly be talking to you. To your surprise and delight, it was the guy you had been ogling before, now turned at least partially towards you. You could see his face better, and you spotted intense eyes that unnerved you just a little bit. 

“Yeah,” you said, waving your hand to banish the thought. “I’m good… Just, lights are bright.”

The guy nodded in understanding. “Long night?” he asked, leaning a little towards you, though you were still separated by two full seats. 

“We got started at eight,” you said, screwing up your mouth as you realized how that sounded. You were sure he was probably on his way to work at 5AM while you were just coming home; even though it wasn’t embarrassing, you felt a little ashamed. Here you were, ripped fishnets and messy makeup, stinking like dive bars and dance clubs, complaining to someone you guessed was probably some sort of tradesman, a man with a tough job. Aww, is the poor little party girl tired? 

“Fuck,” he laughed a little. “Yeah, that is a long night. Make sure you drink some water, don’t need you drying out and shit.” 

“No, yeah, for sure,” you scoffed. “Hoping the coffee will help me stay awake for at least long enough to eat before I pass out, ‘cause we’re doing this all over tonight, so I gotta be… I dunno, put together.” 

He blinked at you, adjusting the way he was sitting to fully turn towards you. “Two nights in a row?” he started. “You guys celebrating something, or…?”

You shrugged, pausing to smile at Marsha as she handed you a styrofoam to-go cup of hot black coffee. “Nah,” you said. You popped the lid off of the cup, and you went for the little plastic bowl in front of you next to the napkin dispenser, grabbing one of the tiny creamer pots. “It’s just what we do. It’s how we pass the time, y’know?” 

“You have fun?” he asked.

“It’s something to do.” you replied simply, dumping the creamer into your coffee. A little splash of it landed on your thumb, and you quickly sucked it off, looking for another creamer packet. There wasn’t nearly enough in one for what you needed. You hoped he didn’t prod too hard into your answer.

Thankfully, this guy seemed to understand what you were parsing through the plastic bowl of little jams and sugars for, and he slid the one in front of him over towards you. You gave him a smile, a real one, not the one you had bestowed on the waitress— a genuine smile, a little crooked, the way you always tried to hide. Your real smile was just too imperfect, and you avoided it at all costs. But he seemed nice; you got a good energy off of him, even if he had the most intense eyes you had ever seen on a real person. “Let me guess,” you started. “You’re off to the plant ‘bout twenty minutes out of town, right?” 

He sighed with a little laugh. It didn’t feel like a true laugh, like you were being genuinely funny; he scraped his fork around his plate, pushing a little discarded pile of diced tomatoes around. “No,” he replied curtly.

“Is there construction in town I don’t know about?” you asked next, and he shook his head; you were glad he took your joking in stride, because it could have been so easy (and understandable) for him to take offense at your assumptions. 

“Try Burgers Burgers Burgers off the highway,” he told you. Finally, he seemed to really warm up to you, because he pulled his hat off and slapped it on the countertop. Now, fully seeing him, no shade or cover, you were blown away. God, he was hot; dark curls at his neck, the sides a little more grown out so that it couldn’t technically be classified as a mullet, but it sure was something. “I’ve got the opening shift.” 

“Oh, wait, I know that place,” you started, your smile growing. 

“You do?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yeah!” you grinned. “Yeah, I live out that way, I pass that old Sunoco every day! I didn’t even really know that place was still open, to be honest…” 

“We probably shouldn’t be,” he mumbled, scratching at the little patch of ginger facial hair on his chin. “How come I’ve never seen you in there?” 

“I never said I ate there,” you countered with another real smile. 

He laughed as well, tilting his head in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. “Ah, well,” he started. “You might consider it. The food is…”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna say it’s good,” you scoffed. 

“It technically meets health code regulations,” he replied, and you snickered. “But it’s greasy and has salt. Seems like something you’d like to eat after a night out.” 

You smiled, gently biting your bottom lip. It almost felt like an invitation, and, even though you were sobering up, you were certainly still in ‘drunk’ territory. Therefore, you had a baked-in excuse for why you said, “How will I know when to stop in? What if I catch somebody else working the register?” 

He gave you a smile, gentle and nice (or, it seemed, as nice as he could get, wrinkles by his eyes folding up but no teeth showing, just stretched pink lips and crow’s feet). “Well, doll,” he began, and he gestured a thick finger out the front window to the parking lot. “You see that old beige piece of shit out there?” 

Yes, you did; your friend’s car, his phone still glowing up the inside, was parked right next to it. It was an old car, probably from the 80s if you had to guess, an ugly tan-yellow color, various little knickknacks on the dashboard. You nodded. 

“If you see that rust bucket out front the ole Triple B,” he said, turning to you with those deadly baby blues. “I’ll be glad to take your order.” 

Before you could say anything else, the waitress, sweet smiling Marsha, returned with a plastic bag full of your takeout, the handles tied in a cute little bow at the top. “How’re you paying for that?” she asked, and you started to dig into your purse. 

“Umm…” you started, rifling past the receipts from the bars and paper wristbands that you had already snapped off. “I guess y’all don’t have tap-to-pay, huh? Where’s my wallet?”

“Nope,” the man sitting next to you said quickly. “Put it on my ticket, Marsh.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t—” you started, and he waved you away, taking up the last dredge from his coffee mug. 

“I know I don’t need to,” he said. “But that just means we gotta get square, and you gotta come by and buy me dinner.” 

Oh. Right. “Do you usually have a high success rate with that tactic?” you asked. Over his shoulder, you watched the bathroom door swing open, and your friend stumbled out, wiping her hands dry on her skirt. 

“Never tried it before,” he told you. “I guess we’ll see how that goes.”

Your friend approached you and grabbed your hand as she grinned at you, stepping in-between you and the generous, flirtatious hottie. “Dude,” your friend giggled. “Oh my God, I sat down and got the spins, please tell me that’s our food.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, and you passed her your coffee. “Drink that, I can smell your breath.” 

“Bad?” she asked. 

“You reek like alcohol,” you tittered. “C’mon, let’s go, I think I’m about ten minutes out from spewing and I wanna be at home for that.” 

“Ooh, shit,” your friend hissed. “Yeah, come on, let’s head out.” 

She grabbed your hand and started to tug you away, but you held your ground for a few more seconds. “If I walk into your restaurant,” you began at the guy who had bought your breakfast, who sorta scared you but excited you, with the pretty blue eyes and permanent scowl. “And I don’t see you, who should I ask for?” 

He fixed his hat back over his curls, and you watched him pass Marsha a few wrinkled dollar bills. “You can ask for Benson,” he told you. 

“Benson…” you started. “No last name?”

“Don’t worry about that, doll,” Benson told you. “That’s all you need to say for me to answer.” 

As your friend tugged you out of the diner with whines of “Come on, I’m starving!”, you failed to catch the way Benson watched you as you left. You didn’t hear Marsha ask him if you were a friend of his, and you didn’t hear him grumble out a response of “Nah, don’t know her… Just a young, stupid kid.” 

The day was rough for you. You crashed at your friend’s house, eating your breakfast and taking a staggering half-drunk shower with all of her nice products, and you fell asleep on the other half of her bed as she snored beside you. She had a little townhouse that her parents paid the rent on, leaving her (and you, her honorary sister) free to fuck around all day and lie about going to classes at the local university and go party every night. It was a nice life, and all kinds of fun while you were in it, but it was moments like this, moving slow and sluggish as you woke up to the orange sunset, that you sorta hated everything. 

A real life would be nice. Perpetual hangovers would be easy to leave behind. But what else was there for you to do? You felt so stuck in your solitary little life, and you got pleasure from dressing cute and going out to clubs and dancing until you were sweaty and out of breath. Maybe the good feeling was fleeting, but in the moments you had it, you enjoyed it.

Your shoulders ached from the way you had slept like an animal, and you fixed the strap of your (borrowed) tank top as you groaned and moved across the bedroom in pursuit of the bathroom. Your stomach felt a little peaky, probably not vomit-y but certainly starved, and you swallowed up a palmful of tap water to parch your dry throat before you sorted yourself out in the mirror. Sunken eyes, wild hair, a nice-sized zit right under your ear from the foundation you had failed to wash off— it almost looked like a hickey. Hmm; maybe some college kid at a club would see it and think you were a way bigger slut than in actuality and would buy you a drink, thinking he could get in your pants. 

All at once, the memory of the odd guy you had met at the diner that morning came flooding back to you. Holy shit, that was weird as hell. He was hot, super hot, so hot it kinda pissed you off, and he was definitely giving flirty vibes, but something about his scowl and general demeanor put up red flags for you. Maybe it was a ‘he’s an asshole to everyone but you’ situation— truthfully, he did seem kind of nice. He didn’t need to buy you breakfast and, even if he only did it as a ploy to get you to come see him, you hated to admit it was kinda working on you. What was his name? Benny? Bernard? Something with a B, something weird. Benny sounded right to you. Whatever, you were hungover; you refused to be judged for your poor memory. 

Benny or whatever his name was went forgotten until the very end of the night. Even then, you had forgotten about the man himself, and you only remembered him in the context of his car outside Burgers Burgers Burgers. The sun was already back up, and you were considerably less drunk than last night, certainly sober enough to remember the dude from the diner, and you gasped as the car sped down the highway, rapidly approaching the burger joint. “Oh my God, wait!” you cried. “You remember the dude who bought us breakfast?”

“Who?” your friend asked from beside you, lowering her phone from her selfie binge. 

“You saw him,” you told her. “The guy I was talking to when you came out of the bathroom!”

“Sure, I guess,” she said. “He looked old.”

“Shut up,” you scoffed. “But he told me he works at this one restaurant, and he told me to come in to see him!”

“Tryna get some dick?” your friend giggled. “I’m proud of you, you’ve been in a dry spell.”

“Who can blame me?” you shrugged, shifting your lollipop into your cheek. “It’s that Burgers Burgers Burgers place attached to the Sunoco, just up ahead.”

“Oh, he works there?” your friend sneered. “Babe, you couldn’t bag someone who works somewhere… Nice?”

“A hot older guy who works at some podunk burger place?” your third friend, your designated driver, asked. “You’re about to get your guts rearranged. Either in a dick way or, like, in a serial killer way.”

“He’s not a serial killer,” you said as you rolled your eyes. “He’s, like, Ethel Cain’s wet dream. I’m just gonna fuck him and move on, it’ll be fine. You two can even stay in the car, it probably won’t take that long.”

“Oh, wait, you’re gonna fuck him now?” she asked you, her eyes bugging out of her head. “You’re fucking wild, I love you! Do you need a condom, I think I have one in my purse— Where’s my fucking purse?”

“I’ve got one,” you told her. “But wait, he might not be working this morning… I gotta see if his car is in the parking lot.” 

“What sorta car?” she asked, leaning towards the window as your car approached the broke-down locale. 

Your eyes scanned the dirt parking lot, seeing a few cars there, a bigger truck and a smaller blue thing, and then you finally spotted the old beige piece of shit. “He’s there,” you announced. “The, like, brown-ish one, you see?”

“Cigarette-mobile,” your friend mumbled from the front seat, and you sent a swift punch to his shoulder. “Ouch, hey! You sure you wanna fuck this guy? He’s really starting to give off serial killer vibes to me.” 

“You guys are so judgy,” you huffed. “As if y’all haven’t fucked questionable people before. If you guys had seen him and talked to him like I did, you’d understand me. C’mon, pull in— I can get y’all some curly fries if you stop teasing me.” 

Your friends opted to stay in the car as you stepped out towards the restaurant. It seemed like the sort of place where you wouldn’t usually be caught dead, but that cute guy (Benny, right?) was reason enough for you to push the door open and roll your sucker to the other side of your mouth. There was one guy lingering in the front behind the service counter, his pale cheek in his palm as he seemingly dozed off. You didn’t blame him; you would do it too. 

You approached the register anyway, to the pale blond sleeping guy. His nametag said ‘Bradley’; not Benny. “Hi,” you started with your fake smile, not the real one you reserved only for the most worthy of people. Bradley, as it seemed his name was, flicked his eyes open with a start, and your heart melted for him. God, this job must suck. 

“Sorry about that,” he said softly, trying to orient himself as his hands fidgeted nervously with the roll of receipt tape attached to the register. “Um, what can I get for you?”

You pulled the sucker from your mouth, watching the way his eyes followed your lips. Guys will be guys. “Is Benny here?” you asked. Was Benny his name? Now you weren’t certain, Jesus. While you weren’t as drunk as the morning before, you were certainly still tipsy, and you cast doubt over your own memory abilities. 

“B… Benny?” he asked. He didn’t look much older than you, but he did look confused as all hell. Fuck, maybe Benny was the incorrect name. 

“Kinda tall, mullet, blue eyes,” you started. “Mustache, the whole nine? His car’s out front, the beige shitbox?”

“D’ya mean Benson?” Bradley asked, his big eyes growing wider. He looked genuinely surprised you were asking after Benson (yes, that was his name! Benson! Benny was close enough, and probably what you would flirtily end up calling him anyway), and you wondered what the surprise was about. “I didn’t know Benson knew how to talk to people.”

“He talked to me,” you shrugged. “Is he around?”

“He’s, umm, in the back,” Bradley told you. “I think he’s on his fifteen. I can go get him.”

“Sure,” you nodded, giving him your pretty little smile again. “I’ll wait here. Thanks, Bradley.” 

“Oh,” he started. “M-My name’s Randy.”

“Your nametag says Bradley.”

“S’my last name.” 

“Two first names? That’s weird.”

“So I’ve been told. I’ll be right back.”

The restaurant was honestly sorta creepy. No music through the speakers, just the sound of the air conditioner kicking on and off, the ceiling gutted to expose the empty structure above. Amongst the laminate and cracking yellowed plastic, you felt like you were in a ghost town, like reality would blip out at any moment. You were thankful as shit that you were there in the daylight; nighttime might be too spooky for you to handle. 

You could hear, just through thin walls, a conversation. Randy, his meek little voice, speaking to someone. “There’s, um, some girl here? Asking for you?”

“A girl?” came the grumbled gravel that you had encountered the morning before. “What d’ya mean a ‘girl’?”

“She asked for you, except she sorta didn’t?” Randy started. “She asked for ‘Benny,’ and described you, pointed out your car. I figured you’d know who she was.” 

There was a moment of silence, and then Benson asked, “She real pretty?” Quiet ensued, during which you imagined Randy’s hesitancy to answer, and Benson added, “She’s not my girl, you can tell me if you think she’s pretty.” 

“U-Um, yeah,” Randy coughed. “She is. Who is she?”

You didn’t hear an answer out of Benson, because, before you knew it, he was rounding the corner from the back room and was standing in front of you. He looked more or less the same as the day before when you saw him, except now, instead of only the muscle tee, he wore a button-up yellow and brown uniform shirt, the t-shirt just poking out from the neck. He looked surprisingly put together for the state of his workplace, his shirt unwrinkled and tucked in, the sleeves cuffed around his thick biceps.

“I didn’t think you’d actually take me up on the offer, doll,” Benson said to you. He didn’t smile at you, but he had a different tone than when he spoke to his coworker, a little softer and nicer. He wasn’t smiling, but he very well could have been. 

You shrugged with a grin, your real smile, and you held your sucker in-between your fingers as you leaned forward over the register to see him. “A deal’s a deal, right?” you asked. “You’re the one who told me we gotta get square.” 

“I suppose I did,” Benson nodded in agreement. “Y’all went out partying again?”

“Yep,” you said. “I didn’t drink as much tonight, though.” 

“But you’re obviously having fun other ways,” Benson said and, when you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, he nodded towards your sucker. “I don’t know too much about party drugs, but—”

“Oh, no!” you laughed. “Nope, not a molly lollipop. Mollypop? Just a regular sucker.” 

“Right,” Benson said smoothly. “What, were you a good girl getting your shots and the doctor let you take a sucker?”

You giggled. “I don’t think you can say that to me, Benny,” you told him teasingly. “Calling me a good girl, that’s not allowed.” 

“Nobody calls me that,” Benson replied blankly. 

“Do you like it?” you asked, and you watched his face twitch for one second as he considered the name. 

“I do,” he nodded finally. 

“Well, good,” you smiled. “‘Cause I like calling you that.”

“What kinda sucker is it?” Benson asked. You could tell he wanted to get off the topic of his name, so you allowed it, and you pressed the candy back between your lips. 

“Cherry, I think,” you told him. “Maybe strawberry.”

You didn’t expect Benson’s next move, and it made butterflies flutter in your stomach as he reached across the register and grasped the little paper stick of your sucker and gently pulled it from your mouth and, quick as a flash, pushed it into his own mouth. That was brave, a high-risk/high-reward move, and you watched him smile all crooked and roguish, the candy clacking against his back teeth. “Tastes like cherry to me,” he told you. Obviously, that would be a reward for him. Damn, that was hot. 

“Then, cherry it is,” you said, satisfied. You watched him shift it into his cheek as you stared each other down, and you added, “That’s gonna stain your mouth all red.” 

“Oh, no, God forbid,” Benson said, rolling his eyes.

“You’re funny,” you laughed. You let it hang in the air for a moment, then really considered the situation, and you added, “Why did you talk to me yesterday?”

“Well,” Benson began, and his eyes flicked down to the register for a moment before he started to fiddle with the roll of receipt paper that his coworker had messed up minutes before. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I think I was sorta just more concerned with making sure you weren’t about to pass out in front of me.”

“It’s not ‘cause you thought I was pretty?” you teased him.

“Obviously, yes,” Benson chuckled. “But, if you’re so worried about why I talked to you, then you gotta know, I’m dead curious about why you decided to darken this doorway. I don’t think you’re really all that worried about getting square with me.”

“I’m not,” you started. “But, y’know, everything has to start somewhere.” 

“Oh, so now you wanna start something with me?” Benson laughed, flicking his eyes up to your face. 

“Stop,” you scoffed. “You know what I mean.” 

“I’m not sure I do,” Benson told you, and he quit fiddling with the receipt paper to lay his palms flat on the countertop and look straight at you. “I think you oughta tell me why you hauled your pretty ass out all this way. Surely not to share your candy with me.” 

It’s not that you felt small under Benson’s gaze. You just became intensely aware of your places— you, in your mini skirt with glitter in your hair, mouth sweet from liquor and candy, and him, mud-stained boots and faint cigarette smell. You were the one to giggle and to flirt, and you felt damn lucky that he was tolerating it and seemed to think it was cute. It could have been easy for him to tell you to fuck off and go home, that he didn’t want anything really to do with you, that he was just being nice, yada yada yada, and you wouldn’t blame him one single bit. But he didn’t. He could look at you stonefaced with his graveled tone all day long, but the fact that he was wanting you to admit the truth told you the entire story. With your sequins and lipstick, you held all the power over him. It was delicious.

You smiled coyly, and you matched him physically, laying your hands on the countertop as you tilted your head in amusement. “You want the truth?” you asked, and Benson nodded. You watched his lips purse a little as he sucked on the candy in his mouth, and you did the classic tactic of looking at his lips, then back to those intense blue eyes.”Make him go away.” 

For the first time, Benson seemed to clock that Randy was lingering, watching the interaction, and all he had to do was exhale through his nose before Randy was scurrying away into the back. “He seems nice,” you said softly.

“He is,” Benson nodded. “C’mon, dolly, stop stalling, cough it up.” 

The butterflies in your tummy returned as you summoned the courage to say it plainly to Benson. “The truth is…” you began, and the words began to tumble out before you could stop them. “When we were driving by, I told my friends to stop and let me come in, and I justified it to them by telling them that I was gonna fuck you. And, trust and believe, that is still fully on my agenda, but the truth, Benny… You excite me. You’re nothing like what I know now, not like anybody I know or have ever known. You kinda scare me, actually, I don’t think ‘excite’ is the right word. I think you’re like me— you have this facade, for whatever reason, hiding something inside you that you don’t want others to see. I know, for myself, I think if my friends knew how fuckin’ much I hated my life and their lives, that, like I wanted more, a real life, they’d probably commit some sorta crime against me. I don’t know what you’re hiding or why, and it scares me to think that there’s someone else out there who’s like me, but… Fuck, I just wanna find you out. That’s the truth, Benny.” 

Benson watched you as you rattled off the honesty that you weren’t expecting to divulge, and he waited for a few seconds after you were finished, waiting to see if you’d say more, before he reacted in any way. He carefully pulled your sucker from his mouth, pinching it between his fingers and rolling it a few times as he thought, and he offered it back to you. In an instant, you opened your mouth, accepting it on your tongue, and he exhaled through his nose. “I’m not the sorta guy you ‘find out’, dolly,” he started. “Nobody knows anything about me, and I like it that way.” 

“Benny—” you started, your heart plummeting. Oh, shit. Here you were, baring your soul to him, and he was shooting you down. Well, that was typical.

“Let me finish,” he said quickly, his gruff voice a sharp snap. “I didn’t interrupt you, you don’t go interrupting me. I like being a solitary creature, it’s in my nature to be alone. It’s better for me, so I don’t hurt people. And I’ve really hurt some people, I’ve hurt some people very, very badly. I’m big enough to look at myself and know that I’m no good. Maybe I never was… But you. You figure out yet why I call you ‘doll’? ‘Cause you’re not a real person. You’re something else that’s walking around all day, pretending to be a real person. You spend every night numbing whatever pain you’ve got, trying to avoid whatever your real life consists of, and that… That bugs the living shit outta me. You’re young, and you’re goddamn beautiful, and you’re wasting your life away, and, yeah, real life sucks. And you will get hurt in real life, but sometimes you gotta do it. That’s life, doll… God, someone like you, pretty and nice and all that good shit, I’m not surprised to hear you’re like me, that you’ve got some shit to hide. But I think I like that. Nobody could possibly understand me, but you… You might.”

The air felt thick between you two, and you focused on the taste in your mouth. The candy tasted the same, your mouth tasted the same, and, even though you couldn’t glean any taste that you could identify as Benson’s, you liked the thought of it, his spit in your mouth, even just the slightest bit. “Alright,” you nodded slowly. “Think that pretty much… Squares us up, huh?” 

“I’d say so,” Benson replied, and his eyes flicked down for a moment. You would have killed to be inside his head, hear what he was thinking— his face gave nothing away. “I get off at two, probably be able to leave earlier. Why don’t you give me your address, and I’ll see if we can’t do anything about the first part of your little rant?”

“Which part?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing. “I-I don’t remember what all I said, to be honest… I was kinda nervous.” You weren’t bullshitting, you hardly any memory of what you had said as your face had run hot and your fingers started to shake.

Benson chuckled. “You told me you wanted to have sex with me,” he replied, blinking at you, his long eyelashes breezing against his cheek. 

“Did I?” you asked, and Benson nodded, giving you his biggest smile yet (which, was to say, hardly a smile at all). “Not untrue.”

“I know,” Benson said. “I can tell. You’re doing that thing, fluttering your little eyelashes at me and looking at my mouth and all that shit. And I see the way you’re sucking on that candy. If you want a taste of me for real, you can just ask instead of pushing your tits out at me and hoping I take the hint.” 

“You have a lot of experience with taking hints?” you asked.

“None at all,” Benson replied, and you laughed. “Usually, girls are a lot more forthcoming with what they want from me.” 

“Like me a few seconds ago?” you asked, your laughter petering out to a watery chuckle.

“Oh, yeah, that was hot,” Benson told you, making your laughter come all over again. “Tell me again how you’ve written it in your little planner to bounce on my dick.” 

“Shut up,” you laughed, and you cleared your throat and fixed yourself as you heard the shuffling steps of someone coming from the back of the restaurant. The gait was different, a little heavier than Randy, and you peeked over your shoulder to see another guy around your age, backwards hat and curly hair and pushed-up sleeves. You wondered if this guy was as confused at your presence as Randy had been. “You got a pen?” 

“You don’t keep one in your bag of tricks?” Benson asked, gesturing to your purse under your arm, and you wrinkled your nose. 

“Nah,” you said. “I’ve got cigarettes, a lighter, my wallet, plenty of old receipts, bathroom tokens from a club off Bourbon, condoms, but no pen. Not often I gotta write shit down.” 

Benson huffed a laugh out of his nose, and, under his breath, he softly said, “You are something else, dolly.” Then, he started to rifle under the countertop, obviously searching for any writing utensil, and he spoke softer, so as to not catch the new coworker’s ear as he settled into the corner of one of the booths on his phone. “A condoms girl, huh?”

“Safe sex or no sex,” you shrugged, and you finally crunched down on the sucker to finish it off. 

“Good girl,” Benson nodded, and the butterflies started up again as he finally emerged with a fat red Sharpie. He offered the marker to you, and you quickly took it, but, instead of ripping off a length of receipt paper like you were sure he expected you to, you took his hand and turned it over. The back of his hand was littered, freckles all over, scars on his knuckles from doubtless fights, tiny speckled burns here and there certainly from cigarette ashes, but he had nice hands, all things considered. You were quick to jot out your address, feeling his skin and bones shifting under the wet nib of the marker, and you finished it off with a little heart. 

“Around two, you said?” you asked, capping the marker, and you leaned far over the counter to slide the marker into the front pocket of Benson’s slacks. 

“Yep,” Benson grunted. “You gonna be around, or ya gonna make me chase you?” 

You hummed, and you threw all meekness to the curb as you surged forward and laid a kiss on Benson’s lips. Above all else, his lips tasted like cigarettes, but, faintly, you could taste your cherry candy. “No chasing required, Benny. I’m all yours for the taking.”

[mustyrosewater]

[babybluebex]

Simon x reader where she thinks he’s a dealer (he’s not but for the pretty girl he’d could get his hands on some weed)

the way i RAN to write this, thank you so so much!!! i LOVE simon so much this was so fun to write teehee :3 <3 wc: 3.4k, tags: obvious drug references, simon is kinda mean but like duh cmon it's simon that's required, ~alternate forms of payment~ are discussed (in the least sleazy way possible) make sure to follow my taglist blog @babybluebex-writes to be notified whenever i post a new fic!!

Listen— it was a mistake. In your defense, the room was loud as fuck, the main band on the ticket wrapping up their set with a cacophony of crunchy guitars and screaming, and you couldn’t hear your friend all too well when she said she had spotted her usual dealer, and she had gotten bumped as she was pointing him out and asking you to go talk to him while she staked her claim in the bathroom line. Her finger ended up pointing at a dude on the far side of the room, going at a cigarette like it owed him money, a scowl on his face as he listened to whatever his friend was telling him. He looked a little scary, to be honest, but that only made more sense to you: drug dealer at a punk show, he probably would be perpetually pissed off. Your friend slipped you some money and told you to go buy enough for two joints, one for now and one for later; “If he’s got pre-rolled joints, get those instead. And just know, he’s a big sucker and a huge pushover, so bat your eyelashes a little and you might be able to barter him down from the real price.”

You had never talked to the weed guy personally, but you knew pretty much how the conversation should go down, so you crossed the room, wading through the crowd and trying to avoid getting sucked into the pit. The dealer and his friend were wallflowers, and his eyes locked onto you as you got close to them like they were heat-seeking missiles. He almost looked startled that someone was approaching him; maybe he was vigilant about cops or narcs. 

“Hey,” you started with a smile. It felt vain to admit that you knew you were pretty (and maybe you didn't really believe it, self-loathing kicking your ass like always), but, at the least, you knew you had a pretty smile. If this scary-looking fuck was truly the pushover that your friend claimed he was, this could potentially be just the beginning of your prettiness. “How’re you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked bluntly, sucking hard at his cigarette filter. 

“Well, I’m not a cop, if that’s what you’re asking,” you laughed. 

“It’s not,” he told you, his voice even and flat. Not amused in the slightest. Damn, tough fuckin’ crowd.

You nodded, kissing your teeth. Typical punk motherfucker, so rough around the edges. “I, uh,” you started, and you made a point to scratch behind your ear, flashing the bills in your palm discreetly. “Was wondering how much two pre-rolls would run me for.” 

You watched his big eyes grow even bigger, and he dropped his dead cig and crushed it under the toe of his scuffed boots. He turned fully to you now, giving you his entire attention, completely disregarding his long-haired friend who, now that you were in their space, had most definitely been bitching and complaining about something when you showed up. You recognized his face, though, as one of the members of one of the bands that opened the show, some four-piece punk outfit that called themselves Psyops. You had liked Psyops, they were pretty fucking good, but this guy, the weed dealer, you don’t recognize as a band member. Friend of the band— a very typical title for people at shows like this. 

“Pre-rolls?” he repeated, and you nodded, giving him your soft, gentle eyes. Batting eyelashes territory was quick approaching, and you watched him ruminate on your question for a minute. He seemed confused. “What ya offering?”

“Well,” you started. “I’ve got fifty bucks. Can chip in a little more if you think so.” 

“Mmm,” he hummed, a crooked smile making its way onto his face. He was pretty cute, even if his big blue eyes were unsettling as fuck, with smooth skin and a triangle of moles on his cheek, dark facial hair, and, admittedly, a kinda stupid haircut, shorn almost bald on the sides and an attempt at a mohawk that just fell over his head and came to a weird, curled rat tail in the back. But it worked for him. Damn, it worked good for him. “Now, see, monetary donations are appreciated, but I’m more of a ‘goods and services' guy.” 

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion and scoffed out a laugh. “Some drug dealer you are,” you chuckled. “I thought the whole idea was to make money.”

His face slipped for one second, and he crossed his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his black tank top were all cut off, the holes stretched to almost expose his ribcage, and his arms bulged with impressive muscles. Sleeper build as fuck, holy shit. Okay, your friend’s weed dealer was hot as fuck, you would admit to thinking that much. “Wait a second,” he started. “Do you think I’m a drug…” He paused for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed at you, and he resumed his thought. “A-A drug dealer who cares more about scratch than product? What if I’m just tryna fuckin’ spread joy and shit? Ever think of that?”

“Oh, I'm sure,” you said smoothly, and you hoped your exterior covered up just how fucking baffled you were. It also was not aided by the way his long-haired friend smacked his shoulder, and he shot a quick Fuck off behind him. Truly, what sort of dealer wasn't interested in money? You feared the answer to your next question. “Alright, so, if not money, what’s two pre-rolls gonna cost? And don’t say ‘pussy’, I’m not offering that.”

“Wasn’t even a thought in my mind, sweetheart,” he told you, but that crooked smile looked like trouble to you. Like shit he wasn’t thinking about pussy, you were sure every dude in that room was probably thinking about sex at that moment in some way. “Here’s the deal: I don’t remember what all I got in my stash. I don’t keep shit on me, y’know, if cops came and busted the place up, I don’t need to get caught with my inventory on me—”

“Sounds smart.”

“A-Right, I’m goddamn smart. Let me go check my inventory and make sure I got what you’re asking for, and then we can figure out pricing. Sound good?” he said, and his friend hit his arm again. “Morgan, don’t fuckin’ hit me again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” 

You laughed. This dude was fucking damaged, but you kinda loved it. “Just let me know…” you began, then realized that your friend had not told you her drug dealer’s name. 

“M’Simon,” he said, sensing the reason for your pause, and you nodded. 

“Come find me once you figure it out, Simon.”

Your friend, once she got out of the bathroom, was very quick to tell you that you had fucked up. “Simon’s going to check his stash and see if he’s got pre-rolls for us.”

“Simon?” she scoffed. “Who the fuck is Simon?”

“Y’know, Simon,” you shrugged. “Your weed guy you made me go talk to while you took a piss.”

“My weed guy's name isn’t Simon,” she replied. “Wait, who the fuck did you talk to?”

“Um, the guy you pointed out to me,” you said, laughing nervously. “Weird mohawk-rattail thing, big eyes, says ‘fuck’ every other word? Sounds like he’s got some major anger issues?”

“Who…?” your friend winced in confusion. “Point him out to me, show me who you talked to.” 

You peeked at the heads of the crowd around you. The bands were all fully offstage by now, what used to be a punk show now just a social function with the bump of a bass over some speaker system, and you struggled to spot Simon. Finally, though, you caught sight of his hair, and you tugged on your friend’s arm. “Okay, over at the bar,” you told her. “Black muscle tee, talkin’ to the guy with the liberty spikes.” 

Your friend’s eyes scanned the bar until she found the liberty spikes, then her eyes skated to Simon, and she barked out a laugh. “Oh, babe!” she giggled. “That’s not my weed guy! I wasn’t pointing to him!” 

“Okay, so who the fuck were you pointing to?” you asked. “Who the fuck did I talk to?” 

“I don’t know who that is,” your friend smiled. “I mean, I kinda know the guy standing behind him, he played in one of the opening bands, but him? I’ve got no clue who that is.” 

“Oh, great,” you groaned. “So I asked a total fucking rando to score some weed for us. That’s great, that’s really good of me. I’m gonna go step out into traffic—” 

At that moment, you watched Simon do that dude handshake/dap up with the liberty spikes guy, and your well-trained eyes caught an exchange go down. Simon wasn’t holding something in his hand before, but now, he had a closed fist, and he elbowed Morgan behind him with a scowl. “Did you see that?” you asked. “I think… I think Simon got us weed.” 

“No way,” your friend gasped. “Oh, that’s awesome! I’m making you do that from now on.” 

She continued to chatter about your impressive weed-scoring abilities, but you watched Simon scan the room until he saw you, and he started to parse through the crowd in your direction. He maintained the frown that seemed perpetual, but, as he moved closer, you could spot a little flash of something in his big eyes. Almost… Well, it wasn’t softness or niceness. Simon didn’t seem capable of either of those things. But, at the very least, his frown didn’t reach his eyes, so that wasn’t nothing. 

“You ask,” he began, moving fully into your space, his voice raspy like before, his little Detroit accent coming out only on certain words. A bona fide Detroit punk; that was hot. “I deliver.”

“Ah, yes,” you told him, amused. “I saw that little exchange go down at the bar.”

“Delivered straight from my stash,” Simon said, his crooked smile melted a bit into a devilish little smirk. He thought you were none the wiser.

“Alright, cut the shit,” you sighed. “I’ll admit it, I fucked up. I thought you were the weed guy. And you’re not the weed guy.” 

Simon licked his lips, looking around the room for a minute. He seemed annoyed that you had figured out your mistake, and he shot your friend a deathly glare as she stood next to you. Thankfully, she seemed to understand the writing on the wall, because she squeezed your hand and told you that she would go grab the car. Now, with her gone, even with a full, rowdy room, it felt like just you and Simon. “Well, no,” he began quietly, lowering his voice so that only you could hear it. “But I am a guy with weed. Feel like those are pretty much the same thing.”

“Not really,” you told him as you wrinkled your nose. “Why didn’t you just tell me I got the wrong guy?”

Simon shrugged, and he pulled his arm out to rest on the wall behind you, effectively trapping you close to him. You didn’t mind it, though; it was a bold flirting tactic, but Simon seemed to be one of those guys who operated at a 10 at all times. Bold was Simon’s MO. “Sweetheart,” he chuckled. The name felt demeaning, not exactly nice, but it sounded so damn sweet coming from him that you craved it. To hell if it wasn’t nice.“When a pretty girl flounces up to you and is smiling at you and saying she’ll pay you to get her pot, that’s not the sorta thing a guy like me turns down.”

“You think I’m pretty?” you asked, and Simon rolled his eyes. 

“Cut that shit out,” he told you. “You know you are. The coy thing doesn’t work on me.”

“Oh?” you asked, and you tilted your head teasingly at him. “What does work on you?”

“Do you want your weed or not?” Simon asked, his eyes narrowing. There was the faintest edge of annoyance beginning to turn him, you could tell, and you lifted your chin to look him in the eyes. 

“Come smoke with us.”

Simon laughed. A real, serious laugh, deep in his chest, his face spreading and opening with a smile. He even coughed a little, turning away from you to do it, and his laughter died into wheezy little giggles. “You’re fuckin’ funny,” he told you. “I don’t smoke.”

“Why not?” you asked. “I think, if there’s ever a time to smoke it, it’s right now.”

“‘Cause weed fucks with my motivation, and I got shit to do tonight,” Simon told you, his eyes widening. The wide-eyed thing added to his oddness. “And I can’t let myself get all high and say ‘fuck it’. I’ll just wanna keep smoking, and then I’ll decide maybe stronger shit is the move— before ya know it, I’m blasted into next week.”

“Maybe that’s what you need,” you told him. “You seem wound up as hell. Maybe a little bender would do you good.” 

“You keep talking to me like you don’t want this fuckin’ pot,” Simon snapped, and you smiled at his conversation switch. No smoking with Simon. Fine. 

“Only ‘cause I’m waiting on you to tell me how much I owe you,” you shot back at him, and his eyebrows flicked. 

“Oh, we’re getting feisty now, are we?” Simon asked. 

“That’s what you seem to like,” you shrugged. “How much do you want? And, remember, I said pussy wasn’t a payment option.” 

“I wasn’t gonna ask for snatch,” Simon told you. “I’m not like that.” His eyes were earnest at you, soft and sweet; you believed him. Even if he wasn't an upstanding citizen, you believed that he wasn't scummy like that.

“Okay,” you started. “How about a kiss?”

Simon seemed to think on it for all of about two seconds before he said, “Now, that could work.” Now it was your turn to laugh, and you opened your eyes to gaze at him. He really was pretty cute right up close, a cigarette behind his ear, primed and ready for smoking. His eyes were killers, downturned almonds, a pretty gray-blue, eyelashes long and fluttery as he blinked; surely he wasn’t batting his lashes at you? How’s that for a twist? “Here’s the offer: I got you two bombers, so it’s one kiss per; or, one nice, good tongue kiss for both. How’s that sound?”

“How about one kiss, no tongue,” you started, and you let your hand drift forward to gently play at his belt loop, letting your fingertip brush the studded belt he wore. “And you get my phone number too.”

“Don’t got a cell,” Simon shrugged. “I wouldn’t be able to call you.” 

You hummed a little, watching Simon’s reaction as you lightly played with his pants. Just the physical reaction, leaning his hip ever so slightly towards your hand, his eyes watching your face, even just the energy coming off of his chest, told you so much about him. He wasn’t used to girls paying attention to him. His body craved even the smallest physical contact, and you tugged on the loop, coming unstitched from his jeans a little bit, to draw him closer. “Alternate offer,” you began, and Simon nodded. “How about, for both… You can kiss me once. It can be as long as you want, tongue or whatever, touch me wherever, but, as soon as your mouth leaves mine, that’s it. You gotta breathe, we’re done; you wanna look at me with some sad little fuck-me eyes, we’re done; you talk, we’re done.”

“Sounds like a shit offer,” Simon told you, tilting his head. “What if you pull away first, dupe me outta my enjoyment?”

“I promise I won’t,” you told him. “This is how I’m paying for the weed you didn’t have to get me. I won’t screw you outta your end of the transaction.” 

“If this is the offer we’re agreeing on, we gotta stop calling it a transaction,” Simon said with a wince. “You let me kiss you, I give you drugs— I’m into the illegal shit, but calling it that sounds bad.”

“Fine,” you agreed. “One last thing.”

Simon groaned, hanging his head. “You’re starting to make this more trouble than it’s worth, sweetheart,” he mumbled, and you shook your head. 

“This kiss,” you offered. “And… I see you at the next show.” 

“Show? What show?” Simon asked, his eyebrows wrinkling up and his forehead creasing with confusion. 

“Well, you were talking to Morgan from Psyops,” you began, and you watched something come over Simon’s face. You couldn’t place what emotion this was, and you pressed your palm to his hip. “You fit into this scene. I figured you’re pretty social, huh? So, whether you go to the next Psyops show to support your friend, or you’re just hanging out, I don’t know, but next time I see you around, we hang out. You know?” 

The weird emotion Simon had when you mentioned Psyops flew away, on his face for one word’s worth of time before fleeting. “You wanna see me again?” he asked. He only sounded like he was teasing a little bit. “Gonna make me buy you more weed?” 

You rolled your eyes, and you pulled Simon into you by his hip to kiss him. He was immediately leaning into you, proving your theory of how female-attention starved he was, and his mouth worked against yours. Simon kissed messy, feral, animal, his hands coming up to clutch you by the back of your neck to make you keep your end of the bargain, but you liked it. He tasted like cigarettes, which should have been gross, but all it did for you was make you groan and keen up into him, tilting your head to allow him to kiss you deeper. 

One of Simon’s hands, big and hot, came to press against your cheek, and he pushed his tongue into your mouth. His entire being felt as hot as fire, even his spit in your mouth, the heavy breathing he was puffing through his nose hitting you and making shivers go down your spine. You weren’t sure if he was a good kisser, or just putting all of his might into it, knowing that it could end at any second, but you really didn’t give a fuck. There was a quivery little warmth blooming in your jeans, and you moaned, flexing your hips to try to get any friction whatsoever. 

That made him pull away. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth a little redder than before, his hair falling into his eyes. “What?” he asked. “You all done?” 

“Not done,” you breathed with a shake of your head, your eyes lingering on his mouth. “Not by a long shot. I just think maybe we oughta go somewhere else.”

“Yeah?” Simon asked. “Where d’you wanna go?” 

“Somewhere where people won’t see us,” you told him softly. You let your pinky play at his beltline, dipping under his t-shirt to lightly skim the skin of his hip, and Simon jolted. “Where you can put your hands on me and people won’t try to kick us out for indecency or whatever.” 

“What about your ‘one kiss’ thing?” Simon asked. He didn’t back away from you, didn’t detach in any way; this was foreplay, and you were glad he was on the same page as you without ever having to say it. 

“Fuck that,” you said with furrowed eyebrows, and Simon laughed. “I was full of shit when I offered that. Just wanted to see if you were a good kisser, so I could decide if I wanted to commit before I did it.” 

“You little schemer,” Simon chuckled. “Then, fine, let’s get outta here. I know where we can go.”

“Where?” you asked, and Simon kissed you again, firm and hard, for one second before he replied. 

“You liked Psyops? Thought they were good?” he asked, and you nodded. “How about I fuck you in their van?” 

“Seriously?” you asked. “Won’t they-- Like, I don’t know a lot about them, but wouldn’t they be pissed?”

“Those pricks can get the fuck over it,” Simon told you. “They’d only be mad about it ‘cause I’m getting pussy in the van and they aren’t.” 

“I feel like members of the band should get first dibs on their van to fuck groupies in,” you laughed. “Friends of the band fucking the band’s fans in the back of the van feels like an abuse of power.” 

“Whatever,” Simon said. “S’like I told you, they can get the fuck over it. Try to tell me what to do, those fucks, I’d like to see them try to…” He trailed off, seeming to realize he was thinking out loud, and he cleared his throat. “What d’ya say?” 

“I’d say that sounds like a total asshole thing to do,” you told him. “I’m in.” 

[mustyrosewater]

[babybluebex]

bexxxx when are we getting kyle gallner fics 🫦

lol i promise i'm workin on it, i just need to find That One Spark and then it's go time

also i had a deal with @mustyrosewater where if SHE starts posting kyle fics i will too sooooooo

[mustyrosewater]

[inbred-eater]

oh that’s so cunt

[lscallop]

real

[ichorai]

the cursed pearl ; baelor targaryen (m).

pairing ; baelor targaryen x yitish!f!oc

excerpt ; Baelor regarded his wife with simultaneous warmth and wariness. "My love," he sighed, drawing her nearer with his hands grazing the soft night shift draped over her hips. With her hair down and loose, it was very tempting for him to thread his fingers through the lustrous strands, blacker than ink. "You see only the good in others. It is what I appreciate most about you."

Aiji watched him with pursed lips, waiting for the inevitable second part of his words.

"But you see through your heart, and this renders you blind from the possibility of… malpractice."

words ; 9.6k

warnings / includes ; fix-it fic (baelor's not dying on my watch), arranged marriage, bubbly x composed dynamic, suggestive themes, foul language, pregnancy, kotsk spoilers for both the book and the show, guys i love torturing maekar so bad i rlly do have a thing for it i think, mentions of my other asoiaf ocs hehe, can i hear some noise for yi ti chat, i LOVE yi ti

read on ao3. masterlist.

The Cursed Pearl, they called her.

Baelor was not one to listen to whispers, but he overheard them anyway. Murmurs of the YiTish princess having sharpened fangs and glowing, serpent-like slits in her eyes. Gossip of her ability to shapeshift into a basilisk by nightfall. Hushed speak of her affinity for poisons, so much so that she bathed in it every fortnight. Talk of her ability to read minds and murder men from a league away—borne of the fact that she was married thrice before this… and none lived long enough to have supper the night after. From the horrid name alone, Baelor was bracing for his betrothed to be a monster of cruel nature.

But the woman that stood before Good King Daeron was no monster.

She was…

She was smiling. And her eyes were bright, roaming about the great hall with a delighted curiosity. No serpent-like qualities to them.

Baelor found himself stupefied.

Her brother stood beside her, a YiTish prince. His expression bore none of the wonder his sister's held. He was a scholarly man dressed in expensive, billowing red silks, bound together with several embroided sashes. The hat he wore was of no fashion seen in Westeros, fitted tight around his head and adorned with polished jade and rubies. His attire was lavish, expected from people of such wealth. The princess, in contrast, was draped in pale blue, the sleeves so long they grazed the floors. When Baelor scrutinized her closer, he could see patterns of swirling dragons embroided into the garment. Her hair fell to her hips, straight as a needle and black as the night, a portion of it sectioned into an intricate weave at the back of her head. She was not as accesorized as her brother, with only a string of iridescent pearls hanging over her chest, and her ears studded with jade.

The two bowed low to the king and queen. Myriah and Daeron welcomed the guests with warm smiles and open arms. Myriah watched the princess with a particularly interested eye. Like Baelor, she hadn't been immune to the gossip. Though the marriage had been arranged for the benefit of the realm, as their union would solidify many advantageous trading agreements between the vast wealth of Yi Ti and Westeros, Myriah was more than ready to break any sort of alliance if the whispers of Aiji being a serpent sorceress had even a seedling of truth to them. It had been a few years since Baelor's first wife, Jena Dondarrion, fell ill and passed on, and she knew that her son, as good as he was at maintaining his composure, was still grieving her loss. It would not serve to see him wounded yet again.

"You are welcome in my court, Prince Bian and Princess Aiji," announced Daeron good-naturedly. Baelor did not miss the way the princess brightened, bouncing onto the heels of her feet ever so slightly. "The wedding preparations are nearly in order, but that can be discussed on the morrow. I understand you've had a very long journey."

"Very. The waters were not kind," said Bian. He was clearly fluent in the common tongue, though there was a slight, foreign lilt to his words. Baelor wondered if Aiji had the same cadence to her speech.

As if hearing his thoughts, Aiji spoke.

"The ocean sparkled like sapphires. It was wonderful," she said cheerfully, smiling wide. Baelor noticed her cheeks dimpled upon her excitement. He also found that with her YiTish accent, her voice was as pleasant as a harp's melody. His shoulders straightened.

Bian shot his younger sister a glare, but dared not chastise her in front of the king.

"Good to hear!" exclaimed Daeron. His father turned to gesture Baelor forward. "This is my eldest son and my Hand, Prince Baelor."

At this, Baelor stepped forward, bowing respectfully to the YiTish prince and princess.

"My prince," said Aiji. Her eyes shone as they met his. "I have heard much about you."

"As have I," agreed Baelor, tone remaining courteous despite all the terrible rumors floating about the Keep. "I must admit, it is not often we receive guests from so far east."

"And it is not often our people travel so far west," said Bian. His brows raised as he gestured about, unimpressed. "It is very… different." His unspoken sentiment hung thickly in the air. His head was lifted, almost looking down his nose at the good king. Baelor's jaw tightened.

"Very different. You have a beautiful home, Your Grace," Aiji chimed, though she seemed oblivious to her brother's haughty manner. Her words sliced through the unspoken tension like a hot knife gliding through lard. "Bian will have a good time studying Westerosi culture. Won't you, brother?"

Bian shifted his weight from foot to foot. All the gold he wore jangled and clanked. "Yes," he said after an uncomfortable pause. An obvious lie to Baelor, but whether or not his father noticed, he could not say.

In truth, the Red Keep was quite plain in comparison to her home in Yi Ti, where everything was gilded in gold and silver, gemstones and rarities, the entire palace was polished, sparkling and gleaming. Westeros so far was very… small and quaint. And Aiji loved it.

"You must want rest after all your traveling," said Myriah. "My ladies-in-waiting will show you to your chambers."

Whilst Bian was elated at the prospect of putting his feet up, Aiji loitered by, dragging her feet. She seemed almost shy when her eyes met his. An excited sort of bashful. Her dimples appeared again as she tried to stop herself from smiling. Baelor couldn't help but do the same.

"If it is acceptable to you, Your Grace," said Aiji, "I would very much like to look around the castle before I retire to my chambers."

"Oh, but of course!" said Myriah. Her eyes were warm—she'd only known Aiji for a handful of heartbeats, but she was already growing fond of her daughter-to-be. "Baelor—will you take your betrothed for a walk? Show her the Great Yard and the godswood, yes."

"Of course," said Baelor. He stepped forward and offered the princess his arm. She took it gladly, her hand resting delicately over his forearm. He led her away from his parents, who watched him go with pride.

He marveled in the brightness of her eyes when she turned to look up at him, grinning with elation. "Thank you. I hope I am not keeping you from your duties."

"I had the entirety of today and tomorrow cleared in anticipation for your arrival," assured Baelor. Aiji just about glowed at this.

Baelor showed the princess around the Red Keep—from the Maidenvault to the rookery to the godswood to the Tower of the Hand, where they would reside together once they were married when they weren't lodging in Dragonstone. It pleased him to watch her expression shift with awe even at the smallest, most insignificant of buildings. She watched the stray cats scuttle through the open halls with parted lips, having half a mind to chase after them—but restrained herself upon glancing back at her betrothed, his expression tender with amusement.

"Oh, it's beautiful. I never imagined your world could look so different to mine," she murmured, just loud enough for Baelor to hear. "It is so…" She shook her head, at a loss for words.

From what Baelor knew, Yi Ti was a place of opulence and endless wealth. The princess must have lived in a castle five times the size of the Red Keep. If anything, Baelor should have been the one to gaze upon her in wonder. And he was, in his own way—by studying her. The way her bright eyes danced with light was mesmerizing.

She turned to him abruptly, brows creasing. "I must admit, my prince, I was worried."

"Worried?" asked Baelor. "What ever for?"

"I was bracing myself for the worst," she said, having the grace to avert her eyes as her cheeks flushed. "I feared my husband-to-be would be a callous man. I do not know you well, as we have only just met. But you… you are a very pleasant surprise. As is your home."

Baelor regarded the princess with a soft, gentle expression. The corner of his lips turned into a slight smile. She watched him, gaze searching for any sign that he was displeased with her.

"In truth, you are not at all what I was expecting," said Baelor, "and that is a very good thing, princess." His hand came to rest politely on her upper back, guiding her along.

"Call me Aiji!" she exclaimed as the two walked on. She pressed closer to his side, and he could smell the scent of spiceflowers in her hair, and an earthy hint of tea. "We are to be married, after all. It would be very strange indeed for my husband to call me by my title alone."

Baelor felt warmth curl in his chest. "Very well, Aiji… only if you call me Baelor. Now come. I must introduce you to my young sons."

The wedding took place only four nights after their arrival.

In that short time, Baelor had grown to be very fond of his betrothed. She had a heart full of love and light. She approached everything with kindness and warmth. And his sons loved her. Valarr enjoyed hearing her high tales of her travels on the seas, and Matarys appreciated her inquisitive nature. Even his mother adored her company, oft whisking her away from him to introduce her to other lords and ladies.

She was perfect.

The whispers, of course, did not cease. In fact, they only seemed to grow louder as the wedding drew closer. Many worried he was going to die soon. The Cursed Pearl's next victim would be the prince of the realm, and she would be beheaded for her crimes, they were sure of it.

Baelor believed in no such thing. Aiji wouldn't hurt a butterfly, he would stake his life on this.

Maekar had likened her to an exciteable pup. Baelor was very near giving his youngest brother a cuff to the ear, which he hadn't done since they were very young boys.

The wedding was held in the Great Sept, full to the brim with lords and ladies from all over Westeros in attendance. Smallfolk were crowded outside the sept, clamoring to see the infamous Cursed Pearl of Yi Ti. The Kingsguard had to push back against the crowd several times for them to get the hint and stay a safe distance away.

Baelor was inside, adjusting the collar of his red doublet. If he was nervous, he did not show it. Myriah fussed over her eldest son, smoothing over his dark hair.

"Mother," was all Baelor had to say, gently taking her hands and pulling them down.

"Ah, my boy. You look so handsome," she murmured with the reminiscing tone that mothers often used with their grown children and finally stepped away, back to Daeron's side. His father shot him a warm smile and an encouraging nod. Beside him, Maekar was trying his best to wrangle half of his children to sit down, with the other half missing somewhere amongst the crowd.

Baelor could only pray Aerion and Syraena wouldn't pop up somewhere and make a terrible scene during the vows.

Only moments later, the bride's arrival was announced.

Bian was the one to walk Aiji down the sept's walkway, his chest puffed with pride.

But Baelor was not looking at him. His lips parted, and for a brief moment, he'd forgotten how to breathe.

She was radiant—her wedding robes were a bright shade of crimson, lined with pale gold fixings that moved like water ripples with each step she took. Her hair was pinned away with an intricate headpiece that curled up like rising mist, only made of red crystals. It was completely out of the ordinary Westerosi wedding attire—but Baelor thought she put all other brides to shame.

When her bright eyes met his mismatched ones, she beamed. Baelor inhaled sharply. And he smiled back.

The first year of their marriage, Baelor and Aiji toured the rest of Westeros. Their arrival was highly anticipated at each castle, and preparations were arranged several months in advance.

After the first week they wed, all the rumors were beginning to die down—as Baelor was evidently not dead, and more people were beginning to see that hiw YiTish wife was not, in fact, a shapeshifting basilisk or a cold-blooded murderer, but a sweet-smiling princess. He had arranged the trip for her knowing she would absolutely adore seeing the rest of Westeros. To his slight dismay, her brother was also coming along, as he was equivalent to a maester-in-training back in Yi Ti, and knew the traveling would bring much insight to his studies.

Aiji did not bode well in the cold of the North, despite loving the snow. She sneezed and sniffled, and yet remained adamant on going on long treks in the cold. Baelor thought it terribly endearing the way her cheeks grew rosy after spending far too long chasing snowflakes. When he cupped her face in his hands to warm her frozen cheeks, his thumbs would brush against the indents of her dimples, and she would grow shy from this, nearly melting under his touch.

Dorne, by far, was Aiji's favorite region of Westeros. She loved the sunshine and the warmth, the fruits and the unique architecture found in the southern-most regions of Dorne. She adored the puppet shows and the markets, overflowing with vendors from Essos. She loved trying new things, and if not for her, Baelor would never have found that he had an affinity for exotic, rare fruits from Essos.

"Lychees," Aiji had cried in delight upon finding one of the vendors selling them, licking the sticky residue from her fingers. "How I missed them! Oh, Baelor, we must have more boxes imported to King's Landing when we return!"

As Baelor agreed, Aiji turned to chat fervently with the vendor. She often spoke faster than her mind could keep up with, and jumbled over her words. Baelor was very fond of the way she had to slowly backtrack to find her place again, adamant to convey her points.

It is a strange thing, he thought. Falling in love again.

It was her genuine nature that drew him in, he knew. Her enthusiasm for all things large and small. Her endless supply of love. How she could always see the good in people. One could think it a weakness—willful blindness to the evils of men.

But Baelor revered her for this. Only the strongest of hearts could look past such evils. He truthfully found her to be an inspiration. If one expects trouble, would they not be more likely to receive it?

When they finally returned to King's Landing, they were met with a grand feast thrown by Daeron. There was dancing, drinking, and plenty of merry laughter. Aiji had shown Valarr and Matarys a traditional YiTish dance, with his two sons trying to mimic her movements with rigid limbs and confused expressions. From his seat at the head table, Baelor watched with a smile when Matarys fell down with a yelp, having wrongly twisted his leg one too many times. Aiji helped her stepson up with a comforting smile, and urged him to try again.

That was the moment Baelor truly knew, despite it having been a year since their marriage. He was terribly in love with his wife.

Aiji leaned over one of the library's many tables, flicking through an ancient tome that sent up a plume of dust each time she turned a page. No sane person would ever take an interest in—Baelor peered over his wife's shoulder—an archived history of water distribution systems in King's Landing. Baelor would wager most maesters wouldn't even know the first thing about water distribution systems.

"Good Queen Alysanne had constructed wells and pipes all over King's Landing for the smallfolk to be able to drink clean water," chattered Aiji, eyes roaming over the page at a rapid speed. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes, love," said Baelor, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. The two were married for well over two years now. His hands fell onto her hips. She smelled of lychees and parchment.

"Rainwater storage in cisterns could also keep it cool, useful especially during the sweltering heat of the summer." Aiji rocked on her feet. "Oh, this is riveting! Baelor, did you know about all this? And you didn't tell me?"

Baelor couldn't quite recall if he had or hadn't known about cisterns from his many lessons as a boy with Maester Yormwell, but he wasn't given a chance to respond, as Aiji was quick to move on to the next page.

"In Yi Ti, we have canals running through the city for everyone to use. They are important for the transport of goods. But it says here the water tunnels in this city are far too small for carrying boats and goods. Just large enough for the water to flow. Perhaps that is something to be improved upon," said Aiji.

"Perhaps," echoed Baelor.

She turned to face her husband then, intent on showing him the page she was looking at, but halted in surprise when she saw how serious his expression was. It took her another moment to realize his eyes were dark, face solemn with an unspoken need.

Desire.

Of course, the two bedded often. Aiji still remembered their wedding night, and how she ached pleasurably between her legs for days afterwards. And even after a while of being married, Aiji still found herself shy during intimacies with her husband. In the midst of their passions, Baelor often had to remind her to slow down and enjoy it—feel it. Savor their union.

Gently, with deft fingers of feathers, he took the book from her, marked the page she wanted to show him, and shut the book with a thud. Dust billowed up, and Baelor pushed at the tome so there would be space for him to crowd Aiji against the table, his hands pressing against the wood behind her.

Her eyes, bright as ever, danced between her husband and the book.

"Did I bore you, Your Grace?" she whispered, genuine concern staining her beautiful features like splatters of ink across parchment. "I can stop."

"No, love," he said. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through the soft silken strands of her dark hair. "Don't ever."

He did not say anything more. He surged forward and kissed her deeply, passionately. As if she were the wind and he was the hungry flame greedily licking up the air. She made a small, wanton noise against him when he pressed closer to her.

Only moments later, she was gasping his name into his ear as he rocked into her, hands gripping his shoulders for dear life, her lips parted with pleasure.

A banquet was held at Summerhall for young Daella Targaryen's nameday. She was one of Maekar's daughter, the quietest of all his otherwise rowdy children. Aiji had gifted her a lattice of shining rubies from Yi Ti, a fashionable accessory to lay over her bodice.

As the feasting drew on, Aiji had already made several rounds about the Hall, having lost her husband long before to an elderly Dornish lord who wanted to resolve a squabble with a lord from the Stormlands. She had just been discussing the best Dornish fruits with Daella's aunt, Theodora Dayne, wife to Lord Lyonel Baratheon, when she felt a queer wave of sickness roll over her stomach. Aiji bent over with a noise of discomfort, and Lady Theodora was quick to reach out to steady her, concern etched over her features.

"Your Grace, what is the matter?" the lady asked. Her violet eyes narrowed with concern.

Aiji sucked in a shaky breath. "I feel… terribly ill."

Theodora blinked at Aiji, as if recalling something distant in her past, but was quick to recover. "I shall fetch a maester. Please, sit down, Your Grace."

Moments later, both her husband came rushing to her with Maester Yormwell right behind him.

Baelor's hands fell to her shoulders, checking his wife was alright. His palm pressed against her forehead, which had grown uncomfortably warm.

"I feel better now," said Aiji, flushing from all the unnecessary fuss.

"I can attempt to check her here, or we can retreat somewhere away from curious eyes," said Yormwell, scrutinizing Aiji with concern.

"Come, love," said Baelor, helping her up with an arm wound about her waist. "Thank you, lady Theodora. Please inform my brother I regret to take my leave early."

They departed then, off to the rookery. The maester had simply instructed Aiji to piss on a bag of wheat and barley seeds, and the princess had balked at that. Her brother had left for Oldtown months prior to study alongside the maesters, but she knew that if Bian were here, he would curse Yormwell and his belief of people in the west being low savages would only further be cemented.

But Aiji complied. Their ways may be strange, but she was growing very fond of Westeros. If a knowledgeable maester asked her to piss on some grains, so be it.

They did not find out that night what was wrong with her. In fact, they did not find out for several days after that, despite the sickness repeatedly coming and going.

And there was nothing actually wrong with her, the maester informed them a fortnight later, once the seeds began to sprout.

She had a babe growing in her belly.

When Baelor received the news, he gathered his wife up in his arms and held her close, pulling away only to press proud, delighted kisses all over her face.

The babe had only recently learned how to crawl, yet she was already sending the wet nurses mad by disappearing every time their back was turned. Baelor found his baby girl underneath the dining table when one of the wet nurses came to him in tears, wailing that she'd lost the prince's child and she was ever so sorry.

His daughter cooed when Baelor scooped her up into his arms. "There you are, Tiansi," he murmured. "You're very talented at scaring half the court with your vanishing trick."

He held her at arm's length, regarding her with exceedingly warm fondness. If she were to ask him to tear his own leg off, he would have done it in an instant without question. Perhaps it was a good thing that his daughter was not yet able to speak.

She looked just like her mother. A full head of dark hair, and the same eyes, only a shade darker than Aiji's pale blue ones.

"I look just like my mother, as well. I suppose you take after me in my regard," whispered Baelor. Tiansi slapped a clumsy, uncoordinated hand against the side of his nose. A smile grew across the prince's face. "You have Dornish blood in you, sweet one. Don't forget that."

It was then that his eldest son, Valarr, popped his head into the chambers. "I heard Tiansi went missing again!" he remarked, but blew out a sigh of relief seeing his baby sister safe in Baelor's grasp.

"She's a little magician, she is," said Baelor, only smiling softly when her warm head shifted forward to rest against his bearded jaw.

He had only a brief moment to cradle her before Valarr was already pulling his sister away, pinching her round cheek. "Come, Tansy! I'll take you to see the horses."

Baelor barely had the time to sigh and warn his son, "Be careful!"

In the blink of an eye, Valarr was already gone, having whisked his giggling daughter away.

The journey to Ashford was a pleasant one. Aiji would often take Tiansi out of the wheelhouse whenever they stopped for a brief rest and show the babe the flowers and the fields, bouncing her on her hip.

"Ah, ah," Aiji warned when Tiansi grabbed at a flower stalk, clearly meaning to put it into her mouth. She turned her daughter away from the plants with a smile, pressing soft kisses along Tiansi's cheek. "No, no. That's not for eating."

A warm hand pressed on her shoulder, and Aiji turned to see her husband smiling down at their daughter. He took the cooing Tiansi into his arms, pressing his nose into the dark, downy hair at the top of her head.

"I'm surprised she hasn't disappeared somewhere along the road yet," said Baelor.

"I've been watching her closely," said Aiji with an affectionate, dimpled grin directed down towards her babe. "It's one thing for her to go missing in the castle, it's another entirely to lose a child whilst traveling."

"You hear that?" murmured Baelor, stroking his daughter's soft, round cheek. "Your mother is keeping an eye on you, young lady."

Tiansi only burbled at that, grabbing at her father's finger to gnaw on with her toothless gums. Aiji watched with an amused chortle.

"She's been trying to bite everything she could reach for. Bian wrote that it means her milk teeth are about to sprout."

Baelor hummed. He gently pulled his finger away and wiped it on his riding cloak. "I shall ask the wet nurses if they have any teething cloths for Tiansi."

Aiji nodded, placing both her hands on Baelor's arm so she could balance herself on the tips of her toes and kiss him on the cheek, just above his beard. The two made their way back into the wheelhouse, intent on reaching Ashford before nightfall. Aiji had been to plenty of tourneys before, but it had been a handful of long months since she last stepped foot in the Reach, and she'd only ever visited Highgarden before. It was a beautiful region, full of greenery and sunlight. She even saw a handsome spotted buck dash through the trees, and had gasped so loudly that Valarr startled from his nap.

Ashford was an unimpressive castle, in truth. It was small and stony, dingy and a tad dusty. There was much left to be desired in terms of its splendor.

Aiji thought it was lovely all the same. If Bian were here, she knew he would simply snort and mutter something about barbarians living in man-built caves.

The Lord of Ashford greeted the royal family with low bows and a nervous smile. He introduced everybody to his daughter, Gwin, whose nameday was the reason the tourney was being held. She curtsied low and took an instant liking to the little babe balanced on Aiji's hip.

"What's her name?" gasped lady Gwin.

"Tiansi," said Aiji, practically glowing. "You may call her Tansy if it is easier on your tongue."

Lord Ashford led the party into the castle, where they were promptly informed that two of the princes—Maekar's sons, Daeron and Aegon—had not yet arrived. He tried to console Maekar, who had grown irate with the news, that they could have just been delayed from the streams overflowing from the spring rains. Aiji thought back to the journey, when she had glanced out of the openings of the wheelhouse to see what once was several thin tributaries now swallowed into one large river.

To this, Maekar only cursed. He clawed his riding cloak off.

"Fuck me!"

Baelor fixed his younger brother with a mildly stern look. "Do not curse our gracious host."

"I said fuck me, not fuck him," gruffed Maekar. "It's not his fault Father bade us attend this miserable circus."

Oftentimes, Aiji thought Maekar was quite similar to Bian, even though they seemed to loathe each other's very existence.

"Good-brother," said Aiji warmly, handing Tiansi off to an awaiting wet nurse, "this place is no misery. It's certainly a welcome change in comparison to the wet storms of Dragonstone. Look how bright it is outside!"

Maekar misliked when Aiji called him good-brother. Jena certainly was never this companiable with him when she was alive. It didn't do for him to think about how Aiji and Dyanna would have gotten along very well together.

"I do say my wife is right. Perhaps we ought to discuss this later in the day, after some rest."

The silver-haired prince only scowled at such a suggestion. "I say we go hunting."

"And would you be hunting for bucks or for your sons?" asked Aiji, taking a seat at the dining table, partially in jest. Maekar gave her an unamused, daggered stare.

Baelor gently intercepted. "Daeron has done this before," he reminded Maekar. "You should not have commanded him to enter the lists, knowing his tendency to… abdicate."

"Abdicate," scoffed Maekar. "A polite word for abandoning his family to go fuck some whore in a brothel."

Baelor's lips pursed. "That is not what I said."

Maekar strode up to the dining table and took a seat beside Aiji with a loud, tired groan. "You'd be far more concerned if it was your sons, I'd wager."

"Matarys is terribly frightened of bees," said Aiji, giggling. Baelor cracked a smile at that. "He wouldn't last very long on his own in the Reach. And Valarr—"

"Is a perfect fucking boy," sighed Maekar. "I'm aware."

Baelor and Aiji exchanged wary glances.

"It's only been a day since they went missing. No doubt Ser Roland will turn him up, and Aegon along with him."

"When the tourney is over, perhaps."

"Daeron is no fool," said Aiji in a consoling manner. "He may be fond of wine, but he wouldn't willingly place Aegon in harm's way, if that is what ails you."

"You speak of my sons as if you know them well," retorted Maekar.

"She's only trying to make light of the situation," cautioned Baelor, placing a hand on Aiji's shoulder. She reached up to lace her fingers with his. Maekar rolled his eyes at the sight, groaning again.

The conversation was wearing on him. "I do not need to be reminded of my son's failings. He can change. He will change, gods be damned."

"You and your gods," said Aiji, shaking her head. "Damn them or not, Daeron will be found, hopefully unharmed. Have patience."

Maekar glowered. "I suppose you'd have experience with that. Your own babe slips from your hands every other breath. Perhaps she ought to wear a bell around her neck. If my sons were any younger, I'd do the same."

If it were any other lady Maekar was speaking to, they surely would have grown offended. If he was of lower birth, he would have even been struck for such a comment. But Aiji only smiled at his words. Of fucking course.

"Maekar, enough," said Baelor. His tone, though heavy with finality, was not severe.

But Maekar was not paying attention to his brother anymore. His eyes were fixed on the big brute spying on them, demanding to know what he was doing.

A young man dressed in threadbare tatters stepped into the hall. Aiji's eyes sparkled as she took him in. He was likely the tallest person Aiji had ever seen.

"We are the intruders here, brother," said Baelor, voice soft. "Come closer, ser."

He introduced himself as a knight and spoke of his former master, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. The two spoke of Arlan unhorsing the Grey Lion many years ago, back when Aiji was still a doe-eyed girl in Yi Ti.

"How can you remember some fucking hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?" asked Maekar incredulously.

"I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes," said Baelor.

Aiji leaned against the table with a soft laugh. "It's no lie. Baelor knew my brother hated snakes before he ever stepped foot in Westeros."

Baelor smiled down at himself. "The right kind of knowledge can oft be stronger than a sword."

"Why would you even deign to joust with a hedge knight?" Maekar asked.

"It was long ago, at Storm's End," replied Baelor. "Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him."

The tall knight fidgeted in his spot. "Seven," he interrupted hastily. "It was seven."

Maekar laughed then. It was the first time Aiji heard him laugh throughout the entire journey.

"Tales grow in the telling, I know," said Baelor, amicable. He smiled at the hedge knight. "Do not think ill of your old master, but it was only four lances, I fear."

The knight nodded feverishly, before bending the knee. "As you say, Your Grace. It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say that I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs."

"Aurochs can be quite intelligent when need be. They remember the faces of those who wronged them, you know. At least that's what I was told in Yi Ti," hummed Aiji, earning another scoff from Maekar. "But he must have been a brave knight. To ride against a prince of the realm not once or twice, but four times. It is an admirable feat in itself."

The hedge knight blinked at the bright-eyed YiTish princess, as if only just realizing who she was. He'd heard cruel whispers of her before, but never thought he'd one day stand before her. He swallowed around the nervous lump in his throat.

"He was, yes," he breathed out. "A brave knight."

Baelor beckoned for the knight to get up. "No harm was done, ser. Rise." The command was soft-spoken yet powerful.

The knight pushed himself back up to his feet. Words started to tumble from his mouth then, flowery speech of Baelor's chivalrous nature. Maekar rolled his eyes once again and made a noise of disgust. Aiji hid a silent laugh behind her palm. The knight had a bumbling air about him, but she could plainly see his good nature, one that reflected her husband.

When Baelor accepted the hedge knight into the lists, his grateful stammering was promptly cut off by Maekar's harsh voice to fuck off.

"You must forgive my brother, ser," said Baelor, without batting an eye. This was a terribly regular occurence. "His sons went astray on the way here, and he fears for them."

The hedge knight nodded. "Oh, yes. Of course… I trust they will not be found dead."

That was all he said before he bowed and took his leave.

Maekar's expression creased as he sat up in his seat. "What the fuck did he mean by that? Dead?"

"Oh, good-brother, I am sure he meant well," Aiji chimed, which earned her another scoff.

"Fucking ridiculous," grumbled Maekar. "Hedge knights and fools. They are one and the same."

"Tell me of Tyrosh," said Aiji, marveling at the way Kiera's pink hair seemed to shimmer beneath the sun, a stark contrast to her smooth skin, dark as ebony. Aiji thought her the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen—it was not a wonder that Valarr was so taken with his wife.

"What would you like to know?" she asked, sipping on a cup full of honeyed tea. The two were sharing drinks and platters of fruits while the men toiled about outside.

"All of it. Any of it. I've never visited, but I've always wanted to," said Aiji, shifting closer to her, peeling the skin off a tangerine. "The Free Cities have always fascinated me."

"Well… the air smells different in Essos than it does here. Here it oft smells of rain or dust or… forgive my language, but shit. One of the three, or a queer combination. In the east there is always the smell of spice in the air. Spice and fruit and copper and stone. Markets and fountains line the streets. Dragonstone shines along the high walls, shimmering, yet black as night. Temples are scattered all over the city; you could seldom take a walk without passing by a shrine littered with offerings. And everything back home is so colorful. Greens and scarlets and indigos of all varieties of shades, everywhere you look." Kiera gestured to her hair. "And pinks as well, of course."

Aiji listened in rapt attention, brows drawn together as she pictured it. "It sounds marvelous."

Of course it did. Kiera had pointedly left out the unsavory details of slavers and pillow houses.

The smile that she gave the princess was a genuine one, but faded just as quickly as it came. "I miss home. Do you miss yours?"

Aiji thought of her shimmering palace, the decadence and opulence. She thought of her stern father's face, the scared flinches of the court every time she walked into a room, the coldness of the gilded halls.

"I do, sometimes," Aiji said, gaze shifting to her hands, twisted together in her lap, "but I'm content being here."

"Oh, of course," said Kiera, hasty. "Yes, I feel the same."

The two lapsed into brief silence as they gazed out of the window together. Aiji spotted Valarr playing with Tiansi in the yards, holding his baby sister securely in his arms, swaying her to and fro whilst pointing at the horses drifting by. No doubt he was crooning to her in that soft, high-pitched tone he liked to use with Tiansi. Aiji's heart swelled at the sight.

Whatever merry thoughts occupied her mind dissipated like mist when she heard sniffling across from her. Aiji turned to see Kiera angling her face away from the princess, hand raised to furiously wipe at her eyes.

"Kiera," whispered Aiji, immediately placing the fruits she'd been holding back onto the table. "Are you well? What is the matter?"

The question only seemed to upset her more. Her shoulders shook as she tried her best to stave away her cries.

Aiji softened at once. She shifted closer to the pink-haired lady. "I'm going to hold you now."

Kiera's nod would've been imperceptible to one not looking for it. But Aiji was observing her companion intently, and didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around her, allowing the young woman to fold into the princess and cry to her heart's content, soaking her silks.

She smelled of spiceflowers and honey at first, then of salt from her tears. Aiji stroked the back of her neck and murmured quiet words of comfort.

Finally, when Kiera's sobs subsided into hiccups and deep breaths, she pulled away. "Apologies. I was… overcome with emotion."

Aiji's brows drew together as she regarded her. "There is nothing to apologize for." She leaned forward to gently wipe at Kiera's damp cheeks with her long, drooping sleeve, folded back so the embroidered lace wouldn't scratch at her skin.

"I've lost three now," she whispered. The words were but a soft wind in a whirlstorm of emotion. "Three babes. I dared not name them."

Aiji listened with baited breath.

"I've tried so hard," whimpered Kiera. "I just want to be good. What am I doing wrong?"

Her dark eyes, warbling with a fresh film of tears, met Aiji's worried blue ones. The princess enveloped Kiera's shaking hands with her steady, gentle ones.

"I wish I could offer some sage advice," said Aiji, "but I know not the intricacies of child-bearing as a maester would. I can only hold you—" the older of the two squeezed their joined hands together— "and tell you I am here for you."

With nothing more to say, the two women embraced each other once more.

Aerion's joust was a terrible affair. Aiji felt a twist in her stomach remembering the pained whickers of the horse before it was put out of its misery. Not to mention all the commotion with the knight's broken leg, the rioting smallfolk, and the kingsguard having to intervene.

And yet, even after all she had witnessed, Aiji couldn't help it.

"Perhaps it was an accident on Aerion's end," she murmured to Baelor. The chamber was dark, save for the moonlight filtering through the window left ajar, along with the melting candles lit by the edges of the room, whispering hazy oranges over the walls. "I presume it is hard to see anything through the helmet visors." She would know that well, considering she often liked to try wearing Valarr's helmet, which was far too big for her.

Baelor regarded his wife with simultaneous warmth and wariness. "My love," he sighed, drawing her nearer with his hands grazing the soft night shift draped over her hips. With her hair down and loose, it was very tempting for him to thread his fingers through her lustrous hair, blacker than ink. "You see only the good in others. It is what I appreciate most about you."

Aiji watched him with pursed lips, waiting for the inevitable second part of his words.

"But you see through your heart, and this renders you blind from the possibility of… malpractice." His brows rose meaningfully.

"He is your nephew," said Aiji, weakly.

"And Bian is your brother. I know you love him so, but he has his faults, yes?"

It was widely known that the YiTish prince was arrogant, pompous, and shrewd.

Though Aiji did not look happy with agreeing with such a sentiment, she tilted her head with a wince. "I suppose so…"

"Just as Aerion has his. Blood relations don't make the man. Actions do." Baelor frowned in thought. "Maekar, Seven help him… he tries his best with his children. It's been hard for him since Dyanna passed."

At this, Aiji rested her head upon Baelor's chest. She couldn't hear his heart beat through the layers of clothes he still had yet to shed. "That is precisely what I mean. How can a loving father who tries his best end up with a son who is cruel on purpose, despite all his efforts? I would not believe it to be so."

Distantly, Aiji thought of her own father. Sharp as Valyrian steel were his eyes. And so was his whip.

Baelor's warm hand slotted beneath Aiji's chin, lifting it so her gaze met his. "For all our sakes, I do hope you're right. Now enough of this talk. It wouldn't do to dwell on this before bed."

"And what would you propose instead?" she hummed, smiling widely so that her dimples appeared in the way that Baelor was particularly fond of.

He kissed her then, pulling away only briefly to shed the velvet coat and the silk tunic he was wearing, expression intensifying when Aiji padded over to the bed and sprawled herself over the furs in a manner he could only describe as inviting. She was a vision, and he had eyes of a prophet.

To Aiji's utter dismay, she was sorely proven wrong mere hours later.

A knock on the chamber's doors rang out when they were in the midst of slumber. Aiji made a noise of protest into the feather pillow. Baelor had left her aching and pleasantly exhausted, and she had terrible qualms with being roused from her sweet dreams of lychees and Tyroshi fountains.

But her husband was already up, taking all the warmth with him. He pulled the furs higher up Aiji's shoulders so her bare skin was covered, and slipped on his own clothes for his decency.

"What is it?" asked Baelor through the door. "The hour is late."

"Apologies, Your Grace," came the voice of Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Aiji cracked a tired eye open. "There's been an incident regarding Prince Aerion."

"A veiled attack on House Targaryen," Aiji echoed, shaking her head in disbelief. "That's madness. Over a puppet show? Truly?"

Valarr fixed his stepmother with a frown eerily similar to his father's. "I'm afraid so."

"And what will become of this mess?" asked Kiera. She was also clad in naught but a thin nightshift.

"This will either go to court or…" Valarr made a displeased noise, "or it will be a trial by combat."

Aiji shifted uncomfortably at the thought. "Do those typically end in bloodshed?" During her time at Westeros, she'd only heard of trial by combats before, but never witnessed one in person.

"Sometimes," said the prince. "Not if someone yields. And knowing Aerion… he would yield very quickly given his confidence has been bruised like a peach."

Kiera smiled at that, despite it all. "Can't he choose a champion then? Someone to fight for him?"

Valarr nodded. "If my coz has the wits, he would choose a member of the kingsguard to fight for him."

In the end, Aerion had not chosen a champion. He'd chosen a trial of seven. The concept was utterly foreign to Aiji. Apparently, it was foreign to Valarr, as well. Baelor had to explain it to the both of them twice over, seeing the confusion evident in both their faces.

"It comes from the east, though not as far east as Yi Ti. The Andals thought that if seven champions fought on each side, the gods would be more like to intervene and see the guilty party punished for their crime," said Baelor, grim. "Seldom invoked."

"When last?" asked Valarr.

"Not since Maegor the Cruel's era," answered Baelor. He looked to his wife, who was holding Tiansi, busy gnawing on her teething cloth, eyes half-lidded as she drifted in and out of slumber. Their talk of trials and history seemed to be putting her back to sleep.

"Even more bloodshed," fretted Aiji. "We came here for Lady Gwin's nameday and its accompanying tourney. Not this."

This time, Baelor had no words of comfort for his wife. He remained solemn. "The trial will be held at dawn."

"Soon," said Valarr, glancing at the sky outside the window, only just beginning to lighten. "The hedge knight must find six other men, then?"

"Yes."

"And what happens if he doesn't?" asked Aiji, fearing the worst. In Yi Ti, decapitations were fairly common for crimes equivalent to what he was being accused of.

"He will be deemed guilty, and a court will have to decide his punishment befitting the gods," said Baelor. "Maekar and Daeron will be fighting alongside Aerion. The kingsguard, as well."

"The hedge knight couldn't possibly have a chance, then," said Valarr, eyes widening.

Baelor exhaled sharply. "He wouldn't. You're right." His hands twirled at the rings on his fingers as he deliberated. "Unless…"

Valarr had always been a sharp boy. "No," he gritted out, voice cracking at the sudden force behind the word. "Father, no!"

Aiji realized what her husband was insinuating only a moment after. Her bright eyes danced with fright. She didn't know what to say.

"Ser Duncan defended the innocent," said Baelor. "It is not a matter of should or could. It is a matter of honor. I must."

When Baelor looked to his sweet wife, he expected similar protests to fall from her lips. He expected her to weep and beg him not to do it. But she always did find a way to surprise him.

"If you must, then so be it," said Aiji, bowing her head to look down at Tiansi. "Protecting the innocent and defending the realm is honorable beyond measure. I would not stand in your way, husband."

The crown prince gently lifted his wife's face and pressed a lasting kiss on her forehead, as if in gratitude for not fighting him on this. She smiled at him, but it did not quite reach her eyes. Her cheeks did not dimple.

Valarr was not nearly as accepting as his stepmother.

"He is a hedge knight," said Valarr, the mismatched eyes he inherited from Baelor wide with incredulity. It was not often that the younger prince disagreed with his father. Almost never. He stood up a bit straighter, a touch taller, shoulders drawn back. "You are risking your life for a hedge knight!"

"And the lowly hedge knight has more honor than any of us. How could I call myself a prince if I did not help the people who need help?" said Baelor. His voice did not raise, but Valarr shrank back as if he'd been struck all the same. "I will not be in any imminent danger, if that is what concerns you. The kingsguard shan't hurt me. Neither Aerion nor Daeron would dare. And Maekar… why, I've bested him since we were boys in the training field, however strong he is."

That was that. There was no changing Baelor's mind. Valarr knew that.

Baelor placed an affectionate hand over the side of his son's head, thumb running along the white streak of his hair. "I must ask you a favor."

Conflict warred over his expression. "What is it?"

"I need borrow of your armor. Will you lend it to me?"

Valarr hesitated. Then he sighed. "Of course, father."

It was time for the trial.

Aiji had tried her best to comfort her stepson, but Valarr, usually naught but gentleness and tolerance, brooded a terrible storm when upset. Even Tiansi's giggles and clumsy swats barely broke a smile from him.

"He will be fine," said Aiji, patting his shoulder as they took their seats in the stands. "Your father is a strong fighter. They do not call him Breakspear for nothing."

She bounced the babe in her lap, glancing down at Tiansi and her soft blue eyes, her gummy smile stretching at her round cheeks. There her daughter sat, blissfully unaware of the tense happenings around her. The only thing she had to worry about was the ache in her gums as she chewed on a milk-soaked cloth. Aiji stroked at her daughter's dark hair.

A horn sounded, low and rumbling. Tiansi startled in Aiji's grasp at the sudden noise. Valarr reached out so his little sister could wrap her tiny fingers around one of his.

Off the riders went. The fog of the morning was so thick it was difficult to see the fighters. Aiji strained her neck and narrowed her eyes in an effort to look for her husband. Silver-white flutters of the cape—Donnel or Roland. A streak of yellow—Beesbury. A sharp glint of an antler—Baratheon. A petrified knight in an unadorned helm—Ser Duncan. A flaming helmet and a wild morningstar—Aerion.

"There!" shouted Valarr, pointing to the very back of the muddy clearing, where Baelor was sparring with Ser Lyonel and—

Aiji squinted.

Maekar.

A frightened gasp lodged in the princess' throat when she spotted Maekar frantically trying to fight off the Baratheon lord to get to his son. His mace flew fiercely. Desperately. Baelor was too close.

There was screaming. Both from the raucous audience and from the battling knights. Ser Duncan had overpowered Aerion with his strength and his sheer size, and was now dragging the prince through the mud by his ankle. Aiji's lips parted in shock.

Aerion withdrew his accusation. He yielded.

It was over.

Valarr was murmuring a prayer of thanks beneath his breath.

When Aiji looked back for her husband, he was staggering up from the mud, having clearly received a blow. Her heart felt as if it was being pressed beneath a mountain.

But he was alive. Her husband was fine.

"Valarr, hold her, please," said Aiji, hurriedly. Tiansi happily gurgled as she was passed into her half-brother's arms. "I will return."

Aiji ran down the steps of the stands. Her hair, unbound, wrestled with the wind like black ribbons streaking behind her. Mud splattered onto her pale silks in her haste, but she paid it no mind.

She hadn't realized she was smiling when she saw him.

"My love," she said. "You fought valiantly."

Baelor, behind his cracked visor, smiled back at his wife. He was glad to see the indents of her dimples had returned.

Her hands reached out, but halted, unsure of where to touch him in fear of hurting him any further. "Are you injured? Maester Yormwell—"

"Is tending to Maekar." Baelor nodded to Ser Duncan, who Aiji only then noticed was slumped onto a bench behind her, along with Ser Raymun, who had also fought in the trial. "Ser Duncan's wounds are far more severe."

The hedge knight staggered to his knees. "Your Grace," he said, speech slurred, blood dribbling from his lip. One of his eyes was swollen shut. Aiji felt sick with pity. "I am your man," said Duncan. "Your man."

"I need good men," said Baelor. He tried to pat the knight's shoulder, but missed it by a small distance. He staggered back from Duncan. "Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would please."

When the green knight stood up to assist the prince, Aiji saw Baelor blink in confusion several times.

"What is the matter?" she asked, stepping closer.

"I can't—" Baelor swallowed thickly. "It's, uh… all blurry… the light…" He raised an armored hand. "My fingers feel like wood."

The fire of panic sparked in her chest. Her eyes met Raymun's. "Call a maester! Quickly!"

The green knight nodded fervently and scuttled off.

"My helm," said Baelor, his words now slurring. "Please."

"Careful. It is crushed near the back," she murmured, brows furrowed with worry.

"Maekar's mace, most like. He's strong."

Aiji took hold of his shoulders, and helped him ease the smashed helmet from his head.

A shuddering sob fell from her lips when all that she saw beneath was a damp redness soaking his skin and hair. Baelor reached up to touch at the side of his head. His eyes met hers. A blank ocean to a clouded sky.

Then he fell. Ser Duncan caught him. His tearful apologies fell upon deaf ears. Aiji stared at her husband in shock as her own tears formed rivulets down her cheeks.

The Cursed Pearl, they called her. And perhaps they were right.

Baelor Targaryen was alive.

He was in a grievous state, Maester Yormwell warned, but he would recover slowly with rest.

He slept for two sunsets and three sunrises. Aiji never left his side once. Valarr was often there, as well, but excused himself frequently. Aiji suspected he did not want his stepmother to see him weep.

When a bruised Maekar came to see his older brother, he half-expected the YiTish princess to fly at him, fangs bared.

But she only raised her tear-streaked face, took in his battered state, and turned back to her husband. She was gently running a damp cloth along his forehead, careful to avoid the bandages. Maekar sat on the opposite side of the bed, where Valarr typically occupied.

The silence was shattered after a long pause. "I could have killed him."

"Do not say that. He is alive." Aiji wiped at her damp eyes with the long, silken sleeve of her dress.

"This is my fault," said Maekar. His expression was grievous. "Would you spurn that, as well?"

Aiji said nothing to this.

She had always been kind, always agreeable. She did not loathe Maekar for what he did to her husband. She only pitied him for it.

"I would not linger long if I were you," Aiji mumbled. Her eyes, once bright, were now empty, distant pools. "Valarr will return soon. He wouldn't be happy to see you."

"Baelor is my brother," said Maekar, almost angry.

At her? Or at himself?

"My point stands," said the princess, not unkindly.

Maekar's jaw clenched. He drew in a breath through his broken nose, and he took his leave.

When Baelor finally roused, his head was aching terribly and his tongue felt thick and heavy, foreign in his mouth. It was as if he'd forgotten how to speak. The candlelight, however dim, felt brighter than a hundred suns.

There was a beautiful woman in front of him, and a young babe.

Who are they?

Baelor blinked, trying to recall. He did eventually, though it took many a moment.

"Aiji?" he croaked.

Her head snapped up from her cooing daughter, eyes wide. "Baelor. You're awake." She began to weep uncontrollably. Baelor willed his hand to move so he could reach out and touch her, but it would not, not for the first several seconds. Finally, he managed his fingers to twitch, then his hand to lift, followed by his forearm. He grazed his wife's arm, but his damned fingers would not move the way he wanted them to—

She surged forward to kiss him. He could taste the salt of her tears on her soft lips, felt her hair tickle his cheek, softer than satin. He yearned to run his fingers through it, as he remembered he often did before they fell asleep together.

"Tiansi, look," she murmured when she pulled away, voice hoarse. "It's your father. Kepa."

She balanced the babe on her lap. Her tiny little hands reached out for him, but Aiji drew her away in fear she would slap at his head like she used to. Tiansi made an unsatisfied noise, clearly upset her father wasn't reaching out to hold her.

"My daughter," said Baelor, almost as if testing it on his tongue. "My girl."

"I must fetch Maester Yormwell," his wife said apprehensively. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," said Baelor after a brief pause. "My head… hurts. What happened?"

"You do not recall?" asked Aiji, expression creasing.

He shook his head, then winced at the movement.

"You fought in a trial of seven, my love," she whispered. "You fought like a true knight."

a/n ; their ship name is PEARLSPEAR btw isn't that the sickest thing ever !!! let me know your thoughts on this part :) i have sooo much planned for this fic ahh! a certain uhhhhh spring event is coming up soon .............

here's a picrew of how i imagine aiji !!!!!

[mustyrosewater]

MY SHAYLAAAASSS I ADORE THEM SO MUCHHHH

[madame-monstre]

Poison

°°••....••°°

You and Benson don’t always get along.

warnings: noncon/dubcon, outdoor sex, humiliation/degredation, intox, unprotected piv, toxic relationship tbh, mean!benson, brat!reader, slapping, hair pulling, rough sex, choking, threats of noncon free use, minors DNI

wc: 1.7k

an: kinktober day 6 :)) catching up!! nsfw under the cut

tags: @strang3lov3 @daddaughterist (hi mwah😚💋)

──●◎●──

God, Benson really pissed you the fuck off sometimes.

He could be so goddamn moody sometimes it was like you were dating a fucking child. All you fucking asked him was if he had made up his mind about going out with you and your friends this weekend, and he had bitten your head off. Snapped about working long shifts and being too tired to ‘waste my time in some shitty club. I have better things to do, unlike you’.

Ouch.

So you stopped asking him. Left him to make his own dinner after work, didn’t speak to him unless you had to. And when Friday rolled around and your girlfriends pulled up, you were ready and waiting. You felt sexy and dangerous - a little black spaghetti strap dress with no bra, fishnet tights, and tall heels. You were even wearing your favorite lipstick.

Benson was still at work when you left, and you didn’t bother to text him. Fucking prick. He can figure it out. You only told him you were going out tonight a million times.

The club is loud and full of people, the colorful lights pulsing and flashing as the bass thrums through the air. You and your posse were quick to commandeer a table in the corner for all of your things, and even quicker to get the first round of drinks. It doesn’t take long for you all to get drunk and decide to terrorize the dance floor.

This is the most fun you’ve had in a while. Letting loose and dancing, not a care in the world other than the music and the bodies around you. So what if you grind on a few guys? Benson had the chance to come with you and he didn’t. You’re just having fun. It’s nothing serious.

You check your phone when you go to the bathroom to piss and check your lipstick. You have like, half a million missed calls and text messages from Benson. You scoff and roll your eyes, shoving your phone back in your clutch; you’re in too good a mood to have your grumpy, asshole boyfriend ruin your night. You push him from your mind as you go back out to dance.

A couple more shots later and you’re pleasantly drunk, giggling and grinding your ass back on the hot guy you’ve been dancing with for three songs (Eren? Erik? You don’t remember his name). His hands have been all over you, and the attention is nice. It makes you feel good.

That feeling dissolves the second you feel a hand wrap around your wrist in a grip so hard it’s bruising, yanking you away from your companion.

“What the fuck?” You stumble into a body, drunk and disoriented. Your dance partner tries to reach for you.

“Hey man, what’s your problem-“

“You touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Your blood goes cold at Benson’s voice, then immediately burns hot with anger at his fucking audacity. Your dance partner throws his hands up and decides you're not worth the trouble as you try to yank yourself out of Benson’s grip. He starts dragging you towards the door and the crowd parts like the red fucking sea.

“Get the fuck off me, Ben.” You hiss. You only call him Ben when you’re mad. “Let me go-“

“Shut the hell up.” He snarls, and you can do nothing but helplessly stumble behind him like a fawn in your heels as he storms along. “Been callin’ and textin’ you all fuckin’ night, worried fuckin’ sick, and you’ve been out here whoring around.”

Your face burns hot at his words. A mixture of indignation and anger swirls in your gut (or is that the alcohol?). You can barely keep yourself upright as he tugs you across the parking lot to his car. He lets you go to unlock the doors, and as soon as his grip loosens you shove him back as hard as you can.

“Fuck you, Benson. Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking cunt all the time I wouldn’t want attention from other people.”

You barely have time to teeter your drunk ass two haughty steps away before the world is lurching and whirling around you, your back meeting the side of Benson’s car so hard you yelp. Your hands slam onto his chest, pushing futilely against him as he gets in your personal space and grabs your chin roughly. You can smell the cigarettes he probably chainsmoked on the way here.

“Get offa me, asshole.” You reel your arm back and slap him across the face as hard as you can. His head jerks with the force of it and he pauses.

The moment of silence that follows makes your heart drop into your stomach. Fuck. Now you’ve done it. You swallow thickly as he slowly turns his head to look you in the eye.

And that motherfucker smiles at you. A sharp, dangerous smile that looks scary in the light of the streetlights. His hand tightens on your face, fingers digging into your cheeks painfully.

“Ben, you’re hurting me-“

“Do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up, sweetheart.” His words are so sweetly spoken they’re poisonous, and you instantly bristle at the tone. “You’ve caused me enough of a headache tonight.”

You manage to pry his hand off your face with a huff, glaring up at him with as much venom as you can muster. God, if you weren’t so drunk, you’d lay into him.

“I didn’t need you to show up and ruin my night.” You snap, disregarding his request for you to ‘shut the fuck up’. You’re too drunk and too angry to even care about consequences right now, or the way his jaw is clenching in the way it only ever does when he’s fucking pissed. You open your mouth to speak again, but can only squeak when that big hand wraps around your throat and squeezes.

“I’m tired of that smart ass mouth.” He spits, his breath hot on your cheek as you turn your face defiantly away from him. “And that fuckin’ attitude. You want attention that bad, baby? Yeah?”

You can’t answer with the way he’s choking you, squeezing your throat hard enough to make talking nearly impossible and allow just enough air in to keep you breathing. He takes his other hand and shoves up the hem of your short little dress, hiking it up around your hips and revealing the lacy little thong you picked for tonight to the entire parking lot.

“Ben-“ You can barely wheeze out his name before he takes his hand off your throat and slaps your cheek sharply.

“I said zip it. You wanna be a little attention whore? Act like a slut? Then I’m gonna treat you like one, sweetheart.”

He yanks the collar of your dress down to bare your tits, your nipples pebbling in the nippy air. You push and hit his chest as you catch your breath.

“No, Benson, stop, you can’t-“

“Don’t get shy on me now, babydoll.” Benson’s eyes are as dark as the night around you, his irises swallowed by his pupils. He nuzzles against your cheek and gives you a kiss that makes your stomach turn. “You want this. Don’t lie to me. Bet if I reach down right now your little pussy is soakin’ those pretty panties.”

He reaches down, his knee forcing your legs apart, and you’re too disoriented to fight him as he rips your fishnets open. Your face burns with shame when his fingers make contact with the soaked gusset of your thong - he’s right. You are soaked. He hums, cocky and condescending as he pushes the thong aside and slides his fingers through your folds.

“There’s my girl.” He coos, a rough chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Knew my little slut was in there somewhere.”

You yelp when he spins you and slams your forward over the hood of his car, smacking your ass with a mean laugh. You push yourself up on your hands, legs shaking, and flinch when Benson’s hand fists roughly in your hair. You hear the foreboding clink of his belt buckle.

“Ben, I don’t wanna-“

“Yeaaah you do. S’why you were out here actin’ like you were, right? Just fuckin’ askin’ for it.”

He doesn’t give you another chance to argue. Just buries his big cock inside of you in one hard, mean thrust that makes you sob, hands scrabbling uselessly against the slick hood of his car. Benson’s grip in your hair is painful, and he groans out a curse when he bottoms out.

“Fuck, baby. Yeah, there we go.” He pulls all the way out, leaving just the head of his cock inside of you, then slams in again so hard his car jostles. Something between a sob and a moan rips from your throat. God, it hurts. But at the same time you can’t control the way your cunt is clamping down on him as he saws in and out of you. He’s hitting your cervix with every thrust, and you're practically leaking around him.

“This is what you fuckin’ needed, isn’t it, darlin’?” He growls, yanking your head back sharply by your hair. “Just needed your greedy, slutty little pussy fucked hard enough to keep her full. Maybe I gotta start fuckin’ you when I feel you need it. That should keep you satisfied, yeah?”

You can’t answer his mocking question, your head spinning as he rails you against his car. You're humiliated and turned on, hyper aware of the way anyone could walk out into the parking lot or pass by and see the way you’re getting bent over. All you can do is cry and moan.

“B-B-Benny-“

“Oh I’m Benny now, huh? What happened to Ben?”

He snakes his other hand around to rub circles on your clit that are too fast and too rough, but they force you to the brink all the same. You cum with a ragged moan, and Benson pulls you flush against him as he pumps you full of cum. You’re trembling and fall forward against the car when he releases your hair, smacking your ass one more time before he pulls out and watches your pussy drip his cum down onto the pavement.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.” He tugs your thong back into place, haphazardly fixing your dress before grabbing your arm and pulling you to the passenger side door. You stumble, whimpering as he helps you into the car. His canines glint in the low light as he smiles. “Had a little too much to drink tonight, hm?”

──●◎●──

[mustyrosewater]

[mustyrosewater]

me and @babybluebex obsessing over kyle gallner to the point of already planning out a jennifer’s body joint halloween costume

[babybluebex]

how long until @mustyrosewater starts writing kyle gallner fanfics

[mustyrosewater]

[mustyrosewater]

when will there be something new about Raymun??? im going to read anything you write because I love how you write about him! your headcanons are exactly how I imagine him 💋💋

i’ve taken a short break just for this week! i had something coming out every day last week so i’ve just taken a few days to myself before i start writing again, but im definitely gonna try and have something out again soon!

[ichorai]

storms and stars ; lyonel baratheon (6)

part one. previous part. extra headcanons!

fanart: theodora #1. theodora #2. lyodora. lyodora's daughters. modern au. theodora outfits.

pairing ; lyonel baratheon x dayne!oc (with a hint of x dunk)

summary ; the laughing storm was a dangerous man, one dunk knew could be a lethal foe. but his lady wife was a great deal more frightening.

words ; 4.3k

warnings / includes ; established relationship (married), canon typical violence, character death, loud and charismatic x will not tolerate his shit dynamic, angst, my poor sad darling maekar, spoilers for episode 6 of akotsk!

read on ao3. masterlist.

The second time Theodora met Lyonel was at yet another tourney, this time near Griffin's Roost in celebration of Lord Connington, a sweet-voiced chap, and his marriage to a solemn-faced beauty from the Riverlands. Theodora thought them an attractive couple, and wished them well. After all, it was always the opposite sort of pairs that complimented each other best.

She took a seat in the stands beside her brother Jason, who was set on ignoring her, grumpy from her refusal to bet on the knights in the lists earlier in the day.

"It looks like it's going to rain," Theodora commented, glancing up at the roiling grey sky. She hoped it wouldn't. She misliked thunder.

"I'm not talking to you," said Jason, frowning.

"I find it amusing how immature you're being, considering you are my big brother."

Jason pointedly ignored this comment. "Dyanna would have bet with me. Dyanna's fun. Unlike a certain someone I know."

"Well, I'm sorry Dyanna's too pregnant to travel. I'll let her know to refrain from having more children when she's got a stupid brother to tend to!" Theodora hissed in response, rolling her eyes.

The two siblings pointedly ignored each other for the rest of the tourney, watching lances break and knights topple off their horses. Theodora was completely bored out of her mind, wanting nothing more than to leave the stands to wander about the markets, but she knew her brother would make a huge fuss if she disappeared from his sight. Ever since father told Jason to watch over her before they left Starfall, he'd taken the duty all too seriously.

It was only until she saw the familiar Baratheon sigil did she sit up just a little bit straighter. When she heard his resonating laughter, she bit down on the insides of her cheek. Whether it was from anticipation or from irritation, she could not tell.

He was cantering his horse around the field, almost as if he were taking a victory lap before he'd even won his victory. Theodora's lips curled with distaste.

It only worsened when Lyonel rode right past her. Then, after a second, he turned his horse and trotted it back in front of Theodora. Jason's brow quirked at the sight.

"Lady Theodora," greeted Lyonel. His visor was up, and he was grinning like a mad man. "Come to watch me again?"

"I'm here against my will, I'm afraid," said Theodora, nodding to her brother beside her.

"Hardly true," scoffed Jason. "She practically begged to come along. You should've seen her."

"Oh, I would have very much liked to see that," crooned Lyonel, words saturated with amusement. He chuckled at Theodora's bewildered expression. "No feathers this time to hide your face, I see. You'll distract me with your beauty."

Theodora's composure only barely remained intact as she frostily replied, "Then look away."

"Impossible. I'd sooner have a lance driven through me before I could," said Lyonel. He winked. It was a subtle move, only picked up by those looking for it. Not that Theodora was. Of course not. "Will you turn me down again if I asked for your favor?"

"Again?" Theodora heard Jason murmur.

"You hardly know me," said Theodora.

"I certainly wish to," replied Lyonel. His eyes sparkled at the thought. Theodora's frown only deepened.

"Keep wishing, ser," said Theodora, unafraid to turn the knight down.

A queer feeling twisted in her stomach when the Baratheon only grinned at that. He did not press the situation any further, only bowing his head before urging his horse back to the tourney fence to face off against his opponent.

He won. Obviously. Theodora had to furiously avoid eye contact with her brother and his suggestive brow-waggling, seemingly having forgotten his promise to ignore her just a few moments earlier.

Though Theodora had protested all evening, Jason was successful in dragging her to the Baratheon tent to, in his words: "Drink and make merry. Not that you know how to."

And so Theodora found herself trailing after her idiot brother into the extravagant Baratheon tent, carefully side-stepping drunken lords and dancing maidens. Lord Baratheon stood at the head table, munching on links of sausage, with the young Lyonel beside him, downing a goblet of Dornish red.

Over the rim of his cup, he saw her. She was moonlight incarnated. A soft yet radiant beauty that needn't be announced to be noticed. Lyonel immediately clambered over the table to get to her, knocking off a few gilded plates and goblets as he did, but he did not care.

"Lady Theodora!" he called. "And—sorry, good man, I didn't get your name."

"Jason," said Theodora's brother, almost sheepish. "Jason Dayne."

"Ah. I saw your name in the lists on the morrow."

"Yes," said Jason. "I'm up against Cyril Lannister."

"The fancy blonde cunt with the pretty face, yes. I remember him," said the knight. Theodora found herself laughing at the comment. Lyonel looked to her in wonder, tongue dancing along his bottom lip.

"Are you two really siblings?" asked Lyonel, eyes flickering between the two of them.

Jason Dayne looked nothing like his sister. His head sported long and pale blonde hair, a smattering of sun-kissed freckles across the arch of his nose, and soft green eyes. When Theodora stood beside him, she often wondered if he was just an orphan boy that her father took pity on and decided to take into the family.

And so it certainly came as a surprise when Lyonel loudly declared that he could see the similarities between them.

"You share the same nose," said the knight, drawing nearer to Theodora, blue eyes flickering down to her mouth, "and the same lips."

"You're comparing me to a donkey, mind you," Theodora uttered, ignoring the way her heart fluttered against her chest, pointedly taking a step back. "My other brothers look much more like me."

Jason rolled his eyes. "You're such a thorn in my side. I'm going to get a drink."

Lyonel and Theodora both watched the man lumber away, smiling flirtatiously at one of the serving girls he passed by.

"I wouldn't mind thorns in my sides if they looked like you," said Lyonel, roping Theodora's attention back to him.

"You are very strange, indeed," said Theodora. "Of all the ladies here to torment, you've chosen me."

Lyonel's head tipped to the side as he regarded her fondly, dark curls falling over his forehead with the movement. "Is it really torment if you haven't run away yet? Would it be bold to ask if you secretly enjoyed my company? Want for it, even?"

"I want for nothing," hastily retorted Theodora. "Certainly not for your flattery."

It was then that a great clap of thunder echoed from above, followed very quickly by the pitter-patters of rain falling onto the tent. Theodora startled at the loud noise, flinching back into a table.

Something in Lyonel's eyes changed. When Theodora glanced back to him, his hand was extended to her.

"Sit with me. It's quieter at the front of the tent."

He said nothing about her fright, even though he had very clearly seen it. For that, she was grateful. Lyonel was confident she would tell him of it in time, should he continue his pursuit. And he was most certainly planning to.

For a split second, she considered his offer, eyes trained on his outstretched palm.

"I shall pass for now, ser," said Theodora with pursed lips. "I should stick by my idiot brother's side. Make sure he doesn't defile yet another poor serving girl."

"Of course," said Lyonel with an easy shrug. He tucked his hand behind him with a flourish. "I look forward to seeing you again, my lady."

"If you ever do," corrected Theodora.

Lyonel smiled warmly. "I look for you in every crowd. I'll find you."

And with that, he turned and made his way back to the table. Theodora felt lighthearted from how fast her heart was beating.

"How long have we been married?"

"Nine years, darling."

"I think I should give you nine strikes over the head, then. Once for each year you've tormented me."

Lyonel only smiled up at his wife, even if it made his bruised face ache. "I've tormented you for far longer than that, Dora."

Theodora spared her husband a sharp glare. She dropped the wet rag back into its basin, now stained a murky red after cleaning up all his bloodied cuts. She'd ran a fine-tooth comb through his curls, giving him a relatively tamed appearance.

"I like you playing maester," said Lyonel, his brows waggling at her. "Perhaps we should do this more often."

"Next time you deliberately put yourself in harm's way, I'll leave you to bleed out on your own. Let the birds pick at your rotting flesh."

A pause. Then rang his laughter, echoing across the chamber. "Have you ever considered being a poet?" She had to repress the urge to smile along with him.

"Besides, I usually dare not touch wounds. But I sent Maester Ryman to treat Ser Duncan. I should go check on him, as well." Theodora moved off the bed, smoothing down the smooth black fabric of her dress.

"I will come with you," said Lyonel, groaning as he shifted off the bed. He grabbed hold of Theodora with one arm, the other reaching out for an absurdly long antler to use as a support for his weight. Baratheons and their antlers, Theodora thought with a roll of her eyes. She took one of his golden cloaks off the rumpled furs and clasped it over his shoulders.

"Do I look handsome enough for the masses to see me?"

Theodora blew out a sigh. "You look trampled." She pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. "But a handsome sort of trampled, I suppose." There was another brief silence as they merely watched each other watch each other. "I'm going to Baelor's funeral afterwards," said Theodora. She'd declared it with a tone of finality, leaving no room for his protests.

"Well, I'm not coming with you there," retorted Lyonel, clearly not happy with the idea. The two began to hobble out of the castle together. "I have no place at a Targaryen's funeral."

Theodora's expression grew melancholic. "Aegon will be all alone there. I should go see to him. And Maekar… he has lost not only his wife, but his brother now, too. His grief must bear a heavy burden of guilt."

"Yes, heavy by his own strike."

Lyonel expected the blow to his shoulder, but did not move away or flinch. He supposed he deserved that clout.

"Ah, darling. If only your heart wasn't so large… and your hand so swift."

When Lyonel and Theodora approached Dunk slumped against the tree, Maester Ryman was wafting smoke into the poor hedge knight's battered face.

"The man is dying, my lady," said Maester Ryman upon seeing her. "His wounds, they have mortified, it's beyond my abilities—"

"Away with you," Theodora hissed. Maester Ryman had always been one to finish on the most terrible conclusion with very little evidence. Once in Storm's End, she had fallen ill after eating a bad fish, and Ryman declared she only had two days left to live. It was safe to say Lyonel was near taking his head right off, if not for Theodora there to stop him.

When the maester hesitated by Duncan, Lyonel only rolled his eyes and muttered, "Oh, the Others fucking geld me. An itchy arsehole is beyond your abilities, Ryman! Begone witch! My wife told you to leave! Fuck off!"

The maester quickly ambled away with his smoke and poultices. Theodora had half a mind to scold Lyonel for his harsh words, but all thoughts of Maester Ryman misted away when she kneeled down beside Duncan. His wounds were severe, but Theodora was sure he would recover, should he keep all the punctures sealed and bandaged. And Dunk was a big, strong man. Very big. She placed a hand on his abdomen, where his tunic had been rolled up and a pungent salve slathered all over his wound. Theodora frowned.

"He's a shit maester. But it was a wonderful tournament, wasn't it? Shame it's all over," said Lyonel with a heavy sigh as he eased himself down on Duncan's other side. "Home is… brutally dull."

"It is," agreed Theodora. "Nothing but storms for days." Her shoulders shook in displeasure at the reminder. "But we are headed for Starfall after this. Visit my brothers and my young sister."

"Come with us!" exclaimed Lyonel. He took a swig from a leather pouch that he brandished from seemingly nowhere. He pushed it towards his wife, who was about to decline, but after the stress of the past few days… she really could use the wine. As she drank, on Lyonel continued: "I'll sharpen that iron of yours so you don't make such a grand fool of yourself next time. We could hunt and hawk. Sail and make merry. Dance and drink. Theodora certainly wouldn't mind if you decided to join us in bed, either."

At this, Theodora choked on the Dornish red. Lyonel thumped on her back as she spluttered for air. Dunk's one eye blinked slowly at them.

"Lyonel!" she hissed. Her cheeks grew ruddy. "Ser Duncan, I—"

"Have you ever been to Tarth, hedge knight?" interrupted Lyonel in excitement, stroking his beard. "Or anywhere in the Stormlands, for that matter? Just imagine all the adventures we could have together."

"It's a fine offer, Lyonel," said Duncan, cadence terribly morose, "but all I do is bring pain and suffering to those around me."

Theodora watched the knight's face with narrowed eyes, violet particularly bright beneath the morn's sun. She gave Lyonel a pointed look. No words were exchanged, but Lyonel got the hint. He pushed himself up with his hand on Duncan's thigh (making the poor knight flinch from the pain), murmured something about going to take a piss, and left her alone with him.

"This may mean nothing coming from me," started Theodora, face solemn, "but Prince Baelor's death was no fault of yours. You did not call for the trial of seven. That was Aerion. And you did not ask Baelor to join. He did of his own volition."

Duncan's lone eye looked to her. "Why would it mean nothing coming from you?"

Theodora shook her head. "I am not his kin. I am kin of his kin. I did not know him well. But I know he was a good man… and he would not have blamed you nor anybody else for his choice."

"It's not often this happens, but I must disagree with my wife," said Lyonel, hobbling back to the two. "The only good dragon is a dead dragon."

"Fucking gods!" exclaimed Duncan. "Baelor fought for me. He gave his fucking life! Can you speak of him with a little respect, please?"

At this, Lyonel bared his teeth. "Fuck that! And fuck you! I fought for you! Hardyng, Beesbury, that fucking apple boy—we all fought for you! Your darling prince fought for you against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing."

The Laughing Storm had an infamous temper. Theodora saw the irritation crackle about him like lightning.

"And the gods don't favor a fraud," Lyonel said, blowing out a sigh.

"Then why have they favored me?" mumbled Duncan.

"This is not favor," said Lyonel, gesturing to Duncan's sorry state. "This is mockery."

"Enough, Lyonel," said Theodora. Her words tore through his anger like a sharpened blade through ribbon. "He is already wounded, must you press on it? It does not matter anymore. What's done is done. Deal with your guilt or discard of it, but do not wear it like armor. It takes only a tap to loosen a wall built of regret."

Duncan stared at her in confusion.

She gestured about aimlessly. "You must forgive yourself, Ser Duncan. If I cannot convince you that you are not in the wrong, you must at least give yourself grace." She took his battered hand, wrapping both of hers around his palm. "Will you do that for me?"

He blinked back tears. It was plain as day that he was tormenting himself about this. He nodded as far as he could in his position.

"Good." Theodora gently let him go.

"There's a war coming," announced Lyonel. He was looking intently at the wounded hedge knight. "We could be a force, you and I. Will you consider it?" Despite Duncan's lack of a response, Lyonel exclaimed, "Good! Caravan departs soon after the roast."

The roast meaning Baelor's funeral.

Theodora sighed in exasperation.

"I am going to the prince's funeral. Will I see you there, ser?"

Duncan moved to get up. "I'll accompany you, m'lady."

Lyonel took his long antler and began to limp away with it. "I'll meet you afterwards, darling! And you, hedge knight!"

"He's off to drink some more," said Theodora, unamused. "His love for wine will be the death of him." She took Duncan's hand and helped him stand. "Lean on me, if you would like. I do not mind."

He did so with no polite protest, and Theodora bore his weight without complaint. The two walked in silence for several slow footsteps before she spoke again.

"I know Lyonel was pestering you about it earlier," she gently began, "but you truly are welcome to join us. You will always have a place in Starf—Storm's End. Well… both places, really. Though I'd far recommend Dorne over the Stormlands. But you needn't give an answer now. Just know that it's an option, and you would be welcomed."

There was a few moments of silence as Dunk considered her words. When he breathed in through his broken nose, he could faintly smell the aroma of flowers in her hair. "T'ank you, m'lady."

The rest of the walk towards Baelor's funeral was in silence. Once Maekar, Egg, and Daeron came into view, Theodora gave Dunk's forearm a tender squeeze, before relinquishing him to greet her kin.

Theodora's young nephew sat on her bed, his legs kicking out beneath him. His large eyes were downcast, lips pulled into a small frown. A black cap was pulled tight over his head. He'd come straight to her chamber after the funeral when Theodora asked if he'd like to keep her company by helping her pack up her things.

"Oh, I'll miss you, Egg. It was very nice seeing you again," said Theodora, patting the side of his gloomy face. "Even if it was under very terrible circumstances."

"Where will you go? Back to the Stormlands with Lord Lyonel?"

Theodora grinned in rare excitement. "Eventually. But we are headed to Dorne first. I miss my home."

The young Targaryen mirrored her smile, though it was very quick to fall.

"You're very lucky to be returning to Starfall, Auntie," mumbled Egg. "I don't want to go back to Summerhall."

Theodora paused in folding her mantle. "You don't want to see Aemon again? The two of you are thick as thieves. "

"I do," stressed the boy, "but I want…"

He trailed off.

Theodora's gaze softened. "You want to stay with Ser Duncan?" she guessed.

Egg drew in a sharp breath, nodding fervently. "… Yes. I'll squire for no knight but him."

The bed creaked and dipped beside Aegon where Theodora took a seat. She tugged the boy into an embrace. He did not fight the touch. His head leaned against the hollow beneath her chin.

"You're a good lad," said Theodora, rubbing at his shoulder. "I'll speak to your father. But don't get your hopes up. I fear very few had the capacity to change his mind after it's been made—even your mother."

"You are angry," said Theodora. It was no question. She could read it plainly on Maekar's scratched face. "What's happened?"

Maekar's jaw twitched. He watched the lady as she stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the bright section of the room, illuminated by the patch of sun filtering through the window. Her hair glowed into a honey-like color with the light. She had a lot of nerve calling for an audience with a prince when his older brother just passed not even a full day before.

"I'm sending Aerion to Essos," said Maekar. His voice was thick, as if he had something lodged in his throat.

"Sending a son away is a cause for sadness, not anger," Theodora said gently. The silence laid between them, heavy and dense.

"Are you only here to lecture me?" asked Maekar. He was scowling now, though it wasn't a grand departure from his state of resting.

Her violet eyes narrowed, but remained unoffended. "I'm here for Aegon."

Maekar pinched at the space between his brows.

"He wants to go with that fucking hedge knight. I will not have my son sleep in sheep shit and catch his death in the rain. He's my—" Maekar paused. Took a breath. Swallowed. "Aegon is a prince."

The woman in front of him made a noise of disbelief. "Aerion is a prince. And you are sending him off to Essos to do as he will."

Anger spidered across his weathered features. "It may change him for the better—"

"You don't know that," said Theodora, equally serrated. She blew out a sigh. "I only came to inform you that my husband and I are travelling south to Starfall. We have invited Ser Duncan to come with us. And your son would be welcome to join, as well. Aegon is only but a boy. He needs to learn ways of life outside of Summerhall. Forgive me, Your Grace… but Aegon mustn't be raised the same way your other sons were."

"And what the fuck do you mean by that?" snarled Maekar.

Theodora's expression grew stony. "I simply wonder if Dyanna would be happy with you keeping Aegon chained to your side."

His mounting anger faltered. Maekar looked as if she'd struck him across the face.

"The boy wishes to explore," she whispered. "To live."

The silence crackled between them. The prince only stared at her, mouth parted.

"That is all I had to say, Your Grace. I wish you well." Theodora turned and began to walk towards the entrance.

Maekar's voice stopped her before she could leave.

"She asked of you the night before she died."

Theodora felt her heart seize in her heart, not unsimilar to a panicked bird trying to fight its way out of a tiger's tightening jaw.

"She was wondering if you were happy. If you were coming to visit soon."

Salt stung Theodora's eyes. She turned on her heel, met with Maekar mirroring her stricken expression. Not once had Theodora ever seen this vulnerable and open before—not even at her sister's funeral.

"We have both lost our older sibling. Better versions of us, if I dare say so," she said. Maekar only hung his head in agreement. "I grieve with you, Your Grace."

With that, Theodora took her leave.

If Maekar had less restraint, he would have called out for Theodora to come back. He would have asked, "Can you pretend to be her? Just for a moment. Just for a short breath."

It was right on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said. But he didn't. He stayed silent, and waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps anymore—and he let the tears flow down his scarred face with the tired rage of a wounded mutt.

Theodora drew Lyonel closer to her by tugging on the golden chain he wore, kissing him soundly. He hummed into the embrace, one hand coming down to squeeze at her hip, traversing suggestively low.

"Let's go home," she murmured against his lips, tilting her head so her eyes could meet his, an affectionate lilac against a hungry ocean of blue. "We could fuck all night under the stars."

Lyonel made a low noise of approval in the back of his throat. "Then get in the damn wheelhouse before I take you right here and now."

Theodora couldn't help but grin. She pulled away from him to lift herself into the large, extravagant Baratheon carriage. Adorned with antlers and all, to the surprise of absolutely nobody.

"I'm looking forward to finally having the freshest of Dornish fruits. Pomegranates, Lyonel!"

"Shouldn't you be more excited to see your brothers than have pomegranates?" Lyonel teased.

Theodora ignored him. "Ooh, I do hope there'll be pomegranate cakes when we arrive. That would be wonderful."

Just as Lyonel was about to clamber in after her, a familiar voice rang out.

"Room for two more?" came the hedge knight's voice.

Theodora peered over Lyonel's shoulder to see Ser Duncan astride his horse, Thunder, and just behind him—

"Egg!" she called out, beaming in delighted surprise.

Her young nephew waved at her from atop Duncan's other horse, Chestnut, wearing a green riding cloak, roughspun trousers, and a floppy straw hat. It seemed Maekar had listened to her, after all.

Or, perhaps, he simply loved his son enough to let him go.

Lyonel's joyful laughter rang across the field loud and true. "Joining us, are you? I knew you would see sense!"

"Just for the beginning," said Duncan, bowing slightly towards Theodora in the carriage. She returned the gesture with a warm smile and a nod. "Only to Dorne, to visit Starfall with you. We will part from there."

"I have never been over the Red Mountains before!" squeaked Egg. Excitement shone in his dark purple eyes. "I hear they have good puppet shows in Dorne."

a/n ; AHH and that's the show finished !!! but don't worry, i still have soo much more planned for them :) but please do let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see!

and down below are picrews for all of theodora's siblings (they each come with their own lore as well hehe) credit to @mustyrosewater for making the darling allandra !!!

as always, enjoy some memes!

theodora's thoughts meeting lyonel for the second time:

lyonel outing theodora as a freak to duncan:

theodora after maekar brought up dyanna mentioning her before she died:

[mustyrosewater]

MY SHAYLAAASSSS

[mustyrosewater]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐑𝐚𝐲𝐦𝐮𝐧 𝐅𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 : ( 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0k 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a lady in waiting in service to house fossoway learns to navigate the world of westeros while trying to survive the trials of the heart; with a tourney at ashford meadow on the horizon, she begins to experience new feelings. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Death, Mourning, Swearing, Smut 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so we're all reeling after that episode right? my theory was confirmed that raymun is in fact a freak and a slut, can't believe i got this out as quick as i did, ira parker works hard but i work harder. never fear this series will be continuing, as well as others in the future, i would never leave y'all stranded like that <3. dividers done by @cafekitsune!!!

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

You did not sleep in the Fossoway’s tent. 

As much as you were certain Raymun would have preferred to see you at his side, you could not erase the picture of your sister's tear stricken face out of your time. 

It was late by the time you arrived at your family’s tent, the usual buzzing sound of the camp grounds having been replaced with a dull, mournful silence. 

The realm was already beginning the process of mourning its prince, murdered by his own blood on the field. 

It seemed the only people that remembered your brother’s death were you and your family. 

It was quiet when you pushed past the entrance, the soft crackles of the fire accompanying the silence. 

The first person you caught sight of was your father, hunched over the table as he gripped a goblet of wine tight between his fingers. 

It was the first time you had seen him for the entirety of the tourney, the first time you had been him for almost four years, and he barely even lifted his head to look upon you. 

He had been this way when mother died, he’d locked himself in his chambers as had to have food forced upon him; he didn’t come back out for almost a week. 

Perhaps it was just the nature of yourself and your family, isolation in times of grief, ironic considering the moniker of the bee.

An animal that worked as one colony, staying together in times of distress, it was odd that you all did the exact opposite. 

You walked past your father as if you were a ghost, as if your presence was completely lost on him. 

Heading straight for your sister’s sleeping area, you pulled the curtain across and heard her soft shaky breaths, catching sight of her as she laid on her bed with her back facing you. 

You watched her shoulders shake, trying to keep herself composed; she hadn’t even changed out of the clothes she had worn during the trial, and you could see the remnants of what you hoped wasn’t blood across the fabric. 

No words were spoken as you sat down on the bed, your weight causing the mattress to dip and alerting her to your presence. 

She turned to look at you, her hand running over her swollen belly as she sighed deeply and turned her entire body to face you. 

Laying down, you laid there facing each other and shut your eyes, allowing your fingers to entangle into her own. 

Even without saying anything, you could hear the way she was beginning to cry once more, soft whimpers leaving her lips as she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. 

Taking a deep breath to slow her cries, Gwendolyn wiped the tears from her cheek and looked upon you. 

“We will be taking his body back to Honeyholt..” she began, “After that I will leave for The Vale to bury my husband.” 

She paused, looking at you expectantly for a moment before speaking again.

“Will you come with us?” 

In truth, you hadn’t even thought that far ahead, you looked down at where your hands were intertwined together. 

“If I am allowed.” you nodded. 

“Your brother is dead,” she spoke, “I am sure your lady will allow you to visit your home so that you can put him to rest.” 

“I am sure of that as well.” you nodded slowly. 

“Lord Ashford has supplied us with mourning gowns..” she spoke, gesturing to the heavy black dresses that were hung over a chair, “I suppose he considered it to be thoughtful.” 

Sitting up, you rested your back against the headboard, Gwendolyn soon following after you. 

Running her hand over her bump, she sighed deeply and tilted her head back, looking up at the fabric roof of the tent. 

“This will be the last I have of him..” she whispered. 

You didn’t speak at first, only looked across at her as you felt your heart hurt at the sight.

“We are all but servants of the realm..” she sighed, “if the crown demands we die for their honour, then we do it.” 

“You will carry on his memory,” you spoke, placing a hand on her shoulder, “You will tell your child how hard his father fought, how he put his name forward to defend what he believed was right.” 

“And how our idiot brother wanted some of the glory for himself.” 

Gwendolyn’s interruption made you both smile softly, a mournful smile but a smile nonetheless. 

-

Stood at the coffin where your brother now lie, you watched as one of the many bees swarming around it came to rest upon your finger. 

Its little legs tickled your skin, you brought your hand closer to your face to inspect the insect, noting the details of its furry body and iridescent eyes. 

A small band of musicians played a mournful song, no merry tune was to be heard within this tent, not while you bid your brother goodbye. 

The mourning dress that had been supplied by Lord Ashford almost covered you completely, the high neckline and long sleeves only leaving your face and hands uncovered. 

Even your hair had been pulled up, not hanging freely or swinging from a loose braid, it was pulled into two braids that had been wrapped at the back of your head, leaving only two small strands to frame your face. 

Lords and Ladies made their way in and out of the tent, bidding their respects to your brother before they left to head to The Hardyng’s tent to do the same for your sister's husband. 

Gwendolyn had elected to stay at her husband’s side, remaining in The Hardyng’s tent while you stayed in your own with your father and eldest brother. 

Your father was sat at the head of the table, dark circles under his eyes as he could only manage a nod to each set of condolences he received. 

Thomas sat beside him, accepting the gestures where your father could not. 

It would not be long before he would have to return to his own wife and children back at Honeyholt, where you would accompany him and the rest of the family for a time. 

As the tent entrance was flipped open once more and your eyes flicked up to see Raymun standing there, it occurred to you that you had not even told him yet. 

The first time you had seen him since last night, it seemed you were both fighting the reflex to embrace one another right then and there. 

Simply returning your gaze back down to your brother’s coffin, you hung your head and let Raymun pass you to walk towards where your father and brother stood. 

“My Lords, I wish to offer my condolences; Ser Humfrey fought well, and he fought with honour.” 

Just as he had all day, your father nodded, barely looking Raymun in the eye. 

“It is good of you to come, I know you did not know my brother well.” Thomas replied, offering him a kind smile as he rested a hand over your fathers shoulder. 

The knowledge of you and Raymun’s attachment was only held by Gwendolyn and Humfrey, you realised, turning to look as Raymun turned to offer you a kind smile. 

“Your sister became lady-in-waiting to my cousin when I was only seven-and-ten, It would be wrong to not offer my condolences to her own brother.” 

Thomas turned his gaze to you, offering a look that told you that he seemed to be catching on rather quickly, even if he didn’t know to what extent. 

“I am glad my sister was in the presence of such honourable men during her time at Cider Hall.” 

Your brother’s words made your brows furrow, even more so Raymun’s as his mouth opened for a moment and closed. 

“My lord, I’m beggin’ your pardon..” he began, “Her time?” 

“She will return with us to Honeyholt,” Thomas clarified, “Father has demanded it.” 

“She will not be returnin’ to Lynara’s service?” 

As you listened to their conversation, you felt your breathing grow heavier, your hands beginning to shake. 

“She’ll be stayin’ with us.” Your father suddenly spoke, his voice gruff and tense. 

“At least until I’ve secured her a match.” 

You had been completely under the impression that you were to return to Cider Hall following Humfrey’s funeral. 

As Raymun turned to look at you once more, his eyes now giving himself away entirely, your father seemed to become aware that there was certainly something more between the two of you. 

For a moment, you expected your father to begin cursing at Raymun, ordering him out of his tent. 

But then your fathers gaze turned to you, softening as he looked at you, before turning back to Raymun. 

“Now, a match with a knight..” he began, “A newly appointed Lord of his own house…” 

Narrowing his gaze at you, your father gestured you over with a wave of his hand. 

“Come here girl, stop pretendin’ that you haven’t been listening to every word since he walked in.” 

Without wasting another moment, you scurried up to the table, clasping your hands in front of you as you watched your father shift his eyes back and fourth between you and Raymun. 

“You,” your father began, pointing a ringed finger at Raymun, “You love my daughter?” 

You sucked in a deep breath as your eyes flicked to Raymun, watching as he opened his mouth to speak before stopping. 

“Do you think me, a fool?” your father snapped, turning to look at you. 

“From the moment your sister began plantin’ seeds of Ser Raymun Fossoway in my ear, I knew, you're just like your mother, the both of you.” 

For the first time in almost two whole days, your father smiled, the memory of your mother bringing joy across his face. 

“Little schemers.” 

In a bold move, you felt Raymun’s hand clasp your own, squeezing it tightly before he spoke. 

“I have loved your daughter since she first came to Cider Hall, My Lord..” 

Nodding his head, satisfied with Raymun’s answer, your father sat up in his chair, gesturing to Thomas with a nod of his head. 

“Well then, if you are to be my son-by-law..” 

Thomas reached for a dagger within a sheath beside him on the table, before walking around to hold it out to Raymun.

“You’ll need a sign of my approval.” 

As Raymun took the dagger from Thomas’ hand, upon looking closer you realised just what it was that he had gifted to Raymun right before your eyes. 

“Father..” you spoke softly, looking at your father with widened eyes. 

“Had that commissioned for when Humfrey took a wife..” he began, the thought of never being able to see his youngest son married obviously paining him greatly. 

“My lord.. I can’t-“ Raymun began.

“You can and you will.” Your father interrupted, “It’ll just gather dust in some sad old armoury otherwise..” 

Raymun unsheathed the dagger, his eyes catching sight of the bee that had been detailed into the top of the blade. 

“If I allow you to take my daughter’s hand, you will swear to me that you will protect her with your life, always honour her, and always remain loyal.” 

Turning to look at you, Raymun smiled softly, bringing your intertwined hands up to his mouth to lay a soft kiss on the back of your hand. 

“I am yours.” he spoke.

Hesitating for only a moment, your eyes flicked back to your father, watching as he nodded slowly at you. 

Turning back to Raymun, you finally returned his smile. 

“I am yours.” 

-

“What will you do?” you asked. 

Sat on the grass beside Raymun, in the same meadow where he had kissed you, you rested your head against his shoulder. 

“I’ll wait for you at New Barrel.” he replied, taking a bite of the green apple in his hand. 

“You could come with me to Honeyholt, see my home..” 

Your offer had Raymun shaking his head. 

“You need to bury your brother, it’s not my place.” 

Choosing not to protest, you simply sighed softly as laid a kiss against his shoulder. 

“I will try to return to you quickly.” 

Looking down at you, Raymun could only smile, placing his finger underneath your chin and guiding your lips to his own. 

“You’re not leavin’ till tomorrow.” he stated, “You’re still mine for tonight.” 

Sighing softly against his lips, you kissed him once more, shutting your eyes as you rested your hand against his cheek. 

“Lady Fossoway.” he tested the title on his tongue, smiling as he planted another kiss on your lips. “My lady.” 

You rolled your eyes, pulling away from him with a soft push to his chest. 

“Not yet.” you warned, “So you had best watch yourself, lest I change my mind.” 

With your return to your family's tent as the sun finally began to set, you were informed that Thomas had extended an invitation to Raymun. 

“Father thought it wise for your betrothed to join us for supper.” 

So now here you sat, beside your father and brother in a yellow and black gown embroidered with little bees running up the sleeves. 

The mood was more merry than it had been this morning, with your brother’s coffin placed in a carriage so that he was ready for the long journey tomorrow. 

Gwendolyn had braided your hair again, allowing you to borrow some of her golden accessories even, claiming that you owed it to her to promise a fruitful marriage. 

She had taken it upon herself to skip the small feast, and had excused herself back to The Hardyng’s tent. 

It would take time, you thought, you had only lost a brother, but Gwendolyn had lost her husband as well as her brother. 

Now she carried a child that would never know its father, a child she would have to raise on her own, it was understandable that she was still in a delicate state. 

When Raymun had entered The Beesbury tent, his eyes had scanned across the table, searching until they fell on you, and a soft smile fell over his features. 

Approaching the long table, he bowed his head respectfully to your father. 

“My lord.” he greeted. 

Your father gestured to the empty seat beside him and yourself, leaving Raymun no other spot to sit besides in between the pair of you. 

A calculated decision by your father no doubt, a way to keep a keen eye on the pair of you easily. 

As Raymun sat, he spared a quick smile in your direction, only for your father to slide a goblet of wine in front of him. 

“Honeywine,” he began, “A step up from the horse piss they brew at Cider Hall.” 

Letting out a small gasp, you leaned forward in your chair, eyes wide. 

“Father!” you scolded softly, only for Raymun to laugh before taking a sip. 

“They’ll soon have the cider of Newbarrel to compete with.” He responded. 

“Good lad.” your father replied, nodding his head happily. 

A small silence fell over you for a moment only for your father to pipe back up once more.

“I should tell you about the time she was bucked off her horse as a child.” 

“Father..” you groaned deeply, hiding your face in your hands as Raymun chuckled. 

“Please, My lord, I’d love to hear it.” 

-

Bidding goodnight to Raymun had been easy enough, in front of your father, however, left things painfully formal. 

As far as the length of your affections for Raymun, it seemed only you and him were privy to such things. 

The customs of men dictated what was proper for a betrothed pair who had yet to be married, which had left you with a mere kiss on the hand from your love. 

It was only inevitable that you snuck out of your tent once everybody had long been asleep. 

You hadn’t been able to find sleep even when you tried, unable to rest as you thought of Raymun. 

Finding the modest tent that he had set up wasn’t difficult, considering a large amount of the other tents on the campground were now gone. 

If you had a chance to see Steffon before they left for Cider Hall, you would not hesitate to share your thoughts of his dishonourable betrayal. 

“Raymun..” you whispered, stopping in front of the tent’s entrance.

Movement could be heard from inside, shuffling followed by a soft thud. 

“Seven hells..” you heard him whisper, a smile coming to your face before he pushed open the entrance flap of his tent. 

Letting you inside without hesitation, Raymun closed the tent’s flap behind you and turned to look at you as you smiled. 

“Sneakin’ out at night and comin’ into my tent?” he questioned, crossing his arms yet returning your smile, “Goodness, My lady, what would your father say?” 

His words held a teasing nature, poised in a way that told you that he knew exactly why you had sought him out so late into the night. 

Stepping closer to you until the shoes of your shoes were nearly touching, he didn’t touch you, holding his arms crossed against his chest and tilting his head at you. 

“You missed me that much, did you?” 

His voice was deep, gravelled from the way you’d likely woken him up, it sent a shiver down your spine. 

There were times when he was easy to laugh with, the way you’d known him since he was a young man and yet..

As he stood before you, a man, plain and simple, it made your stomach flip. 

“If you don’t want me here, I'll leave.” you teased him, narrowing your eyes as you looked up at him, “Do you want me to leave?” 

He didn’t have to answer, he responded in the way his hands came to rest on your waist, the way his thumbs brushed over your midsection. 

His touch was delicate initially, but you could feel the way he was holding himself back. 

“I won’t see you for at least a fortnight..” he sighed, bringing his face closer to yours, so close you could feel his breath upon your lips.

“How do you expect me to last this long without you..?” 

Smiling, you brought your hands up to rest on his neck, pulling him down so that he met your lips. 

Your kiss was soft, barely above a peck.

“Why do you think I snuck out from my tent to find you?” 

With that, Raymun kissed you deeply, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands began to roam your body. 

He took a shameless grab at your arse, which made you gasp softly, his deep and bassy laughter ringing out into the night’s silence. 

Shoving his chest, hard enough to have a soft ‘Oof!’ leaving his lips, he fell onto his bedroll, leaving you standing as he held himself up on his elbows. 

You removed your cloak, letting it drop to the ground, leaving you in your thin cotton nightdress.

In all the momentum of the first time you and Raymun had shared a bed together, you had completely forgotten that he had yet to fully see you. 

As you moved your hands to the thin strings at the top of your nightdress, Raymun shot up quickly, gripping your wrists to stop you.

“I’ll be doin’ that, thank you.” he said with a smirk. 

Sighing softly and rolling your eyes, you let him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched his fingers pull at the strings as if he were unwrapping a present. 

Now falling loose enough to reveal your shoulders, Raymun’s hands travelling over the nightdress, his thumbs briefly stopping to run over your hardened peaks which he could see through the thin material.

He watched with a smile and eager eyes and your breath hitched, soft hums of pleasure leaving you as your eyes fluttered shut. 

“Look at me, love.” he spoke softly, “Need to see your eyes most of all..” 

The moment you opened your eyes was when he pulled the dress down, quicker than you were ready for; the dress pooled at your feet as the cold air hit your skin. 

The shock made you gasp, reflex making you bring your arms up to cover yourself, which brought a sound of disapproval coming from Raymun. 

He gripped your wrists, pulling them away from your body as he looked at you with little shame. 

“I’ll not have my woman hidin’ herself from me..” 

His tone was low, warning almost, his eyes darkened now with what you knew was a look of desire. 

Running his hand from your shoulder down to your chest, he took one of your tits into his hand, teasing your nipple under his thumb as he hummed happily. 

“Look at you..” he growled, his other hand reaching behind your back to lay a soft smack on your behind. 

There was truly something about the way he almost.. objectified you.. looked upon you like you were a meal and he, a man starved. 

Taking your hand, he walked backwards and kept his eyes on your as he led you to where his bedroll was.

He moved to sit, dragging you to follow and pulling you until you fell onto his lap.

You were naked before him, yet he remained fully clothed; it made you feel like a whore in a pleasure house, and yet you loved it. 

His length was pressed against your heat, twitching under his pants that were no doubt getting absolutely soaked by your wetness as you began to grind shamelessly on his lap. 

“Eager..” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips to stop your movements, which only served to make you whine softly. 

“None of that..” he commanded, bringing his finger under your chin to make you look at him once more. 

“Please..” you sighed, leaning forward to take his lips again in a deep kiss. 

His hand was on the back of your head as he pushed his tongue into your mouth, exploring one another as his other hand continued to play with your breast. 

Breaking the kiss, Raymun brought his other hand to your chest, groping at your tits and pressing them together before he leaned his head down to lay open mouthed kisses across your skin. 

Running your fingers over his scalp, your head tipped back and a soft cry left your lips when you felt him take one of your sensitive buds into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the nerve as he began to grunt and groan. 

“Can’t believe you get these gorgeous tits from me for so long…” he growled, “used to touch myself and think about what you looked like under your dress..” 

The thought that he had desired you for so long, lusted after you in ways you hadn’t even thought, it made a fire light inside of you. 

“Raymun..” you whispered.

“That’s it…” he whispered, bringing his gaze back up to you as he smirked. 

Laying back, Raymun allowed you to continue straddling him, working to undo the strings of his braies and bring them down his hips. 

As his cock sprang free, you moved to get off of him and lay on your back, only for him to stop you as you rested on your knees. 

“I want you to ride me, love..” he whispered, tugging at his cock as he looked up at you. 

“I..” you muttered unsurely, “I don’t know how…” 

Somehow, that only made Raymun groan softly, the way you looked at him with those innocent doe eyes. 

“I’ll show you..” he spoke softly, placing his hand at the base of his cock and taking your hand in his. 

“Just.. lift yourself up..” he guided, letting you raise your hips until you felt the head of his cock prodding at your entrance. 

“And slowly.. lower yourself…” 

The feeling of him filling you slowly made your brows turn, taking every inch of his thick cock, the stretch burning slightly in the best possible way. 

“Fuck.. that’s it…” he groaned, his eyes trained on the sight of your cunt slowly swallowing up every inch of his cock until you finally came to rest on his hips. 

Your chest rose and fell harshly, your mouth hanging open as you got used to the new angle. 

Even if he had fucked you once already before, this might as well had been the first time all over again, the way you felt him piercing entirely new parts of you; it was deeper, so much so you could almost feel him in your stomach. 

“Can you feel that, love?” he groaned out, bringing his hand to rest against your stomach, using his palm to place a light pressure which had you gasping out, “Can you feel how deep inside you I am?” 

For the first few moments, you couldn’t bring yourself to move, overwhelmed by the feeling of Raymun’s cock sitting right at the spongy entrance of your womb, every single little twitch sending a vibration through you. 

Soon enough, when you finally began to wind your hips, rising from his length and bringing yourself back down, the pair of you settled into a slow rhythm. 

A rhythm which had your hair hanging over your face and your mouth falling open as you panted and whined softly. 

His hands rested on your hips, guiding your rhythm and squeezing your flesh hard enough that you knew you would likely find bruises there later. 

Raymun couldn’t help but watch, watch the way our face curled in pleasure and your plush tits bounced softly as you rode him, rolling your hips in ways that had him grunting deeply and tipping his head back. 

“Gods above.. You’re so beautiful..” he whispered, hands reaching up to grab at your breasts as he began to meet your hips with his own. 

Seemingly needing to take over, you allowed him to lift you slightly with ease, moving so that his feet were flat in order for him to begin slamming his cock into from below. 

The sound of flesh rapidly slapping against flesh was all that could be heard, the occasional soft cries emitting from your chest as you tried to be quiet. 

The last thing that was needed was for some poor soul to wake up and find you missing, only to hear these sinful sounds emitting from your betrothed’s tent. 

It would not have been difficult to put two and two together in such a scenario. 

Unexpectedly, as his hand came down to rest against your stomach, his thumb reached down to begin rubbing fast circles along your clit. 

He watched as your cries grew louder, only urging him further as you let out ragged breaths of effort, fucking up into you and working to bring you to the edge all at the same time. 

With a pathetic cry of his name, you felt yourself coming undone, leaning forward until you had to brace your hands on the ground at either side of his head. 

Continuing to ram his cock into you, Raymun held tightly onto your hips, keeping you in place as he began to feel his own release fast approaching. 

While you were still pulsing around him and whimpering, he stilled his hips, letting out a choked groan as he painted your walls with his seed, so much so that it already began to leak out, mixing with the juices of your own release to leave a misty mix between your bodies. 

Collapsing atop of Raymun, he held you in place as the last spurts of his release were freed inside of you, the pair of you panting deeply as you lay there. 

After a few moments, a soft laugh left his lips, seeing the way your eyes were shut and you were still gripping his arm tightly, unwilling to let go. 

“You’ll have to let go of me sometime, love..” 

His words only had you shaking your head and gripping him tighter, which had him laughing and rubbing your back as he shushed you. 

“I suppose a few more minutes can’t hurt..” 

-

Thomas tugged at the saddle of his horse, doing up the final buckle as you stood by the carriage with Gwendolyn. 

The sigil of the beehive was taken down as your fathers men deconstructed the tent and began to prepare for the long journey back to Honeyholt. 

At least four days of riding awaited you, three if the weather was on your side. 

Gwendolyn was still dressed in her black mourning dress, a thick black veil covering half of her hair as she stepped inside the carriage. 

Turning around, you faced Raymun, noting the sad smile on his face. 

“I will return to you soon, I swear it.” you spoke softly, taking his hand and bringing it to your face to rest against your cheek. 

“I know you will,” he began, “Doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.” 

Pulling him in for an embrace, you seized the moment of your father not being in your line of sight and laid a soft kiss against his cheek. 

“I am yours.” you whispered. 

“I am yours.” he returned. 

As you pulled away from one another, you stepped back, his hand still clasped tightly around your own until he had no choice but to let go. 

He watched as you approached the entrance of the carriage, wondering how he was going to handle the next two or so weeks without you by his side. 

Sitting down beside Gwendolyn, she stayed silent until the carriage door was closed and you began moving, bidding a silent goodbye to Ashford and all the memories that now cursed its grounds. 

“I heard you sneak out last night.” she spoke calmly, but was fighting to hold back the smile on her face. 

Hiding your face in your hands, you shut your eyes and sighed.

It was going to be a long ride back to Honeyholt.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : @holb32 . @mooondapple . @hellish-idiot . @josis-teacup . @ohnogovno . @sihtricswife . @althea-tavalas . @cold-v0dka . @sarlaccussy . @a-song-for-ages .

[mustyrosewater]

You are single-handedly feeding my Raymun Fossoway obsession. You can have my first born and a $15 gift card to Dairy Queen. I’d offer you a castle but I’m broke I fear. Anyways, thank you, you’re a legend.

oh pookie shush your mouth

it actually means the world to see how much people are loving my writing, motivates me to keep doing it

we can live in the castle together and raise the first born so that they don't have to live a life of shared custody

[hrgltub2]

raymun ‘three apples’ fossoway