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@orithyia-eriphyle
ââ ââ ââ â ââ masterlist
â welcome to my blog!
note that some of these works are old and are not the best.
àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ» a song of ice and fire àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ»
â the last dragon - aerion targaryen x fem!dragon!reader
â dragon in the north - cregan stark x fem!dragon!reader, hotd x fem!dragon!reader (the last dragon AU)
â the anvil's dragon - maekar targaryen x fem!dragon!reader (the last dragon AU)
â the last dragon - info
àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ» marvel cinematic universe àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ»
â summer breeze - bucky barnes x fem!reader
â panic - bucky barnes x fem!reader
â blue steel - bucky barnes x fem!reader
àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ» stray kids àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ»
â drive - ot8!stray kids x fem!reader - series
â bewilder - ot8!stray kids x fem!reader
â unbosoming - lee felix x fem!reader
â red lights - bang chan x fem!reader x hwang hyunjin
àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ» bts àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ»
â safety net - ot7!bts x fem!reader
â 15 minutes - jung hoseok x fem!reader
àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ» supernatural àŒșđ©àŒïžđȘàŒ»
â fear - dean winchester x fem!reader
there is much more to come from this blog in the future!
divider creds: @saradika-graphics
the anvil's dragon - m. targaryen
(Maekar Targaryen x Fem!Dragon!Reader)
Summary: Upon the rising Blackfyre rebellion, the crown seeks allies. A marriage is proposed between you and Prince Maekar. Despite strong reluctance on both sides, a growing fondness begins to form.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, swearing, smut, pnv, fingering, oral (f!receiving), no use of (y/n), 2nd person pov, canon-divergent, slightly ooc maekar, lowkey yearning maekar. a better glimpse into reader's personality. first smut i'm scared. not proof-read. we die like men.
WC: 7.7k
A part of 'The Last Dragon' universe.
Maekar Targaryen was not a happy man.
This was known across the realm.Â
Prince Maekar did not earn the epithet of âThe Anvilâ for naught.
The tramping of Maekarâs boots echoed through the stony halls of the Red Keep. The anger that ran through his veins was evident in the heaviness of his walk. His typical scowl seemed harsher.Â
If that were even possible.Â
He was not gentle when he pushedâ shoved the door to the Tower of the Hand open.Â
âWhat the fuck is the meaning of this?!â
Maekarâs gruff voice, alongside the sound of something being thrown, rang throughout the chambers of the hand. Prince Baelorâs gaze shot to the vision of his brother. The younger man was breathing heavily, his pox-scarred face burning red with anger. Upon further inspection, Bealor noted that the object that had been thrown was a rolled-up piece of parchment, more so a letter. The seal of the King is broken on the lip.
âA letter, I presume,â Baelor responded, plainly.
Maekar moved further into the room. Right in front of the writing desk, in which Baelor was seated. Maekarâs hands slammed flat against the desk, rattling the ink well and trinkets atop it.Â
âDo not act dense, brother. This letter contains your own penmanship.â Marker spoke with a clenched jaw.
âSummerhall receives many a letter from the Hand. You will have to be more specific, brother.â Despite Maekarâs obvious anger, Baelor could not help but tease. Typical of an elder brother.Â
Maekar grunted as he shoved himself from the desk. âThe King and his councilâ over which yourself presideâ have decreed that Prince Maekar Targaryen shall wed.â The younger prince spoke.Â
Baelor quirked a brow, âOur father and the other men of the council presume a marriage will strengthen our allies in the coming rebellion.â Baelor then softened just slightly, âI assure you, brother, I was not among those men.â Baelor revealed.Â
Maekar clenched his jaw once more before throwing himself into the seat across from Baelorâs desk.Â
âI have six heirs. I have no need to take a new lady wife.â He explained, tapping his finger to his thigh.
Baelor sighed through his nose. âI explained as such. The council did not wish to hear it.âÂ
Maekar did not speak for a moment.Â
âAnd who, pray tell, am I to take to wife?â Maekar questioned.Â
The two men locked eyes.Â
Then, Baelor uttered your name.Â
The elder brother watched as his younger took in the information. Maekarâs shoulders squared, and his brows furrowed.
Then, Maekar leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. âThe fucking dragon woman?â His voice was rough and low, as if afraid someone would overhear.
Bealor nodded solemnly. âThe dragon woman indeed.â He agreed.Â
Maekar flung his hands in exasperation. âThe same woman who has refused to marry since before Aegon forged the Iron Throne?â He said, as if to prove that the idea was ridiculous.Â
âShe has agreed to marry a prince of House Targaryen. You were the only option.â Baelor explained.
âDaeron is of age. Why not propose the marriage between her and my son, instead?â He questioned.Â
Baelor sighed once more, rubbing his temples to soothe his oncoming headache. âShe has refused to produce any children of her own. We need her for her dragon, not her womb.â Baelor leaned back in his seat. âWedding her to Daeron would leave him without heirs. You have six heirs and are unwed.âÂ
Maekar ground his teeth together as he listened to his brother speak. âAnd when is this union to be made?â He grumbled.
âIn seven moons' time,â Baelor answered. âShe is to reside in Summerhall until then.âÂ
Maekar rolled his eyes, accepting defeat. âWhen shall I expect her?â
Baelor gave a small smirk, satisfied his brother had relented so quickly. âShe flies from Penrtos in a fortnight.â
Your arrival at Summerhall was not a quiet one. The smallfolk in the surrounding towns paused in their endeavors as Morghonâs large, looming shadow covered their town. You landed and reverted to your human form just outside the gates of Summerhall.Â
As you made your way towards the towering gates, a group of Maekarâs household guard met you halfway to escort you. Upon rounding the bend in the roadway, you could see Maekar and his children waiting for you. They were adorned in the typical Targaryen black and red. Maekar himself wore a pure black doublet with a deep red sash. To the right of him stood three of his sons. You assumed the missing one to be Aemon, as you knew he took up studies at the Citadel.Â
To Maekarâs right stood his two daughters, Daella and Rhae.
Your handmaidens in Pentos adorned you in your traditional Valyrian garb. Your form was draped in loose, flowy fabric. You wore silver and ruby jewelry to complement the deep red of your chiffon and silk skirts. Lastly, the chains of your dragon-horn headpiece dangled loosely in front of your piercing eyes.Â
Maekar would be a fool not to recognize your beauty. He had admired your pure, Valyrian visage since he had first met you on the battlements of the Red Keep during the first Blackfyre Rebellion.Â
Maekar knew the admiration he held for you ran deeper than he would like to admit. His father would repeat the tales of your great feats in battle, and sing him songs of your beauty. These childish ideals of you only seemed to come to life when he watched you set the Blackfyre army ablaze during the Battle of the Redgrass Field.Â
Maekar watched you closely as you approached, surrounded by his household guard. Your skirts were gripped in your hands to avoid dirtying them. Your hair was pulled away from your faceâ the work of your headpiece and intricate Valyrian braids.Â
As you drew closer, you stopped and curtsied towards him and his family. âMy prince, I am pleased to meet you.â You spoke. Your voice was soft like honeyed wine, but held an underlying commanding tone.Â
Maekar bowed his head in reply, âAs am I, my lady.â He cleared his throat. âI hope your travels did not tire you.â He said, making sure to get all of the royal pleasures he was raised to abide by out of the way.
You shook your head, your jewelry clinking together as you did so. âTraveling via dragon is much less tiring than sailing, my prince.â You then dragged your gaze across the children on either side of him, âI take it these are your children?â You questioned with a quirked brow.Â
Meaker held out a hand as if to gesture to his children. âAye. These are my sons, Daeron, Aerion, and Aegon. My third eldest is studying at the Citadel.â He explained, then turned towards his daughters, âMy daughters. Daella and Rhae.âÂ
His children each greeted you in the way befitting royalty. You noted Aerionâs precarious gaze had not left your eyes.Â
You nodded to each of them in greeting, âI am happy to see you all in good health.â You spoke, a light smile on your face.Â
Maekar reached a hand out to you. You paused before taking it into your grasp gently. He then guided your hand to his arm, wrapping your fingers around the taut muscle.Â
âI hear you have yet to visit Summerhall. Come, I will give you a tour.â He said, the gruffness of his voice sending a shiver down your spine.Â
The coming weeks spent in Summerhall seemed to pass by at a snailâs pace. You were to be a woman married in six months' time now. After your initial pleasantries, you and Maekar quickly dropped the overzealous pleasantries. The two of you made it quite clear you were avoiding one another. Any proximity between you was forced. You saw him at supper, as he insisted that everyone eat supper as a family. You also saw him in his study whenever a raven would fly in from Kingâs Landing about potential battle plans, as you and your dragon were as much a part of the royal army as he was.Â
Maekar never spoke it aloud, but he valued your opinion when it came to battle. He would even go as far as to say he trusted it more than any man on his fatherâs council. You had seen more battles than any of them combined.Â
A knock on your chamber doors startled you from your train of thought. âEnter!â You called.
You turned your head over your shoulder, your hair falling into place. The perpetrator stepped foot into your chambers, their hands small and their eyes big.
âPrincess.â Rhae called to you, âDaella and I would like for you to join us in the gardens.â She spoke, her gaze avoiding you shyly.
You smiled and stood from the lounger you were seated on. âOf course, little princess.â You gently placed your hands on her shoulders, turning her towards the door. âLead the way.â
Rhae smiled and took your hand, tugging you along behind her. âFather says the flowers are beautiful this time of year.â She explains as you pass under the stone archways of the outer halls and into the large gardens of Summerhall. You noticed Daella spread out on a large blanket beneath one of the orange trees in the garden.
You smiled and sat down on the fabric, Rhae right beside you. Daella peered an eye open before sitting up to gaze at you.
âThank you for inviting me, princesses.â You waved your hand towards the garden. âMay I ask why you have called for me?â You did not want to offend the young girls, but this was the first time they had requested to spend time with you alone.
Rhae had been the most welcoming, having just barely left her toddler years. Daella was more hesitant, still scorned with the loss of her mother.
The girls met each otherâs gaze, as if silently communicating. Daella was the first to speak. âFather says you can have a dragon.â She says, rather assuredly. âWhere is it?â
You took in her statement for a moment before offering her a reply. âMorghon is too big to stay anywhere at Summerhall. She is in a safe place.â You did not wish to reveal your secret to the little girls. They were young and not in line to be heir. You are sure a day will come when they will learn the truth, but today is not that day.Â
Daella furrowed her brow, âBut the dragons are all gone. The last one died during Aegon IIIâs reign.â She responded.Â
You smiled at her, âYes, but not Morghon. She is the last dragon.â You then leaned towards her, your voice lower as if to share a secret. âAnd she is mine.âÂ
Daella hesitated before letting out a nervous giggle. âMay we meet her?â She asked.Â
You shook your head, chuckling. âNo, young princess. Morghon is much too large, and the two of you are much too small.â You explained.Â
Rhae âAhhhâ-ed at your words. âBut we have never seen a dragon!â She rebutted. You turned towards her, pushing a strand of hair away from her face.
âMayhaps when you are older. I wouldnât want to upset your father.â You offered her a compromise.Â
You noticed Daella shrink in on herself at the mention of her father. âIs something the matter, princess?â You inquired.Â
Daella startled, then shook her head. âNothing, princess.â She mumbled, her fingers playing with the adornments on her skirt.
You scooted towards her, âIf you truly wish me not to know, I will not pry. But I have been told I have a wise ear.â You urged her gently.Â
Daella breathed in and out, âIt is Father. We have not seen him as of late.â She says. âWe only see him for supper. He is always locked in his chambers or his study.â She continued.Â
Your brows furrowed, âIs that so?â You knew why they had not seen him. He was avoiding you, and they had suffered the consequences. âHave you tried speaking to your father?âÂ
Daella nodded, âHe does not listen. He says he does not want to burden his daughters with the troubles of their father.âÂ
You sighed, placing a hand on Daellaâs shoulder. âWould you like me to speak to him? Perhaps I can threaten him with Morghon.â You joked in an attempt to lighten the mood.Â
Daella and Rhaeâs faces broke into small, soft smiles. âWe would be grateful, princess.â You returned their grins, happy to help the young girls.Â
The three of you spent the remainder of the morning chatting in the yard. You told the girls tales of your journeys across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities. Although Daella had come off more standoffish in the beginning, she was much more receptive towards your presence as your time together came to an end.
After noting the sunâs position in the sky, you decided to part ways with the princesses. âOff now, little princesses. Your handmaidens must be looking for you.â You shooed them off gently and requested one of the servants to clean up the blankets.
You left the gardens with the intent to tackle the issue of their father.Â
Maekarâs eyes glanced from the parchment in front of him at the sound of knuckles rapping against his study door. âEnter.â He called gruffly.Â
His attention zoned in on your form entering the room. You turned to close the door behind you and approached the seat in front of his desk. Before Maekar could ask why you were there, you spoke. âYour daughters miss their father.â Your voice is flatter than the softness you use with his younger children.Â
Maekarâs brow furrowed. He dropped his quill into the inkwell. âDid they tell you this?âHe inquired.Â
His eyes moved to the movement of your hands. You were rolling one of your many rings over your fingers. âMore or less.â Your sharp gaze caught his own. âYou are neglecting them for the sake of avoiding me.âÂ
Maekar felt his chest rise in a sharp breath. This womanâpractically a strangerâcomes into his home and evaluates his parenting. âYou are not their mother. If they have an issue, they can come to me.â He said, his teeth gritted. He wanted to be done with this conversation.
Your lips curled into a snarl. Maekar noticed your canines were sharper than average, like a dragon. âI am not, nor am I trying to be.â You spat, âBut when little girls come to me, heartbroken, that their own father will not listen to them, then somebody must step in.â You explained. You then stood, rounding Maekarâs desk to stand in front of him. You glowered down at his brute form. Your voice was softer now. âI have not come to act as a substitute mother. I am aiding you in an oncoming war.â You raised your hand, your sharper nails dragged against the strong bone of his jaw. Maekar shuddered. âBut I do not intend to remain silent. In 6 months' time, I will be your wife. My voice will not go unheard.â You leaned in further, the chains of your headpiece brushing against Maekarâs shoulders. âI have lived many moons before you, and I plan to live many more after the Stranger has taken you. You will do well to heed my advice.â You released your hold on his jaw and turned towards the door.Â
Maekar felt his heart thunder in his chest. He was not a man so easily silenced, but with you, he found his words caught in his throat. His eyes trailed after you as you reached for the handle of the doors. You threw a last glance over your shoulder, your previous snarl morphing into a light smile, âI will see you at supper, my betrothed.â
It was now 3 moons until you were to be wed to Maekar. After your conversationâmore like a confrontationâin his study, he had changed his behavior. It was not blaringly obvious, but gradual. He hid in his study less. You often caught him training in the courtyard with Aerion. Daeron would be there on occasion if he werenât off in a brothel, drinking himself into an early grave. He also spent more time with his daughters, indulging them in their pretend play and telling stories.
Maekar had even gone so far as to have afternoon tea with you on occasion. He did not speak much, nor did you. But the two of you enjoyed the peaceful silence away from royal duties and headaches.Â
Currently, you stood in an open field just outside of the castleâs walls. It was well into the evening, and the wind was cool on your warm skin. Maekar had received a raven from Kingâs Landing. A host for the Blackfyre army was forming near the ruins of Moat Cailin. This news dampened the mood of the castle. You in particular.Â
You knew what this marriage meant. You were a weapon of war. You had avoided marriage throughout your many years among royalty due to the fear the crown held for you. You were an anomaly. They did not wish to threaten the one person who rivaled Balerion the Black Dread himself. The crown needed strong allies in the coming rebellion. You were the strongest that there was. To ensure your help, they requested you marry one of the crown Prines. You had initially refuted. Marriage meant children. You could not confidently bring children into this world, afraid they would come out inhuman. You have endured much heartbreak throughout your long life; the death of your own child is one you may not be able to handle.Â
You reluctantly agreed to the proposal, only after they had offered up Prince Maekar, a man with six children from his late lady wife. He required no more heirs. King Daeron himself sweetened the deal by promising you lands and a household guard of your own in Westeros. You had spent most of your time in Essos, and when you were in Westeros, you resided on Dragonstone. A household of your own piqued your interest.Â
âYou cannot brood out here forever; you will fall sick.â The gravely voice of Maekar startled you from your thoughts. You looked over your shoulder to where he stood.Â
âI do not get sick.â You stated plainly. You turned your head forward, Maekar coming to stand beside you.Â
âYou were not at supper.â He said, his voice now quieter.
You did not look at him, but he was looking at you. He drank in your features. The curve of your cheekbones, the arch of your nose, and the tempting plumpness of your lips.Â
âI apologize. I did not find myself hungry.âÂ
âWe are to ride with a small host towards Moat Cailin come morning.â He informed, his voice underlined with the weight of oncoming war. You then turned to look at him, meeting his tired gaze.Â
âWe?â You asked. The question was rhetorical.Â
Maekar rolled his eyes, a small smirk appearing on his lips at your jest. âI will ride with a small army. You will fly.â He confirmed.
You smiled coyly, a thought coming to mind. âNo. We will both fly.âÂ
Maekar chuckled at the incredulity of your statement, âAnd how do you propose we do that?â He asked, his brow quirking as he watched you.Â
âPrince Maekar will meet the Blackfyre host on dragonback. Atop Morghon the Untamed.â You said, your voice even with finality.Â
Maekar guffawed at your statement, âHave you taken leave of your senses? A Targaryen has not ridden on dragonback since the reign of Aegon III.âÂ
Your gaze heated, your hands clutching the lapels of his doublet. âThink about it, Maekar. The Targaryen upon the back of the last living dragon! Mayhaps the sight will instill enough fear into the Blackfyre host that they will back down!â You exclaimed, your voice rising in pitch as desperation hung off your words.
Maekar stumbled slightly at the force of your hands on his torso. He brought his own up to gently wrap around your wrists. âThis is a war,â Your name fell from his lips in a soft tone. âFighting is inevitable.âÂ
Maekar watched on, perplexed, as your shoulders began to tremble and your head dropped to avoid his gaze. âI do not know if I can handle more bloodshed, Maekar.â You whispered, your voice shaky. Maekarâs eyes widened, unused to this display of emotion from you. âI have fought in more battles than I can count on both hands.â You inhaled sharply in an attempt to stifle your tears.Â
The man paused. He felt his chest draw tight at the sight of you before him, vulnerable and shaking. Slowly, he brought his hand to your cheek. âI cannot promise that blood will not be shed,â His thumb stroked your jaw softly, âBut if you wish that I fly with you, then I will.â He conceded.Â
Your watery gaze met his own, a lone tear sliding down your cheek only to be swept away by his fingers. âThank you, Maekar.â Your voice broke around his name.
A moment later, you pulled away from his hold. Maekarâs hands dropped back down to his sides. âI apologize. I do not mean to burden you with my emotions.âÂ
Maekar scoffed, âThatâs fucking nonsense. You are to be my wife.â He did not expand further, though you knew what he had meant. Your heart swelled with gratitude. You looked towards him once more, a smile stretching onto your lips,
âMay I show you something?â You asked.
Maekarâs brows furrowed, confused by the change in topic. âIf you wish to.â He replied.
Your grin brightened, âStep back and close your eyes.â You instructed. You yourself began to step away from him.Â
Maekarâs confusion was obvious on his face, but he had listened. He took a handful of steps back from you, closing his eyes. âWhat could you possibly be doing?â He questioned.
âYou will see.â Came your reply, though you sounded even further away now. If Maekar did not know you, he would assume you would leave him out here alone as some cruel joke.Â
His thought process was jolted at the sound of bones cracking, and the wind around him growing stronger. Suddenly, a low growl resonated around him. Maekar could feel the heat of a large body near his own.
He knew what you were doing, but he could not bring himself to open his eyes. Not until the brush of a large, scaly face brushed against his form, nearly knocking him over.Â
Maekar cracked open his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat, before him stood the looming form of Morghon. Maekar had seen Morghon once before in a battle many moons ago. But he had never had the opportunity to stand so close. The tales of her size were true. Her head alone was larger than that of an elephant.
Her gleaming lilac eyes stared down at him. Maekar was at a loss for words. Morghon chuffed lightly, bringing her snout closer to Maekar. He took the queue and caressed the warm scales of her nose gently.Â
âBeautifulâŠâ He murmured to himself.Â
The dragon then jerked from his hold, turning her head away and lowering one of her vast wings to the ground in front of him. Maekar scoffed, shocked by the invitation.Â
âYou have to be fucking joking.â He stated. However, Morghon did not budge, remaining in place.Â
Maekar stared at the wing before him, contemplating his next decision. This would be a rather impulsive decision for someone like him. He rationalized his choice by telling himself it would be good to practice before flying into battle.Â
With a final huff, Maekar climbed upon the dragonâs back. Her large horns that scaled most of her body acted as stepstones to reach the dragonâs neck. Once settled into place, Maekar placed a hand on the dragonâs neck. âTry not to kill me.â He murmured.
Morghon chuffed once more, as if laughing at him. And without further warning, Morghonâs wings spread from her sides and pushed off the ground. The flap of her large wings broke the silence of the night.Â
Maekar did not smile often, but it was hard not to when you were on a dragon's back. He watched as Summerhall got smaller and smaller; the dragon drawing closer to the clouds above. Morghon was so large he could hardly feel the beast moving beneath him.Â
As they broke through the cloud coverage, the light from the full moon danced over the dragonâs deep red scales. Maekar felt breathless. This was what his ancestors lived with day by day? He felt a strange anger towards them for taking this for granted.Â
Morghon circled Summerhall a handful of times before descending back towards the ground. Maekar climbed off the back of the dragon and turned away so that you could transform once more. He turned back once he felt your hand on his shoulder. You smiled at him, your eyes shining in the light. Maekar could have sworn your pupils had momentarily formed into slits.Â
âHave fun?â You teased lightly, your sharp teeth poking through your grin.
Maekar nodded slowly, âThank you.â He spoke, his voice low.Â
You only smiled, grabbed his hand, and dragged him back to the castle.Â
As you had hoped, the confrontation between the Targaryen and the Blackfyre army ended peacefully. Daemon II Blackfyre was not there, but one of his generals was. The men surrendered once Maekar descended on the back of Morghon, promising death by fire if they did not do so.Â
After the events that occurred at Moat Cailin had passed, you and Maekar had returned to Summerhall. Upon your return, Maekar demanded that the two of you not be bothered, as you had needed to rest. You thanked him with a kiss to the cheek in the privacy of his study.Â
Maekar had a growing fondness for you, whether he liked it or not. You were headstrong, but caring. You knew exactly what to say to quell his anger or to silence his stubbornness. He almost feared how quickly you were growing on him. In a sense, he felt as though he were disrespecting Dyannaâs memory. The only one who knew of these thoughts was Baelor. He reassured his brother that he deserved to feel happiness once more. Maekar was not so sure of that.Â
The closer to the date of their wedding, plans came through in full swing. Maekar grew tired of the many fittings he had to endure. He could only imagine how you felt. You were to be draped in many layers of fabrics and a corset, a stark contrast to your rather immodest Valyrian garb.Â
Soon enough, the pre-wedding celebrations had begun. As this was Maekar's second marriage, the ceremony would take place at Summerhall. A feast was hosted a week before the wedding.Â
You and Maekar sat side by side at the high table of the banquet hall, his children to your right and left. You took a sip of your honeyd wine, dragging your sharp gaze across the room. You felt constricted in the gown you were dressed in, the corset shortening your breath. Maekar noticed your less-than-favorable mood. âYou only have to endure this until the ceremony. I will not have them drag out the celebrations longer than necessary.â He murmured to you, sure to keep the conversation solely between the two of you.
âI am glad we see eye to eye on the matter.â You huffed, swirling your wine in your goblet, âI tire of needless celebrations easily.â You stated.Â
Maekar hummed in reply, before shooting his gaze to the entrance of the hall as a soldier stepped out to open the doors. Behind the doors stood his father, mother, brothers, their wives, and their children. One of the court boys announced his family loudly, the noble lads and ladies standing to bow to their King.Â
You and Maekar stood and rounded the large table to meet his family in the middle. The two of you bowed, âYour Grace, I am pleased to see you once more.â You spoke respectfully. You then greeted his lady wife, Queen Myriah. She smiled warmly as you curseyed to her.Â
You reached your hand up to wrap around Maekarâs arm, his opposite hand rising to grasp yours gently. Maekar spoke to his family, gesturing for them to take their seats at his table. As they walked by, Prince Baelor stopped in front of you. He leaned down and placed a delicate kiss on your hand, âMy lady, your beauty precedes you.â He spoke smoothly.Â
You laughed quietly, âHow kind, my prince. You are quite handsome yourself.â You said. You did not mean anything by the compliment, only returning the one he had given you. However, Maekar could not help the clench in his jaw and the tightening of his hold on your hand.Â
Baelor smirked to himself, eyeing his brother closely. He, too, meant nothing by his gesture. But he could not deny that he did not elicit the reaction he was looking for from his brother.Â
After the initial greetings and speeches, the room erupted into dance and song. You laughed at the drunken lords making fools of themselves, and the young ladies giggling to each other in small groups.Â
âAre you and my brother getting on well?â The voice of Baelor broke upon your ears. He had been seated to your right, Maekar to your left.
You turned and smiled, âIndeed, we are. He is not as mean as the stories say.â You spoke with a teasing lilt, shooting a look over your shoulder at Maekar, who was pretending not to listen.Â
Baelor chuckled, âHe has a soft spot for beautiful women.â He spoke in a low tone.Â
You chuckled once more and quirked a brow, âYou are quite the flatterer, my prince. Do you speak to all ladies like this?â You questioned. You knew the game Baelor was playing. You were not blind to the teasing looks he had been shooting his brother since he had arrived.Â
âOnly the ones whose beauty urges me to do so.â Before he could finish speaking, the sound of a fist slamming onto the table broke the two of you off from your conversation. You turned towards the sound and took in the sight of Maekarâs hand on the table. Maekar looked towards you, his usual scowl present on your face.Â
âDo you usually speak to others so casually?â He questioned, his voice gravelly.
You quirked a brow in amusement. âHe is to be my brother by marriage. I see no need to speak so strained.â You explained, fighting the smirk on your face.Â
Baelor did not do as well as you to hide his amusement, a chuckle passing his lips. Maekar shot a look at his brother. âIs something amusing, brother?â He asked.
 Baelorâs brows shot up as he raised his hands in surrender, âI did not take you for the possessive type.â He replied.Â
Maekar did not dignify him with a response, only turning his gaze forward once more and chugging the rest of the wine in his goblet.Â
The celebration was not so bad after all.Â
Your hands are clasped in front of you, sitting against your gown. You were draped in fabrics colored in deep red, gold, and black. Intricate designs of dragons are strewn across the bodice. The Targaryen House sigil is in the center of your chest. Your shoulders were covered in a cloak of your house colors. Those being black and red, as you were legitimized as a Targaryen before Aegon the Conquerorâs time.Â
Your father had long since died, so Baelor was the one to walk you down the aisle. As the doors to the throne room opened, a small orchestra began to play low notes that resonated through the hall.Â
The hall was filled with noble lords and ladies. At the end of the aisle and on the steps stood Maekar. He did not smile at you, but he did not dignify you with a cold glare either.Â
Baelor looped his arm through yours and began walking. You did not move your eyes from Maekarâs. Once you had reached the steps, Baelor helped you step in front of his brother, then moved off to the side with a subtle smile.Â
Maekar clasped your hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. The septon began the ceremony. Baelor stepped forward once more to remove the cloak from your shoulders so that Maekar may place one of his own upon them. You turned away from him as his hands moved gently over your shoulders to place the cloak.
The septon then asked the two of you to repeat after him.
âWith this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.â Your smooth voice resonated through the hall.Â
âWith this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.â Maekarâs gruff voice was a stark contrast to your own.Â
Maekar then brought his hand towards your jaw and drew you forward for a kiss. The contact was short-lived, but the warmth from his lips traveled along your entire body. As you pulled away from each other, the septon spoke.
âOne flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.â He announced loudly. The hall erupted in cheers as the two of you turned forward, hand in hand, and stepped through the crowd of nobles.Â
Later that evening, after all the guests had left and the royal family retreated to their chambers, you and Maekar stood in front of his chamber doors.Â
âWe need not consummate this marriage.â His gravelly voice muttered, though it sounded loud in the empty hall.Â
You looked towards him, your hand still looped in his arm, âNo, we need not.â You whispered.Â
Maekar drank in your visage. Your hair had become loose after the long night of celebrations, and now a few strands fall in front of your eyes. Said eyes seemed to gleam in the torchlight. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, still pulled taut in your corset. He could not deny the way the bodice enhanced the curve of your breasts.Â
Maekar looked to his chamber doors. âWould you like to come in?â He asked quietly. You did not respond verbally but nodded.
Upon entering, you dropped your hand from his arm. You moved towards the hearth in his chambers, crouching before the flames. Maekar stood a ways back, just watching your figure. Slowly, you stood from your place in front of the hearth and turned towards him. âCome here.â Your soft voice sent a chill down his back.
He listened and moved towards you in careful steps. He did not stop until he was chest to chest with you. âYou are quiet tonight.â He observed.
âI am always quiet.â
âThat is not true.â He rebutted.Â
Maekar felt heat crawl up his spine as he continued to observe you, âYou make restraint nearly impossible.â He muttered. His voice is hoarse.
âAnd to what are you restraining yourself from?â You questioned, a fire burning in your, now slitted, gaze.
Maekarâs jaw clicked as he clenched his teeth together. âYou.âÂ
You drew in a deep breath at his words, your heart thundering beneath your ribcage.Â
âI did not ask for your restraint.â You replied in a whisper, stepping impossibly closer to him.Â
Maekar stared at you, the sweat along your brow from the heat. The heave of your chest constrained by your gown, and the way your tongue wet your lips.Â
Maekar reached for your jaw, cupping it as he did during your wedding ceremony. âTell me you do not want this, and I will stop.â He asked, bringing his forehead to your own.
âDo not stop.â Was your reply.Â
Without further hesitation, Maekar pressed his lips to your own. You gasped into his mouth, your lips soft. Maekar groaned at the sound and brought his other hand to your waist to pull you in closer. You turned your head and slotted an open-mouthed kiss against his lips, which he hungrily returned. You felt the warm caress of his tongue against your own and moaned low in your throat.
Maekar pulled back with a heavy breath, âSeven hells, woman.â He murmured against your lips. You gripped the front of his doublet and brought his lips back down to your own.Â
âI did not tell you to stop.â You whispered between kisses.Â
Maekar groaned once more and brought his hands to the laces at the back of your dress, âMay I?âÂ
You nodded, not wanting to break away from his mouth again.Â
Maekar made quick work of the laces, the gown dropping to the floor beneath the two of you. He pulled away slightly to take in the sight of you in your undergarments. His pupils were enlarged with lust as he drank in your form. âBeautiful.â He said.
You giggled lightly, âDo not get ahead of yourself, husband.â You teased, reaching for his doublet and undoing the many buttons. You kissed his neck lightly as you worked at his clothes, sucking at a spot just beneath his jaw.Â
Maekar groaned, his hands gripping your waist once more, âFuck.âÂ
You smiled against his neck and pushed his shirt from his shoulders. You licked your lips at the sight of his chiseled chest beneath his clothes. He was covered in scars, presumably earned in battles and sparring. You dragged your hands over his bare chest and up to his neck, turning his mouth back towards your own.Â
Maekar moved to make work of your undergarments, the loose fabric falling quickly from your frame. âYou have hidden this from me for far too long.â He rasped.
You smiled into the kiss and reached down for his belt. You unlatched the buckle and quickly undid the top of his trousers. Maekar stepped out of them just as you had done with your gown.Â
âCâmere.â He murmured, before lifting you into his arms and carrying you to his bed. He lay you gently at the edge of the mattress, your legs hanging off. He brought his mouth to yours once more in a hungry kiss that quickly moved down to your neck. He licked and nipped at the skin beneath your jaw.Â
You gasped as one of his hands cupped your left breast, massaging it gently. He moved his mouth lower, working his tongue over the hardened bud of your nipple. âMaekar.â You moaned.Â
Maekar growled against your breast at the sound and brought his unoccupied hand to your legs, parting them. He took his mouth from your breast with a wet âpopâ sound and trailed kisses further down your body. He knelt between your legs, kissing up the sides of your thighs. Your breathing deepened as he gazed up at you, âLet me taste you, wife.â He murmured lowly.
âPlease.â Your voice came out as an almost whine.
Maekar did not hesitate further, pressing his mouth to your warm heat in an open-mouthed kiss. He dragged his tongue up your slit and swirled it over your clit. You moaned aloud this time. âMaekar! Fuck!â Your voice was strained. Maekar continued to suck and kiss between your legs, only breaking away to wet his fingers in your slick.Â
He brought his mouth back to your clit, sucking gently, before bringing a finger to your hole. He pushed in slowly, groaning at the tightness. You brought a hand to your mouth in an attempt to quiet your moans.Â
Maekar pulled away from your heat, âDo not hide your noises from me.â He commanded. You listened, dropped your hand, and instead used it to grip the besheets beneath you.Â
Maekar descended on you once more, licking slow circles over your most sensitive part. He worked a second finger inside you and began pumping slowly. Your moans grew slowly, your grip tightening in the shits, âFaster.â You demanded, your voice breathy.
Maekar listened, pumping his fingers in and out of you quicker, and sucking on your clit once more. Your moans picked up in cadence. Broken curses and utterings of his name slipping from your lips.Â
âMaekarâfuck! Iâm close.âÂ
Maekar did not relent. He continued the quick pace of his fingers, occasionally taking his mouth off of you in exchange for his thumb, rubbing circles over your sensitive bud. âCome for me.â His gruff voice entered your ears, and you let go. A long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. Maekar groaned as you clenched around his fingers. He continued to work you as you rode out your high.
Once your breathing seemed to even slightly, Maekar removed his fingers from you and brought them to his mouth. You felt yourself clench at the sight. You reached between the two of you for his empty hand, dragging his body on top of yours. Maekar grabbed your hips and moved you further up the bed. âAre you okay?â He asked, still concerned for your well-being despite his position.Â
You nodded, dragging your hand down his body to grip his cock. Maekar dropped his head and groaned, âFucke me.âÂ
You chuckled, âOh, I intend to.â You whispered in his ear coyly.
Maekar rolled his eyes, but did not push you away. You pumped him slowly, his head dropping once more with a heavy moan. âIf you continue, I cannot promise I will last much longer.â He admitted through heavy breaths.Â
You smiled once more and removed your hands, âThen hurry up and fuck me, husband.â You replied.Â
Maekar growled and brought his hand to your jaw, gripping tightly. âGreedy fucking brat.â He murmured, lining himself up with your hole.Â
You gasped as he pushed in slowly, a long groan leaving his lips. âSeven hells.â He murmured against your ear.
Maekar brought his lips to yours once more, stealing them in a hungry kiss as he bottomed out inside you. He moaned as you clenched around him, âMove.â You whispered against his lips. Marker responded with a sharp thrust of his hips.
You moaned unabashedly in his ear. Maekar looked down at where the two of you connected, dragging in and out slowly. âFaster, Maekar. Please.â Your voice was a whine as you spoke, sending a wave of pleasure over Maeker.Â
His thrusts picked up pace, snapping sharply against your hips. âI did not think you could get more beautiful.â He murmured as he placed a kiss against your temple.Â
You whined against his ear. âFeels sâgood.â You spoke breathily. Maekar growled and lifted only one of your legs, placing your knee on his shoulder. You cried out as he began to move again, feeling as though he got impossibly deeper. Maekar pressed a kiss against the leg by his head.Â
âSo perfect, darling.â He groaned, the pet name slipping from his lips. He reached a hand down to where you connected, rubbing quick circles over your clit. Your breath hitched in a broken moan. Each thrust punches more noise out of you.Â
Maekar could tell you were nearing your peak once more. However, he was not faring much better. Each clench of your wet heat around his cock sent a jolt of pleasure directly towards his stomach.Â
âMaekarâah!â Your breath hitched at another sharp thrust, âIâm going to cum!âÂ
Maekar did not respond, his own low moans slipping past his lips. His thrusts became slightly more erratic as he felt the knot in his abdomen tightening. âFuckâfuck!â His gruff voice broke through the incessant moaning. He leaned over you once more, your knee practically pressing against your chest. The new angle resulted in sharp moans from each of you.Â
Maekar captured your lips with his own once more, groaning against your lips. He continued to thrust into you sharply, the lewd squelching of your conjoined bodies echoing through the room.
Your moans rose in pitch as you neared your end, calling his name relentlessly. âI have you.â He murmured, âJust like that, darling.â He spoke against your ear, kissing beneath your jaw.Â
âMaekar!â You came with a final moan of his name, your body locking around his. Maekar followed soon after with a moan that bordered on a whimper. He thrust shallowly as you both rode out your highs. He kissed up and down your neck as your moans quieted.Â
Maekar did not pull out, but he moved your leg down, massaging it gently. âHow do you feel?â He asked lowly.Â
You tucked your head beneath his jaw, âIncredible.â You breathed out.Â
Maekar chuckled, bringing a hand to the back of your head to hold it gently. âI am pleased to hear that.â He responded.Â
You moved your head back from his chest and pressed your hands against his shoulders. Latching your legs around your hips, you flipped the two of you over. Maekar gripped your hips tightly as you now sat atop him. He quirked a brow in an unspoken question.Â
You smiled coyly, âIâm not done, husband.âÂ
divider creds: @honeyluvsw
Stupid Tornado Sirens (SMAU)
Relationships: poly skz x gn!reader
Genre: mildly angst, storms, temporary scare, polyamory, established relationship
Summary: When you're home to visit your family (in Tornado Alley), you get woken up by the tornado sirens. What better way to spend your time now that you're up than by texting your boyfriends?
A/N: HAHA inspired by recent events <3 as a Midwest Girlie TM tornadoes DO BE a thing
I did research to find out what other countries get tornados and let me tell you what- many DONT and NONE OF THEM get the sheer number or SEVERITY we do! Fun fact for ya!!!
(SMAU masterlist)
Permataglist: @nightmarenyxx @sparky2020sworld @thatgirlangelb @skzzfoxyyy @fweakygyatt @teffyx @91dreams91things @theferretkids @pvppymin @clairementsolo @what-just-happened-to-me @soulphoenix1618 @stay-tiny-things @viisstrayy @i-am-confused-about-life @cchapssaltteok @lizal1cious @chandlxa @tricky-ritz @bunnythesiren @staytinycassichu @rayraymylove @bbokarismeow @bekindtourself @btch8008s @daphnnie @pineapple-burgah @blindspotquokka @danielle143 @my-neurodivergent-world @emmamarshmellow @starlostjisung @irikara @niku0704Â
dragon in the north - c. stark
(HotD x Fem!Dragon!Reader) (Cregan Stark x Fem!Dragon!Reader)
Summary: Your presence amongst House Targaryen begins to wane due to the growing tension amongst its family members, due to long-standing instability. Long loyal to the crown, you become increasingly disillusioned with the decisions of its rulers and the mounting tensions surrounding the line of succession. Seeking distance, you find a sense of peace in the North, forming an unexpected bond with Lord Cregan Stark. But as events continue to unfold, you are forced to confront where your true loyalties lieâ and whether you can continue to remain on the sidelines.
Warnings: Spoilers(?), suggestive, potentially ooc, based on both show and book lore, lots of build-up.
WC: 3k
Part 2(?)
This story is a part of my 'The Last Dragon' AU.
During the reign of King Jaehaerys I, your presence was strong in King's Landing and Dragonstone. You had proclaimed Jaehaerys the rightful heir to the throne against his uncle, Maegor the Cruel. If it had come to war, you would have fought for Jaehaerys. However, luck would have it that Maegor would die âmysteriouslyâ on the Iron Throne. The prosperity of the realm and dragons alike following Jaehaerysâ ascension to the throne led you to remain a present participant in the royal family.Â
Eventually, Jaehaerys had begun to grow old, and the matter of who would be his heir grew ever pressing. Due to your respected stance among the Targaryen House, you were a participant in deciding the line of succession. You had no qualms with Viserys; he was a relatively kind, happy man. But you saw things as they were. Rhaenys was the only child of Jaehaerysâ eldest son. It only made sense for you to place your vote for Rhaenys. Though the results of the Great Council did not surprise you, you were miffed. Rhaenys would make for a more than capable ruler. It was utterly ridiculous that she was undermined simply because of what she had between her legs.Â
Despite the slight of Rhaenys, you served as an unofficial member of Viserysâ council. You did not care for the results of the Great Council, but you would not let the Kingdom suffer because of it. You had taken kindly to Viserys and Aemmaâs young daughter, Rhaenyra. She was bright and curiousâ going as far as to request to ride upon Morghonâs back at the ripe age of 7. She had mounted her dragon, Syrax, only a few moons after.Â
You mourned the death of Queen Aemma, as she was a kind, young woman. You thought Viserys a fool for vying for a son so strongly when his young daughter was right in front of his face. You held Rhaenyraâs hand at the cremation of her mother and young brother, Baelon.Â
You maintained a watchful eye in the courts following the death of Queen Aemma. You proclaimed Rhaenyra as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne along with the other great Lords of the Kingdom. You questioned the betrothal and eventual marriage between King Viserys and the young Lady Alicent. You knew Otto Hightower for what he wasâa greedy man who sought nothing but power for himself. You even discussed such opinions with the Rogue Prince, Daemon.Â
Prince Daemon was fond of you. He saw you as the epitome of House Targaryen and Old Valyria. He would seek you out at night as a young boy when the insecurities and the feeling of inferiority became stronger than his confidence. Following the death of his mother, Princess Alyssa, Daemon began substituting you as the motherly figure that he lacked. You counseled and cared for him the best you could, but you were no mother. Daemon would grow to become eager and unruly despite your various attempts to keep him reigned in.Â
You grew even closer to Rhaenyra after Queen Alicent gave birth to her first child with Viserysâ Prince Aegon. You were not blind to the growing rift between the Princess and the Queen. The court and other Lords pushed Viserys to name Aegon as his new heir. Rhaenyraâs unhappiness at the courtâs obsession with her younger brother was simmering beneath the surface. Your support for Rhaenyraâs claim to the throne did not waver.Â
Time passed by slowly during Viserysâ reign. Queen Alicent went on to bear Viserys three more childrenâHelaena, Aemond, and Daeron. Rhaenyra was wed to Laenor Velaryon and bore three children with him: Jacaerys, Lucerys, and young Joffrey. Daemon had wed Laenorâs older sister, Laena. They had two beautiful daughters. Baela and Rhaena.Â
You flew through the skies as Morghon more often during the duller days of Viserysâ reign. You often occupied Dragonstone, as Rhaenyra remained in Kingâs Landing more often than not. Morghon grew restless during this time. She claimed the title of the largest dragon following the death of Balerion a couple of years prior. To quell her unease, you let her fly freely through the skies. Morghon was seen from the dreary clouds of the Stormlands, all the way to the snowy landscape of the North.Â
Tensions continued to rise after the death of Lady Laena. During the events of her funeral, young Prince Aemond lost his eye in a quarrel with his cousins, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Queen Alicent demanded that Luke lose an eye in return; however, Viserys deemed an apology from both parties sufficient. Alicent had grown angry, going so far as to bring a blade to Rhaenyra. Soon after the events of the funeral, Laenor had passed under mysterious circumstances. You did not care to question it, your focus being elsewhere.Â
Rhaenyra and Daemon wed in secret shortly after. The princess quickly fell pregnant, giving birth to another sonâPrince Aegon. Prince Viserys was born a year later. Viserys had sent Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children to Dragonstone in an attempt to lessen the tensions between the Princess and the Queen.Â
Viserys' illness progressed, with no signs of letting up. Alicent ruled as Queen Regent in his stead. Lord Corlysâ brother, Ser Vaemond Velaryon, lost his life at a council held to name the heir to Driftmark, in which Rhaenyra claimed her second son, Lucerys, held the strongest claim.Â
You grew furious with House Targaryen. You had warned Viserys what was to come if he did not do more to secure his daughterâs claim to the throne, reminding him that the Great Council, in which he was named heir, was held to prevent a war. A civil war was brewing, and you seemed to be the only one wary of it. Dragons had not been used in battle against each other since King Maegor and Prince Aegon in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye.Â
Morghon could feel your growing unease. You felt her push for you to remove yourself from the Targaryens. Morghon held no loyalty to the royal family. She was yours and yours alone. You may have taken the Targaryen name, but you were still a Balaerys of Old Valyria. Your loyalties would wane, and you served yourself at the end of the day.
You flew to the North, as far from Kingâs Landing as you could bring yourself. Lord Cregan Stark declared you a guest of Winterfell and offered you accommodations. You grew to like the North. You ran hotter than most due to your blood being combined with that of a dragon. But in the North, you learned how to be truly cold. You relinquished your Velaryon garb for Northern dress. Your silver-blonde hair clashed nicely with the dark blacks and grays of Winterfell.Â
You grew fond of Cregan Stark during your stay. He was a burly and handsome man. He had one child, Rickon, with his late lady-wife. Rickon was like a young wolf nipping at your heels through the halls of Winterfell. Cregan found his sonâs fondness for you amusing.Â
Eventually, northern men and ladies began to speculate on your relationship with Cregan. You were seen by his side more often than not. The lesser ladies began to gossip that the Wolf of the North and the Mysterious Dragon Princess were caught up in the throes of an affair. You made no move to deny the rumors, nor did Cregan. You saw yourself as above gossip and refused to entertain it in the slightest.Â
Cregan was your polar opposite in terms of culture and the ways you were raised. However, the two of you carried yourselves similarly. You were both calm, caring, and thoughtful people. You each held a great respect from lords and smallfolk alike.Â
You could also not deny the man's handsomeness.
This resulted in secret meetings and stolen glances. The two of you did not name what you had, but you both basked in the peacefulness of your relationship. Cregan was steady and wise. You were fiery, but careful. You balanced each other out in the best way. The peacefulness you experienced in Winterfell would not last forever, unfortunately.Â
King Viserys succumbed to his illness in the darkness of night. The following morning, Prince Aegon was named King of the Realm in the Dragonpit. Princess Rhaenys violently interrupted the ceremony, bursting through the floor of the pit atop the back of her she-dragon, Meleys.Â
The following morning, you received a raven from the Hand of the Kingâ Otto Hightower. You were to fly to Kingâs Landing and bend the knee to Aegon.
A fit of rage overcame you, causing you to throw the parchment into the hearth and leave the room in a flurry. You ran into Cregan, the man catching you with two steady hands on your arms. âPrincess. Where are you off to so quickly?â He asked, his brows scrunching in confusion at the look of anger on your face.
âKing Viserys has passed. Aegon was named King yesterday morning.â You stated through a tight jaw.Â
Cregan brought a hand to your jaw, his thumb catching the hinge, âHe has usurped the throne from Princess Rhaenyra?â He questioned.
You nodded, bringing your hands up to grasp his own, âI have been called to Kingâs Landing to bend the knee.â You spoke solemnly in the warmed halls of Winterfell.Â
Cregan studied you for a moment. He took in the furrow of your brow, and the unique dragon-like pupils in your eyes were now dilated. Your chest rose and fell rapidly with your heavy breathing. âI take it that that is not what you seek to do?â He questioned, rhetorically.Â
You gave a humorless scoff, âNo. I do not know what to do.â You admitted, âBut I do know I will not bend the knee to a false king.â You ended, your eyes burning with a fierceness that Cregan was fond of.Â
You seemed to come to a realization, âYou will remain loyal to Rhaenyra?â You posed it as a question, but Cregan could feel the underlying threat.
âMy father bent the knee and pledged loyalty to the Princess,â He stroked your jaw once more, âI intend to keep his word.â He proclaimed gruffly.Â
You nodded against his hand, âGood.âÂ
You did not wish for war. You had not flown into battle in the form of Morghon since Aegonâs Conquest. Morghonâs restlessness did not relent, however.Â
You decided to stay in Winterfell. Rhaenyra had sent her own raven, calling for your aid in the form of Morghon and for you to bend the knee. You had bent the knee to Rhaenyra long agoâ your stance had not changed. However, war was looming, and you knew aiding Rhaenyra meant fighting.Â
You grew tense during your continued stay. Cregan did his best to keep your mind occupied, but even he knew that war was to come. Soon after Rhaenyraâs coronation on Dragonstone, Jacaerys arrived in Winterfell atop his dragon, Vermax, to secure the Northâs support for his mother.Â
You waited atop the wall as Cregan and Jacaerys ascended via the lift. As the gates opened, Jacaerys paused in front of you, âEglia.â The language of your ancestors rolled off his tongue as he greeted you. âI did not expect you to join us.âÂ
You nodded, stepping aside to let them lead the way, âWell, trÄsy, I am here.â You stated cooly.Â
You followed behind Cregan and the young Prince as they spoke. He came to discuss the Northâs allegiance; you would not interrupt.Â
Cregan and Jacaerys agreed. Jacaerys was to marry his firstborn daughter to Creganâs son, Rickon. This pact would soon come to be known as the Pact of Ice and Fire.Â
Jacaerys stayed in Winterfell for more than a fortnight. He formed a close, almost brotherly, bond with Cregan. You participated in conversations with the men, enjoying their banter. You even flew alongside Vermax on occasionâ Morghonâs great size dwarfing the young dragon.Â
It eventually came time for Jacaerys to return to Dragonstone. The day of his departure, he met with you in the Godswood. You stood beneath the Weirwood tree. You were draped in a fluffy, black cloak. Snowflakes kissed your cheeks as they descended from the sky, sticking to your hair.
âLord Cregan speaks fondly of you, Eglia,â Jacaerys speaks plainly as he approaches.
You smirked humorlessly, âThen Lord Cregan is a smart man.â You jested.Â
Jacaerys turned to you then, his face more solemn, âThe raven my mother sent you,â He started, âWas the first one she ordered to be sent after learning her throne had been usurped.â Your chest tightened at his wordsâ guilt creeping up your spine.Â
âYou pledged your loyalty to my mother when my grandsire named her heir to the throne.â He continued.
You nodded, your gaze stuck on the Weirwood tree rather than on him, âI did.â
âYet you ignore her request for aid?â He questions, his true emotions seeping into his words.Â
You turned towards him then, âI do not wish to fight in another war.â You spoke softly, âI warned your grandsire of what was to come, and he did not heed my warnings.â You grasped your cloak tightly. âThis is the result of his ignorance.â You spat, your anger slowly creeping through your veins.Â
Jacaerys bristled at your remark, âI thought you better than this, Eglia.â His voice sharpened.
Your eyes met his own in a fierce glare. You know he did not mean what he said. He was a young boy coming to his mother's defense. However, you responded in kind.
âYou think nothing, boy.â You respondedâ your mouth curled into a snarl. âTell Queen Rhaenyra that she has my loyalty.â Your voice softened as you continued, âBut I will not fight.â You ended.Â
Jacaerys held your gaze, his jaw clenched, âVery well.â He stepped back as if to leave, but paused. âAlthough I wish it were under different circumstances, I am happy to see you doing well.â His earlier irritation had faded.Â
A small, sweet smile graced your lips, âThank you, my Prince.â You then brought a hand to his hair, carding your fingers gently through the curlsâsimilar to how you once did when he was a child. âSafe travels, my sweet boy.â
A mere fortnight after Jacaerys had departed Winterfell atop Vermax, you received a raven informing you of the death of Prince Lucerys. Prince Aemond slew him whilst on dragonback.
You sat in your bedchambers, the letter gripped tightly in your hands. Rhaenyra had written to you herself. The Queen was begging for your aid. She reminded you of the fondness she had for you since childhood, including the love you had for Lucerys. You clenched your jaw until it hurt.
That night, you met with Cregan in his bedchambers. âYou are flying to Dragonstone, I take it?â He asked as he rubbed his thumb softly against your waist.
You nodded from your place tucked against his chest, âYes.â You inhaled deeply, âI wished not to fight.â You mumbled against his chest. You felt your eyes burn with unshed tears, and a familiar pit formed in the back of your throat. âBut a young boy has been slain in cold blood.â Your breath stuttered in your chest, âA boy I cared for as if he were my own.â
Cregan brought his hand to the back of your head, pushing you further into his chest. âYou will fight for what is right, my lady.â He consoled, âThe North will march at the word of the Dragon Queen.â He declared.
You tilted your head up, bringing a hand to his jaw and caressing it. âI am grateful for you, Cregan. You have made mt days easy and my heart soft.â You whispered.
Creganâs lips quirked in a soft smile. âI share your sentiment, Princess.â He then gripped your jaw and brought your mouth to his own. Your lips met like a soft blow. The cold of the north meeting with the heat of the south.
You inhaled sharply as his tongue swiped against your bottom lipâ allowing Cregan entrance. Your hands crawled to the back of his neck, gripping his hair at the base. You could taste the mead he had with supper on his tongue. The warmth of his body pressed against your own.
You pulled back from his mouth with a gasp, catching your breath. Cregan met your heated gaze with his own, âWill you have me, Princess? I wish to remember our last night together.â His voice was hoarse when he spoke.Â
You nodded and pressed your lips against his once more.
You descended upon the sandy shores of Dragonstone in the form of Morghon. The she-beast's great wings pushed the sand into the air as she flapped them at her sides. She shook her head upon landingâ as if shaking the wind from her ears. Moments after landing, Morghon watched as Syrax emerged from the Dragonmont, Rhaenyra atop her back.
Syraxâs smaller form landed in front of Morghon, the gold dragon chuffed and pressed her snout to Morghonâs. The ancient beastâs maw was big enough to swallow the younger dragon whole.Â
Rhaenyra climbed down from the back of her dragon, pulling off her riding gloves. âYou came.â She stated. The seaâs salty breeze pushes her hair from her face.
Morghon chuffed and lowered her face to Rhaenyra. The Queen brought her hand to the dragonâs snout, caressing her deep red scales. Rhaenyra closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, her heart beating at a steady pace now that she was in the presence of the she-dragon.Â
Rhaenyra stepped back, meeting Morghonâs gaze. âCome. I have much to discuss with you.âÂ
Thank you for reading!
divider creds: @honeyluvsw
can we get more of ls x aerion & caraxes pls?đđ»
INCLUDES: stark!reader, dragons survived the dance!au, tw: aerion & caraxes (when you match each other's freaks đ„ș), obsessive behaviour from a man and his emotional support war criminal nuke lizard, caraxes being a #1 hater (not of you lol), unhealthy co-dependency with a reptile, probable violations of OSHA safety regulations re: dragon handling, prince who has never heard of the concept of personal boundaries, author rawdogging dragon bonds, dragon-enabled stalking, the worst case of "my dog likes you so I guess you're coming home with me" ever recorded, features a dragon who is a better wingman than any of your friends and he WILL make you feel bad about it. I had way too much fun with this and I love these two messy bitches, enjoy!
The bond isn't a metaphor, not for Aerion and not for Caraxes. Some riders are simply closer to their dragons than others. It's not we understand each other. It's I feel his hunger in my jaw, I feel his rage in my spine, when he wants to kill I taste blood. The bond is visceral and it doesn't lie.
He knew Caraxes wanted you before he knew he wanted you. Felt it like a sicknessâthis pulling sensation in his chest every time you walked past the pit entrance. Thought he was going mad until he went down and found Caraxes pacing, neck low, nostrils flaring at the air like he was trying to track prey. The dragon's want hit him like a fist to the gut. Immediate. Certain. Sexual. Her.
The first time he admitted to himself that he wanted youânot wanted to have you the way he'd had other girls, quick and forgettable in dark corners, but wanted you the way Caraxes wants to hoard his kills, the way a man wants water after days in the sun, the way he wants to own somethingâthe dragon screamed. Just screamed, thrashed his tail hard enough to crack flagstones, and Aerion had to brace himself against the wall because the want was pouring through the bond so hard he couldn't see, couldn't think past the image of you under him, throat bared, his name in your mouth.
He didn't try to starve it out. Why would he? Aerion has never been interested in denial. He fed it. Let it grow teeth. Spent two weeks trailing you through the keep like a predator tracking prey, learning your routine, cataloguing every place you touched, every person you smiled at, every moment you were alone. Caraxes paced the whole time, restless and eager, and Aerion felt it echo in his own body. The need to get closer, to corner you somewhere private, to make you look at him the way you look at his uncle.
The bond means he feels everything Caraxes feels about you. The dragon's satisfaction when you're near, a warm purr in Aerion's chest. The possessive mine-ours-keep that rolls through both of them until Aerion's hands shake with the effort of not reaching for you in front of witnesses. The hungerâand it is hunger, visceral and greedy, not for food but for you. The way you smell. The shape of your mouth. The curve of your throat. The sounds you'd make.
Sometimes he'll be in the yard, watching you talk to Baelor, and he'll feel Caraxes's claws flexing, the dragon's fury bleeding into his own until his vision whites out at the edges. The want to take you. To walk across that yard, grab you by the wrist, drag you somewhere dark and private and put his mouth on you until you forget Baelor's name. He doesn't do it. Not yet. But not because he feels guilty, because he's patient. Because taking you in front of an audience would be fast and he wants it slow. Wants you to come to him. Wants you to choose.
He hasn't stopped trying to control it. He's stopped pretending he wants to control it. The want is there. The want is good. It makes him sharper. Meaner. More focused. Every moment you're in a room together feels like standing on a blade's edge, and he's learned to love that feelingâthe anticipation, the restraint that's really just a countdown to the moment you finally break and reach for him first.
Guilt? He doesn't feel it. Why should he? You're not Baelor's yet. The betrothal isn't sealed. You haven't said the words in a sept. And even if you do... well. Aerion has never cared about vows. You could be married to his uncle and he'd still want you. Would still take you if you let him. Dragons don't stop wanting something just because someone else has a claim. They take. They keep. It's in their blood, in their nature.
The only thing he regrets is that he's not more ruthless. That he's still playing this slow game when he could just corner you in a corridor, press you against the wall, and make you admit you want him too. Because you do. He sees it. The way your eyes linger on his mouth when he talks. The way your breath catches when he stands too close. The way you forget yourself in the meadow and reach for him like it's natural. You want him. You're just too duty-bound and proud to admit it. Yet.
He thinks about you constantly. Obsessively. What you'd taste like. What sounds you'd make. How you'd look with his hands in your hair, his mouth on your throat, your legs around his waist. He thinks about it in council meetings. At feasts. In the yard. Lying in bed at night with his hand on his cock and Caraxes's satisfied purr rumbling through the bond because the dragon can feel it, can feel Aerion imagining you, and approves.
He's memorised you. The shape of your collarbone, the small scar on your knuckle and the way you bite your lower lip when you're thinking. The particular shade of your eyes in sunlight versus torchlight. He knows how many steps you take from the great hall to your chambers (forty-three). He knows you favour your right leg slightly when you're tired (old injury, probably, he hasn't asked). He knows the exact pitch of your laugh when you're genuinely amused versus being coolly polite. He knows you better than Baelor does, and Baelor's the one who gets to touch you in public.
That's going to change. It's not a question of if. It's a question of when you stop fighting it and let him have what you both want.
Caraxes is notorious, that's the thing. The Blood Wyrm. The most ill-tempered, vicious, foul dragon alive except for the Cannibal himself. He snaps at keepers, screeches at other dragons, has bitten three handlers and burned two others. The only person he tolerates is Aerion. Everyone else is an enemy or food.
The dragonkeepers draw lots to see who has to feed him. No one wants the duty. He's mean. He'll snatch the sheep out of their hands and snarl. Will rake his tail across the ground and force them to jump back. Once pinned a keeper to the wall with his snout and just breathed on him (hot sulphurous breath, smoke curling from his nostrils) until the man pissed himself. Aerion had to come down and call him off. The dragon was smug about it for days.
Other dragons give him space. He's not the largest (that's Vermithor, old bronze bastard) but he's the meanest, the quick and the most vicious. Willing to bite first and worry about consequences never. The dragonkeepers say he's mad. Aerion says he's just particular.
Once, a new keeper (young, stupid, didn't know the rules yet) tried to approach you while you were petting Caraxes. Wanted to ask if you needed anything. Got within five feet and Caraxes's head snapped around. The growl that came out of him made the keeper go white. You had to put your hand on the dragon's neck, murmur, "He's fine, he's just doing his job" before Caraxes settled. The keeper learned. Everyone learned. When Lady Stark is in the pit, you don't approach. You stay back. You wait for her to leave.
Caraxes has bitten anyone who speaks to you dismissively in his hearing. Well, tried to bite. The pit has thick walls and the dragonkeepers are fast, but the intent is there. Once, Aerion was in the pit with you and some lord made a passing jape from the gallery above (something about northern girls being too wild for southern courts). Caraxes lunged at the gallery wall, not because he understood the words but because he felt how his rider felt at those words. Claws scrabbling on stone, screaming. The lord fell backward. Aerion only gave a disdainful snort and it took a pointed stare from you for Aerion to call Caraxes off. Eventually.
You're the only person besides Aerion who can touch him without getting bitten. The keepers are baffled. "He's never let anyoneâ" "She's not anyone," Aerion says, and doesn't elaborate.
For Caraxes, it's a lot simpler, he views you in rather simple terms: MINE. OURS. OURS. OURS. KEEP. CLAIM. TAKE.
You smell like cold and stone and pack and something sharp, not Targaryen, not fire, not anything he's supposed to want. Doesn't matter because he wants you anyway. You're his rider's which makes you his. It's the only truth that matters.
Doesn't understand why you aren't already in the nest. Doesn't understand why his rider keeps circling you, watching you, aching for you, and not simply taking you. That's what you do with precious things. You take them. You keep them. You bite and burn anyone who tries to take them away. You claim them. His rider is being stupid about this.
The other one (the one who touches you, the one whose scent is on you when you comes near the pit, the one whose name makes his rider's chest go tight and furious and hungry) he's wrong. Needs to leave. Needs to stop putting his hands on what belongs to them. Needs to die or go away or at minimum stop touching you. Caraxes has explained this to his rider many times (through growls, through the bond, through thrashing fits when the wrongness gets too strong) but his rider keeps saying not yet and patience and Caraxes is tired of waiting.
The bronze one (Vermithor) is part of the problem. The bronze one carries the wrong-one. The bronze one is old and slow and in the way. Caraxes could shred him throat to tail. Has imagined it in explicit detail: where to bite, how to tear, the satisfaction of watching the bronze one fall. His rider has felt every second of it through the bond and has not said no. Has not said stop. Has only said not yet. This, at least, is promising.
Every time you come to the pit, something in him settles. The restlessness eases and the world makes sense again. You're here. You're close. You smells like cold-stone-pack and under it all, faintly, you smell like them now. Like smoke and open sky. Like you've been marked. Good. You should smell like them, should smell like his rider, like you've been claimed.
When you leave (when you walk away, when your scent fades, when his rider's chest goes tight with watching you go) the world is wrong again. Unbearable. Needs you back. His rider needs you back. The wanting is a physical ache in both of them, traveling the bond until neither of them can tell whose want it is anymore. Want-ache-need. Hunger that isn't satisfied by sheep or goats or anything that isn't you.
You touch him, puts your hands on his scales. Your palms are small and warm and you pet him like he's something gentle, something safe, and not an ancient creature that's devoured and burned thousands, and he loves it. Craves it. Every time you reach for him his rider's breath catches, his rider's chest goes tight with want, his rider's body goes hard, and Caraxes can feel it all: the jealousy-pleasure-aching need. His rider wants your hands on him like that, wants your touch. Wants the gentleness and your fierceness and your everything. Caraxes gets it instead and his rider suffers and it's delicious and terrible and perfect.
You're affectionate with him in ways you're not affectionate with his rider. You kiss his great snout, scratch under his jaw. Murmurs soft things in strange tongue he doesn't understand but it's rough and warm and he likes it very much. You lean into him when you're tired. And every single time, his rider burns with itâdesire and jealousy and the aching knowledge that you could do this to him if you'd let yourself. The bond carries it all. Caraxes feels his rider's hunger. Knows his rider is imagining your mouth on his skin, your hands in his hair, your body against his. Knows his rider is half-mad with it. Good. They should both be mad. Madness is language of dragons, of predators.
You keep the barrier between you. You're a Stark. Duty-bound. You don't let him get too close in the keep, don't let him walk you back from the yard, don't meet his eyes too long at feasts. You're careful. So, so careful. It would be admirable if it wasn't so fucking futile.
Because in the meadow? In the sky? You forget yourself.
The first time he took you there was an accident, but not the times after that. The meadow sits two hours south of the city. Wildflowers everywhere, knee-high grass, clean sky, no one for miles. Caraxes settled in the middle of it like a red stain on green cloth and started humming, this low satisfied sound, and when Aerion helped you down your legs were shaking. From your first flight. From the adrenaline. From the way his hands lingered at your waist and he said, quiet, "I have you."
You spent the afternoon there. Aerion sprawled in the grass, kissed by warm sunlight, shirt unlaced at the throat, utterly at ease in a way you've never seen him at the keep. Caraxes drowsing nearby, neck curled, one eye half-open watching you. You sat a careful three feet from both of them initially and Aerion watched you try to maintain the distance and smiled to himself. She thinks she's safe here. She's not. This is my place. My dragon. My rules. But I'll let her think it for now. It only took an hour for his head to end up in your lap.
Later, when you asked why he brought you here, he didn't answer for a long time. Then: "Because you looked like you couldn't breathe in the keep. And I wanted to see what you look like when you can." A pause. His eyes on yours, pale and too steady. "Also because Caraxes has been insufferable about you and this was easier than listening to him destroy the pit."
He keeps bringing you back. Once a week. Then twice. Then whenever Caraxes gets "restless" (which is code for Aerion wants an excuse to steal you away and the dragon is a convenient scapegoat).
You learn the shape of it by heart: the slant of the light through the grass in the afternoon, the way the wind smells clean and green and nothing like the city, the particular flower (some low purple thing) that grows in thick patches near the big oak. It becomes yours. The only place where the rules of the keep don't apply away from Winterfell.
Aerion brings things. Wine, sometimes. Food. A book, though he never reads them, just uses them as pillows while you sit nearby and he watches you through his lashes. A thick fur, because the grass is damp and he doesn't want you cold (doesn't say that, just spreads it out and tells you to sit, stop staring, just sit, will you?). He's building something here, making it comfortable. Creating a place you'll want to return to, making it impossible for you to imagine not coming back.
The dragon has opinions about the meadow. Specific spots he likes. Will huff and shift his bulk until you move closer to his preferred location. He's decided the space under the oak is his spot and you should sit there (in the curve of his side) and Aerion should sit there (close enough to reach you) and if you try to maintain more distance he grumbles until you come back.
Aerion has started lying with his head in your lap sometimes after that first time. Sprawls out in the grass and rests his head on your thigh like it's his right, every time you say his name in warning, without opening his eyes, he says, "Caraxes gets to. Why not me?" And you don't have an answer for that. So now he does it and you let him. Your hand hovers sometimes, like you want to touch his hair again but don't dare. He waits. He's patient. You'll give in eventually.
You've started bringing things too. The fur (you brought it the second time, said you didn't want him to have to carry everything). A flask of something stronger than wine, which you share, passing it back and forth until you're both warm and loose-limbed. Honey-cakes from the kitchen, which Aerion eats too fast and then complains his teeth hurt and you laugh, bright and genuine, and the sound does something very dangerous to him.
He's told you things in the meadow he's never told anyone. About his father, about what it felt like when his mother died and no one seemed to care. About how Caraxes was the first thing that ever chose him, the first thing that looked at him and didn't see a spare prince or a problem or a mistake, just saw Aerion, too bright and volatile, and wanted him anyway. His voice goes rough when he talks about it and you reach for him without thinking, hand on his arm, and he stares at your fingers on his wrist and doesn't pull away.
You've told him things too. About Winterfell. About your father. About duty and losing your own mother. About how sometimes you look at Baelor and feel safe but not alive, and you don't know what that makes you.
It's his favourite place in the world now, because he gets to see you, unguarded. Soft in ways you never are at court. Your hair coming loose from its pins. Your laugh bright and easy. Your hands gentle on Caraxes, on the grass, sometimes (gods, sometimes) on him.
The way you look at the sky when Caraxes flies overhead, showing off. Like you're proud. Like the dragon is yours to be proud of.
The way you've stopped flinching when Aerion gets close. The way you've started leaning toward him instead of away.
The exact shape of you drowsing in the sun, head on Caraxes's side, hair fanned out in the grass, face soft and younger than it ever looks in the keep.
The little unconscious things: the way you hum sometimes, tunelessly. The way you braid grass while you talk. The way you reach for him without thinking when you're excited or surprised.
He sees the exact moment you forget, every single time, that you're supposed to keep the barrier. The moment you relax. The moment you let yourself just be with him and Caraxes, no duty, no betrothal, just this.
And he hoards it. Every moment. Every smile. Every touch. Takes it back to the keep with him and uses it to feed the wanting.
One time you're in the meadow in late afternoon, sitting in the grass, and Caraxes is drowsing nearby with his great head in your lap. You're petting him. Long, slow strokes down the scales of his hot snout, murmuring to him in that soft voice you use with creatures you think can't understand you ("You're not so bad, are you? Terrible, beautiful thing."). Aerion is ten feet away, ostensibly reading, actually watching you through his lashes with his jaw tight.
And then you look at him. Smile. Small and genuine and unguarded. Reach your hand out without thinking, beckoning him closer. "Come here, he's being sweet." Like it's natural, as if there's no reason he shouldn't be in your space. Like you've forgotten you're supposed to keep three feet of air between you at all times.
He nearly swallows his tongue, putting the book down slowly. Comes over. Sits next to you in the grass, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. You don't move it. Don't pull away. Just keep petting Caraxes, smiling at the dragon, and Aerion can barely fucking breathe because thisâyou, soft and unguarded, wanting him closeâthis is what he's been starving for.
Through the bond: Caraxes's smug, satisfied pleasure. The dragon can feel Aerion's heart racing, can feel the want spiking sharp and desperate, and is pleased. Yes. Closer. Good. Keep her close.
You stay like that for an hour. Your knee against his thigh. Your hand occasionally brushing his arm when you gesture while talking. You don't seem to notice. He notices. The warmth of you. The faint scent of you, soap and something sharp and cold, lavender underneath maybe. The small unconscious smile you wear when Caraxes purrs under your touch. He commits it all to memory. Takes it out later, alone in his chambers, and uses it, over and over.
You keep reaching for them in small ways. It keeps happening. Small moments where you forget the barrier and reach for him like it's instinct.
After a flight, wind-rattled and laughing, you stumble slightly on landing and grab his forearm to steady yourself. Your fingers wrap around his wrist (small hand, strong grip) and you squeeze. "Thank you." Breathless. Grinning. Your hand lingers for three seconds too long before you seem to remember yourself and let go. He feels the absence of your touch like a wound for hours.
Once, you're both sitting in the meadow, watching Caraxes hunt (the dragon likes to show off, dive for rabbits in the field, making a game of hunting without flame). You're laughing, delighted, and without thinking you grab Aerion's hand. Lace your fingers through his and squeeze, pulling him closer to watch. "Look, he's playing with itâ" And then you realise what you've done. Your hand goes still in his and you look down at your interlaced fingers. You hold on for another heartbeat, two, three, before you slowly pull back and murmur something about the heat making you forget yourself.
Aerion says nothing. Just flexes his hand, feeling the ghost of your grip, and files it away. That night he lies in bed and remembers the exact pressure of your fingers, the warmth of your palm, the way you held on even after you noticed.
You fall asleep in the meadow once with your head pillowed on Caraxes's side. When you wake up, groggy and sun-warmed, you find Aerion sitting closer than he was. Not touching you, but close, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. You blink up at him, sleep-soft and unguarded, and instead of moving away you smile. Reach up without thinking and push a strand of pale hair back from his forehead. Your fingers graze his temple. Linger there. "You have grass in your hair." Your voice is low, affectionate, the voice you'd use with a friend or a lover, and then you seem to wake up fully and realise what you're doing. Your hand jerks back. You sit up quickly, muttering something about the sun making you thoughtless.
He doesn't move or speak. Just watches you with those too-pale eyes while Caraxes rumbles, pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels the echo of your touch like a brand. He wants to grab your wrist, yank you back. Put your hand back in his hair and tell you to keep touching him, to claim and rip. He doesn't. Not yet. But he wants.
You're affectionate with his dragon in ways that make Aerion insane. You don't seem to understand what it does to him. How the bond works, how every touch you give Caraxes, Aerion feels in an echo.
You scratch under the dragon's jaw and Caraxes purrs, this deep rumbling satisfied sound that vibrates through the ground, and Aerion feels it in his own chest. Feels the pleasure of your touch. Your fingers are gentle, rhythmic, finding the spots that make the dragon's eyes half-lid in bliss, and Aerion is sitting ten feet away, hard and aching, because he can feel it. Can feel your touch like it's on his own skin and it's not enough. It's fucking torture. It's the closest he's gotten to having you and it's not enough.
You kiss Caraxes's snout once, just a quick press of lips to warm scales, laughing at something, "There, you ridiculous creature, happy now?" and Aerion has to turn away. Has to walk away before he does something stupid like take you right there in the open until you can't deny how much you want this. Because Caraxes's pleasure slams through the bond and mixes with his own desperate want and he can feel what your mouth would be like on his skin. Soft. Warm. The pressure of it. He's halfway across the meadow, hands in fists, breathing hard, and you call after him confused ("Aerion? Are you all right?") and he can't answer because if he opens his mouth he'll say something he can't take back.
You lean into the dragon when you're tired. Bury your face in the curve of Caraxes's meaty neck, arms around hot scales, and just breathe. Like the dragon is a comfort, like he's safe. Caraxes rumbles, pleased and protective, and curls his neck around you gently, and Aerion watches. How you go soft and trusting in the dragon's embrace. Watches the way your fingers stroke absently over each scale, and he wants. Wants you to lean into him like that. Wants your face buried in his neck, your arms around him, your trust. Wants to be the thing you turn to when you need comfort.
Through the bond, he feels Caraxes's satisfaction. The dragon's smug pleasure at being trusted, at being chosen for affection by their she-wolf. And under it, the dragon's certainty: She does this with me. Soon she will do this with you. Patience. She is learning us. Learning that we are safe. Soon.
You pet the dragon absently while talking to Aerion, fingers tracing the ridges of scales, following the line of Caraxes's terrifying jaw, gentle and unconscious. You have no idea what it does to him. How he can feel every stroke of your hand through the bond. How Caraxes is smug and pleased and purring under your attention like a preening cat, and Aerion is sitting three feet away, imagining it's him you're touching. Imagining your hands in his hair, on his skin, on him.
The worst part is that you're gentle with the most terrifying dragon alive. Tender. You murmur soft things ("Good boy, yes, you're being so good for me.") and Caraxes melts under it, and Aerion feels the echo of that praise like a hit of wine. He wants you to speak to him like that, to purr those praises into his ear while he's inside you. Wants your gentleness and your tenderness and your approval. It's degrading how much he wants it. He doesn't care.
You've started doing this thing where you look at the dragon and then look at Aerion, and your expression softens. Like you're starting to see them as a unit, affection for one is bleeding into the other. You don't even notice you're doing it. But Aerion notices. Gods, he notices. Notes every time your guard drops like that. Each smile meant for Caraxes that you accidentally give to him too. Every soft look and gentle word. He hoards them like a dragon hoards gold.
Once, you're watching Caraxes preen his wings in the meadow sun, and you say, without thinking, "He's beautiful, isn't he?" And then you glance at Aerion, and something in your face shifts. Your eyes drag over himâthe sharp lines of his face, the pale fall of his hair, the lean dangerous shape of him in the grassâand you look away, but not before he sees it. The recognition, the heat, the unwilling attraction. You think he's beautiful too. You don't want to, you fight against it, but you do.
You've started sitting closer to him. Not intentionally (you still keep the careful distance in public) but in the meadow, you'll start three feet away and by the end of the afternoon you're close enough that your shoulders brush when you lean forward. Close enough that when you laugh you sway into him slightly. You don't seem to notice. But every inch you give him, he takes greedily.
Sometimes you forget yourself entirely. You'll be mid-sentence and reach over to adjust his collar, brush grass off his shoulder, push hair out of his face, casual and familiar. The kind of touch you'd give someone you're comfortable with. And then you'll freeze, realising too late what you've done, and pull back at once. But the damage is done. He felt it. The ease of it. The way you touched him like you had the right. Like some part of you already thinks of him as yours.
Once you're in the meadow, sitting between them, Caraxes on one side, head resting near your hip, Aerion on the other, stretched out in the grass with his eyes closed against the sun. You're talking. Something about Winterfell, about your father, he's only half-listening because he's focused on the sound of your voice, the cadence of it, the way it softens when you talk about home.
And then your hand is in his hair.
Just... there. Fingers carding through the short pale strands absently while you talk, the same way you'd pet Caraxes, gentle and rhythmic and unconscious. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it. You just keep talking, fingers moving slow and careful against his scalp, and Aerion goes still, stops breathing. Every nerve in his body lights up. His cock goes hard so fast it's almost painful in how humiliatingly fast it happens. Through the bond, Caraxes's pleased rumble reaches him (yes, good, touch him, he needs it, give him what he wants, such a good mate) and Aerion is drowning in it, the feel of your hands on him, gentle and sure, and he wants to grab your wrist and beg. Wants to turn his head and press his mouth and teeth to your palm. Wants to pull you down into the grass and put his hands on you and make you feel even a fraction of what he's feeling.
You keep petting him. Thirty seconds, a minute. Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and he bites back a starved, animal sound. And then you notice. He feels the exact moment you catch yourself in what you're doing. Your hand goes still, your breath catches, and when he opens his eyes you're staring at your own fingers in his hair like you don't know how they got there.
You jerk your hand back. "I didn'tâI wasn't thinkingâ"
He sits up slowly. Looks at you. His voice comes out rougher than he means: "It's fine."
It's not fine. He's so hard he can barely think over his pulsing need. He can still feel the ghost of your touch. He wants to tackle you into the grass and find out if you'd keep touching him like that if he asked. If he begged, if he made you, if he offered his throat or sucked on tongue.
You won't meet his eyes. You get up quickly, murmur something about needing to head back before dark, and Aerion watches you retreat and thinks: soon. Soon you're going to stop pulling away. Soon you're going to give in. He can feel it. You're starting to forget why you're supposed to keep the distance. Starting to reach for him like it's natural, like you want to.
You do want to. He knows you do. You just haven't admitted it yet.
He knows your routine better than you do. Knows you walk the battlements after breakfast, east stair not west because the west gets too much sun and you don't like the glare. Knows you stop at the third landing to catch your breath and that you take the long way back through the gallery because you like looking at the tapestries. Times his own movements to "accidentally" cross paths with you. Has gotten very good at looking surprised to see you.
Can tell when you've been with Baelor by scent alone. His uncle wears some kind of Dornish oil (sandalwood, maybe amber) and it clings to you. Makes Aerion's jaw tight and makes Caraxes snarl with fury. He takes you flying as often as he can because it gets the wind to strip the scent away, replaces it with sky and smoke and them.
Has started stealing things. Not from you, of you. A ribbon you left on a bench in the yard. A glove that fell from your pocket in the hall, a hairpin you took out absently during a feast and forgot. Keeps them in a locked box in his chambers. Takes them out sometimes late at night. Holds the ribbon and remembers the way it looked in your hair. Brings the glove to his face and breathes in the faint scent of you. He knows it's mad. He doesn't care. They're his. Pieces of you that no one else knows are missing.
Watches you at feasts from across the hall. Counts how many times Baelor touches you. (Seven times at the last feast. Hand on your shoulder twice, hand on your back three times, fingers grazing yours when passing you wine once, lips to your temple once.) Counts how many times you smile at him. (Four times. Polite smiles, mostly. Only one that reached your eyes.) Tells himself he doesn't care. Lies. Caraxes, in the pit, thrashes every time the count gets too high.
Has imagined killing Baelor in every possible way. Poison in his wine. A blade between his ribs. An "accident" in the yard, a training sword that slips just a little too far, though this one he only entertains during his most foolish, feverish moments. His uncle might be old, but he's still a fierce warrior. Which is why his mind drifts towards Caraxes doing it for him, quick and clean, just a snap of jaws. Imagines it in explicit detail: what Baelor's face would look like, how long it would take, whether you'd cry. Whether you'd forgive him. (You wouldn't. That's the only thing that stops him. Not guilt. Not love for his uncle. Just the knowledge that you'd hate him for it, and he needs you not to hate him.)
He memorised the shape of your mouth. The exact curve of your lower lip. The small scar at the corner (you bit through it once as a child, he asked, you told him the story in the meadow, something about falling off a horse). He knows what your mouth looks like when you're about to cry (tight, corners turned down, the way you press your lips together to keep them from trembling). Knows what it looks like when you're trying not to laugh (bitten, the corners twitching). He wonders what they might look like bruised and wet from kissing him (perfect, they would look perfect). Wants to know what curve they would make when wrapped around his cock. Thinks about it constantly.
Knows you bite the inside of your cheek when you're thinking hard. That your eyebrows lifts slightly when you're sceptical. You touch your throat when you're nervous. Knows the small tell when you're about to argue with someone (your chin lifts, your shoulders go back, your voice drops half a register). Uses all of this against you in arguments because he fights dirty and if he can't have you he can at least make you feel as raw and off-balance as he feels.
Lies awake at night and feels Caraxes dreaming. The dragon dreams of you: your scent, your shape, the sound of your laugh, the feel of your hands on his scales. The dreams bleed into Aerion's head and he wakes hard and furious and aching and sometimes he gives in. Fists his cock and thinks of you or ruts against the hardness of his bed, thinks of your mouth, your hands. The small sounds you'd make for him. The way you'd look under him, over him especially, but all his. Comes with your name caught behind his teeth and Caraxes's satisfied rumble in the bond, because the dragon can feel it, feels Aerion's pleasure, approves.
He's stopped bedding other girls months ago. Tried once, after a particularly bad day watching you and Baelor in the yard. Got the girl back to his chambers, got her on her knees, all doe-eyed and pliant, and Caraxes shrieked in the bond so loud Aerion went to his knees too, head in his hands, because the wrongness of it was searing. Wrong girl. Wrong mouth. Wrong scent. Wrong everything. Sent her away and stumbled down to the pit. Spent two hours with his forehead pressed to hot scales while the dragon growled not-her-not-her-WRONG and Aerion finally, finally understood: it's you or nothing. Caraxes has decided, and what Caraxes decides, Aerion feels. He couldn't fuck someone else now if he tried. His body won't let him. The bond itself won't let him. You've ruined him and he's never hated anyone more.
He knows when you're about to bolt. You get this look: eyes too flat, breath shallow, a wolf two seconds from lunging. He's learned to back off when he sees it and give you space. Let you think you're in control. It's strategic. Push too hard and you'll run. Let you come to him and you'll stay.
Can tell the difference between when you're touching Caraxes because you want to and when you're doing it to avoid looking at him. When it's the latter, he moves closer. Makes it impossible to avoid him and watches you squirm. Enjoys it more than he should.
Sometimes he'll be in a council meeting and he'll feel it: Caraxes's sudden spike of fury. He'll have to excuse himself, go down to the pit, and find out what happened. (Baelor touched you. Baelor made you laugh. Baelor kissed your hand in the fucking courtyard and half the keep saw and Caraxes wants to burn something.) Aerion stands there, hand on the dragon's neck, breathing through it. "I know. I know. Soon."
Watches Baelor with you and feels nothing for his uncle except cold assessment. How to separate you, how to undermine him, how to make you see that Baelor is old and good and boring, and Aerion is alive and dangerous and exactly the thing you actually want and need.
Sometimes, just to stay sane, he works through his options:
Option one: wait until you break. Let the tension build until you reach for him first, kiss him first, beg him first. This is the smart option, the one that means you can't take it back, can't say he forced you into anything. This is the one he covets above all else. He needs you to claim him.
Option two: take you the next time you forget yourself in the meadow. The next time your hand lingers in his hair or you fall asleep against him. Pull you into his lap, put his mouth on you, make you admit you want this. Risky. You might bolt. But gods, the idea of it makes him so hard he has to pace and snarl into empty air.
Option three: wait until the betrothal is announced and then take you. Ruin you for Baelor, make it impossible for his uncle to have you without shame, seat you on top of Caraxes and fly East until you run out of horizon. This is the nuclear option. The one that burns everything down in both your lives, but he's keeping it in reserve. Just in case. Just.
Whatever he chooses, Caraxes will be there. The dragon is part of this. Part of them. And Aerion knows (knows with cold certainty) that you're already half in love with the dragon. You just haven't realised that loving Caraxes means you're halfway to loving him too.
Caraxes shows his affection differently. Mostly he brings you dead things. Goats, mostly. Sometimes a sheep. Once, an entire boar, charred to ash, dropped at the entrance to the pit like an offering to a goddess. The dragonkeepers are baffled. Aerion is smothering his amusement (fails). You're trying not to laugh and failing. Caraxes is smug. She is pleased. She is laughing. He has provided for his rider's mate. Good.
He also has a specific hum he only makes for you. Lower than his usual rumble or high-pitched snarling. Almost a purr. The dragonkeepers have started calling it "the Stark sound" when they think Aerion can't hear them. (He can. He doesn't correct them. It's true.)
Refuses to let anyone else near his saddle when you've been in it. Snaps at keepers who try to adjust the straps. They smell like you now. The leather has your scent, the saddle is yours. No one else touches it. One keeper got his hand bitten for trying. Aerion didn't even reprimand the dragon. Just looked at the keeper and said, "He's territorial. Don't touch what's his."
He sleeps better when you've visited. The keepers have noticed, started captiously asking Aerion to "bring the Lady Stark by" when Caraxes is having a particularly bad day because it's the only thing that settles him. Aerion hates that they've noticed, hates that it's true even more. But he does it anyway because a calm dragon means a calm bond means he can sleep instead of lying awake aching for you.
Has started hoarding things in his nest. Shiny things. A buckle that fell off your belt (Aerion saw it fall, watched the dragon flick it toward him with his tail, said nothing). A coin you dropped in the pit. A scrap of cloth from your hem that tore on his scales (Caraxes tore it on purpose, Aerion felt the intention through the bond, the dragon wanted a piece of you to keep and Aerion saw no reason to refuse him). Aerion finds them all buried in the straw sometimes and feels a complicated swell of emotions: pride (his dragon is clever), wry amusement (his dragon is obsessed), resignation (they're both damned, what's the point in pretending otherwise?).
Caraxes knows Baelor's scent now and hates it. Sandalwood-amber-WRONG. If you come to the pit smelling like Baelor (his hand on your back, his cloak around your shoulders, his mouth on your temple), Caraxes won't settle until Aerion takes you flying. High and too fast. Lets the wind strip every trace of Baelor away until you smell like sky and smoke and them again, always them. Only then does the dragon calm.
He can smell when you're drawn to his rider, too. Your scent changes, goes sharper, then sweetens. Caraxes notices. Rumbles approval. Pushes you toward Aerion with his snout. Go. Touch him. He wants it. You want it. Stop being STUPID about it.
Knows when his rider is hard for you, can feel it through the bond. Approves enthusiastically. Sometimes makes pleased little chuffing sounds when it happens. Aerion wants to kill him. The dragon doesn't care. Good. Want her. TAKE her. What are you WAITING for.
He guards the meadow. Once, a farmer wandered too close (didn't even see you, just cutting through the field) and Caraxes screamed. Wings mantling, neck arched, mouth open showing every one of those blade-length teeth. Aerion had to physically put himself between the dragon and the farmer, hand on Caraxes's neck, snarling in Valyrian: "Daor. Daor. Issa sÈłz. Jikagon. DAOR." (No. No. It's fine. Go. NO.) The farmer ran away. Caraxes settled, but slowly, grumbling the whole time. His rider's mate is HERE. In HIS meadow. No one else gets to be here. This is THEIRS.
Watches the sky when you're in the meadow. Always. One eye on you, one eye up. If Vermithor flew overhead right now, Caraxes would attack, no hesitation. Doesn't matter that it would start a war. Doesn't matter that Aerion would try to stop him. The dragon has decided: the bronze one does not get to share the sky when she is here.
Positions himself between you and any perceived threat. Once, a snake in the grass. Caraxes moved, faster than something that size should be able to move, put his bulk between you and it, tail lashing. Aerion watched you press your hand to the dragon's side, murmuring thanks, and felt it through the bond: Caraxes's fierce satisfaction. Protected her. Kept her safe. MINE.
When you touch Caraxes, the pleasure travels the bond to Aerion. When Aerion wants you, the want travels the bond to Caraxes. They're locked in a feedback loop of wanting and having (sort of) and wanting more. It's unbearable. It's delicious. Neither of them would stop it if they could.
The dragon has started pushing, and not subtly. When you're petting him, he'll shift slightly, move his head, manoeuvre you closer to Aerion. When you're sitting next to his rider, Caraxes will rumble approval, loud and too obvious. When you pull away from Aerion, the dragon growls. Disapproval. She is being STUPID. She wants the rider. The rider wants her. Why is she FIGHTING it.
Caraxes has decided you belong to them. Both of them. The bond means they're one creature in two bodies, and you are theirs. Not Baelor's. Not anyone else's. Theirs. The dragon is simply waiting for you and Aerion to catch up to this obvious truth.
The meadow makes the attraction worse. There are no witnesses here. No court. No duty. Just you and Aerion and the dragon and the tall grass and the want that fills the space between you like smoke.
Sometimes you'll be talking, normal conversation, and you'll both just... stop. Look at each other. The air goes tight. Caraxes rumbles, low and pleased, feeling the spike of want through the bond. And neither of you moves. Neither of you dares. You look away first, every time. Always. Aerion lets you. For now.
He's gotten very good at reading the small signs of your desire. The way your breath quickens when he stands too close. The way your eyes track his hands. The small unconscious way you lean toward him before you catch yourself. He sees all of it.
You've started looking at his mouth. He's caught you three times now. Just... staring at his lips while he talks. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it, but he does. And it takes everything in him not to close the distance, put his mouth on yours, and make you admit what you want.
Once, in the meadow, you tripped over a root. He caught you. Hands at your waist, pulling you against his chest, and for three seconds you were pressed together, his mouth an inch from yours. You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Caraxes went serpentine still and the moment stretched. Your lips parted. His hand tightened on your waist. And then you pushed away, muttering words he can't recall, and he let you go because he could feel how close you were to bolting.
Another time, you were lying in the grass, drowsing, and he was watching you. Just watching. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. Didn't look away. Neither did he. Just held your gaze. Five seconds. Ten. Your stare went molten and wolf-like, wild around the edges. His hand moved, half-reaching. And then you blinked and sat up abruptly, said something about needing water, and escaped. He sat there, hand still half-extended, and laughed, low and wicked under his breath. You're breaking. Slowly. But you're breaking.
Worse of all is that you make him reckless. He's always been dangerous but you make him stupid with it. Makes him take risks he shouldn't. Flies Caraxes too hard, too fast, just to feel the adrenaline that's a pale shadow of what he feels when you look at him.
You also make him cruel. He's sharper with everyone else because all his softness (what little he has) is spent on you. He snaps at servants, provokes his brothers, sheds needless blood in the yard. Comes back to the meadow with bloody knuckles and you notice, reach for his hand without thinking, and he nearly drags you into his lap right there and then every time.
But you also make him patient in ways he's never been patient. He wants to grab you, kiss you, fuck you, make you his in every way that matters. But he waits. Lets you come to him in pieces, lets you get used to his presence, his touch, the idea of him. Because when you finally give in (and you will, he knows you will) he wants you to do it with your eyes open. Wants you to choose him. Not be taken. Choose.
You also make him vulnerable in ways he hates. You could destroy him with a word, tell him you'll never want him, you'll marry Baelor, you'll never come to the meadow again. And it would break something in him. Caraxes would feel it. They'd both go mad. He's given you that power without meaning to and it's terrifying and he wouldn't take it back if he could.
You think about him, more than you would ever admit. Late at night. In the bath. In quiet moments. You think about his hands. His mouth. The way he looks at you like you're something he wants to devour. You tell yourself it's just curiosity. It's not. It's want. And you're starting to run out of ways to deny it.
You've started dreaming about him. Waking up flushed and aching and furious with yourself. In the dreams, you don't stop him, you don't do the right thing, don't pull away. You let him kiss you, touch you, take you apart, you take him apart, and you like it. You wake up hating yourself for liking it, but the dreams keep coming.
The court doesn't help. You sit at the high table. Baelor on one side, your father on the other. Aerion is three seats down, angled so he can watch you without being obvious about it. He's gotten very good at watching you in public. No one notices. Except you. You can feel his eyes on you. On your throat when you swallow wine, your mouth when you speak. On your hands. Always your hands.
He times it so he arrives at the wine table when you do. Stands too close while you wait for a servant to pour. His shoulder brushes yours. You don't move away. He says something innocuous ("The Dornish red is better than the Arbor gold tonight") and you answer, and to anyone watching it's just polite conversation. But his hand is an inch from yours on the table. If you moved your fingers slightly, you'd touch. You don't move them. Neither does he. The space between your hands is charged.
You've caught him staring at you across the hall and held his gaze for longer than you should. Long enough that Baelor noticed and followed his nephew's line of sight to you and frowned slightly. You looked away first, but not before Aerion smiled, small and private.
After feasts, when everyone's drunk and loose, he'll find you on the battlements. You go there to breathe, to escape the heat and noise. He knows this, joins you, stands beside you in silence, looking out at the city torches. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.
You sometimes watch Baelor train in the yard. Dutiful. Aerion has started training at the same time. Not near Baelor but across the yard. Close enough that you can see him if you turn your head. You try very hard not to turn your head. He knows when you're not watching. Fights harder, meaner, shows off. Once took a man down so brutally (swept his legs, put him on his back, and cracked his wrist) that you gasped. Aerion heard it across the yard, looked up and met your eyes. Smiled. You looked away, eyes narrowed. Caraxes, in the pit, was too busy laughing.
Afterward, he's sweaty, unlaced, breathing hard. Walks past you to the water barrel. You refuse to look and give him the satisfaction. He knows you're struggling though, taunts you by drinking slowly. Lets you watch. Pours water over his head and you track a droplet down his pale throat and have to look away before you do something stupid.
He's started doing this thing where he "accidentally" ends up walking the same direction as you through the keep. Falls into step beside you. Talks about nothing important. But his hand will brush yours. His shoulder will bump yours. Small touches, deniable, constant. You've stopped flinching, now you have to fight from leaning in.
Caraxes does this thing where he curls around you when you're in the meadow. Not trapping you just... surrounding you. Wings half-furled to block the wind. Neck curved to make a warm shelter. You lean into him without thinking and he rumbles, so pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels it like sunlight.
Once, you fell asleep against Caraxes in the pit. Just dozed off, exhausted from some long day. Aerion found you like that, curled into the dragon's side, Caraxes's wing stretched over you like a blanket, the dragon's breathing slow and even to avoid disturbing you. Aerion stood there for ten minutes just watching. The dragon opened one eye, looked at him. Through the bond: See? She trusts us. She is OURS. Aerion couldn't argue.
You fly on him alone once. It happens by accident. You're in the pit, waiting for Aerion (he's late, got held up in council), and Caraxes is restless. Pacing. You can feel it, the same way you've learned to read his moods and Aerion's both. He wants to fly. Needs it.
You stand, walk over to him, put your hand on his neck. "Want to go up?" you ask, and you're joking, you're not even remotely serious, you know dragons obey no one but their riders, that's what makes Targaryens special but Caraxes goes still like he understands your intent, turning his great head to look at you. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's sudden certainty.
Caraxes lowers himself, an invitation. You stare. "You're serious." He rumbles. You look around. No keepers. No Aerion. Just you and the dragon. You've flown with Aerion dozens of times. You know how the saddle works, how to hold on. You climb up, settling into the saddle. It smells like Aerion, leather and smoke. Your hands shake slightly on the reins.
Caraxes launches.
It's different without Aerion holding you to his chest. Terrifying. Exhilarating. The dragon is gentle with you. No sharp banks, no dives, just smooth powerful strokes of his wings, but you can feel his raw strength. His leashed violence, the sheer power of a dragon that was once ridden by the Rogue Prince, that's seen hundreds of battles. He could throw you off with a twitch. Could burn you with a breath but chooses not to. Chooses to carry you carefully, like you're precious.
You fly for twenty minutes. Just over the city, out toward the coast, wheeling through clean sky. Caraxes rumbles the whole time: pleased, proud, happy, and you're laughing. Wind in your hair, hands tight on the reins, and you feel so, so alive.
When you land, Aerion is in the pit. Waiting. He watched you take off from the council window and ran. You slide down from the saddle, legs shaking, grinning like mad. "He let meâ" you start, breathless. Aerion crosses to you in three strides, grabs your shoulders. You think he's furious, brace for his rage, but he's not. His eyes are bright, wild, feverish. "I felt it," he says. "Through the bond. I felt you up there. Felt how happy you were." His hands tighten. "Do you know what you just did? He's never let anyone else fly him. Never. Just me. And now you."
You stare at him, at the intensity in his face. At Caraxes behind you, smug and satisfied. "What does that mean?" you ask quietly. Aerion's jaw works. "It meansâ" He stops, steps back, running a hand through his hair. "It means everything."
You fly Caraxes alone sometimes after that. Not often. Once a moon, maybe. Always with Aerion's permission (he has to tell the dragon it's allowed, has to send the permission down the bond, or Caraxes won't let you up). Every time, Aerion feels it. Feels your joy, your exhilaration. Feels the dragon's pride in carrying you. It's intimate in ways he can't explain but only makes him hungrier. You on his dragon, his dragon loving you. The bond singing with it.
Aerion notices, over the course of several weeks, how you've been sadder. Not crying, just... diminished. Quieter. You stare out windows more. Touch your direwolf pendant more (you wear it always, silver wolf on a chain, tucked under your gown). You talk about Winterfell in your sleep. He knows because Caraxes knows, the dragon can hear you from the pit when your window's open, and what the dragon hears, Aerion hears.
He asks you about it once, in the meadow. "Do you miss it? The North?" You don't answer right away. Then: "Every day. Every single day. The keep here is... it's beautiful. But it's not home. I miss the cold. I miss the snow. I miss the way the sky looks before a storm." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and you clear your throat, look away. Aerion watches you and feels an idea begin take shape inside his head.
He doesn't tell you what he's planning. Just makes arrangements. Tells the dragonkeepers he's taking Caraxes north for training exercises (a lie). Tells Father he'll be gone for a day (also a lie, but Maekar doesn't care enough to ask questions as long as he's disgracing himself). Doesn't tell anyone he's taking you.
He comes to your chambers before dawn one morning, knocks softly after dismissing the guards. You open the door in your nightgown, hair loose, sleepy and confused. "Get dressed," he says. "Flying leathers. Warm ones. We're leaving." "Whatâ" "Don't ask. Just trust me."
You do. You trust him.
He flies you north. Far north. Past the Neck. Past the wolfswood. You don't realise where you're going until you see it: Winterfell. Grey walls rising from white snow. Smoke from the chimneys. Home.
You make a sound. Choked and stunned. Your hands tighten on his arms (you're pressed against his chest in the saddle, his arms around you on the reins). "Aerionâ" "Shh," he murmurs in your ear. "We're not landing. Can't risk it. But I thoughtâyou said you missed it. So."
Caraxes circles Winterfell three times. Low enough that you can see the yard. The glass gardens and the godswood. Everything. Silent tears drip down your face, down your cheeks. Aerion can feel them on his wrist where his arm crosses your chest, can feel your breath shaking.
"Thank you," you choke out. "Thank you thank you thank youâ"
He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter and lets Caraxes circle one more time before turning south.
He lands in a clearing a few miles from the castle. You slide down from the saddle and your legs won't hold you. Aerion catches you. You're shaking. From cold, from emotion, from everything. He holds you up, hands at your waist, and you just... collapse into him.
You hug him.
You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder and hold on. Tight and desperate, grateful. "Thank you," you say again, muffled against his throat. "You didn't have toâ I can't believe youâ thank youâ"
Aerion stills under the weight, the sensation. His hands hover for a second, not sure where to go. Then they settle on your back. Careful. He can feel you crying into his shoulder.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this. He did it because Caraxes was restless, because you'd been sad, because it was a way to make you happy and gods know he's selfish enough to want your happiness directed at him and only him. He did it because he's selfish but thisâ your arms around him, your face in his neck, your breathless gratitudeâthis lands somewhere deep and dark.
You pull back eventually. Wipe your eyes. Embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean toâ" "Don't apologise." You look up at him and whatever you see on his face makes you nod once.
Caraxes, sprawled nearby, is purring. So loud it vibrates the ground. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's satisfaction: She is happy. We made her happy. OURS.
You stay in the clearing for an hour. Sit in the snow (you build a small fire, and you both huddle close to it). You talk about Winterfell. About your father. About your childhood. Things you've never told him. He listens, doesn't interrupt. Just listens.
When you fly back, you fall asleep against him. Head on his shoulder, arms loose around his waist. He holds you the whole way. Lands at the Red Keep after dark. Carries you from the saddle to the ground (you wake, groggy, mumbling apologies). His hands linger at your waist. "Sleep," he says quietly. "I'll handle the questions."
There are questions. As many questions as he expected. Where were you? Where was she? Do you have any idea how many people were looking for her? How this looks? Father is furious. Baelor stares, finally, not with vague suspicion but with knowing. Your father is somewhere between rage and relief. Aerion takes it all, doesn't give them anything. Just says, "She's safe. She missed home. I brought her back. That's all that matters."
They punish him. Grounded from flying for two weeks (it nearly kills himâand Caraxes, who screams for days). Confined to the keep, formal reprimand. He doesn't care, doesn't regret it. Not for a second.
You come to see him the next day. He's in his chambers (confined, remember). You slip past the guards (they don't stop youâyou're a lady, not a prisoner). He opens the door and you're there. "You shouldn't be here," he says. "I know," you answer. You step inside, close the door and cross to him. And then you hug him again, slower this time, fiercely. Your arms around his waist, your head on his chest. "Thank you," you whisper. "For yesterday. For giving me home. Forâ everything." His arms come around you, too tight. He doesn't say anything. Can't. The feeling in his chest is too big for words and he hates it.
When you pull back and leave, he stands there for ten minutes, just stands there. Feeling the ghost of you in his arms, the scent of you in his room (lavender, something cold, you). And he thinks: I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked.
Caraxes, in the pit three floors down, rumbles agreement.
You're not soft. You look soft sometimes that's Caraxes favourite thing about you. You're gentle with children, kind to servants, diplomatic at court, but Caraxes knows better. Can smell it on you. The wolf. The thing under the courtesy that has teeth.
The dragon has a theory: strong mate makes strong eggs, strong hatchlings. Not that there will be eggs (you're human, not dragon, the logistics don't work) but the instinct is there. He wants his rider to have a mate who can fight. Who can hold her own, who won't break under pressure. You fit. You're perfect.
You've snarled at Caraxes once, actually snarled. He was being difficult about something (wouldn't settle so you could mount, being a brat), and you put your hands on your hips and growled at him: "Stop being an ass and lower yourself. Now." The audacity. The dragon was so delighted he obeyed with a wry little huff. Aerion laughed until he couldn't breathe. Through the bond: She commands me. She has the right. OURS.
Once, you and Aerion were arguing (about something stupid, he can't even remember what). You were furious, eyes flashing, voice cutting and you shoved him. Actually put your hands on his chest and pushed. He stumbled back a step, shocked. You stepped into his space, chin up, fearless. "Don't patronise me, Aerion. I am not one of your simpering southern girls. I am a Stark."
He doesn't want someone soft. He's too sharp for soft. He'd destroy soft. But you? You can take it. Can take him, can match him, push back when he pushes, snarl when he snarls, hold your ground.
You've started to see it too. The way you and Caraxes are alike, the way you and Aerion are alike. Fierce, protective, all with teeth. You're comfortable with the dragon in ways you're not comfortable with most people because he gets you. Doesn't expect you to be soft. Likes you because you're not.
Once, you told Aerion: "He's not as bad as people say. He's justâhe doesn't trust easily. Neither do I." Aerion looked at you, then at his dragon. At the shape of what you were building together (you and him and Caraxes, the three of you tangled into something that has no name). "No," he agreed. "Neither do I." A pause. "But we trust you." You looked at him. "I know," you said quietly. "I know you do."
It's been months. Months of stolen flights, secret meadows, Aerion's hands carefully not crossing the line, Caraxes's growls every time you leave.
The betrothal announcement is coming. Everyone knows it. Baelor will ask formally. You will say yes. There will be a wedding.
Aerion can feel it closing in like a noose.
He's done being patient.
Next time you reach for him in the meadow, next time you pet his hair, touch his hand, look at him with those soft unguarded eyes... he's not pulling away.
He's going to kiss you. Properly. Going to put his hands on you and make you admit you want this.
The next time you come to the meadow, everything changes.
Aerion's going to make sure of it.
PLS PLS PLS MORE DRAGON! READER I BEG I BEG I BEG
I'm so glad you're interested!
I made a background post here.
There will definitely be more to come from this reader in the near future!
the last dragon - info
A further look into the reader from this fic. I would love to expand on this character further. I have multiple ideas regarding her role in events such as 'A Dance with Dragons,' 'A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms,' the Blackfyre Rebellions, and even the events of Game of Thrones.
âčââĄâ Reader ââĄââč
â (Name) Balaeryon â
Origin: Old Valyria
Born: Winter of 120 BC. 18 during the Doom.
Race: Valyrian
Features: The reader's skin color, hair texture, and body/weight will not be mentioned in this series. I wish to keep this series as close to a reader insert as possible. The only referenced features the reader will have are silver/blonde hair and purple/lilac eyes. The reader is Valyrian, so I want to stay as true to the lore as possible.
History: Single surviving member of the Dragonlords of House Balaerys. Your family and the rest of Valyria fell victim to the Doom after failing to heed the warnings of Daenys the Dreamer. In a final act of survival as Valyria erupted in flame and volcanic lava, your father bound you and your dragon, Morghon, together through a blood ritual. The price of such strong magic was paid with his and his wifeâs lives.Â
The ritual resulted in you gaining the ability to take the form of what was once your bonded dragon. Your souls and minds are embedded in one body. Now that you and Morghon were one whole, the two of you fled Valyria in Morghonâs dragon form.Â
After hours of flight, you landed on the shores of Dragonstone. Your body erupted in pain as you morphed back into the human you once were. Your body was rattled with pain and exhaustion, unmoving on the sandy beach. You only opened your eyes when the sound of large wings flapping brushed your ears. Ahead of you, Daenys Targaryen sat upon Balerion the Black Dread. Her father Aenarâs, guards had sighted you approaching as a dragon. Daenys did not follow her fatherâs command to stay safely inside the castle walls. Daenys was quick to rush to the Dragonmont and mount her dragon, Balerion.Â
Daenysâ blood ran hot as she flew to meet you on the sandy shores of Dragonstone. Her heart pounded behind her ribs as she approached your faltering form.
âI have seen you.â She stated softly.Â
 Your bleary gaze met her own, your brows furrowing, âYou are the dreamer.â You stated.
Daenys nodded and crouched in front of you, placing a gentle hand upon your cheek. âYou are safe here, young dragon.âÂ
Following your meeting with Daenys, you were brought to the castle to be treated by Maesters. Aenar had met with you after treatment, with his children, Daenys and Gaemon. You had explained your story as best you could, your thoughts scrambled from not being granted a moment's rest for what seemed like days.
âI have seen her in my dreams, Father,â Daenys spoke, her hand gripping her husband, Gaemonâs, arm. âShe will aid our house for years to come.â
Aenar accepted her words for what they were, as Daenysâ dreams have proven true. Aenar felt deep sorrow for the place he once called home and for you. He granted you safety and a home on Dragonstone, and you were treated as a high lady.
Due to your controversial and suspicious background, your true identity and⊠abilities became a house secret. No one outside of the Targaryen family was to know of your true origin. You passed as another Targaryen lady due to your Valyrian features, even going as far as to take on the Targaryen surname to hide your identity further. You roamed the skies as your dragon, Morghon. Your dragon was passed off as a wild one. One without a rider. The smallfolk and other nobles began calling your dragon Morghon the Untamed.Â
You learned quickly that you did not age like everyone else, and your dragon did not grow like other dragons. You retained your youthfulness over the years, and your dragon grew slower than others, much like humans. You became a ghost in the walls of Dragonstone. You watched as the Lordship passed from one Targaryen son to another.Â
A century after your arrival on Dragonstone, Aegon and his sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, commenced their war on the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Your growing loneliness and dull life wandering the halls of Dragonstone led you to take up arms alongside them. You had wished to see the rest of the world and travel throughout the Seven Kingdoms.Â
You burnt men and trashed towns in the form of your dragon. After months of battle and travel, Aegon was crowned King of the Realm.Â
You continued your life as you pleased. You would travel where you pleased, sometimes spending years away from the crown, presumably visiting the Free Cities. Your presence in Kingâs Landing and on Dragonstone became sparse. Your existence, which was once provable, has now become almost a myth. The Targaryen Kings would pass down your story from successor to successor, just as they passed on Aegonâs vision.Â
The Mad King Aerys sought you out in hopes you would aid the Crown in battle against the rebel, Robert Baratheon. You hid yourself well in the Free City of Lys. You had grown tired over the years. Your psyche took a great blow after the death of the last dragon. Your loyalty to the Targaryen line had waned, and your presence became sparse. You had not been seen since the end of the Blackfyre Rebellion, which took place nearly 25 years before Robertâs Rebellion.
(Name) Balaerys has not been seen in 42 years.
âčââĄâ Dragon form ââĄââč
â Morghon â
Name translation: Death
Coloring: Deep red scales with black patterns
Features: Lilac eyes and horns along her skull to the tip of the tail.
 Size: Similar size to Meraxes during the Conquest.
History: Morghon came from the egg that warmed your cradle as a babe. Morghon bonded to you soon after hatching. Your first flight on her was at the age of 9.
Morghon was the size of a large horse during the events of the Doom, and when the two of you were bound together via ritual. She grew to rival the size of Meraxes at the time of Aegon's Conquest, and continues to grow as she ages.
âčââĄâ (Name) and Morghon's connection ââĄââč
Despite being one form, (Name) and Morghon have independent minds. You and your dragon are connected on a soul level. When you feel something, whether physical or emotional, Morghon will feel it too. The same can be said for you with Morghon. Although you can control the actions of Morghon when in dragon form, you choose not to. The only time you take the reins is in battle. You can switch freely between your human form and Morghon. Note that at the time of Aegonâs Conquest, Morghon is roughly the size of Meraxes. Dragons continuously grow, though Morghon grows more slowly. By the time of Danaerys Targaryen, Morghon is roughly the size of Balerion the Black Dread, perhaps larger.
âčââĄâ Quirks and traits ââĄââč
â (Name's) Traits â
Bonds with dragons more quickly than people.
Letâs Morghon fly as she pleases, as she sees it as giving Morghon a sense of freedom.
Rarely wears Westerosi garb, choosing to wear traditional Valyrian clothing to pay homage to her homeland.Â
Distances herself from people, having outlived all her loved ones.Â
Refuses to bear children of her own, afraid they will come out inhuman.Â
Has a deep wish to ride atop Morghon as rider and dragon as they did in Valyria.Â
She has a deeper understanding of dragons because she is one herself.
Has only let a handful of people ride her as Morghon.
â Morghon's Traits â
Morghon has laid fertile dragon eggs despite never mating with a male dragon.
Has a gentle and playful personality for a dragon.
Fiercely protective of juvenile dragons.Â
Was not seen in the skies after the death of Balerion, the only remaining dragon beside herself to have seen Old Valyria.Â
She is too large for the Dragonpit and the Dragonmont.
Her and your emotional states are intertwined. She can sway your decision-making if she feels strongly about something.Â
She lets you take control when flown into battle, knowing it holds importance.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this and take an interest in this character. My requests for this AU are open!
The reader's Valyrian garb is heavily inspired by the art done by @debustee. The credits for the art in the first header go to them!
divider creds: @honeyluvsw
the last dragon - a. targaryen
Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dragon!Reader
Summary: The last Targaryen dragon died under the rule of King Aegon III. However, a young woman with a unique, intricate power remained amongst the houseâs self-induced downfall. Her existence had first been noted long before Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms, and she continues to play a key role throughout the Kingdoms. Despite her immense power, Aerion Targaryenâs infatuation may prove stronger.
Warnings: Cursing. The reader is described as having lilac eyes. Slightly ooc Aerion. Lowkey yearning Aerion. Not proofread!!
My writing is entirely my own work!!! Fuck AI
WC: 2.4k
The Doom of Old Valyria was a well-known story amongst those in Westeros privileged enough to seek an education. The Citadelâs maesters and the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms know the Doom to be an event that shifted the tides of their histories. But none knew the great effects of this event better than House Targaryen.
Aerion Targaryen studied his Houseâs histories as if the parchments on which they were written were to be burned the next day. The young Prince held a deep-seated resentment towards his greater ancestors. If not for them, the house of the dragon would still have its dragons. Aerion felt a distant ache in his chest since he was a young child. As if his body were calling for something he had never had the privilege of knowing.Â
However, in the annals of Westeros, few figures were spoken of with such reverence and unease as you were. Your ties to Westeros ran deeper than any living person. House Targaryen respected you, whilst the great Maesters of the Citadel feared you. You were fire made flesh. You were a dragon that required neither saddle nor command. You remain mostly unknown to the smallfolk. But to House Targaryen, you were studied and held high above even the greatest lords of the Seven Kingdoms.Â
As the existence of dragons ceased to exist, your presence became fainter along with them. King Daeron II was the last Targaryen to have spoken with you during the events of the first Blackfyre Rebellion. Aerionâs father, Maekar, and his uncle, Baelor, had told him many a story of your great, beastly form lighting the rebel army ablaze as they fought.Â
âThe she-beastâs size rivals that of the Black Dread himself.â His father would tell him when he was a younger boy.
Many members of the Targaryen line held a certain infatuation with you and your mere existence. However, none were ever as enthralled as Aerion was.
He did not simply admire youâ he revered you as proof of everything he believed himself to be. Where others in his line saw you as a curiosity or a political weapon, Aerion saw validation. You were Old Valyria in its purest form. A dragon wearing human flesh.Â
He spent countless nights mulling over your existence. Someone as great as you surely was not dead. He had heard whispers of you taking refuge in the Free Cities of Essos whenever you grew tired of the political mindgames of Westeros. Regardless, Aerion Brightflame would come face-to-face with you one day. He made that promise to himself long ago.Â
Aerion had awoken long before the servants came knocking at his door to dress him. He drank in his appearance in his bedchamber mirror. His hair was unkempt; He had been tossing in his sleep. He awoke that morning, his body drenched in his own sweat. He did not feel ill, nor could he recall any negative dreams. But Aerion knew, deep down, that something was not right. He went through the motions of the morning in a daze, his mind elsewhere. After breaking his fast, he made for the training grounds of Summerhall. The only available man at the moment was a poor squire boy. Aerion bristled at the thought of having to train with someone he deemed to be lesser than him. Although he thought most people to be lesser than him.Â
He hardly registered the crack of the squire's armor against his training sword. The angry prince seemed to be even more irritable than usualâ if that were possible. He brought down blow after blow on the younger man, despite the squire already having fallen to his knees.Â
âFor fucks sake, Aerion! The boy yielded already!â The prince halted in his movements at the sound of his fatherâs gruff voice resonating throughout the training yard.Â
Aerion did not respond to his father. However, he stepped back from the squire; the young boy was quick to bow and scamper off elsewhere.
Aerion turned towards his father, the elder prince wearing his usual scowl. âNext time I see you beat a squire half to death, Iâll have you sent North to take the black,â Maekar stated, his mouth curling into a snarl.
Aerion faltered slightly. His confidence tended to waver in the face of his battle-hardened father. Still, Aerion brushed off his fatherâs threat. âWhat is it you require of me now, Father?â He questioned, knowing his father would not seek him out without reason.Â
Maekar glowered down at his son, âReturn to your chambers and begin packing. We leave for Kingâs Landing at nightfall.â He stated.Â
Aerionâs brows furrowed, âWhatever for?â
âYour Grandsire has called upon us. He need not give a reason.â Maekar replied, though he held clear dissonance for the out-of-the-blue summons.Â
Aerion held his fatherâs gaze for a moment. âI refuse to be paraded in front of a court of noble pigs,â he spat.Â
Maekar swats the side of his head, âYou best be on with yourself, boy. Do not make me force you into a carriage like a whining child.âÂ
Aerion worked his jaw in frustration. He had no desire to heed his grandsireâs call, but he had decided that this was not a battle worth fighting with his father. Thus, Aerion shrugged past the older man, âAs you command.â And he made his way back to the armory to shed his training gear.Â
Aerionâs face remained one of stone as he and the rest of his family were announced to the court upon their arrival. He wished for nothing more than to wash and fall into a deep slumber. His body ached from the weeks-long ride from Summerhall to Kingâs Landing.Â
He followed his father and Daeron into the throne room, his younger siblings following close behind. He greeted the King with a bow, along with the rest of his family. He took note that the throne room was rather empty. The usual members of the Kingâs small council were absent. There were no high lords or ladies watching from the sides of the room. Aerion quickly came to realize that the only members standing in the room were those of House Targaryen itself.Â
Except for a single woman, he did not recognize.Â
The woman stood off to the side of the King, right next to his uncle, Baelor. Aerion took in her figure. She was adorned in rather revealing clothing. Although it held an intricate sort of elegance. Her body was draped in deep, crimson jewels. Silver chains dangled from her dragon-horn headpiece. Her skirts were thin and flowy. Her chest was covered in a silver breastplate adorned with the same red jewels.
Aerionâs gaze caught her own. His body ran cold as her lilac eyes locked on his. Aerion had never met this woman before, yet he knew who she was. He knew why his family was summoned.Â
King Daeronâs voice rang out through the room, âMy family, I am happy to see you all in good health.â His aging face spread into a smile, âThough, I am sure you are wondering why I have called you all here.â He stated.Â
Aerion could feel the thrum of heat roam up his spine as he listened, his eyes never leaving the womanâs form. King Daeron drawled on, making his gratefulness of your presence known, before finally introducing you to his kin.Â
Aerionâs heart beat rapidly against his ribcage as you stepped forward. You were not wearing typical footwear. Rather, your feet were wrapped in twisted metal sandals of some sort. The tops of them reaching your knees.Â
You bowed your head slightly, your hands clasped in front of you. âI apologize for the sudden intrusion upon your household. However, I am pleased to be meeting the current members of House Targaryen for the first time.â You spoke gently.
Aerionâs mouth ran dry at the sound of your voice. He imagined it was the closest he would ever get to hearing the voice of the gods.Â
You climbed down the steps farther to come face-to-face with Maekar. âMy Prince, it has been many moons since we last spoke.â You spoke.Â
âAs I recall, you were too busy dousing the rebel army in dragonflame for us to speak properly.â His father replied, rather plainly.Â
Aerion noted the smirk on your lips at his fatherâs reply. He felt envy cling to his spine. He wanted for nothing more than to be on the receiving end of your gaze once more.Â
The night of his familyâs arrival in Kingâs Landing, they had feasted. The King deemed it a celebration of Old Valyria.Â
Aerion had never quite been rendered silent throughout his life. He always had a quip or an insult weighing heavily on his tongue. However, he remained silent throughout the feast.
He had imagined you a hundred different ways.Â
None of them did your visage true justice.
You held a quiet, self-posessed presence. A recognition thrummed quietly beneath his ribs. Watching you felt like remembering something he had never lived. He watched every movement you made, every word spoken to his family, and every expression you held when you thought no one else was watching.Â
Later that same evening, Aerion caught himself wandering through the keep. He had yet to approach you on his own. He swore he could feel your presence through the thick, stone walls. For once in his life, Aerion was without confidence. He had never stood in the presence of someone he deemed greater than himself. As far as he was concerned, you were a goddess amongst men.Â
He trailed his ring-clad fingers against the red stone of the keep, his brows furrowed in concentration.Â
âMy Prince. I did not expect to see you out so late.â
Aerionâs body came to a halt as your voice echoed behind him. He turned his body slowly, almost afraid to look upon you again.Â
As he met your gaze, his breath hitched. He took a step forward and stopped as if an unseen line had been drawn between the two of you. His eyes searched your face. His usual feelings of hunger and possession dulled in your presence. His gaze softened to something unusually fragile for the dragon prince.Â
âYou areâŠâ He began, then faltered.Â
His words did not come as easily as they usually did.Â
Your expression was composed, but carried a familiar weight. Wariness, practiced and unyielding. You had seen the same look in Aerionâs face on others before. Awe curdled into expectation, and curiosity that soured into possession.Â
Aerionâs gaze was⊠different.
Unsettling in a way you were not familiar with.Â
âI am what they say.â You answered, sparing him the struggle. âIf thatâs what you mean to ask.â
Aerionâs breath fell short in his chest.Â
âI do not mean to ask,â he said. âI mean to see.â
His voice had lost its usual edge. It held no mockery nor performance. Ratherâ a quiet intensity that seemed to tug at you.
You quirked a brow in curiosity, âAnd? What do you see?â
It was rare for a man like Aerion Targaryen to be uncertain. Even more so, his uncertainty to show plainly on his features. However, he could not bring himself to look away from youâ afraid you may disappear as if you were never there in the first place.
âI do not know what to think.â He finally said, a quiet admission. Aerion felt vulnerable under your intense gaze.Â
Your guarded distance lowered slightly, though not completely gone. âMost men donât.â You stated plainly. Your gaze shifted from him to the hallway of the keep behind you. Your stance shifted as you took a step back.Â
Aerion felt panic shoot down his spine, his hand lurching out in front of him, âNot yet.â The words left his mouth before he could shape them into something more appropriate. He did not wish for you to leave him just yet. Hells, he did not wish for you to leave him ever.Â
His outburst gave way to a quiet, aching admission.Â
Your expression tightened slightly as you halted in your movements.Â
That was the danger.Â
Not his blood.Â
Not his name.
This.
âYou should be careful with what you seek from me, prince.â You spoke softly, though he felt as if your voice echoed loudly in his ears, âMen have wanted many things from me. None of them understood the cost.âÂ
Aerionâs gaze held your own fervently. He could not waver now.Â
You took in his intense expression. The sharp edge of his jaw, his pale, lilac eyes, the furrow in his brow. But most of all, you noticed the pained look in his eyes.Â
âI do not wish to take anything from you.â He said, âI onlyâŠâ He tongued his cheek, as if afraid to be honest. His usual mask faltered, slipping entirely. âI have spent my entire life being told what we are. What we were.â He swallowed.
âIt never felt quite true.â The space between you felt as if it had narrowed. âBut youâŠâ He continued, barely above a murmur, âYou feel like truth.â
Silence followed his words.Â
You searched his gaze. Searched for the same desire to claim, to control, that drove others to you. It was there, faintly. But it was not what drove him.
You stepped back once more, your shoulders squared in defiance.
âYou are mistaken, my prince.â You drew in a shuddering breath, a weight on your chest that wasnât there beforehand. âWhatever you think you see in me⊠it is not yours to be claimed.â You responded.
Aerion flinched, but did not reach for you this time.Â
âI know.â
And he sounded as though he truly did know.Â
You inclined your head towards him, a small, final gesture. âGood night, my prince. I trust your late-night wanderings will help you find the rest you so desire.âÂ
You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his own. Aerionâs body shuddered at the contact. He felt as though he had been doused in wildfire.Â
He did not follow you.
Yet, his hands curled at his sides as if grasping for something he could not yet reach.Â
Then, softly, to no one but himself, he spoke.Â
âI have never seen anything like you.â
A quiet, unrelenting yearning took root where something far more dangerous might yet grow.
Disclaimer: Iâm fully aware that my work isn't quite up to par with other ASOIAF fic writers. However, Iâve had this idea for a while and really wanted to put it out there. If you guys enjoy this, feel free to request this reader with other characters/scenarios! And if you'd like more info on the readerâs origins/history, I have an entire info sheet I can upload. Thank you so much for reading!Â
divider creds: @noxtiia
PLEASEEE ' Your grace, I am your man. Please. Your man ' this is so relevant for all of the men in ls adoring circle -dunk -baelor -lyonel -aerion -maeker
DUNK
Youâre tending him again.
He came back from the yard scraped raw, bleeding in that careless way you know he does because he canât help itâtoo willing to throw himself between danger and anyone smaller, too stubborn to admit when heâs hurting, too. You sit him down, tilt his face toward the light, clean the cut along his brow while he tries not to flinch more from your nearness more than the sting of the cloth.
âSer Duncan,â you murmur, brushing mud from his cheekbone. âHold still.â
He does. Gods, he tries. But you feel the tremor run through him anyway. Not fear, never fear, but something softer and far more perilous for him.
When you finish binding the scrape, he looks at you with that wide, unguarded devotion that always seems to spill out of him before he can catch it and tuck it back. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, as though the words in him are too large to pass through his throat.
Then he shifts off the stool, and sinks to his knees before you.
Not like a courtier making a show of it, like youâve seen dozens do over the years to gain your favour. He kneels the way a devout man might kneel before a shrine; slow, careful, almost reverent. His head bows deeply. His huge hands rest on his thighs, palms open, offering before he even speaks.
âYour Grace,â he says, voice shaking in its quietness.
You reach for him automatically, to make him stand, to remind him he doesnât need to offer himself to you, but he catches your hand in both of his, holding it as though it is a sacred thing, as though touching you is the riskiest thing heâs ever dared.
âI am your man,â he declares, lifting his eyes to meet yours at last.
There is nothing hungry in it. Nothing greedy or selfish. Only devotion so earnest it threatens to break him in half.
âPlease,â he breathes, not begging for your affection, but for the right to serve you. âYour man. Your protector.â
He lowers his forehead to your knuckles in a gesture so old, so honest, it feels like a ritual older than any throne.
âIâll guard you,â Dunk murmurs, voice thick. âWith my life. Until you send me away, I am yours.â
And the pure sincerity of itâthe way he means every word with the whole of his enormous, gentle heartâsettles around you like a finest cloak.
BAELOR
You donât mean anything by it.
Itâs little more than a courteous exchange, a lord offering some practiced compliment, his hand hovering a fraction too close to your waist. You step back before it becomes improper, but Baelor notices it. He always does. His posture never breaks, his face never shifts, yet something in him tightens like a bow quietly drawn.
He finishes his conversation with perfect civility, but his gaze finds you across the hall with an intensity that pins you in place.
âMy wolf,â he says when he reaches you, voice low, velvet-edged. âWalk with me.â
Not a question. Not truly a command, either. Something gentler, deeper; a request he expects you to honour.
You follow him into a quieter alcove, torchlight haloing the stretch of his shoulders. He waits until the sounds of the hall soften into a distant hum before turning to you fully.
He doesnât look angry. He looks steady, frighteningly so.
âTell me,â he murmurs, stepping close enough that your breath catches, âdid you welcome his attention?â
Your denial rises instinctively, but Baelor shakes his head once, too slow and knowing.
âNo,â he cuts it in smoothly. âI already know your answer.â
He reaches up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch is soft, but his eyes are not. They burn, some relentless, contained thing, but blazing from within all the same.
âHe looked at you as if he had earned the right,â Baelor continues, voice a quiet burn. âAs if you could be swayed by someone who has never learned the shape of your silences. The strength of your will.â
Your pulse stumbles. He feels it, his hand drifting from your cheek to the delicate column of your throat, fingertips skimming with a reverent, soft pressure.
âBaelorââ
His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw, stilling the word.
âYou forget,â he says, leaning in until your lips almost brush, âwhy you choose me. Every day.â
Heat flares through you. He sees it, tastes it in the hungry little hitch of your breath, and something shifts in his expression, too; something tender and devastating all at once.
âI see you,â Baelor murmurs. âNot the title. You. The woman who stands like winter and burns hotter than any summer sun. The one no man commands.â
He leans closer, his breath ghosting your mouth.
âThe man in that hall saw what he wanted.â His voice drops, darkening. âI see what is.â
Your hands curl into the front of his tunic without conscious thought. His fingers linger against the flutter of your pulse, feeling, counting.
âI am your man,â he breathes, the words rich and rumbling in the quiet between you, âand you are my wolf.â
His head bows, your brows almost touching. âAnd I am not in the habit,â he whispers mildly, âof letting anyone mistake that.â
His thumb strokes your pulse once, reverently, like heâs memorizing the beat of belonging he feels there. When he finally draws back, his voice is barely more than breath.
âYou choose me,â he finishes softly, âand gods willing, I will spend every breath proving why you were right to.â
LYONEL
You catch him lounging again where he shouldnât be. Sprawled across a cushioned bench in a sun-soaked corridor, boots up, tunic half-laced, every inch of him radiating the smug indolence of a man who has escaped three meetings and one summons from the Hand.
âStormlord,â you call his title on purpose, arching a brow. âYou are meant to be in council.â
He brightens instantly, as though youâve delivered him from execution.
âAh,â Lyonel sighs, hand over his heart, âand here I thought youâd come to rescue me.â
You donât dignify that with an answer. You only stand there, waiting, tapping your fingers lightly against your hip. He watches the movement with far too much interest.
Then, with a groan clearly meant to amuse you, Lyonel pushes himself upright, stretching like a cat waking from a pleasant nap.
âYou know,â he says, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, âitâs a terrible burden, serving the crown as Stormlord.â
âOh?â you ask, dry as northern tree bark.
âMm.â He nods gravely. âEndless storms. Endless paperwork. Endless dull old men droning in my ear about grain.â His eyes sparkle, sharp and devious. âOne wonders why I ever agreed to it.â
âYour duty?â you offer. âYour birthright?â
He scoffs. âHardly that. Duty is for respectable men.â
âAnd what are you?â you ask.
Lyonel steps closer, grin tilting, voice dropping just enough to slip under your skin.
âHopeless.â
You blink, genuinely puzzled and wary. âHopeless?â
âUtterly.â He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture so soft it contradicts every careless word heâs ever spoken to you. âHopelessly devoted. Hopelessly distracted. Hopelessly inclined to ignore half the realm if youâre standing in the same room.â
Your pulse jumps. He notices it, drinks it in with a knowing little twitch of his lips. And still he keeps smiling that bright, infuriating smile of his that hides a blade.
âYou think I bend knee to the crown?â Lyonel wonders, soft and idle, near ponderous. âGods, no. I serve because you sit beside it.â
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a laugh, shaking his head.
âDonât look so startled,â he says. âIâve never pretended to be honourable. Only reliable.â His voice softens, the joke thinning into something bare and earnest. âFor you, at least.â
Then, with a ridiculous, court-mocking flourish, he drops into a half-bow, pressing your hand to his lips.
âYour man,â Lyonel announces lightly.
It should sound unserious, perhaps ridiculing, coming from him. It should be nothing but flirtation. But the way Lyonel looks up at you from under his lashes ruins that lie completely, because his eyes are warm, molten, and far too honest.
âPlease,â he says, barely above a whisper. âYour man.â
You feel the truth of it like a physical thing. And Lyonelâreckless, radiant, irreverent Lyonelâstraightens with a wink, already turning toward the corridor as if he hasnât just cracked open something dangerous between you.
âWell,â he tosses over his shoulder, âif I must endure council for the crown, I expect you to repay the suffering with at least one smile.â
He pauses mid step.
âAnd perhaps,â he adds, voice dipping sweet and sinful, âa reminder later that being your man is not entirely thankless.â
Then he disappears around the corner, leaving you standing in a wash of sun, breath unsteady, pulse still chasing the shape of his words.
AERION
You hear him long before you see him.
A shift of floorboards, a breath held too long. That sharp, restless presence you know like you know your own heartbeat. The hour is late, the castle asleep, and the fire in your chamber has burned down to embers when he appears in the doorway. Barefoot, shirt half-laced, pale hair mussed as if he has raked his hands through it a hundred times.
âAerion,â you speak quietly into the dark. âYou should be asleep.â
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. âI canât.â
Of course he canât. He never sleeps well when something stirs in him. Heâs half longing, half nightmares, and mostly just dark, destructive desire. All of it bruises him the same way.
He stands there a moment as though deciding whether he should leave.
He doesnât.
He crosses the room in three slow steps, and when he reaches you, he doesnât ask permission. He never asks. He waits, just long enough to be denied if you choose to deny him, and when you donât speak, he sinks down beside the chair and lays his head in your lap.
The breath you draw catches.
Aerion exhales like someone drowning who has finally reached air. His cheek presses to your thigh. One hand curls loosely at your knee, not gripping, only holding, as though he needs the anchor more than he needs dignity.
âNightmares?â you ask.
He shakes his head. His voice is low, dark, a whisper cracked at the edges.
âNo. Just⊠you werenât in my dreams tonight.â
Danger coils under the words, but so does something fragile, something almost childlike in its honesty.
Your fingers hesitate above his hair. He waits, more patiently than he does for anything in the harsh honesty of daylight. The moment you finally touch himâlightly, barelyâAerionâs entire body loosens. His eyes slip shut. He turns his face a fraction toward your hand, toward the warmth, toward you.
âAerion,â you murmur warningly.
He smiles into the fabric of your nightrobe. A slow, wicked, aching thing.
âDonât send me away,â he says. âNot tonight. I canât bear it.â
You thread your fingers through his pale hair despite yourself, and the sharp, thrilled breath he sucks in nearly undoes you. He nuzzles closer, his voice dropping to something fevered:
âYou have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this.â
Your pulse kicks, and he hears it. You know he does. His fingers trace a line along your calf, ever so slowly, savouring, nothing like the arrogant confidence he wears by daylight.
Then, muffled against your lap, dangerous and tender in the same breath:
âAunt.â
An aching little prayer, a bruise, a surrender.
âI am your man.â
The words scrape out of him like confession, not performance, a truth he canât hold back in the dark. His hand tightens just slightly at your knee, enough to tremble, not enough to trap.
âPlease,â he whispers, silky and dark, breath hot against the thin cloth. âYour man.â
There is hunger in itâwildfire desire that could consume a kingdom, you think grimlyâbut beneath that, horrifyingly, unmistakably, is need. The kind he would burn the world to keep hidden. The kind he brings only to you, only when the night strips him down to something raw and desperate and hungry.
Aerion turns his head just enough to look up at you, eyes molten, lashes casting shadows on his cheek.
âIf you send me away,â he tells you softly, âIâll go mad.â
Your hand is still in his hair.
And Aerion leans into it like a creature starved for gentleness, letting the fire paint his features in gold and ruin.
âLet me stay,â he breathes. âLet me be yours. Just for this hour. Just until the sun comes.â
He closes his eyes again, as though surrender is safer than looking at you.
âAs if,â he murmurs, voice dark silk, âI was ever anything else.â
MAEKAR
It starts in the hall.
Snow has fallen from the hills all day, light at first, then heavier, thickening on the stone steps and clinging to menâs beards as they come in off the yard. The fire roars pleasantly; the air smells of smoke and wet wool and something stewing in a great black pot at the back. Men are loud with drink and the comfort of their own safe keep.
Which is always when someone decides to be brave and foolish.
âHe wears our colours well enough, mâlady,â one of your fatherâs bannermen says, not quite slurring yet. âTalks like he means it, too. But steelâs still southern under it, my lady. Dragonâs a dragon. Weâll see if he holds when the winter truly bites.â
Itâs not meant as an insult, not even as an accusation. Northerners are too blunt for such games. Itâs worry, spoken poorly but sincerely. The words find their way across the firelight well enough regardless.
At the high table, Maekar pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.
He doesnât look over. Doesnât ask the man to repeat himself. There is just the smallest tightening along his jaw, as if something in him has clenched and heâs set his teeth around it.
You answer, because it is expected of you and because you would have done so even if it werenât. Your voice is even, and your words are Winterfellâs words, your fatherâs words, as sharp and cold and sure as the stones underfoot.
The matter dies, on the surface. Men shift, placated. Someone calls for more ale. The conversation turns again, as it always does, back to harvest and levies and some poor foolâs misjudged hunt.
Maekar does not speak for the rest of the meal unless he has to. He listens instead, and thatâs worse. He listens with his face turned slightly away, the nape of his neck corded, his hand around his cup as if heâs holding onto it so he doesnât reach for something else.
You do not touch him there. Not with eyes on you. Not when he is wound that tight.
Later, when the hall thins out and the cold sting of the corridors closes around you, he walks beside you without speaking. His strides are heavy on the stone. He does not offer his arm. But he doesnât need to. You know precisely how to fall into step with him now. Youâve learned each other well enough.
Only when the door to your chambers shuts behind you and the latch drops does he stop.
The room is dim, lit by one low fire and two candles guttering on the table. Your shadow crosses his when you shrug off your cloak. He stands just inside the door a moment longer, as if deciding whether to leave again.
He doesnât leave.
He unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside. Shrugs out of the heavy Stark grey. Underneath, his shirt is dark at the throat where snowmelt and sweat have soaked the linen; his forearms are bare and scarred where heâs rolled the sleeves up. His movements are clipped, agitated. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays anything else.
You hang your cloak. Turn back towards him, eyeing him for a breath.
âWhat they saidââ you begin.
âDid you agree?â he demands.
Itâs blunt in a way youâve stopped flinching from. Maekar is a man who cuts straight to the bone once heâs decided to cut at all.
You cross the space between you until you are close enough to see the pale nick along his knuckles from this morningâs drills, the faint, fresh line at his throat where some boyâs blade slid too close.
âNo,â you say.
He studies you. As if weighing that on its own, no other argument offered. Something eases in him, but not much.
âTheyâll talk,â you add evenly. âThey always have. New lord, new snow, new grumbling. You know this.â
âThey can grumble about my manners,â he snaps back. âOr my face. Plenty there.â His mouth twitches, brief and humourless. âThey start grumbling about whether Iâll hold the line when it breaks, thatâs different.â
âYouâve never broken,â you remind him.
He huffs. âYou werenât there for every year.â
You tip your head, waiting.
He drops his gaze. Not out of shame. Maekar doesnât waste time on that. Itâs something else. A man digging in his heels before he says more than he means to.
âI know what they see,â he says suddenly. âSouthern prince in a borrowed cloak. Dragonâs son. Man who rode north on a kingâs word and a treaty, not because the old gods whispered in his sleep.â
Your throat tightens. âIs that what you think this is? A treaty?â
âNot now.â The answer comes too fast; he looks almost annoyed with himself for that much softness, for how quick he is to give it to you. His fingers flex at his sides. âNow itâs⊠different.â
You wait, but he doesnât elaborate. You bite back an impatient sigh.
âMaekar.â
He finally looks up.
Youâve seen this look on him in battle drills, when he has decided a thing and then decided it will be done even if it costs him blood and bone. Old. Stubborn. Unyielding. He takes two steps and then you have your back to the wall and him in front of you, not trapping so much as blocking out the rest of the world. His hands plant on either side of your hips on the stone, bracketing you without touching.
âYour father wants to know if Iâll stand when winter comes,â he says. âYour bannermen want to know if Iâll bleed for some hill they canât see on a map.â His head dips, shoulders hunched just enough to bring him nearer, to make his voice a rasp between you. âI donât give a shit about hills.â
Your breath catches; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
âI care if youâre on them,â he adds tightly.
That lands heavier than any oath could.
âIf the snows come in and the dead are walking, if the gods themselves climb out of those woods to take a piece of this placeââ his mouth twists, the words grinding out, âtheyâre welcome to try me. Theyâll find me where you are. Theyâll have to go through me first.â
The way he says it, like a simple fact, makes something in your chest ache and something in your belly coil, low and hot.
âIâm not good with speeches,â he mutters. âYou know that.â
âI had⊠suspected,â you answer, dry despite the tightness in your throat.
âGood,â he grunts. âThen you know I donât say this because it sounds pretty.â
His hand leaves the stone. Settles, heavy and warm, at your waist. Fingers spread, thumb pressing once into the bone as if to prove to himself you are here, tangible and his.
âI am your man,â Maekar says.
He doesnât dress it up. Doesnât soften the rough edges. The words are as plain as any heâs ever given you.
âNot your fatherâs,â he goes on, staring at you. âNot your kraken-eyed bannermenâs. Not even my own Fatherâs, not anymore.â His jaw clenches, bones rolling. âYours.â
You stare up at him. âMine?â
He makes a low, frustrated sound. âDonât make me say it twice, woman.â
You canât help it. You smile, small and sharp. He sees it, and something in him steadies. His shoulders drop the barest fraction. The corner of his mouth threatens a curve he crushes before it can fully form, much to your disappointment.
âIâll stand where you tell me to stand,â he says, a shade quieter now, but no less stern about it. âIâll swing on whatever poor bastard you point at. Iâll freeze on these walls and bleed in these gods-cursed woods and eat boiled leather before I let anything take whatâs under this roof from you.â
His thumb strokes once, rough, at your side. It could almost be accidental, but you know better than that. Nothing with Maekar is accidental.
âThatâs my loyalty,â he finishes. âThey can call it northern or southern or madness. Doesnât matter to me. Itâs yours.â
You lift a hand and catch his jaw in your palm. He goes still under your contact. You feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of skin, the way his throat works once under your fingers like heâs swallowed something sharp.
âMaekar,â you say quietly. âItâs more than enough.â
His eyes shutter for a beat, then open again, clearer and still hard.
âGood. They can keep their questions,â he says, softer now. âYou know the answer.â
His hand tightens at your waist, something claiming and steady at the touch in the same breath.
âYour man,â he repeats, low and sure. âThatâs all I know how to be.â
WHAT WAS THEN, WILL BE
summary: when time calls for maekar to leave you, he makes sure you are left with all of him, with his hands, his body, his everything. and when he returns, forever changed, he proves it once more.
pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader (pre-rebellion/rebellion)
warning(s): SMUT, pinv, slight breeding kink, biting, soft-rough sex, mention of violence and war, injuries, slight angst (leaving for war), just domestic stuff
word count: 4.9k
a/n: fear not! i have a baelor version coming too, also i know maekar probs would have aged to how he looks in akotsk, and not in a year bur facial hair wise, we can pretend okay đ
Trumpets had sounded at the first sight of dawn breaking, steel toed footsteps echoing every corner of the halls in their march. Banners had unfolded proud over every wall of the Keep, swords drawn from every belt that made their way to the courtyard, shouts of order to be heard from the furthest distance.
And yet, you had been none the wiser.
The sheets still held the warmth of the previous night, eager touches from skin on skin, the complimentary burning of citrus perfume and incense still decorating the air. And in the bed, your hands braced comfortably on the plush of your pillow, and just tangled behind you, your husband. The pair of you softly snoring as Maekar pressed his bare chest into your back, few scars of combat and training still graced and raised over years of experience. His arm placed over you protectively, fingers dipping just over your belly button. Only the sweetest dreams guarded by the man at your rear, chest rumbling with every breath.
Though such peace did not last long, nor did it ever in the realmâs tendency to break it.
The glinting of armour, polished and shined to perfection had replaced where the sun would peek through the curtains, practiced frames standing rigid and expectant in the doorway.
âMy Prince.. your father calls on you. There has been news from The Reach.â
You mumbled, voices murmuring faintly through your dreams, but you did not wake. Maekar stirred however beside you, tugging you closer upon the company, head rising as his eyes squinted in annoyance.
âWhy the fuck are you here?â He called out confused, smoothing the sheets over your sleeping form, covering you from wandering eyes. The two Goldcloaks stood there, faces plain and stoic, bowing as their Prince gestured, grumbling and hair perfectly mussed. He was in a different state to how they usually saw him, all properly dressed and stoned-eyes, instead he was taken aback, unguarded and curled into his wifeâs side like a tamed house cat.
They remained their gazes on him, not daring to sneak a look to your form, even in your splendour and beauty, the Princeâs vulnerability had not shaken them, his stare still just as, if not more dangerous. They repeated their words at the command, sleep muffling them the first time, and thatâs when the dreaded news came.
âDaemon Blackfyre has declared war on the King and your house.â One of them announced, the declaration ringing in his head louder than the horns had shifted him moments earlier.
He shot up, hands bracing the sheets. He had heard every worry of the council, standing at his father and brotherâs side as it had been warned, feared to happen for months to come.
Though now couldnât have been worse time. The kingdom was at last in some kind of peace, though seemingly it was swept beneath the dusty castles of the Keep.
He waved them off, still offended but understanding of their urgency, and he made no mistake of it, sighing as the door closed with a heavy thud. He fought with the idea of going back to bed entirely, cuddling closer to you until he was just above, elbow propped onto the edge of your pillow as he took you in. Still warm, still curled into his side, still blissfully unaware.
And had he had time, heâd have taken all of the time left in the world, but there was none, and his restraint was far weaker than he would ever admit.
Especially with you.
âMy love..â He called out to you, and for the first time your body reacted, recognising the voice, deep and ragged from sleep, and something else beneath it.
Though your slumber couldnât tell.
He moved downward, craning his neck down to yours, fingers patting softly through your hair, taking in the strands that fell across the pillow. He wasted no time, his free hand reaching beneath the blanket and smoothing over your side, tracing up and down the curve of your waist and thighs, inching.
You rocked back against him instinctively, feeling the warmth of the growing heat as you blinked your eyes open. He was already pressing kisses all over. Your shoulder, the nape of your neck, arms wrapping tighter around you as he rolled you to your back, the sheets curling around you both as he rose, caging you in.
âMaekar..â You slurred, wiping your clenched palm over your eyes meaning to clear them, flicking up to him. He gave a small smile, nudging your nose with his, silver hairs falling mussed and swept, replying by pressing another kiss to your jaw. His knees were either side of you, balancing as his arm slowly pulled your hand away, uncovering you.
âLet me see you..â He whispered, sucking a mark onto your neck that made you whine, raising his head just above yours, meeting your quizzical look. Your hands linked around his neck as sleep escaped you, waking fully with the press of his body.
âAnd what is this..â He contemplated telling you right away, or keeping it secret, his brows furrowing, only looking to you, memorising. He decided against it, knowing how youâll react, probably scold him, unhappily chasing him away.
âI must go..â You went rigid against him. You were no stranger to that, that one comment that made you freeze. Early rising and leaving with hardly much word to be had until you saw him late into the night. But this was different, his voice was softer, wanting, a farewell not to be taken for granted.
âGo where..?â You quizzed, shifting under him, allowing your body to rise.
His kisses carried, moving along your body, meeting the skin of your breast the sensitive bud grazed by his teeth
âFar enough away that I want to savour you..â You moaned as his lips made there way to your abdomen. âHave to..â The sheets pulled down with every inch he sunk down your body, his teeth grazing over you, testing a bite at your sternum, right over your heart.
You had not known exactly what he was talking about, nor where it had come from, but the haze from the dawn and the touch of his fingers sinking into your folds, and with his mouth delicately across your body, you were torn. His silver strands tickled down your skin, the pads of his hand cupping at your breast.
âLet me have you, wife.â He mumbled through his own haze, driven by desire and longing, the unknown of when or if this would be the last, and how he wasnât going to waste another moment waiting for another interruption.
His gaze watched over you, waiting as he settled himself at the end of the bed, hunched over as he withdrew the sheets entirely, bearing himself as well as you. The pale plans of his chest, carved down to his abdomen and the sharp trace to his cock. He was hard, aching, hands firming at your hips as you shifted them wide. You responded only with a whine, pressing your fingers to his shoulder.
Take me.
And he did. Sinking down into you as your knees bent up, his palms parting them with a single slide of his fingers. His face pressed into you with no hesitation, tongue dipping into your core with an eager desire. You arched into him, the nightâs soreness still aching your cunt, but his mouth a teasing soothing to the pain as he lapped you up, shoving, licking and tasting with all he could.
Your hands moved to his hair, taking the strands between your fingers and pulling impossibly close. He groaned into you, the vibrations sending jolts through your cunt as he rubbed his nose at your clit, steadying himself into your heat further. He loved you like this, these moments, no matter the time or need, there was never a time when he didnât long for it. You blissfully whining and moaning beneath him, like nothing else could come close, only his touch, taking what you wanted. Titles did not matter, nor even your status, just the two of you, with only the sweet call of your names through the air.
And he did not want it to end. He firmed himself up onto his knees, scooping his one palm around your thigh, sliding it over his shoulder, the other finding its way to the mattress, lifting you by a slight to cup your arse cheek, dragging you into him.
âMaekar..â You whined out at the angle, his nose bumping into you as his tongue thrusted into your entrance, curling into your wetness as your arousal coated him. Your one hand fisted the sheet, giving you more leverage to rock back against him, the coil in your belly tightening.
âThatâs it, my love.â He mumbled with his mouth full, never truly knowing manners, not that he cared. You were the only thing he cared for, and right now it was getting you to come undone onto him, driving his tongue in deeper with every movement of your hips. He sucked down, lips latching over your clit as his chin found its way through your folds messily. You fisted his hair tighter, head lolling back onto the end of your pillow, pushed up from your body being tugged down.
You came with a languid cry, whining into the side of silk, body convulsing through your high as he fucked you through it, lapping up your juices in a lewd motion, taking you into his mouth. And he did not rise, even as you hips bucked with overstimulation, only doing so after pressing a kiss to your cunt, right over your pearl, passionate and delicate. He parted from you, a string of his spit and your arousal from his lips, dripping down his chin shamelessly as he smirked, ghosting his way back above you as you chanced to look up through lidded eyes.
âThe beauty you are..â He noted, rubbing up into you.
He crawled his way back over you, kissing your hip bone, to your breast, sucking lightly over it as you pulled him up, his hands bracing either side of your head on the bed.
âMust you go..â His eyes met yours, properly for the first time, his face mere inches in front of your own. Violet hues raked over your face, taking in everything, as if to memorise you, burning you into his brain indefinitely as if he hadnât donât so many times over. He pressed a sharp kiss to your lips, almost bruising, sharp and adoring as if he knew the words he were about to speak were going to shatter you.
He lets you feel him first instead, the hard length of his cock pressing into your thigh, the taste of yourself on his tongue, your hands finding there way around his forearms biting back a moan, encouraging him on for an answer.
He bit, âMy fatherâs bastard kin has inundated a call to war.â
âHow..â Your eyes widened, following his as they dropped to your body.
âFled arrest, and now he makes means to call himself King.â He mentioned plainly, unimpressed and reasonably agitated, though that was the last thing he had on his mind. His stare fully fixated al over you.
âBut that means..â You reasoned, the words sinking in. You werenât unaware of the battle your father in law had been going through for quite some time, since many years ago his very own father had decided to legitimise his bastard children, the realm had been in a quiet upheaval. One that had been under the heavy lock and key of High Council and lords until now. And the realisation, the final breaking point, now a rebellion.. you felt a pang of panic, your heart beginning to thunder in your chest.
âI know..â His voice snaps you from your racing thoughts, those blown wide pupils searching for yours as tears begin to brim your eyes. Your palms move to the side of his face, mouth falling open for words that donât come. He only nodded, pressing his forehead to yours, pursing his lip for a short kiss to the bridge of your nose.
âYou have me..â A silent assurance that all would be okay, though neither of you knew that. He pressed his body to you once more, the heat and growing need of him a heavy weight over you, and yet the feel of his hands around you felt weightless. You whined, desperate and upset.. all at once, and he felt it, with every bone in his body he felt it to. That want, that pain. His hands reaching down to hook your legs around him, and you let them fall, your calves rested onto his lower back, as his arms found their way under your back, scooping you up. Your back settled between your pillow and his palms, your arse braced firm into the sheets where he held you.
âJust let me have you..â He slid his face against you, near pleading against your ear as his throat tore open, voice straining where it threatened to break. âPlease..â He breathed, the sting beneath your skin creeping up around your eyelids with all emotion at once, a sense of overwhelm driving you forward. You nodded, kissing at his jaw as your hands held him in place, your gazes locked together.
You couldnât find words to speak, the only noise from you were the ones he pulled from you, his cock pushing through your folds as he lined himself up with your entrance, his lengthy curve settling its way inside. You both gasped, his breath stuttering deep against you as he pushed himself in inch by inch, both of you relishing in every second that wasnât to waste, the weight of him inside of you pulsing with every clench.
âPlease.. move.â You moaned, and his hips steadied, rocking into you at your command, breathing deeply with an exhale through his nose. Your fingers gripped at his neck, pulling him back down into yours as he thrusted, every pull of his cock sending you jolting into his palms. And he kept you there, firming you down, fingertips gracing your back as his nose pressed into your hair, grunting with every drag that connected you.
And he did not stop, neither of you did until you were spent and aching, inching you back down to lay properly on the mattress, his knees firming to the plush bed, driving into you harshly, reverently with his forehead pressed to yours. âFuck, take me..â Your vision blurred, from the tears of pleasure and the pain that crept into your chest, wanting to tug him down with you and never let him leave. And by the Gods he cursed, wanting the same, wanting to stay inside of you, holding you that way as your mouth fell agape, utterly entranced.
âPerhaps Iâll fuck another babe into you for you to keep while Iâam gone..â You moaned as he grunted, thrusting with promise, his hips stuttering as his thumb moved to your swollen pearl. Your breath shook, every motion too much, your back arching back into him as your breasts bounced, his palms capturing them roughly.
âCome..â He commanded gruffly, head falling at your side onto the pillow, lips pressing at your collarbone as he felt you tense. âCome for me and Iâll give it to you..â He bunched up against you, angling into your sweet spot, your clit vibrating with the rough of hisfingers, a silent begging that he was close too, and he wasnt going to last with you like this.
And you obeyed, your body faltering before you could. You came undone around him with a harsh clench, whining into the thick skin of his neck, muscle flexing under your touch with your fingers tugging at the loose strands of hair at the back of his head.
He followed not long after, groaning into your skin as he came, spilling inside of you in short, heated bursts, hips rolling into yours, with skin burning hot onto yours.
And as the horns sounded one more time, he grabbed your face, kissing you all over, his tongue sliding over yours like a vow. The sweat of your bodies colliding with where he still sat inside of you, not yet wanting to move.
âI donât want you to go..â He shushed you with another kiss, passionate and meaning this time, one unhurried, and you knew there was no escaping that, not this time.
His eyes read everything he could not say.
I donât want to leave.
âI must, I will come back to you.â He pulled from you as the shouting grew louder, men readying armour, distant calls for his presence.
The last chance.
His hands ran over you once more, dragging the sheets up to protect what warmth was left in the bed. You pulled his face back down as he hesitated to rise, fighting himself against all honour and duty, against his love that was so much stronger than it all combined.
More than many knew, but you did.
He groaned into you, his voice breaking without speaking, tears threatening his own eyes as yours did.
âI will come back to you..â He repeated, convincing you both of it, before pushing himself off of the bed, bare and naked, your scent and touch still clinging to him. His clothes were thrown on in a rush, undershirt and the thick of his breeches enough to protect from chainmail and armour to be placed on him by the squires. He gave you one last look then, the way you sat up in the bed, alone and lost, just as he had been. The sternness burned in his eyes, forcing himself away with a bowed head as he slipped out of the door.
ââ
It had been months since then.
That morning youâd spent tangled up in eachother, touching as if it were the last time, and as months passed, you wondered if it would be. Months of longing, waiting, worrying. Ravens had been sent but they had been lost on you, short words and no promise. You had taken care of the children, Daeron only five and Aerion now passed his second name day, you tended to their every care and need, even as their eyes searched for a certain absence.
Maekar.
Their father, your husband, who had spent far too long fighting, battling god knows whatever was left of a bastard army alongside his brother and their men. You had busied yourself with your ladies, passing the High Council chambers at every called meeting, in order to overhear the King and his court. It would have been frowned upon, punished scene, but the few prying eyes of squires and serving girls had paid no mind, knowing better than to test your fear and agitation.
Even your mother in law, Myriah, anxiously awaited her sonsâ return at your side, finding what little comfort there was to be had in the privacy of her solar. In desperate attempt to escape the endless humdrum of reminders.
Death, duty, honour.
Thatâs all it was, not the fact many lives, amongst the ones you cared for most were put on the line. Though it was necessary, the slight of a King was no appraised declaration, and the realm would be safer this way, it did not help the fact your days were filled with fear. You oft sent reluctant curses to the Gods that had bestowed such a mess onto you all. And yet even despite your disrespect, though unwilling, by prayer and some grace by the hands of the Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, had led the charge that ended the rebellion as it stood.
Daemon Blackfyre had been killed, his rebel army crushed and ambushed between your husband and his brother as a team, ending their fatherâs war in a battle what would be known for years to come.
The fanfare of their triumph had come first.
The Hammer and The Anvil they had called them, a thoroughfare of horses and celebration awaiting their return. Whispers had begun in the court of their return, and something had stirred in you. For the days that followed, soon to bring them home again, you had prepared, feeling at a loss. An uncertainty of what to do and how to act in your new present. You were frantic, excited, and nervous.
How would he be..? Has he longed for you as you had him..? Would this be the new norm..?
Those questions were surely answered upon the dawn they arrived, the sun peeking through your curtains, blinding and welcoming, the brightest it had been for some time. Your maids did not have time to wake you before you were up and pacing the room in your small clothes, feet padding the floor as they tenderly dressed you.
A light gown of crimson, adorned as it usually was to fit the house colours, lined in black, though understated, by your own request as not to strangle your aching heart with the tight lace of a bodice. Your children tumbled in soon after, afternoon soon gracing the day, in the hands of their nurse and chambermaid, clambering to your side.
You had smiled for once, not the brave one you put on for them or tight lipped for lords and ladies, but a bright, a true grin as Daeron hugged your skirts. The gaps in his smile shone just as wide in a mess of silver gold curls, raising Aerion onto your hip, as his small fists bunched in a familiar scowl, one heâd inherited from his father.
âIs papa home..?â You cupped Daeronâs chubby cheek, smiling down, your eyes flickered to the maid who had finished combing your hair, the first few to hear the news. Her eyes flashed you a bright agreement, nodding.
âI suppose we shall find out.â You urged him on, sinking down from the stool with babe on your hip, following after your son as he started for the door, through the corridors and into the great hall.
You had rounded the corner in a sharp breath before it escaped you entirely.
There he stood.
In a swarm of people, with nobles greeting, their King welcoming, and an exhaustion of soldiers proudly smiling. He stood tall amongst the rest, clad in dirtied black armour, chipped and broken along the plates of his chest. You paused for a moment, taking in the sight before you.
His distant eyes scanned the crowd much like yours did, your feet absentmindedly moving down the steps and into the expanse of hall.
âPapa..â Daeron called ahead of you, his small frame near tripping on the way to his father, who scooped him into the side of his leg careful of the jagged pieces in one arm, placing a steady hand to his back. He smiled, unabashed for once, gazing down at his eldest son with a unique softness. Baelor stood beside with his family, content and in a small circle as he held his eldest in his arm protectively and proud, accepting the well wishes of their return.
Aerion babbled on your hip, only just beginning to speak, mumbling only syllables that you could make out were coos of excitement, and you wiggled your finger at his chest, nearing the congregation. He was a sight to be seen.
A different one than what you expected.
War and battle had aged him in the soon to be year he had been gone.
It had aged him, not disgracefully, but handsomely. The weak stubble of his jaw had turned white in its growth of hair, thick and rugged. His hair neatly smoothed in preparation but the sternness of his brow furrowed deeper, his features striking prominent.
Though in your own staring, you were the sight that truly took his breath. He had searched for you the whole ride back from far in the countryside, watching every woman who passed, only seeing your face. Even as they pulled to the gatehouse, Baelor had to stop him from bolting right then and there, having to deal with the welcome party gratefully, as if they hadnât just fought for them and were entitled to their own needs.
So he remained tight lipped, nodding where necessary, but his mind only belonged one place. There was duty to be done, but the worst had been over, the bastard was dead, and the war had been finished, waiting for another attack to brew no doubt, but right now in front of him stood the only important thing.
You, your family.
He had taken a stride forward with Daeron in his wake, clinging to his fatherâs steel leg as he held him tightly.
âMaekar..â His head snapped up, taking you in all at once. The most beautiful and only welcoming comfort he had been given since he had left. No proclamation of courage, or the walls of the keep could change it. The lightness of your gown gifted your radiance, your young son in your arms, the other in his grasp, eyes finding his so sweetly, it tugged something deep into his chest.
You closed the distance, giving all you could not to topple over him then and there, but uncaring of the stares, his arms wrapped around you so tightly as if you were to break. Aerion squeezed between you, hitting at the steel plate of Maekarâs chest in small, futile punches. âCareful.â His voice was gruff, gesturing to the point of his armour, resting the words on his lips, gaze lowering only to look at you.
âI do not care..â You managed as you cried a sigh of relief, falling into his frame as his other hand hugged your son to his side, his lips finding their way to the crown of your head.
ââ
An hour had passed since then, with you and Maekar seated beside eachother at the feast table that had beenextravagantly set up in the Great Hall. All had been well, celebrations were rife, the children gorging and smiling, cousins playing with each other as the adults drank graciously.
You were the most content you had remembered being in far too long, your hand not leaving Maekarâs even as you moved. And your husband had felt the same, resting his back into the height of the wooden chair, now shed of his armour, comfortably dressed in his crimson-black doublet.
Though one thing ailed him; how much he wanted you.
He had for every night spent in the encampment, trapped in the barracks amid dirt, unwashed men and the strong scent of blood and death. And all he could think of, could see, was you. You smiling, laying in the same bed that he left you in, playing with your boys, you in his arms. His stare became overwhelming as he fell into thought, so much so you attempted to do your best to ignore it, distracting yourself through your own want, though it burned into your skull. Every glance, every fleeting look that met yours, the tightening of his fingers around your knuckles, it grew too much.
And with the grown look of him, you wouldnât have cared if heâd have taken you right then and there, on the table, for anyone and everyone to see. He hadnât been against it himself, though he preferred you to himself. And instead rose, the chair scraping behind him, muffled by the cacophonous joy in the room, his hand tugging yours firmly.
He hadnât looked at you, only sighting your children once who were already giving hell to their maids who attempted to feed them, blissfully oblivious. He had led you both through the wind of hallways to the very door of your chambers before he was on you, kissing you with a tender harshness.
âI wont bear any more of this..â He managed to breathe with his mouth against yours, turning the lock behind you as his hand braced around the small of your back, catching you as the door opened and closed with a rapid movement. You moaned into the kiss as he slid his tongue inside, groaning.
âI have waited far too long.â He admitted.
âYou have kept me waiting..â He shrugged his doublet off, tossing it to where it landed on the armchair, the dim light catching his shadow as it met yours.
âA surprise our Prince did not take another while he was away and in need.â It was harmless, a useless jest meant to tease, though it would be a lie if the thought had not crossed your mind. He was loyal beyond belief, even as the women that attempted to compare to you in court had tried, his eyes had never nor wanted to stray. Though even you knew, war made men driven to do mad things, kill, take, lust.
âWhat?â Maekar snapped, pulling from your mouth only by an inch, still breathing in your space, like yours was the air he needed. His eyes squinted at you, dark and dangerous, but his hands did not move, only tightening around your waist, pinching just enough to make you gasp.
âYou think I would dare?â He continued, backing you into the bed, step by step until the backs of your knees knocked onto the oak bedframe. He braced you from falling, his undershirt peeking the lining of his chest, deep, fresh scars etching the skin. âWhen you are the only one, when this body is the one I have thought of.â He leaned down, lips ghosting yours with an offended reverence, taking the words as a personal insult he sought to deny, and he had reason to.
For it was the only truth, you were the only one.
âYou are what I came back for, what I fought for, and you think I mean to fuck a whore..?â He shook you firmly in his hold, breath stuttering with anger and desire. âMaekar I..â You reasoned but he did not relent, kissing you harshly as he laid you down onto the bed, your back falling as he followed, collapsing over you. âEnough. I have been without you for far too long, denied you.. and I wont take another fucking moment of it, not like this.â
His hands roamed your body, his fingers making quick work of the lace at the back of your gown, the lack of boning making it easy to tug off, stitching close to ripping with how he folded it over your head, your chemise bunching with its removal.
âI need you..â He whispered against your lips, purely vulnerable, more than he wanted to allow himself, but it slipped free anyway in a shaky breath, his breeches tightening with restraint he could no longer hold back.
âYou have me..â You called back, palm raising to slide against his face, rubbing your fingers through the length of his beard, the feeling unusual, but you smiled through glazed eyes. His eyes flashed with recognition, anger dissipating in your hold, with intent bright in them.
It was not of telling, it was of showing, of proving you were his, as he was yours.
His palms moved the silk of your garment, revealing your breasts and body to him, the curve of your hips complimented in the soft candlelight, for once feeling the comfort of home. You. The tough callouses of his skin ran up yours, smoothing over your body as he cupped your breast.
âMine.. my heart.â His lips dipped to yours, passionate and remembering, savouring you on his tongue, with the reverence of a man left longing could allow. He worked his way down then, sucking marks at your jaw and into your neck, licking a stripe along your collarbone as his fingers traced along your body. Moving across the stroke of your stomach, touching with the most tenderness he was able to give in months, finding their way to your core.
The heat was unbearable, a tingling etching your spine enough to make your toes curl, you too had been denied far too long, and the first touch of him had sent wetness pooling to your heat, his fingers collecting your arousal on his fingers, he groaned at the feeling, humming at your shoulder.
âPlease..â You called out, wanting no more time to wait as your core ached.
âWhere..â He paused at your skin, thumbing over your clit in languid strokes working you up further.
âInside of me.. all of you.â He looked up at you then, gaze lingering on you as if to check, to make sure, and you only nodded, whining as you rocked back into his hand. And he could not deny you any longer, straining against you through the rough material of his trouser.
He found his way back to your neck, casting over your pulse as if to ground himself there, unsheathing himself with one hand and caressing your cheek with the other. A softness he had not let out until that moment, though eager to prove.
He eased into you, sinking in like he did the last time, worshipping and finding, filling you inch by inch as both of you panted. You stretched around him, cunt pulsing with the pleasurable burn his length gave, hips bumping into yours.
âDo not cease to know how I want you, no fucking other, only you, do you understand..?â He gave one last snap, eyes boring deadly into yours accepting no other protest, beginning to rock his hips. And you understood, you understood it well, his body reclaiming yours, as yours did his.
His breeches were shoved to his thighs, scraping the insides of your legs with every thrust as he set the rhythm, unyielding and merciless, snapping into you with a fervor not meant to remember, only to remind. To find what was and to stay there. His fingers teased along your throat, curling around the nape of your neck, holding you up to him as his chest shoved into yours, braced so tightly you could mould.
His cock thrust inside of you deeply, barely inching out of you as he rolled, hitting the spot that kissed your sweetest spot, and you moaned, gutturally and carnal, one that had your thigh curling around him and dragging him into you.
âFuck, my girl..â He grunted, beard scratching across your face as he captured you once more, dominating your mouth with tongue as he took you.
There was no telling how much time had passed, the sheets tangled and pillows casted to the floor as the bed rocked, creaking with every movement you two remembered just how it was. Never once did you leave each otherâs arms, even as your face shoved into the mattress as he rutted into you from behind, grasping your ass tightly with firm smacks. Or as you rode him, rising and falling down onto his cock as he gripped you in place, your clit teased with the light hairs at his base.
Even as you slowly fell into a lulled sleep, pleasured and blissed out, he kept himself inside of you, pressed right into your back as he moved slowly, languidly until you were left warming his cock, swallowing him with unconscious pulses that were leaving promise for the morrow.
His hand splayed over your lower stomach, draping his whole arm over you, as it reached for your fingers, curling them and intertwining them with his own. You hummed, whispering âI love youâsâ into the night and into each other, letting it to hang above you and into the air.
âI trust youâll keep the beard..â You chuckled as he grunted back, pressing a final kiss to your neck that contrasted his hidden eye roll.
âIf I must..â
And he did indeed, for you.
IF I WAS YOUR BOYFRIEND !
-> art credit: @/non_unoo on Twitter !
pairing: timdrake/f!reader
đŐ. .Ő𩯠â whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating youâ the person heâd wanted all along. So now heâs praying for your (ex) boyfriendâs downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.
lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k
The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.
There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.
You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.
Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.
It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.
What registered first was familiarity.
When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.
It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.
He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.
Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.
You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.
If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.
Just a coincidence.
Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.
But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.
It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.
And yet, he found himself listening.
He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Timâs night life.
Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.
You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.
Tim told himself it was nothing.
He was just being polite.
Just filling the silence like everyone else did.
But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.
He remembered details he did not need to remember.
The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.
The conversations never lingered long.
They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.
Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.
It unsettled him, a little.
How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.
That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.
âIt was just proximity,â he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.
Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.
He paid attention to things he normally did not.
Made sure his hair did not resemble a birdâs nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.
He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.
And then there was the mirror.
Heâd lowkey snap outfit flicks.
Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesnât even have your instagram, because heâs a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).
Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.
Heâd pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since heâs famously one of Bruceâs adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.
Then, of course, heâd save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you couldâwhether you wanted to or notâ notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.
Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasnât even the slightest bit ashamed of it.
Because, reallyâ if girls could do it, why couldnât guys?
He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.
One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.
Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.
And because Tim is a show-off, heâs definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long heâs been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.
Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.
And boom.
There yaâ go.
Simple as that.
A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.
Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someoneâ caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.
âYo, Miro!â
Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.
He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.
âHey, man!â
Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.
Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
âYou freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?â
Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Timâs hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scentâ something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. âWhat? Nah,â he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.
He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.
But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
âCanât a guy look good for himself?â He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Timâs own.
He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeahâ he had definitely freshened up for a reason.
âYouâre such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl youâve been tellinâ me about in your class?â
Timâs shoulders deflated.
âYeah,â he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, âsheâs the pretty girl Iâve been telling you about.â He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. âI wanna ask her out, but Iâm flippinâ nervous.â
Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. âAww,â he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. âLook at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.â
Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. âDonât,â he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. âThis is serious.â
Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. âNah, I get it,â he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. âSheâs got you down bad.â
Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.
They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.
Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.
And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.
Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.
âAre we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?â Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.
âMhm,â Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. âThough Ezra said heâs bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesnât want to.â He shook his head, a small frown settling in. âDonât get why Ezraâs ashamed of her. Itâs cool if he brings her along, yâknow?â
Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. âAshamed?â he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.
âThatâs⊠weird, I didnât know he had a girl.â
âRight?â Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. âLike, either youâre with someone or youâre not, hiding her just makes it worse and yahâ I didnât know either.â
Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.
He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.
âYaâ think itâs like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with yaâknow who.â
Miro snorts at that.
âNah,â Miro said immediately, waving it off. âEven though Ezra keeps talkinâ about how many people heâs getting and all that, heâs been telling me sheâs a keeper and that heâs moved on from that big olâ crush.â
Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. âMan, how does Ezra do it?â Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. âDude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.â
Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.
His older brotherâs vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.
Dick had always been like that, though.
Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.
âI would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,â Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.
He already knew how it would end.
Ezra would lose.
Badly.
Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admitâ it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.
That was just an unfair comparison.
Dickâs face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazetteâs ranking on the Wayne family.
It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.
Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.
It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.
Tim was fine with that.
He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gothamâs Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned âpretty boyâ by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.
A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.
And youâre a pretty girl.
âHey, donât bail on us again,â Miro nudges his shoulder into Timâs.
Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. âI donât bail,â he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.
âYou and Steph bail way too much,â Miro continued, pointing at him. âYou guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.â
Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. âAlright, alright,â he conceded. âWeâll live a little.â He paused, then added more quietly, âNo promises, though.â
Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.
Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.
One neither of them could ever say out loud.
The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.
âHey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?â Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.
And he did.
âYeah,â he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. âIâm down.â
Obvious, really.
If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.
He was far too much of a wimp to ask.
Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.
Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.
Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.
âHey, Tim.â You greet, âyou look nice today.â
âHey, UH, um,â he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.
He cleared his throat. âThanks, your outfit looks really nice too,â he managed, finally meeting your eyes. âGoing somewhere?â
The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.
ââThank youâ cat got your tongue?â you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. âBut yeah, Iâm gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.â
The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. âThatâs nice,â he softly replied. âAnything particular youâre getting?â
You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products youâve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.
âA red scarf?â he repeated, brows lifting slightly.
He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. âThat would⊠look good on you,â he added, softer now. âCompliments you a lot.â
Tim had a red scarf in his closet, itâs the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture youâve shown.
He got it last year from Kon.
Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?
Yeah.
âReally, you think so?â you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that youâre imagining the red scarf on you.
âYeah,â he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. âI do.â
He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.
âThank you.â You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Timâs gaze to his skateboard thatâs settled beside the space youâre in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.
âYou skate?â
Timâs face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. âYeah,â he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. âFor a while now, actually.â He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.
âMost of these are from places Iâve been or people Iâve met,â he explained, a little sheepish. âI keep telling myself Iâll stop adding them since itâs already filled, but I never do.â
He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. âUhâ do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?â There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.
âKind of, but it never stuck around.â You shrugged, âitâs definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.â Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.
âWell, if you donât mind, you should definitely ride along withââ
The door swung open.
The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyoneâs attention forward and shutting Timâs offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.
You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, âtell me after?â
Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. âYeah,â he murmured.
âAfter.â
The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Timâs focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.
He replayed the moment over and over, the way youâd leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after. He told himself he wouldnât forget. That heâd wait, that heâd bring it up when the second class ended.
Except class ended too fast.
People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking whereâd he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.
He lifted his hand too late.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadnât touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.
The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.
âI literally had the perfect opening,â Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. âShe told me to tell her after. After. And then I justâ didnât.â
Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. âYou didnât⊠what? Ask her to ride with you?â
For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Timâs mind.
He immediately shut it down.
âNo,â he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. âI forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.â
Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. âTim,â he said slowly, âyouâre telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didnât even ask for her socials?â
âYes,â Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. âYes. That is exactly what Iâm saying.â
Steph shook her head, already laughing. âThatâs actually tragic.â
âIâm actually mad at myself,â Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. âI had a planâŠâ
Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.
âCongrats, dimwit.â
Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasnât there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. âNext time,â he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.
Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.
âYou say that every time.â
Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.
âHeyy!â
Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadnât just shown up late. âSorry, it took me a bit of time to get hereâ I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkinâ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.â
Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. âNah, youâre good!â he called back, already shifting to make room.
Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadnât said earlier that day.
Yeah, he wonât mess up next time.
âYo!â
A familiar male voice grabbed Timâs attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automaticallyâ only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.
âSorry we were late,â Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. âMy girl was fixing herâ ow!â
You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.
âSorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.â
Timâs brain short circuited.
You.
Here.
With Ezra.
The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.
His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.
Fucking hell.
âYeah, traffic has been bad, but Iâm glad to meet Ezraâs friends!â You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miroâs hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.
Wait, blue scarf?
âI like your nails, theyâre cute!â You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.
âThank you! I got them done atââ
You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.
And then your gaze lifted.
It locked onto Tim.
For half a second, everything stalled.
The disappointment didnât disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharperâ surprise, maybe, or hope he didnât want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.
Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.
Of all places.
And of all people.
You had to date fucking Ezra.
âTim, I didnât know youâre friends with Ezra!â You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.
Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. âYou know Tim?â he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.
âEzra and I have been friends for a while,â Tim replied to your unanswered question. âMiro was the one who introduced us.â
Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.
âYeah, small world, isnât it?â
Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
âYeah,â he mumbled. âA small world.â
Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. âSo how long have yâall been together? We didnât even know Ezra was talkinâ to someone,â she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.
Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if youâd take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadnât known about you.
âOh, we just recently made things official,â you answered easily. âTwo weeks ago, maybe? Weâve been dating for like a month and a half, but weâve known each other for a while as friends.â
âThatâs cool,â Miro comments, leaning back. âCongrats on the new development.â
âYeah,â Steph added, smiling at you. âHappy for you guys.â
Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. âYeah. Thatâsâ nice.â His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.
Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.
Tim noticed the way you didnât lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.
He hated that he noticed.
Hated more that it gave him hope.
âSo,â you dragged the âoâ, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. âYou come here often?â
The question caught him off guard.
He blinked once, then nodded. âUh. Yeah. With them,â he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. âItâs kind of our usual spot.â
You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.
Timâs chest tightened.
He told himself to get it together.
You were taken.
Ezra was his friend.
This was a dangerous territory.
Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldnât shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.
A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.
He was late.
But not too late.
Donât get him wrongâ Tim wasnât about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasnât about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.
He wasnât like that.
He wouldnât let Ezra cross that line, wouldnât let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.
But that didnât mean he couldnât be patient.
He would keep things clean.
Honest.
If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. Heâd wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.
Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasnât paying attention.
If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.
Until then, heâd play the long game.
âHey,â he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.
You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.
âYou donât mind tutoring me, do you?â he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. âI know the current subjectâ youâre better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?â
It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasnât asking for anything that crossed a line, wasnât pushing for something personal.
He only requested help.
Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.
You nodded.
âSure! I donât mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?â
Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care ofâ leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.
Normally, he wouldnât hesitate.
This time, he did.
âYeah,â he said after a beat, decision made. âThe weekend works.â
Dick would understand, he always did.
âYouâre not getting turnt?â Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.
Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing heâd never mentioned your name around Steph or Miroâ not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.
You canât really hide anything from the batsâ.
âIâll still drink!â You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. âNot too much, though, since I do knowââ you nudged your head gently against Ezraâs side, âthis guyâs going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.â
Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. âYeah, yeah, donât remind me. Someoneâs gotta keep me in check.â
Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Zinnia frowned playfully. âGirl, donât even worryâ I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, Iâve got you. Same with Tim.â She points at him. âHeâs not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.â
Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.
It wasnât just about handling his drink; heâd be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.
âYeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,â Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. âSo I donât mind taking you homeâ if he doesnât mind, of course.â
Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.
Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.
âWhatever works. As long as you donât make me miss out on all the fun.â Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.
Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.
You caught Timâs glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.
Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. âCome on, Tim, poolâs waiting,â she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.
Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwiseâ he wasnât really complaining.
The night blurred after that.
Tim didnât remember much.
Actually, that was a lie.
He remembered a lot.
Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.
He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.
Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitementâ Tim couldnât tell which.
When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.
Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear youâd taken Zinniaâs offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.
You got along with everyone easily.
âSheâs cuteâ hicâ isnât she?â Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Timâs gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinniaâs arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.
âYeah, sheâs getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.â Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasnât an ounce of jealousy in his toneâ just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.
A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.
âMake sure you treat herââ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.
He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.
âYouâre kidding,â Tim muttered under his breath.
It was to be expected.
And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.
The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.
Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.
âHeâs alive,â she announced. âBarely.â
Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. âAlright, thatâs our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove heâs invincible.â
Miro slid Ezraâs drink out of reach to make sure it doesnât spill and shook his head.
âTold him to pace himself, which he never listens to.â
Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.
He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. âHey,â he said gently, catching your attention. âLooks like your boyfriendâs officially done for the night.â
You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. âOh⊠wow,â you laughed softly, a little dazed.
âYeah, that tracks.â
Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. âZinnia said she could give you a ride, orââ he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, ââI can, if you want. Whatever youâre more comfortable with.â
No pressure.
âHm, it just depends which way you guys are going,â Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. âWell, if it helpsâ Iâm heading toward the school. My apartmentâs pretty close to it, so Iâm willing to give you a ride over there.â
You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. âSweet, my apartment is around the school too!â
Tim internally screams.
âOhânice,â he replies. âThat works out then.â
Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. âAlright, that settles it,â she declared. âYouâre with Tim.â
Steph hummed approvingly.
âResponsibility buddy system. Love to see it.â
Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.
âIâll make sure she gets back safe.â
âAlright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting youââ Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.
âYes, I hope to see you guys soon!â You chuckled.
âText us when youâre home!â Steph added, waving.
Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.
âNight.â
It was just the two of you now.
âYou good?â he asked gently. âNot too dizzy?â
Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.
âYeah, Iâm good,â you said with a small laugh. âI didnât drink too much, but definitely donât put me behind the wheel.â
Tim huffed softly, amused. âYeah, thatâs probably for the best.â
He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driverâs seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.
âSeatbelt,â he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. âI would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.â
You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.
âAlright,â he said easily. âGot it.â
The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.
Every so often, heâd glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadnât drifted off.
âI couldnât help but notice youâre wearing a blue scarf instead of red,â Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.
You blinked, a small âohâ slipping out as your expression shifted. âYeah, they were sold out of red,â you admitted with a slight frown. âThere were only a few colors left, so I went with blueâ itâs a safe, neutral choice.â
Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
âBlue works,â he said easily. âLooks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.â
He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, âBut honestly? Red would definitely look better.â
He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. âSo if you want,â he offered, tone casual like it wasnât a big deal at all, âIâm willing to trade with you.â
You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. âTrade scarves?â you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.
âItâs the same brand and everything?â
âYep,â Tim popped the âpâ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.
âWell, if itâs the same brand, I guess that makes it official,â you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.
Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.
âGuess it does.â
Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.
âI just realizedâ I donât have your number, or your socials. And since weâre supposed to study togetherâŠâ
You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.
Timâs eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.
He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.
âGuess Iâm going to have to fix that.â
You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.
Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.
Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.
âThere. Now youâve got me on speed dial.â
You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
âIf you already follow Ezra on Instagram, youâll find me pretty easily,â Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
âIs that your way of making sure I canât avoid you?â
He shrugged, still smiling.
âMaybe, or Iâm making it easier for us to actually hang out.â
You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.
âClever move, Iâll hold you to that.â
When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the airâ a promise of what could come next.
Especially when heâs finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf youâd exchanged.
His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.
He glances down to see a new notificationâ
You have a new follower!
Timâs lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.
Months.
It took months to get to where Tim was now.
Tim had grown bolderâ maybe even too bold.
What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.
His friends began to notice.
The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.
Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.
He started painting himself in a better lightâ not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.
Tim wasnât one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.
He just couldnât stand the idea of you falling for Ezraâs careless promises and half-truths.
âStrange, you say heâs doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,â Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.
When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to himâ about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.
Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.
âYouâre really patient, I donât know how you put up with that,â Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.
Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezraâs slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.
An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.
Timâs voice softened, almost careful.
âYou deserve better than that, you know.â
Him.
Give him a chance.
You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing youâll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.
He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. Itâs his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping youâll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.
When he uploads videos of himself skating, you donât hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.
Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.
Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.
Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didnât pull away.
Later, during patrol, she didnât hold back.
âHey, Tim,â her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. âYouâve been awfully cozy with someone lately. Whatâs going on?â
Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.
âDonât know what youâre talking about,â he replied, though the tone didnât quite convince.
Stephâs laughter came through, warm and knowing.
âYouâre lying, isnât she still with Ezra?â
Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
âItâs not like sheâs married, Spoiler.â
Spoiler gasps.
âRed Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!â
âOh trust, I wonât.â
Thereâs a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. âBut she wouldnât say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?â
Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.
âTim!â
He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasnât already crossed several invisible lines.
âWhat,â he says, faux-innocent. âItâs just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.â
If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you goâ always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.
Heâd notice when youâre cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.
Heâd never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.
And sometimes, heâd act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.
The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.
He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.
But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldnât be crossedâ at least not yet.
After a few months, Miro finally caught on.
They were sitting across from each other in a quiet cafĂ©, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something heâd been meaning to ask.
âSo,â Miro said, smirking as he nudged Timâs shoulder lightly, âyouâre not trying to steal Ezraâs girl, are you?â
Timâs lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miroâs gaze.
He didnât answer right away.
The silence between them spoke volumes.
âYouâre kidding.â
And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand whatâs really been going on.
Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.
Too quiet and blocking everything out.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he canât take back.
Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.
It wasnât until two days later, they were on call together.
âYouâre respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesnât know you like her?â Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once heâs fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.
Tim didnât look up right away.
He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.
âOf course I am.â
He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. âShe doesnât know. Iâm not⊠crossing anything.â
A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, âIâm just being there.â
He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadnât just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment youâd realize he fit better than the person you were already with.
âYo, thatâs genuinely the most insane thing youâve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.â
Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.
âItâs not insane,â Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. âIâm not doing anything wrong.â
Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. âYou are actively emotionally investing in your best friendâs girlfriend, if that doesnât say anything wrong then I donât know what does and youâre lucky you explained yourself before I wouldâve had Ezra blasted you.â
Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. âIâm being supportive.â
Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. âYouâre being strategic.â
Tim doesnât correct him.
âFuckâs sake, bro, how long have you been plottinâ on her?â Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.
Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. âIâm not plotting.â
Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.
ââŠOkay,â Tim concedes after a second, quieter. âI donât know. Longer than I should have.â
He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. âLong enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.â Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. âEzra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesnât even know it.â
âThatâs not an answer, Tim.â
Tim looks away.
âSince the bar.â
A beat.
âTHE FUCKINâ BAR?â
Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.
Tim winces.
âLower your voice.â
âYou met her at a bar,â Miro hisses, eyes wide, âand instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friendâs girlfriend?â
Timâs jaw tightens. âI didnât know sheâd end up with him.â
âThat makes it worse!â
Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.
âTo be fair, I knew her before the bar,â Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. âShe was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.â He picks his food and eats it.
Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. âIâ I genuinelyâ whatâ how could youâ is that why you stopped talking about âpretty girlâ?â His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.
âThat was her!?â
Tim doesnât answer right away.
He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.
âWell,â he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. âSheâs going to be mine eventually...â
Miro goes dead silent.
ââŠTim,â he says carefully, âyou sound clinically insane.â
Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like heâs trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. âYou cannot say shit like that and then act normal,â he mutters. âThatâs not confidence, thatâs a manifesto.â
Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friendâs girlfriend. âIâm not acting on it, not directly.â
âTimothy.â
âIâm waiting,â Tim corrects, voice steady. âThereâs a difference.â
Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. âYouâre waiting for what? Him to screw up?â
Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.
It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.
âFor her to realize,â Tim says finally. âIâm not forcing anything.â
Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. âAnd if she doesnât.â
Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.
âShe will.â
Then Miroâs eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.
ââŠNo FUCKING way,â he murmurs.
Tim frowns.
âWhat.â
Miro doesnât answer right away.
He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like heâs hoping the information will change if he looks again.
âZinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up withââ
âYES! FUCK YES!â
The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Timâs chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.
âTimââ Miro starts, half laughing, half horrified.
âMonths! It took months of waiting!â
Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. âI meanââ He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.
âI mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.â
Miro blinks at the screen. âIâve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.â
Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.
âThat was a big deal.â
âThis is bigger,â Miro says flatly.
Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like heâs trying to ground himself. âI shouldnât be happy,â he admits, quieter now. âI know that.â
Miro tilts his head.
âBut you are.â
Tim doesnât deny it.
âI am.â He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like heâs daring the universe to stop him now.
âWait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,â Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. âOr, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?â
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually youâd be the one to walk away.
So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.
Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. âYou make it sound like youâre some kind of relationship expert or something.â
Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.
âWell, Iâve been watching this mess long enough to know where itâs headed.â He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. âBut stillâ gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.â
Miro sighed, shaking his head again.
âMan, youâre way too invested.â
Timâs grin didnât falter. âMaybe. But when you know what you want, you donât just wait around forever.â
Tim could see Miroâs face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.
âSaid âthey were better off as friends,â ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.â
Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.
âStephâs callingâ Iâm gonna add her to the call.â
Miro didnât look away from his screen.
âFine by me,â he muttered, fingers still flying over his phoneâs keyboard.
Within seconds, Stephâs face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.
âAlright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his⊠ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. Whatâs happening?â
Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.
âZinniaâs saying Ezra broke up with her to stay âfriends.â Do you buy that?â
Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.
âThatâs absolute bullshit.â
Miro paused.
âDo you know the actual reason, Steph?â
Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.
âNo, Iâm not really sure,â Steph replied thoughtfully. âUsually when people say that, it means one of three things:
1. Theyâve lost feelings but donât want to hurt the other person,
2. Theyâre scared of commitment, or
3. Theyâre interested in someone else.â She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.
âAre you asking Zinnia right now?â Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miroâs screen.
Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.
âWhen I pressed her, she said itâs ânunyaâ business,â he explained after the lag had passed, âbut honestly, she admitted she doesnât really know.â
Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.
âHmâ okay.â
The next time Tim sees you, heâd ask about what happened between the both of you.
Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.
How did that happen?
Well.
Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?
Tim: the libraryâs is too noisy
Girlfriend (soon): ???
Girlfriend (soon): itâs a library?? How can it be noisy??
Girlfriend (soon): arenât we on spring break right now??
Tim: cmon
Tim: donât make me say it
Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?
Tim: and hangout?
Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions
Tim: Iâll even beg on my knees?
Girlfriend (soon): alright alright
Girlfriend (soon): Iâll come over, no need to beg on your knees
You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.
He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.
Too focused, maybe.
Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.
The episodeâs credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.
You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.
âIâm kind of surprised,â you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. âYou havenât asked me why we broke up.â
Timâs fingers stilled on the keyboard.
For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.
Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.
âI didnât want to pry,â he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly didâ he didnât want to pry it out of you.
But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what youâd say next.
âDo you want to know?â You asked, raising a brow towards him.
Tim shrugged.
âOnly if youâre okay with sharing it.â
Please do.
âHe broke up with me because he couldnât give me what I deserved.â
Oh.
âHe realized he was unintentionally hurting me,â you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. âMissing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. Heâs overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.â
You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that youâd said it out loud.
âReallyâŠ?â Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.
He doesnât quite connect the dots yet, doesnât realize just how hectic Ezraâs life must be right now.
Geez.
âAnd,â you add, almost as an afterthought, âhe also lost feelings for me. Apparently heâs been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.â
What.
âExcuse meââ Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.
You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.
âYeah,â you said with a small shrug. âI actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. Weâre happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasnât working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.â
You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.
It had been about someone else.
He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.
Are you fucking serious.
You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.
Tim barely heard you.
He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.
Too close.
You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.
You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if heâd accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.
Then you broke it.
You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.
âDid you get a haircut?â You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didnât last long because of his position.
âYour face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.â Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.
Tim forgot how to breathe.
His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations heâd rehearsed, this was not one of them.
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily youâd closed the distance.
Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.
He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.
âYeah, I got a haircut⊠yesterday,â he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. âI didnât think youâd notice.â
He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.
You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.
âAww, are you flustered?â you teased, voice light and full of mischief.
Timâs eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where youâd nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.
âMaybe a little,â he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.
You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.
âI knew it.â
Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like heâs forcing himself to stay present.
âYouâre enjoying this,â he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.
You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.
âMaybe,â you reply, just as quietly. âThough, I just like looking at your shirt âBig Dick Back in Townâ? Really?â Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.
âWhatâs wrong with that?â
You could only shake your head.
His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.
âYou arenât sad about the breakup?â he asks, studying your face.
âNope.â You pop the p, grinning wide.
âWeâre grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So weâre fine and it was three and a half months anyway,â you shrug, like itâs the simplest thing in the world.
Three and a half months was way too long by Timâs definition.
âWell, three and a half months is a pretty long time.â Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. âThatâs true, but I donât regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesnât really feel like a waste, you know?â Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.
âThen, it mustâve been⊠not a serious relationship?â
You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. âYeah! Or⊠well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didnât show up for a lot of things a boyfriend shouldâveâ but honestly, he wasnât as invested in it as I was.â
You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.
Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.
Fuck it.
âDoes that mean⊠youâre officially available?â
You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.
âYouâre making me sound like Iâm some kind of product you can pre-order.â You snort, waving your hand. âGo aheadâ someone can preorder me, Iâm the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentineâs Day.â You shake your head in disbelief.
Tim chuckles, a little breathless.
And he doesnât know what came over for him to say thisâ
âWell, lucky me, then. I guess Iâd better place my order before someone else beats me to it.â
He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.
You grin, nudging him lightly.
âOh, sure, youâre joking⊠right?â
Tim raises an eyebrow.
âYou wanna kiss me and find out?â
He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.
He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.
Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.
Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim canât help but smile at how utterly caught you are.
Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.
He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that youâre trying to get it under control, and the clear way that youâve scoot back.
He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.
âDonât get any closer to me!â
âRelax, Iâm just messing with you.â
But the way you couldnât quite meet his eyes told him you werenât entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.
He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.
The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softerâ something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.
In fact, thereâs an entire day where the two of you just âhung out.â And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.
Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.
I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.
The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.
At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.
Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.
âDo you always walk like this,â he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, âor is this a special performance just for me?â
You scoffed, swatting at his arm. âI walk perfectly fine. Youâre just standing in my way.â
âUh-huh,â he murmured, clearly unconvinced.
The next time you veered off course, he didnât even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.
His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.
You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. âWow, so now youâre supervising how I walk?â
âSomeone has to,â Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. âYou keep drifting like youâre aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.â
That wiped the smug look right off your face.
You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.
Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.
You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.
PopMart.
He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. âOf course,â he muttered under his breath. âI shouldâve known.â You were very much who youâre expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lilâ guys.
You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if youâve been waiting for this day.
Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.
The Gotham City Series.
âOh my god,â you breathed, pointing. âLook at them.â
Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.
Then he saw it.
Red Robin.
You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.
âThis oneâs kinda cute.â
Tim coughed.
âKinda?â
You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.
âWhat? You seem defensive.â
âIâm not,â he said too quickly, shifting his weight. âJust saying. If youâre ranking them, that oneâs objectively⊠fine.â
You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.
âWait, Red Hood might be cuter.â
Oh hell no.
âAbsolutely not.â
You blinked at him, amused.
âWhat do you mean absolutely not?â
âHeâs wearing a helmet,â Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. âYou canât even see his face. Thatâs not cute, thatâs⊠just anonymous and ugly.â You laughed, clearly enjoying this.
âMysterious can be cute and you donât even know heâs ugly!â
Tim scoffed.
âWell, he for sure doesnât look like Prince Charming, thatâs a traffic cone with trauma.â
You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping youâd pick the right one.
Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.
This one was⊠different.
Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.
Not a single smile among them.
Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. ââŠWhy do all of these look like theyâre judging me?â You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.
âOh my god, Tim! Theyâre all so cute!â
He glanced at you, then back at the figures.
âThey all look the same.â
You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. âTheyâre called Hironos, theyâre supposed to look like that. And look at that one!â
Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.
âReally?â Tim asked flatly.
You nodded without hesitation.
âHe looks like you.â
Tim stared at it.
Then at you.
âHeâs literally wearing a prison outfit.â
âYeah,â you said easily. âExactly, you belong in prison with the way youâve been treating me.â
Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.
âUnbelievable,â he murmured. âI took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now Iâm already getting sentenced?â
You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.
Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.
Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.
âWill that be all for today?â the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.
Tim mouthed âdonât let her pay,â making the cashier smile knowingly.
âYes, thatâll be all,â you replied with a smile, already reaching for your cardâ only to see Timâs phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.
He just grinned, completely unfazed.
âTim, what theâ!â
He, of course, wasnât about to let you pay.
The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.
âYou guys are cute, have a nice day!â The cashier called after you, still smiling.
You completely ignored the cashierâs playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didnât escape him.
It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.
âYou absolutely didnât need to do that!â You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.
âI have my own money, you know. I donât need you to pay for me every time.â
Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.
âI know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,â he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.
He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.
âSo,â he added, voice playful, âare you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?â You huffed, nodding reluctantly. âIâll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. Itâs way more fun to do it with food.â
Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didnât hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant heâd heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later onâ the perfect combo for a day like this.
After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiterâs attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.
The conversation flowed easilyâ small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.
Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Timâs eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.
With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.
âHeâs so cute!â
Timâs grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. âNice one,â he compliments, voice low. âRed Robin suits you.â
You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. âPlease, you wish you were Red Robin.â
He is Red Robin.
âBetter than Red Hood,â Tim shot back with a smirk.
You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next boxâ the Mime Hirono series.
âWhich one do you want?â
You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, âbut I would be fine with any of them.â You smiled, peeling the tab.
The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.
You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.
The little guy looked calm and relaxed.
âI changed my mind, this one looks like you.â
Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.
âIs it because I have black hair and pale skin?â Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.
You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. âYeah, and blue eyes too,â you added, pointing to the Hironoâs faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Timâs lighter shade.
âWait, he has a lilâ card and it says Patience!â You cooed, taking a picture of your new âbabyâ, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.
Or your 17th âchild.â
Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironosâ or the trinkets, veryenduring.
Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.
The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.
There was no awkwardness with Ezra eitherâ in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.
Still, Ezra wasnât blind to what was unfolding around him.
His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Timâs arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.
Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Timâs shoulder playfully.
Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.
Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickenedâ both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.
âIt doesnât matter to me anymore,â he begins, voice rough but steady, âsince weâre no longer together. But donât lie to me.â
His eyes locked onto Timâs, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.
Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.
âYouâre going to have to be honest, Tim,â Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. âBecause if you think Iâm just going to let this slide, youâre wrong.â
Timâs jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezraâs intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasnât about to back down or give in to the silent demands.
âHonest?â Timâs voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. âIâm not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.â
Ezraâs eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. âYou decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Donât tell meââ
His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasnât just about the breakup anymore.
This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.
Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezraâs stare like a physical force. âI will tell you,â he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. âI like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasnât some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.â
âSo youâre saying you didnât break us apart?â
Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. âNo. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,â he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. âI cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. Thatâs not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.â
Ezraâs voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. âSo you were just⊠there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?â
Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. âYes and no, I didnât plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things werenât going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.â
Ezraâs jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. âI messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldnât have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for⊠and new feelings.â He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. âBut this⊠waiting in the shadowsâ it doesnât make it any easier to accept, even if it wasnât a serious type of relationship.â
Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. âI get that, which youâre valid to feel that way. Iâm not trying to make this easier or pretend Iâm some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.â
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.
âJust to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. Thereâs some things Iâve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.â
Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.
âWell, Iâm just glad you explained yourself,â Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, âand that youâre giving her what I couldnât. I wasnât the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.â He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Timâs. âAnd yeah, we were truly better off as friends.â
Tim softened, nodding slowly.
âIâm glad. You two already talked about it, right?â Tim asked, though he already knew the answerâ it was more about hearing it from Ezra.
Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.
Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. âYeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.â He downed the shot in one smooth motion. âYouâre matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.â
Tim rolled his eyes but couldnât suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. âI will,â he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.
âI already thought you had plotted for this moment.â
Tim snorts, âman, I didnât plot shit.â Yeah, he absolutely did.
As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.
Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.
The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.
Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.
âWell, it was nice seeing the both of you,â Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.
You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.
Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.
Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
âAlright, see yaâ man, drive safe.â
âWill do,â Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.
You both started walking toward Timâs car, the night air cool around you.
âThat was cool,â you commented, glancing over at him. âI never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.â Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. âYeah, itâs kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.â
You hummed in affirmation.
âWhy? You want us to have our own handshake?â
You immediately shook your head. âNo, no, Iâm okay. I was just thinking it was cool, thatâs all.â Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. âCome on, donât act like you donât want one. We can have our own handshakeâ something small, nothing crazy.â
You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.
âJust a little one,â Tim added with a grin. âNothing complicated. What do you say?â
After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.
âAlright, fine. But just a small one.â
Timâs grin widened.
âDeal.â
You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.
You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldnât help but laugh softly at your concentration.
âItâs okay,â he said, patient. âWeâll get it down eventually.â
Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his graspâ delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.
His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything heâd been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.
His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between youâ an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.
Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasnât about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.
He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didnât mind at all.
After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.
The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.
âOkay, okay, one more time and then we go home,â you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.
âAlright, one more,â Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didnât notice.
You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.
The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.
Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Timâs grip shifted without warning.
Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.
Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.
You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.
The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.
You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.
Timâs eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.
His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was havingâ when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.
For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.
The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.
Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at himâ disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.
You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldnât help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.
But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.
He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.
Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.
âI like the way youâre looking at me right now.â
You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.
âOh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?â
Timâs grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.
âLike youâre waiting to find out what itâs like to kiss me.â
You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.
Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that youâre sure he can hear it.
With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisperâ
âMaybe I am⊠but youâre the one who has to make the first move.â
Timâs eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.
The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.
âI guess⊠I will have to make the first move.â
Without a word, he closes the space between you.
His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.
His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.
Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumesâ unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.
He does not pull away.
If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.
The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.
He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.
For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.
There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.
âIâve wanted to do that,â he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. âFor longer than I shouldâve.â
His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.
âTimâs girlfriend,â he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. âIt kind of has a nice ring to it, donât you think?â
You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.
âReally?â
âYes. Really.â His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. âYou should give me a chance, youâre all I need.â His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, âIâd never let you go from me.â
Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.
âAre you begging me?â
Timâs eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.
If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.
âYes,â he says quietly. âI am.â
His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.
âI donât care how it sounds,â he admits, voice rough with feeling. âI want you, Iâve wanted you, and Iâm asking now.â
He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.
âLet me be completely yours, please.â
Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.
Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.
Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.
Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.
And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.
a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wishedâŠ. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like âoh, how could you be so patient with himâŠâ âyou deserve betterâŠâ âthat was all on you, not me.â (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasnât lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lilâ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use âPatienceâ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.
THIS TOOK FOREEVERRRR to finish, please interact with this fic since that would mean a lot to me!! Happy holidays everyone!!
we were always it
pairing: bang chan x reader tags: childhood friends to lovers, soulmate au, fluff, mutual pining, confession
for @orithyia-eriphyle, i hope you enjoy! đ
in this world, soulmate marks arenât something that comes with being born.
they do not appear in childhood, or fade in once you come of age, or bloom dramatically upon the first touch, or light up the moment you lock eyes with a stranger across a room. that would be too easy. too cruelly efficient.
instead, soulmate marks only appear after a confession. a real one.
not a forced one. not a half-assed, half-deflection tossed into the air to see if it lands. it has to be honest, and intentional. it has to be something said with the full understanding that you might not be loved back. only then will your mark stain across the patch of skin.
most people wait years to hear theyâre loved.
some never see their mark at all at all.
you and chan never talk about the concept of soulmates.
not because it doesnât matter, but because it doesâit matters too much. because bringing it up would mean acknowledging the quiet, hovering what if that has rooted in your being for as long as you can remember.
you met chan when you were very young through your parents, and the thing about him is that he just⊠stays.
he stayed when you were a rambunctious and clumsy child, he stayed when you were an awkward and unsure teen, and he continues to stay now when your dreams feel too big for your chest. he stays when you cry over things you pretend donât really matter. he stays in all the small, unremarkable ways that end up meaning everything.
yeah, that âwhat ifâ is really at home in your heart.
by shared snacks and late-night walks and him always answering his phone no matter how late it is. by the way you gravitate toward each other in rooms full of people. by the way silence between you never feels empty.
people ask if youâre together.
you say no, mastering your ability to mask the embarrassment. chan laughs it off. it became easy and familiar.
you date other people⊠technically.
if suitor after suitor being incompatible with you in various horrendous ways counts as âdating other peopleâ⊠then yeah. you were dating other people.
it never lasts long for you because no one ever feels quite right. no one listens the way chan does, like every word you say matters simply because itâs you thatâs the one saying it. no one understands you like he does.
chan however, barely dates at all.
he uses the excuse that heâs too busy to date. he says just he doesnât have time, it wouldnât be fair to whoever. he says he just hasnât met the right person yet.
what he conveniently doesnât say is that every time he thinks about confessing, he imagines losing you.
and that is a risk he has never been willing to take.
chan knows heâd rather live the rest of his life loveless than lose whatever domesticity you both flow into naturally.
you have sleepovers. you steal each otherâs clothes. you cook together in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep. he knows how you take your coffee, how you like your breakfast, how you go quiet when you are overthinking.
you know when heâs lying. you know when heâs pushing himself too hard. you know exactly how to touch his arm, his shoulder, his back, to ground him when the world feels like too much pressing down on him.
sometimes, late at night, you catch him looking at you. not staring, per-se. just⊠lingering. like heâs memorising something.
you pretend not to notice.
until one night, when pretending became impossible.
it was a late night, a quiet one. you were curled up on the couch together, half-asleep, some movie playing on the screen that neither of you were actually watching. your head was resting on his shoulder into his chest, with his arm draped around you, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your sleeve.
âcan i ask you something?â chan requested suddenly.
you hummed. âyeah, of course.â
he swallowed. you felt it against your temple. âdo you ever think about⊠soulmarks?â
your heart stuttered across a few beats. you tilted your head up just enough to look at him. his eyes were fixed on the screen, jaw tight, chewing the corner of his lip like he was bracing for something. like he was nervous.
âsometimes,â you admit carefully. âwhy?â
the exhale he released was shaky. âi think⊠i think that maybe iâm scared of mine.â
you sat up fully now, turning to face him. âscared how?â
he laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. it was more akin to a pathetic little sigh, trying to ease the tightly wound anxiety in his chest.
âwhat if i already met them,â he breathed, still not looking at you, âand i just⊠never said anything. what if i missed the opportunity for real love.â
something soft and aching opened in your chest.
âchan,â you cooed gently, leaning your head a bit in order to be in his line of view, âyou canât miss your soulmate just by being afraid.â
he finally looked at you.
really looked at you.
âwhat if i already did?â he whispered, brows furrowing up. âwhat if they were right here, and i was too much of a coward to say anything. what if i was afraid of the risk losing them.â
the air became heavy between you. your pulse charged loudly in your ears.
âthen maybe,â you replied, voice trembling despite yourself, âthey may be just waiting for you to stop protecting them from a truth they already know. one they already wantâ
his breath caught in his throat.
âwhat if iâm wrong?â he worries. âwhat if i confess to this person and nothing happens? what if thereâs no mark? no sign? and i just ruin everything...â
you reached for his hand without thinking and laced your fingers through his. his are warm and clammy, a sign of his anxiety, contrasting your tender touch.
âthen you figure it out with them,â you consoled. âyou could find a way. like you always do.â
he stared at your joined hands. then, quietly, like he was stepping off a ledge, he whispered your name.
âiâm⊠iâm in love with you. i always have been.â
it wasnât dramatic, nor loud. just honest.
the room felt like it held itâs breath in the silence that follows.
your wrist tingled, then began to burnânot painfully, but warmly, like sunlight sinking into your bones. chan gasps, eyes flying to your hand as words begin to bloom into existence.
home.
at the same time, heat spread across his collarbone, just beneath his shirtâs collar. he fumbled with the fabric, pulling it aside, and there it wasâthe same word, fresh, glowing, and undeniable.
you laughed, breathless and teary all at once. âweâre idiots,â you whispered. âof course it was you.â
chan looked like he might cryâhell, he already was. âyou arenât scared?â he said softly.
you shook your head, leaning in to him until your foreheads touched. âiâve also loved you for years,â you admitted. âi was just waiting for you to catch up.â
he let out a broken, wet laugh, pulling you into his arms like he was been holding himself back from this his whole life. he had held you a hundred times before, but this time meant so much more. his hold was warm, sure, and familiar.
like home.
he brought a hand to brush hair out of your face, and caressed your jaw. you look deeply into his eyes, falling into the pools of his irises.
âcan i kiss you, please?â
âi thought youâd never askâ
when he kissed you, it was gentle. reverent. like he knew this is something precious and wanted to treat it that way. he wanted it to be memorable. it was everything the both of you had dreamed of and more.
when you pulled away, you both just stared at each other. almost in disbelief, of course you were destined to be together.
you were just glad you found home in where you were meant to.
i hope this makes up for your late gift! sorry the person ghosted youđ
event taglist: @makeitworse @katdish @firelordtsuki @hynjinnnnsmuse @madirye062 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @dazzlingjade @stayville-citizen @joenjenny @eyes-ofhell @veronica123 @four_eyes13 @madebybec @thisisnotjacinta @aaassshhhaaa @a-brilliante-mariposa @vember77 @soechangbinsrightboob @meloncremesoda @sweetley @ima-jellybeanz @elenas-kaleidoscope @starlostjisung @bahngarang @chrizzztopherbang
I absolutely loved this! Thank you sm!!!
home for the holidays
Secret Stay Writing Event
to: @imagine-all-the-imagines
l. minho x reader
synopsis: returning home from college for the holidays was always jarring. Everyone is always asking questions about your âfancyâ new college life, coupled with the general melancholy feelings the holidays bring. However, what you donât expect is to have to finally confront your feelings for your childhood best friend.
warnings: fem reader, f2l, christmas!au, college!au, all fluff and comfort!
wc: 2.4k
I had so much fun writing for the Secret Stay Writing Event by @emmiesoverthemoon and @makeitworse ! Thank you for this opportunity!
You rolled your shoulders as you gazed out the back window of your Uber. The sky was dreary, dark gray, as you awaited the approaching rain shower. It didnât rain much where you went to university, something you disliked. Despite the comforting smell of the approaching storm, you remained tense. You had been away at university for the last four years, only visiting home once or twice during that time. You were mentally preparing yourself to be barraged with millions of questions, despite staying in decently close contact with your friends and family the entirety of your stay at university. However, there was one person you were more nervous to see than all else.
You continued to watch the passing scenery, beginning to recognize the surrounding buildings and street signs. You noticed the bookstore you used to frequent as a child, always having a keen interest in all things fantasy and otherworldly. You smile to yourself, your fond childhood memories easing your nerves a bit. Â
You steel yourself as the car rolls to a stop in front of your motherâs home. The familiar porch swing sways gently in the wind. You step out of the Uber, the driver gets out to pop the trunk and hand you your suitcase. You smile at him, âThank you, Sir.â He nods and returns your smile, telling you to have a nice day as he gets back into the car and drives off.Â
You stare at the front of your house for a moment before you decide to move your nerve-filled body. The wheels of your suitcase clack against the cracks in the pavement as you walk up the driveway. You release a huff of air as you lift the luggage over the step to your houseâs aged porch. You stop in front of the door, lifting your finger to ring the bell. However, the door swings open to reveal your mother, a broad smile stretched on her face.Â
â(Name)!â She exclaims, wrapping you in a tight hug, in which you return. âCome in! Weâve been waiting for you all day!â She moves behind you to usher you inside, her excitement rubbing off on you.
âWe?â You question her.
Your question is quickly answered when you enter the living room and see him sitting on the couch. You feel your breath halt in your chest, your pulse hammering in your ears. You suddenly become unaware of your motherâs urgent hands on your back, too focused on his form.
âMinho.â His name is barely a whisper on your tongue as his eyes lock with yours. You watch closely as his naturally pouty lips pull into a gentle smile. He stands from the couch, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his coat slightly.Â
He approaches you slowly, as if it hadnât been over a year since you had last seen each other. The slow sound of his footsteps is nothing close to the racing of your own heart. You take him in as he came to stand in front of you, his head tilted slightly down to meet your gaze.Â
â(Name.)â Your name comes off his tongue, smooth like honey.
You pause for barely a moment before lunging forward and wrapping your arms around his neck. You feel his arms quickly lock around your waist in return. â
âIâll leave the two of you to it.â You hear your mother tease lightly before she disappears down the hallway.
You barely acknowledge her, too enthralled with the man in your grasp. Your eyes flutter shut as you bask in his embrace. You feel at ease, surrounded by his usual vanilla scent.Â
âWow. Miss me that bad?â It didnât take long for him to break the sentimental atmosphere, his usual teasing demeanor showing itself.Â
You lean back in his arms and give him a playful smack on the chest. âOh shut up. Donât act like you didnât miss me, too.â You rebut. You look him up and down and mutter quietly, âItâs been over a year. You were out of town the last time I visited.â
Minho bites his cheek, guilt circulating his gaze, âYou know I couldnât miss my cousinâs wedding.â He clarifies.Â
You smile in understanding, âI know, Iâm not mad. I just missed you, that's all.â You say with a shrug, hands playing with the zipper of his jacket.Â
His lighthearted smirk returned, âI knew it.â
You shoved him away and moved to grab your luggage once more. âThatâs the nicest thing Iâll say to you while Iâm here. Donât take it for granted.â You clarify.
Minho chuckles, grabbing the suitcase from you and leading it to your room.
âWe both know thatâs not true.â
You donât fight your grin.
The next few days are spent catching up with family and friends. You helped your mom decorate the tree and bake some cookies.Â
âWho is all coming to dinner again?â You ask your mother, absentmindedly fiddling with the magazine in your lap. You were sitting at the kitchen counter as she washed the dishes.Â
âFor Christmas dinner?â She asked.
You snort, âWhat other dinner would I be talking about?â
âDonât sass me, young lady.â She reprimands, waving a soapy sponge in your direction, but ultimately decides to answer your question. âYour aunt, uncle, a couple of cousins, and Minhoâs family.â
You nod at her answer, looking back down at your magazine.Â
âYou know that boy is obsessed with you, right?âÂ
You choke on air, your brows furrowed as you look back up at your mom, âExcuse me?â
She laughed at your reaction, âMinho. He doesnât stop talking about you. Even after being apart for so long.â
You stare at her, mind wandering as you think of how to respond. âI think itâs normal for friends to talk about each other. Especially best friends who havenât seen each other in a year.â You attempt to refute her claim, but you canât deny the way your heartbeat speeds up at her words.
She scoffs at you, âHoney, friends donât look at each other the way you two do.â She says it so simply, as if she werenât shifting your worldview.
You tilt your head in confusion, âWhen did I ever say I liked him?â You ask.
âI have eyes, honey. Everyone sees it but the two of you.â She states plainly, still washing the dishes.Â
You set the magazine down on the counter. âI think youâre all delusional.â You mumble, suddenly lacking any sort of defense for yourself.Â
âKeep telling yourself that.â She teases.Â
You were about to reply, but you were cut short by the sound of the doorbell. You look toward the door, then back at your mom. âYou expecting anyone?â You asked her. She shook her head, confusion stricken on her face. You got up and approached the door, looking out the peephole to see a familiar face. You swing open the door, âWhat the hell are you doing here?â You question hastily.Â
Minho quirks a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips, âIs that how you greet all your guests?â
You roll your eyes at him and cross your arms. âWe donât entertain solicitors, sir.â You joke.Â
He shakes his head, âShut up and get your coat on. Weâre going out.â He commands.Â
âWhat if I donât want to go out? Itâs cold outside.âÂ
He rolls his eyes and shoves past you. He grabs your coat and tosses it at you. âThatâs why I told you to grab your coat.â He says as he waits for you to shrug into your coat.Â
âMom! Iâm heading out with Minho!â You call back into the house, only shutting the door after she yells goodbye back to you.Â
Minho places a hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the house and towards his car. He walks around to the passenger's side and opens the door for you. You get in, smiling at him as he closes the door and walks back around to the driverâs side.Â
Your cheeks warm at the thought of his hand on your back and his gentlemanly actions. It was one of the many traits of his that made you fall for him.Â
Minho starts the car, backs out of the driveway, and eases onto the main road.
âSo where are we going?â You ask him, watching his side profile closely.Â
You ignore the way his fingers grip the steering wheel slightly at the sound of your voice.Â
âThe old park we would go hunting for stray cats at when we were little.â He answers, his gaze locked onto the road.Â
You furrow your brows in confusion, but smile at the fond memories, âThatâs oddly sentimental of you. Whatâs the occasion?â You ask, not used to Minho being so⊠not Minho.
âJust⊠figured it would be nice.â Thatâs the only answer he gives you. His demeanor was weirdly nervous.Â
You decide to ignore his behavior, chalk it up to the fact that you've been apart for so long. You turn your head to the window, watching as snowflakes begin to fall gently from the sky.
âI didnât know it was supposed to snow today.â You mainly said to yourself.Â
âI thought it would be nice to go out in the snow. With the holidays and all.â Minho said in a rather uncharacteristic nervous manner.Â
You turn your head to look at him once again, taking in the way he works his jaw slowly as if he were thinking about something too complex. You furrow your brows and place a gentle hand on his arm.
âIs something going on, Min? Youâre acting a little funny.â You ask, worry, reading on your features.Â
Minho gave what he thought was a reassuring smile, casting a glance your way before turning his gaze back on the road. âNothing is going on. Youâre reading too much into things.âÂ
You stare a moment longer, but your focus is broken when you notice that youâve finally arrived at the park. You feel a grin spread on your lips. The park looked beautiful under the freshly falling snow. Minho parks the car and gets out quickly to open your door. He holds out a hand to help you out of the vehicle, which you take carefully. You quirk a curious brow at him.Â
âYouâre being awfully gentlemanly today, Min.â You state as you wrap a hand around his bicep, walking towards the gazebo in the center of the park.
You feel Minho shrug against you, âIâm always gentlemanly.â He states plainly.Â
You roll your eyes, knowing this is the same man who used to tug on your hair as a child.
As you approached the gazebo, you noticed that it had been wrapped in warm white lights, which was unusual, as the gazebo hadnât been decorated in years.Â
You raise your head to look up at the lit structure, nearly tripping over the first step of the gazebo if Minho hadnât been paying attention to you. He gripped your arm tightly to prevent you from embarrassing yourself.Â
âCareful, dummy.â He teases as you right your posture.Â
You scoff at his insult, âAnd the gentleman is gone.â You take another step until the two of you are standing in the center of the wooden structure.Â
You take another look around, absorbing everything. The snow continued to drift around you, settling onto the wooden rails of the gazebo and melting soon after.Â
You turn back towards Minho, appreciating the way the sharp breeze kissed his cheeks pink. His gaze did not meet yours as he looked over your shoulder. You suddenly began to grow nervous. Your best friend was notoriously loud, but now he was rather quiet. Almost solemn
Your hand slips from his arm, and you turn your body towards him fully, âSeriously, Minho, whatâs going on with you? You didnât bring me here to end our 21 years of friendship, did you?â You attempt a joke, hoping to lighten the weird mood that had been created.Â
You watched closely as Minho drew in a deep breath, letting it go slowly. His gaze finally met yours, his eyes almost shining.Â
âIâve been trying to figure out when things changed.â He states. Your brows furrow in confusion.
âWhat are you talking about? Is this about me being away?â You asked, concerned.Â
Minho shook his head, letting out a small chuckle. âIâve been trying to figure out when I stopped seeing you as my best friend and started being the first person I thought of when I woke up in the morning, and the last person I thought of before bed.âÂ
You begin to feel your heart pound roughly in your chest. You could see your breath escape your lips in the cold weather. âMin, Iâm confused.â You said quietly.
Minho took a step forward and placed a warm hand on your cold cheek. You felt his fingers brush along your jaw as your eyes remained locked with his.Â
âIâve been trying to come up with a way to say this to you without ruining things.â You watched him swallow, nervous. âBut I canât keep pretending I donât feel this way.â He breathes out.
âIâve loved you for a long time. More than a best friend should.â He drew in another deep breath. âI couldnât watch you leave again without telling you.â
You could feel your hands trembling at your sides as you took in his confession. Your breath came out in shorter bursts as your brain ran a million miles a minute. Minhoâs gaze diverted from yours, and his hand began to drop, taking your silence as rejection. Before his hand completely fell away, you grabbed it, holding it against your cheek.Â
âKiss me.â You say breathily.
His gaze shoots back up to yours, shock written across his features, before relief takes over.Â
His next move was almost immediate, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. You complete his movement, pressing your lips against him.
You brought your other hand up to cup his cheek, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips moved against yours slowly, as if this were natural for the two of you. You pulled away slowly, foreheads pressed together.
âI love you, too, by the way.â You say quietly.Â
Minho chuckles, his hand dropping from your cheek to pull you in by your waist.Â
âMerry Christmas, (Name).â He said with a cheeky smile.Â
You return his grin, âMerry Christmas, Minho.â
Merry late Christmas to @imagine-all-the-imagines ! I hope you enjoyed this!
đđđđđđ đđđđ
âêłÂ·Ì©Ì©Íâ thank you to everyone who signed up to participate in emmie & iâs event! weâre so very grateful for all of the effort, we hope our writers can feel the love this holiday season âĄ
below you can find all of the fics that are to be posted from december 1st to january 7th. you can join the taglist if youâd like to be notified for each work! happy reading đ
divider by @uzmacchiato
chan | celebrating first christmas together to: @akindaflora đ read gift!
ot8 | fluff, poly, a/b/o to: @astrayapple đ read gift!
jeongin | fluff, friends to lovers to: @bahngarang đ read gift!
han | smut, fluff, friends to lovers to: @bb2ol đ read gift!
minho | angst, fluff, best friends to lovers / exes to lovers to: @bbokaricentral đ read gift!
loser bf!seungmin | fluff, suggestive to: @breakmeoff đ read gift!
bf!chan + ex!felix | angst, smut to: @chrizzztopherbang đ read gift!
jeongin | fluff, friends to lovers, movie night to: @elylyyy đ read gift!
hyunjin | smut, fluff to: @emmiesoverthemoon đ read gift!
hyunjin | fluff to: @eroskz đ read gift!
minho | crack, under the mistletoe to: @fenya-scribbles đ read gift!
minho | angst, no comfort to: @filmrku đ read gift!
felix | high fashion au, model x model to: @havennz đ read gift!
changbin | new relationship, fluff, silly to: @hearts4binnie đ read gift!
hyunjin | fake dating to: @hyunjincanraptoo đ read gift!
minho | christmas au, friends to lovers to: @imagine-all-the-imagines đ read gift!
han | first meeting, fluff to: @kisjourney đ read gift!
changbin | best friends to lovers, fluff, smut to: @l0bulariia đ read gift!
felix | friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy to: @lililixie đ read gift!
felix | soulmate au, percy jackson au to: @lily-5 đ read gift!
han | established relationship, sickfic, hurt/comfort to: @loonarixsxx đ read gift!
jeongin | fluff, suggestive to: @louanesays đ read gift!
changbin | established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort to: @lov3rachan đ read gift!
chan | fluff, soulmate au to: @maxinehufflepuffprincess đ read gift!
felix | fantasy, fluff, strangers + enemies to lovers to: @mikashisus đ read gift!
changbin | idol au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst to: @moonqz đ read gift!
changbin | soulmate au to: @orithyia-eriphyle đ read gift!
han | fluff, sunshine x sunshine to: @pineapple-burgah đ read gift!
felix | friends to lovers, yearning, angst to: @pixielixx đ read gift!
chan | fluff, strangers to lovers to: @skzophreniic đ read gift!
han | fluff, smut to: @starlostjisung đ read gift!
chan | best friends to lovers to: @teffyx đ read gift!
minho + han | fluff to: @thegreenlynx đ read gift!
changbin | friends to lovers to: @ttturnitup đ read gift!
Creature in the Black Night
Synopsis: After finding you alone and hurt, physically and emotionally, Chris helps you get on your feet before sending you on your way. What he did not expect was to miss you, someone he only had in his cabin for less than a week. Once he started to shove thoughts of you out of his mind, you show back up even more in need of his help.
Word Count: 20.7k (I am so sorry, not really but at least I said it)
Genre: Slow burn. Porn with plot ABO!SKZ AU. Alpha!Chris and Healer!Felix are the two that Reader interact with most but it is implied all Kids are wolves and in the pack. TouchStarved!Chris. Hurt. Comfort. Smut (21+ warnings below cut). Morally Gray Chris, he is just so down bad. Fated mates with mate marks.
Warnings: This will have mentions of emotional and mental abuse, female anatomy, severe weight loss, accidental sexual assault (they both were asleep, one woke up and the other was still asleep), emotional dysregulation with pain (not self harm), blood, and injury. Italics are memories.
A/N: Itâs here! Oh man, this was a journey. I hope those who waited for it enjoy it! I had a blast writing it. Yes, the title is based off of the new Dayseeker album.
Divider credit.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 21+ ONLY BECAUSE THIS IS NASTY STUFF - Only you can control your media consumption - This is a work of fiction, nothing is true. I am delulu as a solulu to this world.
Smut warnings: Kissing. Biting. Dry humping. Hands on neck (front and back) for control. Reader has a wet pussy. Nipple and breast play. BigDick!Chris. Scratching. Oral sex (male and female receiving). Cum eating. Fingering. Squirting. Unprotected sex. Christopher kink. Multiple orgasms. Primal play. Breeding king. Possessive!Chris. Dacryphilia. Knotting.
Chris Bahng has been in the woods for most of his adult life. There is a cabin on the far north end of the Horizon Forest that he calls home. Not many people make it so far North and that is how he likes it. The seclusion. Itâs what he chose.
What he deserves.
Until you stumbled upon his land during the last few weeks of spring, with the scent of fear and sorrow seeping from you. Strong enough that he smelled you before he heard you trip and fall. Your whimper was the last thing he heard, his hearing elevated due to his nature.Â
His wolf instantly alerts at the sound, wanting to seek you out. Minutes pass and no sound or movement comes from the south, where he last heard you. His wolf is restless under his skin, making him pace the length of his front room.
Sighing heavily, he slips into his boots and heads off to find you. Following your heart beat, he quickly makes his way so he can see you. He stops when he comes up to your body, careful not to make a sound in case you were armed. It wouldnât hurt him but he didnât want to deal with explaining why.
Youâre curled on the ground, a pack at your side and your hands curled tightly to your chest inside of the heavy black coat. Your eyes are closed and your heart beat is steady. You passed out. As he gets closer, he sees your face is cut like you ran through the low branches surrounding his property.Â
He smells the heartbreak on you as he takes in the tear streaked face. Someone hurt you and he feels his wolf snarl at the thought.Â
This is bad.Â
He circles you slowly, checking for weapons before he shoulders your pack and lifts you into his arms with ease. You do not stir, not even when Chris adjusts you so your head can rest on his shoulder as he starts the slow trek back to his cabin in the dark.
You slipped in and out of consciousness for the first few days. He learned your name and a few other things about you. After you regained some strength, he asked you why you were in the middle of the woods. Your answer shocked him and he had to force himself to remain calm and in the glider across the bedroom as his wolf wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and protect you.
It was a couple minutes before you spoke but the sorrow that flowed off of you made him clench his jaw and curl his fingers into fists.
âMy fiancĂ© was going hiking with some of his work friends, his high school sweetheart included. He knew how she made me feel but he always said there was nothing to worry about.â Your hands shake in your lap, having nothing to do with the chill of the season making the leaves surrounding the cabin change color.Â
âIâm not athletic, like they are so any chance they got they would tease me about holding them up or saying that I should consider staying behind. I guess I tripped one too many times and the last time, he decided to leave me to continue the hike claiming he was going to set the tents up.â Your eyes fill with tears and your bottom lip wobbles so hard you pull it between your teeth and take a couple of deep, shaky breaths.
âWhen I questioned him about leaving me, he just said that he told me not to come. That I wasnât cut out for that type of activity.â You scoff as you remember how his high school sweetheart smirked behind him before smiling when he stood and turned around. âHe said to rest and meet them at the site when I cooled down and my jealousy was gone. Then he just left me.â
Taking a deep breath with a shrug, you look up into beautiful amber eyes. âI got lost on my way back to the ranger station and then just kept getting turned around. I remember I fell over a log and then I woke up a couple days ago here.âÂ
Chris was still the entire time you told your story and when you finished, silent tears rolling down your cheeks, he lost to his wolf. He was up and sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand gently cupping your face. His wolf yips with joy at finally getting to touch you, even if you smell like sorrow and humiliation. âWhat he did was wrong.â
At this, the dam breaks and your sobs rattle your frame. You go to cover your face but Chris pulls you to him, wrapping his arms around you, hoping that if he held you tight enough, he could keep your heart from shattering. His hand rubbed soothing circles on the small of your back as his other hand cupped the back of your neck to support your head as you cried into his chest.
Eventually, you cried yourself out and fell asleep against him. The warm scent of cedar and musk surrounding you more than his flannel sheets did. With your body limp in his arms, Chris gently lays back on the bed with you, wanting you to keep you close, vowing so long as youâre at his cabin, he wonât leave you scared and vulnerable like your human.
This might have been your favorite part of the Forests.Â
In the middle of fall, all the leaves have fully abandoned their green in favor of red, yellows, orange, and brown. Horizon is thick and lush with plant and wild life, the days are filled with the ambiance of birds and other little animals scurrying across the first floor.Â
After the sun goes down, while there are plenty of trees surrounding this spot, the moon and her stars are unfiltered. It was something Chris said he did on purpose when having the house built. He specifically used the trees in the area for it and made sure there were enough taken down to leave a nice, wide opening for the sun and the moon. Â
There are no lights outside unless you bring one so that means no light pollution. Absolutely nothing to ruin your view of the trillions of stars, their constellations, and the waning moon. This is your second favorite part.Â
After he found you, you returned home for a total of two weeks before you were packing a bag. Leaving your ring on the coffee table of the apartment you shared with your fiance. You left with no real idea of where you were going but you found yourself at Horizon Forest. You got out of your car, not really sure where his house was but you decided to give yourself an hour to find familiar territory before turning back and going to the next town.
Itâs like you were called back. With only minutes to spare, there he was, at the edge of his property.
You look up from the map you have in your hand to see Chris just standing there, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you. You stop, rooted in place. Your face is flushed from the walk but it deepens upon seeing him again. You had no real plan, no idea what you were doing.
All you knew was you wanted to be near him.
Chris felt you before he saw you. The pull has been getting stronger, the closer to the full moon. He goes out to the edge of his property and waits. Itâs almost an hour before he sees you, a small smile comes to his lips but he wipes it from his face by the time you look up.Â
White hot rage replaces his happiness to see you.
Youâre pale, almost sickly so. He remembers the shape and curve of your body having held you in his arms while you cried thinking you were too thin for your stature then. But now? Now youâre so frail, barely holding yourself up. The little shine and bounce that your hair had two months ago is gone. Your eyes are dull and bloodshot.Â
What happened to you in those two months? How can he help you? Did you come for help?Â
âYou came back.â His voice is rough but quiet in the space between you.Â
âI donât know why but this cabin, with you, is more home than anything I have ever felt.â
Without a word, he crosses the space and stops in front of you. His eyes are still the stunning amber yellow color you remember, a softness to them. His face is tired but you see no other emotion on it until he reaches out and grabs your bag.Â
With your bag on his shoulder, he nods his head in the direction of his cabin. âWelcome home.â
Now, three and a half months later, youâre tucked under a thick woven blanket that you made as you sit on the front porch with your tea. Chris takes nightly runs through the forest, saying the cool evening air helps to calm his mind after his day.Â
Tonight, you see him jogging up the path with something in his hand. When he gets to the foot of the steps, that is when you realize what it is, a single sunflower between his fingers.Â
âMy favorite flower.â You whisper as he hands it to you, a soft flush on his cheeks.Â
âI know.â He nods into the cabin. âTheyâre all over your laptop.â
You stand, realizing once again how large he is. You come up to his shoulder but he is so broad he actually hides you from view when people come to visit.Â
Chris leans down and picks up the blanket that slipped from your lap and takes the empty mug of tea from you. He nods to the front door before following you inside.
The fireplace is still warm from when he built it for you to bake and cook dinner on it. The smell of lamb, rosemary, and potatoes is still heavy in the air. You hear his stomach growl from behind you as he leaves the door open, the storm door closes to let some of the heat escape. Neither of you sleep well in the heat and Chris is a furnace on his own.Â
You started sharing a bed, platonically, only a few weeks ago. While you donât like to sleep hot, the cabin gets very cold at night. Too cold for your human body to handle. Chris thrives in the cold and always sleeps more soundly the colder the cabin gets.Â
Except when he heard your teeth chattering. That woke him up from his sleep instantly and within seconds he was back in his room, laying down over the blankets and pulling you close. You stammered and tried to fight but as his warmth seeped into your skin, you quickly stopped and tucked yourself against him. His soft chuckle was the last thing you heard as you fell asleep, feeling safer and warmer than you have in months.
âAre you still hungry? I can dish you up some more stew.â You head to the small kitchen to get a glass for the flower before setting it on the little table you two share meals at.
âI can get it.â He smiles softly and slides a hand over your shoulder as he passes you on his way to the fireplace.Â
Smiling to yourself, you turn and busy yourself with slicing some of the cinnamon bread you made and grabbing a couple of rolls for Chris, turning to set them on the table. Heâs already there, his pewter bowl of stew steaming. He has his tablet open, scrolling through some of the news articles to read what has come out in the last few hours.
Sitting across from him, you pick back up your crochet project. Youâre making him a cardigan, he doesnât know it yet since itâs in a deep pine green color instead of his usual black. His beautiful tanned skin would look really good with this color and youâre excited to give it to him once itâs completed.Â
The silence between you is never uncomfortable, never has been. Youâre what you believe to be soul companions. The connection formed as Chris has helped you heal from your trauma that led you to him. The humiliation, the body shaming, and much more. Heâs a man of few words but you can see it in his eyes, the patience and constant support as you work through your issues.Â
After he finishes his stew and the rolls you set out for him, you slide the rest of your cinnamon bread to him, smiling when he meets your eyes. âI made extra loaves this time. Have as much as you want.â
âYouâre the best.â He returns your smile as he picks up a slice. He eats in silence as you crochet before he speaks up. âIâm going to be gone for a couple of days next week.â
âAh, the monthly meeting?â
He nods. âYeah, itâs that time again.â
Every month Chris has to go with his work for a monthly meeting on the southwest side of the forest. Heâs usually gone for about five days and comes back exhausted. The first time he came back, he slept in the small shed he was working to convert into a greenhouse for three days. You always left him food and water, happy to see that when you would bring the next round, he had finished off what you left.Â
âWill you show me how to get the fire going so I can restart it while youâre gone?â
He nods again, mouth full this time. You smile and turn your attention back to your hands.Â
âIâm sorry that I have to leave you.â Your hands freeze but you donât look up at him just yet so he continues. âWith the winter coming, Iâll show you how to do anything you want to learn. Youâll still be safe here and stocked so Iâll be able to come back and see your beautiful face.â
You flush instantly at the complement. Itâs the first time heâs called you beautiful and you try not to let your heart flip around in your chest too much. Slowly, you look up to see him flushed, his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks down at the now empty plate in front of him.Â
His amber eyes, currently not currently theyâre usual amber but a little darker, meet yours and you gasp. âChris, your eyes? Do they-,â
âAh, it must be the fire.â Instantly he is up with his back to you as he stokes the fire back to life.Â
You furrow your brow and tilt your head feeling confused. Usually as the fire is reduced to embers, that is when you two go to bed and that would have been soon but now that he has built it again, that is postponed.Â
At least for him.
You start packing up your project and stand to get the dishes to the sink so you can wash them but Chris gently takes your wrist. âIâll get them. I can tell youâre tired.â Slowly, he releases your wrist and moves his hand to cup your cheek. You tilt your head into it, without thinking and look up at him from under your full lashes, his eyes once again amber. His thumb caresses the blush on your skin before there is a small tug at the corner of his lips.Â
âIâll come to bed after the fire goes out.â His voice is soft as he drops his hand and takes the dishes to the sink. You still havenât moved as the water runs. Taking a trembling breath, you grab the woven basket you keep your supplies in and head to the bedroom.Â
To say youâre not attracted to Chris would be a lie. His black hair is longer right now than usual with his amber eyes, honeyed skin, and the muscles on his frame make him very easy on the eyes.Â
But thatâs not what makes your stomach flip.
Itâs the soft moments like you just had. The moments when you do something and he catches you fumbling, heâll come help with a soft chuckle and a quiet âcuteâ. Not to be condescending but because he genuinely thinks youâre adorable. Then there are nights when he beats you to bed and his bedside light is sending a golden glow through the room when he looks at you with something primal, hungry.Â
Youâll come to bed in shorts and a shirt, one of his, and heâll take you in slowly as you move about the room. Youâll feel his gaze burn over your curves and sear into your plush thighs as you rub lotion over yourself. Every so often you will catch his eyes in the mirror, the darkest you have seen them before he blinks and looks down at the book in his hand.
Chris isnât immune to you. He is in fact more affected than he expected to be. His wolf yips when youâre near and you touch him or let him touch you. When you first arrived and were in so much pain, his wolf whined and howled for you. Now, as you two have shifted into something more comfortable, itâs getting harder to control those urges from his wolf. The want. The hunger. The all consuming need for you that has been slowly brewing over the months.Â
It pains him to leave every full moon but he refuses to tell you anything until he feels you are ready. Let alone, tell you about the rut that he has to endure alone before the actual moon. There is no meeting, there never has been. He sends himself as far away from you so he can keep you as safe as possible during the day.
At night, that is a different story.Â
On the night of the full moon, Chris is in his wolf form. Sleek all black fur with amber eyes, standing as tall as you, power and lean.Â
At night, he returns, crossing the forest in record time to watch over you as you sleep in the bed you share with his human form. He sits a patience vigil outside the cabin, a view into the room so he can see you but still remains hidden. He will wait until your breathing evens out and you give into the day, slipping into your dreams. Sometimes your dreams are quiet, sometimes you cry out and his wolf whimpers softly, wanting to comfort you.
On the nights where your dreams leave you alone, he will hunt the surrounding area, making sure to stay close in case you somehow wind up in danger. The nights where youâre tossing and turning, whimpering, with tears spilling down your cheeks, he lays below the window, pressed up to the house. That is as close as he will allow himself to get in his wolf form. Until he tells you the truth.
Which he plans to do, very soon.Â
He hears you getting ready for bed in the other room as he busies himself with dishes that were clean minutes ago. Chris is just trying to clear his mind. The closer the full moon gets, the harder he has to fight his wolf. As you spend more time together, his wolf becomes more and more attached. The primal side of him begging to claim you is why he spends extra days away. He doesnât want to hurt you. It would destroy him.
âChris?! What happened?â
He jolts out of his head and back into the present. The water is still running and the bowl he had in his hands has broken. The jagged piece slicing the skin of his palm clean open. Holding his bleeding hand under the water, he turns his head to see you standing there in your usual cold weather pajamas.
One of his shirts and a pair of leggings.Â
It started all because you forgot to grab sleep clothes. You managed to grab the important things, like your medicines (mostly supplements) but pajamas were not on the list. He gave you one of his softest shirts and when you woke up that next morning, covered in his scent, he couldnât let you wear anything else. Plus, seeing you wear his clothes just makes him want you more.Â
âI dropped a bowl. Iâm okay, Iâm okay.â He responds, trying to keep you from coming closer. His wolf is already working on knitting the skin back together, the bleeding long since stopped.Â
âDid you hurt yourself?â Your eyes are shocked and nervous as you walk over to him, trying to see past him.
The size difference isnât lost on him either. His wolf, having finished his mission to heal the wound on his palm, now yips and begs to get closer to you.Â
âNope, it's just fine.â He shuts the water off and shows you his hand. âJust a little scratch.â
âMan, I liked that bowl.â
Chris chuckles and shakes his head as he tosses the pieces into the trash before drying his hands off. âWe can get more.â You smile up at him and nod. Slowly, you relax after the short burst of adrenaline wears off. âCome on, sleepy.â He gently guides you to the bedroom and helps get you tucked between the soft, worn flannel sheets.Â
Almost as soon as he turns to walk away, your chilled fingers curl around his wrist. He feels the tremors but heâs not sure if theyâre from the cold of the cabin or from the small shot of adrenaline. âWill you stay for a little bit?â
âOf course.â He crawls over you and lays on his side of the bed.
You let him get adjusted and hold his arm up before you curl into his side, instantly melting into his warmth. A soft moan leaves your lips as you press into him, your head on his shoulder. âI donât know how Iâll survive the cold without you.â
Chris turns his head so his nose is buried in your hair, breathing you in as his hand slides up and down your back, trying to get more heat into you, hating that youâre still shaking slightly. âWeâll have to swap out some things for thicker, winter wear. I need to do the same.â
You nod and curl yourself tighter into his warmth. He rests his cheek on your head and lets his eyes slip closed. Having you in his arms at the end of the day might be one of his favorite things. Itâs his reward for making it through one more rotation on the Earthâs axis.Â
âChris?â He hums in acknowledgement. âDonât leave me when itâs cold. Please?âÂ
His hands stop moving and he squeezes his eyes closed. âI donât know if itâs possible right now.â He hates himself for lying. You never asked him to stay before so he knows you must really be afraid. He hears you sniffle before the wet drops of your tears land on his collarbone. âHey, hey, hey.â He cups your jaw softly and tries to tilt your face to look at him but when you put up the slightest bit of resistance, he stops and just rests his forehead to the top of your head. âPlease donât cry. I hate it.â
âIâm just scared. Iâll try to be as self-sufficient as I can but what if I burn down your cabin?â
Chris canât help the smile that comes to his lips. âYou donât have to be scared. Iâll show you everything you need to know so you donât burn down our cabin. You have picked up so much and have been such a huge help.â Heâs not lying now. After getting you nursed back to health, getting your strength back up, Chris started showing you how to do some little things around the cabin and the surrounding property to maintain upkeep.Â
He still handles all of the big things but most of the time he brings you with him because he really likes to have you around. Plus, youâre always so eager to help, even if youâre just holding a tool, a flashlight, or even just fetching something for him.Â
You must not catch his correction because you continue. âIâm either going to freeze to death or Iâm going to burn your house down.â
âOur house.â He corrects again and he can feel your body when you register his words. âYes, this is our house. It has been the moment I carried you in here.â
Smiling softly, you burrow your head deeper into his chest, wrapping your arm tighter around his stomach. âDonât let me burn our house down.â
A smile still on his lips, Chris presses them to the top of your head softly. âNever.â
The cold snap came earlier than either of you could have predicted.Â
He woke up one morning a couple weeks later to frost on the windows and he knew this winter was going to be hard. He would be fine but you, his beautiful, precious human would not be unless he did something.Â
Chris got to work prepping the house, winterizing, as it would be called. Making sure the windows are sealed and covered, getting thick down blankets and electrical blankets as well. He spent hours chopping wood to make sure there would be enough to keep the fireplace stocked.Â
While Chris would be chopping the wood and working on the cabin, you were prepping your garden and food storage the best you could. Youâve learned a lot about living off the grid and off the land but nothing could have prepared you for something like this. Not weeks in advance.Â
When you werenât in the garden, the kitchen, or your green house, you were helping to stack the wood that Chris chopped. He smiles as he watches you, trying to make sure the stacks against the house donât fall.
âItâs okay if they tumble.â He hurries over and catches a couple logs before they fall on you. âThis is a perfect start. When it gets low, Iâll come out and do the rest.â
You nod and go to step back but you stumble and wind up falling back into his solid muscle. One of his arms holds you close, the other restabilizing the logs to not fall on you.Â
âIâm sorry.â You reply and go to stand but Chris can tell from your voice that youâre exhausted.Â
Scooping you up effortlessly, he carries you up the stairs and into the house. âYou never have to apologize.â He sets you down in your favorite arm chair and lays a blanket you knitted over your lap. âAre you okay?â
You nod and lean back, letting the cabinâs warmth seep into your bones. âIâm fine. Being up early and all the prep has me feeling pretty stressed.â
Chris smiles and cups your face softly, tilting your head side to side as he takes you in. âCan I get you anything?â
âIâm okay. I think I just need to rest. Just for a little bit.â
âTake as long as you need, beautiful.â He stands and kisses your forehead. âI think you are doing great, by the way.â His hands rest on the arms of the chair, caging you in and surrounding you in his warmth and scent.Â
âYou rea-a-â Your voice cracks and you swallow thickly before clearing your throat and trying again. âYou really think so?â
Chris nods and places a kiss on your forehead, âI know so. Most of that wood would have sat out there until later this winter but you have been working hard to line the house with it. Thank you.â He smiles as your face flushes. He straightens up and heads to the kitchen, âDid you still want chicken and rice for dinner?â
âYes please. I have everything ready to go, it just needs to go over the fire.âÂ
âHang out and rest. I can get it on the fire before I come sit with you.â
You nod and lean back, melting into the comfort of the couch as Chris gets the pot you put together with your dinner and hangs it on the hook in the fireplace. He then feeds and rebuilds the fire before pulling his sweater off and sitting beside you.Â
Pulling your feet into his lap, he leans back and gently slides your shoes off. You smile and watch him as he squeezes your feet before massaging them. Your head falls back and you moan his name as his thumb works the sore spot youâve often had trouble with.
Chris smirks and watches you, shifting to hopefully hide his reaction to you moaning his name. He eventually switches to the other foot but this being the nondominant he does not get the same reaction.
You giggle and pull your foot back when his thumb slips over a ticklish spot. âNo. God please donât.â
He chuckles and shakes his head, âI would never.â
âGood.â Pulling your feet under you, it allows you to shift closer, pausing for a moment before moving onto his lap. Youâre sideways, facing the fireplace as you adjust the blanket on your lap to cover you both. When he doesnât ask you to move, you lay your head on his shoulder and his arms wrap around your waist.
It feels so right. Being with Chris like this. The small intimate moments that make your stomach flip and your heart flutter. Itâs just so easy and effortless, which is not something you are used to. Chris is a true partner, he doesnât do everything for you but he supports you as you try to do it for yourself. That alone means more to you than a million foot massages.Â
âYouâre my favorite.â You whisper softly as his thumb draws circles on your thigh.
âIâm your favorite?â
âYeah. My favorite person.â
His smile is wide and pride fills his chest. Chris wraps his arms tighter around you, burying his nose in your hair. âYouâre my favorite too, beautiful. You have been for a very long time.â He kisses you temple.
You smile and relax deeper into his warmth, letting his gentle kisses soothe you. Soon, you fall asleep without meaning to.
You were going to freeze to death.Â
Not actually but you felt like it. Nothing was working. The electric blankets were not warm enough. Your core temperature had dropped too low and that is where the danger started. The fire is burning but taking time to spread through the rest of the cabin. After shivering so hard in bed you swore you could feel the whole thing shake (which is impossible because Chris made the thing himself out of wood and it is SOLID), you went to lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Soon, youâre asleep, not carrying that you have no pillow and nothing but the one down blanket you burritoâd yourself in.Â
Itâs just past midnight when the front door slips open and a shadow slinks into the house. It stops when it sees you in the front room in front of a fire, roaring like you just added more wood to it before passing out again in front of the hearth. You stir slightly when the door shuts so the shadow freezes, watching you. When your heartbeat and breathing steadies, the large shadow moves closer. Chrisâs wolf form moves to lay just out of the light of the fire, resting its large head on its paws.Â
You have spread out on your back, how you normally sleep, one leg bent at the knee and resting over the other. Both of your hands are tucked under your head, acting like a pillow to keep your skull from the hardwood flooring. The wolf whimpers softly when he sees the goose bumps rise to your skin and you shiver again in your sleep. He knows it isnât the cold.Â
Youâre having a nightmare.
He should be able to shift back soon and lay with you, helping more but for now, he crawls closer, leaving his head resting on your feet. The wind must shift because your features are illuminated by the soft glow of the full moon. Your brow is furrowed and your lips are drawn back from your teeth like you are wincing in pain.Â
As if you can sense youâre not alone, your features relax and your heart rate slows down once again, leading him to believe you are no longer in your nightmare. Nuzzling closer to you, the wolf allows his eyes to slip shut, enjoying how close he gets to be to you. Itâs just before 3am when your dreams start up again.
This one starts out the same. You whimper softly and your fingers twitch. As it progresses, Chris notices this is different. Your twitches turn into you gripping the sheets and youâre writhing under the blankets. A pleasured gasp leaves your lips and that is when the scent of your arousal hits him.Â
A low whine rumbles through his wolf form as his head leaves your feet and he slowly backs into the shadows, his large head dying to rest between your legs but he removes himself for the most part, his eyes trained on your face.
âChris, please,â when his name leaves your lips followed by a raw, pleasured cry, he forces himself back out of the cabin. If he had stayed any longer, his wolf would have acted on instinct and tried to claim you.Â
The two of you have shared a lot about yourself but you have never mentioned anything about your sexual desires. So as you dream of him, he paces the surrounding area until he can return to his human form and crawl into bed beside you.
Itâs now early morning, a clock in the house would tell you itâs 6:28am. Youâve kicked the covers off and have starfished yourself on the bed. Slowly, your eyes open and you take a deep breath as you come back into your body. Flexing your fingers and toes, you stop when your fingers come in contact with skin.
Slowly, you turn your head and find Chris laying beside you. Heâs very naked so you keep your eyes focused on his face, which is peaceful. Heâs still in a deep sleep, curled on his side favoring you. There is a thin layer of sweat covering his body and you can guess it is because of the heat in the cabin. You also realize you are in bed. You distinctly remember sleeping in front of the fireplace. Chris must have scooped you up when he got home and laid down with you.
Gently you get out of bed and slip your feet into thick slippers. The front room is dark so the fire is low or completely out. You reach behind the bed to crack the window, allowing a cool breeze to come through, letting it cool Chrisâs heated skin.
You smile softly, you pull the thinnest quilt over his hips to give him some modesty before you disappear into the bathroom. Taking care of business, you note that he is home early. He wouldnât normally be home until later this evening so you wonder why he is here. Definitely not complaining, just curious.Â
After cleaning up, you head back into the bedroom to slip back under the covers. With Chris back, you donât have to worry about being cold. His presence alone has made the bedroom more tolerable already. Even though he is indecent, you still scoot closer, allowing your hand to rest next to his, curling your body in towards his. You let sleep find you once more, not noticing that his fingers have laced with yours and been tugged against his chest.Â
Hours later you wake feeling disoriented and sweating. You groan and try to get out of bed but that is when you feel two arms pull you tighter against something hard and solid. A grumble sounds from behind you and all at once your mind is wide awake.Â
Chris is home and is naked.Â
Currently he has your back pinned to his chest, his large, solid body curled behind yours. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting on your lower stomach and the other is just under your breast. This is the most touching you have ever done with Chris.Â
A stolen forehead kiss here or there with hugs and soft caresses, sure. But the complete bear hug from behind, his pinky literally resting on your breast, the finger tips of his other hand resting under the elastic of your panties, yes his fingers are already inside your leggings.Â
What really shocks you is the steel rod you feel nestled against your hind end. The icing on the cake is when you shifted to get out of bed and he pulled you back, Chris groaned against your shoulder and rocked his massive package against your ass. Your jaw drops as you feel the full length of him against you.
âChris?â Your hands gently come up and tap on his arms. âHoney, you gotta let me go.â
More grumbling comes from behind you as he presses himself against you once more, a low growl rumbling through his chest. You canât make out what he says but you can feel how hot he has gotten against you. His fingers twitch against your breast and your stomach. He pulls you back to him, groaning as he feels your softness give against him.
âChris? Wake up.â You try to shake him but that only ends up with you flipped onto your stomach, his legs straddling your plush thighs. He groans into your shoulder as his hips roll against your ass. You can feel how wet his cock is getting from the amount of precum leaking from him.Â
He growls your name and you hear his jaw clench while his hips continue to grind against your ass. âFuck,â your name slips past his lips in a whimper. âYou feel so good, baby girlâ His voice is raw and rough with arousal.
âChristopher!â
Eyes snap open. All movement ceases.Â
Within seconds the weight is off of you and you can hear him across the room. A drawer opens and closes before his footâs steps sound and then the front door slams.
You jump at the slam, your heart racing for a different reason this time. You give yourself a few moments to calm down and straighten the bed and your clothing before heading to the front door.Â
Chris is pacing out in the front yard, only in a pair of black shorts. His hands in his hair and his eyes squeezed shut. You open the door and before you can press the storm door open he freezes and looks up to the house. The sun catches his features and youâre rooted in place.Â
His usually amber eyes are black, no mistaking it this time. His canines are elongated and you can see his ears are pointed. What you notice before all else is the tears filling his eyes and the streaks down his cheeks. He turns and you can tell is going to take off but you open the door and hurry onto the porch.
âPlease donât run.â Your voice is so soft but your heart squeezes at the fear of him taking off on you.Â
When your voice breaks, Chris falls to his knees, his whole body slumping onto his flank. His head hangs between his shoulders and his hands are in fists. Soon blood begins seeping between his knuckles and he quickly moves them to fist the pine flooring. Your devotion has floored him.
Ruined him.Â
Chris is heaving breaths as his forehead rests on the forest floor. Heâs so focused on not losing control and changing that he doesnât notice youâve come up to kneel in front of him until your hands run over his hair. His whole body stills as he tries to focus on your touch but itâs too soft.Â
âNails. Back. Please.â His voice breaks on the last word as he begs for you to divert his attention.
Within seconds youâre closer, sliding your nails over his bare back. Chris shivers and you watch as the red lines and goosebumps come to the surface of his skin. He groans and arches up to your nails so you press harder, dragging them up and down. His claws release so quickly he is up and has pulled you under him, nuzzling his nose into your neck and breathing your scent.Â
You continue to slide your hands over his back, not wanting to over do it with your nails and do more harm than good. Minutes pass and he is still trembling so you bravely let your fingers thread into his hair as you hold him. Softly you whisper âyouâre okayâ and âIâm right hereâ just like he used to when you were struggling. You have no idea what is going on but you are not going to let him go through it alone.Â
Not anymore.Â
Eventually he fully relaxes against you, his knees sliding out from under him. You continue your gentle caresses and whispers until he moves to his elbows and looks down at you, his amber eyes back to normal. Your hands move to cup his face and his eyes close before he leans forward to rest his forehead on yours.
âIâm so sorry.â His words whisper over you and you shake your head slightly. âYes. I violated you and Iâm so, so sorry.â Once again, his voice breaks.
You shush him softly and run your fingers over his jaw, nuzzling your nose with his which makes him whimper softly. âI was more shocked than anything.â
The moment you nuzzled your nose to his, Chris was a goner. He has done it to you countless times but when you did it back, that act alone solidified that he was in love with you. In wolf packs, when two wolves nuzzle one another like you did to him, itâs a way to show affection, intimacy, and even submission. Itâs also something mated wolves do in their wolf forms before and after a hunt.
âAnd what you saw," he starts but you cut him off, knowing he is my ready to talk about it
âYou donât have to say anything now. Whenever youâre comfortable sharing, you can.âÂ
He deflates into you, letting his face rest in your neck to breathe in the scent that is his favorite in the world. You with just the slightest hint of him. An emotion that he cannot quite name wrecks through him. It is enough to bring tears to his eyes once more but he swallows it back and just basks in the feeling of knowing that you were always meant to be his.Â
Mate.
You kiss his temple softly, holding onto him with no idea of what is currently happening. All you know is he needs comfort and you are more than willing to give it to him. If anyone were to come up and see you both, it would be very suspicious. You are on your back with your legs hooked over his hips, your bodies are tightly pressed together, and his head is in your chest.
Chris is fighting himself from telling you how he feels and he also is trying not to grind himself against you. So, after letting himself stay with you for a few more minutes, he pulls away and stands before he picks you up and gently sets you on your feet. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and walks with you back towards the house.Â
You stop at the bottom of the stairs and tilt your head as you look up at him, a couple stairs ahead of you. âChris?â
He turns to look down at you but that is when the arrow sails through the air and plants itself right into your chest. Your eyes widen in shock and fear as they turn up to him and they mirror your emotions back.Â
Shock. Fear.
Two emotions Chris swore you would never feel in his presence again.Â
He failed you.Â
Within seconds you are in his arms and back in the house.Â
The last thing you remember is Chris begging you to hold on before a snarl rips through the air. Something large and black rips through the front door as your eyes fall closed and your world goes silent.
The door doesnât fully shut behind him before Chris has shifted. His wolf tears through the forest until he finds the man with the bow. Itâs finished before anyone could blink. Itâs midday before Chris gets back to you, his wolf still simmering with rage at the idea of you being hurt. He mildly feels guilty for leaving you but once glance at any clock would tell him he was not away from you for more than 10 minutes. Â
Back in his human skin and he scales the steps to get to you. Relief fills him when he sees youâre breathing. He can hear your heart beat but he waits no time getting you in his arms and then he is back out the door.Â
His pack resides on the south west side of the forest. In his wolf form it wouldnât take him 30 minutes to cross the miles but in his truck, itâs agonizing. Chris has warned the packâs healer, Felix, that heâs bringing his mate. He made the seven of them swear that they would not mention their nature to you, not until Chris gets to tell you himself.
Now, days later, youâre still unconscious in the spare bedroom of Felixâs home. That is where he keeps his supplies and where he treats everyone. You were treated and deemed stable but Felix wanted to keep you close in case of infection.Â
Itâs been six days since he felt you against him.Â
Six days since he held you in his arms.
Chris feels like he is going to go insane. Heâs pacing the small hallway outside the door as Felix checks your vitals. âSheâs okay to take home whenever you want. Weâre past the window of infection. Iâve shown you what to watch for and how to keep everything clean if something does happen.â
Chris nods and looks to the healer and then to another member of the pack, Minho. âAny word on what the guy wanted?â
Minho, the one who handles the loose ends of the pack. Whether that is spinning rumors in town or erasing someone entirely. âIt would have been easier if you left him alive but it honestly looks like an accident. He was a hunter, not our kind or anything supernatural. He had a heart condition so itâs not hard to believe he had a heart attack that made his arrow go off course.â
Chris nods and pats Minho on the shoulder. âThank you for checking for me.â He turns to Felix and nods in respect. âAnd thank you for taking care of her.â
Minho and Felix nod back but it is Changbin, who came from the kitchen who replies, âyouâre the alpha. Of course weâve got your back.â He takes another bite into a roasted chicken leg in his hand, smiling at Chris.
Chris winces and shakes his head. Alpha was not a role he wanted. When their previous alpha died, the pack was just going to stick together and be leaderless but after the first full moon, it was clear someone needed to step up. Chris is the oldest and was voted to be leader by the other seven so he had no other choice.
Changbin is the muscle of the group. If someone goes too far or over stays a welcome, he makes sure they get where they need to be.Â
âShouldnât you be off reservation for the time being? I thought you had a yoga thing with that one wolf.â
Changbin smirks and nods, âwe leave tonight. I convinced Seungmin to join me.â
âPoor kid.â
âToo bad the Alpha is mated, you would have loved it.â Changbin finishes the meat off the leg and heads back into the kitchen for another. âYah, this is great, Minho!â
âSave some for everyone else, piggy!â Minho, who is also the cook of the pack, teases as he follows the younger wolf to the kitchen. It leaves Felix and Chris together in the hall.
âSo, you think sheâs the one?â
âI donât think,â Chris looks from your room to Felix. âI know.â
âThat is something many of us dream of. Congratulations.â
Chris looks into your room and sighs softly when youâre still unconscious. âShe saw me lose some of my control and wasnât scared.â He smiles fondly. âAfter all she has been through, she was concerned about me, not scared.â
They all nod in agreement. Youâre his, one way or another. Heâs helped you heal and that has gained him true devotion. You are his. And he is yours.
âChris?âÂ
His heart plummets to his stomach and he turns when he hears the softest whisper of his name. Your eyes are open and youâre sitting up in the bed you have been in for the last six days. Youâve never been more beautiful to him.
âBaby girl,â he barely makes it to your bedside before he is on his knees, your hand curled in his.Â
A smile on his face so wide he feels like his cheeks might cramp. You return his smile with a weak one of your own. Felix follows but after checking on you, he leaves and pulls the door closed. After Felix left you apologized to Chris for bleeding on the couch and then drifted off once again.Â
Still beside you, this time on the bed and stretched out beside you, one arm under your head and the other cupping your cheek softly. Heâs watching you sleep more, his eyes shimmer with unshed tears.Â
âI love you so much.â He presses his forehead to yours before nuzzling his nose with yours. His eyes falling closed, a few tears slipping past his lashes. âI can replace the couch. I canât replace you.âÂ
He whispers his life story to you, hoping you can hear him. Even if you can't, he'll tell you again. He talks until his voice starts to break, and the sun is setting. Changbin has brought food and water but he hasnât stopped talking to you long enough to eat.
âThen I found you.â He smiles against your cheek. âYou were so small, so fragile. I was scared I would break you when I lifted you off the forest floor.â He shifts back enough so he can take you in. âWhen I look at you now, your body is so beautiful and so full of life and happiness, itâs so hard not to tell you how badly I want you. Iâve been waiting, not wanting to push you but I donât know if I can wait anymore.â
He pauses to eat and drink before he curls into the bed with you, covering you both. You both lay in silence for a while, the sounds of the night passing around the house. Finally, as he hears the rest of the pack settle in for the night, Chris allows his eyes to close.
âCome back to me, baby girl. Iâm waiting to tell you so many things. Mostly, I just want to tell you I love you.â
There is a ray of sunlight directly in your eyes. You are sweating profusely and your body aches. Tilting your head some, you realize how caged you are. Chris has his arms around you and one leg slotted between yours. His chin is resting over the top of your head. The sun has managed to shine over his shoulder and into your eye. You try to shift but it pulls at your stitches making you wince and whimper softly.
Amber eyes shoot open to meet yours. You watch as they go from alarm to warm within seconds. Chris smiles and you canât help but return it. âGood morning, Chris.â
He smiles and pulls you closer, careful of your stitches, and kisses your forehead. âGood morning, beautiful.â He holds you, letting you get comfort-
âChris, I gotta pee so bad.â
âOh!â
Almost an hour later, youâve cleaned up with a warm shower. Chris didnât join you but he stayed close just in case you needed him. When you were done, he helped you dress. Then dry, brush, and braid your hair. You were just finishing up brushing your teeth when Felix knocked on the doorframe of the bathroom.
So now youâre sitting on the bathroom counter, letting Felix check the front of your wound. He can see the back through the mirror and deems it healing well.
Chris is prowling in the hallway, his shoulders tense and his eyes narrowed as Felix has his hands on your chest. When your life was in danger, all he wanted was for the gentle handed healer to do was fix you with his touch but now, Chris wants his hands off you. When you gasp in pain, Changbin has to hold him from bursting into the bathroom and beating the healer.
âHeâs helping her, Chan.â
Your eyes meet his, dark and stormy, from the other side of the doorway. âChan?â
âItâs his middle name and how we met him.â Felix replies, cutting Changbin off. âYou know him as Chris?âÂ
You nod and wince once more as Felix finishes removing the rest of the stitches. He goes to apply more of the ointment he has been mixing and applying to you on the daily, explaining to you that it is more active that way.
The ointment Felix mixes has some of Chrisâs werewolf DNA that Felix collected by swabbing his cheek a couple times a day to make sure you got the most potent version. That allowed the healing process to speed up some. You still have an arrow wound that goes from your right shoulder through to the front where it exited just above your collarbone. Chrisâs DNA has helped to mend most of the muscle back together as well as sealing it from the inside out.Â
âYeah. We never really discussed any other names. I mean, we know each otherâs last names and stuff.â You exhale through your nose as the ointment stings a little. âIs this stuff supposed to burn?â
Felix nods as he pulls his gloves off and tosses them to the trash. âThe active ingredient is mint to help fight infections. It should fade to a cooling sensation soon.â He leans down and gently blows on the wound without thinking.Â
Quickly youâre off the counter and push Felix behind you. Your hand meets the hard muscle of Chrisâs chest as his eyes glare at the man behind you. You feel the growl that is rumbling through him.Â
âFelix, Iâm okay. Thank you for taking care of me.â
âAnytime.â He nods and skirts around you and Chris to exit the room, a flush on his cheeks.Â
Changbin stutters through a âglad youâre okayâ before he disappears as well.Â
Within seconds of them disappearing from view, the front door opens and closes. You and Chris are the only two people in this house. Heâs breathing heavily and you feel how much more heated his skin has grown since your hand has been on him. His eyes are black and you watch them take over your mostly naked frame.Â
Youâre in one of his hoodies, one he kept in the truck, and it is still unzipped to hang off one shoulder so Felix could tend to your wound. The growl that was rumbling under your hand now turns to a whine as Chris takes in your lush thighs and your strong legs.Â
âWhat was that, Chris?â
âI need to hold you.â
âNot until you-â
âHe put his scent on you.â When you raise an eyebrow, he rushes on. âBlowing on you. Removed some of me and replaced it with him. I have to fix it.â His eyes soften as his hands move like they want to rest on your hips but he waits for your consent. âPlease baby, let me?â
Your hand moves and instantly youâre pulled up against his chest, his arms locking around you like vices. One hand is on your lower back, dangerously close to slipping down over the hem of the hoodie and the other is pressed between your shoulder blades. As your arms wrap around him, his nose goes into your neck and you feel him inhale.Â
âGood god, you smell so fucking good.â He groans and he turns lean heavily against the wall, almost as if he is afraid his legs would give out. As if on a reflex, presses himself against you. The thick, hard line of his cock right against your stomach.Â
Your eyes widen in surprise and you go to pull away to look at him but he holds you too tightly. âChris, whatâs going on?â
âI need to take you home.â
âYou can. You heard Felix say it was safe now.â
He growls and grazes his teeth over your neck, where he will mark you once you let him. His hips roll against you, unable to help himself. The human part of his brain has shut off and all he can think about is you.
Youâre alive. Youâre breathing. Youâre covered in him.
âChris, take me home and we can keep doing whatever it is you want to do. But please, take me home.â He whines softly, his teeth sinking in a little harder, making you moan and grip the back of his jacket. âPlease, Chris.â
Pulling himself away from you is a Herculean task that takes about three minutes longer than it should have. Eventually, heâs pulled back and has you at arms length. âI did it again. Iâm so fucking sorry.â
âChris, I would let you take me in the middle of the forest. I just really want to be in our home. I want to be in our bed.â
His grip on your arms tighten slightly and he groans again. âPlease, Iâm about to lose my mind and I have things I need to tell you before we go any further.â He begs softly. âI can get us home but, god this is going to sound awful, stay on your side of the truck and please donât talk or we wonât make it.â
You nod and turn to finish getting dressed. That movement shifted the hoodie revealing your slicked core and the unmasked scent of your arousal to him. He manages to let you get sweats on before grabbing your hand and dragging you towards the front door.Â
âTake the truck and go. Iâll meet you at the cabin.â He puts the keys into your hand before dropping your wrist.
âChris, what-?â
âBaby girl, please!â You go to protest but that is when seven men rush in and guide you out. The last thing you hear is a howl and youâre not sure if it was from outside Felixâs house.
Or if it came from inside.Â
There was a series of loud snarls, shouts, and what sounded like furniture breaking coming from the house. Running to the truck at the animalistic sounds, you throw yourself into the truck and take off. The only reason you left Chris behind was the look in his eyes when they met yours. It pained you to hear him and to see him like that. You also couldnât help to feel like you might have been the cause. Â
You might have been less than 30 minutes from the cabin when a streak of black races by the truck. Your eyes widen as your adrenaline spikes. Your eyes search for it but instead, they land on the largest wolf you have ever seen standing in the middle of the road.Â
Slamming on your breaks, you throw the truck into park and look over the animal. Beautiful, silky looking midnight fur, so long it flows when the wind comes through the trees. Itâs probably as tall as the hood of the truck, maybe more. Its ears are pinned low over its head and thatâs when you notice seven other wolves in the trees around it, all in various shades.Â
A low rumble comes from the wolf in front of you and you notice the way its lips curl to show off its canines. Your eyes take in the features, all stunning but incredibly lethal;Â from its ears, to its jaw, up to its eyes, you freeze.Â
Amber.
You throw the door open and hop down out of the truck. A soft gasp leaves you as the landing jostles the wound on your chest making the wolf sink low, his tail whipping behind him. You expected another growl but you got a soft whine instead.Â
âChris?â Slowly, you walk closer, your eyes pinned to the beautiful wolf in front of you. The wolf lowers itself to its belly when youâre an arms length away, bowing its head for you.Â
Heâs submitting to you, not fully but hopefully enough to make you more comfortable. His amber eyes are trained on you and when you move to sit in front of him, pulling your legs beneath you, he crawls forward to lay his big head in your lap. Your hands stay up, unsure of what to do with them before they settle on the wolves fur.Â
âWhat happened to meeting me at the cabin?â
The wolf whines and nuzzles himself deeper into your lap.
âHow about I make you a deal?â
Amber eyes turn up to meet yours.
âReturn to me at dusk. Iâll be waiting and we can talk.â You lean forward and press a kiss to the plush fur atop the wolfâs head.
You hear his footsteps on the porch. Turning to look out the window, you can see the last of the sun has set. âRight on time.â Your heart pounds as you set the last plate of dinner on the table and straighten just as he pushes open the door. You smooth your hands over your jeans but freeze when your eyes meet.Â
He nods and closes the door before stepping deeper into the room. âIt smells amazing.â
âI made your favorite. Well, not lamb but steak.â
He walks over and smiles. âIâm starving but first, I have to do this or Iâm going to drive myself mad.â He cups your jaw softly with one hand, the other wrapping around your waist. He brings his face close to yours, giving you a chance to tell him no, but you cup his face in your hands, move to your tiptoes and press your lips to his.
Itâs everything you thought kissing Chris would feel like. His soft lips, his big hands, the strong body he holds you against. His scent is so much stronger but it only makes you want him more so you press your lips harder to his, moaning as he opens your mouth with his tongue.Â
The kiss was intended to be a sweet, simple thing but of course anything that involves you, Chris canât help himself. You moan into his lips and heâs moved both hands to your ass, gripping as he lifts you with ease. Your back doesnât meet the mattress like you expected but the hardwood of the cabin wall.Â
Chris finally breaks away from the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw and your neck. He nuzzles the spot under your ear and you feel his chest rumble. âYou always smell so goddamn good, baby girl.âÂ
Without second thought, heâs dragging his tongue over your neck and groaning at the way you taste. âFuck, I know weâre supposed to have dinner and talk but I donât think I can wait anymore.â His teeth graze the spot and you arch against him, crying out his name when he bites a little harder.Â
âPlease let me make you mine, baby girl.â His lips trace up to your ear where he nips at your earlobe softly. âIâve wanted this for so long.â His tongue traces the shell of your ear. âPlease baby girl, please let me have you.â
You gasp as you feel his tongue slide over your skin but at his groan, the way he sounds lost and fucked out already makes you want to squeeze your thighs together. âIâm yours, Chris. No matter what.â You manage to catch his eyes once before adding, âI love you, too.â
You watch as his eyes shine before they fall closed. âYou heard?â
âI thought it was a fever dream until earlier on the road home. We can talk later if you want but we should still talk.â Your fingers play with the ends of his hair. The same silky texture and midnight shade as the wolf from earlier. You can feel his indecision so you make it for him.
Using one of your fingers to tilt his chin up, you lean down and kiss him. With you leading the kiss, Chris completely submits, whining into your mouth as your tongue sweeps into his mouth to taste him. Your fingers now fully thread into his hair, tugging softly to angle his head just right so you can slow the way your lips meet and tease him more. His whimper as your tongue rolls against his makes your core clench. On reflex, your hips rock against his and that is when he snaps.
His hand moves to your throat and Chris breaks the kiss, pinning you in place. A wicked grin comes to his lips and itâs your turn to whimper under his gaze. âYouâll let me fuck you in the middle of the forest?â The pressure on your throat spikes your arousal and it makes Chrisâs mouth water at the smell.Â
âOne night, Iâll let you hunt me.â
He groans and thrusts his cock up against you and you can feel, almost obscenely, how hard his cock is through the sweats he pulled on. âBaby, you canât just say that shit. I need to be gentle the first time.â
You nod and relax in his hold. âTake me to bed, Chris.â
âMy pleasure, my beautiful mate.â His hands are back on your ass, loving the way your flesh gives under his grip. âSo fucking perfect. I love you so much.â His lips find yours as he slowly makes his way to the bedroom.
Sliding your hands over his shoulders, you shiver as he slides his hands to your thighs. A growl rumbles through him as he lays you down on the bed, spreading you out for him. Slowly, his eyes locked on yours, he slots himself flush with your core and grinds against you. âFuck, you already feel so good against me. So goddamn soft.âÂ
âChris, please,â your voice is soft as you beg for him to do more.Â
He groans when your legs wrap around his waist, holding him against you as you grind yourself up to him. âAnd so strong. Youâll be able to handle me, wonât you, my baby girl?â
âYes!â He smirks as your voice rises in pitch while you continue to writhe against him.Â
âGood girl.â Chris unlocks your legs and leans down to soothe your whimpers and whines with his lips. As he kisses you breathless, his hands manage to get your jeans open and start to tug them off. He tosses them over his shoulder before turning his attention down to the black lace panties youâre wearing. âYouâre soaked for me, arenât you baby girl?âÂ
âI have been all day, Chris.â Youâre watching him take you in, surprised that you only feel more turned on by the lust in his eyes and the hard outline of his cock in his sweats. His cock has started leaking where it rests, just under the waistband.Â
He licks his bottom lip and moves his fingers over your thighs, spreading you open for him. âMy poor baby. I bet this beautiful pussy is throbbing and swollen, begging for me.â
His thumbs pull your panties down in one swipe, tossing them over his shoulder. Finally, his eyes leave your face and they slide over your body, stopping to notice your pebbles nipples straining against the shirt youâre wearing. His hands come to cup your breasts through the thin black material, groaning as he finally feels their weight in his hands.
âCareful, baby.â You warn before pulling your shirt off, adjusting his hands lower away from the wound.
âIâm so sorry. Iâm getting impatient when I shouldnât be. You have no idea how long I have wanted this, baby girl.â He leans down and when you expect him to tease your breasts, his lips meet yours in a slow kiss that is all teeth and tongue.Â
Your hands slip down his chest and under the hem of his shirt, letting your fingers graze the corded muscle at his side. Feeling your nails drag over his skin, Chris groans into the kiss, leaning down to cage you under him. He breaks from the kiss and nuzzles his nose with yours.
You smile and remove your hands from his shirt and bring them to cup his face. âLay back for me?â The whimper that leaves him makes you clench, more arousal seeping from you. âPlease, baby? Please relax and let me love you?â
âYouâre making my head spin, baby girl.â He sits up, pulls his shirt off, and then moves onto his back, his hands moving to help guide you to straddle him. âFuck, you donât even know how hot you look right now.âÂ
You had a feeling his idea and yours were two totally different images but with the way he is looking at you, you decided not to disagree. Instead you place your hands on his chest for balance and tilt your head to the side. Curiously you ask, âhow do I look, Christopher?â His reaction to your question was not what you expected.Â
To his ears, your voice dropped and had a rasp to it, giving it the best, nastiest kind of sultry edge to it. Then, with your hands on his chest, your hips, the fucking gloriously full flare of them rolled so your core slide over his. Lastly, hearing his full name drip from your lips is enough to make him want to throw you over his shoulder and disappear into the woods for a week.
He groans and when your hands slip lower on his chest, your hips still fucking rolling that perfect amount of friction right where he needs it, Chris knows heâs not going to last.
âLike a goddess.â He starts rambling, feeling his cock throb with each roll of your hips. âBaby, if you donât stop-,â
âCum for me, baby.â Your lips trail from his collarbones over his pectoral muscles. âYou deserve it, my love. I want to make you feel good.â
âOh, youâre making me feel so fucking good. Iâve just waited too goddamn long for this to cum in my pants like Iâm 14 again.â He growls out through clenched teeth but he is still yet to stop you.Â
âIâve wanted you too, Chris.â Your teeth graze over the hard line of his pectoral muscle as your eyes meet his. âFrom the moment I woke up and you were perched in the chair. So handsome, so worried.â You sink lower, letting your lips and tongue trace over the definition on his abdomen.Â
Threading his fingers into your hair, Chris has his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches you acquaint yourself with his body. He flexes multiple times as you kiss lower until you get to his sweats. Your beautiful eyes look up to meet him and heâs lucky he didnât blow in his pants.Â
âJust the tip and Iâll cum in your mouth like you want me, baby girl.â His hands move to shimmy down his sweats, stopping just shy of the base.Â
"Baby girl, my beautiful mate.â One hand moves from your hair to cup your cheek as his thumb caresses the skin there.
âIâm all yours, handsome. I have been since you welcomed me home.â You place a quick lick to his navel before turning your focus back down. âIâve been dreaming of getting you in my mouth.â Your lips kiss over each inch of skin you reveal.
âOh,â you breathe when you take in the curve of his thickness. âBaby, youâre so hard.â You slide your fingers up his shaft, watching his hips twitch.
Chris groans and his head thumps against the headboard as his eyes close. âYour fault.â
âShould I apologize?â
âNever.âÂ
âGood because I wasnât going to.â You smirk before leaning down and taking him into your mouth, moaning softly at the musky taste of him.
âOh fucking-, your mouth-h, ah fuck, baby girl,â Chris is a mess above you as your lips have only curls around the head, swirling and teasing your way around it until you find that spot that makes it cock jump between your lips. Youâre rewarded with a flood of precum which you swallow, letting Chris feel the suction that makes.
âHands, give me your hands.â As you take more of him, your hands move up and into his awaiting palms. His grip is hard but not enough to hurt. He has to hold them or heâs going to shove that sinful fucking mouth of yours down to the base and make you gag. âFuck, youâre so goddamn good for me.â
Without your hands, youâre forced to balance yourself with your elbows on his thighs making you shift when he does. You giggle and the vibrations alone, not even considering the fact that youâre having fun with his cock in your mouth, shoots him to the edge.
âBaby! Iâm going to-o, fucking shit, oh goddamn!â You shift as you feel his cock swell as he approaches his climax before taking him deeper, letting the head bump the back of your throat as he cums.Â
His groans of your name could rattle the windows as he gently thrusts his hips up into your lips. âGood fucking, girl. My good fucking girl. Thatâs it, take it.â His filth comes out in heaving breaths as his hips continue to pump into your mouth.Â
Once his body has relaxed, you slowly pull up, opening your mouth slightly to allow the small amount of saliva and his spend drip down onto his cock and the sweats. Chris watches and licks his dry lips before he sits up to pull you in for a devouring kiss. His hands grip your hair, holding you at the angle he wants as he licks into your mouth growling when tastes himself.Â
The kiss is nasty, all teeth and tongues as his cock twitches, still rock hard between you. Slowly, you stroke him, slipping down over his sweats, trying to get a feel how big he actually is.Â
Chris groans and grips your hands to halt your movements. âWait, before anything else happens.â His face flushes. âItâs not like human males. Well mostly, as you saw, but from what we have gathered, wolves have something extra at the base.â
âWhat is it?â
âA knot.â
Your eyes widen, âknot?â
Chris leans back and scrubs his hands over his face. âFuck, I knew we should have talked first.â
You tilt your head, confused. âAre we compatible?â
âOh, fuck yes baby, just have to go really slow and it might take some time before I can knot you.â His face is crimson as he watches your face.
You shake your head and pull his hands from his face. âIâll adapt. Itâs okay. Let me just make you feel good and weâll go over the rest later.â
A low whine comes from him as your palm grazes his knot and you pull away from the kiss. âIs this,-?â
Chris nods and you feel his cock twitch. âYes.â He breathes and then he arches, groaning as your thumb presses into his knot once more, massaging it softly. âOh fuck, baby girl, you canât-t,â
Biting your bottom lip, you watch as the angry red tip of his cock leaks precum profusely. âSensitive. Got it.â Stroking him slowly, you notice a couple other differences between his cock and the few human males you have seen. The thick vein that runs up the bottom of a humanâs shaft you see a thick vein that curls up around his shaft. The thickness and length are other apparent differences.Â
âCome here, baby girl.â Chris reaches down for you. âIf you make me cum now, Iâm going to pass out and be no good. Let me make you feel good.â
What he meant was âlet me throw you on your back and bury my face between your legsâ.Â
Heâs made you cum at least twice on his tongue only and now heâs added his fingers. Heâs been working on stretching you slowly, he knew it would be a task when you whimper with just his first finger. You had told him before that it had been a long time since someone has touched you and he remembers the cold pit in his stomach at the thought.Â
âThis is how you should be treated. Every fucking night baby girl. Spread out to have your beautiful pussy kissed and stretched.â His voice deep and gravelly as his eyes look up to meet yours. âYouâll never know another day without being filled, my beautiful mate.â He leans back down, to circle your clit with his tongue.Â
Chris teases your clit while his fingers forcibly stretch your walls to take them. You whimper and whine, pulling at his hair. Youâre writhing and heâs so fucking enchanted by you that he doesnât notice how much his cock is leaking against the sheets.
âChris, please,â you have been begging for him to fill you with every finger heâs added.
âSoon, baby girl. Soon, Iâll fill you up just like you want. I just donât want to hurt you.â Gently you feel him add a third, sucking your clit between his lips, smirking against you. âYouâre going to cum, I can feel it.â He moves them slowly to allow you a chance to adjust before he curls them and digs them into the spot he discovered which will make you drip down his wrist.
âYes!â Your hips roll down over his face, grinding your clit into his face as his three fingers work to massage and stretch open your walls. âDonât stop, baby, please!â
âNever, baby girl. Be my good girl and cum for me one more time.â
All it takes is for him to drag his fingers over that spot deep inside of you once more and for him to go back to suckling on your clit for you to spill over into your third orgasm. You scream his name as you try to push his face away. He smirks and shakes his head to stimulate you more, moving his fingers faster over that spot.Â
âChris! Oh fuck baby, yes, right there!â Your back is arched off the bed as he drags out this orgasm. You feel the hot coil of your release tightening again. Youâre incoherently whimpering as your body chases the never ending high.
Slowly, Chris drags his tongue over your clit, moaning against you as he feels your release start to leave you. Itâs spilling down his wrist and onto the bed. Above him youâre screaming his name as the coil finally snaps.Â
Loud, unfiltered cries leave you as you squirt over his palm and down his wrist. Your fingers are still in his hair when he pulls back from your clit to watch as your release floods out of you and soaks the sheets below you. âThatâs my good girl. So fucking good for me.âÂ
As you come down, his fingers slowly pull out of your swollen and drenched pussy. Chris groans as he watches more of your release drip from you without his fingers inside you. âFuck,â He licks over his lips before he gently licks your slit from bottom to top, cleaning you slowly.
Your thighs twitch more violently when overstimulation sets in so you have to push at his head. âBaby, please, I canât.âÂ
âDid you know you could do that?â He places a few kisses to your glistening lower lips.
âNo. You actually gave me my first non-solo orgasm.â The flush that covers you deepens.Â
âYouâre kidding.â He frowns, placing kisses over your hips and lower stomach. âBaby, Iâm so sorry.â
âItâs okay, Chris. You have more than made up for it.â
âYou deserved so much better out of life.â
âI think fate knew because I got you.â You smile shyly up at him.Â
Chris smiles warmly and leans down to take your lips in a heated kiss. Heâs so fucking love with you. âThank you, for trusting me enough to let me in.â
Instead of answering, you lean up and kiss him tasting yourself on his tongue. Something feral unlocks in you and youâre pulling him down on top of you, legs wrapping around his waist. His growl into your mouth spurs you on so you roll your hips up to his, gasping when you feel his cock against your slit.
âYouâre still so hard.â Youâre soaked core slipping effortlessly with his cock.
He smirks and nods as he sits up, one hand braced by your head, the other spread across your core, his thumb holding his cock against you. His eyes are glued to where he is thrusting slowly, coating himself in you even more. âFuck, you feel so good. Iâm not going to last long.â
You release the bite you had on your lower lip, your hands moving from his down to his sides. âThatâs just fine. I have a feeling we wonât be getting out of bed or leaving the cabin for a while.â
Chris chuckles and nods, "you might be on to something.â He winks before he pulls back and lays on his back once more. With ease he pulls you to straddle him, adjusting your hips so his cock continues to slide through your arousal, coating his shaft in you. He hopes if his cock is wet enough, it will make it easier on you.Â
His eyes are on you as your eyes are trained on his cock, now an angry red and leaking consistently against his abdomen. Reaching up, one of his hands cups your jaw, making your head tilt so you look at him. Your eyes are blown wide and a beautiful flush is covering your cheeks traveling down to your chest. His other hand reaches up and releases your hair from the tie you had it in, the beautiful locks falling over your shoulders.
âAre you ready for me, baby girl?â Biting your bottom lip, you nod and lift your hips on your own, allowing enough space for Chris to grip and position his shaft for you. âNice and slow, beautiful. You control everything right now so we stop when you say so.â
Your eyes meet his once more as your hands rest on his forearms for balance. âI love you so much, Chris.â You smile softly as his face softens before you watch his head fall back and his jaw drops, a guttural groan leaving him.
Slowly you started to sink down onto him, the swollen tip of his cock breaching your walls. Heâs already stretching you but with the prep easy to take. Itâs when you get more of him into you, just about a third of his shaft, is when the burn really kicks in.
Both of you are panting as you move up before coming back down slowly, coating his shaft with your arousal to ease your slide down. âSo fucking big, Chris.â
His growl rumbles through his chest as he bites his bottom lip to keep himself from snapping his hips up into you. The view he has is driving him insane. Watching his shaft disappear into your pussy, feeling your tight walls flutter around him as his girth forces them to stretch around him.Â
After many tortuous rounds of your hips rising and falling on his cock, you are finally fully seated on him, all the way down to his knot. Chris groans loudly, taking in the sight of your lips spread around him, ready to welcome that part of him into you.Â
You shift on his lap, trying to ease the pressure and Chris whimpers as if he were in pain, his hands tightening on your hips. Youâre panting softly, your hands fisting on his chest as you breathe through the burn of the stretch, knowing that the sooner he lets you move, the better you will feel.Â
âYou did so fucking good, baby girl. Goddamn you are just, so fucking - holy shit not yet!â His praise ends in a whimper as you start trying to move on him. The slow drag of your walls on his shaft shoving him closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tightly to still you. âPlease, baby girl.â
You bite your bottom lip and nod, slowly settling back down on the pressure of his knot, loving how it just begs to pop past your entrance. Wiggling your hips in his hold, he whines and the sound is broken, pleading.Â
âBaby, itâs okay. We have so much more time. Youâve been so hard for so long.â Your hands slide over his chest to his biceps which are flexed with the effort he is putting into holding himself back. âLet me make you feel good now.â
Chris still has his head tilted back, breathing heavily though his nose to try to control himself as his fingers slowly relax and you smile widely. Once his hands are off your hips entirely, immediately begin to move on him. You moan loudly as his cock massages the overstimulated walls of your pussy, the swollen head grazing not only your gspot each time but as you lower yourself down, it gently taps your cervix making you gasp.Â
âChris, baby, holy shit, youâre so deep.â Your head falls forward between your shoulders as you grind your hips, letting him sink even further into you. Moving your hands back to his chest for leverage, you push softly, lifting yourself slightly so you can spread your legs wider.
As you come back down you feel how much thicker his knot has swollen and you bite your bottom lip, grinding your hips down feeling it press and start to stretch your entrance.Â
Your soft moans as you rock your hips against his, letting his shaft massage the deepest parts of you, driving Chris insane. He feels how your pussy is clenching and dripping around his shaft and over his knot making it very difficult not to flip you over and fuck his seed into your womb.
âChris, baby-,â you gasp as the swollen head rests fully against your cervix now, the foreign pain slowly giving way to pleasure the more his cock swells and leaks inside of you. Your hips start to stutter, overwhelmed by the feeling, a soft whine leaving you. âI canât-,â
Chris is up and youâre on your back. âIâve got you baby girl.â He was gentle in laying you down, trying desperately to avoid hearing you hiss in pain again due to your chest. âIâll try not to go too hard but I canât promise, baby girl.â
âDonât, Chris. I want it, please baby.â Threading your fingers into his hair, you smile when he brings his forehead down to meet yours. âIâll be okay, I promise.â
âI love you so fucking much, baby girl.â He kisses you and itâs slow and sinful as he thrusts back into you, holding you open by your thighs. Your moans get swallowed into the kiss as his tongue meets yours, rolling to match the slow grind of his hips as he works himself to the hilt.Â
You both gasp when his knot presses against your entrance, Chris slowly disconnects from the kiss. âNot tonight baby girl, but soon you will take it.âÂ
âAfter my chest is healed, you can hunt me in the forest.â Youâre panting softly, watching as Chris lets his eyes fall closed. âThen, you can give it to me. On the forest floor.â
âFuck yes.â He gets lost in the idea of playing that game with you, that as his hips start to pick up their pace, he nearly misses the cues of your climax. He places one quick kiss to your lips before he sits up, pulling your hips up and slipping a pillow under them. From there he spreads you open more, holding you in an almost mating press.
âChris!â Back arching off the bed, your hands grip his forearms.Â
âMmm, thatâs the spot isnât it baby girl?â He smirks as your nails dig into his skin, another cry of pleasure leaving your lips. âHold on, my beautiful mate.âÂ
Chris chases your next climax like a man obsessed. Your walls flutter around him and he can feel your slick leaking down his shaft. The sounds bouncing around the bedroom are enough to drive him mad, the wet obscene sounds of his cock battering your pussy paired with the beautiful cries of his name that fall from your lips.Â
Heâll never get tired of the way you scream his name.
Your nails dig into his forearms as you cling to Chris. His thrusts are brutal and you hear the low growl that rumbles through him as his eyes watch where your stretched and swollen pussy take him repeatedly. All you feel is the pleasure he is forcing your body to take and all you can do is cry out his name.Â
âChris,-â
âI know, baby. I know, me too.â He pants before letting go of your thighs, leaning down to one of his elbows beside your head, careful not to put too much weight on the side with your wound. âCum for me.â His free hand sneaks between your bodies and traces his thumb over your clit slowly.
âChristopher,â His name comes out of you in a pleasured sigh before he shifts his hips and you feel his cock slam against your cervix. The pressure of his knot trying to squeeze into you, mixed with the slow tease of his thumb on your clit sends you screaming over the edge. His name leaves you in a sob that is nothing to do with pain but everything to do with an overwhelming pleasure.Â
Gentle kisses are scattered over your neck and jaw as Chris continues to rock his cock into you. The feeling of your release coating his lower stomach, his thighs and dripping on the bed paired with how your pussy is squeezing him sends him right behind you.Â
His forehead falls into your neck as his thrusts fall out of rhythm and he slams home one last time, releasing hard. Your name is a growl followed by a whimper as he grinds his cock deeper, fighting the urge and instinct to knot you.
âSo fucking perfect, baby girl.â He whispers praise and worship as he presses deep into you one more time, allowing his cock to be the plug that holds your release against your womb. âGood fucking girl, fucking taking all of it.â
You both lay there, a tangled mess of sweat and other bodily fluids, panting heavily as you come back to yourselves. Your chest stings a little but when you open your eyes to see Chris smiling down at you in awe, you seem to ignore the pain. Returning his smile, you reach up to brush his bangs from his eyes, taking in his beautiful amber eyes.
He leans down and captures your lips in a lazy but still vile kiss that is all tongue, like he can taste your post-orgasmic high. His growl makes you clench around him, setting off another chain of events. Chris grinds slowly into you, forcing some of his release from you but the way his cock brushes against your sensitive walls almost brings tears to your eyes.Â
You pull back with a gasp as Chris kisses down your jaw and over your neck, nuzzling his nose against it before placing gentle kisses and licks along the line of your jugular. âOh my god, Chris.â
âYou just feel so fucking good.â His teeth graze where your mate mark will go, making you arch up to him. âThatâs my good girl, just feel.â
He proceeds to pull more orgasms from you and as he grinds his second deeper against your cervix. His head falls to rest against your collarbone, most of his weight resting on you now. Smiling softly to yourself as your hands rub up and down his back, you notice he is still swollen and hard inside of you.Â
âHoly shit, Chris, youâre still so hard.â
He flushes and nods, âif my knot was in you, weâd be stuck for a while.â
âCan we take a bath and you tell me all about it?â
He nods, âof course. I canât make any promises that Iâll keep my hands to myself.â
âI wouldnât dream of asking you to do so.â
The smile on his face is blinding before he leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. âI love you, my darling mate.â
âI love you too, Chris. My savior.â You smile and nuzzle your nose with his. âMy alpha.â
Chris groans and instinct makes his hips grind into you, causing you to cry out. The sound that movement makes, the wet slide of his cock pushing into you filing the silence.Â
âYou might actually cause me to lose my mind.â He whimpers as his cock swells more, pressing tighter against your overly sensitive walls. âWe might not be making it to the shower anytime soon.â
You giggle softly and nod, "that's okay baby. Iâm all yours.â
His smirk is wolfish, making you flush. âDamn right you are.â
Epilogue
Your feet pound against the freshly grown clover carpet of the forest. Spring has hit Horizon Forest but you canât stop to admire the beauty. You have to run and you have to get away.
Behind you, miles away is the howl you have been waiting for.
Chris has gotten out of the basement.
Itâs been six months since your first night with Chris. Since then, there has been a lot of development and adjusting you have had to make. Chris has had to make his fair share of adjustments too.Â
Like accepting your help during his rut.Â
Which started yesterday. Tonight is the night before the full moon, when his desire is the strongest. His instincts tell him that tonight is the best night to spread the wolf seed and expand the species. To breed.
This is also the night you two decided he gets to hunt you..Â
âSo, can we return to the whole âfucking you in the forestâ thing because I would really, really like to discuss that.âÂ
âChris, itâs not even 6am.â
âI canât help it. You have said it no less than five times in the last month.â
âWell, if you can find me, you can knot me.â You shrug, pouring your coffee into your favorite mug. âSimple.â
âBaby, my senses are heightened. It would be a bad sign if I lost.â
You shrug and turn to lean against the kitchen counter. His eyes are trained on your face, watching for a reaction you are not giving away. Slowly, you raise your coffee to your lips and take a small sip. âWin- win for me.â You wink and enjoy watching the cute flush crawl up his neck.
After your injury, Chris told you everything. Some things you had inklings about but others took you by surprise.Â
He is a seventh generation werewolf and after losing his parents in a hunter attack, he sentenced himself to a life of isolation.
âWe fought that night and I stormed out telling them I felt smothered. They died before I got to apologize.â His eyes were wet but no tears fell, he had done his mourning and had worked through a lot of his pain with the previous alpha of the pack. âSo I came here, where my family has had land and I built this cabin.â
âWhy donât you stay with the pack?âÂ
âFelix and Jeongin are the only ones who stay on pack property for good. Felix needs to be where everyone can find him. Jeongin keeps busy by making sure the houses are in order.â
âDo any of the other guys have mates?â
Chris shakes his head. âSadly no. None of them have found theirs yet but they all have female wolves they can turn to during the rut to safely get through it.â
âWhat did you do?â
âBefore?â You nod. He wrings his hands in his lap. âIt all depended. Before I was alpha, I was with a different woman every month, thatâs just how we are. Sometimes we find a connection that makes us commit but most of the time weâre all pretty open.âÂ
When youâre silent, he continues after a deep breath. âAfter I became alpha, my ruts became different. Theyâre a day longer and itâs pretty continuous. Most females have their heats around the same time so itâs easy to keep up with regular wolves but alphas are much more intense about it. Most females cannot handle it.â
âWhat else is different?â
Chris flushes and looks down at his hands, âonly alphas have knots and the sizing is increased slightly to produce and ejaculate more seed.â
You nod slowly, starting to understand.â So the knots are?â
âPlugs. They start growing at arousal and right before climax, if an alpha can get the female to agree, he will get the knot into her before it swells completely. It is locking them together for an extended period of time to ensure the seed is properly absorbed into the womb. Usually, the female heats during ovulation periods so it does end in a successful pregnancy.â
Youâve tilted your head and have been nodding with everything he is saying. âThat is so interesting. I had no idea that was even a thing.â
âShifters are still relatively unknown to human kind. Vampires came out of the dark and some other things followed but shifters like to stick to the privacy of their own kind.â
âSo why me, then?â
Chris looks up at you, only seeing curiosity. âIâm not entirely sure. The packâs theory is that you offered unquestionable devotion. After I found you, you made your way back to me, even if it was unintentional.â
âSo, have you been with anyone else during your ruts? Before we happened?â
He reaches out and touches your ankle, sliding his thumb over the delicate bone, just needing to touch you. âI had one of the guys lock me in the basement of the alpha house during the first rut after I dropped you off at the ranger station when you deemed yourself ready to return to the city.â
âYou have been going to the reservation and getting yourself locked in a basement for the last almost 12 months?â
He nods. â I only wanted you.â
Your heart flutters and you smile warmly at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. He nuzzles into your palm and places a gentle kiss to the pulse point on your wrist. âSo youâve never tried with a human?âÂ
Chris shakes his head and leans his head back against the arm curled under his head. âNever. You would be my first, if I allow it.â He stops you before you can disagree. âYour skeletal system is slightly weaker than a wolfâs, baby girl. If I move you too roughly, I could break something. If I press too hard in the wrong place, I could kill you. During those days, the wolf is the one entirely in control.â
âTo breed a new generation.â Your voice is soft and Chris canât help but notice the subtle shift in your thighs under the covers, the scent of your arousal stirring his own. Â
A low growl rolls through his chest as he closes his eyes and lays back completely, facing the ceiling. âYouâre not supposed to be turned on. Youâre supposed to be nervous.â
âI trust you with my life. I have shown you that time and time again. I know you used to come curl up either under the window or at the foot of the bed in your wolf form.â You crawl down to straddle him, settling your weight over the thick, pulsing outline of his cock. âYou wonât hurt me baby.â
Chris groans when your hips rock against his, âyouâll be the death of me, baby girl.â
âThen Iâll be right beside you, my love.â You lean down and press your lips to his.
That is how you ended up here, running through the forest towards your cabin located in the north east side of Horizon Forest.Â
Chris was once again going to get himself âlockedâ in the basement. This time there are no locked doors, Changbin chained him to the wall instead. Mostly just to give you as much time as you needed to run around the forest before he can get out and start the hunt.Â
You spent all day walking around the Forest. From the cabin, to the ranger station, then to some of your favorite spots. As night fell, your anticipation grew but so did your excitement. You took the truck to the edge of the packâs land and checked your map once more. This was very thought out on your part, Chris didnât want to know in hopes of making the chanse that more fun for him as well.Â
You were headed to the first âcheck pointâ on your maps when you heard another howl, closer this time. You knew he would find you but you wanted to make it difficult. Make him earn the frenzied sex he was going to give you. Stopping for a moment, you remove your shoes, socks, and jacket. They each get tossed as hard as you can into different directions. Satisfied, you take off into a thicket of tall bushes, knowing there are trees you can climb on the other side.Â
There are no thorns you have to worry about as you pick your way through. You freeze, hoping to pick up another howl or something to indicate where Chris is. An annoyed snarl rips through the air from behind you. Heâs at the crossroads you tossed your decoys at.
Across the clearing, you see the giant maple tree. The one you need to get into to hopefully throw him off. The scent of that tree might mask yours enough to grant you a little more time to confuse him.Â
Another snarl comes from behind you and you hear him breaking through the brush.
âFuck.â You take off across the clearing, trying to get to the tree as fast as possible.Â
Instead you make it to the first tree and you throw yourself around it just as he stops still hidden within the thicket. Heâs tracking you, trying to decide where you went. You breathe as quietly as you can, trying to calm your racing heartbeat, knowing he can hear it but not sure which direction it is coming from.Â
After standing still for a few minutes, you decide to make a move. Just as you crouch down to head to the next shelter tree a couple yards away, your knees crack. You curse and Chris howls, finally knowing the direction you went.
You sprint through the trees, not caring if he can see you. All you can do is put as much space between you before he inevitably catches you. Aside from your panting, you hear the powerful footfalls of the alpha wolf from behind you.
Chris told you he was fast but you didnât expect this.
At the last minute, you decide to change direction, one last time. This direction will lead you to a meadow of soft grass and wildflowers. The grass might be tall enough to hide if you can get to it before he does.Â
His snarl as you leave his line of sight once again makes you smirk. You were never athletic but being with Chris has helped your stamina, in more ways than one. For this game, youâll be damned if you donât give it your all. You have to assume he isnât hunting you at full power and knowing that he is playing with you as much as you are makes you excited.
As soon as you make it to the grass, you zig and zag through it before eventually stopping and crouching down, trying to remain still, letting the tall blade of grass settle around you. Your forehead goes to your knees as you force your breathing to slow.Â
Your ears pick up on the sound of the grass parting, heâs close again. Knowing it is futile, youâre up and running again as fast as you can. Managing to make it a few more yards, you soon feel arms wrap tightly around your waist and youâre pulled to the ground.
The pair of you roll through the grass and onto the bed of wild flowers, Chris ending up above you. His face is flushed, his body running warmer than usual, heâs breathing heavily, and his usually amber eyes are black as the night around you. His smirk is wicked, his bangs falling into his eyes as he gazes down at you.
You feel the sweat of exertion trickling down your temples, there are leaves in your hair, and you know you look a little crazed but you smile up at your husband. âYou caught me.â
âYou and I both knew I would.â His voice is rough from his pleas and shouts at you before his wolf takes over.Â
Chris is naked between your legs and you can feel the full, hard weight of him pressing against your leggings. His nose finds yours to nuzzle softly before he captures your lips in a searing kiss. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck but he quickly grabs each wrist in one of his hands, pinning them above your head. When you gasp, he takes the chance to slip his tongue between your lips to roll against yours just as he grinds his hips down.
The searing heat of his cock pressing against you makes you whimper and wrap your legs around his waist, moving your hips with his. Itâs filthy and uncoordinated as he thrusts against you, the friction against his weeping cock making him growl into the kiss. Each snap sends his shaft dragging over your clit and you feel how ruined your panties and leggings are. Not just from your arousal but from his cock leaking against you as well.Â
Youâre both now just openly panting into each otherâs mouths, his free hand shifting down and you soon feel the cool spring air on your slick and swollen pussy. You arch up, trying to get closer, aching for him.
âChris, please,â
He groans as his cock slips between your folds and whimpers as his head drops to your shoulder. âBegging for me already?â You whimper and try to press yourself up to him. âLet me stretch you baby girl. I gotta make sure this pussy is ready before I take you.â
Nodding slowly, you force yourself to relax. The smile Chris gives you as a reward makes you clench around nothing. Itâs full of teeth and you know heâs doing this for you because once that moon is at its peak in the sky, things will change. Heâll still be human but his wolf will control things, making Chris basically a mindless, breeding machine.Â
âThatâs my good girl. Relax and let me take care of you. The quicker I can loosen you up, the sooner youâre taking my cock.â Heâs released your hands now, fully ripping your leggings off, gazing down at your swollen folds. âGoddamn, I need you to cum on my tongue.â
His nose drags over your neck, while his hips return to their relentless grind against yours, making you drip into the forest floor beneath you. âYou smell so fucking good, baby girl.âÂ
âBaby, please, I need you.â Your whimper breaks off, the ache of emptiness making your voice waver. âI need something.â
His lips are at your neck, kissing over the mate mark he gave you the night of your wedding. The perfect half moon bite mark that Hyunjin tattooed to make sure it remained. Chris had to be removed from the Forest entirely while it was happening.Â
âFuck, when you beg for me so prettily, it makes it hard to say no.âÂ
You feel like you could cry. The pulse in your core and the feeling of having his cock so close to where you crave it but the relentless teasing is driving you crazy. Your fingers lace into your hair, trying to ground yourself as Chris growls and shoves down your body.Â
He heaves your legs over his shoulders and gives you no warning before he drives in, licking a broad stripe up your slit. The groan that escapes him at your taste causes you to gasp, it sounds painful and that is when you realize he is trembling between your legs.Â
Quickly he makes a drooling mess of your core and all you can do is hold on, loving the way heâs spread you open, his thumbs spreading your lips as his tongue fucks itself into you. Every so often he slurps your essence loudly and shakes his head from side to side, stimulating your clit with his nose. It is so obscenely messy but you love every second of it, your soaked pussy adding to the mess.
Your hands reach down and thread into his hair as your back arches off the forest floor. He growls and shoves his tongue noisily in and out of you, still slurping anything that leaks from you.Â
âChris! Iâm-,â
âCum.â Itâs a growled command of a voice that doesnât sound like Chris and it makes your hair stand on end.Â
His wolf has come to play.Â
The way the tongue flattens and focuses on your clit as he tests your entrance. One finger, followed by a second, then easily followed by a third. With his fingers stretching you, his tongue laps at your clit in long, languid licks. You grind against his tongue trying to get more friction. You feel the stretch as his pinky lips are in, giving you the fullest stretch to make sure you take his cock with little to no pain, for the most part.Â
âBaby, oh my god!â Youâre sitting up now, one hand braced on the ground behind you, the other still in his hair as you roll your hips against his face.Â
His fingers are moving at the angle he knows will devastate your gspot and within seconds he has his fingers battering the sensitive deep spot. You can hardly breathe with how quickly he is sending you up the climb to your climax and you can feel that release building.Â
âGive me.â His voice is fully animalistic now, deeper and rougher as he watches his fingers drive you to your release. He leans in and sucks on your clit holding it between his lips as his tongue teases it slowly.Â
âChris! Oh my god, oh my god!â Youâre screaming as your climax hits you like a freight train.Â
âYes,â Chris stares as your release squirts out of you, covering his wrist, his chin and neck. âYes,â his groans rumble against your skin as he licks you slowly through it, twisting his fingers in and out of you.Â
When his fingers slip from you, he groans and lays his tongue flat against your entrance and licks hard to âcleanâ you off. âSo sweet, my mate.â He sits up, pulling you onto his thighs and kisses you, not shying away from letting you taste yourself on his lips.Â
Moaning into the kiss, you slide one of your hands over his shoulders and the other down until it meets with the swollen bulb at the base of his cock. He whimpers as his hips fuck into your hand, desperate for a release. You feel hot drops of liquid that have leaked from the beautifully swollen head and land in your palm as you drag your hand up the throbbing shaft.Â
âFlip me over and fuck me, alpha.â You whisper against his lips and Chris snarls, his cock throbbing and growing in your hand.Â
The rut is in full effect now.Â
Quickly, he has you on your knees, your chest pressed into the cool earth. Your spine is arched and your legs are spread enough for him to have a perfect, unobstructed view of your glistening sex. A sick smirk is on his lips as he watches your pussy literally drip onto the ground for him. He moves to his knees behind you, dragging his cock through the wetness that is still leaking from you, coating himself in you.
Leaning his chest along your back, a gentle kiss comes to your shoulder and to the side of your head. âI love you so much, baby girl. Tell me if itâs too much. Iâll try my hardest to reign it in.â
You smile and tilt your head to softly press yours to his, âIâm going to be fine, baby. Now please give us both what we have been waiting for.â
âAs you wish, my beautiful, brave mate.â He places another soft kiss to your head as one hand guides his cock into you, groaning as he feels your slick, tight heat sucking him deeper. âFuck, even your pussy is begging for me to breed you.â
You whimper and nod, âyes baby. Knot me, breed me.â
Chris whines and drops his head to rest on your spine between your shoulders. Even after taking his fingers with ease, he knew his cock was still going to be a challenge. During the week of his rut, his cock always hung heavier, sat taller, stretched thicker.
You clench around him once the burn gets almost unbearable, causing his hips to stop. A soft whimper leaves you as his hips gently roll, continuing to sink himself deeper, forcing your walls to stretch for him.Â
His fingers circle your swollen clit slowly, making you gasp and rock back to his cock. Your legs spread on their own, as you arch more and press back, trying to take more of him in. Chris groans and manages to slip his cock deeper into you. Your pussy is soaking his cock, mixing with the thick beads of his own precum as he finally manages to shove the last few inches into you.
You moan loudly, feeling the pressure of his knot against your entrance, the bulbous head of his cock grinding against your gspot with each shallow thrust he makes. The sight of his swollen knot pressing against your beautiful stretched walls makes a growl leave Chris.Â
âMine.â You shift, trying to move onto your hands but Chris growls and his hand finds the back of your neck pressing enough to keep your chest to the ground as the other holds your hip in a bruising grip. Satisfied you wonât move, his hips start trusting, devastating you almost instantly.
âOh fuck, Chris,â you whimper as the sensations threaten to overwhelm you. Each thrust has him against the deepest parts of you but still stimulating the spongy spot he can find with his eyes closed. The stretch that his shaft forced on your walls makes them feel extra sensitive to him so within moments youâre a whimpering and moaning mess, crying into the Forest floor.
The sounds that pass between the two of you are feral and down right cause for concern if anyone were to stumble across you. His hips are slamming into your ass, the skin on skin bouncing off the trees. The wet sound of your pussy sucking his cock in deeper as you drip down his shaft. Your cries of pleasure as he forces your body to feel pleasure you have never known before. His growls and groans as he ruts into you with the sole purpose of putting a new generation of wolf into you.Â
âChris!â You go to slide your hand under you but his hands move to grab both of yours, pinning you to the forest floor beneath him. The weight of him pushing you flat to your stomach as well. You are at his mercy and you wouldnât have it any other way.Â
Releasing his white knuckle grip on your wrists, his fingers shift so he can lace them with yours. The simple intimate act makes your heart swell and you squeeze his hand softly. âThatâs it baby, youâre making me feel so fucking good.â
His whimper resonates against your neck as his teeth scrape the skin softly. His hips have slowed down but the force of his thrusts have not eased. âAll mine.â He licks over the mate mark before he bites down.
You cry out his name just as he groans, feeling your walls clamp down around him. He releases your neck and licks over the fresh bite marks slowly, his hips starting a slow, deep grind into you. Heâs getting close and you can feel how his cock is swelling, the knot pulsing hotly against your entrance.
âChris, make me cum baby. Itâll make it so easy for you to knot me. For you to breed me, please.â You whimper before moaning loudly as Chris releases one of your hands and moves it so his fingers expertly circle your clit while stimulating your gspot with every thrust.Â
His deep growls rumble through his chest to vibrate against your back as he snaps his hips harder. With the way he is slamming his cock against your cervix and the tight circles he makes on your clit, your orgasm slams into you without much more warning.Â
Your scream of his name echoes through the forest as your walls clamp down around his shaft, your release flooding the ground below you and dripping over your thighs. Your body heaves with your breaths, struggling with the weight of the man above you.
Chris lifts his weight off of your back as he feels you struggle to get air, his palms resting on either side of your head as his knees rest on either side of your hips. With each deep grind, he continues to fill you, groaning when he feels your falls fluttering and clutching him.Â
Behind you, Chrisâs hips start to stutter and he whimpers lowly, forehead dipping to rest against your back. âGood girl.â
âOh fuck, Chris.â You raise to your elbows, moving your hair to one side, showing your mate mark which he instantly leans forward and latches onto, sucking and licking over the mark. âMmm, open my legs baby.â Â
He growls, not wanting to stop his climb to his orgasm but deep inside his wolf brain, your husband knows youâre right. Without withdrawing from you, he shifts to move your legs, one at a time from between his legs. From here, he gets you both up on your knees.Â
The pace Chris sets rewards him with more of your slick dripping down his shaft and over his thighs as he slams into your gspot. It only takes a couple more thrusts and Chris slides his hands down to cup your mound, holding you against him.
âKeep being my good girl and take it.â His hips press him deep, the slow deep stretch filling you deliciously. You feel him grind deeper, almost impossibly so but then comes the resistance.
His knot.
His fingers work your clit to help you relax as Chris continues to thrust his release deeper into you. Gentle lips find the side of your head as you moan and dip your hips and press back, trying to aid him. âRelax for me, baby girl. Youâve done so good for me.â With his soft words, you nod and take a breath to relax. Your thighs are still twitching from your orgasm.
Then you feel it. His hand on your hip guides you back as he slowly rolls it hips in. He roars into the night as his orgasm finds him. The immense pressure and what feels like a âpopâ as his knot finally sinks into you.Â
Chris groans heavily as his orgasm reaches a second peak, flooding you with more of his release. He holds you to him by the hand on your mound and rocks himself deeper into you, fully sealing his knot into you. The other hand moves up to cup your throat softly, pulling you onto his thighs when he sits back on his haunches, sinking you deeper onto him.Â
âFucking take it, my perfect mate.â He growls against your ear as your pussy flutters around him. âCum.â His fingers are drawing lazy circles on your clit.
Youâre stretched fuller than you ever have been before but you have also never felt better. His fingers circling your clit as the hand on your throat plays with your breath, making you feel deliciously light headed.Â
And the way his cock is pressing everywhere inside of you, rubbing every spot, even the ones you didnât know about, when he commands you to cum, it takes no time for you to soak him once again.Â
The hand on your throat is tight enough that your scream is silenced but that just adds to the pleasure coursing through your body. Chris releases your throat and slows his fingers on your clit to help you ride your climax out, his lips on your mate mark once again.Â
Slowly, you sink back into him, letting his arms support you. He chuckles softly and presses you tightly to his chest as he shifts to lay you both on your sides. âWeâre going to be here a while.â
You nod and rest your head on his bicep, noticing his body has cooled slightly. Heâs still incredibly warm but it seems like the height of the rut for the moment has passed. His arm draped over you keeps you plenty warm as you relax in the clearing of soft grass and wild flowers.Â
âYou did so good for me, baby girl.â His voice is soft as his lips press to the back of your head. âI love you so much.â
âI love you too, baby.â Itâs then you notice his arm is resting below your navel, where your womb is currently flooded with his seed. âDo you think itâll take?â
âEven if it takes a few moon cycles for your ovulation to sync up with the rut, I donât mind practicing.â You giggle tiredly and Chris groans as your walls clench and release around him. âYouâre going to kill me, woman.â His nose nuzzles into the spot behind your ear where your scent is the most potent. He already knows it will not take.Â
Not this time.
Your fingers lace with his where they rest on your stomach, a warm, soft smile on your lips that you know he can feel more than see. âIâll be right beside you, husband.â
I Told You Iâd See You Again
đđđžâĄ Pairing: Jon Snow X Fem!LadyInWaiting!Reader
đđđžâĄ Genre: fluff âą angst
đđđžâĄ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that youâd see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.
đđđžâĄ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)
đđđžâĄ Word Count: 6.6k
đđđžâĄ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story Iâve ever written. But I donât like just sad times so donât worry, has a bit of a happy ending.
The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfellâs heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.
You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.
The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansaâs side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of Kingâs Landing.
The capital was a world awayâbright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.
It was Jon who had found you here.
His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.
âI knew youâd be out here.â he said, voice low, almost hesitant.
âJon.â You tried to smile, though it trembled. âI thought youâd be with Robb and your brothers.â
âTheyâll have me enough in the morning.â He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. âI wanted⊠one last moment. With you.â
The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.
Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to youâquietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.
âYou leave tomorrow,â he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. âWith Sansa.â
âYes.â Your throat tightened around the word.
His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jonâs wayâfull of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.
âI donât like it,â he confessed at last. âI donât trust the south. I donât trust their people, or their court. You shouldnât have to go.â
âI serve Sansa,â you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.âWhere she goes, I go. Sheâll need me.â
Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. âAye. She will. But who will I have, when youâre gone?â
The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.
You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didnât move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.
âJon,â you whispered.
âI donât have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,â he said, voice rough with urgency, âbut I swear this: Iâll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.â
Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. âDonât promise me that,â you breathed. âYou donât know what the world will bring.â
âThen let it bring what it will.â He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. âIâll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.â
You couldnât fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.
Jon held you as if he feared youâd vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.
When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.
âYouâre mine,â Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. âNo matter where you go. No matter what happens. Youâll always be mine.â
Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. âAnd you, mine.â
The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.
You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.
But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.
And so did Jon.
The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.
Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louderâfilled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.
Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the kingâs eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.
At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. Youâd sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.
âDo you think it will be as wonderful as they say?â she asked once, her voice wistful. âKingâs Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though itâs a dream.â
You hesitated. âDreams can be fair or foul, my lady.â You didnât want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.
Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. âIt has to be wonderful,â she said, almost fiercely. âIt must.â
You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jonâs eyes in the godswoodâdark, worried, warningâand wished you could carry that look with you as armor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.
You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, Kingâs Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfumeâfish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.
You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldnât let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.
In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queenâs smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiersâ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.
You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hersâher shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in Kingâs Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.
The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you âthe wolf girlâs shadow.â
You bore it quietly, for Sansaâs sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffreyâs compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.
At night, Sansa would chatter about himâhow handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.
But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jonâs arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.
The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before Kingâs Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothedâit cracked something in her.
That night, she wept in your lap.
âI didnât mean it,â she sobbed, clutching at your gown. âI didnât want her hurt. I only wanted him toââ
âI know.â You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. âI know, Sansa.â
Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.
In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.
You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.
You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldnât, sneaking them food when theyâve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.
Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The kingâs eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.
âWould you take her punishment, girl?â he sneered.
You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. âIf it pleases you, your grace.â
The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.
Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.
âYou shouldnât have done that,â she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.
âIâd do it again,â you said simply.
Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.
It was not all torment. There were momentsâbrief, fragileâwhere Sansaâs old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.
But those moments grew fewer. The queenâs shadow loomed long, and Joffreyâs moods turned sharper.
You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.
At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.
And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.
The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.
You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansaâs side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. âTheyâve lied,â she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. âHeâs good, heâs honorableâhe would neverââ
You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what theyâve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.
The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.
And then came the day of the execution.
You were given the âcourtesyâ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansaâs life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.
When the axe fell, when Ned Starkâs head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.
You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.
You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.
The moment Winterfellâs dream died.
The days after Lord Starkâs beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.
The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in Kingâs Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.
Sansa hardly spoke if it wasnât to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.
The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansaâs shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.
When Joffrey forced her to look upon her fatherâs head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, âDonât let them see you fall.â
Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. âAh, the little wolfâs shadow,â he said with a cruel grin. âStill following her around like a dog? Perhaps weâll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.â
The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.
You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.
Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffreyâs moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queenâs attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.
And yetâthere were unlikely mercies.
Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnessesâa word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.
You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.
âBest not to let the boy see your anger,â he advised softly.
You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.
âI donât need your counsel, my lord,â you murmured.
âPerhaps not.â He inclined his head. âBut the both of you need allies, even small ones. And youâll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.â
It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendshipâquiet, unspoken, but real.
Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.
The day of Joffreyâs wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.
The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.
And thenâchaos.
Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queenâs shrill cry.
You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansaâs waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.
But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.
âCome,â whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. âNow. Quickly, if you two want to live.â
Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no oneâbut in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.
The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansaâs hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.
By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.
King Joffrey was dead.
And you were fugitives.
The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.
Sansaâs marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.
Wherever you went, hunters followed.
When Littlefingerâs schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.
But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.
When Sansa was handed to him, you went tooâher shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.
The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.
Sansaâs face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.
And Ramsay⊠Ramsay smiled.
Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than Kingâs Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.
He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.
When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.
The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.
âWhy do you always stand in front of me?â she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.
âBecause I can,â you whispered. âBecause I must.â
Her eyes glistened. âI donât want you hurt for me.â
âItâs too late for that,â you said softly. âYou mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.â
You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companionâyou were sisters.
And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.
On the darkest nights, when Ramsayâs laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, âNot even the Wall could keep me from you.â
You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.
Because if you didnât, you feared you would not survive.
Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.
The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.
Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearthâthose belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.
And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.
At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldnât ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had madeâIâll see you again.
When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfellâs stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.
He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.
You were his secret, his solace.
When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.
But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?
The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?
Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.
It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.
The knives came fast.
He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.
âFor the Watch.â
The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before himâmen he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.
Another blade. Another voice. âFor the Watch.â
Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.
And thenâhe thought of you.
Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.
As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least⊠perhaps Iâll see her again.
But death was not the end.
He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.
They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.
Why?
He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.
Not even death could keep him from you.
Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty stillâmet with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.
But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.
Yet he clung to it. To you.
He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.
Jon Snow was many thingsâbastard, brother, commander, corpseâbut he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.
Winterfell was a cage.
Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsayâs laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.
The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.
You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsayâs cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.
But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. Iâll see you again. You whispered Jonâs name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.
Hope came in flickers.
Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.
But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.
âDo you think anyone will come?â she asked softly.
You took her hand, squeezing. âSomeone will.â
For both your sakes, you had to believe it.
Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.
At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsayâs creature.
But there were momentsâsmall, tremblingâwhere his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.
And then one night, when Ramsayâs cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.
âYou canât stay here,â he whispered, eyes darting in terror. âHeâll kill you. Or worse.â
Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. âAnd why should we trust you?â
âBecauseâŠâ His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. âBecause I canât watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything Iâve done.â
You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy youâd known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.
âThen help us,â you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. âProve it.â
The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansaâs arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.
Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.
At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.
âWeâll never survive it,â Sansa whispered.
âWeâll die if we stay,â you murmured back.
Theonâs face was pale, his breath ragged. âItâs the only way.â
You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to Kingâs Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.
âIf you jump, I jump,â you said firmly.
Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And thenâ
You leapt.
The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.
And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.
The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.
When riders cameâBolton men, huntingâthe end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger youâd stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.
And then a shadow thundered from the trees.
A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.
Brienne of Tarth.
You had heard whispers of herâa woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.
You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.
When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.
âLady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.â
Sansaâs lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldnât blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.
âYou can trust her,â you whispered, though your voice shook.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.
Under Brienneâs protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.
At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.
âJon is Lord Commander now,â she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.
Your heart clenched at his name. âJon?â
âYes.â A small, trembling smile touched her lips. âAt Castle Black. If we can reach himââ
You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.
Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.
You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: âNot even the Wall could keep him from me.â
And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.
The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.
Sansaâs hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.
And then he was there.
Jon.
Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyesâgods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.
Then Sansa broke.
She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.
âJon,â she gasped, clinging to him. âItâs youâitâs really you.â
He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. âSansa.â His voice cracked. âI thought Iâd lost you as well.â
You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.
When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.
To you.
His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansaâs face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.
âLoveâŠ?â
Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.
It was not the first time you had heard itâhe had whispered it to you many in Winterfellâs court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.
You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. âJonâŠâ
And then you were finally in his arms.
He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.
âI thoughtâyou were gone,â you choked.
âI thought the same of you,â he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.
âYouâre alive,â he said, over and over, like a prayer. âGods, youâre alive.â
Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. âBarely.â
At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.
âWhat did they do to you?â His voice was hoarse, dangerous.
You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. âNot now. Please. Just hold me.â
And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.
Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of youâJon, Sansa, you, Brienneâsat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.
Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.
Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.
âI kept my promise,â he murmured low, for you alone.
Tears burned again. âSo did I.â
That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.
You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.
âEvery mark,â he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, âis one more Iâll carry with you. Theyâll never touch you again. I swear it.â
You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. âJon Snow,â you said softly, firmly, âyou are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. Thatâs why I survived.â
His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.
It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.
When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, âNot even death could keep me from you.â
And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.
Black Sheep
Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her)Â
Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 9.2kÂ
Requested by : Anon! Based on this request
Note : If youâd like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
When you took the job, you didnât ask too many questions
The recruiter approached you lateâlong after youâd sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew youâd be desperate.Â
The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.
It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. Youâd be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said.Â
When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreementsâdozens of them. They didnât let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.
Your official title was âClassified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.â It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you werenât allowed to say more.
You were happy you could finally helpâÂ
 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.
And⊠They were proud.
If only they knew.
You were told youâd be assigned to âclassified subjects.â
When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasnât listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasnât on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.
You should have run then. But you didnât, because they paid in advance.
You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising youâd be earning more over the next couple of years.Â
The facility you were assigned to didnât have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too denseâlike the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching.Â
You werenât allowed to ask names. You werenât given files.
You werenât allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.
They never called it a hospital, because it wasnât.
It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine youâd ever known. The men you reported to didnât wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the sameâ pale-faced, dressed in black. You didnât know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.
But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.
See, they knew the kind of people to look forâ desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldnât afford to ask where the money came from.Â
And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag.Â
Hydra was predatory like that.
â
You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were goodâefficient, clean, and silent. You didnât pry, and what made you valuable.
You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bonesâyou treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didnât get in the way of the mission.
One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you wentâthicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.
They didnât tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.
He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.
And stillâ he didnât look away.
Youâd heard whispers about him beforeâ the Asset.
They called him It.
Not a name. Not a person. A living weaponâ built, not born.
You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handlerâ Colonel Vasily Karpov. Youâd met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.
"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,â Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.
Your mouth went dry. "And Iâm next in line?"
âYouâre competent,â he said. âAnd replaceable.â
He walked out before you could respond.
The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.
And then there was just youâ and him.
You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didnât know what you wereâbut knew how to kill you if you got close.
You didnât speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically.Â
Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensiveâ fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people wouldâve gone into shock hours ago.
But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.
He didnât flinch when you treated him.
Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.
He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.
It was the first time he looked at you.Â
Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.
In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.
â
Over the next year or so, you were his doctor.Â
And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.
Youâd fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed.Â
But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.
You worked in silence. He sat in silence.
Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.
But sometimes, during the worst of the injuriesâwhen your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorryâ his eyebrows softened.
At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived.Â
The handlers noticed.
You began modifying your ointmentsâadding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism.Â
You werenât supposed to. They wanted him in pain.Â
But you did it anyway.
Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribsâ and it was too deep.Â
He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.
It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usualâ as if he was fighting something.
And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.
Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.
But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.
That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again.Â
â
Tonight, he came back worse than usual.
Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythmâ as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.
He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animalâ one of them nursing a broken arm.Â
They left you alone with him and chuckled, âgood luck.âÂ
The Assetâs head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.
You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraintsâand his metal hand nearly caught your arm.
You froze.
In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.
He didnât look at you.
He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.
You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.
âI canât treat him like this,â you said. If he didnât calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.
Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was⊠unprofessional.Â
A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.
âThatâs too bad,â said Karpovâs cold, detached voice. âIt is your job.â
You stared at the glass behind which they watchedâ always watched.
Then you turned back to him.
You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.
But his body thrashed again.
You dropped the needle.
His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.
He didnât mean to, you reminded yourself.
But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.
Your hands shook.
He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious.Â
Fuck.
You were losing him.
So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.
You⊠sang.
âBaa, baa, black sheep, have you any woolâŠâ
Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been yearsâ you hadnât sung it since you were smallâ curled up on your motherâs lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.
You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly.Â
âYes sir, yes sir, three bags fullâŠâ
HeâŠÂ didnât flinch again.
You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.
You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.
âMy mother used to sing it to me,â you lulled. âI only realised later what it meant,â you continued. ââOne for the master, one for the dameâŠââ
You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.
âServitude, right? âOne for the little boy who lived down the lane.â Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe theyâre for making people⊠obedient,â
You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down.Â
âBecause I thinkâŠ,â you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. âObedience it taught. Not born.â
And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, âWere you taught well?â
You didnât expect a response.Â
But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.
His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.
âIt was the only thing I remember learning,â he whispered.Â
You froze.
It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.
The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned.Â
Through all that, he watched you.Â
You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.
His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session.Â
But something had changed.
â
The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later.Â
You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.
He⊠made a conscious choice.Â
You didnât say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.
Sometimes, when he was lucid, heâd look at your hands while you workedâ following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You werenât sure what he was seeing.Â
Then⊠you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. âThisâll sting a little,â youâd say, cleaning a wound.
âPressure hereâsorry, hold onâŠâ
He never answered at first.Â
Then one day, he did.
You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. âSorry,â you said under your breath.
âYou always say that.â
You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. âSay what?â
ââSorry,ââ he managed, âitâs not your fault.â
âSorry,â you mentioned sheepishly. âIâll stop saying it.â
Then, you resumed your work.
The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints werenât used. Maybe they knew he couldnât stand. Maybe they didnât care if he bled out.
And he didnât even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.
When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didnât pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suitâ fifth one this monthâ or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker.Â
Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.
âDonât they ever give you a break?â you asked, not expecting an answer.
âNo,â he said simply.Â
You frowned.Â
Still, your hands were steady.
You started humming when he came inâlow, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at allâjust sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.
One night, after theyâd brought him in burnedâhis arm singed, the edge of his jaw blisteredâyou held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, âYou shouldnât be alive after half of this.â
He didnât speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, âSometimes I think Iâm not.â
Eventually, he started helping youâlifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear.Â
âThank you.â
âBe careful.â
One night, he asked for your name.
You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, âI donât know.â
But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled.Â
Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.
â
When he wasnât in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasnât technically a cell, but wasnât anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.
You called it the holding room.
They called it the kennel.
Youâd come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missionsâ tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection.Â
But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.
They joked about him.
At first, it was petty thingsâ how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.
But it got worse.
Much worse.
They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he ârutted in his sleep sometimes.â How theyâd seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.
âHeâs always desperate after a kill,â one of them said once, laughing. âBet he doesnât even know what heâs doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.â
You had frozen when you heard it. But todayâtoday, it went further.
âBets?â one of them said. âTen rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.â
All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed.Â
âStop,â you said, through gritted teeth. âWhat youâre doing is disgusting. Watching him like thatâmocking himâ when his agencyâs being taken from him? Heâs a fucking person and you need to grow up.â
What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life.Â
And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. âIf you think heâs a person, why donât you go in there?â
You blinked. âWhat?"
âGo on,â The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. âIf you think heâs man and not machine, letâs test it.â
You stepped back, realising what their plan was. âDonât touch me.â
âToo late.â
Their hands grabbed your arms.
You foughtâkicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw bloodâbut there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you.Â
You didnât know where the pain began â your scalp where theyâd yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face?Â
Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guardâs windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger.Â
And they enjoyed it.
Youâd never seen teeth like that â bared in joy at suffering. One of themâ Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and anotherâ Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.
You screamed, âHeâweâ a person!â not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.
But they didnât care.
One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.
âHeâll definitely go for her pussy,â one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.
âIâd go for the ass first,â another chuckled. âTighter.â
Then came the worst line.
âI bet the dumb beast doesnât know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.â
The laughter didnât stop.
Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.
You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.
âHave fun, soldat!â A guard, Anton, said.
You fell, and started trembling.
Everything hurt.
And then you looked up.
He was there.
The Asset â him. The Winter Soldier.
He was standing in the center of the room. He wasnât strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.
You froze.
Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall. You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.
Heâll fuck you, they had said. Heâll take the choice away from you. Heâll use you as a way to satisfy himself.
You believed it for a second.
Youâd seen what he could do â seen the machine theyâd made him into. Youâd see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions.Â
You were terrified.
You curled tighter.
He took one step forward.
And⊠stopped.
You took a chance and looked at your face.
He wasnât looking at your chest. He wasnât leering. His pupils werenât blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasnât hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.
He was staring at your injuries.
At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.
And his whole body⊠melted.
The heat was gone, almost instantly.Â
Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.
âWhoâŠâ he rasped, âdid this to you?â
His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it â nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.
He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldnât stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.
âMaksimov, Yuri, and Anton,â you whispered, lip trembling.
His teeth clenched.
He reached out slowly â slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasnât force â and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching. Â
You were still crying. You didnât realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.
He didnât say anything for a while.
He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin.Â
You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe.Â
He wrapped his arms around you like heâd never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still â he didnât break you.
He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.
And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. âI wonât hurt you.â
Once again, The Asset had made a choice.Â
A human one.
â
Hours passed.
The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and thenâ from shock, from adrenaline.
You still felt his arm around your shouldersâgentle, not possessive.
The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybeâmaybeâyouâd be left alone. Maybe theyâd gotten the message. Maybe they wouldnât push again.
You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.
You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.
The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue.Â
And then you heard the voice.
âЧŃĐŸ Ń ŃĐŸĐ±ĐŸĐč, ŃĐŸĐ»ĐŽĐ°Ń?â â What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?
Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Assetâ but on you.
âĐŃ ĐŽĐ°Đ»Đž ŃДбД ĐŽŃŃĐșŃ, Đž ŃŃ ĐŽĐ°Đ¶Đ” ĐœĐ” ĐČĐŸŃĐżĐŸĐ»ŃĐ·ĐŸĐČалŃŃ Đ”Ń?â â We gave you a hole and you didnât even use it?
You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.
The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He wasâŠshielding you.
The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.
âĐĐ°ĐŽĐœĐŸ. ĐąĐŸĐłĐŽĐ° ĐŒŃ ŃĐ°ĐŒĐž Đ”Ń ŃŃĐ°Ń ĐœĐ”ĐŒ,â âFine. Then weâll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.
And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.
You screamed.
And The Asset snapped.
No hesitation, No programming.
Just rage.
The Assetâs metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crackâmaybe the wall, but most likely Yuriâs spine.
Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Antonâs hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.
Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.
Anton raised his hands to surrender.
Too late.
Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Antonâs face with brutal force, then firedâ one shot, clean through the eye.
He dropped the gun.
It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.
He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.
He knelt. âIâm sorry you had to see that.â
You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.
â
Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.
Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.
He didnât look at you.
He didnât look at the corpses.
He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.
Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.
There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.
You jolted, reaching for himâbut it was no use.
His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor,Â
He didnât resist. He didnât even try.
When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.
âCome.â
You shook your head. âHeâhe was protecting meâhe saved meââ
âYouâll have time for your little report later,â he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. âFor now, come.â
â
The interrogation room was cold.Â
Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.
âYou will explain,â he said coldly.
Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. âExplain what?â
He tilted his head. âYou calmed him down.â
Your mouth opened, then shut.
"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, âthat he should have either killed you, or fucked you.â
You froze.
He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.
âThatâs what the programming was designed to do,â he continued. âYou are aware of his conditioning, yes?â
You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.
âThen you know what heat was for.â
You have heard of why it was drilled in his brainâ but you didnât answer.
Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.
âIt was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these âheatâ cycles, he was supposed to be motivatedââ He paused, eyes narrow, ââit was supposed to encourage mating.â
Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?
âThe Soldierâs DNA is nearly perfect.â he said, as if it was. âHydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.â
He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.
âBut every woman they introduced⊠didnât survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.â He sat down across from you. âUntil you.â
Your stomach lurched.
âYou,â Karpov said slowly, âcalmed him down.â
âIâI didnât do anything,â you whispered.Â
âYou must have!â he snapped.Â
You flinched.Â
âIâve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But youââ Karpov stood, circling the table again. ââyou knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heatâand instead of fucking you to death, he held you.â
âI donât know,â you said hoarsely.Â
Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.
At the door, without turning back, he said, âYouâre being reassigned.â
â
When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.
Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag.Â
On the floor was a folded piece of paper.
REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.
You sank onto the cot.
Now, to Hydra, you werenât just a doctor. You were a leash.
â
The cot wasnât meant for two.
It was military-issueâ narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didnât even sit on it when he was there. Youâd sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasnât humiliating, pretending you werenât always cold.
At first, heâd just watch, afraid of crossing a lineâ especially after what had happened to you.Â
Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.
Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. Youâd been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong.Â
When youâd finished, he looked at you. ââŠYou donât have to sleep on the floor.â
Your eyes flicked up.
âWhat?â
He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.
You hesitated. Then nodded.
That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.
But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.
By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night.Â
By the third, youâd curl inward, and heâd curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didnât pull away when you shifted closer.
â
When his heat cycles cameâand they always cameâyou prepared.
You stayed calm and gave him space.Â
You⊠would sing to him. Lullabies, mostlyâ songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.
He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. Heâd sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.
Sometimes heâd whisper things to himself, half-delirious.
"No. Not her. Not her."
â
When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.
You didnât think youâd miss him, but you did.
Youâd find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.
And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.
You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.
But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.
Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.
â
One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the othersâhe came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word.Â
But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, âBucky.â
You tilted your head, confused. You werenât sure youâd heard right.Â
Then he said it again, firmer this time. âMy name is Bucky.â
What?
Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up.Â
He⊠remembered?
ââŠOkay, Bucky,â you said, voice quieter than you meant it to beâ because anything louder might shatter whatever this wasâperhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. âCan you please lift your arm for me?â
He did.
And for the first time, he looked⊠not just present. Not just there.
He looked real.
â
You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.
Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.
Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.
âWhatâwhat are you doingâ?!â
They didnât answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.
In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.
You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. âWhat did he tell you?â
You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented.Â
Then you realised:Â
Oh.Â
Someone saw the footage.
Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.
Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You werenât even sure what to say. He didnât tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?
But Karpov demanded more.
âDid he say his designation?â
âDid he say anything else? Was there a code?â
âWhat did he tell you, girl?â
The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamedâmore from shock than painâbut the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.
And thenâthrough your hazeâyou saw a flicker in the hall.
You heard a grunt. A thud.
And suddenlyâhe was there.
The Winter Soldier. NoâBucky.
His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning.Â
One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.
In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety.Â
Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints.Â
âBuckyââ your voice cracked. âYouâre hurtâyour faceââ
He didnât answer right away. His eyes didnât meet yours.
The cuffs snapped off.
You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing.Â
He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you â but no. He pulled back.
Because he knew if he did, he wouldnât have the strength to lose you.
âYou need to go.â
You froze. âWhat?â
âThereâs a tunnelâservice corridorâthey donât watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.â
âBuckyâno,â you said through gritted teeth, âIâm not leaving you.â
He clenched his teeth.Â
âYou have to,â he said. âI canât protect you here.â
âI donât careââ
âI do.â
That stopped you cold.
His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. âIâ Iâm starting to know things I shouldnât,â he said softly. âI need you to go. If I donât⊠if Iâm not⊠If they wiped meâŠâ
You shook your head. âDonât.â
âI need you to promise me,â he said, almost begging now. âDonât come back for me.â
âIâpleaseââ
His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.
âGo.â
So you did.
â
Thirty Years Later.
The world had changed.Â
Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didnât go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didnât go looking for you.
What would be the point?
You were probably⊠what? In your sixties? Seventies? If youâd survived at allâ and Hydra said you hadnât, that theyâd caught you in one of the tunnels and killed youâ he could only hope youâd built a lifeâmarried someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldnât follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasnât going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?
So he never tried.
But he never loved again either.
Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist.Â
He still did.
That kind of love didnât fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.
It wasnât something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left.Â
Until...
â
New York. Post-Void.
The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole
The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.
Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.
Thatâs when he heard it.
It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.
âBaa baa, black sheep⊠have you any woolâŠâ
His whole body went still.Â
He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, andâ
There.
You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankleâ maybe. Nothing fatalâbut you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.
And you⊠you hadnât changed.
There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didnât look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.
He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe.Â
âYou know her?â Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.
âYes sir, yes sir, three bags full.â
You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries.Â
Bucky didnât answer.
Couldnât.
His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out.Â
âOne for the master, one for the dame,â you sang as the girl sniffled, âand one for the little boy who lives down the lane.â
It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribsâtoo much, too fast, too sudden.
And thenâ
You looked up.
Saw him.
And smiled.
â
You walked over to him like you were in a dreamâlike every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you.Â
He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldnât quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like heâd just come back from drowning.
Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didnât speak at first. You didnât know if he could handle words yetânot until your presence fully registered.Â
You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his faceânot because it hurt, but because he didnât trust that any of this was real.
âYouâre hurt,â you finally said. âLet me help.â
You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.
And then he started shaking.
The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lostÂ
Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.
And maybe it had been.
Because it wasnât just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.
Alive.
Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void.Â
Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain.Â
His lips movedâsilent at first. Then the words came out shaky. âDo you⊠remember me?â
You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.
âOf course I do,â you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. âI could never forget the love of my life.â
Was that what he was to you?
After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him?Â
He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didnât. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when youâre sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heartâs still beating after being convinced it was gone.
He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.
You didnât say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.
Yelena had wandered off a while agoâprobably in search of someone else to pesterâ most likely her father.Â
She hadnât even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didnât belong to her.
It belonged to him. And you.
He tried to say something elseâan apology, maybe, or a confessionâbut all that came out was, âIâIâŠâ he swallowed, âIâ IâŠâ
âBuckyâŠâ You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. âWeâll talk somewhere private, yeah?â
He barely nodded.Â
Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.
â
You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.
He hadnât stopped shaking.
Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at youâlike if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.
It wasnât farâjust a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas.Â
The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.
You didnât take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadnât been used in years. But thenâyou looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.
A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised youâ the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.
âCome on,â you murmured as the door swung inward.
You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by oneâclean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor.Â
And then you turned the final corner.
Oh.
That was all his mind could manage.
This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker.Â
No. This place wasâŠ
It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.
It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could needâbut the walls told a different story.
To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. âHarlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.â Your name was in the byline. There was even a photoâblurry, taken on someoneâs flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.
Then, âUnsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.â
He kept turning. The memorabilia⊠evolved.
A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.
A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisherâ etched on it.Â
A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spideyâs, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.
Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.
Buckyâs voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. âWhat is this?â
You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. âGifts from⊠friends.â
He turned to you. âFriends?â
You gave him a tired smile and joked, âIs it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?â
He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds.Â
âI justâŠâ he said, voice thin. âI donât know how youâre still alive. Or how you still look soâŠâ His eyes lingered. ââŠyoung.â
You didn't meet his gaze. âThank Hydra.â
Bucky swallowed, but you continued.Â
âWhen I got recruited, they injected me with somethingâ they said it was just a stimulantâ to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.â
He went still.
âLater, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it⊠slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.â
You kept working on the cuts on his face.Â
âWhen you got me out⊠I didnât know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be⊠usefulâ
Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.
âBut then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldnât go to hospitalsâ people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.â
Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.
âI patched them up.â You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. âNo questions. Just⊠tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.â
Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.
âA couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?â You looked up at him.âThey show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe theyâre worth saving too.â
Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.
You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. âThere,â you whispered. âYouâre good.â
But Bucky didnât move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But⊠at you.
âYouâŠâ His voice cracked. âYou never stopped.â
There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.
And yet you continued doing what you do best.Â
Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of youâ the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.
But nowâŠ
Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.
âCan IâŠ?â
He didnât finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. âCan I touch you?â
You didnât move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.
And that was all he needed.
He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hardâ he cupped your cheek.
His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.
It was real.Â
His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over⊠and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.
Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.
Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. âI missed you, Bucky.â
His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. âWhy didnât you come for me?â he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You mustâve seen him in the newsâ during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.
You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. âI didnât thinkâŠ,â you admitted, âI didnât think youâd remember me.â
His brows furrowed. âOf course I remembered you,â he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. âBut Hydra told me you were deadâ I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe youâd moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.â
Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. âAfter what weâve been through?â you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. âHow could I ever move on from you?â
He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away, he pulled you closer â chest to chest, heart to heart â until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing heâd ever held.
His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow.Â
âGod, BuckyâŠAfter all this time,â you whispered in amazement, âwhat are we?â
He didnât answer right away.Â
Then, finally, with certainty, he said, âA choice.â
Your breath hitched.
âA choice,â he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. âThe first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.â
Oh.
You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like youâd dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.
You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch.Â
âIâŠâ you started, but pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. âCan I kiss you?â
He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.
He could only nod.Â
And you kissed him.
It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled â but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like heâd been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like youâd done this a thousand times in your dreams.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.
You let out a small laugh, âIâve always wondered what your lips tasted like.â
He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadnât heard⊠ever. âYeah?â he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. âWas it everything you imagined?â
You grinned, eyes still closed. âBetter.â
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, âI missed you, too.â
â
You and Bucky had taken it slow.
After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now.Â
You went on actual datesâ coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.Â
Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.
You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.
Youâd kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.
Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they âhealed fastâ and then passed out on your med bay floor.
But today, the med bay was calm â just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.
Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions.Â
Until now.
You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, âSo⊠how did you guys meet again?â
You paused.
Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.
âOh, you know,â you blinked, âMutual enemies.â
There was a beat of silence.
âWhat does that even mean?â Walker asked, clearly disappointed.Â
You smiled sweetly. âIt means you donât want to know.â
Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. âIt means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.â
âOr both,â Alexei said.
You laughed â a little too brightly for the topic â and handed Yelena her discharge form. âExactly. Now whoâs next for bloodwork?â
Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.
Mutual enemies? Yeah, right.Â
The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen.Â
â end.
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