implied past relationship. a town held together by dust and bullets. he tries to die quietâyou wonât let him.
notes: This was a request for my lovely friend @milesalexanderteller. Sheâs been going through it IRL lately and she really deserves this. I added my own little twist for the end. I'm sorry if I make you cry!!
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The dust hadnât even settled yet.
It still hung in the air, clinging to your skin and clothes like a second layer, gritty and bitter. You could taste gunpowder in the back of your throat. Could still hear faint echoes of shouting somewhere down the street, like Tombstone itself hadnât quite caught its breath.
You hadnât seen Doc since before the shooting started.
He hadnât come back yet. Certainly not to you, at least.
You were moving quickly, boots crunching through the dirt as you cut behind the building, hoping maybe heâd circled around. That maybe he was leaning somewhere, cigarette lit, with that infuriating half-smile like the day hadnât nearly ended in blood.
Instead, you heard your nameâlow and steady.
âHey.â
You stopped short. Turned.
Wyatt stood just beyond the edge of the alley, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He looked roughâhis usual crisp lines undone, hat crooked, dust clinging to every part of him. There was blood on his shirt, high on the shoulder, but it didnât seem to be his. A dark smear ran across his jaw like someone had tried to grab him mid-fight. His holster was still unbuckled, gun half-loose at his side.
But it was his eyes that made your stomach twist. Wyatt Earp always looked ready for a fight, whether he wanted to be in it or not. But right now, he looked⊠tired.
âGot a minute?â he asked, not waiting for an answer before turning and nodding toward the alley.
You followed in silence. The light was dimmer there, the buildings blocking the last rays of sun. The sound of the street faded behind you until all you could hear was the quiet scuff of boots, the soft creak of wood, a few flies buzzing lazily near an overturned crate.
Wyatt didnât speak right away. He came to a stop by the back wall of the saloon, hands resting on his belt like he was weighing the next few seconds in his head. He didnât look at youâjust stared out toward nothing.
You crossed your arms, heartbeat already picking up. Something about the way he held himselfâthe stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jawâit put you on edge.
Then he said it.
âDocâs been tryinâ to get himself killed.â
It was flat. Not dramatic. No buildup. Like it hurt less if he just ripped the damn thing open.
You blinked a few times.
âWhat?â
Wyatt glanced at you, then looked away just as fast.
âI finally saw it for what it was today. Clear as anything. He stepped right into the open in the middle of the shootout. No cover. Nothinâ.â
He rubbed a hand across his mouth, like saying it left a taste he didnât want.
âDidnât duck. Didnât even flinch when bullets started hittinâ the walls around him. Just⊠stood there. Took his shot at a man with his gun already drawn, like it was just another hand of cards to play.â
You felt your body tense, muscles coiling so tight it made your ribs ache.
âHeâs been doinâ it more and more lately,â Wyatt continued. âStarting fights with men twice his size. Drunk half the damn time. And he doesn't wait for backupâhell, sometimes he doesnât even tell us heâs goinâ.â
He shook his head, voice low.
âItâs not just recklessness anymore. Itâs suicide.â
You stared at him, throat dry, chest tight. Your mind tried to argueâtried to reach for some rational excuseâbut it landed on nothing.
Doc hadnât told you any of this.
And that silence suddenly meant more than anything he couldâve said.
Wyatt shifted again, his expression cracking under the weight of it.
âI tried talkinâ to him,â he said. âHe just laughed. Told me if death was cominâ, heâd rather it take him sooner than later. Said at least out there, he gets to choose the time and place.â
You swallowed hard. It felt like your body had turned to stone.
âI ainât tryinâ to guilt you or anythinâ,â Wyatt added after a beat, more gently. âBut Iâve seen you be the only person in this whole damn town he listens to. Even when he pretends not to.â
He paused. Let it hang.
âI donât want to have to drag his body out of the street. And I certainly donât want you to have to see it.â
The words hit you low. You didnât flinch. Didnât move. You just kept staring aheadâpast Wyatt, past the alley, past the part of you that wanted to crumple where you stood.
You felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up between the buildings.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.
You turned without a word.
Didnât wait for Wyatt to say anything else. Didnât let him see what was happening behind your eyes.
You walked back toward the saloon with fire building in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like the truth heâd handed you was too big to carryâbut youâd carry it anyway.
Because if Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it.
The noise hit you before the doors even opened.
Laughter, clinking glasses, the clatter of poker chips on oak, boots on floorboards, and someone hammering out a tune on the piano that had long since fallen off-key. The room pulsed with heat and whiskey sweat, and under it all, that constant hum of men who thought they were untouchableâfull of guns and bravado and cheap beer. Even after the happenings of the day.
You pushed the saloon doors open with a little more force than necessary.
For a moment, no one noticed. You were just another body walking in off the street, swallowed by cigar smoke and dim light.
But then you stepped in fully, boots echoing sharp against the floor, and the crowd seemed to shift. Not with words. Just a subtle awarenessâlike animals catching the scent of something coming that wasnât good.
And then you saw him.
Doc Holliday sat like a goddamn centerpiece at the farthest poker table, sprawled in a chair like it was a throne. One hand held a fan of cards, the other rested casually on a half-empty glass of bourbon, the deep amber catching fire in the low lamplight. His hat was tipped back, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and he was smilingâthat slow, lazy, devastating smile that could smooth over murder if he wanted it to.
He looked relaxed. Smug. Untouched.
He looked like he hadnât almost died.
And something inside you snapped.
He hadnât seen you yet. He was laughing at something someone saidâlow and smooth, smoke curling from between his teeth, eyes shining with the thrill of the game. A few men groaned and tossed in their cards. One cursed and leaned back, scowling.
And then he spotted you.
His gaze cut through the room like a blade, and that smileâGod, that smileâgrew just a fraction wider. He stood up in one fluid motion, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, cigarette perched between two fingers like a punctuation mark.
âWell now,â he drawled, like you were a pleasant surprise. âAinât you aââ
Your hand moved before your mind could catch up.
SMACK
The slap rang out like a gunshot. Loud, sharp, final.
His head turned with the force of it. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, still lit. His whole body frozeâso did the rest of the saloon.
Silence bloomed in an instant. The kind that feels like thunder in reverse. Someone coughed, somewhere near the bar. The piano keys fell quiet mid-note. The dealerâs hand hung in the air above a split pot. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Doc didnât look at you. Not at first.
He just stood there, jaw tight, cheek blooming red beneath your handprint, eyes cast downward like he was running through a thousand possible reactions and finding none that fit.
You were shaking.
Not with regret. Not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak so sharp it made your bones feel like glass.
You stared at him like he was a stranger.
âYou selfish son of a bitch,â you said, voice low, steady, but trembling at the edges.
He finally lifted his gaze to youâslow, searching. And maybe, just for a second, the smugness fell. Not gone, but hollowed out at the center.
You didnât wait for a response.
You turned and walked out.
Each step felt louder than it shouldâve. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed through the saloon doors and into the cold night air, where the dust had started to rise again with the wind.
Behind you, the crowd stayed frozen in that stunned silence. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. Another voice said âHoly hell.â You didnât stop. Didnât slow down. You shoved the swinging doors wide and stepped into the cool night air.
You were halfway down the steps when you heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a glass hitting wood, and bootsâheavy, purposefulâcoming after you.
You didnât have to look back to know it was him.
You could feel it, like a storm at your heels.
The door flew open hard enough to rattle the hinges, slamming into the wall with a bang that shook dust from the beams overhead. After the door steadied from the prior abuse, Doc slammed it closed back behind him, unceremoniously.
You didnât flinch.
You were standing near the dresser, back to the door, staring down at your hands. They were still shaking. You hated that.
âYou got a hell of a lotta nerve.â
His voice was sharp, low, laced with the kind of fury that didnât come from painâit came from pride. From being caught off-guard. From being made a fool.
You turned slowly. Not with fearâwith purpose.
Doc stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his face still flushed from the slap. The print of your hand burned red across his cheek. He hadnât wiped it away. Maybe he hadnât had time. Maybe he didnât know what to do with it yet.
His hat was gone now. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shoulders tense, boots hitting the floor like gunshots.
His face was still flushed. The red mark on his cheek stood out, stark against his pale skin, and his jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.
âYou want to tell me what the hell that was?â he snapped. âOr should I guess?â
He laughedâonce. Harsh. Hollow.
âWhole goddamn saloon starinâ at me like Iâd said somethinâ vile. Like I deserved it. You blindside me in front of half the town and walk out like youâre the one wronged?â
He stepped closer, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist at his side.
âDid I cheat you? Did I lie? Did I forget your damn birthday?â His tone was mocking now, but the edge behind it was real. âOr was that just for show? You get somethinâ outta that?â
Now he was pacing, boots scraping the floor, hands twitching like he didnât know whether to pull his hair or punch the wall.
âYou think thatâs what this is about?â you said, low and sharp. âYou think I walked in there just to bruise your pride?â
Doc didnât back down. He turned to meet your gaze head-on, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers twitched at his side.
âWell I certainly think I deserve to know why I got blindsided in the middle of a damn good poker hand.â
You stared at him, then laughed. Not with humor. It came out raw. Broken.
âYou deserve to know?â you echoed. âYou want to talk about what you deserve?â
You closed the distance between you in two furious steps and shoved himânot hard, but enough to make his boots scrape against the floorboards.
âYou think I wouldnât find out?â you hissed. âThat you could just keep throwing yourself in front of bullets like itâs nothing and no one would notice?â
His brows pulled together.
âWyatt told me,â you spat before he could speak. âHe told me everything.â
Doc froze. You saw the mask start to slip.
âHe told me how you walked straight into open fire,â you continued, stepping closer. âTold me you went after a man already drawin' on you. Like you didnât give a damn whether you made it out.â
You were inches from him now, breathing hard, staring up into those pale eyes that always held a jokeâbut not tonight.
âIâve seen you drunk. Iâve seen you bleeding. Iâve seen you cough your lungs up and spit red into a handkerchief like it doesnât mean a goddamn thing. But this?â Your voice cracked. âThis is you giving up.â
He looked down at you, chest rising and falling like heâd run a mile. But he didnât answer.
So you hit him with the one thing he couldnât dodge.
âYou were ready to up and die,â you whispered. âAnd you didnât even think I deserved to know.â
That landed.
He stepped back half a pace, like youâd struck him again.
His mouth opened, then closed. His tongue wet his lips, slow. You saw it all happen in real timeâhis ego folding in on itself, that anger unraveling into something thinner, sadder. Guilt. Shame.
âI didnât tell you,â he said finally, voice hoarse, âbecause I didnât want you lookinâ at me the way everybody else does.â
You swallowed hard.
âAnd howâs that?â
âLike Iâm already in the ground.â
Silence filled the space between you like smokeâthick, choking, unspoken things hanging in the air.
âYou think I donât see it?â he said. âThe way people look at me when I cough. Like theyâre just waitinâ on me to drop.â
He took another step forward, slower this time, like he didnât want to spook you.
âBut you didnât look at me like that,â he said. âNot once.â
You wanted to scream. Cry. Shake him.
âI still donât,â you whispered. âYet you still chose to keep me in the dark. You didnât even give me the chance to fight for you.â
Docâs breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, then slowly came upâreaching for you like a man touching water in a desert.
âYouâre the only thing I got left that makes me feel like Iâm still here,â he said stepping toward you, holding a sincere eye-contact.
Your chest cracked open.
You didnât move when his hands cupped your face. Didnât flinch when he brushed his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head back like he needed to see all of you. His touch was trembling. He was trembling.
Then he kissed you.
It wasnât soft.
It was desperate.
Mouth crashing into yours, breath hot, hands threading into your hair like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before death took him away from you. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to you like you could break the habit of death with your body alone.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you like he was trying to live.
The kiss slammed into you like a wave breaking a dam.
There was no warningâjust hands, heat, and the raw sound of breath catching in the back of his throat as his mouth crushed into yours. It wasnât careful. It wasnât sweet. It was violent in its urgency, desperate in a way that bordered on collapse.
You tasted smoke and bourbon on his tongue, tasted the fear he refused to speak out loud.
And you gave it right back.
Your hands slid into his hair. His fingers dropped to your waist, gripping the layers of fabric at your hips in frustration.
âToo many goddamn clothes,â he rasped, half-laughing, half-growl. âYou tryna drive me insane, sweetheart?â
âYou first,â you gasped, stepping back from him.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyesâlike youâd just dared himâand the look he gave you was half fire, half challenge.
Then his hands went to his waistcoat.
He didnât waste time. The buttons came undone fast under his fingers, and he flung the thing off like it had no right to be between the two of you. His gunbelt and holster followed with a dull thud on the floor, then he was at the buttons of his shirtâno finesse now, just a frenzy of motion. He popped them open down his chest, and when one stuck, he tore the fabric loose, baring pale skin and a body cut hard by illness and held together by sheer will.
He returned to you and spun you gentlyâurgentlyâuntil your chest pressed to the wall, your hands bracing yourself against the wood. You felt him behind you, breath hot at your shoulder, hands already at the back of your corset.
âYou wear this thing like a goddamn suit of armor,â he muttered. âWhatâs it protecting you from?â
âMen like you.â
He made a low, breathless soundâalmost a laughâand then you felt the tug of his fingers against the laces.
They didnât come easily. Corset laces never did. But he worked fast, muttering curses under his breath as he loosened them enough to let you breathe. The pressure in your ribs eased. His fingers slid up your back, slipping beneath the loosened stays, tugging the entire thing over your head without ceremony.
The shift underneath clung to your skin, sweat-slick and thin. He spun you back toward him, ran his palms down your sides, up under your arms, then cupped your breasts through the damp linen. His mouth found yours once again for a kiss almost as desperate as the first.
âStill mad?â he panted, voice hoarse against your lips.
You nodded, breath hitching. âFurious.â
âGood.â His teeth scraped against your jaw, dragging down to the hinge of your throat where he bitânot hard, but enough to make you gasp again. âDonât want you soft. Not for this.â
You barely had time to take in the sight of himâlong lines, lean muscle, sharp hips, and heat in every breathâbefore his fingers were at his belt buckle, pulling it loose in a swift, practiced motion. His trousers hit the floor with a low rustle, and then he was stepping forward again, stripped to skin, eyes locked on you like he was starving and you were the last thing left worth tasting.
His hands slid to your waistânot rough, but insistentâguiding you backward through the glow and stillness, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back with a soft laugh of breath, landing on the mattress in a rush of tangled skirts and flushed skin.
He followed you down immediatelyâslow, controlled, lowering himself over you like gravity was finally on his side. One arm braced beside your head, the other still dragging your shift higher, fingers shaking with need.
You looked up at him, every inch of your body already singing for more, and the words tumbled out like a secret slipping past your lips.
âGod,â you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stars. âI love you.â
He went stillânot in surprise, but in triumph.
His grin was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.
âOh, you do, do you?â he drawled, eyes gleaming even as his breath still came in short, ragged bursts.
Your face flushed hotter. âI didnât meanââ
He cut you off with a kiss that tasted like sin and smoke.
âYou love me,â he murmured against your mouth, like he was trying the words on for size. âSay it again. I want to hear it when you're lookinâ me in the eyes.â
âI love you, Doc.â You cupped his face with both hands, even as your hips ground against him. âI love you, you reckless, brilliant bastard. Even when you scare the hell out of me.â
He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. âI ainât worth that kind of love.â
âTough,â you said. âYouâve got it anyway.â
He didnât answer.
He just looked at youâsomething wrecked and reverent flickering behind his eyesâand then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less hungry. Like the words youâd just spoken had knocked the wind out of him, and now he was using your mouth to pull breath back into his lungs.
His hand slid lower, under your shift and over the bare skin of your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs like heâd been there a thousand times in his mind. When he found how wet you were, he groaned low in his chest.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. âThat all for me?â
You couldnât speakâjust nodded, breath catching as his fingers stroked through the slick heat of you.
He kissed you again, open-mouthed and aching, while his hand worked slow, steady circles against your clit. Every flick of his fingers made your hips rise, your legs tighten. The warmth coiled sharp and fast, your body already trembling from the tension that had now broken since the moment you slapped him in that saloon.
His mouth moved to your throat, lips dragging down to your collarbone. âLet me hear you,â he whispered. âLet me feel it.â
You moaned as he slid a finger inside youâthen anotherâstretching you just enough to make your back arch, your breath stutter. His fingers curled, searching, teasing. His thumb circled with steady pressure, pulling you closer, closerâ
But before the wave could crash, he stopped.
You whimpered.
He pulled his fingers free, eyes locked on yours, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean.
Then he rose to his knees between your thighs, gripping your hips as he shifted you towards the center of the bed, moving with you. Your skirts were still rucked around your waist, drawers shoved aside, shift hanging loose over your breasts. You were a mess of fabric and sweat and need.
He looked down at you like a man whoâd finally found something to live for.
And then he lined himself up and pushed into you with one long, devastating stroke.
Not gentleâbut not brutal either. It was pure need, sharpened to the bone. You gasped, one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other tangled in the sheets, your body clenching around him like it already knew he wouldnât last long like this.
He pulled back and drove into you againârough, deep, each thrust a little more ragged, a little less controlled. He groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, like he was chasing something just out of reach.
But he was breathing too hard.
You felt itâheard itâin the way his rhythm started to falter, his weight sagging more into your body. A soft cough rattled from his chest, one that he tried to swallow, but it pushed out between clenched teeth as he rocked forward again, slower now, less force behind it.
He kept goingâGod, he triedâbut his arms were shaking, his breath was stuttering, and after one more broken thrust, he dropped down beside you, chest heaving, one arm slung across your stomach.
âShit,â he breathed, voice hoarse, âIâm sorry. I canâtâI want toâjust canât keep it up.â
He turned his face into the pillow, coughing softly, wet and low in his lungs.
âI want to fuck you through the damn floor,â he muttered, jaw clenched. âBut Iâm so goddamn tired already.â
You looked over at himâhis hair damp with sweat, his skin pale and burning, the fever hiding just beneath the surfaceâand something inside you melted. Not out of pity.
Out of need.
Because he was still trying.
Because he hadnât given up.
You reached out and touched his face, fingertips trailing along his cheek, then his throat. His eyes openedâbarelyâand when he looked at you, something in them flickered like he didnât know what to expect.
So you straddled him.
Slow. Sure. A deliberate climb over his hips as he blinked up at you in open surprise.
âDarlinâ,â he rasped, hands finding your thighs instinctively, voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.
You leaned down, nose brushing his. âThen let me do it for you.â
And before he could stop you, before he could find the strength to argue, you reached between your bodies and guided him back inside youâslow, deep, all the way down with a breathless moan that made his hands grip tighter.
His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bobbing with a swallowed groan.
âJesus Christ,â he whispered. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
You rolled your hips, slow and controlled, pressing your palms to his chest as he gasped beneath you.
âNo,â you said, eyes locked to his. âItâs my intention to keep you here as long as I can.â
A beat passed, heavy with anticipation. His breath hitched, he stifled a cough, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, his head fell back, mouth slack.
âFuck,â he rasped, head falling back, mouth slack. âJesus. Goddamn.â
You were shaking already. From the stretch, the pressure, the sight of him undone beneath you. He was so deep, your thighs already trembling from how tightly your body gripped him.
You started to moveâslow, steady rolls of your hips, every grind dragging another sound out of him that made you throb around him.
But Doc wasnât going to just lie still. Not even broken, not even panting beneath you like the breath kept slipping away faster than he could drag it in.
His hands yanked you down harder.
âFaster,â he growled, voice dark and ragged. âCome on, sweetheart. Give it to me.â
You gasped, hands braced on his chest. âI donât want to break you.â
He let out a low, vicious soundâhalf laugh, half threat.
âToo late for that.â
He bucked up beneath you the best he could, hips snapping with sudden force, catching you mid-thrust and driving himself deeper, harder than you were ready for.
You cried out, full-body shudder, your hands scrambling for balance as he kept thrusting up into you, every motion fueled by something furious and raw.
âYou think Iâm just gonna lie here?â he bit out, voice hoarse, sweat slicking his chest. âThink you can get on top and make me behave? You know I'm not one to behave darlin'.â
His mouth was at your breast before you could answerâteeth scraping over your nipple, tongue hot, hands bruising your ass as he shoved you down, used you to do what he couldnât do himself.
âRide me,â he growled against your skin. âCome on, darlinâ. Give it to me.â
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You movedâhard and fastâgrinding down with a gasp as he met you halfway, every thrust of his hips sloppy now, but still fierce, still intentional, like he was fighting the weakness in his limbs with everything he had.
Your forehead dropped to his as you bounced in his lap, both of you slick and shaking, skin slapping hard with every ragged thrust. He was breathing like he was about to collapse, but his hands were still firm, still dragging you down onto his cock like he couldnât stand the thought of you pulling away.
âGod, you feel so good,â he panted. âLike heaven. Like fucking heaven.â
His voice was breaking. So was his body. But his eyesâhis eyes were locked on you, wide and hungry and alive, like this was the only thing keeping his heart beating.
âDonât stop,â he begged, half-wrecked. âDonât stop, darlin'. Not yet.â
You didnât.
You drove down like it was the last thing either of you would ever doâhard, fast, your nails digging into his chest, your hips stuttering as the pressure built fast and furious.
âDocââ you gasped, head falling forward. âIâm gonnaâfuckâIâm gonna come.â
His hand shot up to the back of your neck, pulling you down, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. His eyes locked onto yoursâdark, glazed, desperate.
âNo,â he whispered, voice raw. âNot yet. Hold on for me, darlinâ.â
Your whole body seized, trembling from the effort to stop the climb. Your thighs burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your cunt clenched around him like your body didnât care what your mind was trying to doâit wanted release. But you obeyed. You stayed right thereâbalanced on the edge, muscles coiled, every nerve frayed, every breath a battle.
âI wanna feel you break with me,â he murmured, lips brushing yours. âDonât let go without me. Not yet. I needââ His voice cracked. âI need this right now.â
You noddedâbarely, shakily. âOkay. Okay, baby.â
You rocked your hips slower now, grinding down onto him with control you barely had. Every drag of him inside you made you shake, made your breath falter, made your walls twitch around him in desperate, pulsing waves.
He felt it. He groanedâdeep and ruined.
âYouâre so close,â he said, almost to himself. âI can feel it. Fuck, youâre⊠youâre shaking.â
âI have to come,â you whispered, voice trembling. âPleaseâplease, Docââ
âNot yet,â he said again, rasping like it cost him to say it. âAlmost, darlinâ. Justâalmostââ
His hands were all over you now, frantic. One gripped your waist, trying to guide your rhythm, even though his muscles trembled with the effort. The other slid up to your breast, squeezing rough and clumsy, thumb flicking over your nipple like he was trying to coax you into holding out just a little longer. His mouth dragged up to your throat, kissing, biting, panting.
You buried your face in his neck, moaning, biting down to keep yourself from breaking. You could feel your orgasm right there, clawing at the edge of your spine, demanding release.
He bucked up into you againâsloppy but deepâand choked on a groan. âJust a little more, sweetheart. Stay with me. Please. FuckâIâm so close.â
And you did.
You held out for him.
You held it until your muscles locked, until your legs were shaking and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his chest and shoulder. You held it until your body screamed, until you thought youâd explode just from the tension.
âNow,â he whispered. âCome now.â
Your body obeyed like it had just been waiting for the command.
The second the words left his mouth, everything inside you snapped. Your hips slammed down on him one final time as the tension that had been coiled like wire through your spine explodedâhot and all-consuming.
Pleasure ripped through you so hard it hurt. You clamped down around him, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic waves that left you gasping, keening, grinding against him like you couldnât get close enough. Your fingers scrambled for purchaseâhis chest, his shoulders, the slick heat of his skin under your palmsâanything to anchor yourself while the world dropped out from under you.
Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Your mouth opened but no words came out, just ragged moans and desperate little sounds you couldnât hold back.
The pleasure hit you like a stormâsharp, shaking, so big it felt like grief and joy all at once. You werenât just comingâyou were coming undone.
Your hands fisted in the sheets, in his hair, in his shouldersâanything to keep yourself grounded now. But there was nothing solid. Just him. Just Doc. Just the sound of your name falling from his mouth like a prayer as he gripped your hips, holding you flush to him, thrusting up into you with the last of his strength.
Doc cursedâloud, brokenâhis hands flexing hard on your hips as your release hit him, too. He came with you, gasping your name as his head fell back, voice ragged and ruined.
âGodâfuckâyes,â he groaned, hips jerking once, twice, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had into you.
He held you down, buried deep, and you felt him throb inside you as he cameâred-hot and thick, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like it cost him everything. His head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body taut with the effort of staying in it until the end.
You rode it out together, bodies shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. You collapsed onto his chest, limp and shaking, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. Sweat soaked the hollow of your back. You could feel his own heart thundering beneath your cheekâwild, irregular, but alive.
His arms slid around youânot tight, not strongâbut present. Warm. His chest rose under you, then hitched once. A dry cough broke out, muffled against your temple.
He stayed there, head bowed against you, breath shallow.
And after a long moment, voice worn thin as paper, he said,
âYouâre the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.â
He didnât say it like a gift. He said it like a confession.
Like it scared him more than the dying ever did.
You tipped your head closer, your voice steady when everything else felt like shaking.
âThen stay alive. For me. For as long as you canâ
He didnât answer. Just tightened his arms around you, fingers trembling where they held on.
And for a while, that was enough.
Seven months along, and you could still feel the weight of his hand on your belly like it had only just left.
Most nights, that memory was the only thing that kept you steady.
You'd learned how to move with the weight of him still inside youânot just the child, but the memory. The ghost of his voice, the echo of his laughter, the shape of his hands cupped over your belly like he could protect it, and you, from what was coming.
You knew the exact night the baby had happened.
Not just because of timingâbut because everything about it had been different. No distance, no jokes, no walls between them. Just truth. Desperation. Love, raw and terrifying. Heâd held you like he was trying to memorize you, whispered things heâd never dared say before.
Youâre the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.
And youâd told him to stay alive for you.
That was the night you'd made the baby. You were sure of it. The way heâd looked at youâlike you were the only thing left in the world he couldnât let go of.
Heâd softened in a way you hadnât thought possible, even as the light behind his eyes began to fade. At first, heâd jokedâcalled you Mama, teased the child to come, offered names both ridiculous and oddly sentimental. But the jokes didnât last. The coughing got worse. He slept more, ate less. You grew rounder, fuller with life, while he shrank into the bed like the world was letting go of him one piece at a time.
Still, he tried. He rubbed your back when the morning sickness took you under, kissed your neck with lips gone dry, told you you were brave even when he couldnât lift his head. Once, in the dead of night, fever burning through him, he told you he wished heâd met you when he still had time to become the man you deserved. You held him through that too.
Near the end, words and wit came less often. But when you pressed his hand to your belly, he smiledâsmall and tiredâand closed his eyes like he could feel the future.
âYouâll tell âem about me?â heâd rasped one evening.
You'd nodded, kissing his hand and blinking tears into his palm. âEvery day.â
He left not but a few days later. No drama. No last gasp. Just a breath that didnât return, and the sound of the wind outside like it was bowing its head.
The shame came soon after.
Unmarried. Alone. A woman with a swollen belly and no ring, no name but your own, and the memory of a dying man, whispered in your bones. They watched you pass in townâsome with pity, others with tight-mouthed judgment. A gamblerâs bastard, they said. A disgrace. A foolish girl whoâd let love make you reckless.
Some nodded stiffly when you passed, like it pained them to acknowledge you at all. Others looked straight through you, eyes fixed ahead like you weren't even there. A few murmured your name in church, always just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to offer comfort. No one said his name. Not in public. Not where it might stick to them. As if mourning a drunk gambler made you foolish.
But you kept walking. Chin up. Spine straight. Hand resting on the life inside you like it was the holiest thing you'd ever carried.
Heâd asked you to live. To carry on.
And so you would.
You talked to the baby when it kicked, when it quieted. Told storiesâabout his sharp tongue and wicked grin, the way he held a pistol, the way heâd held you. You told it about the night the baby came to be. How heâd fallen apart in your arms and found something worth holding on to, if only for a little while.
Your house was quieter now. Lonelier. But when the wind rustled the curtains and the floor creaked just so, you liked to believe he was still here. Watching you. Walking beside you. Waiting for the child you made between heartbreak and hope.
You would see it through. For him. For what youâd made with him in the space between living and dying.
notes: AHHH @milesalexanderteller!!! I'm so sorry dude :'(
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 11.3k words
summary | when your boyfriend offers to play the stranger who picks you up at a bar, you expect a little dirty talkânot a full performance, a running camera, and the dirtiest night of your life.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, established relationship, roleplay smut, manhandling, roleplay sex, filmed sex, degradation/praise, overstimulation, fingering, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f!receiving), facial, fake cheating, teasing!reader, mean!bucky, flustered!bucky, bf!bucky, bucky is down so bad, smut with feelings, bucky has a cam kink now, horny and in love, porn with the tiniest bit of plot, or no... actually I'm lying, there's really no plot.
a/n | this has been sitting in my drafts since oct, enjoy. inspired by that episode of modern family where claire and phil roleplay strangers in a hotel bar.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated âšâš
you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one
sáŽÊÉȘáŽs áŽáŽsáŽáŽÊÊÉȘsáŽ
divider by @omi-resources
You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldnât even remember ordering.
The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.
The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.
It wasnât your scene, not really, but youâd promised yourself youâd try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you werenât already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.
But then you felt it.
A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.
Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the barâs chatter like a blade.
âDidnât think a girl like you would be here alone.â
You turned.
The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim hazeâand they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.
You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. âIâm not alone.â
He didnât leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.
âBoyfriend?â
You nodded.
âIs he here?â
You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.
âThen youâre alone.â His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact youâd been trying to ignore.
You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. âThatâs not really how it works.â
He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.
âMaybe not,â he said, âbut Iâve got a feeling your boyfriend doesnât appreciate you the way he should.â
You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. âYou know my boyfriend?â
âNo.â A grin spread across his mouth. âBut if he was doing his job, you wouldnât be talking to me.â
Your lips curved⊠again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said Iâm not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.
He didnât take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space youâd left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.
His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.
âIâm flattered,â you said, keeping your tone light, easy. âBut like I saidâIâve got someone.â
âYeah?â His voice dropped, almost a murmur. âIs he here?â
You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. âWeâve been over this.â
He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didnât care.
âYouâre drinking alone,â he said, each word placed with care. âDressed like that. Smiling at me.â He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. âYou donât strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.â
Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.
âIâm very loyal,â you said, voice steady. âHeâs just not the jealous type.â
He let the word sit, âoh,â slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, âSo heâs a fucking idiot.â
You blinked.
The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldnât suppress curving your lips.
âThatâs one way to put it,â you said.
He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadnât consented to but couldnât bring yourself to stop.
âYou let your girl come out here looking like that,â he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, âon her own, with guys like me walking around?â His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. âHe doesnât care. Thatâs what Iâm hearing.â
You didnât respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.
Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.
âGet her another,â he said, without breaking eye contact with you. âWhatever sheâs drinking.â
You held up a hand, palm out. âIâm good, thanks.â
âI insist.â His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. âYour boyfriend can be mad later.â
You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.
He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.
âIâll be honest,â he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. âIâm not here for the small talk. You donât want meâfine. I can take no.â A pause. âBut if you do⊠just say the word.â
The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadnât looked away once, not even to blink.
You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. âYouâre really pushy.â
He shrugged, unhurried. âIâm direct.â
âSame thing.â
âIâd argue itâs different.â His voice dropped, conversational now. âPushy guys donât take no for an answer. Iâm just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.â
You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.
âI mean, he canât be that good,â he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. âYouâve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.â
Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.
âThatâs not really any of your business.â
He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. âItâs a little bit my business, sweetheart,â he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, âespecially if Iâm about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.â
Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.
âYou always talk to women like this?â you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.
âNo.â He said it simply, without hesitation. âJust the girls who pretend they donât want it.â
You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. âYouâre an asshole.â
He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. âConfident,â he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. âAnd maybe a little desperate.â His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. âCan you blame me?â
His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh youâd half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.
âIf I were your man,â he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, âIâd never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.â A pause, his gaze flicking down again. âThatâd only be for me to appreciate.â
You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. âYou really think negging my boyfriendâs gonna make me want to fuck you?â
âNo.â The word camwe out confident. âBut I think youâre already thinking about it. And thatâs got nothing to do with him.â
The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldnât quite override.
You didnât meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.
âSo,â you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, âhow exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?â
He didnât hesitate. Not a flicker.
âIâd actually pay attention,â he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. âI wouldnât let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. Iâd keep you so satisfied youâd never even remember his name.â
You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. âThat so?â
âYeah.â The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. âIâd learn your body like a map. Iâd make you beg without even touching you. Iâd ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.â
The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You shouldâve rolled your eyes. Shouldâve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.
Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.
âYou rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?â
A grin spread across his face. âI can show you if you want.â
You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.
âI think,â you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, âyouâre full of shit.â
âI think,â he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, âyouâre hoping Iâm not.â
And you didnât say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.
His smile widened, slow and triumphant.
âJust one night,â he said, soft as a murmur. âThatâs all Iâm askinâ.â
You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. âGod, youâre really committed to this.â
His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. âCould say the same about you, sweetheart.â
Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.
You were past the point of denial now. You didnât even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.
You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where heâd licked his lips, then back up to meet his.
âFine,â you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the barâs music. âJust one night.â
He didnât even blink. Didnât question it, didnât gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew youâd break.
Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstoolâs support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.
Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didnât matter.
His hand didnât just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.
Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat youâd been sitting in.
The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didnât cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.
He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.
The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadnât even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell youâd just agreed to.
He didnât give you time to second-guess it.
Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.
One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.
Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.
âIâve been wanting to do this all night,â he murmured.
It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like heâd been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.
The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.
He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Whoâd imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didnât want you pulling away. Like he didnât want you thinking.
Your knees buckled.
Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.
You werenât kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.
But he didnât let you. He didnât give you space to gather yourself.
He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.
His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.
The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.
When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.
You didnât even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.
He didnât say anything.
Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.
Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.
The elevator ride was barely two floors.
Maybe three. You didnât know. You didnât remember stepping inside, didnât remember pressing the button, didnât remember the doors sliding shut behind you.
All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.
And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.
The key turned. The lock clicked.
And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.
He was on you.
There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch youâd never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.
This was fast.
His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.
His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.
He couldnât decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.
God, his mouth was everywhere too.
At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.
He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you werenât complaining. Not even a little.
Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.
Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.
âMmm,â he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. âDoes your boyfriend touch you like this?â
A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
âYou really hate that guy, huh?â
He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.
âI think heâs a goddamn idiot,â he said, voice low and rough. âLetting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.â His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. âIf you were mineââ
You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.
âBut Iâm not yours,â you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.
And god, the look he gave you.
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.
âNot yet,â he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours
He didnât guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.
One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.
The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.
Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.
âFuck,â he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. âLook at you.â
His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.
âCanât believe your man lets you walk around like this,â he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. âDress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. Youâre a walking invitation, sweetheart.â
âHe trusts me,â you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.
âHeâs a fucking idiot,â Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.
Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. âShouldâve locked you up before someone else got to you.â
Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.
His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.
âBet he doesnât even touch you right,â he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. âBet he doesnât make you beg. Doesnât know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?â
You didnât respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.
âFuck,â he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. âYeah. This is mine now.â
You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. âSay it,â he whispered. âSay this pussyâs mine for the night.â
A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. âGod, youâre so full of yourself.â
He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.
His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.
âYeah,â he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. âAnd youâre about to let me prove it.â
His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.
Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.
His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.
And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, âYou ever been filmed before, sweetheart?â
Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.
Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.
âFilmed?â The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.
âMmhmm.â His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. âWanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you laterâlegs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?â
You couldnât answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.
He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.
His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.
âCâmon,â he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. âLet me keep it. Just for me. I wonât show anyone.â A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. âJust wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.â
Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at youâand fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.
This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.
âPlease,â he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. âLet me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when youâre gone.â
And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.
The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.
He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painfulâyou whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.
He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.
âGood girl,â he murmured.
He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.
You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.
But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.
âHold this,â he said. âKeep it steady. And donât stop filming until I say so.â
The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.
His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.
âYouâre really gonna let me eat you out on camera?â he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. âLook at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?â
A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.
âHe doesnât need to know,â you murmured.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.
âNo, he doesnât.â Buckyâs voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. âBut I will.â
He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.
âNow keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.â
And then he was on you.
His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.
You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.
He moaned into you.
A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.
âGoddamn,â he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. âSo fuckinâ sweet. Sweetest thing Iâve had in my mouth in months.â
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.
âBet he doesnât even taste you, does he?â His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. âBet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.â
You couldnât answer. Couldnât form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.
Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didnât seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.
âBet he doesnât even know how to touch you hereââ His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. ââor how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.â
You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.
His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.
He didnât pause. Didnât give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.
You didnât mean to make the sounds you were making.
They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldnât hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like youâd lost all sense of self-preservation.
âLook at you,â he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. âSo desperate for someone who isnât even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.â
You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.
His fingers curled again⊠just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.
âYou think about this?â he went on, âWhen youâre lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?â
You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.
âYeah, you do,â he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. âYou think about it all the time. I think youâd let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think youâd let me fuck you right in his bed while heâs at work, and youâd still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.â
His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.
âYou close?â he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.
You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then⊠smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.
âLetâs show him, yeah doll?â he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. âLetâs show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what heâs doing. Letâs give him something to think about tonight.â
And then he sucked your clit againâhardâwhile his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.
âOh fuck, fuck, fuckââ
You came.
It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.
Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didnât stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.
He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.
You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.
His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.
He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.
âGonna let me fuck you now?â His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. âEven though youâve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.â
You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut whoâd already crossed every line and couldnât find her way back.
You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.
Your voice didnât work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answersâgone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.
He clicked his tongue.
âSuch a dirty girl,â he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. âCheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.â
He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.
âTell me what you are,â he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.
âIâmâIâm a dirty girlââ
âLouder.â
âIâm a dirty girl.â
âAnd?â
âAnd IâI want you to fuck me.â
He smiled, satisfied.
And then he pushed in.
Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.
âFuck,â he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. âTight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.â
He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.
And then he started to move.
His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.
He groaned harder at the sound.
âLook at that,â he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. âFuckinâ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.â
He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.
âYou gonna cum for me again?â he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. âGonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think heâd wanna see what a whore you are when no oneâs watching?â
Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didnât answer. Couldnât.
He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.
âAnswer me.â
âYesâyes, fuck, Iâpleaseââ
âPlease what?â
âPlease let me cumâI needââ
He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.
âLook at the camera,â he commanded, his voice a growl. âLook at it and tell him whoâs making you feel this good.â
You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.
âYou,â you gasped. âYouâre making meââ
âThatâs right. Me. Not him. Me.â
He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.
âNow cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.â
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didnât stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.
âThatâs what I thoughtâ
He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didnât even have the shame to swallow it.
But Bucky didnât give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.
âUp,â he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. âCâmon. Up, baby. Iâm not done with you.â
Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.
Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.
âYouâre a mess,â he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. âBet heâs never fucked you dumb like this, huh?â
Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didnât let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.
The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess heâd made of you.
âThere we go,â he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. âMuch better view. Look at that, fuckinâ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.â
You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.
âStay still,â he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. âBe good and take it. Donât make me tell you twice.â
And then he was sliding back in.
No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.
He didnât wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.
âFuck, babyâso tight like this,â he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. âLike youâre trying to milk me dry.â
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.
âBet heâs never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.â He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. âWhat would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you begginâ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creaminâ all over me?â
Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.
âWhat would he say, huh,â Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, âif he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyesâthat fucked-out, starved look you get when Iâm deep inside you?â
Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didnât care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.
âSay it,â he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. âTell the camera what youâre doing.â
You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.
ââCheating,â you gasped, the word torn from your throat. âIâm cheating on himâfuck, fuckâplease donât stopââ
He groaned like he couldâve fucking died from how good that sounded.
âThatâs it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.â
You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.
âSay it again,â he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. âTell me what youâre doing.â
ââCheating,â you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. âIâm cheating on him.â
âCanât hear you.â
âIâm cheating on my boyfriend,â you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. âLetting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.â
He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.
âGod, youâre perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.â
You didnât even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.
âBuckyââ
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.
The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.
âWanna cum again for me, baby?â he panted behind you. âWanna cum on a strangerâs cock while your boyfriendâs out there probably textinâ you right now, askinâ if youâre okay?â
His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.
âAnswer me.â
âYesâfuck, yesââ
âUse me,â you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. âPlease, just use me. I donât careâI donât care about anythingâjust fuck meââ
That did it.
He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.
You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.
âOh fuckâfuck, dollââ
He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess heâd made of you.
âOn your knees,â he barked.
You dropped without hesitation.
Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.
You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.
He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.
âJesus fuckâlook at you,â he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. âFucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippinâ down your thighs. And youâre still lookinâ at me like you want more.â
You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted⊠just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.
His breath hitched.
That was all it took.
He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder⊠and then he came.
âFuckâfuckââ
Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.
You didnât flinch. Didnât look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.
He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.
âGonna remember this forever,â he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. âThe way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.â
You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.
You held eye contact⊠and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.
And then you smiled and winked at the camera.
He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.
âFuck, baby,â he whispered, his voice wrecked. âYouâre unreal. Youâre fucking unreal.â
He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.
âGet up,â he said, softer now. âCâmere. Let me kiss you.â
You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.
You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.
He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldnât help yourself.
ââGonna remember this forever,ââ you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. âGod, baby. The drama. Are you sure youâre not secretly a director?â
He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.
And you.
âShut up,â he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.
âYou were so into it,â you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. âLike, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?â
He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.
âI personally think weâd make a lot of money,â you said, your tone almost dreamy. âWith your dick and my tits, weâd be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.â
He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. âPlease,â he said, low and gruff, âshut up and let me spoon you into silence.â
You hummed, basking in victory.
âYou were so serious,â you whispered into the quiet. âThe dirty talk? Youâre gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, arenât you? I can see it nowââJames.B.B, 107, 6â2â, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.ââ
He groaned again, but it was quieter now.
You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.
âYouâre never letting me live this down, are you?â he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.
You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.
You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.
âNot a chance, stranger.â
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.
You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.
The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.
Almost.
Which is exactly why you struck.
âOkay,â you said, your voice sweet as honey. âGive me your phone now.â
He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.
â...No.â
You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.
âJames.â
He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.
You didnât let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said Iâm not asking.
âI just want to see how I looked,â you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. âFor science.â
âYou looked perfect,â he muttered from beneath the pillow. âYou donât need to see it.â
âOh, but IÂ do,â you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where heâd abandoned the phone. âBecause someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.â
He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.
âAha,â you declared, waving it like a trophy. âSiri, show me the porn.â
He groaned from beneath the pillow. âYouâre a freak.â
âYou love it.â
You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasnât buried in a folder, wasnât hidden behind a password.
âJesus Christ, you didnât even try to hide it,â you murmured.
You tapped play.
The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.
Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.
You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
âOh my god,â you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was⊠eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. âWho is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?â
âStop it,â Bucky mumbled.
But you kept going.
âLook at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like youâre about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.â
He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
âYouâre so hot when youâre pretending not to be a freak.â
He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.
You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.
âWaitââ You squinted. âDid you zoom while you were inside me?â
He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.
âYou did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.â
âStop watching it,â he moaned.
âNever. Iâm gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, Iâll see your constipated orgasm face.â
That did it.
He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.
It didnât hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, âYouâre the fucking worst,â and âI hate you so much right now.â
He got the phone eventually.
And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.
âIâm deleting that video first thing tomorrow,â he mumbled, his voice fond.
You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.
âSure you are, Sergeant,â you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. âRight after you jack off to it one more time.â
He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.
The kind of breath that said finally, peace.
He was wrong.
âSo,â you whispered against his collarbone, âsince I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.â
He sighed again
You ignored it completely.
âWe could do the delivery guy thing,â you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. âLike, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And youâre just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.â
He didnât respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.
So you kept going.
âOrâor we could do the âIâm your best friendâs girlfriendâ angle,â you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. âYouâre not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom doorâs cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just⊠watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.â
âNo,â he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.
Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.
But only a moment.
You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. âWhat about the corrupt cop thing?â you whispered, your lips still brushing his. âYou pull me over on some empty road at midnight. Iâm nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me thereâs only one way I can get out of the ticket.â
He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.
You chuckled against his lips.
âOoooh. Or the one where Iâm drunk and stumbling out of a party,â you said, your voice breathless. âYouâre the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.â
He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. âGo to sleep, please,â he muttered.
ââbut I wake up,â you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, âand youâre standing in the doorway. Watching me. And Iâm so grateful. So vulnerable. So willingâspread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just⊠take what you want.â
His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images youâd painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.
âYouâre gonna kill me,â he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.
You hummed, âI think you like it.â
He didnât answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.
âNo more talking,â he whispered.
You grinned against his chest. âNot even the professor one?â you teased. âWhere Iâm failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form ofââ
âI will gag you.â
You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.
âThatâs a yes, then.â
He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.
And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images youâd planted in his head.
You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.
a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.
summary: arthur has hid his feelings for you long before arriving at colter. and with every loss the gang has felt since that botched ferry heist, well, he knew heâd be damned if anything were to happen to you next.
tags: colter setting, high honor arthur, yearning/pining, protective arthur, period-typical sexism, heâs soft for reader, grouchy at first but then turns sweet because that man is in love!!!
âThe hell you think yer goinâ with that?â
His breath came out in icy clouds as he stomped his way into the barn. Leftover bits of graying snow crunched and melted under his boots. Both your cheeks and nose flared raw and rosy pink from the needling cold.
Arthur nudged his head at the carbine rifle gripped in your hands, a slow scowl formed across his dry lips.
âWell hello to you, too,â you turned your attention back toward the table the men used for weapon cleanings and the like.
Until his hand coiled over the spouted barrel, his strength forcing your feet to stop.
âPut it back.â
Your eyes grew white and round, your grip firming around the gun. ââŠâScuse me?â
âYou heard me.â
âIâm ridinâ with you.â
âAinât ridinâ anywhere. Now put the damn gun down.â
âNo.â
âI ainât asking.â
âArthur Iâm not a child! I can do this. I can goââ
He tore the gun from your grip and the metal banged against the wooden plank. The stock slid roughly against the oak. Arthur watched you, not angry, no, he could never be too gruff with you. But with pleading eyes. Crystal blue and a tinted green that shined behind the fog of your collective breathing.
âAinât safe,â his voice was a mere whisper.
âThen how come you go?â
âExcuse me?â
You narrowed your eyes. âYeah you heard me.â
Arthur scoffed, shook his head. He shot you an incredulous look. âYou serious?â
âEveryday you risk your life with them boys. You ride. Youââ
He closed the distance until there was nothing except for the familiar hint of his musk. Stale tobacco and cedar clung from his beard. The scent of him enveloped you. It tingled your skin and caused your belly to shiver. He always had a way of making you swallow your words until they burned tightly in your throat.
âYou any idea what Iâd do if it were you on that cross out there?â he abruptly said.
The confession rendered you speechless, even moreso when his warm hand cradled your flushed cheek. His thumb swiped across a fresh hue of pink forming across your skin.
âIâve had to do âlotta ugly shit in this world. But burying youâŠâ his throat cracked as the frosty wind bruised his gruff voice. âI wonât do it,â he gulped. âI canât.â
âOh, ArthurâŠâ
You let out a subtle gasp as he gently touched his forehead against yours. His eyes closed and his thumb kept caressing the side of your face. Warmth spread across your chest and bloomed inside your belly. It felt like a butterfly had untucked itself from a cocoon and stretched its wings for the first time.
Arthurâs free hand slid down to your waist. For a moment, he held you like this and then there was silence. His eyes opened, finding your gaze and tethering it to his while his lips trembled. Trembled from the force of the snowstorm and his own stubbornness to say what you both had been dancing around a crackling fire for the last few months.
âIâll die before ever lettinâ anything happen tâyou.â
This simple confession of his had been enough for you. And it was you who had found the courage to lift yourself up on your toes then. Angling your head, Arthur leant down to catch your lips with his. You tasted like the last apricot slice he had watched you feast on for breakfast that morning. His hand threaded into your hair, tangling in it and bringing you closer to him until his tongue deepened the kiss.
His lips smoothed up into a careful smile, his teeth lightly nipped at your bottom lip until you let out a small giggle.
You watched him with a new kind of shine in your eyes. One that held something of love and affection in them. Arthur brushed the hair away from your face and leant in to brush his lips against your forehead.
âWhy, Mister Morgan,â you remarked with the smug lift of your brows. âThis your plan all along? Charm one into abandoning all cause. Sweep âem off their feet?â
âIt workinâ?â
You smiled. âIt might be.â
He chuckled and his grasp on your waist tightened.
â Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris / "To Know Him Is to Love Him"
âËâĄâĄ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
âËâĄâĄ tags/warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, age gap, devoted reader, Arthur being loved to death, emotional intimacy, protective Arthur Morgan, heavy yearning, unrequited love, childhood crush, Arthur Morgan moves on, reader is Mary Linton's younger sister, more gentle Arthur, fluff and angst, reader is LOVESICK for outlaw Arthur, soft ending, gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure
âËâĄâĄ word count: ~5.7k
Shopping for ribbons has never been your favorite pastime, and it shows in the way you've been slouching since Mary started pestering you about it.
"Bonding," she said.
"It's what ladies do," she said again.
Now, you're having this one and that explained to you by a woman more patronizing than the word itself.
"Is there really much difference?" you ask the shopkeeper, staring between two that look just about identical, not a single standout thing about them.
"This one is made of fine silk, imported fromâ"
"And that one?" you point.
She looks scandalized by the sudden interruption, likely used to talking the heads off of her customers in hopes they'll simply take both and be done with it.
But not you. Never you.
She looks between you and Mary, your sister clearing her throat delicately, glancing at you with pleading eyes.
Go easy on her, they beg.
"That would be velvet, Miss Gillis."
You sigh, reaching out to run your fingers along the soft face of it.
"I suppose it'll do. Does it come in green?"
The woman brightens instantly, Mary exhaling a breath of relief as she saunters off. "An excellent choice, indeed," she exclaims, the words clinging to the air where she once stood like dewdrops on a cool morning.
"I'll finish up here," says Mary, coin-purse in hand. "Will you see to the tailor in the meantime?"
You're halfway to denying her when a figure passes just outside, your gaze tracking him until he disappears from view.
Was that...?
You're gone from her side before your absence registers in her mind, no doubt looking every bit as crazy as you feel, chasing ghosts through winding thoroughfares like it'll do you any good.
Only when the road opens wide, the main street a few short steps from your feet, do you falter.
He's a ghost alrightâone that was never yours, but you wanted to haunt you all the same.
Arthur Morgan, looking every bit as handsome as the very first day you laid eyes on him.
Older now, broader than you've ever seen him. But the eyes are the sameâso is the way he carries himself, the way he stands like the world's heavy on his shoulders and he's managing it just fine.
Your hands move before the rest of you doesâfingers patting at your hair, tucking away what doesn't belong and pulling at what does.
You smooth your dress, pat your cheeks just shy of painful to get them red as a summer rose, taking stock of your appearance in a nearby window.
A man passes you by, looking more dumbfounded by the moment as you mutter the possibilities of the exchange to yourself like a common drunkard.
Maybe he won't remember you.
Or he will, but it won't matter.
He only ever saw Mary, after all.
"No," you say vehemently, shake the thought free from your mind, startling the onlooker enough to send him skittering on his way.
You take a deep, steadying breath, wring your fingers, wipe the dampness from your palms on your skirts, and wish yourself all the luck in the world.
Because that's what it'll take to win the affections of a man like him, isn't it?
Luck.
More than you've ever had at least.
Your feet step out ahead of you, closing the distance in a few easy strides.
"Arthur?" you ask, voice wavering slightly.
He turns, catches sight of you, and to your dismay, there's not a flicker of recognition in his gaze.
At least, not until you step that much closer, his eyes flickering across your face with a looming familiarity that warms you to the bone.
Then he makes for his hat, lifting it from his head and pressing it to his chest.
"Miss Gillis."
You smile, exhaling sharply from your nose, pulse stumbling over itself.
"My... it really is you," you say in thinly-veiled awe, looking him over like you've been awarded sunshine for the first time in days.
He nods, making for your elbow as if he can't well help himself, dropping his hand at the last second like he thought better of it.
"Been some time," he utters.
That drawl of his always did have a way of messing with your mind, wrapping itself around your better judgment and casting it aside.
You nod. "That it has."
You rock on your heels gently as the silence settles, interrupted only by the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis at the height of day.
Everyone moving about, carriages filling the roads, chatter in the air that doesn't find you both so readily.
He glances over your shoulder, toward the mercantile, then back to you.
"Mary with you?"
You look at him, hesitation taking the place of the sliver of hope you'd been clinging to.
"She is," you say, face screwing up as you try for amusement. "Seeing about some ribbons."
"Sounds about right."
"Asked if I could see to the tailor," you blurt then.
You glance down the street, in the direction of the discreet shopfront, then back to him. "You mind...?"
"No, ain't a problem," he says gruffly.
You walk ahead, slow down just enough to fall into step beside him, glancing sidelong at that handsome face like there's nowhere else to look.
"So... you talk with Mary much these days?" you ask, trying for casual and missing by a country mile.
It isn't worth it. You don't need to know.
Still, you tilt your head, watching his expression shift just enough for you to notice.
"No, ma'am."
Your back straightensâimperceptibly, you hope, but you know well you haven't an ounce of subtlety in your whole being.
"No? Thought you were sweet on one another."
He sighs, a heavy thing that tells you it's a sore spot you're poking and prodding at.
"Was a long time ago. Ain't much worth talking about now."
"I don't speak with my father anymore, you know," you say calmly, watching a carriage go by, loud laughter spilling out as it passes. "Me and Jamie both, but... Mary's still holding on."
His boots slow, gaze finding you before returning to the road ahead.
"Can't say I blame you. Your father ain't a nice man."
You smile. "Never were fond of him much, were you?"
He huffs, shakes his head. "Fond ain't the word I'd use, no."
In a moment of boldness that surprises even you, you allow yourself to inch closer, your shoulder brushing his.
It's more comfortable than you could've imagined, being by his side. Best of all, he doesn't ask after Mary againâonly you. Doesn't pull away much either.
"You still draw?" he asks suddenly.
A quiver of excitement ripples through your stomach, stirring something in you long thought dormant.
He remembered.
And not just any old thing, eitherâsomething he taught you as a girl. When he'd guide your hand and pat your head for a job well done, and you'd look at him like he hung the moon.
Much like you are now.
Some things never change.
"Well now," you say, clasping your hands behind your back, a sudden spring in your step. "You taught me everything I know. Wouldn't be right if I didn't."
His laughâa small exhalation that shakes his chest, crinkles his faceâstokes a fire right at the heart of you, the beat of it a thunderous thing in your ears.
"That so?"
"Uh-huh. And I appreciated every lesson," you say in earnest, voice softening impossibly so. "Never did thank you back then, so..."
You look to him, smiling gently. "Thank you."
He doesn't look quite so tough nowânot nearly as scary as your father always made him out to be.
His eyes lighten in a way you've never seen, the stiffness in his shoulders lessening until he's just a man, standing beside a woman he's known just about her whole life.
"Wasn't nothin'," he says, his hands fumbling at his sides. "You were a quick study, is all."
"I kept everything you drew for me."
"All of it?" he asks in surprise.
"All of it," you say with certainty, glancing at him. "Especially the deer. Hung it up in my room, I loved it so much."
"You got bad taste, little lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips that tells you he isn't at all stricken by the thought.
A brief silence lingers in the air between you, and when curiosity grabs hold of you, you find yourself asking, "You still keep the same company?"
He looks everywhere but you, suddenly more interested in the stones paving the road, then the blue of the sky overhead.
"Yeah... Still with 'em," he says slowly, no doubt waiting to be scolded.
But you're no Mary.
You don't need him to change a thing.
You give him a pat on the armâa sweet, gentle thing that has him staring openly now.
"Always have been the most loyal man I've ever known."
He doesn't say much else the rest of the way, a thoughtful look on his face all the while. You think you might've said too much, spoken too soonâbut then, he's there.
A hand hovering at your lower back to steady you when you lose your footing on a craggy old stone.
A gentle hold around your wrist to pull you in when a drunkard draws too close to where you stand.
His fingers staying put when you brush your own against them, worrying your lip between your teeth in hopes he doesn't notice.
If he does, he doesn't speak a word of it.
Arriving at the tailor, he offers his hand, helps you up the steps. When your eyes find his, you fiddle with the clasp of your reticule, holding it tightly in front of you.
You both speak at the same time, voices overlapping. Heat licks at your cheeks, turning them crimson as you duck your head, gesturing for him to continue.
"Well, it wasâ" he says slowly, fumbling over his words until he lands on the right ones, shifting his weight.
"It was real nice seein' you. After all this time."
"Yes," you say quietly, a little breathless. "Far too long."
You don't move to leaveâneither does he. Instead, you hold his gaze with all the tenderness you can muster as you say, "It was good to see you, Arthur. Really."
His jaw works, tightening just so before he turns to leave.
But you can't bring yourself to leave it like that.
"Arthurâ" you call out.
He turns to face you, and the question leaves you like something long overdue. Like it's been waiting there on the tip of your tongue for the day you could utter it aloud, slipping free in a hurried breath.
"If a girl wanted to pay you a visit," you say, "where might she find you?"
He watches you, hands finding his belt as he leans his weight onto one leg.
"'Spose I'd advise her against such a thing," he says after a moment.
You scoff, lips turning up at the corners. "You sound like my father."
His do the same, a barely there grin forming despite himself.
"Well then," you say, before he can get a word in. "Where can I find you?"
He pauses, tips his hat back to see you better. Takes his sweet time answering, like he knows he's starting something with all the momentum of a runaway train.
Finallyâ
"Just south o' Rhodes for now."
You nod slowly, let his words settle as he explains further.
"You expect to be there this evening?" you ask, tilting your head.
Too soon, you think to yourself, but he says, "Sure... If you're thinkin' of comin' by."
He looks you up and downâat your dress, your shoes. The parts of you that say you aren't made for the life he lives.
"Ain't no place for a lady like yourself."
"I'm a woman grown, Arthur," you say, holding your chin high in defiance. "This evening, then."
"Alright," he relents, watching you disappear inside without another word.
The carriage leaves you at Shady Belle at half past six o'clock, an old plantation house in Lemoyne that looks worse for wear.
Musty old paneling, hollowed out windows, vines crawling their way to the roof like they've got something to prove. It's not a sight for sore eyes, that's for certain.
But you're here for Arthur.
You'd sooner walk headfirst into the swamp itself for an evening in his company. What's a little overgrown grass?
He must not have expected you to make good on your word, because the moment you move to descend, half of his gang has drawn their guns. A proper carriage in the middle of outlaw business must look awful funny.
"Would y'all put those damn things away?" Arthur chides, waving his hand about as he approaches where you sit, waiting to descend.
He offers his hand, warm and steady around yours, helping you to the ground with the care of a man who's got no business being such a gentleman.
"We hostin' tea parties now?" asks one of the men, sitting on an overturned crate, bottle in hand.
"Shut it, Billâ" Arthur begins to say, but you interrupt him before the sentiment can take shape.
"I would hope not, Mister," you say, hands working to smooth your skirts once your feet touch solid ground.
You look him over with a discontent hum. "If we were, you'd most certainly be underdressed."
Another man with two halves of a mustache and a hat that sits just right slaps his knee, barking out a laugh.
"Oh," he says, accent smooth around every syllable. "I like this one, Arthur."
Arthur grunts in what sounds like approval, mutters a quiet, "Jesus..." that makes you bite back a grin.
You give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, subtle enough he may think he imagined itâhis eyes wandering along the rouge dusting your cheeks, painted lightly across your lips.
"Well now," says the lead man, smooth as silk, descending the front steps with a theatrical little smile. "And who's come to grace our humble accommodations?"
The man is nothing short of a jackalâyou know that much. The name comes to you before you can connect his face to memory, from sheer feeling alone.
"Mr. van der Linde," you say in greeting. "It's been some time."
"This is Miss Gillis," Arthur says, a silence taking hold of the group, like he's just announced the second coming of Christ himself.
You feel his hand brush the small of your back then, his quiet repositioning of himself half between you and the others making something crackle in your chest.
The sounds of the bayou filter in like sunshine through lace curtainsâa chorus of frogs croaking, bugs chirping, and swamp dwellers humming low.
"Ah," says Dutch, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Mary's sister."
You nod politely.
"Your daddy know you're out here?" asks Bill, glancing at Arthur in mild disbelief.
"Don't know. Didn't much care to ask," you say calmly.
Arthur's voice comes low then, a warning laced in every word.
"If you'll excuse us, thought I'd show the Miss around."
"Oh, don't let us bother you, Arthur. We were only saying hello," Dutch counters, hands going up in surrender.
Arthur leads you up the steps, showing you inside until the door shuts heavily behind you, punctuating the quiet.
Your gaze sweeps the room at once as you step in further, seeing the deep cracks in the plaster, the tired lines etched into the wooden bannisters.
Your fingers trace them neatly, expression unreadable when he speaks.
His hand finds his nape, rubbing there like the gang took all the life right out of him.
"They ain't exactly known for their manners," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder like they might be listening in.
"They were just curious, that's all," you say, turning to him. "I ain't bothered."
He visibly relaxes, calm easing its way back into his eyes as he gestures at the state of the entryway.
"Place ain't in the best o' shape," he adds gruffly, looking more and more like he wishes the floor would give way and take it with him.
"It's plenty fine," you defend.
"Oh, you don't mean that," he disagrees. "Paint's peelin' up, ceiling's got holes in it. We get a little rain, whole placeâ"
You hesitate only briefly before your hand finds his chest, pressing it to his heart, relishing it thumping something awful beneath your palm.
You pat once, twice, then drop it back to your side.
"It's where you stay," you reassure. "I like it plenty."
You see something ease in him thenâwatch it give way for a softness you don't think he's shown in ages. It makes you smile, watching him fondly.
"Show me," you say, catching his gaze. "I wanna see the house."
He exhales slow, scratches his jaw in that unsettled way of his.
"...Ain't much to see."
You simply shrug, like it doesn't take much out of you to hear. Not much at all.
"Then it won't take long."
He shows you the first floorâthe kitchen, the empty saloon save for a dusty old grand piano, the living room you can almost picture filled with opulent furniture, now scattered with the gang's belongings.
He mutters in disapproval all the while, eyes cutting to you more than once to read your expression, expecting disgust at the rickety state of itâ
Only to see you bright-eyed, finding beauty where it might have once existed.
In the fireplace that kept the room warm in the coldest of winters, the evening light spilling into what must have been a sprawling kitchen, and in the grooves worn smooth along the bannister by hands long gone.
The bones are sturdy despite the wear, reminding you more and more of the man at your sideâstill standing, somehow, in spite of everything.
Halfway to the stairs, you glance back at him. He's wavering now, coming to a stop beside them, something conflicted in the slight furrow of his brow.
"Where do you sleep?" you ask, cheeks warming at the subtle implication in your words.
He watches you, your feet already ascending the steps in earnest.
His fingers carefully catch your wrist, his thumb brushing along it just firmly enough to send your heartbeat lurching against your stays.
"You don't wanna see that," he says, releasing you quickly like the touch singed his skin. He averts his gaze, busies himself with adjusting his gun belt, already sitting perfectly at his hips.
"I do."
The silence is a heady thing, swallowing up the air and leaving you both short of breath in its stead.
"I'm here, ain't I," you say, tilting your head as you regard him, eyes warm.
He breathes, slow and deep, stares at you like there's nowhere else to look.
"Well..."
He relents.
"Alright. Just for a minute."
He opens his door with a quiet sigh, stepping aside to let you enter before he does.
You don't move quickly, hands clasped as you take in the sightâthe smell of him mingling with damp earth from the swamp beyond, spare boots arranged neatly beside his bed, boxes of bullets resting untouched atop an old barrel.
Sparse, but practical.
So very him it sends an ache from the pit of your stomach, up past your lungs until it settles heavily in your throat.
Your attention catches on a small cluster of photographs, nestled in a worn hutch just beside the windowâedges softened with age, corners curled from years of being moved and handled, again and again.
Drifting toward them without thinking, you look them over.
The first you reach for is older than the others, image slightly blurred with the passage of time.
A woman stares back at youâdark hair pinned neatly, gentleness etched into her features, and eyes so familiar, they stop you cold.
You pick it up carefully, fingers just barely tracing the shape of her face.
"Your mother?"
Arthur clears his throat, shuffles on his feet. "Yeah."
Your gaze lifts to him, really looks, then drops back to the photograph in your hands. A soft smile touches your mouth as your thumb brushes its worn edge.
"You've got her eyes."
He doesn't answer straight away, but you don't need him to say a thing.
You set it back down where you found it, already moving to the next, stopping still when you see her.
Mary.
Pretty as always, staring off like she hadn't a clue the man she left behind would preserve this image of her for years to come.
Something in you gives way for the pesky green-eyed monster to take root, a cold hurt flooding your chest until your mouth goes dry.
He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground like he can't bring himself to see what it did to you.
Then, choosing kindnessâor cowardice, you can't quite tell whichâyou leave it untouched, crossing the space to sit on his bed.
It's a rickety thing, one that boasts the same level of comfort as a bed of nailsâbut it's his. And with that thought alone, you find you don't mind it.
It creaks beneath your weight, shifts and settles to accommodate you.
He doesn't move, doesn't make to join you. Just remains where he stands, like he can't tell where you want him to go after that.
"Arthur," you say softly, patting the bed beside you. "Sit with me."
Lifting his head, he looks at you, brows drawn up tight.
"...Don't think I should," he says hoarsely.
"Please?" you ask then.
Not a hint of anger in your eyesâonly the gentle pleading of a woman asking something impossible of an honest man.
He stands there another moment, shoulders tense, every line in him a lesson in restraint as he plucks the hat from his head and sets it aside.
Then something in him finally gives, and he crosses the room slowly, unhurried, the bed dipping under him when he finally settles in beside you.
You don't rush to touch him. Don't dare to break the delicate thing that hangs between you, fragile as a thread.
Instead, you allow the quiet to stretch, thick with the sounds of evening beyond the wallsâthe low hum of voices around the fire, a sudden burst of laughter from below, crickets beginning their ballad in the bayou.
But you never were very good at self-control, and your hand moves before you can help yourself.
The backs of your fingers brush his where they rest against his thighâa barely there touch that sends jolts up your arm and right to the stubborn heart of you.
He goes still, gaze tracking the movement. But he doesn't dare pull away, doesn't tell you this isn't what you think it is.
So you gather what little courage you can muster and turn his hand, sliding your fingers into hisâlacing them slow enough he can stop you if he truly wishes to.
He doesn't.
Your thumb traces along the rough ridge of a scar near his knuckle, memorizing the shape of it, and the words are out before you can tell yourself they're too foolish to give voice to.
"I know I ain't Mary."
Arthur exhales heavy through his nose, stare fixed somewhere along the floor at your feet.
"No."
You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.
"Just..." you murmur, voice catching. "Hope I'm enough as I am."
He turns to look at youâroving across your hair, your face, the stubborn set of your lips as you fight a poutâand something in his expression changes then.
Raw and aching, nearly wounded in its intensity.
"Ain't askin' for Mary," he says roughly, free hand rising to tuck a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing the shell of it before falling away.
Your heart is a traitorous thing, pounding incessantly against your chest, breaths catching in your throat.
You stare at him, lips parted, searching his eyes desperately for any hint of insincerityâonly to find a sweet truth looking back at you.
"Then ask for me," you whisper, your thumb stroking over his knuckles once more. "And I'll answer."
"Can't ask that of you, darlin'," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours, voice harsh on the way out. "Ain't right."
Your free hand rises to cup his jaw, brushing along the rough stubble there, eyes assessing every detail of him like a picture you want to memorize.
"If I got a chance at you, I want it," you argue, soft but certain.
Your fingers tighten around his as you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his cheekânot teasing, not chaste, either. Something quieter, more profound than either of you know to do with.
Intimate in a way you've never known how to beâand if the way Arthur stills beneath your touch is any indication, perhaps in a way he hasn't known much, either.
His eyes slip shut like a man who's been starved for being wanted all his life, a surrender that makes warmth unfurl in the pit of your stomach.
You linger there for a heartbeat longer than you ought to, the feel of his skin beneath your lips, the sight of him this close near dizzying.
When you pull back just barely, your noses brush, and you notice then the change in his breathingâthe change in yours.
"Arthur," you whisper, hovering there only a second longer before you press your lips to his.
His free hand finds your waist with hesitation, fingers curling around you like he still means to stop this if he can.
But the dam's been broken since the moment he caught sight of you in Saint Denis, and he knows as well as you do that there will never be a world in which you don't want him.
Before doubt can take hold, his hand is at your jaw, thumb at the hinge beneath your ear, tilting your face up to meet his.
When you don't make to pull awayâyour arms slipping around his neck, head angling just right to deepen the kissâhe pulls you closer with a sound in his throat that steals the breath from you.
Moments later, you're half in his lap as his mouth moves against yours, taking every little thing you offer, quiet sighs of pleasure filling the empty room.
It isn't until laughter sounds from outside that you finally partâlips swollen and red, cheeks burning bright.
He brushes along your jaw, still pressing kisses to your face as you begin to pull away.
You giggle, chiding him with a gentle swat to his chest. "Anymore of that and we'll be at it all night."
He huffs, "Wouldn't hear any complainin' outta you."
"Well," you rise, gathering yourself before offering him your hand. "I think we ought to be polite and join 'em."
"That what ya want?" he asks, staring up at you with affection, plain as day.
"Mhm," you nod, wagging your fingers at him. "Come on."
Stepping out of the front door, you're greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and Arthur's people sitting around, drinking and chattering amongst themselves.
A few of them stop to stare as you and Arthur approach, their watchful eyes taking note of how his hand holds yours.
Like you're his woman, and they all can see that now.
The gentleman you learn is named Javier holds out a bottle for you to take, a foul smelling swill sloshing inside that makes your nose turn up.
"Hey," he laughs, "Don't knock it till you try it, amiga."
"You don't gotta drink that," Arthur says, voice low as he moves to take it from you. You pull it away at the last second, looking up at him with a sly smile as you take a sip.
You regret it as soon as the liquor hits your tongueâlike fire, harsh and mean all the way down.
Your face twists before you can stop it, Javier snickering in amusement as you cough, dignity abandoning you halfway through the endeavor.
And then Arthur laughs.
Not just a huff, that little breath through his nose that tells you when something landed with enough humor to coax it from him.
A real laughâhearty and warm and gone too quickly, but there all the same. You stare at him like you've just witnessed a miracle, the sound hitting you square in the chest.
A thing you think you might fight wars to hear again.
He shakes his head, reaching to pry the bottle from your fingers before you poison yourself proper.
"Now what'd I tell ya?"
When the gang returns to their conversations and the novelty has faded, paying the two of you no mind, you pop a kiss to his lipsâthere for a moment, then gone again.
"What was that for?" he asks, stunned still.
You laugh, leading him to an empty seat, his eyes not leaving you for a second.
"Best get used to it," you say simply, kissing his cheek without a care in the world who sees it.
Arthur offered to take you home.
No fancy carriage, he warnedâjust his horse and a rough leather saddle the whole way back.
As if you'd mind this.
He's at your back, strong arms around you to keep hold of the reins, and you're giddy with drunkenness, leaning into it like there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
You sigh, a content little sound as you rest against his chestâsmelling him all the while as the night air cools your skin.
His scent is pine and tobacco, worn leather and musk, and something so indiscriminately Arthur it warms you clean through.
"You smell nice," you mumble, eyes shut as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.
You nose at him, peppering kisses that make a shudder wrack through him, the rumble of it felt against your back.
"Stop distractin' me," he mutters gruffly, all while arching into every kiss like his body disagrees with him.
"Mm," you hum, eyes blinking open to gaze at him, his own fixed on the dark road ahead. "Can't help it."
He looks down at you for a moment, searching your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
"Look tired," he comments, voice the gentlest you've heard it.
He tucks his chin over your head, holds you closer.
"I'll wake you when we arrive."
You pout, groaning softly. "But I wanna keep you companyâ"
Your yawn overtakes you then, exhaustion settling in before you can force it away.
"Reckon I'll survive, darlin'," he says quietly. "Sleep."
You nod, lying back into him, his arms keeping you steady the whole way home.
You wake just as he's rearing the horse to a stop, not but a few feet from the front steps.
"Made it in one piece," he remarks, a hint of amusement lacing his words. Enough to make you smile back, anyway.
He helps you dismount, hands lingering at your waist longer than propriety allows.
And youâadoring every second of his attentionâpress adamant kisses to whatever skin you can reach, giggling at the way the tips of his ears turn rosy in the moonlight.
"Alright, up you go," he mutters, helping you to the door, one firm hand around your hip to keep you from stumbling.
"Oh, I had a real great time, Arthur," you say softly, the drink finally leaving your system long enough to not have you slurring over every other word.
The swill was horrible, but the wine Dutch offered you was just right.
Arthur is silent for a moment, running a hand across his hair as he looks you over.
He lingers on your flushed cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, your kiss-swollen lips that have yet to return to their original state.
But beyond that, he sees nothing but fondness and warmthâthe kind that says you've found the one thing you've been missing all this time.
He grunts, nods his head, unable to hold your gaze much longer. "Glad to hear it."
You beam, reaching up to caress his cheek before dropping your hand away.
"Don't be a stranger now..." you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt. "You gotta promise."
He softens, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Yeah... I promise."
You pause, biting at your cheek.
"Supper?"
He frowns in confusion.
"Come to supper tomorrow," you blurt, the words leaving you in a rush. "I'll cookâmake you somethin' nice."
Then, because you've always been too honest for your own good, and the drink isn't helping none, you add, "Just wanna see you again."
He hesitates, looks around for a minute before he speaks, hands tightening where they grasp your waist.
"Don't wanna impose."
"It isn't imposing if I'm offering, now is it?" you say, chin lifting, lips pursed like there'll be no arguing the matter.
A sharp exhale leaves him as he glances back at his horse, its tail swishing where it stands, then back to you.
"What time?"
You, not expecting such open acceptance, stand a bit straighter, eyes going round as a doe's.
"'Round noon?"
He nods, mulls it over in his mind.
"Tomorrow, 'round noon... but don't trouble yourself with cookin'â"
"Gonna make you a whole damn potluck," you say, your smile the biggest he's seen from you all day, your breathless giggle catching in the wind, echoing softly in the breeze.
"Jesus, woman," he chides, lips curling at the edges, head tipping toward the house. "Go on up to bed."
You just stare, look at him like you'll never get the chance to memorize his face like this againâhead tilted, lingering on every line etched into his skin, every fleck of blue you can see in his eyes, the sheer sturdiness of him.
"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper affectionately.
To your surprise, he leans inâlips to your hairâand presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"And to you, Miss Gillis."
a/n: this was written for this request, and i had SO much fun writing it, i was giggling and blushing the entire time. Arthur is soooo âĄâË đŠąă»ââ§ââËïœĄâ but i hope you loved this as much as i did, and thank you for all of the love on my last few works. it means the world to me :') okay, love you, byeeeeee
"You're just too good to be true / can't take my eyes off of you"
â Frankie Valli / "Can't Take My Eyes off You"
â pairing:Â Arthur Morgan x fem!reader / reader POV
â tags/warnings:Â romantic tension, so much tension, compliments, Arthur Morgan is weak for praise, and touch-starved, mayor's party, Arthur Morgan in a suit, BARK BARK BARK, mutual pining, idiots in love, flirting, devoted Arthur Morgan, man is fighting for his life, mirror scene, tie fixing, Arthur Morgan has terrible self-esteem, neck kisses, Hosea being Hosea, YEARNING!!!
â word count:Â ~1.8k
Trust Dutch and Hosea to be up to no good, and rope you and Arthur straight into it.
They didn't say much, didn't give you any details. Just pressed a wad of bills into your palm and told you to head into town.
"Make yourself look proper," Dutch said. That was all.
And with money in your hand and the big city at your feet, who are you to argue?
You're certain the dress hugging your figure is something the women in higher places wear to just about any old party. Near enough to silk for the sort of men Dutch means to fool.
But to you? It's a marvel.
Satin that sits just right, stays that cradle instead of poke, petticoats that whisper with every step.
You look like a thousand dollars and some change.
Least, that's what Mary-Beth says.
All Tilly and Karen can muster are jaws on the floor, eyes all but falling from their sockets.
"Arthur sees you, he ain't gonna make it," Tilly utters, fanning herself.
Molly just rolls her eyes. She always was a woman of few words.
Even still, she mutters a quiet, "Guess it ain't half bad," before turning her attention elsewhere.
The girls are fussing over youâfixing an errant curl into place, straightening your gloves, adjusting a ribbonâwhen a familiar voice cuts in.
"Ladies."
You glance up, and there stands Hoseaâhands tucked easy into his vest pockets, looking you over with quiet approval.
He nods, then asks, "Mind stealin' a minute?"
Your eyes narrow immediately.
"That depends. What you need?" you ask, tilting your head. Curious, cautious.
Hosea's always had a way of convincing you to do things, and it almost always has to do withâ
"Arthur's havin' himself a little crisis."
Karen snorts. You don't so much as blink as you glance behind him toward the house.
"That so?"
"Mm," he hums, rocking back on his heels.
"Claims he looks ridiculous."
Your face softens despite yourself.
Hosea noticesâof course he does. Everyone knows as much as the two of you butt heads, you can't help yourself where Arthur's concerned.
Apparently, neither can he.
"Thought maybe someone might talk sense into him."
You don't budge, huffing indignantly.
"Why me?"
A moment passes, the girls watching on as it stretches in the air between you. Thenâ
"Because you're his date, aren't you?"
Mary-Beth's hand claps over her mouth, and Tilly? Well, she looks like the cat that got the cream.
"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims. "How sweet."
You make an attempt to catch your bearings, but all your thoughts fall apart like a wagon wheel come undone.
"I ain't hisâ"
"For appearances," Hosea says innocently.
Whatever he finds in your expression, it's enough to make him pause, sighing fondly.
"Though I suspect Arthur may disagree."
With that, he wanders off, leaving you staring after him, lips parting like a fish out of water.
Now what the hell are you meant to do with that?
"Well?" says Mary-Beth, staring at you expectantly. "Ain't you gonna check on him?"
You huff, drop your arms to your sides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm goin'."
Javier gives you a whistle as you pass, saying something about you holding out on them. Rolling your eyes, you grin, passing him by with a thump to the back of the head.
"Where you goin'?" he calls out, rubbing where your hand connected with his hair.
"Gotta see about a man in a suit."
You round the corner, take the stairs two at a time, holding up your skirts as you go.
Doesn't take you long to find him. Could've picked the right door blind, with the way your heart's carrying on.
Without a word, you slip inside, shut it gently at your back.
And good grief, the sight of him stops you in your tracks, kills every quip you were holding on the tip of your tongue.
There he standsâtailored suit, bowtie undone, hair fixed up like you've never seen before.
A sight for sore eyes.
Reckon you've been parched for quite some time, the way you're drinking him in like water in a barren desert.
When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you both freeze at once.
But you see it.
The way his eyes drop to the dress clinging to you in all the right placesâlingering at the neckline long enough to make your pulse jumpâbefore jerking forward once more.
You don't miss the way his jaw tightens, wrought with tension.
Taking a deep breath, you cross the room slowly, heels clicking with every step.
"...You alright?" you ask quietly, watching him shift on his feet, discomfort on his face plain as day.
He snorts, looking back to his reflection, fingers yanking at his tie.
"Look a damn fool," he mutters.
"Oh, hush," you chide, inching closer. "Let meâ"
"Naw." He bats the offer away before you can finish. "I got it. Don't worry noneâ"
But you're already there, hands sliding beneath his, easing them down.
Your fingers brush the warm skin at his throat as you take hold of the bowtie at both ends, doing it up easy.
"Mm," you hum, fighting a smile. "Makin' a right mess of it."
A quiet little laugh escapes your nose. Arthur watches closely as you fix the knot into placeânot too loose, not too tight.
Just right.
You smooth your hands along his jacketâadjust his lapels like they aren't sitting fine already, brush away imaginary dust from his shoulders, fingers taking their time running down his arms.
"There. All done," you murmur, eyes on his mouth.
He doesn't look at you. Not until your finger hooks beneath his chin, angling his head until he can't avoid it any longer.
"Nervous?"
He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"I look nervous?" he asks, voice low.
The laugh you give him is soft, a smile curling your lips before you think better of it.
"Your tie sure did."
He stares so long, your cheeks start to burn beneath the rouge dusted over them. But you don't look away. Even as his eyes flick down to the fabric draped along your body once more before returning to meet yours.
"New dress?"
His fingers brush the fabric, curiosity getting the best of him, his hand settling at your waist. When he's certain you won't shy away, his fingers curl around your hipâsteady now, no hesitation left in him.
You nod, bite the inside of your cheek before asking what's been on your mind since you walked through the door.
"You like it?"
He glances at you onceâquick, like looking too long might lead to him doing something he can't take back.
"Looks nice."
He pauses.
"Real nice."
Your hand rises to rest on his chestâunmoving, just feelingâbefore slipping beneath his jacket to feel the heat of him through his underclothes.
"I like the suit... Looks good on you," you murmur.
His lips twitchâalmost a grin, but not quite enough.
"Ain't nothin' special."
You frown at the way he shifts, looking at himself in the mirror like the man staring back just ain't quite right.
"What are you on about?"
He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. His hand finds yours, covering it on his chest, holding it there.
As if you'd ever dream of pulling away.
"Arthurâ"
"Just ain't much to look at is all," he mutters.
You blink, a couple times, half-convinced he's lost his damn mind.
He's looking at the floor now, touch going slack against yours. You turn your hand, lacing your fingers, press the back of it flat to your chest where your heart thuds a rapid pace.
"That what you think?" you breathe, letting him feel it.
How he affects you.
How the sight of him now is doing little good to your composure.
How his touch, and the weight of those eyes on you, shakes you to the core.
His jaw loosens at your whispered words.
"Don't look myself," he says quietly.
"It's just a suit," you reassure him. "Same man wearin' it."
He doesn't believe itânot even close. But you won't leave it there.
"Arthur Morgan, have you looked at yourself?"
He scoffs, shakes his head.
"Every damn day."
"Then I reckon you ain't lookin' hard enough."
Cupping his face, your thumb grazes his cheek.
"I'm s'posed to find somethin' wrong with this?"
"Don't you startâ"
Before he can protest, you're on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than it needs to. Enough for you to feel the hitch in his breath, his fingers tightening where they hold you still.
"What kinda woman you take me for?" you whisper against his mouth. "Think I don't know what I got?"
You trail kisses to his cheeksâthe left, then the right, a firm press of your lips to his skin.
"Think I don't love the man beneath all this?"
You move along the strong line of his jaw, down his neck to where his pulse flutters relentlessly beneath the hot press of your tongue.
"Darlin', ain't a thing about you that doesn't drive me wild," you murmur, nipping lightly at the space beneath his ear.
"Christ," he mutters. "The hell you doin' to me, woman."
He rubs at his jaw, all flustered and red. You'll never tire of seeing him like thisânot for a second.
"We got places t'be."
"Don't you preach at me. We ain't in no rush," you say, watching him sigh when his fingers find the scar on his chin.
You noticeâain't a thing about the man that slips past you.
"Almost forgot," you say suddenly, rising again to press a slow kiss to the mark. Long enough to remind him it's just another thing about him you can't help but love.
His brows draw tight, watching you in surprise, reverence taking its place soon after.
Stepping back with a playful grin, you adjust his collar and make your way to the door.
"Go on and finish up, cowboy."
Then, tossing his words right back, you say, "'We got places to be,' after all."
He doesn't get a word in before you're gone, slipping out of the room, the smell of your perfume lingering long after.
Out front, you nearly collide head first with Hosea where he leans against a railing, watching you with thinly-veiled amusement.
He knows too much. Old man's got eyes in the back of his head.
"He alright in there?"
You pause, the memory of what you just did flashing in your mind, and cast a brief glance back at the house.
"He's just fine," you say, a lilt in your voice you couldn't hide if you tried.
Hosea studies your face a beat too long.
The pleased little curl of your mouth, the way you won't quite meet his gaze, cheeks a touch too flushed.
His lips twitch.
"Thought as much."
a/n: ohhhhhh, this is a buzzy one SORRYYYY! this is for this request i received with some creative liberties taken, as i had a specific vision in mind for how it would go. anon, i hope you love it sm!!!!!! i'm still working through requests. rest assured, i'll get to the ones still waiting soon ⥠as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, and thank you sm for reading! mwah mwah ilysm
or... saving your boyfriend in the middle of a mission !!
warnings : the slightest tinniest bit suggestive !!
áá âą a/n: ... hey yeah so i'm making our dear Ladybug an anemic on every fic from this one onwards. he just.. he has an iron defiency i KNOW it. he has THE face of a guy with iron deficiency.
The metallic shriek of the connecting door slamming shut behind you echoes in the narrow passageway between cars. The world outside is a blur of green and tunnel lights, a nauseating kaleidoscope that matches the frantic rhythm of your heart. Or is that his?
"Just my luck," Ladybug wheezes, his breath coming in ragged pants that fog the cool air. "A snake. A literal, venomous snake. And not just any snake, the Hornet's snake. Of course it is."
You're both running, a synchronized sprint born of countless tight spots shared. The briefcaseâthe stupid, pristine silver briefcase you'd so elegantly lifted from the bickering British brothersâfeels like a lead weight in his hand. Behind you, you can almost hear the sibilant hiss of the snake slithering over the grates, and further back, the booming, furious voice of Tangerine promising a world of pain.
"Less talking, more running, sweetheart," you shoot back, your voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline singing in your veins. You glance over at him. His face, always a little pale, has taken on a concerning, chalky hue. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his temple. You saw the tail end of his scuffle with the Hornetâthe way heâd moved with that desperate, graceful efficiency to avoid her poisoned syringe.
Heâd handled her, of course. Your man is clumsy, not incompetent. But the fight, the adrenaline dump, and now the frantic sprint from a venomous snake and two very pissed-off, impeccably dressed rival assasins⊠it was the perfect storm for his system to stage a mutiny.
"Y'know, I'm really trying to embrace the universal flow here," he gasps, "but the universe seems to be flowing directly into a septic tank today."
He stumbles. It's barely more than a hitch in his step, a slight sway, a momentary loss of coordination. But to you, who knows the map of his body better than your own, it screams louder than any alarm. His knees are about to become a temporary non-renewal resource.
Your brain, a supercomputer calibrated for both lethal force and loving care, processed the environment in a nanosecond. The snake's hiss was closer. Tangerine's and Lemon's furious bickering from the other end of the carriage was closer.
Your eyes, sharp and scanning, don't waste a second. They dart past his heaving shoulders, past the panic in his wide and hazy blue eyes, and land on the small, illuminated panel of a bathroom door, right there in the passageway behind him. A tiny, claustrophobic sanctuary.
Your brain conjures out three plans in less than a split second.
Plan A: Outrun them. Impossible. Heâd face-plant before you took three more steps.
Plan B: Fight them. Suicidal in his current state.
Plan C: Your specialty. Improvise.
Time seems to warp, stretching into a single, decisive moment.
Plan C, it is.
Your left hand shoots out, palm smacking the "Open" button for the automatic door with a sharp, precise thwack. The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the sterile, cramped interior.
At the exact same moment, your right hand darts forward. Your fingers don't fumble; they find their target with unerring accuracy: the worn, sturdy belt loops of his cargo pants.
You don't just grab him. You reel him in.
With a firm, undeniable tug, you pull him off his failing axis. He stumbles forward, off-balance, and his body collides with yours in the confined space. It's not a gentle bump. It's a full-body impact. His hips slam flush against yours, the hard planes of his body meeting your softer curves, knocking the air from his lungs in a soft oof. The briefcase handle digs into your side, a cold, hard reality check.
This is his kryptonite. That specific, possessive, physical claim. The one you use to center him, to pull him out of his own head. And right now, it's the only thing keeping him upright.
You don't stop. In one fluid, powerful motion, you step back, dragging him with you into the tiny bathroom. You turn around in a swift movement and his back hits the metal wall with a dull thud, the impact jarring enough to make his vision swim. But he doesn't crumple to the floor. Because you'd already calculated the trajectory, anticipated the collapse.
As his legs give way, your guiding pull directs his fall. He lands not on the grimy floor, but squarely, almost gracefully, onto the closed lid of the toilet, sprawling across it like a deposed king.
The door hisses shut behind you, plunging the small space into sudden, profound silence, broken only by the two of you gulping down air. The frantic shouts of Tangerine and Lemon are muffled, becoming a distant, outside problem.
For a long second, there's only the sound of ragged breathing.
He's slumped against the wall, legs splayed, head lolled back. His cheeks, which were pale moments ago, are now blazing with two spots of high color, a combination of exertion, dizziness, and sheer, unadulterated shock. His eyes, wide and a little dazed, find you standing over him.
You're still holding his belt loop.
He lets the briefcase drop to the floor with a definitive clunk, the sound unnaturally loud in the tiny room.
His gaze is hot, bewildered, and utterly, pathetically captivated. He looks from your eyes, blazing with a mixture of concern and triumph, down to your hand still fisted in the fabric at his hip, and then back up again.
He was a wreck. A beautiful, pathetic wreck. His hair was a mess, his chest heaving. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and the exposed column of his throat. And his eyes⊠they weren't hazy with dizziness anymore. They were dark, wide, and blazing with something else entirely. Awe. Mortification. And a hot, sheer, unadulterated want.
You leaned over him, one hand planted on the wall by his head, caging him in. The other came up, leaving the fabric of his belt-loops, your fingers gently brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
"Hey there, handsome," you murmured, your voice a low, intimate whisper in the tiny space. "You check out the specials on the floor again?"
He just blinks, his brain struggling to reboot. The adrenaline is curdling into something else entirely, something warmer and far more dangerous.
"YouâŠ" he starts, his voice rough. "You just⊠you manhandled me."
A slow, wicked smile spreads across your lips. "I just manhandled you into a bathroom and saved your delectably clumsy ass from becoming snake food or Tangerine's new punching bag, you mean?" you finished for him, your thumb now stroking slow, soothing circles on his temple. "Yes. I did. Part of the girlfriend n'partner-in-crime service package. Don't worry, it's complimentary."
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The blush on his cheeks deepens. "You pulled me⊠you pulled me right into you. I felt⊠everything."
"Is that a complaint, Ladybug?" you purr, leaning forward slightly, bracing your hands on the wall on either side of his head, caging him in. The position brings your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because from where I'm standingâor, where you're sittingâit looked like you rather enjoyed your rescue."
His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. The dizziness from the anemia and the fight is now mingling with a different, more potent kind of vertigo, one that only you can induce.
He swallowed, hard. You watched the bob of his Adam's apple. "The⊠the belt loops," he finally managed, his voice rough, the words breathed out against your lips.
"What about them, baby? Needed a good handle. Seemed like the most⊠secure place to grab you. Unless you had a better suggestion?"
A full-body shudder wracked him. You felt it where your knees were almost touching his. He was utterly, completely at your mercy, and the knowledge was making him lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with his iron levels.
"You're⊠you're a menace," he breathed out, but there was no heat in it. Only a desperate, worshipful kind of surrender.
"Your menace," you corrected softly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear before you pulled back to look at him again. Your gaze was clinical for a second, assessing. "Dizzy spell passing? Or do I need to get the emergency gummy bears from the purse?"
Before he can answer, a loud, angry voice echoed from right outside the door. "Where the bloody hell did they go? They can't have just vanished!" Lemon's reply was a low, rumbling murmur.
Your eyes lock with Ladybug's. The flirtatious heat instantly banked, replaced by a predatory, shared focus. You bring a single finger to your lips.
He nods, his breathing consciously slowing. The professional in him, the one buried under the anxiety and the anemia, was surfacing. But he never broke eye contact with you.
In the profound, tense quiet, with your enemies just feet away, you slowly, deliberately, let your gaze drift down his body, from his flushed face, over his still-heaving chest, down to where your fingers had, moments before, been hooked into his jeans. You let him see the pure, unadulterated heat in your eyes. You let him see that while this was a crisis, it was also, for you, the most thrilling date night imaginable.
You lean in again, your mouth so close to his you can almost taste the panic and desire on his breath.
He reaches up, a hand trembling slightly, not from weakness now but from sheer, overwhelming want. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. The gesture is unbearably tender in the midst of the chaos.
"A terrifying, brilliant, beautiful menace. And you just saved my ass from a snake, two pissed-off Brits, and my own circulatory system." he breathes, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.
"You're my anemic, philosophizing, bad-luck-charm of a partner," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "It's in my job description to save your ass. Especially when it's an ass that looks this good in these pants."
You see the spark in his eyes, the one that appears when you've successfully short-circuited all his anxiety with sheer, unadulterated flirtation. The color is fully back in his face now, and it's all for you.
He uses the hand on your cheek to gently pull you the last inch forward, closing the distance. His lips find yours, not with desperate passion, but with a deep, soul-aching gratitude and a simmering heat that promises much, much more later. It's a kiss that tastes of adrenaline and the sweet, undeniable victory of your presence in his cursed life.
When you finally pull back, both breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.
"The second they're gone," you whisper, the promise a silken threat in the dark, "I'm not letting you off this toilet until you're fully rehydrated. And then," your voice drops even lower, laced with a playful, possessive venom, "we're going to have a veeeery long talk about the proper way to thank your girlfriend for saving your life."
A low, pathetic whimper escaped him. His head thudded back against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut. He was done for. Completely, utterly, and gloriously conquered. And as he sat there, trapped between mortal danger and the woman of his dreams, he decided that maybe, just maybe, his bad luck wasn't so bad after all.
daeron targaryen x reader | learning to love you pt.5
arranged marriage trope, enemies to lovers, def toxic relationship at the start, arguing/fighting, angst, sexual tension, alcoholic tendencies, concepts of self doubt, suggestive content, mention of marriage consummation/"bedding" ritual (not explicitly detailed, but i definitely want to put it out there as a warning, i may expand upon it later in the series!!!), very vague reader details, no use of y/n, slightly canon-divergent storyline (I created a northern city-state that does not exist for the sake of the plot!), lack of proper research pls don't come for me lol, canon-typical warnings, let me know if I've missed anything!
words: 3.7k
masterlist
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The despair wraps around you like a cloak black as the night. It seeps into every movement and settles into your limbs with a heaviness like lead. The emptiness inside you inexplicably fills the confines of your abode with an icy, all-consuming draft that sweeps away every small attempt to get back on your feet. Never before had you felt so helpless, so lonely, like a great dragon had burned away the very essence of your soul and devoured your peace with it. It left only a gaping cavity at the center of your chest and a dizzying numbness which encompassed your entire being.
You did the small things you could to push down the numbness and fill up the space with something that felt more lively. Sometimes it would be going down to the stables or into the gardens, or wandering around the keep to have a task at hand. You wrote letters to your family that you would never sendâ some filled with pretty lies concerning the courting period and others a mirror of your anguish and disdain for the Prince in which you are promised. Falling into anger provides relief on occasion. You read books from the palace library, watch the Kingsguard train in the battlements and have Vespera bring your dinner directly to your chamber in the evenings. Despite your attempts to replenish yourself, that deep emptiness still nags at you.
Most days, the facade you have tried to build is so exhausting that you can not rise from your bed until the guilt drives you half-mad. It's been nearly a week of this vicious cycle and you're beginning to wonder if it's worth the effort, but you know giving up will do nothing but more harm.
You not only see the anxiety in the eyes of your men, but feel it tooâ radiating off of them in waves. They watch all your movements for tells that you'll break and you see the questions they want to ask you. Their concerns are valid, and you wish you could reassure them like the leader you were raised to be but you have no answers nor solutions. You're certain they want to go home to Stormengard just as much as you do.
Vespera knocks on your door with breakfast the same time she does every morning, and this time you force yourself to sit up in the giant bed and take the tray without a fight.
"The royal family worries about you." She states, not meeting your eyes.
You try to imagine Daeron or Aerion Brightflame with his cruel, brooding face, concern in their gazes and it makes you nearly laugh out loud. "I highly doubt that." you remark, tearing open a fluffy, glazed pastry absentmindedly.
"Well, Prince Baelor at least." Vespera responds, shrugging, "And I think his brother as well, though he won't say it."
You sigh. You were foolishly hoping that your recent absence from dinners and royal events would go unnoticed, but it seems it's only drawn attention to you instead. You must look like some distraught, weak damsel in the eyes of such dragons.
"I'll attend dinner with them tonight," you bargain. "Thank you for warning me."
Vespera smiles shortly and pours you a glass of water from a gleaming glass pitcher.
"You wish to call off the engagement?"
You shake your head, lips pressed into a thin line, "I cannot. It's out of the question." Your hand maiden says nothing, but seems to understand.
You finish your breakfast and peel the covers off of you reluctantly. You know you shouldnât spend another day tucked into bed, though you swear the pillows are whispering your name. Vespera begins to arrange you an outfit as you float to the bathing room to freshen up and prepare for the day.
Moments later, you are dressed in another summer gown and sitting at the vanity while Vespera pins up your hair. Youâd given up on the traditional southern braids that the rest of the women in Kingâs Landing wear, opting for a looser style with far less plaits that don't pull at your scalp. They were only to impress your betrothed afterall, and Daeron doesnât seem to care how you wear your hair; he hates you regardless.
An impatient knock raps at the door, startling you with itâs abruptness.
âWho do you suppose that could be?â Vespera mutters as she fastens the last stray lock of hair to your head and turns to answer it.
You shrug, unsure, but your knee begins to bounce nervously beneath the vanity. You study yourself in the mirror a moment while she tends to the visitor, disobediently pulling a curl from your plaits to frame your face.
Daeron stands lucidly with a sour expression across his features.
âHave you come to torment me?â You ask, crossing your arms as you stand before him.
Itâs Daeronâs turn to roll his eyes at you now, âMy father insists I take you on an excursion today. He noted that you havenât left your chamber in days.â He smirks, tauntingly, âAvoiding someone in particular?â
You hum, surveying your nails as you feign unbotheredness. âMust we?â
âIâm afraid he would find out if we lied. He always does.â Daeron extends his arm to you like a proper prince would and you take him by the bicep once more. âIâm rather hungover, I donât expect weâll be long.â
You cringe visibly, remembering your first excursion with him. âJust donât puke on me, I beg.â
âIâll try not to.â
Daeron takes you to the terrace which overlooks the city and a good portion of Blackwater Bay, the waves crashing against the steep cliffside that beholds The Red Keep. Youâre both silent as you walk through the castle, and now even as you survey the scenery. You hadnât yet made it to this side of the palace but it seems somehow even more grand than the rest. Sheer curtains dance in the breeze and the ocean reflects pearlescent, sunlit ripples on the stones of the tower. Everything is golden and airy and glimmering. Daeron leans on the banister, a softness settling over his features and warming him from the inside out. Itâs like watching his youth restore right in front of your eyes.
On the horizon, fishing boats and charter ships sail through the cerulean waters, gulls screeching for a portion of their catch.
âItâs pretty up here.â you state, breaking the silence.
Daeron nods, âYeah, and quiet. No one else really comes up here anymore. My mother would spend her afternoons sunbathing on the terrace in the summers. It reminded her of home, sheâd say.â
Lady Dyanna Dayne. You remember hearing the news of her passing many years ago. The kingdom was in mourning for more than a fortnight. They say she was well-loved and kind-spirited.
âWere you close?â You ask carefully.
âYes. I had the most time with her out of all of my siblingsâ being the eldest, of course.â
You nod, âI lost my mother too, but she was sick for a long time before she passed. She was often too weak to leave her bed so we seldom spent time together.â
âIâm sorry,â he says, genuinely, and you fall into a comfortable silence again.
âHave you ever been to Dorne?â You ask him suddenly.
âWhen I was young, yes. I hardly remember much more than its beauty and the spiced food.â
Heâs nice like this, you think. Sincere, gentle-toned, unguarded. The sun on his skin and his shoulders relaxed.
He turns to you fully, âWhatâs your home like?â Youâre surprised that heâs bothered to ask, but thereâs real curiosity at the edge of his voice and heâs completely attentive as you speak.
âItâs perfect.â You smile wistfully.
âStormengard is nestled between the ancient West woods and a rocky coast. We have beaches with black sand and creeks that bubble through the village. The people are kind and we all look out for one another, I've never spent a single day wholly alone. Itâs misty and often blue, but when the weather is nice the sun glistens off the ocean and lights the trails through the forestâ thereâs always an adventure to be had. The castle is much smaller than the palace, but itâs no less beautiful and far more inviting.â
Daeron watches you as you tell him all about the home you miss so dearly. When you're finished, you apologize bashfully, wondering if you've bored him.
"No, not at all." He assures, "I'd like to see it someday."
You must be daydreaming. The bewilderment is clear on your face.
"You're much more pleasant like this." You blurt out, but the statement is genuine. You have half the mind to be skeptical of the usually cold and brash Targaryen prince before you. It seems just a little sobering up and an hour in the glorious summer sun has melted away his icy exterior.
Daeron huffs, but there's a shadow of a smile on his lips. "Sorry," He says, "I'll try not to make a habit of it."
You wonder what Daeron would be like without his vices. He is still quite youngâ could he learn to give up the alcohol he relies on to go about his day? And what is it exactly that makes Daeron drink so heavily?
They're dangerous thoughts to have, but you can't help but imagine your betrothed like this with you for the remainder of your coupling. If whatever plights him didn't weigh on him so heavily, would you have both found yourselves in company you enjoyed rather than despised?
You don't have much more time to find out, though you suppose it doesn't matter anyhow. You're to marry each other regardless of your true feelings. The wedding is in a mere two weeks, the past fortnight having gone by in the lick of time despite your persistent agonizing. You must have slept half the time away.
Your father and his court are likely already beginning their journey south for the ceremony, your sisters in wake.Â
Together you stand on the terrace until Daeron becomes weary at his place against the wall. His eyelids flutter closed, fighting sleep as his shoulders slouch more each minute that goes by.Â
âTired?â You ask, quietly.Â
Daeron nods, not looking up, âIâll walk you back to your chambers now, my lady.â
â
The next time you see Daeron is three days laterâ three sunrises and two sunsets. The full moon hangs low in the sky, and ballroom music plays heartily from the grand hall of The Red Keep. It is Prince Maekarâs name day, to his demise, and the palace has opened itâs doors to the noble families of Westeros to celebrate his Grace. Guests fill every corner of the keep, dancing, drinking, eating, and all things in between. You're dressed in your finest and had Vespera prepare you to be shown off to the kingdom like livestock next to your betrothed.Â
But the royal family has been rather preoccupied with hiding the fact that a certain Targaryen has been missing for several days. Daeron had disappeared into the night without a word, no doubt up to no good, and the Kingsguard has been quietly searching for him since. You could only assume that this is a common occurrence, as Maekar seemed not concerned nor panicked, but annoyed instead. Like this is only a display of his son's incompetency. A publicity nightmare. And of course, if that is the case, then Prince Daeronâs absence is also a poor reflection of you and your engagement.Â
Youâre standing near the stairwell, tucked into a sparser area of the ballroom when you see him.Â
Daeron is striding directly towards you from across the room with a purpose you know not, the crowd splitting around him and the look in his violet eyes make you want to flee. Heâs disheveled and dirty, his hair hanging in tangles around his face and over his brow, clothes wrinkled and stained, cloak torn at the bottom. His face is flushed pink and thereâs a glaze over his eyes like he isnât really present but the attractiveness is somehow still there, lingering just beneath the surface and glowing through the grime. But itâs crystal clear to you (and the rest of the party) that Prince Daeron is entirely, and inappropriately drunk.Â
The urge to run strikes through your body from head to toes, but when your feet try to turn and make a break for it you quickly realize that youâre completely paralyzed to the spot. Daeron crowds around you menacingly, plucking the wine glass right from your hands without a word. You step back unconsciously, fingers bracing themselves on the wall behind you as you look up in shock. But just as Daeronâs mouth opens to speak heâs suddenly being hauled off of you by the collar like a bad dog. Maekar grits his teeth with the biggest scowl youâve possibly ever seen in your lifeâ it puts all of his unruly sons to shame. His fist is closed so tightly around Daeronâs cloak that the skin turns white from the pressure.Â
The wine glass tumbles from Daeronâs fingers, shattering at your feet and effectively waking you from your stupor. The servants rush to clean up the mess and suddenly the orchestra is playing a new song with a rising crescendo. The guests immediately turn their attention to the music and abandon their fixed gazes on you and Daeron being dragged out of the ballroom by his father. You take a few deep breaths, eyes flitting nervously around your surroundings before you gather your skirts and step over the glass and spilt wine on the marble, searching for an escape from the crowd to recollect yourself. Your mind is still reeling.Â
You feel naked under the scrutiny of your company.Â
You rush out of the ballroom and into the corridor, politely excusing yourself when one of the nobleâs daughters - House Stokeworth perhaps? - tries to pull you aside to ask something. You only make it halfway down the hall, Ser Kieran trailing behind you after leaving his post by the terrace doors, when you hear the hushed shouting from one of the parlors with the door left ajar.Â
You catch sight of Prince Maekar, face red with anger as he reprimands Daeron, who seems wholly uninterested in the interaction. Maekar points an accusing finger in his face and you pick up a few of his scornful words.
âYour impudent behavior bears weight on the entirety of this court whether your thick skull realizes it or not. You have a reputation to uphold for this fucking House, Daeron, and a wife-to-be whose reputation you are foolishly destroying!â Maekar seethes. You canât see Daeronâs face in the candlelight, but you are nearly certain he rolls his eyes as he scoffs in response.Â
âThis arrangement is not a fucking joke, do you hear me? I easily could have awarded Aerion this gift if I had felt so inclined! Or Valarr and the poor girl would have a shot at being Queen of the realm instead of a drunken idiotâs nanny!âÂ
âSo why didnât you?!â Daeron shouts back, throwing his hand across the surface of a bureau, causing the candle holders to fly across the room and clatter against the floor noisily. The room falls into darkness.Â
Startled, you take several steps back and abandon your eavesdropping, quickly diverting course to your chambers. You hear Maekar, raising his voice louder now as he storms from the room and you quicken your steps in escape, scared of being caught inserting yourself into their business.Â
âHow dare you speak to me like this! Get out of my sight,â you hear him calling for a servant or a guard from behind you, âGet him out of my sight, now. I donât want to see him until heâs sobered up.â Â
Ser Kieran guides you back to your rooms, apologizing nearly every step of the way for what you are going through to which you shake your head, unwilling to discuss the whirlwind of emotions youâre currently feeling. You lay in the wide bed of your desolate room, still fully-clothed as you cry with labored, shaking, breaths into the pillows. The night sky continues to darken from your windows and a cool breeze dances through the curtains. You can still hear the music in the ballroom and pray to The Seven that no one takes note of your absence, or at least doesnât become offended by it. You fear for your life if Maekar decides to terminate your marriage with Daeron and proceed with your alliance through Aerion instead. You fear that there is no hope with Daeron at all, that if you must marry him your life will be reduced to misery and constant embarrassment. You wonder if you should run now while you canâ fake your death and escape across the ocean where youâll never be seen again, though you would never see home nor your family ever again either.Â
You canât help but wonder if the King had chosen you for Daeron as a means to control the unruly Targaryen heir. A woman with enough flare and strength to withstand his behavior and shape him into something more suitable by the ways of your Stormengard culture. After all, you are far different from all of the other noble houses' daughters, and controversially less suitable in terms of wealth, famousness, and even etiquette. It would answer the question as to why the Targaryenâs felt in need of an alliance with a much lesser known Northern house of considerably less stature. Suddenly, your background in training and breeding the fantastical Stormengard Wolfhounds feels like a bad joke.Â
Should you abandon all hope? Or prevail through the hardships and continue to make something of the cards youâve been dealtâ the way you were always raised to.Â
When youâve finally run out of tears and the music in the corridors slows and finally ebbs off, you lay awake and numb, staring at the gilded ceiling as you toss and turn. You realize you will never possibly be able to sleep in this state. Your body is alit with nerves and your mind is racing. Your guard would be changing shifts at this time, allowing for a brief interval where your room would be unwatched and you could slip into the halls of the keep and walk off your negative energy.Â
You donât have the time to change out of your ballgown or youâll lose your moment, so in that instant you make your decision and peer out into the corridor sneakily. The halls are empty and the plan works in your favor. You slip out of your room and tiptoe through the keep like a ghost, traversing only the halls you know will be empty at this time. Youâre mostly absent-minded, and you realize after a few moments that youâve walked yourself to the terrace that Daeron had brought you to a few days ago. You decide that the fresh air would be perfect, and quietly slip into the night through the glass doors.Â
You have only a mere second of peace before a raspy voice scares your soul right from your body.Â
âMiss me?âÂ
You nearly jump straight off the balcony. As soon as you regain a normal heart rate, you glare at the blonde prince before you. Heâs sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest on the stone floor of the terrace, a bottle of deep crimson wine clutched in one hand. Clearly, his fatherâs scolding did not phase him. In an instant, youâre overwhelmed with the anger you feel towards him, all that ugly fear morphing into a rage as red as the wine in his gut.Â
You physically feel your features curl into a hideous snark before you control yourself, your fingers balling into fists at your side to resist the sudden urge to hit him.Â
âGo. To. Hell.â You utter, each word more finite than the last.Â
Daeron laughs, still drunkâ and working on getting drunker. âOnly if you come, too.âÂ
You wrestle the glass bottle from his hand and chuck it over the side of the terrace, hearing it crash in the distance on the cobblestone path of the garden below as he pleads with you not to.
You meet his withering glare with a scowl contesting his own, âYou didnât have to do that!â He complains. The words leave his mouth like a petulant child who has just had his favorite toy taken away. Â
You erupt, âI cannot believe you! You were just reprimanded and here you are again? Gods, I've met feral dogs more obedient than you!â You throw up your hands at him incredulously, âHave you no control?!" you shout.
Daeron scoffs, âQuit giving me another earful and just leave me be,â he mutters, âI just want to be left alone.â He sounds utterly defeated, perhaps just as much as you feel.
You take a deep breath and push your hair from your face. You want to shout moreâ you want to push him, kick him even, make him truly understand how much heâs hurt you without even trying to. Instead, you turn away and summon that control you once had. Your prince is silent behind you.Â
Before you step back inside, you meet his violet gaze once more, "I am to be your wife, Daeron. Not your handler." You say, begging him to remember it.
totally did NOT proofread this and I'm exhausted, so hopefully I didn't make any grand mistakes. hope you enjoyed, as always let me know what you think!! don't forget to reblog and like! thank you x a thousand :))
p.s. I accidentally fucked up my taglist so if you asked to be on it and I missed you pls let me know and I'll fix it!
or... your adrenaline junkie boyfriend trying to get it on with a concussion and two broken ribs.
warnings : canon typical violence, Tyler and The Narrator are different people here, suggestive-smut leaning<3
áá âą a/n: @callme-holly I SWEAR THE FILTH IS ON THE WAY BUT FIRST HAVE A TAMER STARTERđ
áá âą a/n2.0: yes, i'm aware making Tyler and The Narrator two different people kinda ruins the whole point of the movie, but this is just fiction so let's enjoy it, if you disagree with me then please just scroll peacefully<3
â± *àł.â
The first knock rattled the doorframe. The second nearly took it off the hinges.
You blinked up from the couch, blanket around your legs, a bowl of cereal in your lap, and a rerun of some late-night infomercial buzzing on the TV. You already know what it is before you even got up. Tyler.
You don't need a phone call.
You know it's him before even opening the door.
Itâs not the knock itselfâit's the weight behind it. A rhythm that says, You're not gonna like this, but itâs happening anyway. The door rattles again. Then groans open before you even finish standing up from the couch.
"Sweetheart, we brought you a very stupid, very bloody present," He says wearily. Cornelious? Sebastian? Jack? You can't even remember his name.
And then Tyler stumbles into your living room like a half-murdered golden retriever who ran full-speed into a truck and loved it.
âHeyyyyy, baby,â he slurs, grinning, eyes wide and wild. âBrought souvenirs. You shoulda seen the other guysâfuck! I think I swallowed my molar!"
He falls against your coffee table. Grabs your lamp for balance. Misses.
You stare, frozen. Heâs drenched in blood. Sickeningly copious amounts of thick crimson blood dribbling down from his jaw to his somatch. Dark smears on his shir that you are not even going to try to wipe off. Split lip, swelling eye, the bridge of his nose mashed crooked. His knuckles are raw and split and thereâs definitely something wrong with the angle of his shoulder.
âTyler Durdenâ you breathe, horrified as he coughs thick red across your hardwood. âWhat the hell happened?! What the hell happened to you?â
The guy whose name you can never seem to remember, but is always side-to-side with Tyler, and a few other ones that you definetely haven't seen before stare from the doorway. There's a bleached blond smiling like that punk vampire that Brooke McCarther played in that 80's movie about vampires in Santa Carla, another one that seems he got his nose smashed and broken more than thrice and the only one that seems mildly concerned is Tyler's second-in-comand.
âMen,â Tyler said, blinking up at you like he was discovering the meaning of life in your face. âThey didnât like me squatting in their dungeon. But you like when I squat, huh?â
Then he laughs.
Loud. High. Giggles like a kid.
The guy steps forward, sheepish and grim. âHe let two guys beat the shit out of him to prove a point.â
âTo inspire the crowd,â Tyler corrects with a bloody grin, still slumping against your white wall while slowly sliding down, leaving a crimson print behind like itâs a crime scene. âDid it work? They looked inspired. Inspired to piss their pants.â
âI think you have a concussion,â you say flatly.
âI think you have beautiful tits.â
You blink.
Heâs giggling again. You walk over to him. He's soaked in sweat and bloodâmostly his. His lips are split open, pupils already swallowing the entirety of his irises. His shirt is going to be thrown straight to the trash, it has no salvation. To add up to it there's a gash above his eyebrow that looks like it should have stitches, and his knuckles are raw hamburger. You grab his face with both hands.
âTyler. Focus.â
His pupils are blown. Dilated like saucers. He stares at your mouth. Your nose. Your forehead. Then leans forward like heâs about to lick your cheek.
You shove him back gently and toward the couch. He sprawls backward onto it with a dramatic ooof, grinning like heâs just landed on a cloud made of your thighs.
âOh, yeah, thatâs the stuff,â he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.
âChrist,â you mutter, rounding back to the guy and the handful of Fight Club stragglers still loitering in your doorway. âGet out. Now. Youâve done your job. Iâll handle the rest.â
So now Tylerâs shirtless. You donât even remember when that happened. Probably while you were rummaging through your cabinet for hydrogen peroxide and painkillers. Heâs splayed across your couch like a Renaissance paintingâsweaty, bloody, and somehow still sculpted, like a pagan god caught mid-orgy.
He lifts his head when you return.
âThere she is,â he drawls. My very own Florence Fucking Nightingale.â
You kneel beside him, hands full of gauze and antiseptic. âYouâre going to hate me for this.â
âI already love it.â
You douse a cotton pad and press it to his lip. He hisses, back arching.
âYou bitch,â he groans, eyes rolling back. âMarry me.â
You roll your eyes. âHold still.â
âImpossible,â he says, voice dropping to a murmur. âI see you and I canât be still. You make me wanna fight again. You make me wanna rip my own ribs out and gift wrap them for you.â
You look up sharply.
Heâs staring at you like you hung the moon. Like you could stab him with that bottle of antiseptic and heâd moan through it.
And thenâbecause of courseâhe tries to kiss you.
His hand catches the side of your face. He leans in, bloodied mouth and all, pupils still huge, breath hot with copper and adrenaline.
âTyler,â you say warningly. âYou have a head injury.â
âI have a hard-on,â he whispers dramatically. âItâs very different, and much more urgent.â
âYouâre bleeding on my couch.â
âIâm bleeding for you.â
âStop talking.â
âOnly if you kiss me.â
You pause.
Heâs grinning. Drunk on pain and lust and himself. Heâs beautiful in the ugliest way. Bruised. Filthy. Wild-eyed and cracked open. And still somehow cocky.
You sigh, leaning close. He chases your mouth like itâs water in a desert.
âOpen your mouth,â you whisper.
He obeys, eagerlyâ
And you shove two ibuprofen onto his tongue.
He gags. You cover his mouth and force a water bottle into his hand.
âSwallow,â you command.
He drinks like a man starved. Water splashing down his chin. He stares up at you, betrayed and turned on all at once.
âYouâre evil,â he mutters, half-coughing. âThatâs why I love you.â
You finally smile, brushing sweaty hair back from his forehead.
âYeah,â you murmur. âI know.â
An hour later, youâve gotten the worst of the blood off him.
Heâs sprawled on your bed now, still shirtless, still bruised, skin bandaged in three different places. Heâs calmerâbut not by much. Just enough for the concussion to settle in and make him weirdly affectionate.
âYouâre so pretty,â he mumbles. âToo pretty to live. I should lock you in the closet.â
You raise a brow. âYouâre delirious.â
âIâm horny.â
âYouâre half-dead.â
âYou make me feel alive.â
âTyler.â
âYou smell like a warm place,â he murmurs. âI wanna fuck you.â
You choke on your own laugh, shaking your head as you run a washcloth over the last dried smear of blood on his collarbone.
âI should be pissed at you,â you murmur. âYou scared me half to death. You show up with a face full of blood and youâre still cracking sex jokes like a drunk frat boy.â
âIâm a visionary,â he says proudly.
âYouâre an idiot.â
âYouâre in love with me.â
You pause.
He looks up at youâhalf-lidded, cocky, beautiful and broken.
So you sigh and wipe his mouth again, watching the red streak across your towel. He winces as he leaned forward, thenâwithout askingâburies his face in your neck.
And you donât deny it.
âUgh,â you groaned, feeling the blood and sweat rub off on your skin. âTylerââ
âYeah, baby?â
âYou almost died,â you said, matter-of-factly, not quite mad but not exactly happy about it either. Hehummed, lips parted, eyes dreamy as he stared up at you from the crook of your shoulder.
âUh-huh?â
His smile spreads slow and lazy, you're an expert in the language of Tyler's different smiles and you know what exactly what that one means.
âYouâre concussed and horny? Seriously?â
âOh baby,â he whispered, âitâs the best combination. I canât feel my teeth and I wanna rail you into next Tuesday. Thatâs balance.â
âYouâre leaking from the head.â
He grinned. âThe lower one.â
You snorted despite yourself. You wrapped a bandage around his ribs, ignoring his little gasps and definteley exagerated moans every time your hands brushed his skin.
âAre youâmaking those noises on purpose?â you asked.
âOh yeah,â he said, nodding solemnly. âItâs part of my seduction technique.â
You kissed the corner of his jaw. It was warm and slick with sweat. âWell, it's not working.â
âIt will, just you waitâ he hummed, a small giggle bubbling up past his lips, grabbing your waist with one hand. âCan I sleep here tonight?â
âYou live here, jackass.â
âOh yeah,â he said, blinking slowly. âThatâs so hot of me.â
You sighed, pulling him up again. He stumbled, but you caught him.
And for once, just once, he didnât push it. He didnât twist out of your arms or try to crack another joke. He just leaned on you, warm and heavy, face buried in your shoulder as you walked him from the couch to your bedroom.
You tucked him into your bed, and when his hand snaked up your thigh even as one eye swelled shut, you didnât stop him. You just kissed his temple, pressed your forehead to his, and whispered, âSleep, Tyler.â
âCanât. Too horny.â
âYou can molest me when youâre not concussed.â
âUgh, fine,â he groaned dramatically, finally letting his head hit the pillow instead of straining his neck to look up at you. You actually saw the switch go off behind his eyes, eyelids twitching slightly, when he finally rested his head against the soft white cotton he was for sure going to stain with a nocturnal nosebleed throughout the night.
You just closed your eyes, tangling your hand in your dumb, beautiful, half-dead boyfriend's blond hair.
guys!! what am i doing wrong?? I don't think I'm a fantastic writer or anything of the sort, but I definitely think my work is at least bearable? A little bit interesting? AT LEAST??
I get significantly less interactions with my daeron targaryen arranged marriage fic than any other writer in the fandom and i'm endlessly grateful to those of you who do leave likes and sweet comments and reblogs but like,,, where are the rest of the people??? am I just not reaching the same audience?? not tagging correctly? wayyyy worse of a writer than i originally thought?
helpful tips appreciated!!! anyone else in the same boat?
âž WELCOME TO THE FAMILY III â modern!targaryen au
synopsis. your first weeks as aegonâs new babysitter unfold and you find yourself being drawn dangerously close to the fire of the dragons.
word count. 9.2k
warnings. daeron living up to his nickame but besides that just the usual emotional immaturity
note. first of all 1k followers is insane what tysm?! for everyone who has been asking will this be a daeron, maekar or aerion fic⊠all i can say is stay tuned to find out!! hope you enjoy readingđ€
previous part. next part. series masterlist.
âAlright â and exhale now.â
The instructorâs voice floated through the dim studio like incense smoke, soft and curated, the kind of calm that probably cost two hundred dollars a month in rent alone.
The sunlight seeped in through the large floor to ceiling windows , the city beyond was reduced to a tiny smear of colors . Somewhere far below, a tram bell clanged faintly â the sound of a city that never really slept, only shifted moods.
You were currently folded into a position that felt structurally impossible, one leg trembling behind you, arms extended forward as though reaching for divine intervention.
Your hamstrings burned and yur shoulders shook.
You inhaled through your nose like the instructor had drilled into you, then exhaled through your mouth like you were releasing a decade of poor decisions.
To your right, Kiera was the picture perfect of elegance. As she always was. She held the pose as if sheâd been born in it, spine straight, chin lifted slightly, pastel hair twisted into a sleek bun that somehow hadnât moved an inch.
She looked like she belonged in one of those minimalist wellness campaigns â âBalance Your Inner Spiritâ or some other nonsense written in beige font.
You, meanwhile, felt like overcooked pasta.
You had convinced her to come. Or more accurately, you had begged.
It had been nearly two weeks since youâd seen each other properly â not just quick campus pass-bys or voice notes sent at 2 a.m. between essay drafts and bedtime stories.
Babysitting Egg Targaryen while juggling a full academic scholarship and a reputation for being âthat terrifyingly put-together girl in seminarsâ did not exactly leave room for social hours.
You liked yoga for one reason: it shut your brain up.
The burn in your muscles drowned out the pit in your stomach. The sweat on your temples distracted you from the constant what-if spiral. When you were here, contorted and aching, you couldnât overthink Aerionâs snide remarks or whether youâd cited that theory correctly in your political philosophy paper.
You could only survive the next breath.
âGreat job, everyone,â the instructor chirped. She was a middle aged woman who somehow looked better than half the girls your age. She was already melting into a graceful seated stretch like she hadnât just tortured an entire room of trophy wives, young students and finance bros. âWeâll finish with some light stretching.â
Light, she said. You almost laughed.
Kiera grabbed her stainless steel water bottle â matte black, obviously â and took a slow sip, eyes sliding toward you with that familiar calculating look.
There was a question behind her eyes you could tell.
âYouâre more stiff than the ice used to build the Wall,â she said flatly.
You shot her a look, cheeks flushed, baby hairs plastered to your forehead. âKie. I love you. But try balancing a full course load, maintaining a perfect GPA, and babysitting for the Targaryens before you start critiquing my flexibility.â
Kieraâs lips twitched. âIâm starting to think talking you into this job was a catastrophic mistake.â
You shifted into a low lunge, palms pressing into your mat, gaze lifting toward the mirrored wall. The city skyline reflected faintly behind you â high rises, construction cranes, the distant colors of various billboards.
âWell,â you muttered, âI think itâs too late for that.â
She followed your movement with her eyes instead of the instructorâs cues. She always did that â watched you like she was trying to read between your ribs.
âI just didnât think,â she continued more softly, âthat signing you up would mean Iâd never see you again. It feels like the Targaryens abducted my best friend.â
You huffed a laugh. âThatâs what happens when you throw someone into the dragon pit without warning.â
âOh, please.â She rolled her eyes. âYou act like I handed you over to organized crime.â
âYou basically did.â
The older woman on the mat in front of you turned slightly, disapproving glare sharp as a dagger. You offered her a tight smile and returned to your stretch.
âAnyway,â you continued, lowering your voice only marginally, âI am being paid an obscene amount of money.â
âBecause youâre not a regular nanny,â Kiera cut in smoothly. âYouâre supervising Egg Targaryen, for the love of the Seven. The child shaved his own head. In solidarity. With what, no one knows.â
You bit back a laugh. It was still a mystery how he had done it. You presumed with an electric shaver that belonged to Daeron or Aerion.
âExactly,â you said. âAnd honestly? Heâs sweet. A little dramatic. But sweet.â
"Then whatâs the problem?â she asked, though you both knew.
You shifted positions again, sitting back on your heels. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive perfume. Outside, sirens wailed briefly â city lullabies.
âAerion,â you said flatly. Even saying his name soured your mouth and put a permanent scowl on your face. You must resemble Maekar with how much you grimaced when talking about his son.
That man really did have a built in glare.
Kieraâs expression tightened. âHeâsâŠâ
You arched a brow. She was clearly trying very hard to locate the correct diplomatic term.
You didnât bother lowering your voice this time. âHeâs a fucking spoiled egomaniac.â
â
âWhat the fuck are you doing in my house?â
The memory arrived in a flash â sharp and undeniable.
He had been standing at the foot of the entrance, like something carved out of cold marble. His eyes still half disbelieving and half insulted by your presence.
His scowl was not theatrical. It wasnât the exaggerated irritation of a spoiled rich boy inconvenienced by a stranger. It was sharp, and filled with a genuine hatred.
His gaze dragged down your figure like he was assessing damage.
You swallowed, heart thumping in your ears but you held your chin high regardless.
âIâ I work here.â
The words had come out thinner than you intended.
He blinked once, slowly, as though you had just informed him that the Lannisters had relocated to Winterfell and taken up ice fishing.
He did not move for several seconds. Just stood there, head slightly tilted, processing.
Then came the scoff. It was quiet â but surgical.
âWell,â he drawled, adjusting the chain at his neck like some self-appointed monarch about to deliver a verdict, âbeing a student at KLU has fallen on⊠sad days.â
It landed exactly as he intended.
You felt the sting pf his words behind your ribs.
He stepped forward, brushing past your shoulder â not accidentally. Not subtly. Deliberately. A physical reminder.
The front door slammed shut moments later, the sound ricocheting in your ears.
You had stood there alone in the pale light, blinking rapidly, willing your composure back into place.
You had dealt with entitled boys before. Campus was full of them. But this was different. You felt it in your bones, in the way his eyes had swept over you like you were a dust of dirt beneath his shoe.
This wasnât arrogance born of fraternity houses and mediocre trust funds. This was something much worse. This was someone who had never been told no.
You glanced back at the house that evening, illuminated by the lights in the street. It looked far more sinister.
And you felt in your gut that things had just got much more difficult.
You had no idea how right you were.
â
The first incident after that happened two days later.
You were in the kitchen with Egg, helping him with his maths homework while squeezing fresh orange juice. You carefully peeled the oranges placing their skin on a sheet of paper towel. You breathed in the citrusy tang.
âSeven times eight?â you prompted gently. Aegon was slouched over his calculus homework.
Aegon scrunched his nose. âFifty-six.â
âGood,â you smiled. âSee? Youâre not hopeless.â
He grinned, pleased with himself.
"The oranges smell nice." He said, grabbing one of the small slices you had peeled and he popped it into his mouth.
That was when you felt it â the subtle shift in atmosphere. Like the temperature had dropped by two degrees.
Aerion appeared in the doorway as though summoned by your moment of peace. And of course ha just had to come in and ruin it.
He was sporting grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was effortlessly put together in a way that made you irrationally annoyed.
Egg stiffened immediately, gaze dropping to his workbook. You had noticed he always had this reaction around his brother, guarded and quiet.
Aerion rarely entered the kitchen. Staff handled most things here. He certainly never poured his own water.
Yet there he was, moving with deliberate casualness toward the cabinet. You kept squeezing the oranges, the juices suddenly slimy and cold against your fingers.
You would not entertain him. You would not rise. You told yourself, eyes fixed upon the task in front of you.
You were just about to finish peeling the orange whenâ
Egg jumped at the sudden noise that reverberated in the kitchen.
The shattering sound was unexpected â sharp and violent.
You spun around instinctively, heart leaping into your throat.
The glass Aerion had previously taken out of the cupboard lay destroyed at his feet, glittering shards scattered across dark wooden floorboards.
He looked at you. You. Not at the glass shattered by his feet.
His purple eyes gazed directly towards your rigid posture, as if awaiting some kind of outburst.
âOops.â He had some nerve.
âMy hand slipped.â The word was laced with something ugly.
His hand most certainly hadn't slipped.
You would bet your tuition on that.
He held your gaze a second longer â as if daring you to challenge him. The corners of his mouth quirked up in mild amusement and then he turned and left without another word.
No apology. No offer to clean it. Just gone.
âIs he bloody serious right now?â you muttered, staring at the mess. Clearly he got a twisted kick out of treating you like a maid.
Aegon didnât look up. âHeâs always like this.â There was no drama in his tone. Just tired acceptance.
You swallowed your anger.
âStay there,â you instructed gently, wiping your hands on a cloth. âDonât move. Weâre not having your feet stitched because your brother has emotional regulation issues.â Egg let out a snort of laughter at that.
You went to fetch the broom from the staff room, returning to carefully sweep the shards into a tray.
Donât let this get to you.
He wants a reaction.
He wants you unsettled.
You dumped the glass into the bin and forced your shoulders to relax.
But your pulse didnât steady for another hour.
The second time was on a Saturday.
Maekar was away for the weekend, in the Vale on business. The house felt lighter without the constant pressure he might pop up at any minute and unleash his sour mood on all of you.
You had ordered pizza for dinner â four different kinds â and the kitchen island was cluttered with boxes and laughter. The smell of cheese and dough wafted in the room, it was definitely a stark contrast to the polished interior of the dining space. You guessed it hadnât been built with the intention of hosting cheap pizza dinners.
âPineapple belongs on pizza,â Aegon declared confidently, not a single doubt in his voice.
âItâs an abomination,â Rhae shot back, dramatically shielding her slice.
Daella giggled, nipping at her own slice.
You found yourself smiling more than you had all week.
You checked your phone absentmindedly. Still nothing from Daeron. You hadnât seen him since that strange morning he had waited for you by the gates.
A part of you was hoping your screen would light up with a notification from him. At least a whatâs up or how are things back home?
You knew it wasn't your place to worry for him, he was an adult man. But you had grown fond of him and well with his rumored drinking problems you could only hope he was doing fine.
A quiet unease lived in your chest about that. But you said nothing. It wasnât your place.
Rhae squealed when Aegon squeezed ketchup onto his slice. The squirting noise was followed by a streak of blood like sauce. He licked it off his finger viciously.
"I cannot believe we are related!â She squealed, brows pinched in genuine irritation.
You laughed despite yourself.
And then â like a dark cloud passing over the sun â Aerion entered.
He was in a skin tight under armour shirt and workout shorts. A sheen of sweat glistened on his palw brow.
He held a glass of murky green liquid, eyes scanning the pizza boxes with visible disdain.
âSo,â he said coolly, â is this what my father is paying you for now? To feed them garbage and junk?â
Your jaw tightened.
âAt least I feed them,â you replied through gritted teeth. You couldn't stop yourself.
A tense silence fell.
He stepped closer just as you stood to grab a napkin.
His shoulder collided with yours â forceful enough that the green juice sloshed over the rim and splattered down the front of your top.
The murky green liquid was all over your chest, a very obvious stain forming already.
He stepped back instantly.
âClumsy, are you?â
For a split second, you saw red. You could say something now. You could scorch him. You couldâ
But Daella jumped in quickly, sensing things would escalate quickly if she didn't intervene.
âOh it's no big deal! I have a shirt upstairs from Subdued I never wear. You can borrow it!â
Her tone was deliberately bright.
You latched onto it like a lifeline. For the sake of the kids you wouldn't lash out at him. And the sake of keeping your job.
âThat would be lovely, thank you.â You glanced at her, your tone clipped, restrained anger pulsing inside of you.
Aerionâs mouth curled sharply inspecting his sister.
âThese people work for us, Daella. We donât share our things with them.â
The words were venomous. But Daella ignored him completely.
Rhae stared at her brother with open disdain.
He lingered another moment, clearly dissatisfied by the lack of chaos, then muttered something under his breath and left.
The front door slammed shut behind him and engine revving was audiable seconds later as his black car tore out of the driveway.
You were speaking with Duncan the Tall â whose nickname was not ironic â Valarr, and Raymun Fossoway about sustainable agriculture initiatives when a familiar presence cut through the group.
Raymun was just talking about how his cousin had made a sketchy deal when the interruption came.
âAh, cousin.â
Aerion addressed Valarr as though the rest of you were invisible. He was dressed in a dark red polo shirt and black dress pants. The only colors he wore were black and dark red apparently
Duncanâs jaw tightened visibly. It was a well known fact him and Aerion had bad blood from the past.
âAerion,â Valarr greeted, tone carefully neutral.
Aerionâs gaze drifted lazily across your group.
âIâd say you were networking,â he mused, âbut looking at these peopleâŠâ
His eyes landed on you.
ââŠthere isnât much to network about, is there?â
He laughed, his joke clearly amusing only to himself.
Duncan did a micro movement and Raymun subtly gripped Duncanâs sleeve to prevent escalation.
Then came the final blow.
âDid you know,â Aerion continued smoothly, eyes fixated on you know, âthat Y/N works for us?â
He said it like an accusation. Like it was something to be ashamed about.
âSo tell me,â he murmured low enough that only you heard, âdoes blood really not matter when you're playing house for that impudent little rat of my brother?â
Heat crawled up your neck.
âIâm employed,â you replied evenly. âNot indentured.â
His smile was slow. Predatory. Like a dragon smirking at his prey.
âI suppose weâll see how long that lasts.â
And then he left, as always â trailing disruption behind him like smoke.
You had stood there afterward, pretending your hands werenât shaking.
"I'm going to beat him so bloody hard one day." Duncan grumbled from beside you as Raymun sighed.
You told yourself he was irrelevant. You told yourself he was just bored. This was his cruel way of entertaining himself.
You told yourself you would not let him define you.
But whiel you were lying in bed that night, staring at your apartment ceiling, replaying the humiliation â you understood something clearly.
This wasnât random cruelty.
This wasnât thoughtless arrogance.
Aerion Targaryen had decided you were something to torment.
To prod and to unsettle. See how far he could push your buttons.
And the worst part? He was enjoying it.
âÂ
You continued, staring at your mat like it had personally offended you. âHe treats everything like itâs a game. Like the world exists for his entertainment. He walks into a room and expects it to rearrange itself.â
âSome would say thatâs confidence,â Kiera offered cautiously.
âMore like narcissism.â
Your heart rate had picked up, but not from the yoga this time. The memory of how Aerion had been persecuting you riled you up to no end.
âHe watches me,â you added after a moment, quieter now. âLike Iâm⊠I donât know. A poor animal he has decided to torture until he drives me away.â
Kiera went still.
âThatâs⊠awful,â she said carefully.
âIt is.â You swallowed, not denying the reality of it.
The instructor dimmed the lights, beginning a soft closing meditation. A gentle instrumental track filled the room, something airy and slightly cinematic.
âLie back, everyone,â she murmured.
You did, staring at the ceiling where faint reflections of city lights shimmered.
âWhy donât you quit?â Kiera whispered.
The answer came too quickly. âBecause I canât.â
She turned her head toward you.
âThey pay enough to cover my tuition next year,â you admitted. âAnd my rent. And my dadâs car repairs.â
Silence stretched between you.
âAlso,â you added, staring at the ceiling, âI donât like the idea of him thinking heâs chased me away."
There it was.
Kiera sighed. âYouâre impossible.â
âBig city girl now,â you murmured. âI can handle a dragon.â
She huffed quietly. âThatâs not a dragon. Thatâs a trust fund with a God complex.â
You smiled despite yourself.
The instructorâs voice floated over you again. âLet your thoughts drift awayâŠâ
If only it were that simple.
You closed your eyes. For a moment, there was only the hum of her voice, the warmth in your limbs, the faint scent of lavender oil.
No Aerionâs smirk. No academic pressure. No expectations hanging over your head like chandeliers.
Just breath.
After class, you and Kiera stepped out into the evening air. The sky was that deep indigo shade right before full night, skyscraper windows glittering like constellations. The pavement was still warm from the day. Students laughed somewhere down the block, someone blasting music from an open car window.
You felt lighter. Not free â but steadier. You loved yoga because it cleared your mind.
Kiera bumped her shoulder into yours. âDinner?â
âI have to be at the Targaryensâ by eight,â you groaned.
She made a face. âOf course you do.â
You checked your phone. Three unread messages.
Egg
please come right now my father is going to have an aneurysm if you donât appear in like fifteen minutes .
How did he even know what that word meant? Being taught by private tutors clearly had itâs perks. Like knowing what the word aneurysm means at ten.
You quickly typed away.
You
Is everything okay???
Egg
Yeah
TypingâŠ
Kind of
TypingâŠ
Not really
Your stomach dipped.
Kiera noticed instantly. âWhat did the little menace say?â
You locked your screen without answering. âNothing important.â
She studied you for a long moment, clearly not believing you.
âDonât let Aerion get into your head,â she said finally.
You lifted your chin, summoning that polished campus persona â the composed, high-achieving girl who never cracked.
âHe wonât.â
You bid Kiera goodbye at the corner, her hug lingering for half a second longer than usual, as if she could sense the shift in your mood.
âText me if the dragons start breathing fire,â she murmured.
âYouâll hear about it on the news,â you replied, forcing a smile.
But the moment you turned toward the bus stop, your stomach dipped.
Egg never texted you first. Not this urgently and not without context.
By the time you reached the glass shelter, your phone was already in your hand. The sky over Kingâs Landing had begun its slow descent into gold â the kind of sunset that made the Blackwater shimmer like molten coin. The city was loud as ever: traffic crawling, street vendors shouting, distant music bleeding from open windows.
Still no notification.
You opened your messages.
You
Is everything okay?
Delivered.
And nothing else.
Your fingers found the edge of your thumbnail and began picking at it, a nervous habit you hated but couldnât seem to shake. What if he was hurt? What if something happened? What ifâ
The bus roared up in a sigh of brakes and you climbed on, taking a seat by the window. The ride felt longer than usual. You watched as the streets shifted from crowded storefronts to manicured avenues, the architecture growing increasingly polished, increasingly expensive.
Sunset spilled over Blackwater Bay in sheets of pink and orange. Normally you would have admired it but tonight it only made your anxiety sharper.
Still nothing from Egg.
By the time the bus stopped at Red Keep Station, you were on your feet before the doors fully opened. You stepped onto the pavement and practically power-walked â then jogged â then nearly sprinted the last stretch toward the gated neighborhood.
The Targaryen house glowed warmly in the twilight. Street lamps flickered on one by one, casting golden halos along the pristine sidewalk. The guard at the front gate recognized you now; he opened it before you even reached it.
âEvening,â he nodded.
You gave a tight smile, too preoccupied to reply properly.
You slowed just enough to compose yourself before approaching the door. You didnât want to look frantic. You didnât want to look like youâd run.
You hesitated for half a second â knock or not? You figured you had come here enought times already. Then you pushed the door open.
You were past formalities.
Immediately, something felt off.
The house was messy.
Not chaotic â but careless. Shoes tossed near the entryway. A coat abandoned halfway up the stairs. A long black cashmere overcoat, the Armani logo visible on the tag, MT stitched discreetly inside the lining.
Maekarâs. Of course he would own a personalized Armani jacket.
You recognized the size instantly â none of his sons would fill that frame.
You quieted your breathing and stepped further inside.
Voice carried from the living room.
âSeven bloody hells, Baelor, what the fuck am I supposed to do?â
Maekarâs voice was sharp, frayed at the edges. He stood with his back half-turned to you, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight.
"You know very well this isn't the first or last time." He all but growled.
You froze.
His eyes snapped to you mid-sentence.
You caught a faint voice through the phone speaker before he exhaled heavily.
âHold on. Iâll call you back.â
He didnât wait for a response before ending the call.
Then he turned fully toward you.
âWhere the fuck have you been?â
The words hit harder than they should have.
You became painfully aware of your outfit â tight black leggings, a soft wrap ballerina top thrown over your sports bra after yoga. Your hair was still pulled back loosely, skin faintly flushed from earlier exertion. You didn't have time to change between your workout and job.
âYou told me eight,â you replied carefully, glancing at your phone. âItâs eight.â
For half a second, you thought you saw his gaze drop â assessing, lingering at the curve of your thighs.
You told yourself you imagined it. Pull yourself together.
He pinched the bridge of his nose instead of responding.
âIâll need you to stay. Indefinitely.â He hesitated, jaw flexing. âThereâs something I need to take care of.â
You didnât bother asking what.You already knew he wouldnât tell you.
âYou may have to stay the night. Rhae and Daella are at a sleepover. Aerion isââ He paused, scowling. âWhere the fuck is he?â
He muttered something under his breath.
âOh, bloody hell. I cannot worry about him as well. If you need anything, check the girlsâ room. They have enough clothes and products to supply half of Kingâs Landing.â
You almost felt relief. At least Aerion wasnât here. But something was clearly off.
âAlright,â you nodded. âYou just⊠do what you need to, sir.â
You nearly asked about Daeron but you stopped yourself glancing at his stern demanour.
âVery well. Aegonâs in his room.â He turned toward the door, then paused. âAnd perhaps⊠you should shower.â
Heat rushed to your face.
Of course.
You probably smelled like sweat and coconut-vanilla body mist.
âOhâ yes. Of course.â You said sheepishly.
He gave a curt nod and left. Moments later, tires crunched against gravel and the sound of his car faded into the night.
You exhaled slowly.
Fantastic. Somehow, you kept managing to embarrass yourself in front of him.
It was like a special talent at this point.
You made your way to Aegonâs room and knocked lightly.
âCome in!â The boy had come to recognize the pattern of your rapping on the door.
He lay sprawled on his bed, book open in his hands. His hair had begun to grow back â pale strands forming a soft buzz. He looked like a tiny white-haired kiwi, and despite everything, it made your heart soften.
âWhat happened?â you demanded immediately. âWhy didnât you text me back? I thought you were dying.â
He grimaced. âFather took my phone. Said he needed to install a child-tracking app.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âI know.â
You rubbed your temples. âWhatâs got him like this?â
Aegon shifted to face you more fully.
âThey found Daeron drunk in a ditch. And then he got arrested.â
You laughed instinctively, thinking he was jesting.
Then you saw his expression. Your laughter died instantly.
You had worried about him earlier on the bus without even knowing why.
âDonât worry,â Aegon said lightly. âIt happens.â
It happens? What kind of kid says that their brother being found drunk in a ditch and then arrested 'happens'. Aegon Targaryen apparently.
Your shoulders sagged.
You decided not to press him about it. Instead, your gaze fell to the book in his hands.
The script looked unfamiliar â elegant, looping.
Se zaldrÄ«zes iksin rĆva se zĆbrie.
You could read the letters but the words were completely unfamiliar.
âWhatâs that?â
He stiffened slightly.
âMy⊠High Valyrian dictionary.â
Your eyes narrowed, suspicion rising.
âAnd why, pray tell, is it open?â
He hesitated.
âDonât get mad but⊠I have an entire text to translate for tomorrowâs lesson with Maellon.â
Your heart nearly stopped.
âWhat?â You blinked hoping he was joking this time.
âItâs onlyââ
âAegon.â
He winced.
If the translation wasnât immaculate, Maellon would shred both of you alive with disappointed lectures about legacy and intellectual discipline. He'd drone on about how neither of you respected the intellectual importance of nurturing ancient languages and family history and blah blah blah.
But worst of all he would definitely tell Maekar.
You inhaled slowly.
Okay. Calm down.
âWeâll figure it out,â you said finally.
He looked relieved you didn't yell at him. âThanks.â
He paused.
âBut maybe you should shower first. No offense but you smell like gym and coconut oil.â
You groaned. âSo Iâve been told.â
You left him giggling and made your way upstairs.
The girlsâ bathroom was pristine â marble counters, gold fixtures with tiny dragons, shelves lined with expensive skincare and perfumes. You locked the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment.
Daeron was arrested. Aerion was missing.
Maekar was unraveling in realtime.
You quickly rid of your sweaty clothes and turned the shower on. You stepped under the spray, letting the warm water cascade over your shoulders.
Your mind wandered â unwillingly â to Daeron.
The way he had waited for you that second morning. The softness and sincerity in his voice.
The almost-apology in his eyes for things he hadnât done.
There was something fragile about him. Something tired.
You tilted your head back, water running through your hair.
And then, uninvited, another thought surfaced. The more urgent one.
High Valyrian. The script in Aegonâs book had looked hauntingly beautiful. Ancient and intimate.
You imagined the same words spoken aloud â low, melodic, curling like smoke in the air.
You wondered how Aerionâs voice would sound speaking it. You squeezed your eyes shut immediately.
Absolutely not.
You did not think about him in any context that involved softness or beauty. He was pure evil.
Yet fragments of earlier encounters replayed anyway â the way heâd leaned close at the campus gala. His shoulder brushing past yours on purpose.
Heat crept up your spine.
You pressed your palm flat against the cool tile wall.
He was cruel. Calculated. Deliberate.
He absolutely despised you.
And yetâ
High Valyrian. Ancient dragon-tongue.
You wondered what kind of boy grew up fluent in a language no one else in the city spoke.
You wondered what it must feel like to carry that weight.
You wondered why, despite everything, you kept thinking about the other brother â the one found in a ditch â and the one who made your life miserable in equal measure.
Water streamed down your face. You told yourself it was just stress, exhaustion.
Too much proximity to the dragon house.
You shut the water off and stood there for a moment in the quiet bathroom, steam rising around you.
You wrapped yourself in a towel and stared at your reflection â cheeks flushed, eyes distant.
The steam from the shower still clung to your skin when you stepped into Daellaâs closet.
Calling it a closet felt criminally reductive â it was closer to a boutique. Soft recessed lighting glowed along the shelves, illuminating rows of neatly arranged tops in identical shades, trousers organized by fabric, shoes lined like curated art pieces. Everything smelled faintly of rose and expensive pefume.
You ran your fingers over silk and cashmere before settling on something simple: wide-leg grey sweatpants and one of the ten identical white t-shirts folded in perfect stacks.
You changed quickly, grateful for the softness of the cotton against your freshly showered skin. The sweatpants were slightly short; Daella was a touch smaller than you. You adjusted the pants and caught your reflection in the mirror.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Almost like you belonged in the house rather than orbiting it.
Your mind, unfortunately, refused to stay soft.
High Valyrian.
The words felt heavy even in thought. How did one translate an ancient dragon language?
It wasnât taught in school. No elective brochure had ever offered Introduction to High Valyrian Grammar. If someone truly wanted their child fluent, they hired private tutors â and even then, most parents didnât bother. Ancient languages were ornamental. Impractical.
Clearly Targaryens weren't most parents.
Youâd heard Old Valyrian was offered in specialized university programs for history majors studying Old Valyria before the Doom. Maesters learned it, of course â but you were neither a history student nor studying in Oldtown.
You were a KLU student with a caffeine dependency and a part-time job in a house that functioned like a modern monarchy.
Fantastic. Hopefully google scholar could save you from doom.
You made your way back to Aegonâs room.
He was already seated at his desk, papers spread in chaotic formation. Dictionaries open. Notes scribbled. The air carried the faint scent of pencil shavings and stress.
He looked up when you entered.
âAlright,â you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically. âLet us begin.â
He nodded solemnly, as if you were about to charge into battle.
In a way, you were. Except it wasn't a battle with swords and shields. It was a grammatical war.
You sat beside him and began reviewing everything he knew about High Valyrian.
Which, unfortunately, was not much.
There were lists of vocabulary with translations scrawled beside them. Verb conjugation tables that looked like theyâd been designed to personally torment students. Marginal notes from Maellon in precise red ink.
Nothing connected. Nothing flowed.
The sentences in the text refused to resemble anything coherent in the Common Tongue.
You had already tried Google Translate but the text made absolutely no sense.
It had spit out something resembling poetry written by a confused robot.
You were certain if you stared at another declension chart your brain would simply collapse in on itself.
âTell me again,â you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose, âwhy your father thinks this is necessary.â You swallowed the harsher version of that sentence.
Aegon rested his face in his palms, voice muffled. âBecause he says itâs vital for all Targaryens to honor their roots and history.â
He droned on as if he had repeated the words a thousand times already.
Of course Maekar believes that.
You nearly scoffed.
It sounded exactly like something Aerion would say â self-important and reverent, as if speaking High Valyrian made you somehow morally superior to everyone else.
You leaned back, stretching out on the carpet among scattered papers.
It was nearly ten pm.
Your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. And you had only been doing this for an hour.
You stared at the ceiling, thinking. The gears desperately shifted in your head.
âWhat if,â you said slowly, sitting upright again, âwe just had someone translate it for us?â
Aegon blinked.
âWell, as you just witnessed, there is no translator capable of accurately converting High Valyrian to the Common Tongue.â
âNo, not an app,â you clarified. âA person. Someone who actually knows it.â
His posture sharpened. âOh.â
âYour family is basically a walking Valyrian dictionary,â you pressed. âSomeone must speak it fluently.â
He considered.
âFather and Baelor do,â he admitted. âBut thatâs not an option.â
You both silently agreed that Maekar discovering this situation would be catastrophic.
âDaella and Rhae speak it about as well as I speak Dothraki,â he added.
So. Not at all.
âAerion is out of the question,â Aegon said quickly.
You nodded instantly.
You would rather face Maellonâs wrath than ask Aerion for help.
You didnât even suggest Daeron.
Considering he had just been found in a ditch and arrested, he was hardly a viable academic resource.
âWhat about Valarr?â you offered.
âHe's at a charity gala. With Aerion.â He added with a roll of his eyes.
Of course he was. You were running out of Targaryens.
Your mind raced.
Could you hire someone online? At ten at night? For an obscure ancient language?Highly unlikely.
âWhat about your grandfather?â you ventured.
Aegonâs eyes widened. âDaeron?â Daeron the Good as he was called. He had restored peace to the political scene of Westeros and raised more fundraisers than any man in the history of the realm.
You nodded.
âI doubt he would approve of me cheating.â
Fair enough.
Calling the head of the Targaryen family at ten p.m. to outsource homework seemed like a death wish.
âWhat about your grandmother?â Myriah Martell was an older woman, yet her beauty and elegance was timeless.
âSheâs Dornish.â
You blinked. Right.
You groaned, flopping back onto the carpet. âAegon, weâre doomed. We cannot translate this stupid text. And we've run out of your family members."
You watched the last flicker of hope dim in his expression.
Thenâ His eyes lit up.
âWait.â
You sat up immediately, ears perked up.
âI know someone.â
You raised an eyebrow, awaiting his solution.
âAemon.â
The name clicked instantly. The answer had been so obvious all along.
Aemon Targaryen. Currently studying in Oldtown. Training to be a maester. He was allegedly brilliant. And allegedly more fond of books than human interaction. Which was more of a pro than a con at the moment.
He definitely knew High Valyrian.
The only issueâ
âAegon. Oldtown is on the other half of the country, it's three in the morning in there. There is no way he is going to pick up."
He ignored your protests and reached for his phone anyway.
âFather left it on the counter,â he said. âI checked while you were showering.â
You stared at him. He had initiative. Youâd give him that.
âBut he wonât answer,â you insisted. âNo one answers at three a.m. unless someoneâs dying.â
âYou doubt my brother?â he challenged.
âI doubt his willingness to destroy his sleep schedule for your grammar crisis. I know I wouldn't." You added under your breath.
He was already pressing the green call icon.
You both leaned closer to the phone as it rang.
Once. Twice. Three times.
You opened your mouth to say I told you soâ
The ringing stopped and a face appeared through the screen.
âEgg!â a bright voice greeted. âGods, you really are bald.â
You blinked.
Aemon Targaryen had the traditional Targaryen look to him. Snow white hair and piercing purple gaze. Yet he had an easygoing studios demeanor.
And Aemon was most certainly not in bed.
He was sitting upright at a wooden table, an enormous book open before him. He looked wide awake. Alert and slightly amused.
Who functioned like this at three in the morning?
âOh no,â you murmured quietly. âHeâs one of those.â
âThose?â Aegon whispered.
âPeople who thrive at ungodly hours.â
Aemon peered closer to the screen. âHow are you?â
"I'm good Oldtown has been treating me exceptionally well."
They exchanged quick pleasantries, but Aegonâs anxiety was visible.
âWe need your help,â he blurted.
âWe?â Aemon repeated, curious.
âOhâ this is my⊠my new nanny.â
Aegon flushed faintly.
You waved awkwardly. âHi.â You had never talked to him before.
Aemon smiled warmly. âPleasure to meet you.â
He seemed⊠normal. Relatively.
Though anyone studying at three in the morning might qualify as slightly unhinged.
âWhat are we working with?â he asked, slipping effortlessly into scholar mode.
You explained the translation assignment while Aegon snapped photos of the text and sent them over to Aemon.
He listened attentively, nodding occasionally.
When you finished, he hummed thoughtfully.
âAlright. Thatâs manageable. Shouldnât take more than thirty minutes.â
You nearly sagged with relief.
âUnless,â he added, âyouâd prefer to go over it togetherââ
âNo!â you and Aegon shouted in perfect unison.
You cleared your throat. âI mean. We would love to. But Aegon also has calculus.â
A blatant lie.
Aemon blinked. âOh. Do you need help with that too?â
You stared at him.Was he real?
âNo, thatâs fine,â Aegon assured quickly. âWe can handle calculus.â
âAlright then. Iâll send it shortly. Tell Father and the others Iâm thinking of them.â
âWill do,â Aegon replied.
You both waved as the call ended. The room fell silent for half a second.
Then Aegon fist-pumped the air and jumped up in victory.
You exhaled deeply, tension melting from your shoulders.
Three attachments. Neatly organized translations. Clean formatting. Notes on grammar structure.
Aemon had even highlighted key verbs. You had never been more grateful that Maekar Targaryen had six children. Which would sound really weird in normal circumstances.
You watched as Aegon rapidly copied everything into his notebook, handwriting slightly frantic but determined.
âWeâre geniuses,â you said, leaning over his shoulder.
He giggled. âWe are.â
For the first time that night, you felt something close to triumph.
Not elegant. Certainly not noble. But victorious all the same.
After Aegon finished copying the translation in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting, you both leaned back and stared at the notebook like you had just conquered a small nation.
Relief washed over you in waves.
âAdd two mistakes,â you instructed suddenly.
He blinked. âWhat?â
âTwo small ones. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to make it believable.â
His eyes widened with admiration. âYouâre evil.â
âIâm trying to not get us discovered.â
He grinned and scratched out a minor ending on one verb and adjusted a tense in another sentence.
âThere,â he declared.
You examined it like a general reviewing battle plans.
âThe old man will never figure it out.â
âNo way,â Egg said cheerfully.
The tension that had sat between your shoulder blades all evening finally loosened.
You clapped your hands once. âAlright. What do you say we celebrate with some ice cream? I think we deserve it after this war.â
His face lit up at the idea. âSounds like a plan.â
You both padded to the kitchen, the house quiet and dim around you.
The overhead lights cast a warm pool of gold over the marble island. Outside, the world was pitch black â the kind of deep city-night darkness where only the wealthy neighborhoods remained hushed and glowing.
Aegon hopped onto one of the stools as you opened the freezer.
There was, of course, a section of aggressively healthy protein ice creams â flavors like salted almond and zero vanilla whey.
You ignored those immediately.
Behind them, like contraband, were the real ones.
Imported pints with labels in French and Italian. You reached for a familiar one â HĂ€agen-Dazs.
âWhat flavor?â you asked, scanning the options.
âChocolate chip!â he chirped.
You grabbed it and selected your own â cookies and cream â then shut the freezer with your hip and grabbed two spoons.
You slid one toward him across the island like you were conducting a secret exchange.
He peeled the lid off dramatically.
You both dug in at the same time.
Cold sweetness flooded your mouth. It was sugary and creamy. Absolute perfection.
You hadnât realized how tense youâd been until this moment â freshly showered, wrapped in soft borrowed clothes, high off academic deception and childhood-level indulgence.
It felt strangely perfect.
Just you and Egg, 11 p.m., tubs of ice cream under soft overhead lighting.
âSo,â he said between bites, âyou were at yoga before you came here?â
âYes,â you replied cautiously. âWhy is that funny?â
He snorted. âI donât understand how stretching your muscles like medieval torture is enjoyable.â
You rolled your eyes. âItâs the mental part. It clears your head.â
âMhm,â he said, unconvinced.
"What's the worst ice cream flavor?" He suddenly wondered aloud.
You pondered for a moment. "Mint, definitely."
"Tastes like toothpaste, yuck." He made a face and you both giggled.
You continued eating the ice cream until suddenly his voice rose.
âMy mom would kill me if she knew I was eating ice cream right now,â he added casually.
The spoon paused halfway to your mouth. He had never mentioned his mother before. Not once. Dyanna was practically a taboo topic in this house.
The sweetness turned heavy on your tongue.
He mustâve been four. Maybe five. When she died. He couldn't have many memories of her.
His small face softened, smile fading.
âI donât know why I said that,â he muttered quickly, as if apologizing. You could detect the shame in his eyes and the quiver in his voice.
âNo, Egg, donât apologize,â you said gently. âYou donât have to.â
Silence lingered.
You chose your next words carefully. âWhat was she like?â
His eyes flicked up to yours â surprised.
âI donât remember much,â he admitted. âBut she was kind. She had black hair. It always smelled⊠fresh. Like oranges or something.â He swallowed.
âSheâd sing me lullabies in Dornish. Tell me stories.â
He stared down at the melting ice cream.
âI think she loved me.â
Your chest tightened at his words.
âI know she did,â you said softly. âShe does.â
His eyes glossed over.
Suddenly the overhead lights felt too bright and the silence cavernous.
âFather was happier when she was here,â he whispered. âWe all were.â
You opened your mouth to say something but the sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut through the quiet.
Headlights flashed briefly against the kitchen wall.
Egg slid off the stool almost immediately.
âI should shower,â he said quickly, wiping the tears that had threatened to fall. âGoodnight.â
He turned in a flash and he didnât meet your eyes as he walked away.
You werenât sure if he felt exposed. Or embarrassed. Or simply overwhelmed.
You moved quietly, sealing the ice cream lids and returning them to the freezer just as the front door opened.
You debated going after Aegon but the sight in front of you stopped you.
âGet inside.â
Maekarâs voice was rough, edged with restrained fury.
You froze.
He practically shoved Daeron through the doorway.
Your breath caught at the sight.
He looked utterly wrecked.
Pale as paper. Shirt stained â dark patches you couldnât quite identify from this distance. His dirty blonde hair was disheveled, eyes hollow.
He looked smaller somehow.
Maekar muttered something low and harsh, gripping his arm as he dragged him toward the stairs.
For one fleeting second, Daeronâs gaze met yours.
There was no shy smile this time. Just exhaustion. And something else.
Shame, maybe.
Then they disappeared upstairs. Their footsteps growing quieter as they retreated upstairs.
You exhaled slowly.
You took that as your cue to leave before things got out of hand.
You grabbed your backpack from where youâd dropped it earlier and slung it over your shoulder.
Just as you were reaching for the door handle it opened again before you could stop it.
Your eyes glanced up. The man standing there was unfamiliar.
Tall â taller even than Maekar. Broad shoulders. Dark hair trimmed short. A neatly kept beard threaded with faint silver. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Despite it all he was handsome.
But his eyes were what caught you.
Mismatched.
One darker the other lighter.
âOh," his voice was tinted with surprised as if he wasn't expecting to see you. "hello,â he greeted warmly.
His voice was calm and steady. Nothing like Maekarâs clipped authority.
Baelor. Valarrâs father.
You recognized him instantly. From his eyes
âGood evening,â you replied, suddenly aware again that you were in grey sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt.
You needed to start dressing more carefully around these people.
He observed you carefully, a curious glint in his eyes.
âI take it youâre the young lady looking after Aegon,â he said straightening to full height.
âYes. That would be me.â
For the first time in weeks, standing in front of a Targaryen, you did not feel evaluated.
You just felt⊠strangely seen.
âIâm Baelor,â he said, extending his hand. âMaekarâs brother.â
You shook it.
His grip was firm, calloused, warm.
The contrast between the size of your hands was almost comical.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the staircase where his brother had previously been.
âWell,â you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, âI should probably be going. Itâs quite late.â
âIt was nice meeting you,â he replied. âAnd please, just call me Baelor.â
You nodded. âBaelor.â
In all the weeks you had been working for Maekar he had never once offered you to call him by his first name. Which you didn't find strange. But obviously his brother was the polar opposite of him.
You stepped toward the door.
âIs someone coming to collect you?â he asked gently.
âOh â no. I take the bus.â
You waited for the flicker of judgment from his gaze. It didnât come.
âItâs late,â he said instead. âAllow me to drive you. It wouldnât be wise for a young lady to wander alone at such hours.â
You immediately shook your head. âI appreciate it but that's really not necessaryââ
He raised a hand lightly. Not dismissive. Reassuring, as if urging you not to argue with him about this.
âIâm heading that way regardless. I only stopped to ensure my brother handled Daeron properly.â
You hesitated. Another hour on public transport suddenly sounded exhausting.
âAlright,â you relented.
He did not bid Maekar goodbye instead he held the door open for you. You stepped into the cool air and your eyes fell upon the vehicle in front of the house.
The car parked outside nearly made you stop breathing.
Vintage Aston Martin.
Polished to a mirror finish. It was impossibly sleek. It looked like something out of a james bond film.
You tried to be as graceful as possible while walking towards the car and carefully opening the passenger door.
You slid into the passenger seat carefully, trying not to gape. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something woody.
Baelor fell into the drivers seat and put the keys into ignition.
As the engine purred to life, you folded your hands in your lap. What were you supposed to say?
Silence stretched briefly. You cleared your throat but before you could speak Baelor started.
âI hope my brother doesnât give you too much trouble,â Baelor said gently. âI know he can be⊠intense.â
You were leaving the Targaryen house behind as you drove through some of the nicest streets in King's Landing.
You chose your words carefully.
âTheyâre⊠all very passionate.â
He huffed a quiet laugh.
âThatâs one way to describe us.â
The city lights blurred past as he drove smoothly through the sleeping streets.
âYou handled Aegonâs lesson tonight?â he asked.
âYes.â You replied tentatively.
You had a feeling he sensed something. How, you had no clue.
âAnd?â
You hesitated.
âWe managed.â
He smiled faintly. âI imagine you did.â
There was something observant in the way he looked at you â not invasive. Just thoughtful.
âYouâre studying at KLU, arenât you?â he continued.
âYes.â You told him your major and the fact you were studying abroad.
âA difficult path.â
âSo Iâve been told.â You huffed.
He nodded once. âYou carry yourself like someone who knows exactly where sheâs headed.â
The comment caught you off guard.
âThank you,â you murmured.
He glanced at you briefly.
âNot many people do at your age.â
You didnât know what to say to that.
The car slowed as you approached your neighborhood â noticeably less polished than the one youâd left behind.
He parked carefully near your building.
âThank you,â you said sincerely, unbuckling.
âIt was no trouble.â He smiled gently.
You opened the door but paused.
"Baelor?â
âYes?â
âYouâre⊠different from your brother.â
A small, knowing smile touched his lips.
âYes,â he said quietly. âI am.â
You stepped out into the cool night air, watching as the Aston Martin disappeared down the street.
For the first time that evening, you felt something other than anxiety.
Something steadier.
And as you climbed the stairs to your apartment, one thought lingered:
Not all dragons burned the same.
â
You went into your apartment building sighing as you walked up the narrow stairwell to your floor. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming faintly.
There was always something happening at the Targaryen household.
Always some undercurrent. Some crisis. Some unspoken grief lurking behind polished marble countertops and expensive chandeliers.
You thought about Aegon.
About the way his voice had softened when he spoke about Dyanna.
About the way his spoon had stilled in the ice cream. The way his eyes had turned glassy but determined not to spill.
That hadnât been a small gesture.
That had been raw, unfiltered trust.
A serious and fragile step in whatever strange thing the two of you were building.
Even if you were technically just his nanny.
You unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and old radiator heat greeting you like an anchor. Small and modest. But yours.
No ridiculously expensive furniture and ceiling high windows.
You dropped your bag onto the chair and leaned against the closed door for a moment.
He might start to look at you as a mother figure.
The thought made your stomach twist.
That was⊠a strange thought.
You could never replace his mother. You didnât want to. You would never try to replicate something sacred like that.
A boy only has one mother. One lullaby voice in Dornish. One memory of black hair that smelled like oranges.
You werenât her. You would never be here.
And you didnât want to become some diluted substitute.
Still⊠he had looked at you like he needed someone.
And you had been there when no one else was.
You pushed the thought away.
Enough.
You changed into pajamas, washed your face, and crawled into bed telling yourself that for the next eight hours you would forget about dragons and their disasters.
No Maekar. No Daeron. And this time no Aegon.
No family tensions.
Somehow drifting off to sleep that evening felt uneasy and incredibly unsteady.
â
Your alarm didnât wake you as it usually would have.
It was the vibration of your phone.
You groaned and blindly reached for the device on the nightstand, eyes still half glued shut with sleep.
You squinted at the brightness of the screen.
And your stomach dropped.
10 missed calls.
You blinked.
No. That couldnât be right. You were either still sleeping or hallucinating.
You rubbed your eyes and looked again.
Two from Maekar. Three from Daeron. One from Aerion. Strangest of all. How did he even have your phone number?
Two from Rhae. Two from Daella. And two from Kiera.
Your heartbeat spiked instantly, slamming into your ribs like it was trying to escape.
What the hell. You shot upright in bed.
Your hands suddenly felt cold and sweaty. You opened your messages.
The first name at the top:
Daeron Targaryen
5+ unread messages.
Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tapped the thread open.
The messages came in frantic clusters.
Daeron
Hey.
Sorry about yesterday evening.
Are you awake?
Please answer.
Do you by any chance know where Aegon is?
Your vision tunneled.
Daeron
We canât find him.
The words blurred for a second as dread settled into your chest like a stone.
You remembered clearly, he had gone upstairs to shower. He had said goodnight but he hadn't looked at you.
And you hadnât followed him.
You hadnât checked.
The guilt settled in your gut like a stone. God you were responsible for all of this.
He was clearly unregulated after yesterdays conversation.
Your breathing grew shallow
We canât find him. The words floated around in your head.
Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen as another notification buzzed in.
âž WELCOME TO THE FAMILY II â modern!targaryen au
summary. after your first day of working as a babysitter for the targaryen family you reluctantly return and in a series of unexpected events you end up forging a bond with the members of the dragon house.
word count. 8.7k
warnings. eggs dysfunctional family dynamic but beside that not much, friendly reminder english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes
note. first of all the sheer amount of love that the first part of this fic received is diabolical and Iâm virtually hugging all of you who took a moment to appreciate it, it means the absolute world to me !! beside that I feel like this entire au is just incredibly fun to write and as always hope you enjoy readingđ€
previous part. next part. series masterlist.
To say you were exasperated after your first day at the Targaryen household was an understatement.
After texting for almost twenty minutes you had messaged Kiera a voice memo that consisted mostly of incoherent groaning, followed by: âIf I disappear, tell my mother Iâm reconnecting with nature after dealing with the Targaryens.â
Then youâd turned your phone on silent, taken the hottest shower your apartment could manage, and let the city noise of Kingâs Landing blur into white static behind your windows.
Your building overlooked the river, it was all glass and steel and (way too) overpriced rent and even at midnight the city was buzzing. Youâd fallen asleep to that steady rhythm, the memory of angry fathers and shaved heads dissolving under the soft weight of exhaustion.
Morning came too quickly.
You were halfway through doing your eyeliner when your phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
You glanced down at the screen, pausing the movement of your hand.
Unknown Number
hey, just wanted to let you know father asked you to come an hour earlier today.
You stared at the message, eyeliner pen frozen in your hand.
Father? An hour earlier.
You frowned.
Could it be Aegon? You doubted he owned a phone.
Though, with that familyâs money, it wouldnât shock you if the ten year old had a better data plan than you did.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number
itâs daeron btw. asked dadâs assistant for your number :)
âOh,â you muttered to yourself. âOf course.â
Daeron. That made much more sense.
You recalled yesterdayâs conversation with him. He had been polite if a little bit tense. You remembered he sort of covered for you and saved you from losing your job. You were sure Aerion would never do something like that.
Daeron was the least chaotic of the siblings, from what you could tell. But then again you only knew this family for a day.
As you slipped on your shoes and grabbed your bag, you debated texting back something dramatic and final like â âUnfortunately I have been drafted into the Nightâs Watch.â or âI fear I cannot return to the scene of my execution.â
You stood in your apartment doorway for a moment, hand hovering over the lock.
You could just⊠not go.
But then Aegonâs face flashed in your mind. The way his silver blonde eyelashes had trembled when he asked if you were coming back. The way heâd tried, badly, to pretend he didnât care.
You sighed.
âFine,â you whispered to no one. âFor the emotionally unstable child.â
You quickly typed away at the keyboard on your phone.
You
Okay, will be there.
And then you added a new contact to your phone. Daeron Targaryen.
Kingâs Landing University was already full of students when you arrived.
You had a morning lecture in Political Theory â which you shared with Valarr Targaryen.
It suddenly felt like anywhere you went these people were following you.
You filed into the lecture hall, the overhead lights too bright, the air faintly smelling of coffee and old wood. You slid into your usual seat midway up the aisle and opened your laptop, pulling up last weekâs notes.
You were annotating something about social contracts when someone cleared their throat beside you.
You looked up. Valarr stood there, awkward but composed.
His hair was dark brown â a sharp deviation from the silver-blonde that dominated the Targaryen gene pool â though a single white streak cut through it near his temple like a lightning strike. A reminder of the house he belonged to.
His eyes were mismatched, one deep brown, the other a pale violet that caught the light strangely.
Everyone said he looked like his father. He did. The resemblance was undeniable.
âHi,â he said, almost shyly.
âOh, hello.â
âCan I sit here?â
His gaze flicked to the empty seat beside you.
âYeah, of course.â You gathered your bag off the chair. âItâs a free kingdom.â
He huffed a small laugh and dropped into the seat. âThanks.â
You and Valarr were⊠mutual friends. Mostly because he was dating Kiera. You doubted youâd have crossed paths much otherwise.
He ran in circles that involved old money galas and charity boards.
You on the other hand ran in circles that involved cheap wine and heated debates about whether capitalism was inherently evil.
Still, he was probably the most down-to-earth Targaryen you knew.
You could hardly believe he and Aerion shared DNA.
âSo,â you began, abandoning your notes. âI heard about what happened at the concert. Kiera told me everything.â
Valarr groaned softly, eyebrows pinching at the memory. âYeah. Complete shitshow.â
âI gathered.â
âI knew agreeing to go with Aerion was a horrible idea,â he continued, running a hand through his hair. âBut my father said we needed to spend more time with our cousins.â
You snorted. âDoes your father even know what Aerion is like?â
âThatâs the problem,â Valarr replied dryly. âHe knows exactly what Aerion is like. He just⊠insists on believing thereâs still something good in him, somewhere in there...â
âThatâs fairly optimistic.â
âMore like delusional .â
You smiled despite yourself.
There was something refreshingly honest about him.
A few students filtered in around you, voices echoing softly in the hall.
Valarr leaned back in his chair slightly, studying you with a look that made you suspicious.
âAnyway,â he said casually, âI heard you took up the babysitting job for Aegon.â
There it was. You had a gut feeling he would bring this up. Why else would he have suddenly decided to sit beside you?
âYup.â
âYouâre brave.â
âIâm poor.â
He laughed at that.
âIâm glad you did,â he added more seriously.
That caught you off guard. âYou are?â You didnât understand why he would even care.
âYeah.â His mismatched eyes softened. âYouâre a good person. I mean⊠Kiera loves you and I was⊠pleasantly surprised when she told me.â
You arched a brow. âPleasantly surprised?â
âI just didnât think youâd willingly walk into that house.â
âNeither did I, believe me.â
He smiled faintly.
âYeah, looks like everyoneâs thrilled about it except me,â you said. âAnd your uncle.â
At the mention of Maekar, Valarrâs mouth twitched.
âOh, donât take anything Maekar says to heart. Heâs always like that. My father swears he was born with a frown on his face.â
You pictured him â tall, severe, permanently carved from marble. A man who wore coldness like second skin.
âHopefully next time I wonât be the target of his fury,â you muttered.
Valarrâs expression shifted.
âNo, all jokes asideâŠâ He hesitated. âItâs not easy for him.â
You went still.
âAfter Dyannaââ
âDyanna?â you echoed, the name unfamiliar on your lips.
âHis wife. Their mom.â
Oh. The noise of the lecture hall suddenly dimmed in your ears. Your brain focused on Valarr as if he were the High Septon.
âAfter she died,â Valarr continued quietly, âeverything just⊠fell apart. Things were always shaky you know, but she was the glue. She bind them all together. She balanced him. Softened things.â
You swallowed.
You hadnât known her name before. Only that there had been a mother once and that she was gone now.
âShe was Dornish,â he added. âFiery and warm. The house felt different when she was there.â
âAnd now?â you asked softly.
He exhaled. âNow that sheâs gone⊠itâs like all the warmth left with her. Itâs just empty, hollow. It feels like everyoneâs bracing for something.â
You thought of Daeronâs careful politeness. Of Aegonâs defiance. Of the tension that coiled in the hallways like invisible wire.
âI guess Iâm telling you this becauseâŠâ Valarrâs voice lowered. âI really think Aegon needs this. If not for the others⊠for him.â
Your chest tightened.
âHeâs a good kid,â Valarr said firmly. âUnder all of it.â
You remembered the way Aegon had looked at you â suspicious but hopeful.
âI promise,â you said quietly, âIâll try my best.â
Valarr studied you for a moment, as if measuring something intangible.
âThank you,â he said. âI know they can be difficult.â
âThatâs one word for it.â
He smiled faintly. âBut theyâre not bad. Not really. At least⊠Aegon still has the chance not to be.â
Before you could respond, the professor swept into the room in a flurry of papers and authority.
âSettle down, everyone.â
Laptops snapped open. Conversations died down.
Valarr turned his attention forward, but you caught him glancing at you once more â something grateful lingering in his expression.
You tried to focus on the lecture, but your mind kept drifting.
To Dyanna and to Maekarâs fury. To the way grief reshapes a household. The way it reshapes lives.
By the time class ended, the sky outside had shifted into a pale blue. Students spilled onto the sidewalks, the city swallowing them whole.
Valarr walked with you toward the gates.
âYou going straight there?â he asked.
âYep.â
He hesitated. âIf Maekar says anything⊠just remember heâs not angry at you.â
âI gathered that much.â
âAnd if Aegon gives you troubleââ
âHe will.â
Valarr smiled. âYeah. He will.â
You paused at the corner where your paths split.
âThanks,â you said.
âFor what?â
âFor telling me all of this...â
He nodded once. âShe wouldâve liked you.â You gathered he was referring to Dyanna and for some reason your chest squeezed at the thought.
The words lingered long after he walked away.
You stood there a moment longer, the city wind tugging at your coat.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Daeron
are you on your way?
You stared at the message.
You could still turn around. You could still choose peace.
Instead, you typed back.
You
Yes. Iâll be there.
â
The car ride uptown felt shorter this time. The Targaryen townhouse loomed exactly as you remembered it from yesterday â sleek, imposing, all glass and dark red stone.
When you arrived this time, the guard recognized you immediately.
No assessment this time. No suspicious squint. No ID, please.
He simply gave you a curt nod and opened the iron gates. You checked that as progress in the back of your brain.
The driveway curved long and elegant through manicured hedges and sculpted trees that probably had their own gardenerâs pension plan.
The building still felt daunting, but less⊠hostile.
Familiarity softened even the most intimidating things.
You climbed the front steps, rehearsing absolutely nothing in your head, and reached for the handle.
The door swung open before you could touch it.
âHi.â
There stood Daeron Targaryen.
His dirty blonde hair was loose today, falling softly over his forehead instead of being pushed back like yesterday.
It made him look younger. Gentler. There was a friendly smile on his face, but your eyes immediately caught on the dark half-moons beneath his own.
He looked utterly exhausted, like he hadnât gotten a wink of sleep in a week.
Did his eyes look like that yesterday too? Had you simply failed to notice?
âHello,â you replied, straightening instinctively.
You both just stood there. Staring at each other, slightly awkward.
He was planted directly in the center of the doorway â not that he was enormous or the door was small, but he occupied it so completely it felt symbolic. Like a human threshold.
âSorry⊠can I?â You gestured awkwardly toward the inside of the house, sheepish.
âOh!â His eyes widened in realization. âOf course â sorry.â He scratched the back of his neck and stepped aside quickly.
You slipped past him into the foyer, the marble floors gleaming beneath your sneakers.
âThanks,â you said automatically, closing the door behind you.
âYou ought to stop thanking me so much,â he said with a soft chuckle.
âForce of habit,â you shot back, toeing off your sneakers and lining them up neatly on the shoe rack.
When you straightened again, you were suddenly hyperaware of the silence.
âSo⊠whereâs Aegon?â you asked to break the silence.
Daeron slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, posture casual in a way that looked practiced.
âHeâs in his room, I think. He knows youâre coming at twelve. Heâll pretend he doesnât care for about five minutes and then dramatically appear.â
You hummed. âSounds about right.â Your lips quirked up.
There was another small pause.
âWould you like a glass of water?â he asked. âOr â something?â
The hesitation in his voice made it clear he was navigating unfamiliar territory. Small talk wasnât a Targaryen specialty, apparently.
âIâm fine, thanks.â You smiled lightly. âBesides, after yesterdayâs chicken nugget fiasco, I think I can handle myself in the kitchen.â
He laughed â properly this time, not the forced rehearsed kind. âYeah. The kitchenâs all yours. No one goes in there anywayâŠâ
He trailed off, swallowing something. There was something unsaid there. Something about no one goes in there anymore, no one cooks or no one eats together anymore. You didnât press.
Instead, in a moment of truly questionable social instinct, you nodded toward his face.
âRough night?â
He blinked, not catching up with your meaning. âWhat?â
âYou, uhââ You gestured vaguely near your own eyes. âThe eyebags.â
Fantastic. You couldnât have been more subtle.
For a second he looked confused, then understanding dawned.
âOh. Yeah.â He shifted his weight. âI struggle with these⊠things.â
âThings?â
âWell. Most people would call them nightmares,â he said carefully. âBut theyâre dreams, really.â
He watched your face as he spoke, like he was bracing himself for mockery or something akin to it.
You didnât fully understand â youâd never dealt with anything like that â but you knew enough to know sleep disturbances werenât trivial. Insomnia, anxiety, trauma â it all tangled together in complicated ways.
You nodded gently. âThat sounds exhausting.â
His shoulders eased just slightly.
âIt is,â he admitted. âSometimes it feels like Iâm more awake when Iâm asleep.â
âThatâs kind of poetic. But in a tragic way.â You quickly added.
He huffed a faint laugh. âYeah. I get that a lot.â
Before the silence could deepen into something heavy, a door slammed open.
Rapid footsteps thundered down the hall.
âYou came.â
Aegon stood at the edge of the hallway, his head as bare as the day he was born, eyes blazing with barely contained excitement.
âI did,â you replied evenly, suppressing the smile threatening to betray you.
He walked towards you with forced composure, though his hands jittered at his sides.
You noticed. He noticed that you noticed.
Neither of you commented.
âWell,â Daeron clapped his hands together abruptly, and only then did you realize he was fully dressed â shoes on, jacket zipped. Heâd clearly been waiting for you so he could leave.
At least he was partially responsible, not leaving a ten year old alone in this enormous labyrinth.
âI should get going.â
Aegon didnât even glance at him.
âYeah, sure,â you said, stepping closer to the younger boy.
Aegon turned and started toward his room without acknowledging his brotherâs existence. He disappeared behind the corridor.
There was tension there. Old and ingrained. Like he was silently judging him.
âIâd say see you later,â Daeron said lightly as he reached for the door, âbut Iâm not sure I want to make promises I canât keep.â
You frowned slightly at that. Before you could ask what he meant, he slipped outside and shut the door behind him.
You stood there for a moment. He was strange.
Gentle, but he was definitely nervous. Haunted. By something, or someone.
And something in your gut told you he wasnât heading to a coffee shop.
Flea Bottom existed only a few subway stops away â bars that opened before noon, streets that swallowed boys with too much money and not enough supervision.
You didnât voice that thought.
Instead, you followed Aegon down the hallway. His room door was half open already.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a toy war zone â figurines scattered, a half-built Lego structure and a sketchbook lying open beside him.
âYou redecorated,â you said mildly, noting the scene.
âItâs tactical placement,â he corrected without looking up.
âOf course. My mistake.â
You stepped inside fully and closed the door behind you.
His room felt different from the rest of the house.
Messier. Warmer. Like a child actually lived here. And not an ikea pop up.
You crouched down near him. âSo. Whatâs the plan today?â
He hesitated, then looked at you through his lashes.
Your knees sunk into the plush carpet, surveying the battlefield of tiny plastic bricks and unopened crinkling bags.
There were at least six large packs and three smaller ones still sealed.
âThis is⊠ambitious,â you murmured.
He hesitated before answering, fingers hovering over the instruction booklet like he was about to confess something deeply personal.
âI got this set for Christmas,â he said finally. âAnd I thought it would be a good idea to put it together.â
The box â still propped against the wall â depicted an enormous dragon fortress, complete with towers, battlements, and what looked like an unnecessarily complex pulley system.
You nodded solemnly. âA noble pursuit.â
You settled beside him properly, legs folding under you. The carpet smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something citrusy.
âOkay,â you began gently. âI looked at your schedule. You have a lesson with Maellon laterââ
âI know.â
He didnât even look at you, just snapped the words out while aggressively flipping to page three of the manual.
You blinked. âYou donât like Maellon?â
There had to be something redeemable about the man. Heâd served the family for twenty years. That kind of longevity required either saint-like patience or blackmail material.
âItâs not that I donât like him,â Aegon muttered, pushing two stubborn bricks together. âItâs just he treats me like Iâm stupid. Like everyone else does.â
Your chest tightened slightly at that.
âBut father insists I must respect and listen to him,â he added with an eye roll so dramatic it deserved an award.
You hummed thoughtfully.
The house was eerily quiet again. No music. No television. No distant conversations.
It felt less like a home and more like a movie set.
âAre Daella and Rhae here?â you asked casually.
He paused mid-click.
âDoes your application say babysitting for three kids?â
You stared at him.
âSmart mouth,â you muttered.
He smirked faintly.
âNo,â you admitted. âIt does not.â
âTheyâre in school,â he said after a moment, tone softening as if he regretted snapping. âThey go to a private girls-only institution. Theyâre taught by septas there.â
Of course they were.
âAnd you?â you asked carefully.
You saw it â the flicker in his eyes â before he answered.
âI went to the sibling school. The one for boys.â He shrugged. âThey kicked me out.â He said it so casually but his lips quirked upward with mischief.
You sighed, equal parts entertained and concerned. âDo I even want to know?â
âNo!â he burst into laughter immediately. âAbsolutely not.â
âStory for another time then.â You let it go for once.
You shifted into a more comfortable position and pulled out your phone.
The silence felt heavy, so you tapped into your playlist and let soft pop music drift into the room.
Aegon froze. He turned toward you slowly, as if you had committed a grave personal betrayal.
âWhat is this, miss?â he asked, genuinely bewildered.
âYou donât like pop music?â
He made a face of deep offense. âRhae and Daella listen to this rubbish.â
âOh?â
âI am a man of more refined taste,â he declared, lifting his chin with aristocratic precision.
You burst out laughing. This child never ceases to surprise you.
âAlright, Your Grace,â you teased. âWhat does your refined taste crave?â
âSomething timeless,â he said immediately. âLike Queen. Or The Beatles.â
You blinked at him. There was absolutely no way.
âYou donât believe me,â he accused, observing your bewilderment.
âIâm⊠processing.â
âMy uncle Baelor introduced me to them,â he continued defensively. âHe says they are some of the most soul-touching artists of the twentieth century.â
Of course it was Baelor. There was no universe in which Aerion Targaryen was introducing children to The Beatles. Aerion probably thought Central Cee was high art.
âAlright,â you said, suppressing your grin. âLet It Be.â
You switched playlists. Soft guitar chords filled the room.
Aegonâs face lit up instantly. He began humming along under his breath while snapping bricks together with intense concentration.
You didnât interrupt him. Instead, you grabbed the small notepad that was strewn across the floor and began sketching absentmindedly â the outline of a dragon wing at first, then the sharp angles of the fortress taking shape.
The rhythm of the music blended with the soft clicking of plastic.
Occasionally he muttered under his breath when a piece didnât fit.
ââŠstupid bloodyââ
You glanced at him. He didnât even notice.
You were fairly certain those words were inherited directly from Maekar.
âYou curse like a middle-aged politician,â you observed.
He shrugged. âFather says strong language builds character.â
âSomehow I doubt thatâs how he phrases it.â
The hours folded gently around you.
Between songs and bricks, you talked.
You learned he loved climbing â trees, walls, anything vertical â but his father deemed most things âtoo dangerous.â
You learned his favorite color was green, though he was always dressed in black and red.
âI look like Iâm in permanent mourning,â he grumbled.
âAnd when we go somewhere my father makes me wear this ridiculous hat. It looks like I have a bicycle seat on my head or something.â You genuinely burst out into laughter at that.
You learned he didnât actually hate his family.
âI just⊠wish they were nicer,â he said quietly, not looking at you.
And he learned about you.
âYou do yoga?â he repeated incredulously, after you had listed of all your hobbies.
âYes.â
âAnd pottery?â
âYes.â
He nearly fell over laughing. âYou spin clay for fun?â
âItâs meditative!â
He shook his head in disbelief. âI donât believe that.â
When you mentioned you werenât originally from Westeros, his entire demeanor shifted.
âWhere are you from?â he asked, eyes wide and gleaming with curiosity.
You told him.
You spoke of your homeland with fondness, how the people there were different, the culture, the music, the language. How the way of life moved in a different rhythm.
He listened like it was a fairy tale.
âI wish I could do that,â he said after a moment.
âWhat?â
âJust pack up and leave,â he replied. âGo abroad like Aemon. Maybe Iâd go to Dorne. Or the North.â
You studied him.
At first, it felt absurd. This child lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Kingâs Landing. He had every material comfort imaginable.
But then you understood. He had everything.
And yet â he had nothing.
No love. No softness. No one consistently choosing him.
âThatâs a very big adventure,â you said carefully.
He placed the final brick of the bag into position with a decisive click.
âYeah,â he murmured. âBut it would be fun.â
You checked your watch and your eyes widened.
âOh shit. Maellon should be here any minute.â
Aegon groaned dramatically and flopped backward onto the carpet like a tragic Victorian heroine.
âMust I?â
âYes, you must,â you replied, standing and offering him a hand. âSurvive the lesson and try not to give the old man a heart attack.â
He snorted.
âAnd afterward,â you added, narrowing your eyes playfully, âwe will do something fun. Something that does not include shaving your head.â
He grumbled, then flashed you a sheepish smile.
âDeal.â You stepped into the hallway just as the front door opened.
Maellon entered with quiet authority.
Today he wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his posture ramrod straight. His silver-streaked hair was combed neatly back.
His eyes widened slightly when he saw you. He clearly hadnât expected you to return.
âHello, young lady,â he greeted, voice warm but measured.
âHello,â you replied politely.
He didnât linger for conversation, which you appreciated.
Instead, he moved directly toward Aegonâs room, briefcase in hand.
As he passed, you caught the faint scent of old cologne and leather-bound books.
You leaned lightly against the wall, listening as he knocked.
âYes?â Aegonâs voice called out, suddenly perfectly composed.
You smiled to yourself. The lesson would begin.
And somehow, you suspected this house was going to teach you just as much as you were meant to teach him.
â
After you left Aegon with Maellon, the house swallowed you whole. You stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the faint murmur of Maellonâs measured voice through the closed bedroom door. He was droning on about great houses and ancient conflicts.
The cadence was steady. Monotone. Academic. Unemotional.
You had already finished your own coursework earlier that morning â essays submitted, readings annotated â because youâd told yourself you wanted to focus on the job.
Now you were left with⊠nothing to do. Which was somehow worse than having to cram five hundred pages of content in one evening.
And the nothing particularly echoed in a house this size.
You considered the kitchen. Maybe you could prepare lunch? But you didnât know what Aegon liked. You didnât know if he was allergic to nuts or dairy or something obscure and life-threatening.
Accidentally hospitalizing your employerâs child felt like a poor career move.
So instead, you decided to wander.
At first, your gut twisted with anxiety. What if there were hidden cameras? What if Maekar reviewed footage at night like a paranoid CEO and saw you snooping through rooms that were not yours to see? You would be fire on the spot, hell he might even press charges against you.
But another part of you scoffed at the thought. This wasnât a spy thriller. It was just a house.
An enormous and silent house, but a house.
On the ground floor, you passed the kitchen the gleaming countertops, untouched appliances â and the adjacent dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve comfortably.
It looked somehow staged. Like a showroom. You doubted it saw many family dinners.
The living room stretched wide and airy, lined with bookshelves and framed photographs. Generations of silver-haired ancestors stared back at you in oil paint and black-and-white portraits.
In the center hung a large painting of a woman with pale silver hair, full-figured and radiant, standing beside a stern yet undeniably magnetic man.
Beneath it, a small gold engraving read:
Daemon Targaryen and Rhaenyra Targaryen
You recognized the names. Husband and wife. Uncle and niece.
The Targaryens had once been infamous for their⊠incestious traditions.
Though clearly with the death of the old age their traditions had died with themS Modernity had tempered some of the madness. However when you thought of Aerion Targaryen you werenât sure how true that was.
The woman looked powerful. Warm, even in the paint. Her face forever stitched into this canvas.
You wondered what she would think of this house now, this family.
You continued your quiet exploration.
A secondary entrance opened into the backyard â manicured lawn, stone patio, an outdoor fireplace no one likely used.
A small private library made your mouth fall open. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rolling ladder. Leather-bound volumes. It smelled like old paper and quiet ambition. You would gladly spend the rest of your life in there.
There was a washroom tucked discreetly near the back staircase, likely for the staff, which you hadnât witnessed yet.
The hallway branched into several bedrooms beside Aegonâs. Five doors total. You paused.
Those belonged to the others.
Daella. Rhae. Daeron. Aerion. Aemon.
You didnât cross that line.
Instead, curiosity â reckless and unwise â pulled you further up.
The top floor felt colder somehow. Much quieter.
You opened doors gently, peeking into rooms that were neat and impersonal, until you stepped into what was unmistakably the master bedroom.
It was large, minimalist.
And empty in a way that had nothing to do with furniture. One side of the bed was rumpled. The other perfectly smooth. Untouched.
You instantly knew this was Maekarâs room.You should have left.
Every instinct told you to step back. Instead, you crossed the threshold.
There were no family photos on the walls. No clutter. No softness.
Until your gaze snagged on something small atop the chest of drawers.
A sliver of paper. You stepped closer. It was a pencil sketch of a woman.
She had a warm smile. Cascading dark curls framing her face like a halo. Strong cheekbones. A piercing, alive gaze.
She was breathtaking.
This must be Dyanna. It had to be.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before you could think further, a loud thud echoed from downstairs. The front door closing.
Your heart leapt into your throat. Shit.
You carefully placed the sketch back exactly where it had been and hurried out of the room, closing the door with deliberate quiet.
You quickly descended the stairs into the foyer.
Your eyes were met with emptiness.
There were no new shoes and no coats. Strange.
Had someone come in? Or left?
You checked your watch.
Aegonâs lesson should have ended five minutes ago.
Maybe Maellon had finished and left without telling you. Rude.
He could have at least notified you that the kid was back under your supervision.
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as you headed toward Aegonâs room.
This time, you didnât knock. And the sight stopped you cold.
Aegon was curled up on the floor.
Small. Folded in on himself. Arms wrapped around his legs like he was trying to physically hold himself together.
His eyes were glossy with tears. He looked like a wounded animal.
âEgg?â Your voice came out softer than you expected. It was laced with both concern and confusion.
He flinched slightly but didnât look at you.
âGo away.â
The words were hoarse.
You shut the door behind you gently.
What the hell had happened?
And where was Maellon? Why had he rushed out without saying anything and left a crying child behind?
âAegon,â you said carefully, stepping closer like you were approaching a frightened deer. âWhat happened?â
âI said go away!â he snapped, sharper this time.
You crouched down across from him â not too close, not too far.
âIf you donât tell me what the issue is,â you said calmly, âwe canât resolve it.â
âYou donât understand,â he muttered bitterly. âYou donât even know me.â
You inhaled slowly, straightening your spine. âThen tell me,â you said gently. âSo I can.â
Silence. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.
He sniffed quietly, occasionally glancing at you as if testing whether youâd leave. You didnât. You remained stoic as a statue.
You didnât fill the silence. Didnât push. You just waited.
Eventually, his breathing slowed. His knees lowered slightly from his chest and he seemed to have calmed down.
He scooted a little closer to you, eyes filled with something that looked dangerously like shame.
âHey,â you said softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He stiffened â but didnât pull away. âThereâs nothing to be ashamed of.â
âFather says real boys and men never cry,â he whispered.
Of course he does.
You exhaled through your nose.
âWell,â you deadpanned lightly, âthere are many things I would like to say about your father. But since he is my employer and you are his son, I will refrain.â
Aegonâs mouth twitched despite himself. Thatâs a good step forward.
âNow,â you continued gently, âwhat happened?â
He swallowed.
âWe were studying,â he began slowly. âReciting the houses from Dorne.â
You nodded.
âAnd we got to House Dayne and⊠I didnât know anything.â
Ah. House Dayne. His motherâs house.
âAnd then I got angry,â he continued, words tumbling faster. âBecause how could I not know? And I kept getting things wrong and Maester Maellon said I clearly hadnât studied enough and then I justââ
You didnât say broke. You didnât need to. You understood.
âHey,â you murmured, rubbing his back in slow circles. âHow well you can recite noble houses does not define your worth. You know that, right?â
He nodded reluctantly.
âYou are a smart kid,â you said firmly. âEveryone messes up. The important thing is now you know what you didnât know. And that means you can improve.â
He blinked at you. Your own voice felt foreign in your ears, you sounded suspiciously a lot like a therapist.
His shoulders finallyneased.
âOkay,â you said after a moment. âWhat do you say we do something fun?â He eyed you cautiously.
âLike what?â
âLike baking cookies.â You suggested, eyeing his reaction carefully.
He stared at you as if youâd suggested summoning a dragon.
âBake?â
âYes. Measure flour. Crack eggs. Make a mess. Risk cardiac arrest if your father walks in and sees.â
He frowned, genuinely confused. âIf we want cookies we just order them.â
You gasped theatrically. âAbsolutely not. When you are with me, we do things from scratch.â
He hesitated.
âUnless,â you added slyly, âyouâre afraid of getting your hands dirty.â
He shot to his feet immediately. âI am not afraid.â
âProve it.â
He was already sprinting toward the kitchen.
You followed, laughing under your breath.
Seven help you, this child was absolutely going to be the death of you.
And somehow, you suspected, you wouldnât mind at all.
â
The kitchen felt different today. Less like a showroom and humiliation spot like yesterday. Less like a museum of polished marble and untouched copper pans.
More like something almost⊠alive.
Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, hitting the white stone countertops and making the dust in the air glow gold.
The Targaryen estate kitchen was vastâtoo vast for a family that mostly ordered in or had staff do everything, but today it belonged to you and Aegon.
Aegon was practically vibrating beside the kitchen island, restless energy radiating from him like static electricity. He had that look in his eyeâhalf mischief, half desperate need for something to feel like it was his.
Tears and noble Dornish houses were long forgotten.
He flung open a random cabinet with unnecessary force.
You blinked. âIâm⊠not sure thatâs relevant to baking.â
âIt sets the mood.â
You snorted and leaned over the marble counter, unlocking your phone. The cool stone pressed against your elbows as you opened TikTok and searched for the most indulgent sugar cookie recipe you could find.
Aegon immediately crowded your space, chin nearly on your shoulder.
âThat one,â he said, pointing to a picture absolutely drowning in pastel frosting.
âThat looks like a sugar-induced coma.â
âExactly.â
You scrolled. âThis one looks easier.â
âToo plain.â
âThis one says âsoft bakery-style.ââ
He squinted. âDoes it have sprinkles?â
âYes.â
âThen weâre doing that.â
You watched the video together, nodding solemnly as if preparing for battle.
âOkay, I think we can do thisâŠâ you said, pushing off the counter and grabbing a scrap piece of paper. âFirst step: find everything.â
The kitchen loomed around you like an unfamiliar kingdom. You had barely located the chicken nuggets yesterday without starting a small crisis.
âMission,â you said dramatically, scribbling down ingredients, âfind everything without breaking the kitchen.â
Aegonâs posture straightened immediately.
He took it very seriously. You split the work up.
Cabinets opened and shut in rapid succession. Drawers slid out with soft mechanical whispers. The sound echoed in the high ceilings.
âWhy are there seven types of sugar?â you muttered, staring at labeled glass jars: cane sugar, caster sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, coconut sugarâŠ
âBecause weâre Targaryens,â Aegon replied matter-of-factly from inside a pantry he had nearly crawled into.
You found the flour in an oversized ceramic container labeled in elegant cursive. It felt theatrical, scooping it into a bowl, the fine powder puffing into the air like snow.
Aegon reemerged holding butter like he had conquered something. âFound it.â
âGood. We also need eggs.â
He stared at you.
You stared back.
âOh my God,â he groaned.
You grinned. âEggs, Egg.â
âI hate you.â
âUntrue. You adore me.â
He scowled, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Eventually, the island was covered in ingredientsâlined up in neat little rows because you insisted on order.
Aegon eyed it suspiciously. âWe can just use cups.â
âThe scale is more precise.â
âCups are faster.â
âYou want perfect cookies or chaotic cookies?â
âChaotic.â
You raised an eyebrow.
He sighed dramatically. âFine. Scale.â
You weighed the flour carefully, tapping the bowl to even it out. Aegon tried to pour sugar too fast and you grabbed his wrist mid-motion.
âPatience.â
âItâs more efficient like this.â
The first cloud of flour exploded when he dumped it into the mixing bowl too enthusiastically.
It coated the air. The sunlight caught it. For a second, the kitchen looked like it had been dropped into a snow globe.
You both coughed,blinking at him, now dusted in white from shoulder to eyebrow.
âYou look like youâve aged forty years.â
He swiped at his bald head, making it worse. âYou started it.â
âI did not.â
âYou chose flour.â
âFlour is essential Aegon!.â
He rolled his eyes but laughed, and the sound bounced warmly off the stone walls.
You mixed the dry ingredients together while he leaned his hip against the counter, watching you with quiet intensity. When you handed him the spatula, he took it like it was ceremonial.
âThis is ceremonial,â he said.
âItâs flour.â
âItâs the deciding moment of the destiny of our cookies.â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYou know Iâm right.â
You tried not to smile at that.
When it came time for the wet ingredients, chaos officially began.
The butter melted too quickly and almost imploded when he turned the heat too high.
âAegonââ
âIâm fixing it!â
âYouâre not fixing it!â
Milk sloshed over the measuring cup and ran in a pale river across the counter.
You grabbed paper towels. He tried to wipe it with his sleeve.
âStopâ thatâs Ralph Lauren.â
He shrugged. âItâs not like I donât have ten more.â
You shot him a look. âI would prefer not to give your father additional reasons to fire me.â
That sobered him slightly.
He disappeared briefly and returned without the hoodie, now in a plain white t-shirt that probably cost more than your monthly rent.
The fabric clung to his shoulders lightly, and you forced yourself not to think about that.
âFocus,â you muttered to yourself, cracking an egg into the bowl.
He watched you carefully.
âYouâre good at this,â he said quietly.
âIâm not,â you replied. âI just pretend confidently. Improvisation is key.â
âThat works?â
âShockingly.â
He considered that like it was valuable information.
When the dough finally began to formâthick and pale and promisingâAegonâs expression shifted from chaotic to genuinely pleased.
He stuck his finger into the bowl.
âDonâtââ Too late he was already licking the paste of his pointer finger.
His eyes widened. âOh.â
âIs it good?â
He nodded, mouth full. âWeâre geniuses.â
âRaw egg, genius. Youâre going to be the one explaining to your father why you caught salmonella.â
He waved you off dismissively.
The front door suddenly slammed somewhere in the distance. Your heart leapt into your throat. Then came high pitched and bright giggling.
Your shoulders relaxed and you exhaled slowly.
Daellaâs voice floated down the hall first, followed by Rhaeâs. Their laughter echoed lightly against the walls like something out of a disney movie.
They appeared in the doorway in coordinated outfits, backpacks hanging off their shoulders. A third girl followed behind them.
She had dirty blonde hair and a face you recognized instantly. Gwyn Ashford.
Your professorâs daughter. Of course.
âHey,â Daella said, stopping short when she saw the flour-dusted scene. âWhat⊠happened here?â She looked at the scene skeptically.
âWar,â Aegon said solemnly.
âBaking,â you corrected.
Gwyn smiled politely at you. âIt smells good.â
âDo you want to help?â you offered.
All three of them blinked as if you had suggested manual labor in a coal mine.
âWe, umââ Daella glanced at Rhae.
âThereâs a sale at Aritzia,â Rhae blurted. âWe need to put everything in the cart before it ends.â
You nodded easily. âOkay.â
âWait!â Daella suddenly perked up, pulling out her phone. âDonât move.â
She positioned herself at the perfect angle, adjusting lighting, shifting the bowl slightly.
âCan you sprinkle flour again?â she asked Aegon.
He stared at her like she was stupid.
âFor the aesthetic,â she clarified. âInstagram will love it.â
He rolled his eyes so hard you were worried they might get stuck.
She snapped pictures anyway, satisfied.
âYou can invite us when itâs time to decorate.â Rhae suggested. âYeah weâd love to do that.â Gwyn chimed in. You assured them you would.
When they finally retreated upstairs to do â well whatever teenage girls did, the kitchen felt softer somehow.
You and Aegon stood there in the quiet hum of the house.
âHeart shapes?â he suggested.
âHeart shapes,â you agreed.
Rolling out the dough proved harder than anticipated. It stuck to the marble despite your best efforts.
You dusted more flour.
He leaned too hard and nearly sent the rolling pin flying.
âGentle,â you laughed.
âIâm being gentle!.â
âNo youâre not.â
Eventually, you managed uneven but charming heart shapes. They werenât perfectâsome were lopsided, some too thickâbut they felt real.
You placed them carefully on the tray with the baking paper.
When you slid them into the oven, the warm air brushed your face.
The timer on your phone began its quiet countdown.
Aegon leaned back against the counter, suddenly looking tired as if he had been doing hard manual labor all day.
âYou still have homework,â you reminded gently. He groaned like youâd personally betrayed him. He was definitely hoping you wouldnât remember.
But he fetched his notebooks anyway, spreading them out on the only clean section of the counter. You cleaned up in companionable silence while he worked. Occasionally he asked you for the correct spelling of a word or a fact he needed to get straight.
Soon enough the smell of warm butter, caramelized sugar and vanilla filled your senses.
It felt like a warm hug.
When you opened the oven, golden edges peeked back at you.
âThey look⊠professional,â Aegon whispered reverently. âThey look edible,â you corrected, though your heart swelled a little.
The girls reappeared almost immediately, drawn downstairs the scent.
âIt smells heavenly,â Gwyn breathed.
You mixed the frostingâpowdered sugar, butter, a splash of milkâtinting it pink until it felt almost like liquid bubblegum.
Music played softly from your phone.
A Taylor Swift song floated through the air and the girls sang along dramatically while Aegon groaned.
Decorating turned the island into an explosion of color. Sprinkles were everywhere. Pink frosting smudged across cheeks.
Daella carefully piping perfect swirls while Rhae abandoned precision entirely in favor of glitter chaos.
Aegon tried to write his initials on one and ended up with something unrecognizable.
âTheyâre messy,â you observed.
âTheyâre perfect,â Gwyn corrected quietly. And she was right.
They looked homemade. Loved. Real.
âOkay,â Aegon announced, grabbing one before Rhae could start recording. She opened her mouth to protest.
âTaste test.â
He bit in. His expression changed instantly. His eyes widening and his shoulders relaxed. He let out a theatrical hum.
âThis is so good,â he mumbled, mouth full.
The girls followed each grabing a piece. Crumbs scattered across the counter as they bit into the dough. Sugar stuck to fingers.
You took your own bite. It was soft and sweet.
Comforting in a way that felt disproportionate to something so simple. It was shocking what a little bit of flour and sugar mixed with a pinch of love could do.
The kitchen buzzed with laughter, music faintly playing in the background. It was warm.
For once, it didnât feel like a cold estate built for appearances. It felt like a real home.
Four children high on sugar started jumping around the kitchen island.
Rhae spun dramatically. âLetâs do something!â
âWe just did something,â you laughed.
âSomething else!â
âOoo!â she gasped, eyes alight with an idea. âJust Dance!â
Aegon groaned but he was already smiling.
They dragged you like victorious war generals down the hallway, high on sugar and glitter and something dangerously close to unrestrained joy.
The living room was absurd.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the late afternoon sky in sheets of pale gold, the light bleeding into the marble floors and reflecting off the glass coffee table like liquid honey.
A fireplace stretched across one wall, modern and minimalistic, and directly opposite itâbuilt seamlessly into dark panelingâwas a television so large it felt less like a screen and more like a portal.
âOf course itâs built into the wall,â you muttered under your breath.
âObviously,â Daella replied as if youâd just commented on gravity.
Aegon grabbed the remote and tossed it between his hands like a grenade. âStand back.â
âYou act like youâve never turned on a TV before,â Rhae scoffed, snatching it from him and expertly navigating through the menu.
Within seconds, the bright neon intro of Just Dance filled the room. Color exploded across the screenâcartoon silhouettes in glittering outfits striking dramatic poses. The music pulsed, cheerful and obnoxiously upbeat.
Five player mode.
âAbsolutely not,â you said, already backing away slightly. âI do not know how to dance.â
âItâs okay!â Rhae laughed. âNeither does Aegon, you should see him try.â
âRhae,â he warned pushing her playfully. She grinned wider.
The game selection wheel spun wildly, then landed on Last Friday Night by Katy Perry.
âOh no,â Aegon muttered.
âOh yes,â Daella corrected.
The screen flashed bright pink and electric blue. The dancer on the TV wore something that could only be described as sparkly chaos.
The countdown began
Three. Two. One.
And disaster unfolded.
You attempted the first moveâa dramatic arm swing and hip twistâand nearly elbowed Gwyn in the face.
âShit Iâm so sorry!â You slapped a hand across your mouth. Maybe swearing in front of so many kids wasnât your brightest idea.
âWatch it!â she squealed, laughing.
âI said I canât dance!â
âYouâre doing great!â she reassured half heartedly.
Aegon pointed aggressively at the screen, trying to keep up with the choreography, only to spin directly into Rhae. The two of them stumbled dramatically onto the carpet in a tangle of limbs.
Daella was shockingly coordinated, though she kept glancing at the score in the corner of the screen, deeply invested in digital validation.
The music blasted.
The marble floors echoed with feet sliding, squeaking and breathless laughter bouncing off high ceilings.
You hadnât realized how much space this room held until it was filled with noise.
You felt ridiculous. Your hair had escaped whatever attempt at neatness youâd started the day with. Your shirt was still faintly dusted with flour. Your lungs burned slightly from laughing too hard and moving your muscles.
But for once, you didnât care. Aegon attempted an exaggerated hip roll.
You burst out laughing mid-move.
âThis is terrible!â you gasped.
âYouâre terrible!â he shot back, grinning.
âI told you I canât dance!â
âImprovise!â Aegon yelled.
The song reached its dramatic chorus. Everyone began jumping in complete disregard for choreography. Time blurred.
You didnât know how long youâd been flailing around in bright, sugar-fueled hysteria whenâ
A loud, deliberate clearing of a throat cut through the music.
Everything suddenly froze.
You were mid-pose, one arm extended upward in what could only be described as interpretive distress.
Slowly, you lowered your arm.
Standing near the entrance of the living room, hands loosely clasped behind his back, was Maekar Targaryen.
He was dressed in the same black slacks as yesterday, though he looked much less like he wanted to murder someone.
One eyebrow was raised with surgical precision.
His expression hovered somewhere between disapproval and unmistakable amusement.
âDad!â Rhae shrieked, immediately abandoning her position on the carpet and running toward him.
He visibly stiffened at the sudden impact of her hug. His hands hovered awkwardly for half a second before he patted her headâcareful, restrained.
âWe were playing Just Dance together!â she declared breathlessly.
âYes,â he said dryly. âI can see that.â
His voice, shockinglyâlacked the usual undercurrent of irritation.
Aegon straightened beside you almost instantly. The carefree boy vanished; in his place stood something far more guarded.
Gwyn, clearly familiar with the man, tilted her head. âDo you want to join us, Mr. Targaryen?â
Aegon made a choking sound, that sounded a lot like stifling a laugh.
He looked⊠different. Without the sharp edge of anger lining his features, you noticed things you hadnât before. The sharp architecture of his face. The faint pox scars across his skin, subtle but real. The exhaustion tucked carefully behind controlled posture.
You realized you were staring.
His gaze snapped to yours. For a split second, something unreadable flickered thereâassessment, perhaps. Or suspicion.
He cleared his throat.
âYou can leave,â he said evenly, speaking to the children, yet his eyes were still on you. âI would like to have a word.â
The kids groaned in synchronized protest.
âBut why?â Daella complained. âWe were having fun!â
Aegon glanced at you, wary.
You forced a reassuring smile. âItâs fine. Weâll see each other tomorrow, yes?â
They quieted almost immediately.
Maekarâs eyes flicked between you and them, something like confusion crossing his face at how quickly they obeyed.
They filed out reluctantly.
Aegon was the last to exit.
His gaze asked a silent question. Would you be alright?
You nodded once.
He left.
The living room suddenly felt cavernous again. Too large. Too quiet. And in the middle of it all you stood across Maekar Targaryen.
He remained standing, posture rigid.
âI just wanted toâŠâ He inhaled sharply, as if the words physically resisted leaving him. ââŠapologize for yesterdayâs inconvenience.â
It sounded rehearsed. Mechanical.
âMy irritation was⊠misplaced.â
He exhaled abruptly. âOh, fuck me. You know what Iâm trying to say.â
You blinked.
That was not the refined, controlled patriarch youâd come to expect.
âItâs quite alright, Mr. Targaryen,â you said gently.
Only then did you become hyperaware of yourselfâflour on your sleeves, hair slightly frizzy, cheeks flushed from dancing.
He cleared his throat again, regaining composure.
âWell. That would be all. I am fairly certain I can handle my children from here.â
There it was. Dismissal. You swallowed the small sting of it.
âOf course,â you replied evenly. âI just need to grab my things from Aegonâs room.â
He nodded and stepped aside. As you passed him, you felt it. His gaze following you.
Not inappropriate. Not crude. Just⊠lingering.
You ignored it.
In Aegonâs room, he was pacing slightly.
âIs everything alright?â he asked immediately, stopping in one place.
You softened. âYes.â
âMy father didnât yell at you, did he?â
âNo,â you said honestly. âI know. Shocking.â
He huffed a small laugh but still looked unconvinced.
You slung your backpack over your shoulder. âSee you tomorrow, Egg.â
âSee you,â he muttered.
The hallway felt longer on your way out.
As you passed the kitchen, something made you pause.
Maekar stood alone at the island.
The tray of heart-shaped cookies sat before him.
He was regarding them cautiously, as if they might be laced with poison.
You stayed hidden just out of sight, heartbeat inexplicably louder. He picked one up.
He inspected it with his gaze, turned it slightly in his fingers.
The pink frosting was imperfect. The sprinkles uneven.
He hesitated. But then took a bite.
You were certainly expecting indifference, or criticism or another scowl.
Insteadâ his expression morphed into something unfamiliar.
Not the restrained smirk. Not polite amusement. A real smile. Small and unpracticed.
It softened every sharp line of his face.
You werenât certain youâd ever seen him look human before.
You stepped away quickly before you could be caught observing something that felt strangely private.
You slipped on your sneakers by the front door, exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
It had been long. Awfully chaotic yet surprisingly wonderful.
You reached for the handle.
The door swung open sharply at the same moment.
You collided with a solid chest as you stumbled back a step.
The smell of expensive cologne and something metallic hit your senses like a wave.
Your eyes shot up. And immediately you wished they hadnât.
Aerion Targaryen stood before you, gaze sharp and venomous as recognition dawned on him.
His lip curled in open disgust.
âWhat the fuck,â he said coldly, gaze dragging over your flour-stained clothes, your messy hair, the backpack slung over your shoulder. âare you doing in my house?â
summary. as a struggling college student at kingâs landing university your best friend kiera suggests getting a part time job, and what better opportunity than to babysit her boyfriendâs youngest cousin â aegon known as egg targaryen?
word count. 8.2k
warnings. aegon being an absolute menace and maekar crashing out as usual, english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!!
note. i genuinely had the most fun writing this fic (went a little overboard with the text oops), not really much to say besides that, just hope you enjoy reading!!
next part. series masterlist.
When Kiera first brought up the idea of getting a part-time job, you thought she was joking.
Sunlight seeped in through the windows, outside Kingâs Landing was bustling as it always didârestless, metallic, a little grimy around the edges.
Through one of the windows you could see students scurrying off to class, while others were enjoying the sunlight that had come with spring.
Inside though it was quietly pleasant. Ferns hung from exposed pipes. Fairy lights coiled around black metal beams. Sade was crooning softly through the speakers.
At the table beside you someone was typing aggressively like the fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on their thesis.
âI mean, when you think about it,â Kiera said, stirring her iced coffee with unnecessary elegance, âyou could really use the extra cash.â
It was easy for her to say. When your father managed international investments for one of the largest dye conglomerates in Tyrosh, you didnât wake up at 3 a.m. calculating whether you could afford groceries and next semesterâs textbooks.
You were an international student on a visa that came with built in safety nets and a wardrobe of imported linen.
You loved Kiera â truly. But sometimes she floated a few inches above the ground. Or above your ground at least.
Being a scholarship student at Kingâs Landing University meant you did not have the luxury of floating.
âKie,â you said carefully not wanting to offend her. You wrapped your hands around your coffee cup like it might anchor you in some way, âthere is absolutely no way I can fit a part-time job into my schedule.â You deadpanned waiting for her reply.
Your planner was color-coded within an inch of its life. Filled with lectures and study blocks. Therapy appointments. Gym sessions you clung to like lifeboats. Pottery on Thursdays because molding clay was the only thing keeping you from pulling out all your hair.
You were surviving, not thriving. And surviving took precision and careful planning.
She rolled her eyes in a way that was affectionate but infuriating. âMy mom always says we make time for the things we really want.â
You raised an eyebrow. âYour mom also has a private driver and three assistants.â
âThat is not the point.â She leaned forward conspiratorially, pushing her streak of vibrant pastel hair behind her ear.
âItâs our last year. Youâre literally a month ahead of half the class. You could find something flexible. Somewhere you can study while working.â She was absolutely relentless.
Kiera was the social media manager for the campus. She ran the official KLU student page which was filled with campus tours, interviews and various other content. The page had more than fifty thousand followers.
They paid her well. She thrived on engagement metrics and comment sections. She did not have to maintain a perfect GPA to keep her funding.
âFor you,â you said gently, âpassing is fine. For me passing is like a ticket back home. My parents would never let me hear the end of it if I got one grade less.â
Her expression softened for half a second before she masked it with a dramatic sigh. âYou are so intense.â
âAnd you are so detached from reality.â You countered.
She grinned. âThatâs why we balance each other.â
You checked the time on your phone and felt your stomach dip. Fifteen minutes until Professor Ashfordâs two-hour lecture on post-Conquest political structures.
Two hours of fluorescent lighting and his droning voice dissecting the failures of the Targaryen Restoration like he personally witnessed it.
âCan we change the subject?â you pleaded. âI want to forget that Iâll soon be trapped in Ashfordâs lecture of torture.â
Kiera winced. âPoor you. Ashford really is unbearable.â
Last semester heâd spent twenty minutes berating a student for citing a Dornish historian. As if bias didnât exist in every archive from Oldtown to Braavos.
Youâd considered skipping his lectures and teaching yourself. But attendance was mandatory. And you needed every attendance point.
Kingâs Landing University did not care about your anxiety or sleep schedule. It cared about numbers and attendances.
âSo,â she said brightening, âValarr and I are going to a concert Friday. You should come along.â She suggested, visibly looking forward to the idea.
He and Kiera had met at a Freshersâ Week party three years ago and started dating almost immediately. Everyone had assumed it would implode by midterms. Instead, theyâd grown into the campus most beloved couple.
You shared a few seminars with him. He was sharp in debates but gentle in private conversation, the sort of person whoâd never condemn you even if he wasnât particularly fond of you.
âAnd third-wheel the entire evening?â you deadpanned. âHard pass.â
She waved a hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. âItâs not like that.â
âIt is exactly like that.â
She hesitated. And then, as if casually remembering something entirely insignificant added âAerionâs coming too.â
Aerion Targaryen. Valarrâs cousin. He was a business major and campus menace.
He drove a black sports car that youâd bet all your money on was from his daddyâs pocket.
He wore designer brands like he was perpetually exiting a fashion editorial. He had that sharp, almost predatory beauty the Targaryens were infamous forâsnow white hair that caught light in just the right way, violet eyes that held amusement and boredom in equal measure. He held himself as if he were superior to everyone and everything. Always gloating on about how Kingâs Landing would have never been built without his ancestors.
He also once tried to fight Duncan the Tall (as he was nicknamed for his extreme height), outside a club in Flea Bottom and got knocked flat on his back before security dragged the other guy away.
All bark. No bite.
Still, people gravitated toward him. There was nothing quite like pretty privilege and a deep pocket to gain an appropriate social status.
âWell,â you said evenly, âgood luck with that.â
Kiera groaned, collapsing back into her chair. âI was hoping youâd come suffer with us.â
âYouâre unbelievable, you really hate me so much that youâd drag me into a friday night with Aerion Targaryen?â Your lip twitched as the words left your lips.
âYou could at least keep him distracted.â
You stared at her, completely unconvinced.
âOh by the Seven,â she laughed. âRelax. Iâm kidding.â
âYou are not.â
She grinned, unrepentant.
âI have pottery Friday,â you said. âAnd I plan to spend it molding something symmetrical instead of arguing with a Targaryen about late-stage capitalism.â
She snorted. âHe doesnât argue. He monologues.â
Your nose wrinkled but you couldnât hold back a chuckle. âEven worse.â
Rumors clung to the Targaryens like expensive perfume. They were old money of valyrian roots, it was a known fact. Political donors. A family foundation that funded half the cityâs art museums and quietly influenced half its policy.
Kingâs Landing wasnât medieval anymore. There were no armies and dynasties. But power still moved in bloodlines.
And you were very aware of where you stood on that map.
A scholarship student from nowhere special. Carefully balancing ambition and exhaustion.
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Ashford â 10:00 a.m.
You inhaled slowly, mentally composing yourself .
âOkay,â you sighed, standing and slipping your notebook into your bag. âI need to go pretend I care about succession disputes.â
âYou do care,â Kieraâs eyes moved to you, rising too. âYou just pretend you donât.â
You paused, considering that.
Maybe she was right. Maybe you cared too much.
About grades. About stability. About not falling behind.
Somewhere in Flea Bottom, someone was counting coins for rent. Somewhere on campus, Aerion Targaryen was likely skipping class because attendance was not mandatory for people like him.
And here you were. Measuring your life in fifteen-minute increments.
âKie,â you said suddenly, adjusting the strap on your bag, âif I did get a job⊠it would have to be something super quiet. Flexible. Low-stress.â
Her eyes lit up immediately. âOh my gods, so you are considering it.â
âI said if.â
She looped her arm through yours as you both stepped out into the cool Kingâs Landing air. âWeâll find something perfect.â
You highly doubted that.
But as you crossed the busy street toward the humanities building, wind tugging at your coat, the thought lingered in the back of your mind like an unfinished sentence.
Would it really be that bad to drop on of your hobbies and get a job? Youâd still keep yourself occupied and at least youâd be earning some extra cash.
Maybe there was a way.
Maybe you just hadnât seen it yet.
By Sunday evening you were slouched over your laptop, hair still faintly damp from the shower, your new citrus shampoo clinging to you like something clean and hopeful.
You wore your oldest most worn university shirt, the one with the faded gold KLU crest stretched across the front and a pair of soft plaid pyjama pants that had survived three exam seasons and at least two minor breakdowns.
Your dorm room was dim except for the glow of your desk lamp and the city bleeding in through the curtains.
Kingâs Landing never slept. Traffic hummed along the main road beyond campus. Somewhere farther off, closer to the river, bass from a club pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat.
You had the part-time job website open. Scrolling.
There was dog sitting. Retail assistant at the mall in the Crownlands Plaz â must be available weekends. Bartender in a Flea Bottom cocktail barâexperience preferred. Private tutor for first-year economics. Receptionist. Event staff. Library aide.
Every listing felt like a test you were destined to fail.
Thirty-minute commute to the mall?That was an hour lost every day. An hour you did not have.
Three high-energy huskies? Your nervous system could barely handle your own brain at 2 a.m.
Bartending until midnight? Absolutely not. You needed sleep like other people needed oxygen.
Tutoring? What if someone asked a question you couldnât answer and you exposed yourself as an academic fraud?
Your mind was efficient at self-sabotage. It wrapped every opportunity in caution tape.
You imagined yourself in a retail uniform, exhausted, grades slipping. You imagined coming home too tired to study, too wired to sleep. You imagined losing your scholarship. Losing the fragile scaffolding you had built your life on.
By the time you reached the bottom of the page, your dinner had gone cold.
You exhaled sharply and shut the laptop. Your brain was utterly exhausted and your eyes were watering from all the blue light.
âNot happening,â you muttered to the empty room. You decided you were just not destined for a part time job.
The idea dissolved as quickly as it had come.
â
The weekend passed gently. You read. You outlined an essay. You reorganized your notes for Ashfordâs class because control over formatting felt like control over something.
You lit a candle Sunday night and convinced yourself you were recharging instead of procrastinating your future.
By Monday morning, the job hunt felt distant like something youâd thought about in a fever dream.
You met Kiera before your 11 a.m. lecture at a new bakery that had opened near campus.
It was tucked into a renovated townhouse with ivy crawling up the stone façade and gold-lettered windows that read Honey & Hearth.
Inside everything smelled like butter and sugar.
They had a little patio garden in the back wrought iron tables, pale blue cushions, climbing roses that were probably fake but convincing enough. Students filled the space, laptops open, sunglasses perched on their heads.
The atmosphere was comfortable and light.
You both ordered coffee and pastries, Kiera something elaborate and aesthetic âinstagram worthyâ as sheâd say, you a simple croissant still warm in its paper sleeve.
âSo,â you asked between bites, flakes scattering onto the small ceramic plate, âhow did Friday go?â
You meant the concert. The one you had so wisely declined.
Kieraâs expression darkened immediately.
âUgh. Donât even ask.â
She grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and twisted her bright hair into a messy bun with the kind of careless elegance only she possessed.
âThat bad?â You chuckled.
âIt was absolutely horrendous,â she continued. âAerion made a scene. As usual.â
You felt laughter bubbling in your chest before you could stop it.
âI told Valarr I am never going anywhere with Aerion ever again.â
You covered your smile with your coffee cup. âHey, donât look at me like that,â she snapped playfully. âYou were supposed to suffer with us.â
âAnd third-wheel a Targaryen meltdown? I think not.â
She muttered something under her breath and you nudged her knee with yours in apology.
âWell,â you said, leaning forward slightly, âwhat did he do this time?â
Kiera straightened in her chair, clearly ready to relive every second.
âSo you know Tanselle, right? The super tall arts major? Theater and painting?â
Your eyes widened. âOf course I know Tanselle. Sheâs so sweet. I saw her in that contemporary piece last semesterâshe was absolutely incredible.â
Tanselle was one of the rare genuinely kind people on campus. Soft-spoken. Creative. The type who genuinely remembered your name and asked about your exams. And not just because she was ânetworkingâ or thought your boyfriend was hot.
âYeah,â Kiera continued, âso weâre at the party, everythingâs fine. Aerionâs flirting with some chic by the bar, and then he spots Tanselle across the room.â
She made a dramatic pause.
âAnd?â You waited for her to continue.
âAnd he practically lunges at her.â
âWhat?â
âIâm not exaggerating. He storms over and starts going off about her latest play. The one with the dragon dying in the final act.â
You frowned. âIt was symbolic, the whole point of the playâ.â
âTell that to him. He starts ranting about how itâs disrespectful to the Targaryen name, how sheâs pushing some anti-monarchy political agendaââ
You blinked. âYouâre kidding.â
âI wish I was.â
Your disbelief curdled into irritation.
âNo fucking way,â you muttered. âHe cannot be serious.â
âOh, he was deadly serious.â She took a sip of her coffee.
You imagined poor Tanselle cornered by Aerion Targaryenâs wounded ego and felt your stomach twist.
âWhat happened?â
âWell,â Kiera sighed, âyou know Duncan? Everyone knows he fancies Tanselle, but still hasnât scrambled together the courage to ask her out. He nearly punched Aerion. Valarr had to physically drag him back before it turned into a full-blown brawl.â
You let out a low whistle. âSeven hells.â
âIt was chaos,â she admitted, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. âEntertaining chaos.â
âYeah, Iâll pass on witnessing that firsthand.â
She laughed, shaking her head.
âAnyway,â she said, shifting gears, âhow was pottery?â
You grimaced. âCanceled. Apparently there was a power outage at the studio.â
She groaned. âThat sucks.â
âYeah. So I just stayed in. Watched Netflix. And I⊠kind of browsed part-time jobs like you said, but I didnâtââ
You didnât get to finish. Kiera froze mid-bite, eyes widening dramatically.
âOh my gods. I completely forgot to tell you.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThatâs never a good start.â
She leaned across the table, brimming with excitement. âI have literally the perfect opportunity for you.â
Your stomach dropped. âDo I want to hear this?â
âTrust me. Itâs perfect.â
She lowered her voice slightly, though not enough to mask the thrill in it. âYou know how Aerion has siblings?â
You stiffened.
âYes.â
âWell. His youngest brother is, like, ten. And Valarr mentioned that his uncle is looking for someone to babysit him. Just part-time. Because heâs always busy.â
Your mind immediately conjured the image of the Targaryen family. Modern royalty of Kingâs Landing.
Maekar Targaryenâboard member of half the cityâs financial institutions. His father Daeron was practically a policy architect.
His oldest brother Baelor chaired cultural foundations and appeared on magazine covers like a statesman from another century.
Their surname carried weight.
Youâd heard Maekarâs wife had died a few years ago.
The thought flickered through your mindâAerion as a child. However insufferable he was now, grief at that age left marks.
Kiera kept talking.
âAegonâs actually sweet. Iâve met him. He mostly plays in the backyard or video games. Youâd just have to make sure he does his homework, maybe drive him to practice, make dinner. Thatâs it.â
She said it like it was nothing.
âYou could study while youâre there,â she added eagerly. âAnd theyâd definitely pay well.â
That part lingered. The Targaryens did not do anything cheaply.
âThe only family wealthier is the Lannisters,â Kiera added casually, as if that clarified everything.
You pressed your lips together.
âOkay, but if Maekar Targaryen wants someone to look after his son, why not hire a professional nanny?â
Kiera hesitated. âHe has.â
That was not reassuring.
âWhat do you mean he has? And, what happened?â
âAnd Aegon isnât exactly fond of them. The last one quit on the verge of a nervous breakdown.â
You stared at her.
âWhat? What do you mean she had a nervous breakdown?â
âNo, no, itâs not like that!â she rushed. âHeâs not a monster. He just gets bored. Adults bore him.â
âThatâs worse.â
She waved you off. âMaekar actually asked me first, but Iâm too busy.â
You snorted. âToo busy getting your nails done and curating Instagram posts.â
âExactly,â she said without shame. âSo what do you think?â
You looked down at your coffee. It had gone cold.
Working for the Targaryens. The thought circled in your mind.
Spending afternoons in one of those sprawling estates youâd only seen in society magazines. Studying in marble kitchens and glass-walled living rooms. Getting paid enough to ease the constant pressure coiled in your chest.
It sounded⊠practical. Dangerous, but practical.
âI donât know,â you admitted quietly. âIâm not even good with kids.â
Kiera rolled her eyes. âYouâre patient. Youâre organized. You overthink everything. Youâll be amazing.â
âAnd if Iâm not?â
âThen you quit. You wouldnât be the first.â
That shouldnât have been comforting.You weighed it carefully.
A few weeks, you told yourself. You could try it. Save some money. If it turned into a disaster, youâd fabricate a scheduling conflict and leave.
You inhaled slowly.
âOkay,â you said, almost to yourself. âFine. Sign me up.â
Kiera practically vibrated with excitement. âYes!â
She immediately reached for her phone.
âIâll send you Maekarâs contact.â
You swallowed.
Somewhere in the city, in a house much larger than yours, lived a ten-year-old Targaryen who had driven professional nannies to the brink.
And you had just volunteered to be next.
â
You had spent an absurd amount of time perfecting that email.
First draft then delete then rewrite then reword. You had lost count how many times you had redone the entire thing.
You kept it formal but not stiff. Competent but not desperate.
You attached your CV, your transcript, even a short paragraph about your experience tutoring first-years. You debated whether mentioning pottery made you sound well-rounded or just straight up unserious.
By Friday evening, you were so tired of staring at it that you hit send purely out of spite. Fuck it.
The message whooshed away into the abyss of the Targaryen inbox. The rest was in the hands of the Gods.
You were ninety-five percent certain it would vanish into administrative oblivion.
Kiera had given you Maekar Targaryenâs business emailâand, helpfully, his assistantâs, âin case heâs drowning in meetings,â as sheâd put it. You had addressed both.
Then you spent the entire weekend pretending you didnât care. Or at least tried to.
You went for a run along the river, the wind sharp against your cheeks. You tried to study but read the same paragraph six times without comprehension. You even considered taking a spontaneous trip out to the Kingswood just to escape your own thoughts.
None of it had helped.
But Monday arrived regardless.
You were sitting in your usual 11 a.m. lecture, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Professor Ashford dissecting something painfully abstract, when your phone gave a small, traitorous ping. The icon of your mail app popped up.
You told yourself not to look. You clicked on it anyway.
Your heart began to pound before you even opened it.
Inbox. One new message.
From: Maekar Targaryen.
Your fingers trembled as you clicked.
The email was brief. Efficient.
We appreciate your interest. After reviewing your application, we would like to proceed. You are hired. Please begin tomorrow from 13:00â19:00. Further details attached.
You stared at the word. Hired.
Professor Ashfordâs voice faded into white noise.
You were actually hired.
You were going to be responsible for Aegon Targaryen.
You were going to enter the Targaryen household.
The thought that you were going to inevitably cross paths with Aerion Targaryen crossed your mind for the first time.
Your stomach twisted violently. You hadnât truly processed that part before.
Tomorrow. 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. That meant shifting one seminar online. Rearranging your week. Rearranging your entire life.
What have you done?
â
You woke at 5 a.m. the next day. Not because you needed to â but because your nerves refused to let you sleep.
You stood in front of your closet like it was a battlefield.
What does one wear to babysit a Targaryen child?
You discarded outfits onto your bed one by one. Too casual. Too academic. Too try-hard. Too plain. You did not want to look like you were playing dress-up in someone elseâs world.
In the end, you chose light wash jeans and a soft V-neck sweater. Clean. Neutral. Competent.
You brushed your hair twice, put on some natural makeup and applied your favorite lipgloss.
You looked friendly, not too try hard, not too trying to fit into the Targaryen picture thing.
After your morning lecture, you boarded the bus heading toward the Red Keep district, it was the most polished slice of Kingâs Landing.
Skyscrapers gave way to manicured hedges and wide, tree-lined streets. Cars here gleamed. Pavement here shone.
The air itself felt more expensive.
The Targaryen residence was impossible to miss.
Red brick, but not in the harsh way rather deep, smooth, almost velvety.
A sweeping driveway. Iron gates etched with a three-headed dragon sigil so subtle it was almost understated.
Your eyes widened as you approached.
A guard stopped you at the gate. You showed your ID, your email confirmation. He nodded and escorted you through like you were entering a consulate.
If the exterior was imposing, the interior was something else entirely.
Mahogany wood so polished it reflected light like water. Intricate carvings along the banisters. Portraits lining the wallsâancestors, no doubt. You noted a portrait of Aegon the First âConquerorâ his nickname was.
The entire house breathed legacy. Old money forged in fire and blood, translated into marble countertops and designer lighting.
It was silent. Oppressively so. Not a soul anywhere.
You stood in the foyer, unsure whether to move, when footsteps echoed against the polished floor.
âAh. You must be Aegonâs new governess.â An unfamiliar voice startled you.
The man approaching you was older, grey-haired, dressed impeccably in a white button-up and pressed slacks. His accent was faintly foreignâLysene, perhaps but you couldnât be sure.
âI am Maellon,â he said, extending his hand. âAegonâs tutor. Iâve served this family for over twenty years.â
Governess. That was certainly a way to put it.
You straightened instinctively. âYes. That would be me.â
He studied you for a fraction too long as if assessing if you really were the right person and not some fraud.
âWe have concluded lessons for the day. Aegon is in his room.â
There was something in his expressionâhesitation. As if he wanted to warn you.
âWell,â he continued, already stepping backward toward the door, âI am sure Lord Targaryen has left you instructions.â
He had not. No one had done such a thing.
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Maellon was already moving.
âI wish you luck, young lady.â
His lips curved faintly. Not unkindly. Almost⊠sympathetically.
And then he was gone.
The front door clicked shut behind him and the silence was almost loud at this point.
You slipped off your shoes and ventured deeper into the house, heart thudding.
The corridor stretched endlessly. Doors lined both sides, most closed. The place felt less like a home and more like a museum where you were not meant to touch anything.
You turned leftâMaellon had come from that direction.
What if Aegon had escaped? What if he had run off just to spite you?
What if you have failed within the first ten minutes?
Your thoughts spiraled until you heard something behind one of the closed doors.
A faint noise. Electronic and rhythmic.
You followed it to a door at the end of the hallway.
You rapped your knuckle twice on the wood.
The noise stopped instantly. There was no reply.
You tried the handle. Unlocked.
You pushed the door open slowly.
The room was large but lived-inâbookshelves, a sleek desk, a gaming console hooked to a massive screen. There were some posters on the walls, albeit all framed.
It was ridiculously clean for the room of a ten year old child.
In the center of it all stood a boy with pale blond hair almost identical to his brotherâs.
He stared at you like you had broken into his home. And in some abstract way perhaps you had.
His gaze was sharp and calculating.
âHello,â you offered gently. âYou must be Aegon.â
He didnât answer immediately. He was clearly assessing you.
You felt it physicallyâthe way his eyes scanned your clothes, your posture, your expression.
âHello,â he said at last. His voice was calm. Controlled.
âAre you my new nanny?â
The word felt like a test.
âYes,â you replied, keeping your voice even. Children could smell insincerity the way dogs sensed fear.
He didnât move from the center of the room.
âWhatâs your name?â
You introduced yourself.
He repeated your name slowly, tasting it, like he was testing whether it suited you. Then he raised a single pale eyebrow.
How could a ten-year-old make you feel like you were being evaluated for a corporate position?
âAnd what do you study?â
There it was againâthat unsettling composure. The judgemental tone.
He stood like a miniature executive conducting an interview.
âI go to KLU,â you said, naming your major.
His eyes sharpened. âYou must know Aerion then.â
Your stomach tightened. You had no idea what the internal politics of this family looked like.
âYes, heâsââ
âAn asshole,â Aegon finished flatly, spinning back toward his console.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
âWell,â you muttered under your breath, âat least we agree on that.â
He didnât hear youâor pretended not to. Either way you were glad he chose not to respond.
The PlayStation hummed back to life.
You cleared your throat. âSo. Maester Maellon mentioned you had homework.â
He didnât even look at you.
âI finished it.â
You glanced at the pristine notebook and textbook sitting untouched on the massive desk across the room.
âI donât think so.â
He swiveled in his chair slowly, eyes narrowing. âYou donât believe me.â
âI can see your notebook from here, Aegon.â
He scoffed. âI donât need that.â
You inhaled. So this is how itâs going to be.
You walked calmly to the console and reached for the plug.
âWhatâhey!â He jumped up. âYou canât do that!â
âOh yes, I can.â You unplugged it smoothly. âNo games until homework is done.â
âYouâre such a shrew!â he snapped, face flushing. âI hate you. Youâre horrible.â
The words were sharp, but hollow. You could tell he didnât fully understand the weight of them.
âOh, I bet,â you replied coolly. âAnd youâre a spoiled little punk.â
His eyes widened slightly at your boldness.
âYou know,â you continued casually, âI have a niece. She does all her homework without arguing. Smartest little girl in all the Seven Kingdoms.â
You absolutely did not have a niece.
He stared at you clearly eating it all up.
âI bet,â he muttered darkly. âMy father is going to fire you anyway.â
âMaybe,â you shrugged. âBut before that happens, Iâll make sure to tell my niece how lazy Aegon Targaryen is.â
Silence fell between you. He was calculating.
You could almost see the gears turning behind his pale eyes.
âIf I do my homeworkâŠâ he said slowly after a minute, ââŠwill you let me play my PC?â
There it was. Regulation and negotiation.
âYes. Of course.â You promised him.
He moved to his deskâan enormous slab of polished wood that was, frankly, bigger than your entire dorm tableâand grabbed a pencil.
âIf you need helpââ
âI donât.â
You folded your arms. âAlright. But Iâll still check it.â
He shot you a look and began scribbling.
You sat quietly, scrolling idly on your phone but watching him from the corner of your eye. He worked quickly. Focused. No dramatics now. At least he was efficient.
After a while he pushed back his chair.
âDone.â
He stood, posture stiff. âCan I please play now?â
Mannered â you noted.
âLet me check.â
âDo you think Iâm stupid, miss?â
âI donât think youâre stupid,â you replied gently. âI think youâre a student.â
âYouâre a student too.â Oh he was quick witted.
âYes. But Iâve been studying for ten years. Youâve been writing for, what, two?â
âFour,â he corrected immediately. âSince I was six.â There was pride in his tone.
You nodded solemnly. âImpressive.â
You flipped through the pages. Most of it was correct. A few spelling errors. You handed the notebook back.
âErase those. Rewrite them properly.â
He groaned dramatically but complied. After a few more minutes, you nodded.
âGood job. Now you can play.â
You plugged the console back in. He sat cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand.
âEgg,â he said suddenly.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âEveryone calls me Egg.â
You softened slightly. âAlright, Egg.â
He seemed satisfied with that.
âWould you like a snack?â you asked.
He stared at you like youâd asked if the Dothraki lived in Westeros.
âUm. Sure.â
âAnything particular?â
âPeanut butter.â Simple.
âAlright,â you said. âPeanut butter and apples.â
â
You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled. Round one: successfully survived.
Now you just had to find the kitchen in this architectural labyrinth.
You walked left. Then right. Opened a doorâlinen closet. Another, this one was some kind of sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured garden.
Everything gleamed. Everything felt too expensive to even breathe on.
The kitchen had to be somewhere obvious.
You finally found it after passing what looked like three separate dining rooms.
And it was⊠absurd, like everything else in this house. Well more manor than house.
Marble countertops the size of small islands. Two refrigerators. A pantry larger than your dorm bathroom. Copper pots hanging from a rack like decorative trophies.
You stood in the center of it, momentarily overwhelmed.
Apple and peanut butter. How hard could that be? You werenât going to let some snob kitchen better you.
You opened the first fridge.
Sparkling water. Imported cheeses. Pre-cut fruit arranged like artwork. No whole apples in sight.
Second fridge. Still no sign of apples.
A thought popped into your head. Produce drawer.
You tugged it open.
Rows of perfectly polished apples, red and green, organized by variety.
Of course they were, riche people were like that.
You grabbed two, then turned to the cabinets.
Which one held peanut butter?
You opened one. Plates.
Another. Glassware.
Another. Some kind of artisanal grain collection.
You muttered under your breath.
âWhy does anyone need this many compartments?â
You opened a sleek drawer. Cutlery. Anotherâspices arranged alphabetically.
You crouched to check the lower cabinets. Nothing but baking trays and mixers that probably cost more than your tuition.
Finallyâfinallyâyou opened a tall pantry door tucked beside the double ovens.
Rows of labeled containers.
And there was your peanut butter.
Three different kinds. Organic. Almond. Regular.
You grabbed the regular jar like it was a prize youâd won in battle.
You found a knife after another brief scavenger hunt, sliced the apples carefully on a marble board that probably had its own insurance policy, and arranged everything on a small plate.
You paused. This was ridiculous.
You were scrambling through a palace kitchen to make a snack for a ten-year-old who had just called you a shrew.
And yet â you felt oddly triumphant.
Balancing the plate carefully, you made your way back through the maze of hallways, half-worried youâd get lost and starve before reaching his room.
You knocked lightly before entering. Egg looked up from the floor.
You held up the plate like an offering.
âApple slices,â you said. âWith peanut butter.â
For a moment, he just stared at it. Then at you. Assessing the gesture.
Round two, apparently, was about to begin.
AegonâEggâbalanced the controller against his knees while grabbing the apple bites off the plate.
You sat cross-legged on the rug a few feet away, answering emails on your phone and trying not to look completely out of your depth.
The television glowed against the pale walls of his room.
Onscreen, animated karts sped around a brightly colored track.
He paused the game abruptly and looked over at you.
âDo you want to play?â
He held out the second controller like a challenge.
You hesitated for half a second.
âSure.â
You had never owned a PlayStation. Growing up, consoles were luxuries reserved for well off familiesâthe kind with extra money after bills were paid. Regardless you accepted the controller as if youâd been doing this your whole life.
He unpaused the game. Mario Kart.
Bright music, and tiny characters. Pure absolute chaos.
You pressed buttons at random, pretending you knew what they did.
âSo,â he began casually, steering his character with unnerving precision. He clearly played a lot. âdo you have a boyfriend?â
You barked out a laugh, nearly driving your kart off the edge of the track.
âStraight to the point, arenât you?â
He shrugged. âItâs a yes or no question.â
âNo. I donât.â
He hummed, swerving past you effortlessly.
âMost nannies do.â
âDo they?â
âThey talk about them a lot. Like I care.âhe rolled his eyes.
You grinned despite yourself as your character spun out after hitting a banana.
âOne of them wanted to know exactly what time I used the toilet every day,â he continued. âShe tried to make a schedule.â
âSeven hells,â you muttered, mashing buttons uselessly.
âI wonât ask you to schedule your bathroom habits,â you assured him.
âGood.â
He threw a blue shell that obliterated your already tragic position.
âYouâre terrible at this,â he observed.
âThank you.â Your lips quirked up in a mock smile.
âDo you want me to teach you?â
You narrowed your eyes. âAre you going to be condescending about it?â
He considered. âMaybe a little.â
You nudged him with your elbow. âGo ahead.â
For the next twenty minutes, he instructed you with surprising patience.
His little fingers pointing to each and every button and explaining exactly what it was used for.
âNo, not that button. Thatâs drift. See? Like that.â
You followed his guidance, slowly improving. When you finally managed to knock him off first place with a perfectly timed item, he stared at you.
âYou did that on purpose!â He groaned.
âI did.â You grinned triumphantly.
âOkay,â he said reluctantly. âYouâre not hopeless.â
High praise from Egg Targaryen.
As you played, the house remained eerily silent.
No footsteps. No voices. No distant clatter from a kitchen.
âIs it always this quiet?â you asked.
âYes,â he replied simply, eyes still on the screen.
âSometimes Daella and Rhae are here,â he added. âThen itâs loud. They blast Taylor Swift and usually bring friends. Father hates strangers in the house.â
There was something in his tone when he said father. Not fear. Not exactly resentment. Just⊠distance.
âAnd Aerion?â you asked carefully.
He snorted. âHeâs around sometimes, unfortunately.â
âAnd Daeron?â
Eggâs fingers tightened briefly on the controller.
âHe doesnât live here much.â
You nodded. Youâd heard the rumorsâDaeron Targaryen had dropped out of university a few years ago. There were whispers about him having a serious drinking problem and going to rehab.
âAnd Aemonâs abroad,â Egg continued matter-of-factly. âIn Oldtown.â
He listed his siblings like items on a shelf. A full house that somehow felt empty.
âIâm bored,â he declared suddenly, dropping the controller.
âYouâve been playing for an hour.â
âIâm still bored.â
You laughed. âAlright, what do you suggest?â
âOutside.â He shot up and ran out the door.
â
The garden behind the house was enormous. Like everything else in this house.
Not just a yardâan estate. Perfectly trimmed hedges. A wide stretch of grass. Stone pathways weaving between flower beds. A pond stood at one edge. There was a small practice goal set up at the other.
You blinked against the sudden brightness.
Egg grabbed a football from near the patio doors.
âCan you play?â
âDefine âplay.ââ
He rolled his eyes. âKick the ball.â
âYes, I can kick the ball.â
He placed it at his feet and passed it toward you with surprising force. You barely managed to trap it.
âOkay,â he said, stepping back. âLetâs see how athletic you are.â
âYouâre testing me again, arenât you?â
He grinned. âNo.â
You kicked the ball back, a little too hard. It veered off to the side.
He chased after it, laughing.
âYouâre terrible!â
âYouâre ten! It doesnât count!â
âAnd Iâm better than you!â
âOh, itâs on now.â
For the next several minutes, you ran across the lawn, passing the ball back and forth. You tripped once on uneven grass and nearly took him down with you. He darted around you like a fox, quick and agile.
âYouâre slow!â he shouted.
âI have adult knees!â you shot back.
At one point he attempted to nutmeg you, clearly very pleased with himself when it worked.
âHa! Did you see that?â
âI did. Unfortunately.â
He burst into genuine laughterâthe kind that crinkled his eyes and made him look exactly his age.
Not sharp. Not calculating. Just a boy.
After football devolved into chaos, he dragged you toward a small wooden structure near the hedge.
âObstacle course,â he announced.
âYou built this?â
âMostly.â He was obviously very proud of it.
It consisted of cones, a low bench, and a rope strung between two poles.
âYou have to follow my instructions,â he said. âNo questions.â Suspicious.
âFine.â
âRun to the bench, jump over it, crawl under the rope, then spin five times and sprint back.â
âYouâre trying to make me dizzy.â
âNo.â He giggled again.
You stared at him.
He crossed his arms. âAfraid?â
Absolutely not.
You took off running.
You vaulted the bench (gracelessly), ducked under the rope, then spun in circles until the world tilted sideways. By the time you tried to sprint back, you nearly collided with a hedge.
Egg was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
âYouâre evil,â you gasped, clutching your side.
âMy turn,â he declared proudly.
You gave him equally ridiculous instructionsâhop on one foot, recite the kingdoms of Westeros backward, then cartwheel (he attempted it, failed spectacularly, and blamed the grass).
Soon you were both breathless.
He flopped onto the lawn, staring up at the sky.
You hesitated before lying down a few feet away, grass cool against your sweater.
For a moment, there was no testing. No power struggle. Just shared laughter fading into comfortable silence.
He picked at a blade of grass.
He glanced at you sideways, as if trying to decide if he should say something or not.
âMost of them leave,â he said quietly.
The breeze stirred the hedges. You knew whatâ who he was referring to, his nannies.
You remembered this boy had lost his mother when he was very young. He probably didnât remember her at all.
Your heart squeezed at the thought.
You didnât promise anything. Promises felt too fragile in a house like this.
âWell,â you said lightly instead, âI havenât left yet.â
He rolled onto his side, studying you againâbut this time, there was less suspicion in it.
âOkay,â he said.
Not a challenge. Not a threat.Just⊠okay.
And for the first time since youâd walked through those red-brick gates, the vast Targaryen estate didnât feel quite so intimidating.
It felt almost alive.
â
After tumbling around in the grass and laughing so hard your ribs hurt, the sun began its slow descent behind the tall hedges, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose. You brushed stray blades of grass from your jeans as you both went back inside, breathless and giddy.
âAlright,â you said, clapping your hands together once as if you had everything under control, âI should probably make some dinner. Any preferences?â
The vast kitchen was now glowing beneath the chandelier, all polished marble and intimidating silence.
âUmmmâŠâ Aegon tilted his head standing in front of the fridge. He was serious as if negotiating a state treaty. âIâd like some mac and cheeseââ He paused dramatically. âNo wait! Chicken nuggets!â
You hesitated. You werenât entirely sure how pleased Maekar Targaryen would be if he came home to find his son being fed processed poultry in porcelain surroundings that screamed Michelin-starred dinner party. But surely nuggets were better than starvation.
âAlright,â you nodded. âI can do that.â
âThanks! Iâll go shower and change until then,â he declared, already halfway out of the room.
âOkayâŠâ you called after him, faintly relieved he was at least behaving like a normal ten-year-old.
You opened the freezerâof course it was filled with organic, gluten-free, ethically-raised chicken nuggets. Even their junk food had pedigree. You found pre-cut potatoes and sighed.
âOf course,â you muttered.
The air fryer seemed like the safer option. Wrong choice.
Fifteen minutes later you were still jabbing at the touchscreen settings like it had personally offended you. Meanwhile, you failed to notice one crucial detail: there had been absolutely no sound of running water upstairs.
Eventually, by some divine intervention, the nuggets were done. You placed them carefully onto an ornate porcelain plate that had absolutely no business holding chicken nuggets.
You had just reached for cutlery when the front door opened.
You heard heavy footsteps.
Measured but purposeful.
You froze with the plate of dino shaped nuggets in your hands.
A man entered the kitchenâtall, broad-shouldered, silver-white hair trimmed neatly, beard impeccably groomed.
His suit jacket hung over one arm; his shirt sleeves were rolled just slightly. His expression was carved from stone, a permanent scowl between his brows. He looked terribly handsome in spite of it.
âWho the fuck are you,â he all but snarled at you, âand what the fuck are you doing in my house?â
You nearly dropped the plate.
âIââ
âIf youâre another of Aerionâs girlfriends or worse Daeronâs, I suggest you pack up and leave right now.â
âI apologize, sir,â you stammered, heat flooding your face. How do you even break this to him?âYou⊠hired me.â
He stared at you like youâd just claimed you were his long lost daughter.
âAnd when the fuck did I do that?â
You quickly explained about the email. About Kiera and the babysitting she had mentioned.
His eyebrow arched skeptically. You concluded it was his assistant who had hired you and sent that email.
âWell,â he said stiffly shifting his weight to stand at his full height, âAegon has been in need of a new babysitter. After the last one had a nervous breakdown.â
âSo Iâve heardââ
And then Aegon appeared. Your heart stopped and you nearly choked on your own spit.
His head was completely shaved. Not trimmed, not buzzed. Shaved.
Gone were the soft silver locks. In their placeâsmooth, pale scalp. He looked exactly like his nickname. He looked like an egg.
Maekar slowly turned toward him.
âSeven bloody hells!â His voice thundered as his eyes fell upon the boy. âWhat the fuck is this now?â
You felt tears prick at your eyes. This was it. You were done. You were witnessing your unemployment in realtime.
Before Maekar could explode further, the front door opened again. Laughter echoed in.
âOoooh, I hear thereâs a fine new boy from Dorneââ a girls voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen.
They were both dressed in impeccable plaid skirts and white tights.
Daella and Rhae took one look at Aegon and burst into hysterics.
âYou look like a skinhead!â Daella wheezed through laughter.
âEnough!â Maekar snapped at all of them.
They quieted, barely.
âIs this why I hired you?â he roared at you. âTo let my son make a freak of himself?â
âIââ you didnât even know what to say. You thought Aegon liked you. Clearly you were wrong.
âFather.â
Another unfamiliar voice, yet this one was calm, if slightly amused.
Behind the girls stood what you could only assume was Daeron Targaryen.
His hair wasnât silver pale like the rest of his familyâs. It was dirty blonde pulled back into a ponytail.
His expression was amused, hands casually in his pockets.
âI told Aegon to shave his head.â
Maekar looked like he was about to have a stroke. Before his rage could be unleashed any further he sighed.
âI cannot deal with this right now,â he muttered darkly. âIâll speak to you two later.â
He turned to you.
âAnd you. Get out of my house.â
Then he disappeared upstairs.
Were you fired? Probably. You looked at the giggling girls. Definitely.
You did not even want to look at Aegon.
The girls grabbed him immediately.
âCome on!â Daella chirped. âWe have to post this on Instagram!â
âAnd TikTok! And Snapchat!â Rhae added gleefully.
They vanished in a flurry of giggles.
You stood there, clutching your dignity by a thread.
Daeron stepped closer, hands still casually in his pockets.
âRough day,â he said mildly. âWelcome to the Targaryen household.â
âWelcome?â you muttered. âMore like goodbye.â
âOh, donât be so grim.â He chuckled. âMy father is always like that.â
âWell Iâm fairly certain your father just fired me.â
âIf he wanted you fired,â Daeron said thoughtfully, âyou wouldnât still be standing here.â
âThatâs⊠oddly reassuring.â
You placed the plate down at last.
âThanks for covering for me.â
âOh.â He blinked. âIt wasnât a lie.â
Your stomach dropped. âWhat?â
âI told him to shave it. He said he hated being a Targaryen. I said maybe losing the hair would make him feel less like one.â
You stared at him. That was not a sentence you wanted to unpack. You were not in the mood to play family therapist. Because clearly this household seriously needed one.
You just hummed at his words. âWell..â Daeron said slightly awkward. âIâll clean this up if you want to..â he glanced at the door. âDonât get me wrong itâs not that I want you out of the house,â he quickly corrected himself. âItâs just â wellâ you saw my father.â He stated.
âYeah⊠I think itâs better if I go.â You agreed.
â
By the time you stepped outside, the sky was fully indigo. The garden where youâd been laughing an hour earlier felt distant now, surreal.
Aegon ran out just before you reached the gate.
âHey!â You turned albeit everything in you was screaming not to. You were still cross with him, even if he didnât shave his head to spite you.
He stood thereâbald, sheepish, and suddenly very small again.
âAre you⊠coming back?â he asked.
You hesitated, something in you softeningZ
âI donât know,â you admitted honestly.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. âSorry about the head thing.â
âYou couldâve warned me,â you sighed.
A tiny grin tugged at his lips. âIt was kind of funny.â
You tried not to smile.
âIt was a little funny.â
He brightened.
âThanks for not treating me like Iâm five.â
âThatâs because youâre not.â
He seemed to hold onto that.
âWell,â he said awkwardly, âif you donât come back, Iâll probably get someone who schedules my bathroom breaks again.â
You snorted.
âIâll⊠see what happens.â
He nodded once.
âBye.â
âBye, Aegon.â
You walked down the long driveway feeling like youâd just survived a medieval trial by fire.
â
When you finally got home, you collapsed onto your bed fully clothed. Then you grabbed your phone.
You:
I am going to strangle you.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Kiera:
?????
You:
You sent me into a HOUSE of silver-haired psychos.
Kiera:
HAHAHAHAHA did you meet the dad???
You:
He told me to get out of his house while I was holding chicken nuggets on fine china.
Kiera:
STOP đđ
You:
Aegon SHAVED HIS HEAD. Heâs an egg. Literally.
There was a full thirty seconds of typing.
Kiera:
IâM SORRY WHAT
You:
Bald. Completely bald. In front of his terrifying father. I almost died.
Kiera:
âŠ
But are you fired???
You stared at the ceiling.
You werenât sure.
You thought about Aegon asking if you were coming back. About how he laughed in the grass. About how the house felt quiet in a way that wasnât normal.
You:
I donât think so. But if I go back and get publicly humiliated again Iâm haunting you.
Kiera:
Worth it. This is elite content.
She was so unserious. You groaned and tossed your phone aside.
You were going to strangle her.
But as you lay there replaying the dayâthe laughter, the chaos, the shaved head, the absurdity of it allâyou found yourself smiling despite everything.
It had been a disaster.
A ridiculous, overwhelming, unhinged disaster.
And somehow⊠you had a feeling youâd be going back.
daeron targaryen x reader | learning to love you pt.4
arranged marriage trope, enemies to lovers, def toxic relationship at the start, arguing/fighting, angst, sexual tension, alcoholic tendencies, concepts of self doubt, suggestive content, mention of marriage consummation/"bedding" ritual (not explicitly detailed, but i definitely want to put it out there as a warning, i may expand upon it later in the series!!!), very vague reader details, no use of y/n, slightly canon-divergent storyline (I created a northern city-state that does not exist for the sake of the plot!), lack of proper research pls don't come for me lol, canon-typical warnings, let me know if I've missed anything!
words: 2.1k
masterlist
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The next day, you do not rise until the sun is at its highest.
You spent the night tossing and turning, dreaming of watchful eyes from every corner and warm hands alight with orange flame encircling your waist. You dreamt of your home and your sisters and your father. It was so vivid you swear you could smell the fields of lavender dancing in the evening summer breeze and the earthy mud of the creek.
It was the royal servants that unpinned your hair and readied you for bed last night, not your own beloved hand maiden though you were glad for it. You sent her away this morning as well and again at lunch time when she came to check on you. It is easier to stay composed around strangers, and you were certain that if it were Vespera who had tended to you after the feast you would have been in tears all night, inconsolable.
Instead, you managed to stay in a state of being so far removed from your body that you felt nothing until you were alone. Your gaze stayed fixed to your blurry reflection in the mirror while the servants cleaned the rouge from your face and the flowers from your hair. And when they bid goodnight, you floated back to your body just long enough to return the words.
You're beyond exhausted now, but your body aches and you swear you can feel your muscles actively atrophying. You're used to being disciplined; early training, sparring, long days on horseback, adventures in the woodsâ and now all you do is hide in your chambers and pout like the petty little princesses you swore you'd never become. You wish to do somethingâ and all you can think of that is easily accessible to you is visiting the royal stables.
Perhaps the stable hands would let you groom Topaz again if you're lucky.
It takes much effort to will yourself out of the bed even with the newfound destination. You pull a simple linen dress from the wardrobe and fasten a loose corset to your waist on your own, slipping on the gifted riding boots from Baelor Targaryen. Your hair is still in ringlets from yesterday's braid, you gather the top half of it lazily at the back of your head with a single abalone pin from the vanity drawer.
When you open the door to the corridor, Ser Kieran, who had his head previously laid back against the opposite wall lazily, stands to attention and quirks a brow at you, helmet in hand.
"Are you well, my lady?" he asks, carefully.
You nod, and your heart swells to see the concerned looks of your guards, who snap their gazes to you in assessment. You hadn't considered that your men would be anxious to know of your wellbeing past the obvious level of their occupation, but you should've known they would notice your reclusive and unusual behavior. They were used to a far-more-cheery you.
"I'm just fine." You state with a gentle smile, "Would you escort me to the stables? I fancy an outing."
Ser Kieran sighs in relief, the plates of his armor shifting with the breath. He smiles. It's that type of smile that's youthful and boyish, and reminds you of your childhood.
The knight bows, his dark hair falling over his brows, before gesturing to lead the way. After a moment he clears his throat, "The men were worried about you. You seemed poorly when you returned from the celebration last night."
You nod, "I appreciate the concern, truly."
Ser Kieran's attentive gaze urges you to go on.
"It was just some upsetting news, that's all. I was . . . overwhelmed, honestly."
"May I ask what manner of news?"
You bite hard at the inside of your cheek, "Prince Aerion, he mentioned a bedding ceremony to get a rise out of his brother. And, well . . . it was my first time hearing that we would be expected to do such a thing."
"Pardon, my lady, but you mean to say you didn't think you'd have toâ" he pauses, searching for a proper word and switching to a whisper, "lie with your husband-to-be?"
You scoff, amused, "Gods no! Of course I knew that, what I mean is that I didn't realize we would have to consummate the marriage publicly. With a witnessâ or witnesses, I presume."
Ser Kieran makes a face, like he's trying to hide his disgust at the matter, but recovers quickly, "It is customary for a marriage on a political level such as this one, isn't it?"
"I suppose so." you shrug, "It's just that I feel like this whole marriage is stripping me of all my dignity. Of my identity even. I used to have a voice. I was respected and I was good at what I did and I never felt out of place at home. I had so much to love." You reason.
"Here, I must speak only when spoken to. I have to play the part, and I'm no good at performing. My betrothed hates me and I don't matter to anyone in this place like I do at home. I didn't think that an arranged marriage would mean giving up everything about myself. I don't even feel strong anymore."
Ser Kieran is quiet for a moment, but then speaks so sincerely you nearly can't stand it.
"I'm sorry, my lady. You deserve far more than what fate has granted you. Perhaps, though you don't feel it, you are stronger just for the way you bear it all."
Your voice seems caught in your throat but you hope the soft smile and the look in your eyes tells him that you're grateful for him, and for his company. The rest of the walk is short, and you're pleased to discover the overcast in the sky as you step out into the courtyard. There's a light breeze that sweeps away the summer humidity and rustles through the green of the elm treesâ rain is certain to fall before the day is through.
The stable doors are thrown wide open to let in the cool air, and when you ask the barn hand if you'd be allowed to groom the horses he seems more than happy to have you.
 Most of the horses are inside rather than out in the paddocks due to the incoming storm. They knicker at you in greeting as you walk by each stall. Ser Kieran stands just a few feet away while the barn hand prepares Topaz for you, pulling the magnificent creature into the aisle and tying the lead rope to the first post right by the ajar stable doors.
The silvery gelding nuzzles at your shoulder as you stroke your hand down the front of his face, but just as you begin to brush him a distant laughter makes you freeze in place. Both you and your knightâs heads whip in the direction of the sound where just outside in the empty arena lounges the absolute bane of your existence.Â
Prince Daeron reclines across a stack of hay in the center of the arena, a pile of jumping poles at his side and his feet propped up on an adjacent barrel. His head is thrown back in laughter, waves of his blonde hair fanned out around him in the hay. His youngest brother, Aegon, is waving a wooden sword at him and taking the stance of a decorated warrior. He swings the sword around Daeron in a brazen dance, shouting cries of both joy and pretend-fury to the amusement of his elder.Â
Neither princes can see you, both due to the distance and the way theyâre turned away from you, so you absentmindedly indulge in watching them play as you brush Topaz.Â
Something about seeing the way the two boys behave when they think no one is watching warms you to the core. Perhaps itâs Daeronâs unguarded expression, the endearing lilt of his grin and the way his laughter rumbles his chest at his unruly little brother. Aegon is hard not to melt at, though his mischievousness is not easily hidden beneath his innocent facade. Daeron looks even younger this way, and far more attractive when he isnât busy sneering at you. You shake the thought from your head, returning to grooming the gelding.Â
Prince Daeron doesnât look at you with even an ounce of interest, it would do you good to remember that next time you get lost in his stupid, entitled, perfect face. Â
Aegonâs boisterous shouting sounds from the arena again and soon the boys are bickering and teasing one another, though you can tell they mean well. You glance without meaning to back out at the arena and startle slightly when you catch Daeron's gaze matching yours across the way. Embarrassed, you turn your back on him and go back to your brushes, feeling more like a creep than a lady.
â
That night, you make it a point to attend dinner properly with the rest of the royal family rather than lock yourself in your bedroom again.
The evening goes smoothly, Aerion nor Daeron make their appearances at dinner and you are left with the far less agonizing Targaryen company. Baelor makes small talk with you and ensures politely that you are tended to and Valarr is kind enough to ask if you are adjusting well.
You answer graciously and pray to the seven that no one asks about how you and Daeron are faring with the arrangement. You weren't sure you'd be able to lie, but the truth of it weighs down on you more than you thought possible.
The sun hangs low in the sky by the time dinner is through, an orange and gold glow casting into the dining hall through the windows. Storm clouds roll in from the distance. You return to your chambers feeling a little like a ghost, wandering through the keep and taking the longest route you know in an attempt to stay occupied. You count the windows as you go, the doors, the candle sconces, and you take note of every painting you pass. Your guards trail behind you wordlessly, but you take no comfort in their presenceâ wishing more than anything to be alone.
As you turn the corner by your room you catch sight of a familiar blonde, slouching against the door haphazardlyâ and very unprincely.
Wilting in his hand is a small bouquet of wildflowers, the stems cut at varying lengths but displaying a vibrant variety of mismatching colors, though the leaves droop from being picked. Daeron's amethyst eyes meet yours warily and you still in the hallway, a few feet away. He pushes off the wall and steps toward you, expression unreadable. At this proximity, you see that there's still stray pieces of hay wound into the long strands of his hair and the beginnings of stubble growing in at his jaw.
"They're for you." He states, handing you the bundle. There's something in those eyes of his that you just can't place, but you can't look away as you gather the stems from him, fingers grazing clumsily. You think you must be blushing, for he smirks at you like he's devilishly entertained.
"Thank you?" You say, though its more of a question than anything else.
"Why are you confused?" He says plainly, as if he's not acting like a completely different person than the prince you've been accounted with.
"Whyâ why are you being nice to me?" You stammer, brows furrowed as you try to work out the objective of this sudden, kind gesture. "Something you want?"
Daeron pushes closer to you - crowding you - crumpling the flowers between you as he sneers down at you from the slant of his nose, "Won't you kiss me as a token of your appreciation, my lady?"
He's mocking you. Daeron's lips part just barely, the scent of raw honey and soured fruits lingering in his breath; the distinct aroma of mead. The closeness is intoxicating.
If you weren't already flushed, you're positive you are now. The question written on your face twists into an expression of pure rage as you process his words. You promptly let go of the bouquet and shove hard at the center of his chest. He practically bares his teeth at you like some wild animal, taken aback by your reaction as if his taunting tone wasn't crystal clear.
The wildflowers litter the marble floor in a mess of ruined petals as you glare up at him, hands in tight fists at your side, "I'd sooner kiss a snake." You spit, voice thick with an angry - mortified - venom as you turn promptly to escape the infuriating prince.
"Lucky for you, I bite." He jeers.
You want to turn and scream at him, but you settle for slamming the door directly in his face, loud. The simultaneous slam on the wood behind you makes you hope it hit him square in his stupidly perfect face.
part four of the daeron fic is hopefully going to be posted tomorrow! it will be a little bit shorter this time as it's really just transitional, but just you wait to see what i'm cooking up in the next few chaptersâ i'm literally so excited!!
hope you all are doing well, me personally I miss akotsk already and there's no way i'll survive waiting for season two send help
