thanks to @portraitoftheoddity I wrote 900 words in a pre-canon nai pov fic yesterday. so that's apparently happening. on the one hand hey at least I wrote something and it didn't feel awful. on the other hand you know what I didn't need is more wips and now I have at least three ideas metastasizing in my head
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 I’m 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 reading🤍
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: “If I disappear, tell my mother I’m reconnecting with nature after dealing with the Targaryens.”
Then you’d turned your phone on silent, taken the hottest shower your apartment could manage, and let the city noise of King’s 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. You’d 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 family’s money, it wouldn’t shock you if the ten year old had a better data plan than you did.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number
it’s daeron btw. asked dad’s assistant for your number :)
“Oh,” you muttered to yourself. “Of course.”
Daeron. That made much more sense.
You recalled yesterday’s 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 — “Unfortunately I have been drafted into the Night’s Watch.” or “I fear I cannot return to the scene of my execution.”
You stood in your apartment doorway for a moment, hand hovering over the lock.
You could just… not go.
But then Aegon’s face flashed in your mind. The way his silver blonde eyelashes had trembled when he asked if you were coming back. The way he’d tried, badly, to pretend he didn’t care.
You sighed.
“Fine,” you whispered to no one. “For the emotionally unstable child.”
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.
King’s Landing University was already full of students when you arrived.
The campus was woven into the city itself, historic stone buildings wedged between modern skyscrapers, cafés spilling onto sidewalks, students smoking on the steps of libraries like tragic philosophers.
You had a morning lecture in Political Theory — 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 week’s 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 — a sharp deviation from the silver-blonde that dominated the Targaryen gene pool — 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.
“Hi,” he said, almost shyly.
“Oh, hello.”
“Can I sit here?”
His gaze flicked to the empty seat beside you.
“Yeah, of course.” You gathered your bag off the chair. “It’s a free kingdom.”
He huffed a small laugh and dropped into the seat. “Thanks.”
You and Valarr were… mutual friends. Mostly because he was dating Kiera. You doubted you’d 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.
“So,” you began, abandoning your notes. “I heard about what happened at the concert. Kiera told me everything.”
Valarr groaned softly, eyebrows pinching at the memory. “Yeah. Complete shitshow.”
“I gathered.”
“I knew agreeing to go with Aerion was a horrible idea,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “But my father said we needed to spend more time with our cousins.”
You snorted. “Does your father even know what Aerion is like?”
“That’s the problem,” Valarr replied dryly. “He knows exactly what Aerion is like. He just… insists on believing there’s still something good in him, somewhere in there...”
“That’s fairly optimistic.”
“More like delusional .”
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.
“Anyway,” he said casually, “I heard you took up the babysitting job for Aegon.”
There it was. You had a gut feeling he would bring this up. Why else would he have suddenly decided to sit beside you?
“Yup.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m poor.”
He laughed at that.
“I’m glad you did,” he added more seriously.
That caught you off guard. “You are?” You didn’t understand why he would even care.
“Yeah.” His mismatched eyes softened. “You’re a good person. I mean… Kiera loves you and I was… pleasantly surprised when she told me.”
You arched a brow. “Pleasantly surprised?”
“I just didn’t think you’d willingly walk into that house.”
“Neither did I, believe me.”
He smiled faintly.
“Yeah, looks like everyone’s thrilled about it except me,” you said. “And your uncle.”
At the mention of Maekar, Valarr’s mouth twitched.
“Oh, don’t take anything Maekar says to heart. He’s always like that. My father swears he was born with a frown on his face.”
You pictured him — tall, severe, permanently carved from marble. A man who wore coldness like second skin.
“Hopefully next time I won’t be the target of his fury,” you muttered.
Valarr’s expression shifted.
“No, all jokes aside…” He hesitated. “It’s not easy for him.”
You went still.
“After Dyanna—”
“Dyanna?” you echoed, the name unfamiliar on your lips.
“His wife. Their mom.”
Oh. The noise of the lecture hall suddenly dimmed in your ears. Your brain focused on Valarr as if he were the High Septon.
“After she died,” Valarr continued quietly, “everything just… fell apart. Things were always shaky you know, but she was the glue. She bind them all together. She balanced him. Softened things.”
You swallowed.
You hadn’t known her name before. Only that there had been a mother once and that she was gone now.
“She was Dornish,” he added. “Fiery and warm. The house felt different when she was there.”
“And now?” you asked softly.
He exhaled. “Now that she’s gone… it’s like all the warmth left with her. It’s just empty, hollow. It feels like everyone’s bracing for something.”
You thought of Daeron’s careful politeness. Of Aegon’s defiance. Of the tension that coiled in the hallways like invisible wire.
“I guess I’m telling you this because…” Valarr’s voice lowered. “I really think Aegon needs this. If not for the others… for him.”
Your chest tightened.
“He’s a good kid,” Valarr said firmly. “Under all of it.”
You remembered the way Aegon had looked at you — suspicious but hopeful.
“I promise,” you said quietly, “I’ll try my best.”
Valarr studied you for a moment, as if measuring something intangible.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know they can be difficult.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He smiled faintly. “But they’re not bad. Not really. At least… Aegon still has the chance not to be.”
Before you could respond, the professor swept into the room in a flurry of papers and authority.
“Settle down, everyone.”
Laptops snapped open. Conversations died down.
Valarr turned his attention forward, but you caught him glancing at you once more — something grateful lingering in his expression.
You tried to focus on the lecture, but your mind kept drifting.
To Dyanna and to Maekar’s 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.
“You going straight there?” he asked.
“Yep.”
He hesitated. “If Maekar says anything… just remember he’s not angry at you.”
“I gathered that much.”
“And if Aegon gives you trouble—”
“He will.”
Valarr smiled. “Yeah. He will.”
You paused at the corner where your paths split.
“Thanks,” you said.
“For what?”
“For telling me all of this...”
He nodded once. “She would’ve liked you.” 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. I’ll be there.
—
The car ride uptown felt shorter this time. The Targaryen townhouse loomed exactly as you remembered it from yesterday — 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 gardener’s 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.
“Hi.”
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 hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in a week.
Did his eyes look like that yesterday too? Had you simply failed to notice?
“Hello,” 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 — not that he was enormous or the door was small, but he occupied it so completely it felt symbolic. Like a human threshold.
“Sorry… can I?” You gestured awkwardly toward the inside of the house, sheepish.
“Oh!” His eyes widened in realization. “Of course — sorry.” 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.
“Thanks,” you said automatically, closing the door behind you.
“You ought to stop thanking me so much,” he said with a soft chuckle.
“Force of habit,” 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.
“So… where’s Aegon?” you asked to break the silence.
Daeron slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, posture casual in a way that looked practiced.
“He’s in his room, I think. He knows you’re coming at twelve. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care for about five minutes and then dramatically appear.”
You hummed. “Sounds about right.” Your lips quirked up.
There was another small pause.
“Would you like a glass of water?” he asked. “Or — something?”
The hesitation in his voice made it clear he was navigating unfamiliar territory. Small talk wasn’t a Targaryen specialty, apparently.
“I’m fine, thanks.” You smiled lightly. “Besides, after yesterday’s chicken nugget fiasco, I think I can handle myself in the kitchen.”
He laughed — properly this time, not the forced rehearsed kind. “Yeah. The kitchen’s all yours. No one goes in there anyway…”
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 didn’t press.
Instead, in a moment of truly questionable social instinct, you nodded toward his face.
“Rough night?”
He blinked, not catching up with your meaning. “What?”
“You, uh—” You gestured vaguely near your own eyes. “The eyebags.”
Fantastic. You couldn’t have been more subtle.
For a second he looked confused, then understanding dawned.
“Oh. Yeah.” He shifted his weight. “I struggle with these… things.”
“Things?”
“Well. Most people would call them nightmares,” he said carefully. “But they’re dreams, really.”
He watched your face as he spoke, like he was bracing himself for mockery or something akin to it.
You didn’t fully understand — you’d never dealt with anything like that — but you knew enough to know sleep disturbances weren’t trivial. Insomnia, anxiety, trauma — it all tangled together in complicated ways.
You nodded gently. “That sounds exhausting.”
His shoulders eased just slightly.
“It is,” he admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m more awake when I’m asleep.”
“That’s kind of poetic. But in a tragic way.” You quickly added.
He huffed a faint laugh. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
Before the silence could deepen into something heavy, a door slammed open.
Rapid footsteps thundered down the hall.
“You came.”
Aegon stood at the edge of the hallway, his head as bare as the day he was born, eyes blazing with barely contained excitement.
“I did,” 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.
“Well,” Daeron clapped his hands together abruptly, and only then did you realize he was fully dressed — shoes on, jacket zipped. He’d 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.
“I should get going.”
Aegon didn’t even glance at him.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, stepping closer to the younger boy.
Aegon turned and started toward his room without acknowledging his brother’s existence. He disappeared behind the corridor.
There was tension there. Old and ingrained. Like he was silently judging him.
“I’d say see you later,” Daeron said lightly as he reached for the door, “but I’m not sure I want to make promises I can’t keep.”
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 wasn’t heading to a coffee shop.
Flea Bottom existed only a few subway stops away — bars that opened before noon, streets that swallowed boys with too much money and not enough supervision.
You didn’t 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 — figurines scattered, a half-built Lego structure and a sketchbook lying open beside him.
“You redecorated,” you said mildly, noting the scene.
“It’s tactical placement,” he corrected without looking up.
“Of course. My mistake.”
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. “So. What’s the plan today?”
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.
“This is… ambitious,” you murmured.
He hesitated before answering, fingers hovering over the instruction booklet like he was about to confess something deeply personal.
“I got this set for Christmas,” he said finally. “And I thought it would be a good idea to put it together.”
The box — still propped against the wall — depicted an enormous dragon fortress, complete with towers, battlements, and what looked like an unnecessarily complex pulley system.
You nodded solemnly. “A noble pursuit.”
You settled beside him properly, legs folding under you. The carpet smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something citrusy.
“Okay,” you began gently. “I looked at your schedule. You have a lesson with Maellon later—”
“I know.”
He didn’t even look at you, just snapped the words out while aggressively flipping to page three of the manual.
You blinked. “You don’t like Maellon?”
There had to be something redeemable about the man. He’d served the family for twenty years. That kind of longevity required either saint-like patience or blackmail material.
“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Aegon muttered, pushing two stubborn bricks together. “It’s just he treats me like I’m stupid. Like everyone else does.”
Your chest tightened slightly at that.
“But father insists I must respect and listen to him,” 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.
“Are Daella and Rhae here?” you asked casually.
He paused mid-click.
“Does your application say babysitting for three kids?”
You stared at him.
“Smart mouth,” you muttered.
He smirked faintly.
“No,” you admitted. “It does not.”
“They’re in school,” he said after a moment, tone softening as if he regretted snapping. “They go to a private girls-only institution. They’re taught by septas there.”
Of course they were.
“And you?” you asked carefully.
You saw it — the flicker in his eyes — before he answered.
“I went to the sibling school. The one for boys.” He shrugged. “They kicked me out.” He said it so casually but his lips quirked upward with mischief.
You sighed, equal parts entertained and concerned. “Do I even want to know?”
“No!” he burst into laughter immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Story for another time then.” 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.
“What is this, miss?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.
“You don’t like pop music?”
He made a face of deep offense. “Rhae and Daella listen to this rubbish.”
“Oh?”
“I am a man of more refined taste,” he declared, lifting his chin with aristocratic precision.
You burst out laughing. This child never ceases to surprise you.
“Alright, Your Grace,” you teased. “What does your refined taste crave?”
“Something timeless,” he said immediately. “Like Queen. Or The Beatles.”
You blinked at him. There was absolutely no way.
“You don’t believe me,” he accused, observing your bewilderment.
“I’m… processing.”
“My uncle Baelor introduced me to them,” he continued defensively. “He says they are some of the most soul-touching artists of the twentieth century.”
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.
“Alright,” you said, suppressing your grin. “Let It Be.”
You switched playlists. Soft guitar chords filled the room.
Aegon’s face lit up instantly. He began humming along under his breath while snapping bricks together with intense concentration.
You didn’t interrupt him. Instead, you grabbed the small notepad that was strewn across the floor and began sketching absentmindedly — 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 didn’t fit.
“…stupid bloody—”
You glanced at him. He didn’t even notice.
You were fairly certain those words were inherited directly from Maekar.
“You curse like a middle-aged politician,” you observed.
He shrugged. “Father says strong language builds character.”
“Somehow I doubt that’s how he phrases it.”
The hours folded gently around you.
Between songs and bricks, you talked.
You learned he loved climbing — trees, walls, anything vertical — but his father deemed most things “too dangerous.”
You learned his favorite color was green, though he was always dressed in black and red.
“I look like I’m in permanent mourning,” he grumbled.
“And 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.” You genuinely burst out into laughter at that.
You learned he didn’t actually hate his family.
“I just… wish they were nicer,” he said quietly, not looking at you.
And he learned about you.
“You do yoga?” he repeated incredulously, after you had listed of all your hobbies.
“Yes.”
“And pottery?”
“Yes.”
He nearly fell over laughing. “You spin clay for fun?”
“It’s meditative!”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”
When you mentioned you weren’t originally from Westeros, his entire demeanor shifted.
“Where are you from?” 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.
“I wish I could do that,” he said after a moment.
“What?”
“Just pack up and leave,” he replied. “Go abroad like Aemon. Maybe I’d go to Dorne. Or the North.”
You studied him.
At first, it felt absurd. This child lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in King’s Landing. He had every material comfort imaginable.
But then you understood. He had everything.
And yet — he had nothing.
No love. No softness. No one consistently choosing him.
“That’s a very big adventure,” you said carefully.
He placed the final brick of the bag into position with a decisive click.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it would be fun.”
You checked your watch and your eyes widened.
“Oh shit. Maellon should be here any minute.”
Aegon groaned dramatically and flopped backward onto the carpet like a tragic Victorian heroine.
“Must I?”
“Yes, you must,” you replied, standing and offering him a hand. “Survive the lesson and try not to give the old man a heart attack.”
He snorted.
“And afterward,” you added, narrowing your eyes playfully, “we will do something fun. Something that does not include shaving your head.”
He grumbled, then flashed you a sheepish smile.
“Deal.” 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 hadn’t expected you to return.
“Hello, young lady,” he greeted, voice warm but measured.
“Hello,” you replied politely.
He didn’t linger for conversation, which you appreciated.
Instead, he moved directly toward Aegon’s 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.
“Yes?” Aegon’s 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.
—
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 Maellon’s 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 — essays submitted, readings annotated — because you’d 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 didn’t know what Aegon liked. You didn’t know if he was allergic to nuts or dairy or something obscure and life-threatening.
Accidentally hospitalizing your employer’s 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 wasn’t 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 — 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 weren’t 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 — 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 hadn’t witnessed yet.
The hallway branched into several bedrooms beside Aegon’s. Five doors total. You paused.
Those belonged to the others.
Daella. Rhae. Daeron. Aerion. Aemon.
You didn’t cross that line.
Instead, curiosity — reckless and unwise — 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 Maekar’s 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.
Aegon’s 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 Aegon’s room.
This time, you didn’t 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.
“Egg?” Your voice came out softer than you expected. It was laced with both concern and confusion.
He flinched slightly but didn’t look at you.
“Go away.”
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?
“Aegon,” you said carefully, stepping closer like you were approaching a frightened deer. “What happened?”
“I said go away!” he snapped, sharper this time.
You crouched down across from him — not too close, not too far.
“If you don’t tell me what the issue is,” you said calmly, “we can’t resolve it.”
“You don’t understand,” he muttered bitterly. “You don’t even know me.”
You inhaled slowly, straightening your spine. “Then tell me,” you said gently. “So I can.”
Silence. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.
He sniffed quietly, occasionally glancing at you as if testing whether you’d leave. You didn’t. You remained stoic as a statue.
You didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t 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.
“Hey,” you said softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He stiffened — but didn’t pull away. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Father says real boys and men never cry,” he whispered.
Of course he does.
You exhaled through your nose.
“Well,” you deadpanned lightly, “there 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.”
Aegon’s mouth twitched despite himself. That’s a good step forward.
“Now,” you continued gently, “what happened?”
He swallowed.
“We were studying,” he began slowly. “Reciting the houses from Dorne.”
You nodded.
“And we got to House Dayne and… I didn’t know anything.”
Ah. House Dayne. His mother’s house.
“And then I got angry,” he continued, words tumbling faster. “Because how could I not know? And I kept getting things wrong and Maester Maellon said I clearly hadn’t studied enough and then I just—”
You didn’t say broke. You didn’t need to. You understood.
“Hey,” you murmured, rubbing his back in slow circles. “How well you can recite noble houses does not define your worth. You know that, right?”
He nodded reluctantly.
“You are a smart kid,” you said firmly. “Everyone messes up. The important thing is now you know what you didn’t know. And that means you can improve.”
He blinked at you. Your own voice felt foreign in your ears, you sounded suspiciously a lot like a therapist.
His shoulders finallyneased.
“Okay,” you said after a moment. “What do you say we do something fun?” He eyed you cautiously.
“Like what?”
“Like baking cookies.” You suggested, eyeing his reaction carefully.
He stared at you as if you’d suggested summoning a dragon.
“Bake?”
“Yes. Measure flour. Crack eggs. Make a mess. Risk cardiac arrest if your father walks in and sees.”
He frowned, genuinely confused. “If we want cookies we just order them.”
You gasped theatrically. “Absolutely not. When you are with me, we do things from scratch.”
He hesitated.
“Unless,” you added slyly, “you’re afraid of getting your hands dirty.”
He shot to his feet immediately. “I am not afraid.”
“Prove it.”
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 wouldn’t mind at all.
—
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 vast—too 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 eye—half 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. “I’m… not sure that’s relevant to baking.”
“It sets the mood.”
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.
“That one,” he said, pointing to a picture absolutely drowning in pastel frosting.
“That looks like a sugar-induced coma.”
“Exactly.”
You scrolled. “This one looks easier.”
“Too plain.”
“This one says ‘soft bakery-style.’”
He squinted. “Does it have sprinkles?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re doing that.”
You watched the video together, nodding solemnly as if preparing for battle.
“Okay, I think we can do this…” you said, pushing off the counter and grabbing a scrap piece of paper. “First step: find everything.”
The kitchen loomed around you like an unfamiliar kingdom. You had barely located the chicken nuggets yesterday without starting a small crisis.
“Mission,” you said dramatically, scribbling down ingredients, “find everything without breaking the kitchen.”
Aegon’s 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.
“Why are there seven types of sugar?” you muttered, staring at labeled glass jars: cane sugar, caster sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, coconut sugar…
“Because we’re Targaryens,” 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. “Found it.”
“Good. We also need eggs.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
“Oh my God,” he groaned.
You grinned. “Eggs, Egg.”
“I hate you.”
“Untrue. You adore me.”
He scowled, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Eventually, the island was covered in ingredients—lined up in neat little rows because you insisted on order.
Aegon eyed it suspiciously. “We can just use cups.”
“The scale is more precise.”
“Cups are faster.”
“You want perfect cookies or chaotic cookies?”
“Chaotic.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Scale.”
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.
“Patience.”
“It’s more efficient like this.”
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.
“You look like you’ve aged forty years.”
He swiped at his bald head, making it worse. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You chose flour.”
“Flour is essential Aegon!.”
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.
“This is ceremonial,” he said.
“It’s flour.”
“It’s the deciding moment of the destiny of our cookies.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You know I’m right.”
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.
“Aegon—”
“I’m fixing it!”
“You’re not fixing it!”
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.
“Stop— that’s Ralph Lauren.”
He shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t have ten more.”
You shot him a look. “I would prefer not to give your father additional reasons to fire me.”
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.
“Focus,” you muttered to yourself, cracking an egg into the bowl.
He watched you carefully.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
“I’m not,” you replied. “I just pretend confidently. Improvisation is key.”
“That works?”
“Shockingly.”
He considered that like it was valuable information.
When the dough finally began to form—thick and pale and promising—Aegon’s expression shifted from chaotic to genuinely pleased.
He stuck his finger into the bowl.
“Don’t—” Too late he was already licking the paste of his pointer finger.
His eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Is it good?”
He nodded, mouth full. “We’re geniuses.”
“Raw egg, genius. You’re going to be the one explaining to your father why you caught salmonella.”
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.
Daella’s voice floated down the hall first, followed by Rhae’s. 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 professor’s daughter. Of course.
“Hey,” Daella said, stopping short when she saw the flour-dusted scene. “What… happened here?” She looked at the scene skeptically.
“War,” Aegon said solemnly.
“Baking,” you corrected.
Gwyn smiled politely at you. “It smells good.”
“Do you want to help?” you offered.
All three of them blinked as if you had suggested manual labor in a coal mine.
“We, um—” Daella glanced at Rhae.
“There’s a sale at Aritzia,” Rhae blurted. “We need to put everything in the cart before it ends.”
You nodded easily. “Okay.”
“Wait!” Daella suddenly perked up, pulling out her phone. “Don’t move.”
She positioned herself at the perfect angle, adjusting lighting, shifting the bowl slightly.
“Can you sprinkle flour again?” she asked Aegon.
He stared at her like she was stupid.
“For the aesthetic,” she clarified. “Instagram will love it.”
He rolled his eyes so hard you were worried they might get stuck.
She snapped pictures anyway, satisfied.
“You can invite us when it’s time to decorate.” Rhae suggested. “Yeah we’d love to do that.” Gwyn chimed in. You assured them you would.
When they finally retreated upstairs to do — well whatever teenage girls did, the kitchen felt softer somehow.
You and Aegon stood there in the quiet hum of the house.
“Heart shapes?” he suggested.
“Heart shapes,” 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.
“Gentle,” you laughed.
“I’m being gentle!.”
“No you’re not.”
Eventually, you managed uneven but charming heart shapes. They weren’t perfect—some were lopsided, some too thick—but 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.
“You still have homework,” you reminded gently. He groaned like you’d personally betrayed him. He was definitely hoping you wouldn’t 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.
“They look… professional,” Aegon whispered reverently. “They look edible,” you corrected, though your heart swelled a little.
The girls reappeared almost immediately, drawn downstairs the scent.
”It smells heavenly,” Gwyn breathed.
You mixed the frosting—powdered sugar, butter, a splash of milk—tinting 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.
“They’re messy,” you observed.
“They’re perfect,” Gwyn corrected quietly. And she was right.
They looked homemade. Loved. Real.
“Okay,” Aegon announced, grabbing one before Rhae could start recording. She opened her mouth to protest.
“Taste test.”
He bit in. His expression changed instantly. His eyes widening and his shoulders relaxed. He let out a theatrical hum.
“This is so good,” 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 didn’t 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. “Let’s do something!”
“We just did something,” you laughed.
“Something else!”
“Ooo!” she gasped, eyes alight with an idea. “Just Dance!”
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 it—built seamlessly into dark paneling—was a television so large it felt less like a screen and more like a portal.
“Of course it’s built into the wall,” you muttered under your breath.
“Obviously,” Daella replied as if you’d just commented on gravity.
Aegon grabbed the remote and tossed it between his hands like a grenade. “Stand back.”
“You act like you’ve never turned on a TV before,” 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 screen—cartoon silhouettes in glittering outfits striking dramatic poses. The music pulsed, cheerful and obnoxiously upbeat.
Five player mode.
“Absolutely not,” you said, already backing away slightly. “I do not know how to dance.”
“It’s okay!” Rhae laughed. “Neither does Aegon, you should see him try.”
“Rhae,” he warned pushing her playfully. She grinned wider.
The game selection wheel spun wildly, then landed on Last Friday Night by Katy Perry.
“Oh no,” Aegon muttered.
“Oh yes,” 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 move—a dramatic arm swing and hip twist—and nearly elbowed Gwyn in the face.
“Shit I’m so sorry!” You slapped a hand across your mouth. Maybe swearing in front of so many kids wasn’t your brightest idea.
“Watch it!” she squealed, laughing.
“I said I can’t dance!”
“You’re doing great!” 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 hadn’t realized how much space this room held until it was filled with noise.
You felt ridiculous. Your hair had escaped whatever attempt at neatness you’d 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 didn’t care. Aegon attempted an exaggerated hip roll.
You burst out laughing mid-move.
“This is terrible!” you gasped.
“You’re terrible!” he shot back, grinning.
“I told you I can’t dance!”
“Improvise!” Aegon yelled.
The song reached its dramatic chorus. Everyone began jumping in complete disregard for choreography. Time blurred.
You didn’t know how long you’d been flailing around in bright, sugar-fueled hysteria when—
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.
“Dad!” 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 head—careful, restrained.
“We were playing Just Dance together!” she declared breathlessly.
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I can see that.”
His voice, shockingly—lacked 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. “Do you want to join us, Mr. Targaryen?”
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 hadn’t 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 there—assessment, perhaps. Or suspicion.
He cleared his throat.
“You can leave,” he said evenly, speaking to the children, yet his eyes were still on you. “I would like to have a word.”
The kids groaned in synchronized protest.
“But why?” Daella complained. “We were having fun!”
Aegon glanced at you, wary.
You forced a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. We’ll see each other tomorrow, yes?”
They quieted almost immediately.
Maekar’s 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.
“I just wanted to…” He inhaled sharply, as if the words physically resisted leaving him. “…apologize for yesterday’s inconvenience.”
It sounded rehearsed. Mechanical.
“My irritation was… misplaced.”
He exhaled abruptly. “Oh, fuck me. You know what I’m trying to say.”
You blinked.
That was not the refined, controlled patriarch you’d come to expect.
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Targaryen,” you said gently.
Only then did you become hyperaware of yourself—flour on your sleeves, hair slightly frizzy, cheeks flushed from dancing.
He cleared his throat again, regaining composure.
“Well. That would be all. I am fairly certain I can handle my children from here.”
There it was. Dismissal. You swallowed the small sting of it.
“Of course,” you replied evenly. “I just need to grab my things from Aegon’s room.”
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 Aegon’s room, he was pacing slightly.
“Is everything alright?” he asked immediately, stopping in one place.
You softened. “Yes.”
“My father didn’t yell at you, did he?”
“No,” you said honestly. “I know. Shocking.”
He huffed a small laugh but still looked unconvinced.
You slung your backpack over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Egg.”
“See you,” 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.
Instead— 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 weren’t certain you’d 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 hadn’t.
Aerion Targaryen stood before you, gaze sharp and venomous as recognition dawned on him.
His lip curled in open disgust.
“What the fuck,” he said coldly, gaze dragging over your flour-stained clothes, your messy hair, the backpack slung over your shoulder. “are you doing in my house?”
hellooooo, can we have tim drake omegaverse? reader is just dying to impregnate him but Tim is a beta and its notoriously tough for betas to get pregnant, so reader trying extra hard cause hes in a rut? Thank youui
!U So Crazy, Think I Wanna Have Yo' Babies!
Warning: Sub/Bottom character, Dom/Top AMAB male reader, breeding kink, marking, established relationship. No use of (y/n)
Note: Waoh...I've never seen anything about betas getting knocked up before. Huh. I guess it would make sense as the middle ground, able to be pushed either way, instead of being incapable of any reproductive activities. Like a lot of sea creatures, if I'm not mistaken.
!!------------------------------------!!
Tim can't decide whether to feel flattered or embarrassed as he scrolls through your recent search history. Medical videos going in-depth about beta genitalia, articles covering the percentage likelihood of beta impregnation, blogs raving about the best-suited sex positions for breeding, supplements, hidden beta cycles, the works. It's not like you've been subtle about your desires, but seeing it all laid out is different.
The two of you have had the talk, there's a faux bonding mark you redo at the start of every week burned into the back of Tim's neck, and a wedding on the way. Every time you guys babysit Mari for Dick and Koriand'r only serves to remind him how much he wants a little one of his own, and maybe two more after that. Tim knows what it's like to grow up in an empty house, okay? The last thing he wants is to burden his baby with that life.
Tim sighs and sets your phone back down where you had left it on the bedside table. He shifts, strong legs losing themselves in the silk sheets below him. The mood had long been set, but you had momentarily dipped out to grab some things before the main event started. As he waits on you, he catches his reflection in the mirror and tweaks the fall of his bangs. If he's going to play the part of an omega, he should try being a bit cuter, shouldn't he? Meek. Tim tries a few expressions. Pouting, pursing his lips, perfecting a crinkle in his brow, he's been able to pull off ever since he was a kid. He's only mildly put off when you reenter.
Water and towels are set to the side when you rejoin your fiancée in bed. Tim's legs part in welcome, his red tip and slick hole greeting you in kind. He dramatically whines when your lips meet for a gentle kiss, but it falls when you grin, and he can't help but chuckle back. "You ready, big guy?" He murmurs, barely an inch apart. You've done it raw before, and even stuffed him full of a few creampies, but it takes a lot more than that to knock up a beta. The stars have aligned tonight, and you're in the midst of your rut. Tim's just lucky you aren't the dysfunctional type. He's heard plenty of horror stories.
It's easy to lay him back and expose himself for you. Arching and baring his neck to entice your alpha further. It makes you purr, rumbling softly all the way down to your cock. It's a delicious vibration that lets you slide more easily into his warm opening. Tim's totally relaxed and calm when you start rocking your hips against his ass, each push of your cock nudging a soft breath from him. You keep a gentle rhythm as you work yourself up, touching over and lovingly caressing his calves on either side of you.
He's a sight below you. Arms freely sprawled out by his head, staring back at you with those warm eyes of his. Tim's not skinny, but he is lean. Smaller than some of his more bulk-heavy siblings. Soon, that'll change. Under his pretty breasts will swell proper tits. His hips will widen, and his belly will grow too. All because of you.
"Ah-Alpha, gentle." Tim breathlessly laughs as your pace picks up. He doesn't mean it, not really, if the smile he's stifling is anything to go by. He manages onto his elbows, curling on himself to feel the pistoning of your cock a little deeper. The hilt of your knot at the end of your cock is almost a tease for what's to come. Its swell is so significant it nearly spaces out the smack of your balls against him. Hah...and he's gonna have to take it. All of it.
Suddenly, you're yanking Tim closer by his waist. Tugging his legs up and over one of your shoulders to fuck at a better angle. "Fuck," He shivers, no longer able to hide his grin. His head tips back, moaning freely as he fists at the sheets. "Alpha, oh, Alpha,"
His hole pulses and flutters around you, but it's not a grip you could describe as tight. All the better to take you as deep as you can go. Brushing up against his prostate for added pleasure. Tim jerks at that, knees nearly knocking you in the jaw when he squirms. "Yes, my god, yes!" He cries, "That's it, that's it!"
You can't help but whine, sniffing for a scent he can't give off. Logically, you know he's feeling more than good, but you're searching for something sweet. Something musty. Something omega-like. You nose at his ankle, nipping it softly to soothe yourself. You thrust harder, almost digging inside of him with your tip. Tims locked up now, fisting at the sheets below him as they continuously slipped from his hold (damn silk). He nods along desperately to nothing but the pleasure shooting through him.
You lean forward, bending Tim's legs over himself as you lean in to kiss him. You drool into his mouth, licking all over him with vigour. Tim hums along to your rut, dizzy murmurs. He's gonna make such a good mama, your puppies are gonna look so cute, you can't wait to see him fill up with your cum.
Your head grows hotter and hotter, as does the needling in your torso. You hump against Tim like the dog in heat that you were, until finally, you were able to force your knot into his awaiting hole. Tim gasps, thrashing his arms and legs around you to box you in on top of him. Your purring heightens, soothing at his temple with wet kisses and small drags of your tongue against his sweat. He whimpers for real this time, the flood of your cum a warm comfort deep in his abdomen.
The two of you settle in, entangled from the tips of your toes to the curve of your necks. This is only the first attempt of many; you have the rest of your rut to ensure it takes.
Oooo yes please to a part two of the Superman family and Batman family being a platonic yandere to reader!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️
Platonic Yandere! Superfam X Reader X Platonic Yandere! Batfam Pt. 2
Check out part one
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, or franchises mentioned in this fanfiction. All rights belong to their respective creators and copyright holders. This story is written purely for entertainment and non-profit purposes.
When Clark returned from home, he was taken a back at the sight of the broken door. The first thought that came into his mind is that you managed to escape while they were out. This is exactly why he fought with Lois over leaving you alone! You don't know the difference between safe and dangerous!
He quickly searched the house for your presence, and then stopped walking to hear your heartbeat, and was surprised to find out that your heartbeat sounded far from their home. Somewhere that sounded familiar to him. Bruce you are going to be damned.
==================================
In the Wayne Manor, you were forced to sit in the living room to 'bond' with your now so-called 'siblings'. Bruce's words. He was so adamant about having you live here that he already adopted the family dynamic he always wished from his dysfunctional family.
You sat next to Tim. He was typing something on his laptop, you didn't know what it was and you didn’t really care. This whole situation is fucking weird. Why are vigilantes + superheroes so interested in you anyways? You are just a regular person!
You started remembering your old apartment. You used to complain about it so much; the rooms were small, the water is always leaking, your neighbors are noisy. But somehow, with the situation you are in, you miss it. How ironic.
"Hey, you there?" You were brought back to the presence by Tim. "You seemed lost in thought, do you have something in thought? Something bothering you? You know you can talk to us, right?" He said, leaning to the side and giving you a sympathetic look.
You didn't respond at all, this is something new that you have adopted, the silent treatment. You figured that if you didn't give them the attention they wanted from you, they would leave you alone.
Tim sighed, then grabbed the TV remote and turned on the TV. "Do you have something specific that you liked watching? A certain show or a movie?" You didn’t respond. As if watching something right now would lessen how scary and weird this situation is.
From the living room door, behind you, Bruce stood next to Stephanie. "She has been refusing any form of bonding ever since we brought her here. This is unacceptable." Bruce said and Stephanie scoffed next to him. "Relax, she just got here, besides, she is probably scared."
"Scared? Of what?" "Of you guys!" Stephanie said. This baffled Bruce. "Why would she be scared of us? We protect Gotham!" He said, raising his voice a little bit at the end.
"I don't think she cares. All she sees is a house full of men, and that's scary."
Bruce has never had that thought occur to him, but it makes sense. Of course you are scared. This hurt Bruce very deeply, all he and the others want is to protect you from danger, but instead, you are scared of them.
Before he got to think much further, he heard an explosion coming from the ceiling. Tim quickly threw his laptop aside and pulled you against him and you shrieked at the explosion.
Looking up, Bruce realised the source of the explosion. Clark Kent. He flew in the air, eyes filled with fury, and his hand clenched into a fist. He looked around and spotted you being shielded by Tim. "Bruce, you piece of shit, give me back my daughter!"
"Your daughter??? You left her alone, and now you remember that she is your daughter???" Bruce yelled back. "You don't tell me what to do and not do with my daughter!!!"
Looking up from Tim's shoulder, you can see them clearly now. Strange enough, they sounded like your parents when they were arguing with who is more capable to have your custody. That didn't end well. You'll be damned if you let it happen again.
"BOTH OF YOU, SHUT UP!!" You screamed. "How do you call yourselves protectors, and then kidnap a regular civilian and force them into your weird fantasies??"
"Weird? sweetheart, don't say that! You need a family! Yours failed you!" Clark said, now lowering himself to the ground and walking closer to you. "I want to give you the life you deserve, a life with a loving, and providing family!" He continued.
"You? You can't do that with that small farmhouse! You are clearly financially incapable of supporting them!" Bruce said, walking to Clark, now faces inches away from eachother, glaring. "As if your 'lavish lifestyle' can compromise for the coldness your family seems to be infected with!"
"How about we come to an agreement?"
Everyone looked around for the source of inturruption. It was Dick Grayson. "How about each family gets to have them for a week? And by the end of the week, we meet somewhere to hand them over to the other family? That way, you can give them the best of both worlds!"
Great. That sounds amazing. You are going to be used as a peacemaker.
Bruce and Clark cannot admit that the other was right about what their family was lacking, but deep down they knew the other was right. Clark would love to provide for you everything you want if it makes you feel happy but he can't, so he resorted to providing affection. Bruce on the other hand, cannot provide you with any warmth, but is capable of buying you anything you want. It is the best of both worlds.
"That... doesn’t sound so bad." Clark said, thinking it through. "As long as Bruce hold his end of the agreement, that is" he says, glaring at Bruce again. "How dare you-"
"Ok ok ok, can you two calm down so we can decide who should have them first?" Says Dick while raising his hand to gesture for them to calm down as he started to notice you were flinching everytime they raised their voices.
"Well it's me of course." Bruce said. "What??? Of course not!! I had them first, I'm the one who gets to have the custody this week!!" "Exactly! You had their custody this week, it's my turn now!!"
This is just great.
Author's Note: I took the comedic route for the platonic yandere batfam and superfam. I thought it suited them well and needed to explore something new! Also enjoyed hinting at Bruce and Clark fighting like married couple lol.
synopsis: sukuna helped you escape your abusive family and accommodated you into his own
tags: (platonic or not) ryomen sukuna x reader, ft choso and yuuji, modern!no curses!au, hurt/comfort, found family trope, protective!sukuna, choso loves his brothers, some vulgar language, brief mention of bullying, tw: implied physical abuse (not graphic), expectations, food as a love language, yuuji is 17 & everyone else is mid 20s, itadori siblings all have tattoos and piercings minus yuuji, not beta’d, 3k words
a/n: hi. this was written for me. by me. not to get personal, but i’ve been trying to escape my own dysfunctional/abusive household too and i wouldn’t wish living such a life on anybody. it’s lonely. if you relate to this at all, you are a brave strong soul and you will prevail. resources are out there. if you need someone to talk to, dms are always open. much love.
gravel crackled under the weight of the car’s wheels. there was a squeak then the mechanical sound of the gear shifting, locking, and the engine went dead. it was dark out, you suddenly remembered, or rather became cognizant of where you were.
the drive to sukuna’s house had been a lot quicker than you had expected. perhaps it wasn’t the actual duration, but the focal point switched to the rattling of your heart rather than the journey.
“come on,” you were ripped from your thoughts (or lack thereof) at the sound of sukuna. you exited his car, stepping out as he leaned on the open door. the entire drive had been filled with static. tears had been free falling out of your eyes the entire time. sukuna had been able to tell very easily that you weren’t ready to talk. your intermittent sniffles had been the only breaks from the silence.
the thing that you had been going through wasn’t foreign to sukuna. it was the reason he and his younger brother, yuji, had to get out of their previous home, taken in by their grandpa wasuke. it wasn’t that his dad had been downright evil, but the man had long neglected the kids for his own hubris and declining mental health.
“here, let me get your bag for you,” sukuna murmured as he came to do just as he said, but you tensed up. the gesture made both of you pause in your steps for a moment. he sighed, wide shoulders deflating with the action. “hey, you’re safe. i promise. and you don’t need to feel bad for even a second. i want you here. i want to help you. believe me, you’d know if i didn’t. i’ve never given a rat’s ass about what happens to people who i didn’t care about, and i’d burn cities down for the people i do.”
his casual vulgarity made you crack a small grin. the apples of your cheeks squeezed the remnants of tears down the dips of your face. something about the sight restored at least a fragment of peace to sukuna’s soul.
“alright, let’s go inside,” you nodded and shrugged your bag into your friend’s hold, watching him eat.
even as you headed up the steep steps of the porch in tow of sukuna, a certain warmth made itself apparent. the scent of herbs and braised meat permeated the boundaries of the front door. such an aroma of spices sent an ache through your system. it reverberated from the outside in, stirring a deep, unsettled hunger you hadn’t been so unfulfilled in so long. you were so hungry it hurt for a moment; it squeezed your throat briefly before going away. sukuna unlocked the door, entering. you watched his tall frame kick off his shoes.
“hey, i’m back!” sukuna called out to no one in particular. as you made your way in, warily looking around and taking everything in, everything about the atmosphere read warm. it induced a fuzzy feeling that settled into your bones. you dared to inhale again. cooked ginger and turmeric flooded your senses, reigniting that empty pang.
“christ, when was the last time you ate?” sukuna moved past you. the kitchen was smaller with his presence. the curved entrance of the hallway made the scene before you appear as a canvas. he moved past around, bouncing between cabinets, opposite sides of the kitchen, uncaring about his surroundings. why would he? he had massive shoulders with arms that could resemble tree trunks. he had a mean mug, piercing rouge eyes with an even sharper edge to each feature on his face. thick tattoos lined his limbs, body, and from the neck up. piercings adorned much of the skin on his face though it should be noted they weren’t too crowded or showy. it was just enough to make a statement. if that was his objective, at least.
sukuna was that type of guy. you had known him since middle school, but it was through the first year of high school that you became acquainted with one another. you were the type of kid who didn’t necessarily get picked on overtly, but it still happened just more covertly, behind your back or smack in the face but full of backhandedness. his reputation was exactly what one would think it was: troublesome but worth it. the teachers and staff had known wasuke for a long time. the town wasn’t too big.
sukuna liked beating people up but within reason. he only went after the people who made life for others a living hell. it surprised you more when he was the first one (ever) to sit with you during lunch. he was a loner, only relying on a few friends at best, but mostly his family.
as time passed, he would invite you over to his home, considering you a true friend, but you could only decline due to circumstances. sadly, you grew apart after graduation, forced by your family to work and continue school in an undergrad program. said circumstances however led you to here now. years have gone by, but it had only felt like no progress had been made. you’re right where the old you had only daydreamed of, two steps forward, at the most.
creaking of the stairs gave way to announce someone else’s presence. despite your curiosity, you remained trained at the doorway the kitchen, feet still planted right before the shoe rack.
sukuna nudged his chin at whoever it was, bowls in his hand. it was choso who materialized, stealing a glance at you, then at his older brother, then back at you. he was about a year younger than you and was far different than sukuna in terms of temperament and emotional sensitivity. looks wise, choso had a similar edge to him, though not quite pronounced.
choso had gone to a different school, but that had no effect on the connection that remained today. while sukuna had been a troublesome student, he was still strong academically, appreciative of poetry and literature, though he didn’t pursue that pathway. it was choso who did, however. he fit the liberal arts type more, somehow, with the experimental makeup and hairstyles.
contrary to his older brother, choso had a complexion that was fair to the point of pallid, but it was natural. he liked to accentuate his dark, thick eyelashes with even darker eyeshadow and eyeliner. it really did bring out the color of his eyes. underneath the cosmetics and face piercings, choso was a big sweetheart, who could be incredibly sarcastic in more ways than one. he was the same as ever, overlooking all and always keeping it together for the sake of others, just as he was now.
as soon as his eyes settled over you, choso eased into a gentle smile. you could read underneath his sweet exterior at the moment, something tumultuous but quiet, as he took in your disheveled appearance and your bags. sukuna had a similar reaction. they were definitely related, similar in the way they shouldered a burden and took it in stride.
“if it isn’t our old friend,” he greeted softly, adopting a quieter tone when addressing you.
“choso,” you greeted with a smile, relieved to see he was still in good health.
“come. let’s eat together.” his tone read firmer than the implore of his words. sukuna grunted in agreement, pulling a chair out for you. crossing the threshold came easier than expected. the act was comparable to stepping into an oil painting: blasphemous yet cathartic.
the three of you settled into chairs, with one chair vacant, which you didn’t point out.
“where’s yuuji?” sukuna asked in between spoonfuls of the hearty porridge. metal clinked against ceramic before choso could respond, busy downing the food. you watched in awe. he gave his older brother a short glance before punctuating a shrug.
“not back yet, then, i take it.” he answered his question and returned to the meal at hand. choso called your name, garnering your attention, returning you back to earth from the pull of the family dynamics you were getting distracted with. you nodded.
“please eat. it’ll get cold. i promise you don’t want wasuke giving you a hard time about it.” he tried clearly to make light of the situation, but it was hard to ignore what was. the itadori boys were a brave bunch, but even now, no one could really address the elephant in the room.
the multitude of bags filled haphazardly with paraphernalia. your swollen eyelids puffy from dehydration. the bloodied corners of your cuticles tired from picking. your skin deep shadow half hidden by your hair that loomed over the right side of your face: a bruise. that faraway look in your eyes that resembled a soldier, who wasn’t all back from war.
“yuuji transferred to a new school last semester,” choso explained kindly, filling you in on whatever you had missed in the past year. “sukuna’s sulking ‘cause he’s found new people to hang out with instead of us.”
you cracked a smile, swallowing down a soothing spoonful of food. sukuna rolled his eyes.
“shut up, like you haven’t cried about it!” sukuna retorted, glaring, characteristic but somehow subdued enough that his tone didn’t startle you. the younger merely shrugged, not denying that fact. typical. it made you snicker softly.
you continued to eat, even after hearing tires pull into the driveway. lights overhead swam through the finite cracks in the blinds. no one moved. no one tensed. yet another difference between you and them made itself apparent then. no one immediately tried to appear as if they were cleaning or perhaps hurrying to scatter. not a single muscle clenched in their bodies, solely yours. instinct was the culprit.
a jingling of keys and the tumbles succumbing allowed for the door to finally open, revealing the boyish yuuji. he was getting taller and taller. when was the last time you’d seen him? a year or so ago, maybe at a grocery store or a shopping district. he had been so happy to catch up. even now, when his eyes landed on you, yuuji all but lit up like a christmas tree. he called out your name in a sing-song voice, cheerful as ever, kicking his shoes off and marching to you three.
“oh, my god, i was just thinking of you the other day! hey!” he was more overt with his affection, not as brooding as his brothers. sure, he got a couple of ear piercings, six in total to be exact, and the jewelry didn’t end there. the chain necklace he wore jingled underneath his loud footsteps as he thumped towards you.
“yuuji, hi — ”
“easy, jesus! you forget your strength sometimes!” sukuna called out just as you had stood to meet the youngest, who had immediately pulled you into a warm embrace. the eldest’s words had tampered down the full strength from being unleashed.
yuuji enveloped you in a tight hug, and even as the pressure still felt unintentionally crushing, it did something within you, or rather, undid the knot sitting at the base of your spine. taking that bit of newfound strength, your hands pulled him close, relieved to see that he was just the same, if not taller and happier. it stilled the erratic thumping of your heart.
yuuji patted you on the shoulder and pulled away to smile down at you, though the gears turning in his head became visible once he took a closer look at you.
“hey,” his tone dropped, soft and hovering above a whisper. yuuji shared a look with his brothers. telepathy must have been communicated silently between them because yuuji’s smile returned as quickly as it had faltered. he stepped back, keeping an appropriate distance now.
you went back to eating, feeling awkward suddenly. it was an ugly feeling, hot and uncomfortable brewing from your chest outwards, its head so big as it reared and poured from the outside in. choso cleared his throat. surprisingly, yuuji took the chair beside you, filling the table completely.
“where’s grandpa?” yuuji chirped.
“where do ya think?” sukuna answered in his own way.
“he’s asleep. that man goes to bed at sunset,” choso added, shaking his head with a smile.
“can’t be helped.” sukuna spoke into his mug as he took a sip.
“he’ll be up and at it at the crack of dawn,” choso turned to you. “you’ll hear him. he’s loud and cranky. well, you know how he is!”
“oh, does that mean you’ll be staying here tonight?” yuuji sounded way too excited. “we’re finally getting that sleepover we never got to have?”
years ago, when he was younger, things might have been said, promised even, which was wrong. only now, driven away by the same people that had kept you captive to a certain life you fought hard to run from… only now could that same thing be given. pitiful.
you stole a glance at the eldest, studying his features, remembering how not an hour ago they had been pinched and taut with a simmering outrage.
when he had picked you up, windows down, driving off, as you shakily buckled up, tears free falling from the adrenaline of running away from it all, sukuna had said things. some of them beyond vulgar. others like a response to all the infernal questions plaguing your mind beneath the crumbling, mute surface.
“i swear, on my fucking life, you won’t ever have to go back to that place! say the word, i’ll burn down that place with ‘em inside!” sukuna had started accelerating the speed in which he was driving, but after a brief moment, he slowed down gradually before pulling off the side of the road, hazards clicking and flashing. your fists were still drawn, gripping your backpack like a lifeline.
it all loosened up just a little when you heard a sniffle. sukuna had slumped his head down, against the steering wheel, exhaling deeply. he grumbled, messily wiping his tears, and sniffing once more. you had to blink a few times to make sure this was happening, that 1) you weren’t trapped in that house anymore, 2) the truth was out, and 3) sukuna was crying. the feared, infamous sukuna, who had bashed more heads in and broke more bones than a fight club, shed tears, wiping hastily with the heel of his hand.
he shook his head, drawing one last big, shuddering breath before he turned to you.
“are you okay? really okay?”
something about that question felt freeing in a way. you couldn’t describe why, either.
managing a shaky nod and similar smile, you opened your mouth to try and speak.
“yeah,” you mustered the strength to speak since you’d first phoned him to come and get you. “i’m okay. i — ”
“you know, it’s hard to take your word when you’ve got a black eye,” despite his tone, those red eyes of his only reflected a deep contrition as if he had been the one to inflict any harm to you.
you didn’t know what to say to that, searching profusely for words.
“do you need me to take you to the hospital? a doctor will look at you, and there’ll be written proof about what those worthless bastards — ” sukuna stopped himself, eyes screwed shut before unraveling once again. “i don’t care if that’s your blood. you don’t do that to family. i want those sons of bitches to rot for everything they’ve done to you.”
after a moment of the silence being filled with the hazards and cars driving past, you swallowed hard and spoke.
“it’s just a little bruise. right now, i just…” adrenaline fluctuated the stability of your voice, but you pushed through it anyway. “for now, i’ll be content with just being as far away as i can from them.”
he nodded along to your words. his set jaw and darkened eyes read resignation.
as he started the car back up and continued the drive, sukuna set the speed slower but gripped the steering wheel.
“you can stay with us as long as you want. i don’t care if you live with us ‘til you’re as old as wasuke. whatever you need, i’ll be there. choso and yuuji, even that old fart, we’ll all be there for you. you’re safe and welcome. you’ll never have to feel like that again. i promise you.”
you didn’t say anything to that. how could you? sukuna had said the very words you had somehow been wishing someone would say your entire life. you nodded, tears spilling more down your face.
choso’s dreamy sigh brought you back to the current moment. his pale hand reached for yuuji’s pink locks, ruffling like he were nothing more than a fluffy dog.
“oh, my sweet younger brother, yes,” choso locked eyes with you and nudged his chin towards you in a weird reassuring way. yuuji hollered out with joy, slamming his hands on the table, until sukuna smacked him upside the head.
“keep it down, moron, or else, grandpa’s gonna wake up!” he chided, as the youngest sulked with a pout. you all knew it didn’t hurt; yuuji was strangely invincible for a teen.
“so, should i get the blankets out now?” yuuji whipped his head at you. “hey, you wanna help me make a fort?”
you took a brief moment to realize the big age you, choso, and sukuna were, in your 20’s, really looking at yuuji’s boyish, tanned face. his visible anticipation of your answer evoked a laugh out of you.
“yeah,” your face lit up with a beam. “that sounds good to me.”
there was something about being free and safe enough to speak your mind, even over the merest of opinions, that made you want to burst into tears all over again. the feeling of community and warmth was physically draped over you, even in your belly from the good food you had been given. no longer would you ever sit, stuck in an abyss of fear and despair, and be an onlooker to a canvas of what a family looked like.
you fit right in with the itadori’s. it was a miracle: an unorthodox miracle that somehow functioned well and led you to finally feel what you had yearned for all your life. a family.
frank checks in with mel every time he hands over a case from triage
some spoilers from 2x02-2x04
“Hey. You okay?”
Mel’s head snapped up at the sound of Frank’s voice. Her head was still a little achey, so she couldn’t help the way her shoulders twitched with a wince. She reached up to rub at the back of her head, very aware of the focused gaze Frank was now leveling her with.
“What?” Mel said intelligently. She didn’t feel dizzy, her vision wasn’t blurry, she wasn’t disoriented. So far, all signs pointed to no concussion, which Mel was very grateful for. Still, she felt… well, she supposed that off was the best way to describe it. Her difficulties with focusing had nothing to do with the head injury, and everything to do with the stress of her deposition at 3 PM.
“Your head.” Frank circled his finger in the air around Mel’s head and shoulders. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to check on you again.” His eyes shifted to the side, and he fiddled with the dark-beaded bracelet on his wrist. “I got pulled back out to triage before I could find you again. The cases are really piling up back there.”
Mel gave herself a little shake and managed a smile for Frank. If nothing else, she was happy to have him back, and he was incredibly kind to her while he was checking out her head injury. “Find anything good back there?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Burns from grease because two siblings were fighting. A genius who glued her eye shut. Stuff that’s easily handled back there.” He perked up a little, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “But I have something for you, if you’re interested.”
“Oh! Sure!” After what happened with the trauma patient earlier, Mel knew she needed a case to bounce back with. “What do you have?”
Frank showed Mel his tablet, leaning over to present the case to her. His shoulder brushed against hers. “Ian Randall. He’s been, uh…” He glanced at her quickly and then firmly returned his gaze to the tablet. He cleared his throat. “He’s been fully erect for over eight hours now, after taking a double dose of an erectile dysfunction injection.”
“Ah.” Her lips rounded in a little ‘o’ shape. Mel looked over the patient history quickly and then accepted the tablet from Frank. “A case of priapism. Bring him back and then let me know what room he ends up in?”
“Sure.” Frank shifted awkwardly, lingering like he wanted to say something else. Mel paused, tablet gripped in her hands, and waited patiently. “It’s… It’s Mr. Randall’s anniversary. So that’s why he wanted to…”
“I see.” She frowned in sympathy, mentally running through all of the possible treatments for priapism. “That’s not a very fun way to spend your anniversary. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get him out of here quickly.”
Frank sighed and shook his head. “I can think of worse ways to spend your anniversary.” He blinked rapidly, as if he hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. Brow furrowed in concern, Mel opened her mouth to ask him if he was okay, but Frank cut her off. “Do you need anything else from me?”
He was already turning to leave as Mel called after him, “No, just the room number!”
Mel took a sip of her tea and wrinkled her nose before setting it aside. She needed to grab another packet of honey from the break room; the tea they kept at PTMC was always just a little too bitter. She finished up with the chart for Mr. Randall and clicked out of it just as Frank approached her at the desk.
“You okay?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over her again. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, though his gaze did linger on her head.
“I’m fine,” Mel said quickly. Really, she was. Her head hardly ached at all anymore, and at times she would completely forget that she’d been shoved to the ground only a couple of hours ago. If she thought about it too much, with the deposition on top of it, Mel was worried she was going to burst into tears. So she tried not to, figuring if she pretended she was fine, she would be. It had worked for her in the past.
Frank studied her for a long moment, and his left hand twitched, ring sliding up towards his knuckle. Mel bit her lip and her eyes darted away, unsure of if she didn’t want to linger on his hands or his ring. Try as she might, she’d hadn’t forgotten the way his hands fascinated her from that first shift ten months ago. She dug her teeth harder into her bottom lip, looked at his hand—the hand that touched the back of her head so gently—and forced herself to look at his face.
“You’ll tell me if there’s any sudden onset of pain?”
His tone suggested that it was less of a request and more of a demand. This time, Mel bit her lip to hide her smile. She knew that Frank was being genuine and serious with his offer, but all she could think about in that moment was how cute he looked with that little furrow in his brow.
“Yes, I will tell you, Dr. Langdon,” she assured him.
“Great.” The worried look on his face smoothed out, and he was all smiles again. “I have another case for you.”
Eyebrows arching up, Mel said, “You do?” Frank saw a lot of cases out in triage but so far, Mel hadn’t seen him pass them off to anyone other than her. She didn’t mind it, of course. She’d just… noticed it.
“Yeah.” Were his eyes… twinkling? It was hard to tell, sometimes. They were just so damn blue. “If you’re not too busy, of course.”
“I’m not!” Mel said quickly. She wasn’t about to turn down the chance to work another case passed on from Frank. “What do you have?”
“Harlan Hansen. He experienced dizziness due to sudden low blood pressure when he’s traditionally needed medication for hypertension.” Frank gave her a significant look. “Apparently, the family has pooled their medications together.”
Mel blinked with wide, owlish eyes. “Oh. That’s certainly a… choice. I’m assuming they don’t know which medicine he took?”
“Nope!” Frank confirmed cheerfully. He handed Mel a tablet containing Mr. Hansen’s medical history. Their fingers brushed. “Some of the family members went back to the house to try and figure out what it was that he took. So prepare yourself for that phone call.”
That made Mel laugh, and she clutched the tablet to her chest. “Anything else I need to know?”
“They’re the Hansen NASCAR family!” Frank’s voice was excited, his eyes bright. “I remember watching them when I was a kid. Ricky and Jimmy Hansen, they were so good, and—Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You probably don’t care about NASCAR.”
“I don’t really know much about it,” Mel admitted. Her family had never been much for watching any sort of organized sports growing up. “But it sounds interesting.”
“Tanner, my son, is really into it,” Frank revealed in a relieved sort of tone. “We took him to the Pocono Raceway once. He wore these little headphones and—” He looked up, his gaze settling on something that made the broad line of his shoulders tense. “Anyway. I’ll let you know when I bring them back, okay?”
“Sure,” Mel agreed, smiling at him. She liked it when Frank shared information about himself with her. She kept the smile on her face as he walked backwards, giving her a little wave before he spun around, passing through the doors of the triage area.
“Hey, do you have a second?”
Mel turned to see Frank jogging up next to her, another tablet in hand. Mel couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her lips, and she held her hand. “Why, do you have another case for me?”
Frank studied at her for a long moment before his face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, I do, actually. But I wanted to ask you another question while we have a moment, if that’s okay?”
There was a delightful little swoop in Mel’s belly that she tried her hardest not to think too much about. She nodded her head and followed Frank as he headed into an empty patient room. He tugged the curtain so it was blocking the window just a little, but not all the way, and then he stepped behind it. He gave an apologetic grimace and tucked his hands into his pockets.
“Sorry, I know these are going to fill up fast before we get the transfers from Westbridge, but I just wanted to check in on you again.” Frank ducked his head down so he could look in Mel’s eyes. “You okay?”
It was the fourth (at least, Mel thought it had been that many times. She’d have to go back over the day later and count) time Frank had asked if she was okay in about two and half hours. It was something that Mel remembered vividly from the first—and only—day they worked together.
Mel had been asked if she was okay before, of course. When her parents died. When she first started taking care of Becca, and was struggling with all of the changes to their schedules and their lives in general. She’d been asked after really difficult shifts during her med school rotations, and after her intern year. More often than not, people asked as a courtesy, because it was what you were supposed to do. Mel was eventually able to tell who really wanted to know the answer and who didn’t. The people who really were asking after her at least stayed until she was finished talking. Those who didn’t really care for her answer walked away, or interrupted her to ask someone else another question.
Frank not only asked her and stayed, but he actually listened and, more importantly, he remembered what she said. After he turned off the lights for her and shut the door when he’d checked her head earlier that morning, Mel had stared at the door for what felt like a full minute, mouth hanging open, completely surprised. So much happened to him on that day last September, but he remembered what Mel told him? She still had trouble wrapping her mind around it, and it wasn’t because of the bump on her head.
“I’m… okay,” Mel finally said after careful consideration. She actually felt pretty normal for the first time in hours, and part of that was due to Frank. Even with the deposition hanging over her head, she didn’t want to lose the calm she’d managed to get back. So she wasn’t even lying, really. Mel did feel okay. She felt like she could focus on work again at the very least, so that was a plus.
“Can I—” Frank’s left hand twitched and then clenched into a fist. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out slowly. “Can I check your head again? Please?” Seeing Mel’s wide-eyed stare, Frank started to ramble. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to earlier, and I’ve been trying to… well, I’ve been trying not to cause any problems. But I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything and have you be hurt, so—”
“Sure,” Mel interrupted. She fully believed in Frank’s skills as a doctor, and in fact thought that he was one of the most competent she had ever worked with. She trusted in the assessment he did of her earlier, but she also wasn’t going to say no if he wanted to do another.
Frank was still rambling, the fingers of one hand tugging at the hair tie on his wrist. “I know you’re fine, but it really is best practice to check again, just to make sure it hasn’t gotten worse.”
Mel’s lips twitched into a smile, and she tried her best not to let it show. He was so earnest in front of her, clearly doing his best not to overstep even as he tried to convince her. “Dr. Langdon, it’s okay.”
Releasing another long exhale, Frank nodded his head. Mel moved to turn around but Frank stopped her with his right hand on her shoulder. Much as he had earlier that day, his left hand came up, slowly probing over the back of her head until his fingers lightly traced over the bump. It hadn’t gone down, really, and it was still tender, making Mel let out a little hiss. Frank’s hands tightened on her shoulder, but the fingers on the back of her head remained incredibly gentle.
“Sorry.” Frank’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
A shiver ran down the length of Mel’s spine, and of course Frank could feel that. His brow furrowed and color appeared high on his cheeks. Mel was sure that she looked like a tomato, and her eyes darted away.
“It’s okay,” she whispered back.
She saw Frank’s shoulders move as he craned his neck, peering at the back of her head without moving behind her. He let out a grunt and then shifted back around so he was standing in front of Mel again. He looked a little more relieved as his eyes traced over her face.
“It doesn’t look too bad. I’d recommend another break and some ice, but…” Frank shrugged, a little helplessly.
Yeah, they weren’t going to get anything resembling a break, and they both knew it. “We’re pretty busy now, and it’s only going to get worse,” Mel finished with a nod of her head. “You said you had another case for me?”
There was a long beat where Frank just stared at her. Mel couldn’t help but look back. Finally, Frank extended the tablet towards Mel. “Yeah. Phylicia Ronson. She presented with flu-like symptoms but was negative for flu, COVID, and RSV. Her oxygen levels have dropped and her temp is up from when she was first admitted.”
Mel took the tablet from Frank and their fingers brushed again. Did he linger this time? Mel wasn’t really sure. “Alright, I’ll get on it. Bring her back.”
Frank’s hands were back in his pockets, and he nodded his head with a smile, his eyes soft. He turned to go, but Mel’s next words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“Dr. Langdon? Thank you.”
“Yeah, no problem.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can check it out at the end of the day, too. Just to be sure.”
Mel didn’t know what the rest of the day would hold, but it sounded like she might have something to look forward to. “Okay.”
Uhmm, I think this is where I do the request? Not sure, sorry. But, I was wondering if you could do a little drabble of like oldersister reader or middlesister reader who like hooks up more than Dean, and the boys have just given up on being super overprotective, and at this point its just like, "Please dont get knocked up?" Anyway, just a silly idea and I would love to see it in your words!! Ok, Thank you <3
⋆˚✿˖° winchester family planning,
pairing. sam + dean winchester x middle sister!reader ( f )
wordcount. 516 genre. weird fluff
warnings. sibling banter, mentions of casual hookups, mild language, protective!dean and exasperated!sam, lighthearted humor
It’s not like you’re flaunting it. Okay, maybe a little. But honestly? You don’t see why you should feel bad about having a good time every now and then. Hunts are stressful, motel beds are depressing, and the towns you pass through are full of perfectly nice people who happen to be interested in…well, you.
And Dean’s face every time he catches wind of it? Priceless.
He’s sitting at the crappy motel table now, polishing one of his guns with all the focus of a man trying not to think about his little sister’s nightlife. Sam, predictably, is buried in his laptop, though the way he rubs his forehead makes it clear he’s very aware of the topic at hand.
You flop onto the bed dramatically. “What? It’s not like I’m sneaking off with vampires. He was cute. And nice. And polite. And—”
Dean throws you a look over the gun barrel. “—a stranger you met at a dive bar.”
You grin. “Exactly.”
Sam exhales, long-suffering. “Dean, just let it go. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
“Yeah, and she still doesn’t listen!” Dean snaps, though there’s no real bite to it anymore. Mostly just resignation. “I mean, Christ, Y/N, can you not keep it in your pants for five minutes?”
“Not when there are cute bartenders around,” you shoot back sweetly.
Dean groans like you’ve just stabbed him. Sam finally closes his laptop, pinching the bridge of his nose. “At this point,” he mutters, “I’m just hoping you don’t get knocked up. That’s all I’m asking. Please. Just…be careful.”
You laugh, rolling onto your stomach to look at him. “Wow, Sammy, lowering the bar, huh?”
“Because I’ve given up,” he says flatly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
Dean mutters something about horrible influences under his breath, holstering his gun with a little too much force. “You know, you’re supposed to be the responsible middle child.”
“Correction,” you say, raising a finger. “I’m supposed to be the fun middle child. Responsible is overrated.”
Dean’s face is priceless—equal parts annoyed big brother and begrudgingly impressed. He doesn’t even argue, just shakes his head and mutters, “Unbelievable,” like you’ve singlehandedly ruined the Winchester family name.
Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Look, Y/N. Do what you want, okay? Just—” he glances at you, earnest despite the exhaustion written all over him, “—don’t let it get you hurt. That’s all we care about.”
The warmth in your chest sneaks up on you, and you reach out to squeeze his hand, flashing him a softer smile. “I know, Sammy. Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
Dean makes a face. “Too much information.”
You laugh, tossing a pillow at him. He catches it without effort, smirking despite himself. And that’s when you know they’ve really given up trying to change you—because instead of more lectures, all you get is:
Dean pointing a finger at you, gruff but fond. “Condoms. Always. Got it?”
“Got it,” you chirp.
Sam groans. “This family is so dysfunctional.”
And yet—here you are. Messy, loud, loving, and perfectly you.
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