Summary: Even after nearly dying, all Leon can think about is his husband.
CW: Soft angst - Hurt/Comfort - Fluff - Established relationship - Married - Leon is canon age (48) - Reader is early 50s - Old man yaoi - Slight spoilers
Words: 4.4k
A/N: Ah yes my favorite old man yaoi is finally making a return. I've been a huge Resident Evil fan since I was a kid, so I'm actually excited to start writing for it. Anyway, this will be a little different than what I mentioned but hopefully it turns out well and y'all like it. A few things as I edit this, if I remember correctly in RE8 it's said Chris works for the BSAA, so reader does too and also this is more or less just based on Leon walking away and putting his ring back on, cause I'm tryna not actively spoil anything. I don't even know what to say about this one......not my best
What had he done to deserve this?
Before the academy, before the nightmare of Raccoon City—hell, even after the world fell apart a dozen times over—what had he done to earn a grace like you? In a world choked by the rot of Umbrella and the shadows of corrupt men, Leon Kennedy had somehow stumbled into your life. He didn't think he deserved you. In his own mind, he was still just a rookie cop who’d had to grow up in a single, blood-soaked night. And you? You were a legend, a pillar of S.T.A.R.S. who had survived the Arklay Mountains only to spend your fifties tethered to Chris Redfield’s relentless, exhausting crusade to fix a broken world.
Leon never expected a forever. It was never supposed to be more than a lingering, sideways glance in a dimly lit bar while Chris talked shop. It wasn't supposed to end in a quiet ceremony, or the secret thrill he felt every time someone called you Mr. Kennedy just to see the smirk play on your aging, handsome face.
And yet, as the infection tore through his nervous system, his mind didn't go to the mission. It went to you. Your voice was the only thing cutting through the white noise of the virus; your smile was the only image that wouldn't dissolve into the blur. You were his anchor. Even as his muscles seized and his mind screamed for the mercy of unconsciousness, the thought of coming home to you kept his heart beating.
But the reality was a cold, hard floor. His body was a cage of fire and ice, twitching violently as the antidote warred with the parasite.
“Can't believe you're heading out again,” you murmured in the golden light of the memory. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, and the scent of cedar and old coffee hung in the air. “I finally get a week off, and they decide they can't breathe without you.”
Leon huffed a dry laugh, his lips pressing firmly against your weathered knuckles as he lay draped across you. “Gonna miss me, old man?” he whispered against your skin. He knew the answer, but he needed the vibration of your voice to steady him.
You leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Leon let out a long, shaky breath, melting into the heat of your chest. “Of course,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I always do. Just….come back in one piece this time. I'm too old to be a widower, Leon.”
Leon closed his eyes, tilting his head up until his lips met yours in a promise he intended to keep.
Then, the world shattered.
His back arched off the freezing ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he shouted your name into the empty air. His eyes snapped open, stinging and bloodshot. There was no warm bed. No hand in his hair. The taste of you was replaced by the copper tang of blood and a sterile chemical stench.
His left hand flew to his chest, searching for the silver band he’d worn for years. His finger felt unnervingly light. The ring was gone—likely stripped away during the chaos or lost in the dirt. The silence of the room was deafening, a requiem for a man who had everything to lose and was currently losing it all.
Leon’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass as the last of the infection was purged from his veins. The silence that followed the chaos was deafening—the monster was dead, Victor Gideon was a memory, and Grace was finally safe.
None of that mattered.
His vision was a blurred mess of gray and red, but his hand was already moving, clawing at the dirt and the debris. His fingers felt wrong. They felt lighter, colder, stripped of the one thing that grounded him to his humanity.
"No….no, no, no," he rasped, his voice a broken shell of its former self. He dragged his body across the floor, his knees scraping against the jagged concrete. "Not this. Not now."
His mind was a whirlwind of panic. He had survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and the fall of governments, but the thought of losing that simple silver band felt like the final, killing blow. It was the only piece of you he had brought into this hellhole. It was the promise of a quiet house, the scent of cedar, and your hand in his hair when the nightmares got too loud.
"I’m coming back," he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into a pile of ash and spent shell casings. "I promised. I told you….I told you I'd come back."
He was rambling now, a feverish mumble that only he could hear. To any observer, he looked like a broken man searching for a scrap of refuse, but to Leon, he was searching for his soul. He didn't care that his gear was shredded or that his ribs felt like they were held together by the thinnest of threads.
"Can't lose it. Please, just….not this."
He pushed aside a heavy piece of fallen rebar, his breath hitching. There, half-buried in the soot and the dark, damp earth of the crater, was a glint of silver. It was dull, coated in a layer of grime, but it caught the flickering emergency light of the facility.
Leon’s hand shook so violently he almost knocked it further into the debris. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal with a desperation that bordered on holy. He didn't just pick it up; he cradled it against his palm, bringing it to his lips as a sob he’d been holding back since the mission started finally threatened to break through.
He wiped the dirt off with a trembling thumb, the familiar weight of it centers him. He didn't think about the global implications of all of this. He didn't think about the debriefing or the scars this night would leave. He only thought about the way you looked in the morning light, and how he wasn't going to let that be a memory.
With a grunt of agony, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead, but he slid the ring back onto his finger. It was a perfect fit—a constant, solid reminder of the man waiting for him. He adjusted it, twisting it once, twice, until it sat exactly where it belonged.
"See you soon," he whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the exit. "I'm coming home.”
The silence of the house was its own kind of weight. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a cold night; it was the hollow, ringing silence of an empty nest that was never meant to be this still.
You sat at your mahogany desk, the green shaded lamp casting a warm, localized glow over a sea of chaos. Your home office had become a secondary branch of the BSAA in all but name. Scattered across the blotter were thick manila folders and grainy satellite captures—reports Chris had unofficially slid your way. He valued your eyes, the eyes of a S.T.A.R.S. veteran who had seen the world break before the rest of the public even knew it was cracked. But tonight, the analysis of bio-organic weapon dispersal patterns in Eastern Europe felt like trying to read a dead language.
Your mind was miles away, buried in the dark soil of whatever godforsaken corner of the globe Leon was currently haunting.
You knew better than most what he was capable of. You’d seen him survive things that would have leveled a small army, but that didn't stop the creeping dread. You knew how Raccoon City had carved him out, leaving a hollow space that he’d spent years trying to fill with duty. Your greatest fear wasn't that Leon wouldn't be able to handle the job—it was that one day, the job would simply decide it was finished with him, and you’d be the last to know. You’d be sitting right here, analyzing a report for Chris, while your world ended in a silent, classified file on someone else's desk.
Letting out a heavy, jagged sigh, you scrubbed a hand down your face. Your palms felt rough, the skin dry from years of handling firearms and paperwork. Your fingers brushed against the grit of stubble on your jaw—a silvered, unruly growth you hadn't bothered to trim since Leon left.
"Get it together," you muttered to the empty room. Your voice sounded gravelly, older than you felt like admitting.
With a grunt of effort, you pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the chair groaning against the hardwood. You began the ritual of tidying up, stacking the BSAA reports into a neat, categorized pile. It was a habit from the old days—leave your station ready for the next shift. You clicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into a shadowy twilight, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.
As you moved through the hallway, the muscle memory of your life together took over. For a fleeting, heart-stuttering second, you expected to see a shadow move in the kitchen, or to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You could almost smell him—gunpowder, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of rain. But when you turned the corner, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
He wasn't there.
You shook your head, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You were too old for ghost stories, especially the ones you told yourself.
Stripping off your flannel shirt and undershirt as you walked, you let them fall onto the armchair in the bedroom, followed by your belt and trousers. You stepped into the en suite bathroom, the tile cold beneath your feet. The fluorescent light hummed to life, bright and unforgiving.
You leaned against the marble counter, staring at the man in the mirror.
You looked at the silver ring on your left hand first. It was scratched, the metal dulled by decades of life, but it was the most solid thing in the room. Then, you looked up. The light caught the deep salt-and-pepper of your hair, more salt than pepper these days. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes were deep—laugh lines earned from rare, genuine smiles, and worry lines earned from every time Leon walked out the front door. Your face was a map of a long, hard-fought life. You weren't the young S.T.A.R.S. operative anymore; you were a man in his fifties who just wanted his husband home.
You shook your head again, dismissing the melancholy before it could take root. Turning away from your reflection, you reached into the walk-in shower and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar shudder running through the wall, before the spray began to hiss against the stone floor. Steam started to rise, blurring the edges of the room, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain.
The quiet click of the front door’s latch was a sound Leon had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over the last forty-eight hours. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The house breathed with a familiar, lived-in warmth that made the sterile, metallic tang of the lab feel like a bad dream he’d finally woken up from.
He moved like a ghost through the foyer, his movements heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could touch. His tactical boots, caked in the dried mud and grime of a nightmare, were set by the door with a dull thud. He didn't bother unlacing them properly; he just kicked them off, his socks padding softly against the hardwood. His jacket followed, hitting the floor with the muffled thud.
He knew exactly where you were. The low, rhythmic hum of the pipes vibrating through the floorboards told him everything. It was your ritual—the late-night shower to wash away the phantom weight of BSAA casualty reports and the stress of waiting for a phone call that might never come.
Leon moved into the bedroom, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. He stripped with a mechanical efficiency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his holster. His pants and boxers pooled on the faded rug in front of the bed—the one you’d bought together because it reminded you of a proper home—and he left them there.
He stepped into the bathroom, the air thick and heavy with steam that smelled of your sandalwood soap. The humidity clung to his skin, pulling the chill of the outside world from his pores.
Before he reached for the shower door, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
The fog had started to claim the glass, but he saw enough. He looked at the man staring back—a man who had survived, but looked like he’d been dragged through the gears of it. There was a jagged cut along his cheekbone, held together by dried, copper-colored blood. Bruises the color of spoiled plums were blooming across his ribs and shoulders. But it was his face that held his gaze. He saw the gray stubble dusting his jaw, thicker now, and the stark, silver strands peeking through the weary brown of his hair. He was aging. They were both aging, the years stolen by a world that never stopped needing them to bleed for it.
Then, his eyes dropped to his hand. The silver ring sat firmly on his finger, gleaming even through the grime. He twisted it once, a grounding habit, before his gaze drifted past his own reflection.
Through the frosted, foggy glass of the sliding shower door, he saw you.
You were a blurred, familiar silhouette in the spray, your head bowed under the rush of the water. Even through the steam, he could see the strength in your shoulders—the build of a man who had carried a familiar weight and survived. You were standing there, unaware that the ghost you’d been mourning had finally come home.
Leon didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the silence yet. He just stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of air, fixated on the sight of you. To him, you weren't just a man in a shower; you were the end of the road. You were the reason he’d clawed his way out of the dirt.
Slowly, his hand reached out, his fingers pressing against the warm, wet glass, leaving a clear streak in the fog as he prepared to let you know he was back.
The sliding door creaked on its track, a low, metallic groan that cut through the steady drumming of the water. You didn't even have time to turn your head before the sudden draft of cool bathroom air hit your wet skin, quickly replaced by the heat of a body stepping into the stall behind you.
The steam swirled, momentarily clearing as Leon stepped into the spray.
The first thing you felt wasn't his touch, but his weight—the sheer, solid presence of him suddenly occupying the small space. Then came his hands. They were cold at first, a stark contrast to the scalding water, as he pressed his palms flat against your shoulder blades. You felt a shudder ripple through him the moment his skin made contact with yours. It was the touch of a man who had spent days wondering if he’d ever feel another human being again.
He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his forehead dropping heavily against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched, a jagged, wet sound that was swallowed by the splash of the shower.
"Leon?" you breathed, your voice cracking. You started to turn, but his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your shoulders, not out of aggression, but out of a desperate need to keep you right there.
"Just….a second," he rasped. His voice was a wreck—gritty, raw, and exhausted. "Just let me stay like this for a second."
You stood still, the water cascading over both of you. You could feel the grime of the world washing off him and onto you. The water at your feet turned a murky, tea-colored brown as the dust, soot, and dried blood from the facility began to melt away. He smelled like ozone, wet earth, and the metallic tang of an oncoming storm, but beneath all of that was the scent you knew by heart—the faint, lingering musk of his skin.
Slowly, he began to move. His hands slid down your arms, his fingers interlaced with yours, and that was when you felt it—the cold, hard press of his silver ring against the back of your hand. You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the day he left.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to let you turn around. When you faced him, the sight nearly broke your heart. The water was slicking his hair back, revealing every new line of exhaustion on his face. The cut on his cheek was weeping a faint pink under the spray, and his eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles that looked like bruises.
He looked at you with an intensity that was almost painful. His gaze traced the graying hair at your temples and the laugh lines around your mouth, his eyes softening with a reverence that bordered on worship. To him, you weren't an aging veteran; you were the only beautiful thing left in a world of monsters.
"You're late," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed over the gray stubble on his jaw, feeling the prickle of life beneath your touch.
Leon let out a broken, huffed laugh, his eyes closing as he leaned into your palms. "It.was….complicated."
"I thought...." You stopped, the words catching in your throat. You didn't need to finish.
"I know," he murmured. He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you until your chests were pressed together, the water trapped between you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in so tight it was hard to breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I promised I'd see you soon. I wasn't going to break that. Not for anyone."
He was shaking now—the post-adrenaline crash finally hitting him in the safety of your arms. You held him, your fingers threading through his wet hair, shielding him from the rest of the world.
Leon didn't move. He stayed anchored against you, his weight heavy and honest, his damp forehead resting against your collarbone. You could feel the tremors running through his muscles—the slow, rhythmic aftershocks of a body that had been pushed past its breaking point and was only now realizing it was safe to collapse.
Gently, you reached for the bottle of soap, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood rising with the steam. You didn't ask him where it hurt; you already knew. You could see the map of his pain written in the dark blooms of purple along his ribs and the jagged, angry red of the laceration on his cheek.
You poured the soap into your palms, lashing it into a thick, white foam before you began.
The silence between you wasn't empty; it was thick with everything that didn't need to be said. You started with his shoulders, your large, calloused hands moving in slow, grounding circles. You felt the knots of tension under his skin—hard as stone—and as you worked, you felt them slowly begin to give way. The water at your feet was still tinted a murky gray, the filth of the facility swirling down the drain, leaving Leon’s pale, scarred skin behind.
As you moved your hands down his back, Leon let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sigh; it was a surrender. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closed tight, his hands coming up to grip your forearms as if to make sure you were still solid, still there.
You were meticulous. You cleaned the soot from the nape of his neck and the dried blood from the shell of his ear. When you reached the deep bruise over his ribs, your touch lightened, becoming a ghost of a caress. You saw him flinch, his breath catching in a hiss of pain, and you paused, leaning down to press a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to the top of his wet head.
I’ve got you, the gesture said. You’re home.
Leon finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, reflecting the overhead light, rimmed with a weariness that went bone-deep. He looked small in that moment—not the government’s top agent, not the survivor of a dozen bio-hazards, but simply a man who was tired of fighting.
He reached out, his trembling fingers taking the soap from you. He didn't wash himself; instead, he began to wash you. His movements were slow, almost reverent, as he ran his hands over your chest and arms. It was his way of checking you, of confirming that while he was gone, the world hadn't touched you. His thumb traced the silver band on your finger, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, his ring clinking softly against yours—a small, metallic heartbeat in the spray.
The water was starting to run clear now. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion remained, etched into every line of his face.
You took the showerhead from the wall, turning the spray down and rinsing the last of the suds from his skin. The water smoothed his hair back, revealing the silver at his temples that seemed more pronounced tonight than it had a month ago.
Leon leaned his head back, letting the water hit his face, his throat working as he swallowed back the emotions he wasn't ready to voice. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at you—truly looked at you—with a raw, unfiltered devotion. He reached out, his wet palm cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your graying stubble.
Still, neither of you spoke. The hurt was there, hovering in the bruises and the haunted look in his eyes, but the comfort was stronger. It was in the heat of the water, the familiar weight of his wedding band, and the fact that, for the first time in days, his heart rate was finally beginning to match yours.
You reached over and turned the handle, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling heavy and holy. The only sound left was the drip-drip-drip of water hitting the tile and the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men who had cheated death one more time.
You stepped out first, grabbing the largest, plushiest towel from the rack and holding it open. Leon stepped into it without a word, his body shivering as the cool air hit his wet skin. You wrapped him up, pulling the fabric tight around his shoulders and rubbing his arms to bring the heat back. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, letting you guide him like he was a man walking in his sleep.
The walk to the bedroom was slow. The only light came from the moon spilling across the hardwood, illuminating the trail of discarded gear Leon had left in his wake—a reminder of the man he had to be out there, contrasted against the man he was allowed to be here.
You sat him down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looked small, wrapped in that white towel, his damp hair sticking up in golden-gray tufts. You stood between his knees, taking a smaller towel to his head, gently drying the strands with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.
"Stay," he whispered, his voice finally finding its vibration. His hands, still clean and smelling of your soap, reached out to circle your waist, pulling you closer until his face was pressed against your stomach.
"I'm not going anywhere, Leon," you murmured, your fingers raking through his hair. "I’m right here."
After a few minutes of quiet, you helped him into a pair of soft cotton lounge pants—the ones he always complained were too loose but wore every time he came home. You climbed into the other side of the bed, the linens cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the grime he’d been caked in.
The moment Leon slid under the covers, he didn't just lie down; he sought you out like a compass needle finding north. He draped himself over you, his heavy head landing on your chest, his arm hooking firmly over your waist as if to anchor you to the mattress. You felt the cold metal of his wedding band press against your skin, a solid promise.
You pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic, slowing thrum of Leon’s heart against your ribs.
"It's quiet," Leon mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with the onset of sleep. "I forgot it could be this quiet."
"That’s because you’re home," you replied softly. You reached down, taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers. The two silver rings clicked together, a tiny, domestic sound that felt more significant than any explosion he’d survived.
Leon let out a long, contented sigh, his entire body finally going slack. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since he’d left Raccoon City decades ago seemed to melt into the mattress. He nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against the gray hair on your chest, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady pull of a man who finally felt safe enough to dream.
You lay there in the dark, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. You felt the weight of your years—the laugh lines, the gray hair, the old injuries that ached in the rain—but as you looked down at your husband, finally at peace in your arms, you realized you wouldn't trade a single wrinkle. They were the marks of a life lived together, a map of how far you’d both come to reach this bedroom, this bed, this moment.
"I love you, Leon," you whispered, so low you weren't sure he heard it.
But in the dark, you felt his grip on your hand tighten just a fraction. A faint, sleepy smile touched his lips before he drifted off completely.
Summary: You knew it was going to be a bad idea to share the same tent with Nick Jones, your ex-boyfriend.
Content Warnings: Angst | (slight) Fluff | Set in the Early 2000s | Everyone is in their Early 20's (as per canon) | Camping | Canon-Typical Stalking | Canon-Typical Horror Elements (nothing crazy yet!) | Allusions to Nick's Rough Upbringing | Ex-Boyfriends (r! and Nick) | Homophobia (Internalized and it's the 2000s) | Lack of Communication | Nick Still Loves Reader | Protective Nick | Spooning | Smut (MDNI) | Morning Wood | Big Dick Nick | Needy Nick | Dry Humping | Handjob (r!receiving) | Agoraphilia (sex in a public place - in a tent) | Exhibitionism(?) | Cum in Underwear | Marking/Cum Play | (not exactly) Make Up Sex | Unresolved Tension | Ambiguous Ending
Word Count: 7.94k
Author's Note: So, I know I said that this blog will mainly feature fluff, but I JUST NEEDED TO WRITE THIS, as this idea sprouted into the first fanfic I wrote in my head two years ago after seeing House of Wax (2005) for the first time. And yes, this is a series! Part one will eventually be released, but I'm gonna need some more time and patience to actually plan the plot, backstory, and complete character dynamics between Nick Jones and his (ex-)boyfriend (and the rest of the cast). House of Wax (2005) doesn't give very much lore on the timeline of events previous to the movie or much background details on any of the characters... so I'm gonna have to come up with a ton of headcanons for the series to work. And, truthfully, I wanted my first fic to be something more fun😳 as both a treat for you all (and myself😳).
Side Note: This part elongates the scene at minute 14:24 - 17:42 from the movie. Of course, some minor changes (additions and removals/skips) have been made!
Previous Part: (Not yet written!)
Next Part: (Not yet written!)
| FEMALES (DNI) PAST THIS POINT |
"What other option do I have?" you sighed, looking tiredly between the three identical blue tents before turning back to Carly. It was only momentary, but you couldn't help but linger on the thought that Nick had caught your trailing gaze. His expression was stoically hard-set - distant and far off. "If I could, I would, but that stench is preventing me from sleeping up in a tree."
Carly's nose twitches at the remembrance of the foul smell that surrounds the woods. "Well, you could always join Wade and me in our tent," she offers, already knowing your response.
A shiver runs down your body as Nick slightly shifts, keeping you in his periphery. He takes a swig from his beer.
"No, I couldn't do that to the two of you. I've already been a third wheel between Paige and Blake," you lowered your voice as you didn't have to turn around to point your thumb back to the couple currently stacked on top of each other like a Jenga set. The single flimsy foldable camping chair holds remarkably strong under their combined weight and make out session. Again. "And, I'm not taking any chances with them forgetting I'm in the same tent." Carly snickered, agreeing, though she tried hiding it behind her hand.
Nick swirls the green glass bottle, the campfire's light easily distinguishing the little alcohol spinning at the bottom. He's zoning out of the sluggish ramble Dalton's going on about, only giving half a nod and a hum in acknowledgement every so often. The Elvis look-alike clad in yellow - after Carly and Paige's makeover - sounded better to his ears than Carly's friend and Blake sucking faces. The slow, constant fire and alcohol did little to distract him anymore. His thoughts were racing - all led him back to you. Everything had been shifted to you since the start of this trip. He turns in his chair completely to fully face you; Dalton doesn't notice.
"It's only for the night. Nothing worse can be done... right? Everyone will just fall asleep, and we'll wake up tomorrow for the game, like planned. Everything will go like we said it would. It'll be fine," you explain, more so to yourself as the stress grips your shoulders. A tight-lipped smile splays across your face, but your heart bounces in discomfort, causing your shoulders to sag. The dirt starts to look interesting; your shoe scrapes against the group's makeshift campgrounds to create nonsense etchings. You try to delay the inevitable.
Carly steps closer, laying her hand comfortingly on your left shoulder. Nick's grip on his bottle tightens; he tells himself it's an instinct. That she's just his sister, your friend. He can't help the feeling in his chest, messing with his thoughts and wishes you to come seek him. For him to be your comfort again, like he was nearly a year ago. But he can't move. He knows exactly why he isn't that person for you anymore. It's the same reason why you broke up with him a couple of months back.
"I know you already said no," you lift your head back to rebuttal, but Carly continues, "but my offer still stands. Whether you feel you can't handle being in the same space as him, or Nick decides to be a douchebag in the dead of night. I know how my brother could be."
"Thanks, Carls, but I should be able to handle him if anything happens." A genuine smile appears. "Plus, we're both mature, right? It's not gonna be like that trip during senior year of high school."
You both laugh, Carly's hand falls from your shoulder as she remembers that time during your class's senior trip. Nick can't help but feel left out, though his hard gaze slacks a fraction after hearing you laugh. If his lips tipped upward briefly into a small smile, then Dalton still didn't notice.
First time he laughed all day, he notes. He finished his drink and coolly tossed the empty beer bottle into the campfire. It roars to life from the alcoholic remnants; the flame's warmth licks at his face as it cheers. I need to make him happy again. He hears Dalton, Paige, and Blake cheer as Wade chastises his irresponsibility.
"You can't just throw away your trash into the fire, Nick! We need to keep the grounds free from any litter. Come on, man, it's dangerous..."
But Nick couldn't care less about Wade's educational rant or if the fire spread to their tents or the woods. He pulled against his black hoodie, restless, the increasing shadow highlighting the rough stubble along his jaw - he hadn't shaved since he got out. His eyes are still stuck on you.
"Goodnight, Carly," you say before hunching over and hugging your best friend.
She pushes her red hair back behind her shoulders after stepping back. "Goodnight."
You take a deep breath and force yourself to turn back around. You find Wade to your right in the closest chair to Carly, Paige still sitting on top of Blake's left thigh in the furthest chair away, and Dalton messing with the sunglasses he wears near the middle of the semicircle. And there's Nick, hidden behind the safety of his black hoodie, though his posture is still vulnerable to being decoded. Since you have turned your back, he has slightly shifted the foldable camping chair - the uneven dust of dirt lies under his dark jeans. You know him, he's trying to play it defensively - act cool as he's slumped lower into the chair, his long legs spread out to assert his masculinity. You can't see his ice-cold blue eyes, but you feel them locked onto your form. He's reading every inch that you move, every breath that you take, and everything that you don't say - just like you are.
You clear your throat, trying to displace your nerves, displeasure, and the fluttering within your ribs. Get a grip, you yell at yourself. You're meant to be mad. Stay upset. Don't give in, don't re-fall for him. The separation was your idea - your distinct call after Nick's incident. After you got the call from him a few weeks after the fact, when the worry and anxiety couldn't eat you up and spit you out any longer, and all that was left was the inevitable.
Just like in the movies, you heard first the loud hallway filled with rowdy, impatient prisoners that only echoed further with the banging of metal bars. Nick only spoke in whispers to try and keep your conversation private, knowing what would happen to him if any of the other prisoners, or even the guards, knew that he was talking to another man and not his alleged girl patiently biding time for his release on the outside. After he reassured you that it ain't so bad, that he was handling the slammer better than most fresh meat, he tried wrapping up the call. But before he could say that he didn't have much time left, you released the statement you've been holding back, "I want to break up," even as your heart lurched into your throat to try and take back the words. You were left in tears, your hand shaking as you held back your sobs, the Motorola RAZR V3 slamming against the hardwood floor as the call ended. You didn't hear how Nick got desperate, slamming the landline phone against the cement wall once he heard the dull beeping from the call ending.
"Goodnight, Wade, Dalton, and-" you stop yourself from wishing the same for Blake and Paige, as they were too busy with each other, again. That just leaves Nick. You open your mouth to do the same, wish him a simple and passing goodnight that he would forget after he moves on. But you can't do it. And he doesn't say anything either. You're both left with a tunnel of echoing silence that reverberates between your chosen distance; neither of you can even name the '90's song that the boombox is blasting through the campgrounds.
Instead, you give a small, barely noticeable nod that you hope he didn't perceive. He did. He still hasn't moved, but your heart still tells you that he understands. The beating begins to gush nonsense about Nick that you needed to push down after spending the first day back together.
As you unzip the blue tent, you crouch and step inside, finally putting distance between yourself and Nick after such a long day, even if it'll only last for a bit until everyone finally decides to turn in, as well. You kick off your shoes and place them into the corner, shrugging off and pulling over your burgundy hoodie to lie with your shoes. Once folded, the worn etchings of the Brooklyn College logo are displayed to the moonlight. You sigh and crawl over to the left-most sleeping bag of the three, choosing the farthest position from Nick. Trying to get comfortable on the hard ground that is just barely displaced by the layer of tarp, you hope to fall asleep soon - to elongate the inevitable further.
Outside of the tent, the music continues to blast from the boombox on Blake's truck. Beats from some '90s club classic begin to erupt. Dalton re-grabbed his old camcorder from where Carly dropped it after cutely filming Wade, the edges rusting from its overuse and caked with spots of dirt. He first films Paige and Blake making out, this time tamer than their earlier endeavors. Then he pans over to his best friend's sister and her boyfriend, giving each other short, sweet smooches.
"Oh yeah, that's hot," Dalton reacts and turns the camera to a brooding Nick. Ever since you zipped back up the tent, he's been locked onto the campfire. He needs space, he knows you do, which is why he is sitting through his sister and her friend making out with their boyfriends, even if every second it's torture. All it does is remind him of how he can't do that with you anymore.
We aren't together, he repeats to himself. It's the only reminder that's stopping him from leaving Dalton alone with the couples, opening and closing the tent behind him, and grabbing you into his long arms. He would lay kisses along your neck, collar, shoulders, jaw, face, and hair all night if you allowed him; you resting your head against his strong bicep, back pressed against his toned and muscular chest.
He's brought back to reality, having felt the camcorder on him for too long, as if Dalton is waiting expectantly. So, he says in his rough voice, "Don't even think about it. I ain't kissing you, dude."
"Come on, you know you want to, dude," Dalton jokes, a fake laugh escapes him to fill the awkward silence. Nick lets his guard down and smiles.
"Haha. Just kidding. Psyche. I wouldn't kiss your ass for shit," Dalton retracts.
And just as Nick was beginning to let go, an old beat-up truck pulls into their campgrounds. It stops a few feet away from the fire, the headlights blind Dalton and the rest of the group as he closes his camcorder. He angles his head and tries to block out the harsh yellow light from his vision with his palm. And the moment is gone.
The group stills, even the boombox shuts off as if it too is frightened by the new visitor. As the group of five all try to peer through their blindness, each trying to catch a glimpse of the person behind the wheel.
Wade is the first to break the ice. "Yeah," he calls out, expecting a polite answer in return.
"Hey, yo, man. You need something?" Blake follows, audibly less patient and more annoyed that his moment with his girlfriend was ruined by a stranger who invaded their camping spot.
Carly asks what the entire group is wondering, "What does he want?"
"Hey, can you turn off your lights. Please?" Wade continues, straining his eyes behind his giant hand. His right hand is still wrapped around Carly, holding her steady as he still waits for the stranger to be polite.
It's unseen by the group, but behind the headlights, all that is clearly visible is the hand of a man, fingers itching and straining as he holds himself back. The beat-up truck coughs as it waits for its driver to make the next decision.
"Okay, this is getting kinda creepy," Paige says, looking at her boyfriend to do something more.
"Hey, come on, man. Get out of here. Nothing to see here. Come on. Let's go," Blake asserts as he lets go of Paige and waves his hand at the truck. Fortunately, he chose to listen to her.
"Can we help you?" Wade asks the figure.
"Maybe we're on his property," Carly says to the group.
Finally, Wade begins to stand. "Nah, we didn't pass a gate."
"Hey, man, turn your lights off," Blake joins him as they march closer to the truck. Carly and Paige stand back, maintaining a distance behind the flame.
"Hello!" Wade starts.
"Turn your lights off," Blake finishes. "I'm serious. Turn your lights off, or I'm whooping someone's ass."
Wade blocks his path with his arm, preventing Blake from getting closer to the truck. The silence is deafening. There still isn't an ounce of a response from the driver.
Thinking he has it all under control, Wade says, "It's cool, man," to Blake but maintains the truck in his view. He doubts his own sentiment.
A deep frown settles on Nick's face, eyebrows furrowed and jaw rigid like he was ready to lunge. He knew trouble, and out here in this forest, the six of them alone with this beaten-up truck and stranger, this was trouble. He looks back at the blue tent you were meant to share with him, and it's the last reminder he needed to set off.
He grabs an empty beer bottle from beneath his chair, marches to stand with the rest of the group, and chucks the glass directly into the right headlight. It's clean, effortless, and fast, causing that light to shatter, weakening the glare. Though in the heat of the moment, Nick didn't fully think out his actions, as the driver was still hidden by the white wall from the left headlight. His frustration was released only momentarily, but it wasn't enough. Not during training and football games, and not now. Why didn't he just aim for the other headlight?
"Nick," Carly gasps at her brother, appalled at his action. "Oh, my god-"
But he doesn't pay her any mind as he weaves between the group, purposely choosing to side-check Wade - he stumbled a step back - as he now steps the closest to the truck. Nick isn't afraid, hasn't been for a while after everything he's been through. His jaw is still set, body pulsing and charged in preparation for a confrontation with the figure. His ice-cold eyes have taken on a deeper shade, nearing black ice levels of danger. His stance is completely open, non-defensive, and completely in line to attack. Come on, step out the damn car, he yearns for the battle. This feeling reminds him of his high school afternoons and evenings out, wearing shoulder pads, a half-dented helmet from his aggressive behavior, and bits of turf filling his cleats. Endless training would prepare the team for back-to-back losses; it made him sick. He grunts, pushing aside his coach's booming voice when he was kicked off the team.
Now that he knows his friend is prepared to fight the stranger, Dalton steps forward with overconfidence brewing within him. "What," he calls out to the stranger, making sure to stand at Nick's side, not in front.
There's a standstill for a few more moments, then the engine roars quietly back to life as the stranger creakily shifts back into reverse. The light from the truck slowly dims as all that's left is the empty air where the vehicle once was. Nick maintains eye contact the entire time, not letting go until he is sure that the truck is long gone. He hears Dalton proudly shout, "Yeah," as if he were the one who did something to cause the stranger to retreat.
"That was great. That was great, dude," Dalton turns to his best friend.
"My man, Nick, he's hardcore," Blake joins in on the celebration.
Although he tries to act like he doesn't like the attention, a side-smile maintains on his expression until he turns around and sees your shared tent open again. He finds you standing back in your shoes, hoodie missing this time, to the right of the tent's opening. A memory flashes before his eyes, high school you, standing against the chain link fence that divides the football field from the surrounding track.
You had wanted to surprise him and stop by his practice after you finished helping set up your friend's weekly book club that she hosts in the school's library. He froze midsentence, an incomplete insult aimed toward his coach for his decision lingers heavily. Breath quickening, his heart rate spikes at the sight of you - watching him get kicked off the football team. He's spent too much time stuck in cycles of worst-case scenarios, being pushed aside, and judged for simply breathing since he was born; luck was never on his side. You must have heard everything, he immediately decides. How I exploded. How long had you been standing there? Did you see his foul play? Hear the snap and crush of cartilage? Did you hear the trigger that fired him like a bullet?
Abruptly, he turns around and runs off the field. Coach calls him back to try and work something out; to give him the attention he craves from an authority figure he lacks. He knew that this decision was long-coming and he was waiting for a more appropriate time to tell him. But that moment never came, at least it never had the chance to sprout. It was quick, the words slipped out of his mouth, but even behind the heat of his voice, he knew that they were definitive. Irreversible.
Shit. Shit, what must he think of me now? He thinks I'm an aggressive, meat-headed, punk-ass jock. Nick hops over the side bench, the defense having stood and stepped aside once they saw him charging in their direction. He knocks over the water cow, shoves his helmet back on, and climbs the fence. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows one thing: he can't allow you to see him. Not in the state he's in. The last you saw of Nick that day was as he turned into the forest behind the school, the red, orange, and brown foliage descending together like a falling curtain to conclude an act of a play.
He thinks I'm the evil twin; this sentiment, having been ingrained, is now amplified into shrieking echoes that cause his skull to shake. At least he feels better about that reasoning rather than the true cause of his shaking being from his tears and violent sniffling. His vision tunneled, and Nick barely had enough sense left to not knock himself into the passing by oak trees.
He didn't know this, still didn't, but you had wanted to run after him. You didn't, though. You couldn't allow the scene to explode further if Coach, the rest of the team, or any of the cheerleaders saw you sprint across the field and run into the forest in search of your best friend. There were already whispers hanging in the halls about you, about him, and the closeness between you two. Initially, you had tried ignoring it, playing it off like Nick and you were just two close bros.
Not even a few days later, you were shoved into a locker. Your head throbbed from the slam, your assailants sneered at your groan, and threatened you to stay away from Nick. You couldn't manage to open your eyes until a few minutes after you were free, but you knew that their clique included four of Nick's teammates and a cheerleader, whom you knew from hallway gossip had been wishing for Nick to give her an ounce of attention so she could make a move. Of course, her boyfriend didn't know that, but it seemed like half the school did, and everyone else will - including all the teachers - in a school week's time.
Hearing the snare of Coach's whistle signaled to the defense men to join the huddle. Out of the circle of jocks, only a single footballer was relieved from the speech as he limped back onto the side bench while leaning on support from a teammate. He seemed fine, no gushing blood, jutted bones, or any cuts. There was minor swelling, though, and you deduced he had twisted his ankle. You furrowed your brows, asking yourself, "So why did Nick run off?"
You pushed aside your lurching heart after taking a small glance toward the cheerleaders; they were too busy reforming into a pyramid that they hadn't seen you. You slowly trudged back into the library, momentarily interrupting your friend's club to sit at a nearby table. You thought about joining them as a distraction, but instead, you hugged the table as you forced yourself to nap. The club resumed once they heard a snore, strangely sounding similar to a broken sob.
So, as much as he wants to be sung in your praises for being your knight in shining armor - for scaring away the creep - he knows that won't happen. He can't take that risk - won't allow himself to let his guard down, not out here in the open. He understands that they're all his friends - even if he would never admit it to any of them, especially not his sister - but he still can't do it. He couldn't do it back then, cowering away from you on that senior year afternoon. And he still can't do it now. Nick puts back on the stoic mask as the rest of the group turns back around to their tents, missing the brief moment between you two.
"What the hell was that about, huh?" his sister questions him, trying to analyze his character. She knew, as his twin sister - and thus the group member that has known him the longest, even longer than you or Dalton - that he didn't do it just to save them or scare off the intruder. No. There was something deeper that caused his actions. It would go even further back then when you two were dating, into the siblings' childhood. But she still hadn't deduced what it was.
Nick keeps walking past her, even as she goes to grab his forearm. He hears Dalton continue, "You the man, dude. That was awesome."
"Don't encourage him," Carly quickly retorts.
Nick avoids your gaze as he sits back in his chair. He shifts his seat back so he can't see you anymore, even though he feels your soft gaze. Even with his walls drawn, it strains his sanity to ignore your allure while you stand there expectantly, finally possibly wanting to talk to him. Even if it's just to ask him what happened. He may portray himself as tough, but he is extremely fragile, especially when it comes to you. He could handle his sister's scrutiny any day of the week, but you? Never. Not since that day you broke up with him. You were his weakness, his vulnerability, his confidant, his sanctity, and still. His love.
You wanted to ask the group what the commotion was about and who the hell that guy was, but you decided to bite your tongue and escape back into the tent without being seen. The rest of the group joins Nick in their respective arrangements as the twisted mood settles, allowing their adrenaline to soothe under the gaze of the surrounding darkness before they all decide, after some much-needed silence, that that was enough for the day.
At around half past 3:00 a.m., only a few hours after the encounter, everyone decided to rest, Dalton's camcorder gets picked up. A tall, mysterious figure blends with the shadows as he heavily breathes behind the recording device. He takes slow, heavy, silent steps through the campgrounds.
He stops in his tracks in front of the first tent. Pointing the camera through the tent's window, the footage captures Blake and Paige resting, their bodies separated, but they both looked comfortable even if they weren't lying on top of each other. The hard lines of Blake's body look defined even through the barely-there light. Paige is asleep on her back, with the covers lying just below her chest. The blanket is crinkled to make it seem like there's the smallest bump where her stomach rests. Her blond hair illuminates under the faint light that makes her seem like a modern-day princess.
The camcorder turns away from the couple as the figure walks toward the farthest tent. This time, the footage reveals three resting men: Dalton, the closest to the window, lying on his left side; Nick in the middle, copying his best friend and also facing toward him; and you, the furthest from the window, sleeping on your right shoulder with your head resting against your sprawled arm. The figure stills as he makes sure to take in the detail of the three men under their covers. Though, as you were turned away, he had to get closer to the tent to angle the camcorder just right through the window to capture any of your features.
In your sleep, you mumble something incoherent like you were explaining your perspective to someone important. Your body freezes, shivers, and you shift your blanket up further. As if on instinct, even while asleep, Nick grumbles as he pats for your figure. Half asleep from the inconvenience, though Nick's adoration is stronger after having shared many nights together, he turns himself around and latches onto your figure. He sighs against your neck, pressing his forehead into your hair. Your breath hitches as Nick wraps one arm across your waist and the other lies under the junction of your neck and shoulder to support your head. It's perfect. You both still fit together flawlessly. Soundly, you two return to your dreamscapes.
The mysterious figure had carefully stepped away once he saw that Nick had shifted over, cautious to be seen from his creepy stalking. Jostled and blurry, the camcorder focuses on the final of the three tents. In the opening, there rests a sleeping Carly, her slow breathing captured for a few seconds as she perfectly lies toward the camera. In the top edge of the screen, Wade's form can also be seen, just enough to capture his brunette hair, rough beard, and boyish face for later use, but he isn't who the figure cares about - not entirely. Suddenly, Carly shoots up - instantly, the camera drops to the ground beside the tent as the figure escapes back into the darkness.
It was strange being transported back into your old high school gymnasium. You knew it had to have been hours in between your previous dream and this one, but you had blinked, and now you were here - sitting at an empty table, surrounded by familiar high schoolers dressed to the gills in varying shades of blue. However, there were a handful of rebels who stuck with the black suit and tie combo, and a few girls who weirdly dressed like they believed the theme to be an enchanted forest with their puffy dresses and real diamond crowns?
You wouldn't say your two-piece suit was cheap, but you didn't stand out from any of the other guys. A matching light blue coral jacket and trousers fitted over your form comfortably, underneath was a clean pressed white dress shirt. The finishing touch was a deep cobalt blue bowtie that was further emphasized by the white pocket square, half hidden beside your heartbeat. The displaced refracting shine from the overhead disco ball made your suit shine like it had glitter. And, if it were up to your friends for your appearance, then you would have.
You anxiously tapped your navy William leather cap toe oxfords beneath the table, remembering how much of a chore it was to sway yourself to attend. You missed Nick. You wanted him to be here, even if you two would have to pretend to be bros and stay six feet apart to maintain appearances. It would have been worth it to memorize his maturing face under the neon lights and streamers. You could've also been hassling him all day about how he can't show up to prom with just jeans and his hoodie of the day. Then it would have made that image of him even more valuable. But Nick was barred from the dance.
And so, again, you watched as your friends and classmates began to form a circle surrounding the center of the dance floor. Everyone had gotten up from their tables to join in on the camaraderie. Everyone but you. You sighed, twirling your pointer finger around the rim of the punch glass that poofed into existence in front of you. What's the point of this dream, you thought to yourself. There were no wacky shenanigans, no distortion, no plot holes filled with random objects. It just felt like a memory. The exact same night that occurred over three years ago, replaying now. But why? If it was so important, why was your subconscious having you relive your lonely night? Wait.
As if the dream was lagging, your heart instantly began to thrum. You looked up and saw him. Nick's head poked around the open gym doors - the chaperone teachers had long since moved further inside to congregate amongst the punch bowl. He wore his black hoodie - a recent purchase of his at the start of your senior year that he loved but would never admit - pulled over his head, his bright smile still gave him away. He tilts his head backwards, asking you to follow him outside. You don't even think twice.
"What are you doing here? You were banned from being seen on school premises tonight, remember?"
"You looked like you needed saving," Nick cheekily says. He holds himself back from wrapping an arm across your shoulders to pull you closer as you both begin to round the school. Too close, you hear his thought echo in your head.
"Actually, I was having the time of my life," you respond, knowing that this is a dream. You could push his buttons as much as you wish. "Everyone's wrapped up dancing, but nobody ever speaks about how good the punch is."
"Yeah? Did one of the stoners spike the bowl?"
You think for a second, flicking your tongue to draw back the taste. Did it even taste like anything? "That's not important."
"Tell me what's important, handsome." Suddenly, you are both transported onto the football field. The parking lot and surrounding forest are still, while you can faintly hear the booming bass-boosted speakers from the gym. One of Nick's hands grips your left shoulder, and the other caresses the small of your back. Under a single floodlight, Nick's blue eyes look brightly innocent with the shine. He's also re-wearing his simple black tuxedo.
You gasp; déjà vu cracks your stuttering heart and floods your limbs. "This is just a dream," you hear yourself say out loud.
He shakes his head, with a warm smile, says, "This may not be the real world, but you can't deny the emotions you're feeling. Here in this memory. Out there, when you're awake with him. With me."
"But-"
"Even when you are dreaming, you still worry too much," Nick laughs.
"Look, we don't have much time together before you wake up," he lifts his hand on your shoulder, carefully holding your cheek like you are a fragile statue. "Otherwise, I would have taken you to do what we actually did on prom night."
You push against his shoulder, remembering how you made out back in the heart of the forest. It was a spur-of-the-moment, after you both had held yourself back for years of longing looks and closeness coded as two bros, finally letting go of the inhibitions that society placed on you and reinforced. All the dirty looks, the bullying, and the whispered snide remarks, only for you two to finally throw it all away once you were hidden away from everyone. Prom night didn't go how you wanted, but to you, it was still romantically perfect.
"But why now?"
Nick smirks. "We both know why now. Look, I'm still an amalgamation of your memories and the fleeting biases of your subconscious, so I can't speak for the man sleeping next to you. You've gotta figure out your own feelings, baby."
Your dream ends with a single, soft press of his lips against your forehead. It was the same first act of affection Nick did with you. It all happened that prom night.
Nick re-awakens, floating in a blank, expanding void. He peers around to find a single sheet of glass far away. His floating shifted into a determined walk as a surfacing ground began to hold him up. When he investigates the screen, he finds his sister's smiling image. The glass flips, and it transforms into a mirror. The glass continues to spin as it displays Carly and Nick at different ages, from 21 to 18, 15, 12, 9, 6, and 3. As it stops on a small, young Nick as a toddler is pictured; above a white box edges out of the white void. It reads The Evil Twin, his parents' voice cruelly repeating the same words. Instantly, Nick punches his young image, frustratingly hoping to free himself from this nightmare.
He's panting, body locked as he's met with silence. Looking back up, the white box pushes itself back into the white void, rearranging the surface again flat. "I'm not the evil twin," he roughly whispers against the void.
"No, you aren't," a voice answers.
Nick turns around; the void having converted into a suburban street. From the palm trees, the clear blue skies filled with passing Northern Mockingbirds, Blue Jays, and Mourning Doves, and the blaring heat under the sun, he recognized the scene clearly. It was Gainesville, Florida. This is your street, he recognizes.
Hiding and merging into the sunlight, Nick takes slow, careful steps as he walks to your apartment. After giving a solid college try at living on campus during your first year, you were extremely fortunate to have found a decently priced apartment near the University of Florida. Just like he knew your dorm room too well, Nick had also spent many nights walking with you after both of your classes for the day and spending the night studying. His heart jumps at the many memories of boring studying becoming fun once you created a reward system that always led him to wrinkled textbooks across the floor as you both make out. This was your shared safe haven.
Nick twists the golden doorknob, opening the scene into a single blue tent in the middle of the hallway. An accompanying window leads the golden sun rays like a spotlight onto the only item in the room. He could open it, but he stopped himself. What if his nightmare continues? He can't risk seeing the horror his mind creates for you.
"Nick," your voice within the tent calls out. "It's okay. You're okay. You. Are. Not. The. Evil. Twin."
He's frozen, his fear defending against the mystery that pulls toward his desires. His want to see you, even if it's you in his dream.
"You can come inside, Nick. I allow you inside, babe."
Entranced by his siren's voice, he unzips the tent, crouches down to push open the flap, and crawls into the golden light.
You awaken to being held by a familiar, muscularly lanky figure surrounding your form. You distinctly remember last night falling asleep before Nick or Dalton had decided to hit the hay. You knew it was Nick, sharing your blanket, comfortably cuddling against you. Now, you wished you had stayed up - faked your sleep - so you could've known if Nick immediately gave in to his temptation. If he couldn't help himself.
Wearily opening your eyes, you're blasted with the morning sunlight. It seemed like it was directly targeting you two, bathing you both in crisp warmth to begin a lazy Louisiana day. You inch your head forward, making sure not to tickle Nick's nose with your hair, and slowly lift your head to peer at his form. A soft grumble escapes his lips at feeling you move, but his arms are limp around you as he continues to release short snores.
In this spotlight, Nick's sleeping form makes him look younger - more innocent. Even with his rough beard and sharper jaw line, he looked at peace. His hair is tinted back into a soft shade of yellow, the darkness hiding away from the goodness of the light to show his true nature. Like the Nick you met in high school. He still is the same guy you pined after for three years, shared your first kiss with on your prom night, and began to date after graduating high school.
He was a mess; you couldn't ignore that trait. But to you, it added more to his charm. You didn't understand why so many people judged him harshly for his actions. Sure, he can be a piece of shit, but his actions are a product of his isolation. He needed someone to give him an ounce of support, to be there for him. And once he realized that you had eventually weaseled your way into becoming that person for him, then he became furiously loyal. You had actually seen Nick's personality similarly shift after he finally got close to Dalton.
Looking past Nick, you noticed the other half of the tent was completely empty. All that was left was a half-flung, rumpled blanket, and tucked away in the corner were Nick's and your pile of clothes on top of your respective pair of shoes. It seemed like Dalton had just gotten up.
"You lookin' for an escape?" Nick asks, exhaustion lacing his deep, rough voice.
You can't help but allow yourself to smile at him. "Where's Dalton?"
"He shook me awake ten minutes ago to tell me he had to go take a piss," Nick huffs, no real harm behind his words. "He also asked me where I had last seen his camcorder. Do you remember?"
"I called it early last night, remember? That camera could be lost in the woods after he snuck off to watch back his footage for all I know."
"Yeah, I remember," Nick hums, pulling you back down against him. Having your body tight against his, it was exactly all that he wanted to do the moment he saw you before the trip. It's all he could think of last night. The moment lingers - secure, safe, and familiar, all settling between the two of you. He sighs, "I missed you. I missed this."
You force yourself to freeze, biting back the same words you wish to echo. I hope I'm not being obvious, you think. You want to fill the silence with any comment, any observation, but it all leads you back to what you two need to discuss. "Nick, we need to talk-"
"I know, baby. I know," he whispers against your throat, causing you to shiver. Nuzzling his nose against your neck, he begins to place sweet kisses. It's innocent, loving, and-
Nick turns you around, pressing your chests together. His forehead kisses yours as he now looks into your eyes. His blue eyes shimmer, half-lidded, and he's gazing at you adoringly. It's the same look he gives before-
You feel him. Hard, hot, and big, pressing incessantly against your left thigh. Shit. Even after having spent countless nights as lovers tangled in the same sheets, feeling him like this against you still causes you to blush. Naturally, heat begins to pool south as Nick reignites you. You push your right palm against his tough, large chest, trying to get any semblance of rationality between the two of you - any distance at all to let your brain think.
"Baby, if you allow me, I can make you feel good like old times," Nick coos, his warm breath fanning against your face. You flush further, shutting your eyes as a last-ditch effort. It feels like it begins to work until he juts himself against you again. His left hand, which was cradling your face, moves lower against your body. A line of warmth follows his fingers as he grabs you, tugging you a few times. You harden.
"I thought about this every night..." Nick trails off, too distracted to finish his thought. With your boxers pressed against his, how could he think about anything else? He grunts as you moan, pleasure flooding your nerves as your tips kiss beneath the soft fabric. This only spurs him further. Faster. Harder.
"Nick," you whisper, not wanting to ruin the intimacy. He stops, pressing himself back against you. You know he's listening intently when you feel him twitch - his mind racing as he tries to hold himself back. "What about Dalton? What if he walks back into the tent?"
"That's what you're thinking about, huh?" He grunts, slowly grinding against your boxers. You feel his pulse quicken against your chest, his cock straining against the thin fabric as he continues to twitch. "Dalton has walked in on us. Multiple times, too. It's nothing he hasn't seen before."
"But, baby, if you're so worried," he presses his face against your open neck with a grin, "I can be quick."
He layers kisses - first against your pulse point as he weasels his large hand further into your boxers to grab you. He moves to French kiss your jaw, moving higher and higher to nibble at your right earlobe, tugging at your cock. When a quick moan leaves you, you give in and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. You pull him even closer, wanting your bodies to melt into each other. His groans fill the tent; the enclosed space makes it feel louder even though he only ever wants you to hear him like this. Vulnerable. Completely open. All because you continuously break him.
"As long as we stay under the covers," he breathes into your neck, "Dalton will never know of our tryst."
He tightens his grip around your dick, trying to pour months of love - of being without you - into his work. You can begin to feel a wet spot form on your boxers, though you are too enraptured to determine if it's from you or Nick. As if hearing your thoughts, he pushes himself up further against you, and you can feel his thick tip sandwiched between the edge of his hard, rigid abs and over the band of your underwear. He's leaking. Profusely. His pre-cum spreads and begins to collect at the front of your waist.
Your shirt rolls up, and so does his white tank top. His happy trail brushes against you, the new friction adding to intensify the sensation. Nick makes you feel lost, only ever coming to when his cock begins to tense and gives small slaps against you in his excitement. All throughout this, Nick hasn't stopped jerking you off and breathing you in. His mustache is itching against your skin, the burning cools beautifully.
It's a push and pull, something so simple, and yet so intense. Nick makes sure to jerk you at the same rate as his thrusts. He's fast, even more solid. The distance of time makes him feel longer and larger than what you remember. Beginning to pant, you can feel sweat drip onto your neck from his forehead. It's one of the only signs you know he shows that he's holding himself back from cumming. His exertion isn't meant for himself; it's all for you.
"You close, baby?" he asks, pushing your body even closer with his free hand against your lower back.
"I'm going to cum," you whisper-yell, voice wavering. Your cock twitches in agreement.
"I could go on and on," he groans, immediately preventing that idea from lingering - revealing the truth. His large cock was rigidly protesting.
"Please, baby. Let go for me," his voice deepens, the rumble from his chest echoing within your body. He picks up speed, his grip on you getting in the way of his incessant thrusts. He doesn't care, not right now.
You cry out as you cum, your head falling forward onto Nick's shoulder, your body giving out. Within the blissful fog, you still feel him at attention, the long, thick vein that runs beneath him pulsing heavy like a war drum. He pulls his hand away from you, your cum messily sinking between some of his fingers. It already begins to stick onto his skin, as if it's begging to be a part of him too. Forever.
"Baby, can I come on you?" he cries out, voice dipping an octave higher. You vigorously nod against his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to see him come undone.
In his hot fury of thrusts, he's still careful to avoid your pelvis. He wants you to feel pure pleasure. Nick's done seeing you in pain. "Can you answer me verbally, baby?"
It takes you a second, but eventually you say, "Cum for me, Nick."
And that's all it took. One. Two. And three more long juts of his hard length grinding against your hip, and he releases himself. He groans, feeling relieved. His cock enlarges, abs flexing, mushroom head a deep red, shooting his load onto your skin. Nick cums a lot, his body and mind in sync - excited to be back with you, so close. Together. By the time he's done, he has collected himself enough to pull back and stare at your face. He pulls back his arms, and with each hand, he spreads both of your seeds onto each of your waists. Him on you. And you on him.
Warm silence wraps around you both. The mix of the moment, your blissfulness, and the time spent apart causes you to kiss Nick. He immediately reciprocates, pushing back softly against you. He wants to re-memorize you, even if it takes one slow kiss at a time. He pulls back and laughs. It's pure joy, relief, and love at what you both just did.
Nick turns back onto his back, the blanket immediately latching onto his abs, where your cum is drying. You settle against his side, laying your head onto the muscle of his big pectoral. His heart is racing, but is starting to diminuendo from the adrenaline. Yours is too.
"We'll talk about us, later, yeah? After the game," Nick brings up. But you're already half asleep. You barely register his words to give a nod. You fall back asleep. Nick joins you, only after making sure that you were comfortable on him. Back in his arms.
You miss it when he says, "I still love you," before he, too, falls back asleep.
Author's Note 2: Halfway through this as I began to think more about the rest of this series and how the rest of the movie plays out, I decided to add some more fluffy moments between male reader and Nick, because honestly I don't know where else I could include them after like the next scene. If I add anything even remotely fluffy in like the last hour of the movie, then it's gonna feel really out of place and strange💀. I'll try to figure stuff out some more, but, oh boy, get ready for everything that male reader, Nick, and everyone else will face. Also also, I might have to change this from Part Two to maybe Three or Four since I don't know how much of the movie I'm actually going to tackle per fic part in the future.
Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!
Langdon being the last person in the pit crew to realize that the his friend Y/n is queer and being absolutely hounded on it.
Author's Note:
This is a quick fic, I haven’t written fan fiction in a while, and I need to flex my muscles before getting back into the swing of things. So here’s a quick fic.
Also, it’s inspired by this if anyone is interested. [Link]
AO3 Link - For anyone who wants to read this else where.
(Y/N) looked at his friend wide eyed and mouth hanged a gap at the question he was just asked.
They two were in the staff lounge getting a breather before having to go onto the floor again. They chatted about their weekend, and (Y/N) passively brought up that a friend of his was trying to set him up with this cute guy they knew. Which brought upon Frank's question.
It felt like the air got sucked out of the room.
There wasn’t any tension in the air per se, (Y/n) is confident that Frank is not homophobic, but it is a definite shock that his friend did not know he was some level of queer considering he has not been hiding it and also considering the two’s repartee which he is quick to bring up:
“Man, I flirted with you,” (Y/N) told him.
“You flirt with everyone,” Frank pointed out defensively.
“Yeah, but I flirted with you explicitly. It became such a problem Gloria had to pull us aside.”
“I thought you were just joking,” he says in a low voice, as if they were caught doing something they shouldn’t have been. (Which if you ask Gloria, they probably shouldn’t have been.)
“Well, I wasn’t planning on it going anywhere with it, pretty boy, but you can’t be this fucking dense. Actually, “ (Y/N) peered out of the staff lounge in search of someone. He scanned over the room of the central hub pausing when he found who he was looking for, “Santos!” He snapped his fingers getting her attention.
She looked up from her computer, looking around her before just staring at the man.
Frankly, she is surprised that he even knows who she is, considering he hasn’t bat an eye on the new residence since they walked in a few months ago.
He ignored it, or didn’t care, probably the latter she thinks, as the man continues to wave her to the staff lounge.
The moment she entered the door, she looked between the two men confused.
Frank sighed, “You don’t need to bring her into this.”
“No, this is far more important than whatever she was doing.”
(Y/N) pivoted his body so that he is fully facing Santos, “Santos, if I told you I’m queer, would that be a shock?
“No? I think it’s clear as day.” She squinted up at the man seeing if this was a trick question. She looked between the two men again, “What’s happening here?”
“Franklin here thinks I’m straight. And, you’ve been here for like, what? A week? And you figured it out.”
“I’ve been here for three months.”
“My point still stands. Also I don’t really pay attention to you guys, that’s like your attendings job or something. My apologies.”
“Sounds right,” she mutters under her breath.
“He means he doesn’t care about you guys.” Frank added to his friend’s comment.
“Well— I didn’t say— Yeah, no, you’re not my problem. I served my time being in your shoes. I ain’t gonna be handling people who’s going through the same thing. I’m leaving that behind. No offense.”
“That’s.. fair, I think?”
“That’s beside the point though.”
“What’s happening here?” Dana walked in the room, mug in hand looking like she was going for a coffee refill before having stumbled on this mess of a conversation.
“Frank, over here, didn’t know I was gay! Well, pan. Bi? Doesn’t matter. He didn’t know I would tap a dude.”
“You didn’t…?” The new addition to this conversation, turned to Frank.
Frank threw his has hands out, “Did everyone know?”
“He flirted with you,” Dana reiterated (Y/N)’s earlier point as (Y/N) literally pointed at her as if to emphasize the point.
“And I flirted back! That doesn’t mean anything!”
“Yeah, well, I’ve flirted harder. If I didn’t make Robby mildly uncomfortable with my flirting, I would’ve flirted with him too. Thank God for his friend. They both still got the point tho.”
“You flirted with Dr. Abbott?” Santos’ and Frank’s question cut through.
“I mean, have you seen him?”
“Okay, let’s pause that there before Gloria writes you up,” Dana walked past the group top the coffee machine trying to pivot the conversation.
“She won’t unless someone snitches.”
———————————
Later, after their shift ended, Frank and (Y/N) find themselves across the hospital in the park decompressing after their shift.
Frank sat with a drink in hand, elbows to his knees, and just in deep thought.
(Y/N) sat with his arms across the back over the beach, looking at his friend. After staring for a while, he spoke up, “Hey Frank, got a question.”
Frank looked over his shoulder to his friend.
“When I did flirt with you, what do you think was happening there?
“Oh, not this again,” Frank groaned.
“Come on, humor me. I’ve never befriended someone this dense before. I’m curious.”
“Insults are not the way to go.”
“Come on, just answer the question.”
“I don’t know? I thought you were being playful?”
(Y/N) squinted at him questioning if he was serious, and so he pushed, “And when I said I would jump your bones if you’d let me? That’s just, what? me being silly.”
“Yes..?”
“Oh my god.” That reaction was pulled out of (Y/N) who turned his eyes to the skies to look at anything but Frank right now.
On Frank’s part, he did look a bit flustered realizing how ridiculous he sounds.
(Y/N) stood up from where he was and walked over to the nearest tree leaning his head on it.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t look at you, right now. Frankly, I can’t take this anymore. I think I’m gonna have to quit.”
Frank rolled his eyes, “You’re being so dramatic.”
“oh my god, I can’t believe this level of blindness. They let you work here?” He turned to his friend, wanting to address that last comment to his face.
“Okay, okay. Let it rest.”
“Let it rest? Let me rest. This is too much.”
“Oh God, I won’t hear the last of this,” Frank lean to the back of the bench, staring up at the sky.
“No, you won’t, pretty boy,” (Y/N) walked over to stand behind him. His arms on either side of his head. He leaned over Frank with a shit eating on this face, “You gave me a gift. And I’m dragging this out.”
Frank closes his eyes letting out a long sigh.
(Y/N) patted the side of his face before walking away, “Come on now Frank, it’s getting late and tomorrow’s gonna be a long fucking day.”
Frank huffed out to himself. Before following his friend out of the park, not looking forward for a few days to come.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
End of Story notes:
part of me wants to continue this as an OC fic with the rest of The Pitt crew. Like i have scenes in mind expanding on the character's comment on flirting with Abbott and Robby.
Some scenes with Dana dealing with the guy's BS antic's.
Ive seen ppl talk about Whitaker and Santos being LGBT (fanon wise, don know abt canon) and I like the idea of them going to someone and freaking out abt it. Either cause they are just learning that abt themselves, or they are having a crush and he simply knows.
either way, i do have some ideas.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Like, Comment, Reblog if you enjoyed the fic! + if you have any fic ideas feel free to comment them or send them in the request box!
[Request Box | Request Rules]
Pairing: Professor Henry Cavill x Student Male Reader
Genre: Fluffy Smut, MDNI
Kinks/Warnings/Notes: AMAB Reader; Calling the reader a slut, a whore; Calling the reader a good boy, praise; Slapping and spanking; Age gap; Professor x Student
Length: 5.1k words, Fic
Synopsis: You're one of the lucky few to have ever experienced one of Professor Cavill's lectures. And you are the lucky, singular person to have ever experienced his heart-racing one-on-one session.
A/N: oml hiiii! If you're reading this, then thank you very much! this is my first time writing something over a thousand words (of my own volition) in probably 3 years at least! It's also my first time writing serious smut GAHAHAHAH I would appreciate feedback (totally optional), but most of all, hope you enjoy :D
Credits: @/aquazero for the divider and @/starboye for helping me with formatting and tagging!! ^-^
I picked this one just for you! I hope it’s sweet and juicy…
You’ve always liked your Ancient Mythologies Studies class. It was an easy A, one that came packaged with an interesting topic to boot. Who doesn’t want to hear of the religions and myths of civilizations from thousands and thousands of years ago?
The answer is most people. It was one of the smallest classes–even with a size cap of twenty, it had barely filled out ten slots. It seemed most people simply didn’t take interest in the subject. That meant that most people were poor, unfortunate people, because they didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Professor Cavill.
Professor Cavill had worked at the university teaching their Ancient Mythologies Studies class for the past several years. He was a graduate of this school and, after having established himself as a prominent archaeologist, he opted to take time and teach a course for two sessions weekly. In his words he, “Wanted to help inspire any young people with a passion for learning about those that came before us.”
You had found those words so, so interesting. But it was more so about the man saying them.
Professor Cavill–Henry–was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties. He was kind and considerate to each member of his class, treating them with a warmth and manner you’d read about in an overly unrealistic romance novel. And yet, he was very much real. You had class with him every Monday morning and Friday night.
Classes which you would sit in, bouncing your leg and hiding a raging boner as you watched the man fiddle with and adjust his tie.
“Y/N, are you sure you’d rather not attend the festivities?”
Ah, just your luck, wasn’t it? Your college had been holding a concert for a handful of its alumni to celebrate their band’s first national tour. The university had decided that, due to the band falling under the alternative genre, they would allow classes to continue should any students or staff be disinterested.
It just so happened that, as much as you weren’t opposed to them, you also weren’t heavily inclined to actually attend their show. You had figured that at least one of your ten classmates would feel the same.
Apparently not.
Hence, you now sat alone in a small lecture room, the chairs beside you empty as you stared at your beloved professor, Professor Cavill.
“Ah, no, professor. Were you looking to attend?”
“Myself? My personal taste doesn’t align with their music. As much as I love Clive-”
Clive was the lead singer and, as you recall, one of Professor Cavill’s former students.
“-we’ll be meeting for a congratulations dinner tomorrow evening. We’ve already discussed.”
He smiled, dimples forming, as he flipped open his files for the night’s lecture.
Then he had to reach for his stupid tie.
“Would you mind if I loosened my tie? I’ve been feeling warm as of earlier this evening.”
His large, somewhat hairy hand was already holding the knot one either side. He did it often; you had come to suspect it was an unconscious habit at times. He would tug at his tie, calling attention to his strong chest or those bulging biceps…
Damn his stupid tie. Today, it was his blue tie, one you knew to be one of his favourites. He wore it at least thrice a month, most often during Friday sessions.
Every time he would touch it, toy with it, it sent shivers down your spine and blood straight to your cock. You almost weren’t sure if you hated or loved that he was almost never without one.
“Ah, not at all, Sir. Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Y/N.”
God, your name sounded so good out of his mouth. He drew the syllables out, gave it this weight that you hadn’t heard your name spoken with before. You could get addicted to the way he had said it just now. You were tempted to find an excuse to have him say it again.
That opportunity came as, for the first time, he pushed past absentminded tugs at his tie and now pulled the knot away from his chest. For the first time, you saw his neck without the tie drawing attention. It almost sounded manic to say but… the sight began to draw you in.
And then he overshot it. The tie came off, knot still done, but it was completely removed now. He stared down at the cloth before using his free hand to undo it, leaving it nice and straight in his hand.
“Do you mind if I forgo it?”
Eye contact. He made eye contact with those god damn near hypnotising eyes. They really were unique; the man had something called segmental heterochromia. He had mentioned it once before. It meant that his left iris, though mostly blue like his right, had a patch of brown in its upper half.
It felt mystifying, like a siren whose song you couldn’t ignore. He continued to look at you, and without him breaking eye contact, you were hopelessly unable to do so yourself. Instead, you simply muttered a weak response.
Class seemed to fly by. Your hand wrote on its own as your legs bounced, mind and senses completely and utterly hinged on the man’s every word and movement. Though he entranced you each time you sat in on his lectures, tonight was different. You had always blamed his tie. It’s the tie. The playing with the tie, his stature with it, that’s what you blamed for your constant erections.
But it was difficult to deny it when, as the man orated with his tie discarded, you found your cock throbbing more eagerly than you can remember it having ever done before.
Sweat rolled down your forehead from the heat you were feeling. You cursed yourself, begging that the man would somehow not notice the warmth that afflicted you. But, as you let yourself look at him again, really look at him, you were both relieved and mortified to find that he was under the same circumstances.
“Is the air conditioning broken?”
His words were breathless as he fanned himself with his papers. He was tugging at his collar now, further exposing his neck, now slick with sweat. It seemed to be bothering him more than it was you, somehow.
“I-I think so.”
You could barely manage to let the words out. Your breathing had gotten unsteady, mind and body unable to focus as the man groaned from the discomfort. Seemingly without realising, his hand undid the two topmost buttons of his shirt. It exposed his chest–a strong chest covered in wild, dark black hair that you had been completely oblivious to the glorious existence of.
“Y/N? Are you alright? Is something-”
Of course now he notices your stares. It couldn’t have been when it was something that was easily explained away, like you were staring at him due to intent listening. No, it had to be when your gaze, which he followed, led down to his exposed chest. His exposed chest which had, mortifyingly, caused a wet spot to form in your pants.
“Ah, my apologies. Let me redo my button-”
“No! I mean-”
Your words came out too eager. Your brain was screaming at your mouth not to speak, to not make an utter fool of yourself. But your mouth chose to go rogue, instead opting to speak like a horned-up teen begging his boyfriend to keep making out with him.
“Y-you don’t have to. I don’t mind.”
An eyebrow was cocked in your direction.
“Is that so, Y/N?”
Your silence was used to scream, rather than actually think of anything remotely close to damage control.
“Y-yes Sir. I don’t mind if you keep your buttons undone.”
“If that’s the case, then…”
Was this… reality? Surely it could be. It was impossible.
You were sitting there, cock leaking with precum like you were a virgin watching your first porno, as your handsome professor began to undo buttons, one after another. He was exposing himself further and further with each passing second, each button exposing a new section of chiselled, hairy, sweat-covered skin.
His breaths were deep and heavy, sighs and groans of relief sending more and more sensations to your cock. Every vibration of his vocal chords seemed to be felt in full force by your erection, not helping your situation in any way whatsoever.
Then the man had the gall to take his shirt off, folding it neatly and placing it aside.
His body truly was magnificent. Plush, thick muscles were a constant, whether you looked at his chest, his abs, his shoulders, or any of his muscles. They radiated strength, covered in that same black hair as on his chest and equally slick with sweat. His body glistened under the dim light of the lights hanging above, almost like a gladiator fresh from battle.
How the hell were you supposed to react? What the hell were you supposed to do?
“Y/N, it’s hot, isn’t it? Would you mind if I further… undressed?”
It was almost pathetic how easily the man got you to fish your cock out of your strained pants. Little more than an offhanded request, actually.
Now you sat, pants and underwear around your ankles, your own shirt unbuttoned, as you feverishly pumped your erect dick. Your hand glided up and down due to the slickness of your overflowing precum, breathing unstable and desperate. But you were helpless, the possibility of you stopping a distant memory.
Professor Cavill was now nearly nude. He had discarded his elegant brown leather shoes and well-tailored pants, also in a neat pile on his desk. It left him, his statuesque form, completely exposed to you and your horny, unabashedly feral mind. It was a wonder you hadn’t cum yet.
“Keep pumping for me, Y/N. Be a good boy and keep going.”
Fuck, you couldn’t stop. Not when he said your name in a gruff, demanding voice. Not when he called you the sweetest pet names. Not when he stared at you, panting and eager, with a hunger that a predator has for its prey.
Most especially when his cock strained against dark, black fabric, as he rubbed along his clothed shaft as he took in the sight of your desperate form.
“Prof-”
“Henry. Call me Henry, Y/N.”
Shit, you could feel your cum about to well up and burst.
“Henry!”
He gave you a curt nod of approval. Your stomach pulsed with excitement.
“P-please, fuck me-!”
You looked at him, eyes wide and begging, and desperately awaited a reply. With mercy, he gave you one.
“Alright, Y/N. I’ll fuck you.”
You let out a pathetic, strangled mewl as your cum sprayed up and onto your sweaty torso.
Henry–gah, you got to call him Henry–had a cock that you couldn’t fully process was actually human. It was too perfect. It was thick, nearly as thick as your wrist though thankfully just short. It was lengthy, having had to be nine or ten inches at full mast. His balls were heavy, full of cum that he was eager to let out, and the base of his shaft was buried in a wild, thick, furry bush.
It was so close to you. It throbbed in front of you as you sat in your chair, the proximity allowing you to see the thick, pulsing vein that ran from base to near the tip. It let you watch as that fat, mushroom tip leaked a viscous, sticky precum. It lets you inhale that delicious, heady musk, intoxicating your mind and sending it reeling.
It was almost too much to process. Almost.
You were far, far too eager to begin sucking on the fat shaft. Who could blame you? People would pay good money to get a taste of a cock this perfect.
Fuck, the taste! A salty, somehow indescribably masculine taste, that flooded and overwhelmed your mind. It felt like you were at risk of addiction. Nothing had ever or would ever taste this damn divine. The copious amounts of thick, even saltier, precum being pumped into your throat was an excellent, equally addictive addition.
Even though it hurt and strained your jaw to stretch that wide and accommodate its length, the activity felt simply euphoric. If Henry would let you, you’d opt to do nothing more and nothing less than worship his cock, day and night.
“That’s a good, good boy, Y/N. Lube up my cock.”
You always were one to follow Henry’s instructions. Always one to listen, to be a good, obedient puppy. Maybe that’s why you were his favourite.
And, as he uttered praise and guided your head with a large hand’s firm grip, you certainly weren’t going to start disobeying now. With a hum of acknowledgement, you dutifully continued your task.
Once satisfied, Henry grunted and lightly tapped the back of your head.
“That’s good, baby. That’s enough. Come, get off my cock now.”
Part of you wanted to resist. How were you supposed to tear yourself away from his dick? It sounded impossible. But, you were eager for his praise, to hear him call you a good boy again. So, with one last deep dive down, your nose pressed into his hairy bush and your lips to the base of his shaft, you reluctantly pulled your face away and off of his delicious dick.
“Good fucking boy. You’re a very, very good boy, Y/N.”
Your cock throbbed with lust-filled need as you nodded with pure excitement.
“You deserve a reward. Lay on my desk, Y/N, and let me take care of your now.”
This was somehow the easiest instruction of the night to follow. You found yourself, now nude with your clothes having been folded just like Henry’s, laying on your back on his wooden desk. The surface felt cold and hard, but the feeling of a sturdy base comforted you. You knew that you’d need it.
As you took deep, steady breaths. The first of the night, actually. Your mind was trained on one thing, one concern rather.
How would you take his monstrous cock?
The answer would come soon. Without warning, your legs were lifted by two strong hands. You looked down, seeing as Henry in all his glory set your ankles on his broad shoulders. He began pressing light kisses to your skin, beard tickling your skin, as he maintained unwavering eye contact. It caused you to let out a soft laugh, which he opted to respond to.
“Your voice is beautiful, Y/N. Save it for me, okay?”
You felt it then. His fat, throbbing, steaming hot cock was set beside yours, pressed between your dick and your thigh. He was slowly and subtly moving his hips back and forth, groaning at the sensational friction.
“You’ll let me hear you sing tonight, yeah? Let me hear your wonderful voice, Y/N.”
His words were sweet like honey. It was almost enough to distract you from the prodding of his thick fingers against your tight hole. But, as you felt them push past your tight ring of muscle, your voice came out like the gates had been torn down, a moan resounding through the room.
“There you go. Good boy… moan for me. Let me hear each and every one, okay?”
You stared at him, eyes half-lidded, and nodded with an eager need to please.
How could someone so sweet cause so much pain? Henry was hunched over, his large, comforting hands on either side of your head as he hovered his face no more than four inches from yours. His heavy breaths fanned against your cheeks as he kept a steady, solid eye contact between you two. It was wondrous how much fire brewed within you from such a mundane act.
“Are you ready? I’m going to insert the tip, alright?”
He looked at you with such care and concern that it almost shocked you. He was a big, hulking man with a terrifyingly huge cock, but as it has come to be shown, a larger heart. It was so damn cheesy, wasn’t it?
But that didn’t matter as you nodded once again, body unable to take the anticipation, the waiting, for him to shove his fat cock inside.
…Except maybe it had to. His cockhead slipped inside with ease, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t fucking painful. You let out a strangled half-moan half-scream, and within seconds, those large hands were patting the side of your head.
“Y/N? Is it too much? I’ll stop, okay? Should I pull out?”
Henry was kissing your forehead, your cheeks, the sides of your lips. He muttered small praises and comforts, every other kiss targeting a tear that had fallen from the pain. He kept true to his word; his hips remained still, his cock not pushing a millimetre further inside. It was from that moment of calm that, as you adjusted to the burning stretch, you were able to speak.
“D-don’t. Just- give me a second to-“
You huffed out, desperate for air.
“-adjust!”
He smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. He tasted, somehow, better than his cock. It wasn’t quite something you could place, to be frank. It was a savoury taste, one with hints of candies you couldn’t identify and a tea whose flavour you couldn’t imagine. But it was entirely and wholly the delicious thing you’ve ever or will ever have.
That was worth getting addicted to. And if Henry would let you, you’d chase that taste every single moment you can. Something told you that yeah, he would.
“You’re doing so, so good for me, Y/N. So good, you feel so good…”
Henry’s voice was low and comforting, just as much, if not more than his calming touches. He spoke in whispers between each kiss, and it led you to slowly, but surely, adjust to the pain. Before you had even realised, all you felt was the desire for him to push even further.
“H-Henry, you can move now… please…”
“Are you sure, Y/N?”
Hearing your name roll off his tongue, so casual by this point, only cemented your enthusiasm. You nodded slowly and weakly, smiling the best you could.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful… Hold on to me, and tell me if I need to stop, okay?”
Your cock nearly bounced at the praise. You eked out another nod as your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, leading him to return your smile with one of his own. And fuck, it was gorgeous.
He kept his movement slow. It was torturous, but you could appreciate the time and the caution he took. His face watched yours, now scanning for any sign of pain or discomfort. At every wince or scrunch, he would stop, waiting for a nod or smile as your sign of readiness.
“You feel excellent, Y/N. Being with you… I could get obsessed with this feeling, you know?”
He leaned down to kiss you yet again. He kissed you, giving you yet another helping of that impossibly lovely taste: his taste.
And then… then he brushed against your prostate, his cock like a mallet smashing into a button. Even slow, it sent a shock up your spine and a resulting heat through your nerves. Your loud, vulgar moans were taken with great joy and adoration from Henry, his smile only growing fonder.
“You sound so good, Y/N. Let it out for me…”
Perhaps you took it a tad too far as your cock, with the pressure to your prostate, burst with another spray of hot, sticky cum that painted both tour and Henry’s stomachs. Such a reaction was met with a warm laughter.
“Not what I meant, but I’m not complaining. It’s good to know you feel good, baby.”
He leaned in for yet another kiss and, in the hypnotising exchange, you just barely processed a large, encapsulating hand taking hold of your cock. Henry began to spread your cum across your own shaft, using it to pump your still-sensitive cock towards unbearable pleasure.
“I’m gonna keep making you feel good, okay?”
Sweat had beaded all over your skin now, streams running down your body as Henry’s own dripped down and onto your frame. He was pushing just a bit faster now—you almost couldn’t take the wait any longer. That once painful stretch had evolved into pleasure. It had evolved from a burning heat contained to your ass and spread into this resounding, unending warmth washing through you. In the process, it had devolved you into a writhing, moaning mess.
His cock was large, that was certainly clear. It was the kind of large that made your stomach bulge, the kind that you knew you wouldn’t ever be able to take with ease no matter how many times it had fucked you. And shit, you hoped that it would fuck you so, so many more times.
But your composure only broke down further when his cock seemed to reach so impossibly deep inside, spreading your insides apart like it was trying to break you. Moan after moan fell out as your back arched involuntarily, only accentuating the bulge in your stomach.
“Baby? Y/N?”
You hadn’t even realised it, but Henry had stopped pushing himself deeper. Now, as he buried into what felt like the core of you and sent waves of electrifying heat with even the slightest twitch of his dick, his hips were flush against yours. He had bottomed out.
“Henry…”
Words other than the man’s name didn’t seem to be able to form. He, however, had so much to say.
“Fuck, you’re amazing, Y/N. You’re taking me so damn well…”
The hand not on your cock let go of your face and glided down your body, tracing lines down your shaking body, and stopped just over the bulging portion of your stomach. He brushed it gently, causing yet another crackle of electricity to wrack through you.
“Can… can I start to move?”
Oh, you could’ve broken your neck with how fast you agreed.
Henry’s calm demeanour had taken a backseat. It was still there, in careful touches to your face and sweet caresses of your body. You could still hear it in every little praise he threw out, and every loving glance he gave your half-lidded eyes.
His hips, though, had practically lost any form of restraint.
He withdrew and pushed back in with speed and force, hips slamming with a harsh and sharp slap. Your ass felt sore by this point, but it was a warm, comfortable soreness when paired with the sheer, blinding pleasure of Henry’s cock.
By the gods, the pleasure was insane. It was driving you mad, your vision going white. His cock, no matter how many times it was thrust into you, remained impossibly large and impossibly deep-reaching. It felt as though it only went deeper and deeper with each push, a result of your fractured state.
But how could one stay sane when their body was being overwhelmed with such unimaginable pleasure.
As drool began to spill and your eyes rolled back, Henry was quick to grab you by the chin and lock you into yet another kiss. Unlike the times before, though it carried the same sweetness, it was now heavy with a hunger, a need. He hungered for you, and he needed to fucking ruin you.
And Henry’s a man who accomplishes his goals, isn’t he? He began thrusting into your harder, harsher than he had before. He thrust over and over and over again, his movements without a single missed beat or second of hesitation.
His kisses remained constant too. His thick, strong tongue had shoved its way past your pretty lips and began to gnash against your tongue. It was a strange but nonetheless mind numbingly good feeling to have him invade your body even further.
By now, his grip had transferred to and firmed on your hips. He kept you nice and planted in place on that damn sturdy desk of his, even as each thrust threatened its integrity. His pace was relentless, the wood starting to creak with his forcefulness.
He drew back, saliva still stringing your mouth and his.
“Y-you feel good, Y/N?”
Who knew this man could stutter? But fuck, he made it sound hot. He sounded so lost in the pleasure, and even then, so firm in his every word.
“Y-yes!”
He gave a crooked smile at your words.
“Good! Do you like the way I taste, Y/N? The way my spit tastes?”
How vulgar was that? And how vulgar was it that, the second you tried to respond with a very clear yes, he decided to drop a fat glob of hot spit onto your cheek? He brought his thumb up to rub it into your skin and, hell, you were about to thank him for it.
You couldn’t as he cut you off with yet another breathtaking kiss. You were left panting and unable to speak at all when he pulled away.
“You’re a whore, you know? A beautiful, obedient, whore.”
His words carried no malice, only a heavy lust that he was just barely stopping from pushing him towards ruining your body completely.
“But you’re my whore, alright? Don’t you ever fucking forget.”
He slapped your cheek. It wasn’t one of anger, moreso just trying to snap you into focus. He wanted an answer and, as his best and favourite student, he knew he would get a reply out of you.
“I-I’m your whore, sir!”
It was a miracle you could speak, really. It was especially miraculous because the second he heard that, with one resounding slam of his hips into yours, you felt it.
“Fuck, Y/N!”
In the moment, as you arched your back and let your mouth flow with moans at the highest possible volume, Henry’s cock pumped gush after gush of burning hot, viscous, cum.
It felt like molten steel, an impossible extreme of everything that semen was meant to be. And as such, it brought the pleasure you felt from having your stomach pumped full of it to a high that you could never reach with any drug imaginable.
And through it, his hips hadn’t chosen to stop. Every thrust was now being punctuated with a new load of cum filling your already full belly, each one followed then with another slap to your ass or lust-driven proclamation of love.
“God, I love your tight fucking ass-”
You were screaming as you came at the height of the moment’s intensity.
You weren’t sure when the night ended, exactly. It seemed that the man had fucked you for hours on end, until he had emptied his fat balls’ storage of cum and filled your belly with it. He had fucked you till your cock hurt, and each climax produced a dry orgasm due to empty tanks.
He had fucked you till you were left unable to think of anything but his cock and the taste of his sweet, delicious lips.
And now, he was buried deep inside you still, pressing kiss after kiss to your neck as you desperately gasped for air.
“Did I go too hard? Are you hurt, Y/N?”
Your body was, in fact, aching. It was this numb, almost muffled pain that was eclipsed—or perhaps even part of—this euphoric pleasure that continued to grasp you. Things no longer felt real, at this point, but a dream you’d rather not wake from.
But things were very much reality, and that included a high-off-sex and full-of-affection Henry.
“I apologise for the slaps, they were rather forceful…”
You managed out a shake of the head to signal a no. The laugh that he gave, boisterous yet quiet, made your heart pound again.
“I see. I suppose we’ll need ample time to explore what we both enjoy, hm?”
The idea of more time with Henry, more time doing this, was certainly exciting. He didn’t need more than your dumb little smile, one you couldn’t wipe off your face even if you wanted or tried to, to tell you thought.
“I can see you like the prospect, hm?”
Another chuckle and another kiss. What bliss this was.
“I’m going to pull out now, so that we can both get cleaned up, okay? Just breathe for me, Y/N, just like earlier.”
You tried to follow, you really did. But as your hole was quickly left empty, gaping and clenching around nothing, you couldn’t help but whine unintelligible mutterings. Henry responded with even more pecks to your lips and caresses to your soft, delicate skin.
Henry was certainly a gentleman. He had taken some tissues from the box he reserved for students with colds and used then to to clean the outer portion of your sloppy hole. His hands, as large as they were, moved soft and delicate, careful not to press against any overly sensitive parts.
He had taken to cleaning himself—drying his cock, much to your dismay, with more paper towels. He had noticed your sadness and, with an admittedly smug smirk, said he’d allow you to suck his cock clean next time. It was still strange, even after the night you had had with him, to hear such lewd language uttered from the refined man’s mouth.
By the time he had dressed himself, your breathing had steadied. Your backside was still sore and leaking, but he had promised to help with that back at his apartment.
Wait.
His apartment?
“Ah, would you rather not? I can clean you up in the facilities here and-”
“No, no! I’d-”
You coughed. All the sweat, mixed with what was now cool night air, had left your body just a tad sick. Well, that and the exhaustion from having taken on such an impossible task and cock.
“-love to. I’d love to go home with you, Henry.”
He smiled like he hadn’t heard anything quite as lovely before. You smiled back in return.
He was the eager to tug on your boxers and wrap you in his suit jacket as a means of decency. He lifted you up bridal-style and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The man was strong and, with the ease that was carrying you, he even held your folded clothing in the hand supporting your butt.
You even found the strength to be humorous in the moment, letting out a joking, “Ooh, strong guy, huh?”
He graced you yet again with one of those pure, unadulterated laughs.
“I’m glad to have had this one on one session with you, Y/N. Certainly was productive, wasn’t it?”
THANK YOU to my lovely beta readers! There's a shit ton GAHAH
There are just some days when your body upsets you. You don’t feel right, the skin is too tight, the shirt is too tight, the world is too tight. Those days are hard, and Nanami sees its toll on you. Good thing he makes it his mission to always remind you that he loves every. single. part of you. A/N: oral!reader receiving, terms of pussy and clit, unprotected PIV.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔
You toe off your shoes by the door, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. It’s bone-deep. A tiredness that follows you into the house, into your skin.
Nanami’s already in the kitchen. You hear the low simmer of something on the stove and the soft hum of his voice not singing, just… existing out loud, the way he does when he thinks no one’s home yet.
He turns at the sound of the door.
“Welcome back.”Warm, even, calm. His voice is the first thing today that hasn’t felt like pressure.
You try to smile, but it’s half-hearted.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not late,” he says, as if the concept itself is ridiculous. “You’re home.”
That makes your throat catch, just a little. You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step into the kitchen. Nanami’s already moving, ladling soup into bowls, slicing the last bit of green onion to garnish. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and his tie is loosened just enough to remind you he’s been off the clock a while.
“Rough day?” he asks, still not pressing.
You nod. You don’t want to get into it.
You sit in silence at the table while he sets everything down. He doesn’t force you to talk, he just eats beside you, calm and steady. When your hand shakes a little lifting the spoon, he pretends not to see. You know he does. That’s the thing about Nanami. He sees everything and chooses grace, every time.
Halfway through dinner, your voice slips out quieter than you mean. “I just didn’t feel good in my skin today.”
You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. It feels silly, even though you know he’ll never treat it that way.
Nanami doesn’t respond right away. You hear the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl as he sets it down. Then the chair beside you slides back, and you feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh under the table.
“Thank you for telling me.”
That alone undoes you a little more than you expect. You blink fast. “You don’t have to say anything—”
“I know.” He squeezes your leg gently. “But I want you to hear me.”
You finally look up. His face is calm, but his eyes … god, his eyes. That soft, focused intensity you’ve only ever seen aimed at you. Like nothing else in the room matters.
“You’re mine,” he says, low and steady. “And I don’t love you despite anything. I love you entirely.”He waits. Watches you breathe through it. Then adds, softer, “Let me help.”
You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.
The rest of dinner is forgotten. The lights stay dim. His hand finds yours as you lead him to the bedroom, slowly, quietly, like neither of you want to startle the fragile comfort you’ve built in these last few minutes.
You sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, his fingers gentle as they undo the buttons of your shirt, not rushing, just letting you breathe into it. Letting you decide how far you want to go, how close you’ll let him.
You meet his eyes again. “I want you to touch me like I’m yours.”
His breath catches. His gaze darkens, not with lust, but with reverence.
“You are.”
His hands slide beneath your shirt, slow, practiced, asking without words. You nod, and he helps ease the fabric up and over your head, careful not to let it snag. You shiver at the shift in temperature, not from cold but from being seen.
Nanami doesn’t stare. He studies. His hands rest lightly on your sides, and then he leans in, pressing a warm, grounding kiss to your sternum.
And then lower to the edge of one scar.
You flinch. Not because it hurts. Just… it’s overwhelming. You feel everything. His lips pause, just barely brushing the tissue. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Still okay?”
You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Y-Yeah. Just… sensitive.”
His smile is small but sincere. “That’s okay.”
He kisses one scar again, softer. Reverent. Not skipping past it, not avoiding it. He lingers there like it’s holy. Then the other. Then just above, right beneath your collarbone, where his hands settle like he’s anchoring you to yourself.
And just like that, the dysphoria quiets. Not gone. But dulled by the weight of his love.
When he pulls back, your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “Kento…”
He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me love you. Just like this.”
And you let him.
His mouth meets yours, gentle as a familiar rhythm is settle between your lips. Then, his mouth pulls back and kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Down to the jugular nutch, your collarbones, and so on.
A soft whimper escapes your throat as Nanami kisses your scars again, then moves down your stomach. His fingers gently pulls your sweatpants down, leaving you in your boxers at his disposal.
“You okay?” He asks as you nods, running your hands through his blonde locks softly.
His mouth moves further down, kissing your thighs as one hand sneaks up to open your legs. You aid, spreading them as Nanami massages your thighs.
Kissing the inner thigh, Nanami begins to move closer and closer to your heat. Trembling, he meets yours eyes as you give a subtle nod, which he takes eagerly and begins kissing above your clothed groin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the movement making you shiver a little. Your boxers damping, you push Nanami off so you can shuck the uncomfortably wet fabric off.
“So beautiful,” he repeats, using his fingers to spread your lips slowly, running them up and down your wetting lips.
Christ, no matter how many times he’s done this, you never get tired of his fingers.
“Can you look at me?” You whisper, the sounds of your breathing and the wetness gathering on Nanami’s fingers being the only sound in the bedroom.
Nanami doesn’t speak, just looks up to meet your eyes as his mouth locks onto your crotch.
You inhale, meeting his eyes as Nanami looks at you so lovingly as his mouth begins to kiss and lick you. Fingers now massaging your thighs once more, you whimper at the sensation.
Getting eaten out used to make you so nervous, so dysphoric. But with Nanami? It feels heavenly.
Another gasp is pulled out of you as a finger slips inside you. Long, it reaches that little spot inside you that Nanami knows all too well.
Gripping the sheets at your side, you choke out another moan as Nanami’s mouth moves up to lick your clit.
“Kento…” is murmured through your lips, looking back down at Nanami between your legs.
His finger is pumping inside you, hitting that spot right on as his eyes are closed, like your pussy is the only thing in the world. Like he’s drowning with it.
His tongue is flicking against your clit at an unpredictable rhythm that keeps you on your toes. The combination of the two, and the groan Nanami lets out, makes your thighs begin to tremble.
“Gosh…” you finally begin to find your breath as his pace picks up, eyes opening to meet yours. Hungry, he looks.
One hand lets go of your thighs, sneaking up your chest to push your back against the bed. Legs being hiked over his shoulders, he begins to move with a new found purpose.
“Ah! God— Kento!” You shout, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.
He’s a man on a mission now, tasked with making your abdomen clench and back arch as you find your hands in his hair. Both trying to bring his face closer and push him away as you get overwhelmed, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head.
“Kento— I’m close—“ the words are torn from your throat as you feel his tongue move off your sensitive bud to slip inside you. One hand releasing your wrists as his thumb rubs your clit. Vigorously.
“Kento— Wait—“ you can help the moan that breaks your sentences. Coherent thoughts long gone as you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.
“Come on baby, you’re right there,” Kento murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations finally sending you over edge as you cum hard with a shout of his name. Hands moving to hold Nanami’s hair tightly, your body convulses as he licks you through your orgasm.
“Such a beautiful boy,” he says. Chin drenched as he licks his lips, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.
Stroking himself for a few seconds, you try to catch your breath as you look up at him. His eyes are hooded with a desire that makes you shiver. Resting on your back, you close your eyes as you feel him slide up and down your slit, soaking his cock in your juices.
Some rummaging can be heard, so you sit up and tap at Nanami. Shaking your head, “I just want to feel you.”
The search of the condom is abandoned as Nanami kissing your forehead as he slips the head in.
“Christ…” he mumbles as he begins to push in, painfully slow to drag out the stretch. Hands going to your side as he uses the bed for leverage.
“You’re still so tight…” he says quietly into your ear. Finally bottoming out, your arms move to hold his shoulders as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. But that doesn’t fly. Nanami moves to push you back down on the bed, seeing you laying down and spread out for him.
“You’re stunning,” he says as he begins pulling in and out, angling his hips just so he can continue reaching that collection of nerves inside you.
“Mmm, so warm. So wet. So tight. Such a handsome man,” he purrs as he brings one of your arms up and begins kissing your palm, wrists, and fingers. He begins to worship your body, like it’s the most priceless piece of art in the world. Rocking his hips into a rhythm you know all too well, he draws out more whimpers from your lips.
“Kento—“ he cuts you off by dropping your hand and moving his thumb to trace slow painful circles are your clit.
As if you’re still not sensitive from your first orgasm just mere minutes ago.
“Wait— Kento baby— I’m still—“ you try to protest, but get cut off by another moan as he pushes the little bundle down.
“I know baby. But see how much I love your body? So perfect for me,” Kento rasped, before bringing your legs up to fold you into a mating press.
Now, his pubes are the ones brushing up your clit, the new feeling adding another layer of pleasure as the angle allows him to push further into you.
His balls slap against your ass, the sound of the flesh so vulgar, mixing in with the sweat and the gasps you let out.
“Ah— Ah— Ah—“ is the only sound you can make out. Nanami moves his hands right by your head, your own arms moving to hold onto his back. Nails dig into his skin, scratching down as you desperately try cling on to him.
He’s always been so good at this, it’s downright criminal.
“Feel good, baby?” He asks, voice rough as he picks up the pace, fucking into you like it’s his last mission.
You nod, whimpering as you cling on to him quicker. “Yes— God!— Yes, Kento. So good…”
He moves harder. Faster. His horribly skilled hand coming back between the two of you to rub that little bud again.
Your stomach begins to cramp, your eyes squeeze shut, your hands digger deeper into his back.
“Kento, I’m close—“ You can’t finish as he begins to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Coming up to mouth, he whispers right into your lips, “Come for me.” And by mighty you do.
Shaking as your jaw goes slack, his hand quickening against your clit, he feels you clench and tighten up as you orgasm violently.
“Kento!”
“Fuck—“ he moans right back, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Fucking you through your own finish as he approaches his, his hands come off your puffy pussy as he begins pounding you like it’s life or death. Snapping his hips violently, you’re a whimpering mess as he grunts above you.
“Inside, please,” is all you need to say as the groan is violently ripped from his throat as he freezes. You feel the warmth flood you, and Nanami’s hands give out as he lowers your legs.
You finally seem to catch enough air. Legs cramping up a little, but able to relax now that Nanami moved off to your side to hold you.
And he does. For a while.
You should get cleaned up, but right now, Nanami holds you like you’re the most precious thing on the planet.
smut and angst / pathetic!dex / DDBA!dex / implied Dexmatt / manipulation / porn with a plot / unhealthy sex / dex is unmedicated / weird and awkward social interactions / implicit sexual consent (do not reproduce, consent is essential) / dub-con from dex / bloodkink / Dex projects Matthew onto reader / pain kink / masturbation / soft dom!reader / sub!dex / reader is into his kink / marking / lot of foreplay / spine scar / caring and gentle!reader / no aftercare / mention of : panic attack, mental institutions, blood, fights, AVTF, psychological struggles
summary: Everything happened too fast, and while you thought you'd found a simple one-night stand, you instead end up in the middle of a storm.
A/N: I really love this one, hope you’ll enjoy it too! Also, the fic's name is based on one of Hozier's song I really like and that matches with Dex.
wc: 4.8k
english isn’t my first language, sorry for the mistakes ♡
Females DNI
The sunlight over New York that day was generous, birds chirping cheerfully from every branch they crossed. Clouds looked like drops of paint spilled across the bright blue sky, as if the celestial painter had accidentally tipped some warm milk onto the atmospheric canvas. You had taken advantage of the clear weather to breathe in the mixed scents of a neighborhood you barely knew. Restaurants, gyms, cafés—and you had also spotted a bank.
And then you saw him at the corner of a street. He walked with the kind of confidence only certain men possessed, the kind that could make a shiver run down your spine. His hands were shoved firmly into the high pockets of a jacket perfectly tailored to his waist. Head held high, he was whistling—the sound having first drawn your attention to him.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a handsome stranger in the street, and maybe the sunlight, suddenly too bright, had filled you with a burst of courage you didn’t think you had. So you followed him, trying to catch up to his long strides in hopes of starting a conversation.
He was heading into a diner, a uselessly lit neon sign displaying the name “Bel Aire Diner.” You didn’t know the place, and from here it honestly didn’t look very appealing, but you stepped inside anyway because he did.
“Thanks,” you said, closing the door he had held open after hearing your footsteps behind him.
Your voice didn’t seem to reach his ears. His gaze looked relaxed yet condensed into a narrow tube—like he was listing a pattern step by step inside his head. He walked up to the counter and lazily pulled out one of the unappealing stools.
Come on, it’s just a man, you encouraged yourself inwardly while taking a breath of fresh air. You didn’t notice the lobsters trying to escape their glass prison, nor the little dog sitting on its owner’s lap. Your attention was fixed entirely on the relaxed silhouette of the man with dusty-gold hair.
“Hi,” the stool creaked faintly against the floor as you pulled it out to sit beside him.
Dex restrained the instinctive twitch in his jaw. He spent a few moments deciphering the color of a cup far too red sitting in front of him, then finally let you see his face—a friendly expression he mastered perfectly. “Hi.”
To him, you were a parasite. A buzzing fly hovering around his freshly polished plan. Under different circumstances, you could’ve been seen as a beetle to crush, or a butterfly with pretty colors. But right now, in this exact moment, you were a fly.
“I’ll take a banana milkshake please,” your voice rang far too loudly beside his already boiling ears.
The ambient scent of caffeine filled your lungs, coating them with another layer of courage—or recklessness. The man beside you stared for two long seconds at the waitress pulling a large clean glass from one of the cupboards. Then his gaze dropped back to you, with a new gleam embedded deep in his pupils that you didn’t understand at the time.
It wasn’t interest. At least, not the kind you imagined. No, it was the same look a cat gave at a mouse’s sweet silhouette. That visceral curiosity of wanting to catch the poor little thing out of sheer boredom—just to entertain itself for a while.
Dex was looking at you, and now you had his attention, because with every word you spoke you became even more of a problem to solve. The kind of problem he solved with one single equation—assuming you pushed him far enough to reach that result.
“If I give you my number, you’ll leave this place?” his voice asked, far too calm, vibrating despite itself with an electrically dangerous smile.
The question caught you off guard, his unreadable expression only deepening your confusion. He looked controlled, but excessively so—unstable. The slight smile lingering on his lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes—everything seemed restrained, contained. But the way you swallowed wasn’t frightened at all. Quite the opposite. It was innovative, new. The human mind fears the unknown, yet in that moment you decided to mute every warning light just long enough to savor the thrill sliding down your spine.
“Yeah I will.”
“Perfect,” a smile carved itself differently onto his features—a smile that had appeared before his thoughts could catch up and restrain it.
And that was how you ended up with the stranger’s number saved in your contacts under the name Tony.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He should’ve understood. He should’ve understood why Dex did all of this. Why didn’t he understand?
His still-booted feet struck the shattered remains of a picture frame broken across the floor. The room was drowned in silent, frozen chaos. Impact marks on the walls, overturned furniture, blood staining the wallpaper. Dex stared at the scene, unable to process the events—unable to handle them.
Daredevil had found him, they had fought, and then Dex had run away. But he had wanted to come back, just to see, just to witness it.
His heart was beating too fast for the situation. The adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, and yet the pounding of his heartbeat slammed violently against his ribcage. It vibrated through his body, rippling against every rib until it settled deep inside his stomach. The taste of blood still flooded his mouth, something he had learned to enjoy—something he may have always enjoyed.
The Task Force brigade would arrive soon, he knew it. The neighbors must have called those idiots, thinking they were being useful.
Dex was useful, yes he was. He needed to be.
So why didn’t Murdock see it? Why hadn’t he noticed? He did things right, he did everything right. Why did Matthew look at him like a dog failing a trick? Dex had learned all the tricks, and he showed them to him, so why wasn’t he proud?
A spiral had begun the moment Daredevil stepped into Dex’s intimacy. A whirlwind growing taller and wider behind him. He could feel its icy current. He could already feel his muscles slipping into hypothermia, his teeth shaking. He wanted to curl inward, hide inside a shell and only emerge once all of this was over—once the storm died down. But he remained frozen in the wind that had numbed his entire body. It always took over. Always.
Anger, disappointment, disgust, then distress. A cycle structuring his thoughts into an obsessive choreography. Obsession, need, craving. Air no longer reached his lungs properly.
Solution—he needed a solution.
The repeated blinking of his eyelids created a cinematic effect around the trembling phone held in his left hand. Blood was rushing to the wrong place, the worst place.
Need to please him, need to please him. Why can’t he accept my sacrifice?
Several streets away, resting on your bedside table, your phone vibrated. A quick, sharp vibration signaling a new message.
Tony
💌—can we meet up?
The overly bright screen made you squint slightly. A stray droplet of water slid down the back of your neck, running along your still-bare spine from your shower. You had to dig through your short-term memory to find a trace of this “Tony.” Then finally, it came back.
—hello?
—so you ditch me and now you change ur mind?
💌—sry
💌—wasn’t in the mood
💌—can we meet? pls
You rolled your eyes, tossing your phone onto the sheets while you went to grab clean clothes. You weren’t difficult in bed, but there still had to be some minimum effort involved. This Tony guy would need to show a little more interest.
💌—I’m sorry for how I treated you
💌—was not good
💌—pls I need to see someone
Your eyes skimmed the notifications while pulling on a t-shirt. Apologizing was already a good start. Most people stopped before that point. But you still wanted to see him struggle a little more, just to know whether he’d really hold out.
—so now I’m just “someone”
—you makes things worse yk
💌—ok ok I’m sorry yes I want to fuck
💌—and you’re the only option
💌—sorry
An amused smile spread across your face. At least it was honest. And actually, for a hookup that was all that really mattered, so why keep denying it?
—’k because I love honesty
—and you’re hot
Your fingers mechanically typed your address, not wanting to make the effort of going out just to fuck in some shabby hotel.
Dex was already on his way. He had left his apartment the second the little reply bubbles appeared in your conversation. He didn’t have time to find someone else, to pay someone. And he needed someone. He needed a substitute. Someone strong, confident, assured. Someone who could place their hands where bloodstains were drying—where an imprint had sunk deep into flesh. You matched, at least a little, and that was enough for him.
He was freezing. His skin felt tight—shivering every time fabric brushed against him. It hurt. God, it hurt.
For a fleeting instant, his mind wandered to the medication he had stopped taking months ago, since the mental institution. The medication would’ve stopped all of this. He knew it.
His pale knuckles tapped weakly against the smooth wood of what he hoped was your door. On the other side, your hand settled against the cold handle, fingers brushing the wood.
The hallway light gently spilled into your apartment when you opened the door. And there stood a man—Tony. Completely ravaged by an ache you didn’t know and yet could smell.
He vibrated with a deafening intensity.
“Hi come—” His lips crashed against yours, and suddenly the ache had a taste.
Salty. Chemical. A bitterness like household cleaner forced down your throat. You swallowed, your back colliding with the nearest solid surface. Somehow, amidst the storm, your hand still managed to shut the front door. The man was suffocating you—not physically. In fact, he hadn’t touched you at all, barely even looked at you. But his lips acted like a conduit siphoning something out of you. Maybe your common sense. Your dignity.
You were starting to run out of air. He wasn’t even moving his lips. His tongue wasn’t searching for yours.
Your fleeting hand pressed against his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt beneath your palm. “Wait—wait, let me breathe.”
Your eyes tried to adjust to the sight before you. He was sweating, but more importantly covered in blood. Now that his mouth no longer monopolized your attention, you could smell the iron clinging to him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing far too much of the earthy color of his irises. He was panting, each exhale striking your face.
He looked like a dog that had lost its owner. A wolf hit by a car—or rather, a deer.
He was waiting for something from you, like you were about to order him back into his basket or reveal treats hidden in your pockets. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something—anything, because holy shit this situation was surreal, abnormal. But the words never found their way to your vocal cords. They all shoved each other deeper into your throat instead.
He looked pathetic like this, and the problem was that you found it incredibly attractive. Just like the blood now staining the corner of your lips. Just like the coldness of his skin.
Actually, the storm—the ache acting like a rope around your neck—was captivating. Being held down this way by an invisible force, restrained by abstract hands, it was thrilling. Nothing new about that. Humans had always craved being held, no matter the method. Still, it remained disorienting and exciting.
“You still want to fuck?” were the first words you forced out of your throat.
Dex nodded vigorously, his eyes never leaving yours for even a fraction of a second. He pierced through you in the filthiest way possible, the most sickening, disgusting way.
“Right then let’s head up to my room.”
He followed you, his footsteps unconsciously mirroring yours, slipping into the prints only his eyes could see. The concept of a bar suddenly felt instinctive to you, an atmospheric pressure capable of crushing the human body through self-destruction alone. Our own weight multiplied until it resulted in death. Our very impact causing an explosion.
Your bedroom door was already open. You stepped in first, with the strange feeling the man behind you wouldn’t have wanted to pass ahead.
A creak, a lock clicking shut, and your back once again struck a surface far too hard for your poor muscles. His lips were on yours again, but this time you took the reins, imposed your own rhythm. A storm couldn’t be controlled, but you could at least try to follow the circular motion of its gusts. You forced your way into his mouth, your tongue slipping in like a serpent entering Eden. He whimpered faintly, the sound swallowed immediately within the chaotic dance your tongues began. Your hand searched for stability, as though despite the excitement you feared your body might be swept away and shredded apart in the air. His sticky hair tangled between your fingers, accidentally knotting together blood and sweat—a lock keeping him trapped in your grasp. His weight crushed harder and harder against yours, pinning you between himself and the wall until breathing became difficult.
You yanked your hand sharply, forcing his head back. Your lips separated noisily, teeth knocking together for an instant. He groaned, his head still firmly held in your grip. The taste of blood coated your entire mouth, making your brain wonder whether you yourself were bleeding.
It was intoxicating.
Dex trembled, his knees struggling to hold his weight upright. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Your touch reminded him of his. He could almost feel fists slamming into his ribs again, horns grazing his shoulder.
Your glassy eyes observed the image the man before you offered. He looked insane like this, completely ruined.
You straightened slightly, releasing your hold on his skull. And to your surprise, he collapsed immediately to the floor, dropping to his knees in front of you.
“You—you good? Tony, you want to stop?”
His glossy eyes met yours, pupils charcoal-black. It took him time to process your voice, as though he first needed to make space inside his head before acknowledging your words. But his head answered before his vocal cords did. He slowly shook it side to side, his gaze jumping between your eyes, searching for a color he wanted to recognize.
His hands settled on your thighs before you even noticed. He gripped tightly, nearly pinching the muscle. His face pressed against your hipbone, and you physically felt a heartbeat miss its route, forgetting to follow its vascular path. He looked like a puppy like this—a puppy with blood coating its jaws, a dead rat laid proudly at your feet.
“Call me Dex, please my name’s Dex,” he whispered breathlessly, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to reach your bare stomach. His lips pressed to your skin, and for the first time in your life you felt like a kiss could also be a bite—a snakebite. “Please call me Dex, please I need you to call me Dex,” his saliva staining your skin in a way that felt permanent.
“Such a freak, you know that?” This time a wide, stupid grin spread across his lips, making you smile despite yourself. “Ok I need you to listen, can you do that for me?”
He nodded, the involuntarily sexy gesture making you swallow hard. Your eyes searched for an easy word to remember. “Red. Red is our safeword, ok?” Your partner’s eyes closed for a moment and you thought you heard a strangled moan. How could you have known that word was the nickname of the man putting Dex in this state? How could you have known his cock was throbbing just from hearing it?
Your fingers tightened around Dex’s chin, forcing his head back up toward you. “I asked you a question. Use your words. Red is our safeword, understood?”
“Understood,” his voice dripped out.
You shifted away from him, constantly burning beneath the intensity of the gaze that refused to release you. “C’mon. On the bed.”
For a moment, you thought about your trans identity, about how you hadn’t really had time to bring it up to him. Then you saw him, ghostlike, crawling toward your bed, desperate and pathetic for an unnamed service. You saw the curve of his back, deciphering the waves of his spine beneath the fabric. And then you saw yourself—not physically but sensorially—shaking in a way similar to him, ache scratching at the inside of your carcass. And suddenly, what was inside your pants became ridiculous compared to the strange molecules filling your four lungs.
Your hand found its way to the nearest part of the man lying on your bed.
His back—his spine.
Your index finger followed by your middle met the damp texture of the shirt he wore. Your eyes slowly traveled across his entire silhouette, admiring the face he tried to hide in the sheets, then the dip of his lower back. An invisible force pushed you to fully touch his spine, your palm settling entirely between his shoulder blades. And as though your touch had burned him, he arched his back. As though your hand carried an energy too heavy, he moaned open-mouthed, a poor scrap of sheet trying to absorb the sweet sound. Your eyes widened more and more at each reaction his body had to yours. It was new, unusual—a concept to explore, to turn over from every angle.
On a second impulse, you moved closer, one knee sinking into the mattress so your still-standing body could lean over his. Dex whimpered like an injured animal, lips shaping muffled words.
Your hand pressed harder against the area that seemed so sensitive to him. A second moan tore from his throat, louder this time.
Your eyes devoured the sight, and you realized you needed more. You needed to touch him, to see his skin, to hear every other sound he could make.
So your second knee joined the first, sinking the mattress deeper beneath the pressure. Your hands sprang into action as though a switch had been flipped—electric current restored to your muscles. Dex helped you pull off his shirt, and you removed yours as well. As though he had always been meant to do this, Dex rolled back onto his stomach, propped up slightly on his elbows. No sweat coated your back; instead, it was replaced by waves of irrational shivers that refused to stop. Seeing your partner’s position, you leaned over him—trying to ignore the visible jolt of anticipation that crossed him—and grabbed one of your pillows. His gaze, still glassy and dependent, never left you. He waited for the slightest request from you, the smallest demand. You motioned for him to place the pillow beneath his torso so his body wouldn’t tire unnecessarily—and of course, he obeyed.
Straightening up, you settled your seated weight on the tops of Dex’s thighs, your legs straddling his. And then you saw it, splitting his back in two.
A scar.
Large. Long.
At first it had gone unnoticed, hidden by the dim lighting. But now it leapt at you, making your lips part and your eyes widen. You understood now why your fingers had felt like fire when they brushed his back, why your hand carried so much energy whenever it neared that area.
Driven by an irrepressible urge, you leaned down. Your hands naturally rested on either side of Dex’s head, surrounding him in the best possible way. And your lips met the scar. The imperfect, discolored, horrific skin of it. You kissed that damaged flesh, not because you wanted to fix it, but simply because you wanted to—because it was terribly mesmerizing and your lips needed to touch it.
“Oh god don’t—” Dex began melting beneath your touch, more and more with every kiss pressed along his spine. “Don’t touch—” Every sentence suffocated before it could fully form. And your hand sliding along his back did nothing to help his diction.
You continued your kisses, accompanied by your wandering hand in the dip of his back. You grabbed his hip, his pelvis instinctively lifting at the contact. A small chuckle left your lips, sending a puff of air across the dampness left behind by your kisses.
The atmosphere around you—smothering your cells—deepened. The pressure weighing down your human body became scorching, clawing the air from your lungs with bare hands. And you knew its source. He was lying beneath you, trembling harder than you had ever seen someone tremble. He produced this macabre mechanism. And he suffered from it, perhaps even more than you did.
Suddenly, those gentle caresses began to ring false. Those kisses were creating acidic marks on his skin despite yourself, acid eating away at something inside him. Your lips had touched it, drawn like an insect to the venom coating the back of a multicolored frog. You wanted more too. More than these futile little caresses.
Your hand left the delicious dip of his back, instead grabbing his shoulder to force him onto his back. His face turned toward you, such a disconcerting picture that it froze you for a second.
That expression of need, of pleading, had never left his eyes.
He wanted more from you.
Always more.
You shifted your weight with the support of one hand against the mattress, your hips once again settling over his thighs. Even through the layers of fabric separating you from his body, you could feel the thickness of his muscles—contracting more with every movement you made.
Your eyes locked onto his, refusing to leave now that they had found them. Your hand blindly found the opening of his pants, undoing it like a seasoned burglar. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling through your peripheral vision. Your second hand joined the first, yanking the garment from his body in one sharp motion. He barely moved, obediently lifting his legs when you silently asked him to.
And then, when your hand tried to return to his hips, a strange texture made you glance down.
He had already come in his pants.
A breath escaped your lungs at the sight. Your eyes snapped back to his face, a face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement intensified infinitely by the expression painted across your own features.
Your palm never left the bulge desperately trying to gain friction against it. You pressed down—not softly, not gently. He moaned loudly, head falling back despite himself. He trembled beneath you, beneath your grip. His cock was throbbing, creating an even worse mess in his underwear.
You needed to touch him.
Saliva gathered in your mouth, blood rushed between your legs, making you throb too.
So you finally pulled off his boxers, unable to stop yourself from smiling at the true state of them. Then your eyes fell back onto the subject of your thoughts, twitching ridiculously beneath the burn of your stare alone. You wanted to take him in your hand, your mouth, inside you—anywhere. You wanted to taste him, breathe in his scent until it gave you a headache, until you could no longer erase his traces from your memory.
But instead, the pads of your fingers brushed along the flushed skin of his cock.
Your gaze lifted back to Dex’s face now hidden behind one arm. You let him do it, let him think he could hide from you. Small loud sighs echoed through your bedroom, all coming from one single person. You still didn’t let your palm fully touch his cock, only your fingers stroking up and down his length.
His back arched beneath your gaze, his spine cracking occasionally in the sexiest way possible.
Then it was your turn to break. He was too loud, too visual, too intoxicating for you to hold out any longer.
Your hand finally wrapped fully around his dick, making him sob gorgeously and costing you yet another breath. Your heartbeat was just as fast as his, even though no hands touched you the way yours touched him. But he transferred everything onto you, dripping all over you—metaphorically and literally.
You leaned over his body once again, your free hand reclaiming its place beside his head. He barely noticed your movement, his mind too crowded by the motions of your hand lower down. Yet his eyes still found a way back to yours.
He cried.
He was crying.
Clear tears streamed down his cheeks and temples, creating dark stains on the sheets around his head. You wanted to speak to him, but words failed you and you had the feeling he was trapped in the same situation. Muted by tape far too sticky to remove.
So the silence remained exactly as it had settled between you, and strangely enough it was louder than any sentence either of you could have spoken.
However, the symphony playing in the background only grew louder. Wetness, whimpers.
Your gaze tore itself away from his and you heard a faint cry from that single act. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, mixing with the remnants of his earlier orgasm. He was close, he had looked close since the moment he entered your apartment. Your movements sped up, wanting to pull more sounds, more reactions out of him.
“You close?” you asked even though you already knew the answer.
“I am,” his broken voice answered, wavering between high and low tones.
Your own hips made faint unconscious movements against the nearest source of friction they could find, desperately seeking some relief from this infernal suffering. You straightened once again, your body drowning in that intoxicating discomfort.
A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed your arm, making you almost jump from how burning the contact felt. Dex tried pulling you toward him, his orgasm striking him in small blows—punches forcing more blood to spray with every hit.
He looked pathetic like this—trying to obtain a touch that seemed to consume him.
And yet you gave in, because you weren’t any better than him, and because you too wanted to become ashes just to feel the flames calcine your body for a second. You pulled him against you, his own weight collapsing onto you without restraint. Your bodies toppled farther into the bed, ankles and shins tangled in the sticky sheets.
He threw himself at your lips. He devoured them. Not from want, nor from genuine desire—but because he needed it. He needed to feel something, even if it was disgust toward himself or sensory overstimulation. He needed to burn, to be scorched to the bone, because whatever gnawed at him never hesitated to reach such deep parts of his being.
Maybe if he burned alive, this ache would burn too—no matter if it killed him, no matter if it dragged you down with him.
His saliva stained yours like gasoline. His teeth clicked against yours like a lighter. You were drowning in a bath of combustible liquid that, if it didn’t burn you, would dissolve your insides with acid.
His bare skin rubbed against yours, his cock leaking over your body, repeatedly slapping against the sensitive skin of your stomach. He was breathless, and so were you. Your frantic breaths mingled over and over inside formless kisses.
Your hand found its way to his neck, then his hair. The blood had dried in his blond strands, cracking when your fingers tangled through them, your second hand joining the first. You held him in your hands, his skull resting in your sweaty palms—while he held you in his fangs. His hands planted on either side of your head painfully gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as snow.
Again, you were suffocating, and he was suffocating with you. The air he exhaled into your mouth stole the oxygen from your lungs. He bit your lips hard enough to make them bleed. And in loud, broken moans, he tried to collect the scarlet liquid like an elixir—like a solution.
Then all at once he exploded over you. His head collapsed against your chest while he cried through his orgasm. Muffled cries, sobs you couldn’t characterize. White streaks coated your stomach, mixing with sweat and older traces of blood.
His arms began trembling, his tears endlessly falling into the reddish puddle sliding along your collarbones. He stained you in every possible way. With his sorrow, his problems, his pain and his pleasure. He poured himself all over you, without you being able to stop him—without you even wanting to.
Later that night, when Morpheus finally released you from his sedative embrace, the bed felt strangely empty, the sheets cold. Your eyelids opened and somehow you weren’t surprised to discover you were now alone in the bed.
Dex was gone, and his number had mysteriously vanished from your contacts.
He left you with ruined sheets, and gasoline flowing through your veins.
marvel masterlist
images : Pinterest
dividers : @uzmacchiato , @/cafekitsune and @/poiindexters
Breakaway—So I can show you, how a home with love truly feels like
Jacaerys Velaryon x Male Reader
Fandom -> House of the Dragons
Alternate Universe -> A/B/O–Verse
Thank you Gift for -> @serotoninandespresso
Masterlist | Hey, it's me, your 🌻
The sole and only, goal minded, purpose of the upcoming arrange marriage between the royal houses of Velaryon and Rosevale of the northern sea, was to bound two strong family into one—fulfil this need of thriving to create a even much greater, higher bloodline than Targaryens were and overshadowing them.
To ensure that neither chosen candidates of each side would break off the marriage through the first whiff of pheromones—before their hands could even be sealed in blessing—Queen Rhaenyra has come to an agreement with High-Queen Coralion, that Rhaenyra and her family would live for half a year with the Rosevales.
Now, Jacaerys does not feel the slightest delight about his new situation, when he had been chosen—though as the firstborn, he should've guessed it—by his mother to marry the youngest son of the Rosevales and neither does Jacaerys wants to even get to know all his new in-laws nor even consider them remotely close and akin to something like family even—but, like said before, he's the firstborn prince and with such comes duties and responsibilities.
So here Jacaerys was, after landing on the neat, ice covered tiles—sandstone, a bit unusual to have in contrast to the standard stones, then again it's probably something normal in the north—with Vermax, his mother on Syrax following right afterwards in landing next to him, almost slipping on the ice when getting down from his dragon—and Jacaerys, while spotting the bright, polished, polite smiles of his soon to be in-laws, already wished to go back home.
»Be polite, Jace. This marriage is of political importance for us.« reminds his mother, when she herself had gotten down from Syrax and standing besides him now, a slight reprimanding in her voice—Jacaerys only nodded in reply, taking a breath through his nose and stretching his lips, till his cheeks ached, into a bright smile as well.
»Stref'voja! We, of Rosevale of the northern sea, greets you with breezing welcome!« Queen Coralione's voice was as shrill and audible—from probably three sea miles—loud as a twittering bird in the early rising hours of morning and greets them with high enthusiasm and thick accent.
»I do hope so lovely, that the tedious journey to our frosty residence wasn't too exhausting for the two of you! Stomach of yours do have an appetite for a grand meal tonight?« the High-Queen asks, stretching out her arm and showing, like a offering, her open palm.
Jacaerys was impressed that his mother—laying her own palm onto the High-Queens and only moving her head into a small bow—knew what to do, then again she, in contrast to him—because Jacaerys had deemed other things much more of importance—did some research and etiquette training about the do's and don'ts about Northern sea and its kingdoms.
And Jacaerys, mentally—as he do a slight bow towards Queen Coralione—applauds his mother, that she could still keep her own facading smile of politeness, when the High-Queen smile was so obviously false.
»Thank you for the upcoming hospitality, your highly highness.« Queen Rhaenyra begun, hands patting down onto her dress to gain a bit of warmth into them, »Prince Jacaerys and I do greatly appreciate a grand meal, such a great gesture. Thank you, but if I could ask first that someone of guarding trust tend to our dragons first and bring them to a preferred warmer location?«
»Of course! Of course! One of our Shepherds will tend to them, Miss Toyja, get either Mr.Hildsom or Mr.Rumsom and let our guests dragon be brought into the fire caves.« with her thick accent, Coralione's orders to one of her servants sounded much harsher than it was probably was, then she clapped her hands together, »My, my, these dragons are truly magnificent! They're a true beauty just as our sea serpents.«
Both, Jacaerys and Rhaenyra, thought that Queen Coralione would wanted to go a bit nearer to their dragons—perhaps even given them a pat—but she didn't moved one foot forward from her spot, instead she clapped again in her hands and ushered them inside.
Sea serpents and polar bears had been the only thing which Jacaerys had remembered from his—one and only, because afterwards he had skipped every other one—lesson about the Northern sea kingdom and the notable fact, that the house of Rosevale are the only ones who were to tame these mighty beasts of the sea.
That's like the only similarity which Rosevale shares with Velaryon and Targaryens—more with the latter than the former one—to be able to tame and befriend, which Jacaerys believes all three families prides themselves with great swelling proudness, make them like part of the family, such mighty—in the eyes of others—beasts.
While Jacaerys follows behind his mother and Queen Coralione, through the corridors of the castle, he barley listens to whatever the tow women are currently talking about—it's probably just some courtesy smalltalk anyway, but occasionally, when something of interest being mentioned, he does listen in.
Like now, when Coralione mention her youngest son—his soon to be spouse—and how they gonna meet him before dinner time, although the sun just has begun to set down into a pallet of various colours, before night starts to sweep in—but perhaps early dinner time is something of a mentality here, honestly Jacaerys doesn't know, questioning as a prince was out of order—it would shamefully expose him, that he indeed has not cared to learn about northern sea traditions and culture, mother would surely behead him with a headlock if she knew—he just scrape it up as a guess, but if early dinner comes just a few hours after lunch and afternoon tea, Jacaerys or his stomach to such matter would certainly not survive it.
»Now,« Queen Coralione voice brought Jacaerys attention back, making him stumbling into his mothers back—he wasn't aware that they have stopped in front of a door—and the two Queens turns to him, giving him a look, indirectly asking if he was okay and still intact with his mind—Jacaerys shrugged his shoulders and the women returned back.
»Now, as I was about to say, I do beg for forgiveness from you, your highness, that my youngest child could not be an omega in the offering of blessed marriage with your son, nor that our house could offer any omega at all. Like told in my last regarding letters to you, house Rosevale is simply not meant or able to birth omegas.«
Queen Coralione laughs a bit as if the mere thought of having an omega in her bloodline was something silly to think of—and Jacaerys frowns, finding it odd how her voice—the slight difference in tone was barely noticeable, but for him, as an alpha, it was—changed, when she said the last sentence.
»While it is indeed a bit disappointing not to wed my alpha son with a suitable omega, I do forgive your highly highness. I'm sure your son will be a perfect match to fit anyway.« Queen Rhaenyra was ever the diplomat, because if Daemon would be here and speak on behalf for the Queen, Jacaerys was sure, his stepfather would bash Queen Coralione into a heavy heated discussion as of why there are no Omegas in a royal bloodline like theirs.
Of course Alphas being with another alpha or beta does not meant they wouldn't be able to produce a child, but with an Omega—they're much more fertility—such chances are higher and makes securing a bloodline lot easier.
When they stepped into a small hall, a guest hall for greetings—that's what Coralione had said and Jacaerys wonders how damn big this castle actually is and how much walking is done per hour in a day—confusing settles in, when they spot a girl, instead of the supposed son, was sitting on a bench in waiting for them.
For a moment both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys believed that Queen Coralione might have confused her own children, but when she introduced her child—the confusion didn't cleared up, only deepens further.
But would either of them questioning and ask for clearance? Perhaps not, not when there is a slim chance that they could accidentally offending the High-Queen and risk a political break up to the upcoming wedding.
»This, my dearest Queen Rhaenyra, is my youngest child and only son, [Name] Lujonesskosch of Rosevale.« Queen Coralione claps her hands in calling and the boy, dressed in a dress meant for princesses and definitely a size or two to big for him, stands up—doing a courtesy bow as greeting, before stepping nearer to them.
»A pleasure it is to have in meeting you today, your Highness Queen Rhaenyra and her noble son, prince Jacaerys. I do welcome you as well into our noble house and wish a lovely stay.« you spoke eloquently, parroting the lines and words how they taught you to do, doing another bow of courtesy.
Jacaerys, when he inhales a small whiff of your scent—which smelled sweetly, just faintly but noticeable strong enough for any alpha to pick up—looks at his mother and Rhaenyra too gives her son a knowing glance—something doesn't seem to be right here.
»Now! Let's all have some enjoyment with tonights meal and declare a future celebration of upcoming friendship!«
~~~•~~~
Its a few weeks later, when Jacaerys finally seemed to have been found by some time alone with you—and it's not because he doesn't try to spend some time with you, but because he mostly couldn't.
Let us rephrase this into a bit deeper explanation; whenever Jacaerys has tried to approach you, with just the simple intention of only talking and getting you to know a bit better—and while you and him are to be wed soon in a few months anyways, courting you without manners is not in his mind—your siblings are guarding you like a dragon would do with its hatch of eggs.
Not only that, but your siblings—and you do have a quite a damn lot, all of them females by the way—were quite the raging, protective alphas and Jacaerys got more than once threatened—with sailor like cussing, an provoking raise of fits or simply bared fangs and heavy reeking, dominating alpha pheromone—Jacaerys was sure, he once heard you whimper in submission that one time, when one of your much older sisters showed off her protective alpha—by them, not to come any closer to you.
Female or not, they're Alphas and if it weren't a risk of potential causing a rift between the upcoming friendship and political alliance between the houses Velaryon—and, in his mothers name, Targaryens—and Rosevale, Jacaerys would have challenged most of your siblings to a fight by now.
You and Jacaerys are outside, some good foot march into the forest—still on royal grounds, but not somewhere near around the castle—sitting on a bench near a frozen lake, a silence between you two as neither could find the right words to say for a proper start into conversations.
»It's.....it's cold in your country, isn't it?« there, Jacaerys has made an effort to start and break the, literally, ice.
Huddled up in the thickets winter clothes your household could offer and yet, Jacaerys still felt the cold sweep into him—his face felt already frozen, face pinched red from the frosty air, lips probably already shivering blue—with every intake of the dry icy air, which feels stabbing inside his lungs, his breath was an visibly fog for a moment, before it slightly crystallise into—pricking needles like—snowflakes.
Glancing at you, Jacaerys wonders how you're not cold at all—after all, you're way much less dressed in warm clothing than he was—and he surely, if he might gonna ask you about it, does not want to hear from you, that it's something which comes naturally to folks of the northern lands.
»Indeed it is, but since we're in the beginning of the colder months, it does will get much frosty icier later on than what current temperatures we have now.« you say, scratching one of your polar bears—which are here to keep protective watch over you, instead of an actual (human) guard—behind its ears.
»That sounds, actually, more unpleasant than I thought it would be. I mean, i know your country has a rather cold climate to begin with, but if it's the beginning, I fear for the actual winter.«
»We're not immune to our own icy climate as well, we just, over the aeons, has adapted to it. Don't worry, I'll try to help you through it.«
Jacaerys was thankful when you said, your folk wasn't immune to the cold—because if you had, Jacaerys wasn't sure......he wasn't sure what he would thought of such outcome, maybe—perhaps—that if you're immune to cold, you probably aren't actually human like? Or something along those lines.
»Thanks. That would sound good, i don't wish to become some decorative ice statue for your family's castle.« Jacaerys jokes and you breathe out a small chuckle—to which Jacaerys alpha yips in delight.
»Oh! I think, you, my dear prince Jacarandas, would make a fantastic statue, such a good looking one like you, all the other statues will melt in shame,« you add your own jest to Jacaerys joke, chuckling even more now.
Jacaerys thought, with how thick your accent is, he might have misheard his own name, »Say my name again.« he ask.
»Jacarandas«
Yep, definitely not misheard, »Who told you, that's my name?« apparently, with the way how Jacaerys asked, your polar bear—who's named puddles—thought he was trying to intimidate you and bears its fangs, snapping towards his hand in an warning.
»That's quite the mouthful of a name you have.« you told him, taking puddles by the cuff of his neck—holding him away from Jacaerys, before he actually do get a bite mark into his hand—cooing at your polar bear, praising him and telling him that Jacaerys means no threat to bare fangs at.
«Oh?« Jacaerys raises an eyebrow, a tease of sarcasm in his voice, »and your first and middle name, [Name] Lujonesskosch isn't a mouthful as well?«
Shaking your head, »No, it isn't« you snicker in denial.
»Fine. Call me Jace or find another nickname for me.« Jacaerys let puddles sniff his hand, after the polar bear seemed to be a bit calmer now, pleased when the bear licked his hand in acceptance, »Anyway. And what your sea serpents? How are they able to live in such climate? Don't they freeze into death or something? I mean, if my Vermax has to live in such conditions of environment, he surely wouldn't live long.«
»Aah, during the icy months our serpents will mostly hibernate in the deepest depths of the sea. We do have some hot springs and the fire caves, where our serpents like to occasionally, even throughout the whole icy seasons, lounge around.«
Fire caves, which Jacaerys has learned—when he had asked one of the servants, where they have brought Vermax—are caves where an enormous hot spring is inside and boils it up with such scorching hot warmth, that it feels like a dreading summer.
»Say, could I perhaps,« you start, fiddling with the furred garment of your jacket, feeling a rush of nervousness to even dare to ask your soon to he husband such intimate question, »if you would give permission to let me see Vermax once?« your voice, hesitation clear, got smaller at the end.
Your scent has gotten sweeter again, it definitely wasn't your nervousness which turned it so sweet—it was more as such, this faint sweetness was part of your pheromones from begin on—and Jacaerys couldn't get behind why, because as a fellowing alpha, your scent wasn't supposed to have any kind of sweeting note in it.
But besides that, Jacaerys feels happy that you wanted to see his beloved dragon Vermax—that's like asking, if you and him wanted to hatch a batch of eggs together.
»Of course!« Jacaerys shuts up as quickly as he had shouted this, feeling embarrassment—wouldn't even be noticed on his already reddened cheeks—and shy himself now, about his sudden outburst of excitement.
Coughing, to gain a bit of his composure back—glancing at you, but there's no scornful reaction from you—Jacaerys continues, »I mean, if you wish to see Vermax, I suppose we shall find some time to give him a little visit.« Jacaerys nods to himself for the answer he gave.
»How about, my dear Jay,« you blinked, batting your eyelashes—something you definitely has picked up from your sisters or got taught by them—, »now?«
Jacaerys alpha was close to let out an rumble, hearing his new nickname from your lips, brought his heart into a flatter—sending a flush of warmth into his stomach—but he withheld it, would make him appear as an easy swayed, weak minded, alpha, which he isn't, »Sure, but only if i can see your sea serpent, if possible of course and if they not hibernating in the ocean depths, as well.«
You chirped, even when it was for a moment of second, Jacaerys was sure you did—but again, that's not something an alpha is supposed to do and as far as Jacaerys had been told, many times, you're an alpha as well.
»That won't be a problem, Jukoschka resides in the same fire cave as Vermax and Syrax are in.«
~~~•~~~
Dimitri's birthday—which is how the folk of the far north, in their mother tongue, calls the last month of winter—is cramped with so many holy dates and celebrations, that cake is a constant part on the meal plan.
Jacaerys swears, taking another fork full and dragging bite of his wedding cake, if he has to eat or see in the next few remaining weeks—before the annual new year greeting—another damned cake, one more time, he won't stop himself from vomiting his guts outs.
»You doing so good Jay, my strong alpha.« you coo, praising Jacaerys—making his inner alpha, especially when you chirped in response, rumble in content—»just one more.« you whisper in encouragement against his ear, feeding him another piece of your own cake.
Jacaerys swallows down the last bits of the sugary dessert, tightening his arms around you—giving an possessive glare over your shoulder to everyone who might dare to look your way, while you nuzzle into his neck—after the honeymoon night, which is to be participated one whole lasting month before the actual wedding—such strange (and harmful) traditions—you have gotten much more affectionate with Jacaerys.
From the first month to the current one now, Jacaerys and you had gotten close—so significantly close that the mere thought of not being near your or smelling your scent somewhere, would send Jacaerys into a feral state of cardiac arrest—and it's obvious, like the stars in the night, that you're and him are meant to he fated mates.
»Still hungry, my love?« Jacaerys ask, position you a little better on his lap, watching—only with a slight disdain towards the sweet lacing baked goods—how you devoured another after another slice of cake till the plate was empty and then you moved on to next, not cake but filled dumplings and fried bread—you're eating as if you had been starved of food for months.
»It's just...« you chewed first, swallowing second, »just so good tasting! Especially (least f/food).«
Now that's surprising, normally (least f/food) was something you barley liked to eat—always, when it's been served, not every time but often enough, pushing the plate away with an distasteful frown and sometimes, when it's been the only dish during lunch or dinner, you wouldn't eat at all—but now? Now it seems (least f/food) was your new favourite meal.
Jacaerys let his eyes wander through the grand ballroom, the guest—high nobles from your country and distant relatives of the Stark household—were having their fun—either eating, chatting with each other, drinking, playing games of cards or dancing around—while his own family interacts with your own.
His mother, when she had looked at Jacaerys for a moment as well, smiles at him warmly, proudly even—his dear mother-in-law on the other side, gives Jacaerys an harsh glare, which makes her look wrinkly like worn out parchment, probably because with how openly you currently display affection.
Jacaerys at some point, while you still stuffed yourself contently full with the goodies of food, conversed with one of your older sisters—which took Jacaerys a bit by surprise, he never thought he would share more words than just the occasional courtesy ones—like a mere greeting for example—with your siblings, because your sisters always carries an icy, unapproachable and arrogant aura of supposed personality with them.
»[Name]?« Jacaerys, after your sister chuckles and points at you, calls out your name in questioning whisper—but there's no response from you as you had fallen asleep admits your eating.
Jacaerys lets out a sigh, glad that you didn't fall asleep with food still in your mouth—he didn't want you to choke on bread while you sleeping—but really, have you eaten so much that you had gone into a food coma? You aren't, when it comes to eating, like this but since the start of this month you do behave out of your ordinary self.
»I suppose, it's time to bid farewell and retire back for the night. Tani, it was pleasure to have talked to you and I wish you a good night. Could you please, if so kind, excuse us towards our families if they ask about our whereabouts?« Jacaerys stands up, adjusting you so that he could carry you with ease in his arms.
»Of course I can do such. Don't worry. I wish you a pleasant night as well, my brother-in-law.« Tani smiles, giving a slight wave and starts a new conversation with his brother.
God, Jacaerys thought—walking through the corridors towards your and his bedroom chamber—he can't wait to undress you from your damn traditional robes, it adds much more weight to your actual one—making you appear heavier than you are.
Opening the door was a bit of a hassle, but Jacaerys had managed it, closing the door shut afterwards with his foot—walking towards the bed and laying you down, before getting you out of your robes.
When you were clad in nothing but one of the wooly warm tunic, which Jacaerys had dressed you in, Jacaerys—after changing into night robes and making you the first in your chimney will burn strong through the remaining night—climbs into the bed next to you as well.
Sneaking his arms around you and pulling you close towards him, Jacaerys holds you close—placing gentle kisses along your neckline, giving a few extra more onto your scent glands—and again this, heavenly, almost hypnotic drunk like dripping, sweet scent of yours, which resembles close to honey and boiled orange tea with a bit of cinnamon and anise stars—and the bite mark.
Jacaerys has to admit, when his hands had wandered under you tunic and caressing over your stomach—he just has this, almost desperate, need to always have skin contact with you, which he just couldn't explain why but if he doesn't—at least once per day—his inner alpha would howl—you has gained, at least around stomach and hip area, much more weight.
You gaining weight wasn't even something bad, Jacaerys just notice it—especially since it happened rather shortly after the first few weeks during the honeymoon month and now, almost near the end of the current month, you seemed to have gained the double amount, making you appear swell like good filled dumpling.
~~~•~~~
It's after your third pregnancy, or more during the birth, when Jacaerys realised—albeit much to late now, it would have prevented more than one complication and distressed situation for you and him, if discovered sooner—you're aren't, how many times it had been assured with big emphasis by your mother before, an Alpha like him, but a Omega.
After all, Omegas in contrast to Alphas had much more, successfully, higher fertility rate—which always ensures instant pregnancies during every knot and the more an Alpha knots their Omega during sex—especially when it's either during a rut or heart cycle—more than one pup are being guaranteed to be birthed.
Which had been the case in your first pregnancy—six years ago—when you, to Jacaerys sole shocking surprise had given birth to twins and Jacaerys, when the maesters—in the mother tongue of the far north, they're called Jowaschkas—had announced your pregnancy, was absolutely thrilled with jubilant delight about it, but when one of the midwives had told him you had given birth to twins—Jacaerys thought he would faint any moment, because that had been (positively) unexpected.
And the only reason they even found out that you're a omega, was during the birth of your third child—when you have let out such an distressed, high-pitched mewl, which sounded so distributing and disorienting broken—a banshee like scream, ripping through your chords—that it had not only alerted Jacaerys, who already was about to burst through the door and probably ripping the maesters apart—your scent wasn't sour, it was spicy and such indicates pain and dangers, Jacaerys was ferocious growling by now—but also his family and he never had seen his own mother, the strongest alpha he had ever known, seen so distressed herself like on that day.
Because the sound, this gut ripping mewl, you have emitted was not alpha like, nor will it ever supposed to be one, but of a omega in so much death threatening pain and overwhelming, suffering distress, that they're calling out to their alpha and pack in desperate need of comfort and familiar sense of secure safety.
Afterwards, when the maesters had come out the healing chamber with you—the main midwife right behind with your newborn son—Jacaerys had guided you back to the bedroom, helping you lay down onto the bed, you had been advised to strict bedrest—a necessity, so your current condition of fragile health wouldn't have a dip towards either a bedridden fever or an potential coma drop—and scenting you in reassuring comfort as well as the baby, who got blessed with the name of Sylvain.
Much later during the same day, night had already come by, Rhaenyra and the others had a small family council meeting, after all they had been lied to—though when they all thought about it, there had been signs—always there, visible right under everyones nose and yet none of the Velaryon-Targaryen household had noticed, despite knowing something was odd, as they had been blinded with a false truth—small but significant, which indicate your actual second gender is omega.
But they wouldn't get any answer till Cregane Stark, far distant cousin of yours—who is counted as close family though—had come by a week later for a short stay of visit, which the young Lord Stark always do whenever a new nephew was on their way to have their first breath of life.
»My Aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is an alpha woman in the Rosevale bloodline.« said Cregane with no further added informations behind it, as if this would explain it all—but it doesn't, only raises more questions.
»Young Lord Stark, I ask kindly once, explain exactly how that's relevant to the fact, that we've obviously had been lied to about the importance of one's second gender. I will throw you into the dragon pit if you dare and try to sell us even more lies.« there's a threatening hiss from Daemon, giving a warning glare towards Cregane.
Surprisingly enough, in the eyes of Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, Daemon has taken quite a liking towards you and perhaps it's of his own Omega—which might have already sensed your omega nature during from the first meeting—that he feels drawn to you, like a dame to their pups and flaring up his protective instinct.
»As you wish, your highness. I'll try to explain as best as i possibly can.« and Cregane did explain, but none of them had thought, that behind the lie lays such a state of extent inhumanity.
It begins with your fourth great-grandmother Milalione, who had been born as the very first alpha woman—after aeons in a bloodline of only omegas—and had developed, in the early years of her childhood, a strong hatred towards Omegas.
Milalione despise Omegas, she sees them as nothing but weak minded lowlife—a pest which should be eliminated from society and making royal bloodlines clean again—with no right to live and if they, humbly, had been graced by the High-Queen to have a chance of life, it would only be for the sole purpose of being a breeding machine to birth many more alphas and the occasional betas.
Milalione, when she was crowned High-Queen during her time of reign, had created new laws which strips Omegas of all their rights and privileges—ensuring they're now property of the royal court, so they could be enslaved as servants with no freedom.
Now, because of these Laws and regulations—regarding how Omegas are to be treated in the far northern kingdom—and the way how, fear inflicting and iron gripping strict, Milalione had raised her own children and grandchildren—it's no wonder why High-Queen Coralione had lied.
»Although this is certainly a terrible and immoral, inhumane way to treat fate blessed Omegas, it's still not a valid excuse to lie so shamelessly about something so of importance during a securing of merging two royal bloodlines.«
Don't get Rhaenyra wrong, as a Queen she's an active speaker against Omega mistreatment—after all her beloved, second, husband is one and so is her son Lucerys as well—and if she had known beforehand how, inhumanly, Omegas are being treated in the far northern kingdom, she would never approved of the request to give Jacaerys hand into marriage.
»It doesn't. Indeed it doesn't, but it's explain the fact of why.« Cregane neither agrees nor disagrees, keeping his own answer as neutral as possible.
»No. It still doesn't.« argues Daemon.
»It does. Former High-Queen Milalione had, to make her stance crucially clear, killed a few of her own children, when they have presented as an omega, in front the eyes the others.«
»Why?«
»Because,« drawls Cregane, »She was a vile woman and my aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is just as vile. When [Name] had been born, thankfully the law, within the royal household, to kill of any royal born omegas had been repealed before, Auntie was so enraged that she let [Name] be raised as an alpha and having his omega nature be suppressed.«
Jacaerys swallows thickly, the mere thought of you—his fated mate, the person he love unconditionally the most—being killed, send shivers down his spine and makes him visible flinch.
Rhaenyra gives Jacaerys a comforting rub on the back, sensing her sons discomfort—the little drop in his pheromones, which oozes with jittery fear and worry for his mate, could be sniffed out—as a mother and wife she sympathy with her son—if someone would tell her, Daemon or Lucerys could be killed due their second gender, she too would feel an ounce of fear, panic even.
»So,« Jacaerys begun, licking over his bottom lips—they're feeling so dry all of sudden, but his hands were clammy—a audible stutter in his voice, »basically the only reason why High-Queen Coralione had lied is so [Name] wouldn't taint the the Rosevale bloodline?« asking with disbelief.
Cregane nods, »To sum it all up, yeah that sounds about right.«
Rhaenyra emits a sigh, under any other circumstance and if it weren't for the fact that Jacaerys and you are fated mates, she would have annulled the marriage right away, even sending a letter of upcoming threats, perhaps having their dragons spew a bit of fire cause some destruction as well—just to make it clear, that lying towards a Targaryen means a death wish—but that's no option anymore.
It's weeks later, when Jacaerys—after having a few private lessons about Omegas and getting some helpful advice from his younger brother Luke, who volunteered to repeat some of his lessons again, just so you wouldn't be alone during your own—was trying helping you building a nest.
It would be your first nest, since throughout your entire life till now—with the way how you had been raised and the sole, added fact that your inner omega had been constantly suppressed, dulling your natural and basic instinct—you never had the chance to even experienced this urge, bliss like feeling which comes along with it when nesting for the first time.
»See! It isn't so complicated, is it? Now you place this blanket–« Jacaerys gets interrupted by Tahaerys, one of his sons, who proudly presents him a pillow, »Yes, bravo and thank you Tahaerys. Why don't you give your papa one of your pillows as well?« praising the young, mere six year old child, Jacaerys ruffles through the black tuff of curls.
Tahaerys and Feyeaerys, fraternal twins and your firstborns, are a splitting image of Jacaerys—sharing the same luscious, raven black curls and deer like brown eyes as him.
»It's......it's not easy.« you huffed out, halfheartedly arranging the blanket in this messy pile you're supposedly have to call a nest.
A nest you have to build, what a joke—for what reason even? You don't need a nest, you hadn't need one before and you won't need it in the future, you're fine without one and why a nest when there's a big bed?—you're only doing this for Jacaerys sake, he had asked so sweetly if he could help you with building a nest, you couldn't deny his request—especially not when your children had joined as well, wanting to help.
»Here papa! I've scented one of my pillows for you, so you always have our scents around you!« exclaims Tahaerys proudly, almost stumbling over another loose laid blanket.
Taking the small pillow from your son, you smiled softly at him, »Thank you, Tae, my sweet little boy.« you tell him, placing a kiss upon his head.
This action of Tahaerys receiving a kiss from you, caused an uproar of upsetting protest from your other children; Feyeaerys pouted, crossing his arms, not liking how his twin—doesn't matter that Tae was only three candles older—was getting all of your attention, »Not fair! Not fair! I wanna have a kiss from papa too!«
»Hey, and what about me? Is a kiss from daddy not good enough?« Jacaerys ask, lips twitching up into a smile, holding in a chuckle, finding his children jealously against each other amusing.
Feyeaerys shook his head, standing up and moving from his position next to his dad, going towards you, »No! Only papa's kiss!« he said, frown—more a cute looking pout—crossing his face and if he could, he would have tackled you into a hug, but he couldn't—not when his younger siblings occupied the spot in your lap—and decided to sit, like Tae, next to you.
»Ouch, Feya, this really does hurt daddys heart,« placing a hand over his heart, feigning in a extravagant manner pain, Jacaerys pouts—a pout, which you often have said looked quite handsome on him.
All of your children had managed to perfectly impersonated Jacaerys pout as well, knowing pretty good—they figured it out on their own—how easily it would make you sway and give in to their wishes.
Heinrich and Sylvain, your youngest—barley a year and few months old—children as of current, huffing as well, pulling at your arm and clothes, needy for wanting your sole attention, cuddles and scenting only for themselves, »Now, now, I have enough kisses for all of you. There's no need to be getting jealous,« you laugh, giving each of your boys a kiss and good round of scenting, till they're satisfied enough.
Jacaerys believes himself to be pretty territorial, when it comes to you, but his children—they're papa boys since the very beginning of their birth—outdo him in that category; there had been plenty moments where he got growled at by his own children, because he was too close to you for their liking.
Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were by far the worst, when it comes to you—there had been a few times, where the twins had decided to sleep in the grand bedroom with you and when Jacaerys—after returning from a long council meeting—wanted to simply join you for sleep, just holding you close, his boys had actually managed to kick him off the bed—snarling their tiny fangs at him, growling and, visibly by the small chimney fire, glaring at him—their own sire—rather nasty, a glare which they have gotten from him.
Whilst Jacaerys find it admirable how protective the twins are of you, he doesn't—when his sons are going to continue with their current behaviour—want to asserting dominance over them and having to do some roughhousing just to make it clear that he's the patriarchal Alpha of the family.
»Can we do something else now?« you ask, not out of particular boredom—despite you probably appearing as if you're bored—but because this nest, which is supposed to be your personal nest, looks so meekly, measly and ugly compared to what you have been told by your tutors and Luke.
Compared to Luke's nest, which he had allowed you to see—and that was also the first time, you even had saw a nest at all—yours looks clumsy cluttered.
Jacaerys shook his head, »No, [Name]. We have to finish this first.« there's a slight sternness in his voice.
»Why?«
»Because, it's an important necessity for you.«
Jacaerys mother and stepfather had told him with enormous emphasis, how important it is for an omega to build their (first) nest—after all, nests are there to be a safe haven for them, a place to ground them and make them feel secure.
»It isn't. I don't want it. I don't need it.« there's annoyance in your voice, face scrunching up into a frown, »I don't need it! I don't need it!« you repeated in frustration, throwing a pillow far away, tears welling up in your eyes—chest heaving heavily with the few deep breaths you had done.
»Hey, hey,« Jacaerys calls softly, crawling towards you and behind you, arms around your waist—pulling you flush against his chest—dipping his head down and nuzzling his nose against your scent gland, before giving you a row of scenting kisses.
Jacaerys could tell you're getting upset and before you're about to throw a tantrum out of frustration, Jacaerys decided ease you into a state of calm before coaxing what's bothering out of you.
»My love, tell me what's wrong. What makes you so upset?«
Feyeaerys gaps, »Papa upset?!« climbing over his dads long legs, pushing them aside to have some space, to stand near you—patting his tiny hands against your face, »Papa! No crying!« he barks it like an order, coping his dad and trying to scent you in comfort as well.
Tahaerys, just like his twin brother, does the same, with the slight difference that his expression was stoic—showing no profusely emotions, he's the more mature twin after all—except for the tiny narrow of his eyes towards his dad, believing his dad was the one who had upset his papa.
»It's just....« you breathed out, huddling Heinrich and Sylvain closer towards you, but your voice cracks already—lips quivering, inhaling sharply as you felt a thick lump in your throat, feeling close to break down any mere second.
»Mhm?« Jacaerys hummed, indicating he listened to whatever you would be telling him.
»Just....how can I be your omega when my nest looks so, so ugly! I don't want to build a nest, when it's always gonna turn out so messy and building them is so exhausting and I don't want to be an omega anymore!« you spilled all your frustration like an open barrel of wine and Jacaerys listens patiently till your finished.
Dear god of the fates above! You thought—it strikes you like lightning into your heart, or resembles how mother would slap you as punishment for misbehaving or doing un-alpha like things—you're an embarrassment, aren't you? How can you be an omega when you couldn't even build a proper nest for your alpha—your mate—to impress him?
Your nest, giving it another glance around, doesn't look messy anymore in your eyes but dirty and unattractive—just like you—and there bubbles shame in you, ready to burn you.
»What are you even saying, my love. Do you hear yourself?« ask Jacaerys, ghosting his lips over your cheek and near the corner of your lips—grazing his fangs softly down your neck and along your claim mark afterwards.
»No! No! You don't understand!« your scent spiked up unpleasantly into a sour note.
Your children flinched, Heinrich and Sylvain sniffing, about to let out a loud whine if it weren't for Jacaerys softly hushing them—pumping out some of pheromones to overpower your own, sour ones and to cease some up building tension—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were startled, because never had they heard your yelling like this before.
»[Name].« a tiny growl rumbles escapes through Jacaerys throat, making you instantly whine in submission—turning your head to nuzzle against his face, a tiny lick over his cheek in a gesture of apology—normally, under no circumstances, Jacaerys likes to use such dominance over you, but he had no other choice.
»Now, [Name], I want you to listen to me.« said Jacaerys, »Do you understand?« he ask more forcefully, when you haven't given any kind of response before—and when you nodded, Jacaerys guide your head with his hand so that you're looking into his eyes.
»It's your first nest. It's supposed to look so messy at the beginning and even if all your next nests will be looking like this, messy and clumsy put together, I will always and I repeat, always find your nest the most prettiest perfect one.« Jacaerys pulls you into a kiss, ignoring the grumbling huffs from his children—because he's stealing your attention from them again.
Parting away, to regain breath again, Jacaerys leans his forehead against yours, »And do you know why?« he ask in a whisper.
»No. Why?« you ask back, in the same whisper—nuzzling into Jacaerys hand, which he placed onto your cheek.
»Because you've made it. And I'm so proud of you for trying it, the best you can.«
~~~•~~~
It's been a few years and while the maesters had told Jacaerys, his mother and brother occasionally reminding him, that it would take a bit of time for you to fully recover your inner omega and mental headspace about it, you still weren't adjusting well.
Being an omega stresses you more out than it should and more than often throughout the day, Jacaerys finds himself laying in your nest—still messily and clumsy, but now put together with love instead of just repeating a motion of whats being taught to you, although you still cry out of embarrassment and shame whenever you rebuild or build a new nest in your nest chamber—with you in his arms, your children joining the cuddle sessions most of the time as well, because you don't feeling well enough.
Scenting your children was easy to do—it's something you do without thinking twice about, a primal instinct—but scenting Jacaerys? That was like a battlefield, more than often you had knocked your head against his nose, causing a nosebleed a few times—and whenever you couldn't scent Jacaerys properly, like he does with you, you felt disappointed with yourself.
Jacaerys knew that some nobles of the court were gossiping behind their hands of false smiles about you—scrutinising and judging you about how unfit of a mate you are for him and how you aren't a proper omega—and Jacaerys also knew that you have heard some of these nasty gossips about yourself as well and how it stirs up waves of insecurity in you, bringing you to retire back into your former shell of shyness and hesitation.
Now, Jacaerys does hope, with you being pregnant again—child number five it is, just a few months away till they're born—it will bring a bit of balance to you once more, after all Jacaerys has read that omegas or parental alphas—which are not in sync with their second gender—will get more balanced out, when having more children.
Although, considering how painful it was for you the last time when you had given birth to Sylvain, Jacaerys fears for your health—especially considering, what Cregane is currently telling him.
»I don't understand. Why does [Name] have to stand when giving birth? It sounds very painful.« neither Jacaerys nor the rest of his family had heard of such procedure.
The topic—which Cregane, after having arrived for another visit, had brought up a reminder—of which Jacaerys never had been informed about—to make sure, you won't lay down when giving birth—didn't rose out of total nowhere, but it sounded random if someone would enter amidst such conversation.
»[Name] had been pregnant after the twins and before Heinrich, but because he laid down to give birth, he had lost the child.« explained Cregane, spilling a information which they never got a share of.
»What do you mean, [Name] had been pregnant?! I would have known if this was such truth!«
»How do you know?« ask Rhaenyra, holding Jacaerys back by the cuff of his neck—her son, who snarls in anger and flashing his fangs in a threatening manner—ready to rip Cregane apart—was about to attack his cousin-in-law, only because Cregane knew about such, personally, information first instead of Jacaerys—but she could understand her son, she too would be angry if Daemon was in pain and only someone else instead of her would knew about it.
»The head midwife told me. The maesters told [Name] it was a false pregnancy and I do believe it would be best to keep it this way. Otherwise I fear, my cousin will spiral into a despairing drop.«
»I understand. Could elaborate how laying down is dangerous for a child? That's something I haven't heard of before.«
»In the bloodline of the Rosevales it is. Everyone in the family has to stand during birth and indeed, it is painful, extremely suffering exhausting. Though if otherwise it's an instant and inevitable child loss.«
Mere fifteen year old teens like Tahaerys and Feyeaerys weren't supposed to walk their papa—having your arms around their shoulders, aiding you with walking, while carrying their younger brothers as well—all the way from the garden and into the birthing chamber.
Inside the twins brews a storm of panic, because at first they've thought—when you complained about sharp pains—the baby might have kicked too hard or you've exhaust yourself too much when playing with Heinrich and Sylvain, but when you sat down in the nest—moaning a howl of pain out—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys saw the puddle of blood, the smell so prominent strong—the younger children letting out whines of discomfort—your sitting it, they knew what it meant.
Tahaerys doesn't even knew what to do, feeling just as panicked and helpless as his brother—who was shushing their younger brothers.
»Feya, take Heinrich and Sylvain and bring them to uncle Luke. Then go and get father.« Tahaerys orders, crawling into the nest next to you.
You howled in pain when another wave of contractions came, whimpering and trying to curl up—heaving out another deep breath—god, are you exhausted, so damn exhausted and all you wanted at this current moment was to just lay down, but Tahaerys keeps nagging not to do so.
»I don't.....i don't wanna stand. Just.....let me lay down, just for minute. I'm tired.«
Laying in bed is so much comfortable than having to stand and you never understood why you always, during every childbirth. had to stand hours longs, whilst everyone else was allowed to lay down.
»No, no, Papa. Please, you gotta have to stand up! Please, c'mon papa, please stand up!« pleads Tahaerys, managing to pull you at least into a seating position once more.
Tahaerys doesn't know the reason behind, why you aren't supposed to lay down—the maesters and midwives never attempted, when he had asked, to explain properly as why you shouldn't—but he knew enough that's not something good for you.
»Jacaerys......« you whimper out, hugging your stomach, bending forward in hopes of lessening the pressure.
It hurts so much, why does it hurt so much again? The last time you had such pain, was when you had given birth to Heinrich and during your two false pregnancies.
Where's Jacaerys? Where's your mate? He's never here, when you need him! Throughout all the childbirths you had given before, Jacaerys was never even once present during these time when you needed him the most and today wouldn't be any different, but you still longed for Jacaerys to be here with you anyway—to hold your hand and giving support, whispering sweetheartly words of reassurance into you hear.
»Dad will be here soon, papa. I promise, just hang in a there a bit more.« Tahaerys didn't knew what to do at all, expect for staying by your side—offering his hand in support and hoping the bit of small pheromones waves he keeps producing, wafting through the room, providing enough familiarity for you not to drop—whilst waiting until Feyeaerys comes back with their Sire.
The door, with a burst of force, swings opens »Tae!« shouts Feyeaerys out of breath,
»Where's.....« Tahaerys waited a second, trying to see a glimpse of his father, but there wasn't any—»where's dad?!« he ask, flinching when you gripped his hand—almost crushing it with how tight you grip is—and letting out another ear piercing mewl.
»Alpha!« you plead out in a moan, all you wanted was Jacaerys.
Feyeaerys was reluctantly to answer—shoulders hunching up, trying to appear a bit smaller than he was—his twin could be quite brooding when something was about to upset him and Tae was also the one, who would snap and snarl first when provoked or angry—»Dad, he doesn't.....he doesn't want to come in...«
»What? Why?!«
»He can't.....something about privacy and uhm....uhm.....« Feyeaerys hum and haw around, kneading his hands into the hem of his shirt—shuffling around, couldn't stand still for a moment, not with how nervous he felt—shyly looking anywhere but at his brother and papa—especially his dear papa, Feyeaerys couldn't stomach the miserable expression and tear filled eyes, his papa probably has by now.
Tahaerys growls, »Feya. Spit it out. Why doesn't want our father want to come in. Tell me. Now!« and Feyeaerys lets out a low whine, craning his neck a bit—showing submission.
»Dad says, it's not.....it's not his place as an alpha to give an omega company during childbirth!« Feyeaerys almost shouts, trembling and on the verge of tears himself—it's too much! His papa being in so much distress and pain, Tae about to rip and snarl something apart—Feyeaerys was about to have his own breakdown by now.
Glancing up at his twin brother, Feyeaerys emits an high pitched sound from his throat—Tae's expression, that deepen scowl and the cold glare—never at Feya himself of course—was just too scary.
Tahaerys roars, »Oh, for fucks sake of the holy!«
Fine. Fine! If his Sire doesn't want to come at his own free will, then Tahaerys will make his father to do so! Because, how dare his father even to let papa bear such pain alone?!
»Feya! You stay here with Papa! I'll go and get our damned Sire!«
»The fuck is your problem?!« Tahaerys, at this moment, doesn't care—he really doesn't—that he might have interrupted in the middle of some conversation or meeting between his father and the rest of the family.
His grandfather clicks his tongue, »Watch your mouth, my grandson.« Daemon reprimanded, displeased with the way of foul language his grandson—next heir to the throne—was speaking.
»I don't fucking care! I want to know why father isn't with papa and what his fucking problem is!«
»Tahaerys. You do not speak like this to any of us.« Jacaerys warns, he too reprimanded his son—giving a stern look.
»Fuck you!« and Tahaerys lungs towards his father, barring his fangs and snarling in threat—when he got held back by his uncle Cregane.
»Tahaerys!« that's his Grandma who shouts his name in absolute disbelief at the behaviour and action he just had committed against his father.
»Woah, hey.« Cregane, still holding his nephew aback from Jacaerys, tries to appease the upcoming situation, »Calm a bit down and tell us what's gotten you so angry, Tae.«
»It's Father. Father got me angry!«
»Why?«
»The fucker knows why!«
»Tahaerys! That's certainly enough!« Rhaenyra grabs her grandson by the nape of his neck, holding him in place—adding a bit of pressure, when Tahaerys snarls again.
The council room reeked of alpha and it's not a smokey scent like chimney fire or strong whiskey, but the kind which resembles iron or burnt flesh and bones—showing just how strong the anger, the taste of aggression is.
»Tae, my boy. We can't be of help, if you don't tell us what's wrong. Calm down first, take a breath if needed and then speak.« says Rhaenyra, only loosing a pinch of her hold on her grandson, »Speaking in civil manner and no more fangs and snarls towards your Sire.« she adds, letting go completely—but still near enough, just as Cregane is, to step in again if needed.
»Why aren't you with papa?« the anger had long blown out of Tahaerys and his question sounded more defeating as if he had given up to argue.
»Your papa isn't due till in a few weeks.« says Jacaerys in a matter of fact, crossing his arms.
»Who told such?«
His grandma answers, »The Maesters.« and his father adds, »Maesters are never wrong.«
»Well,« starts Tahaerys, irritation starting to rise up in him, »than this once, they've informed you all wrong. Papa's due date is now and the puddle of blood he's sitting in, proves that.«
Cregane drew in a sharp breath, looking at his nephew with wide eyes as if he hadn't heard it right, »What? Repeat that. Blood?«
»Yeah, blood. Large puddle and I know papa isn't supposed to lay down and I've tried my best to get him to stand up, but he's so exhausted, I barley had managed to make him sit up at least.« Tahaerys shoulders sacks a bit, feeling drained himself—sure, his father needed to know but at what cost? He had left your side, Feyeaerys with you of course, but Tahaerys had promised to stay with you as well.
Blood (and the fact you're sitting) meant you're about to lose your child, another child, if they don't get one of the maesters and midwives soon—real soon, because the longer they wait, dragging the time out, the more you're suffering in pain.
Cregane swallows, looking at Jacaerys and then, as if the roles are reversed, Cregane starts to snarl, »Why the fuck aren't you at [Name]'s side?! Huh?!« he snaps, face morphing into a sneer—anger radiating off him like grand flame.
»Alphas aren't supposed to accompany their Omegas during childbirth. It's a matter of privacy.« Jacaerys repeats, what he has already told Feyeaerys.
Cregane clench his hands, raising a fist—couldn't believe what bullshit he hears from his brother-in-law, what kind of rule is that even? Who had decided it's a wise idea to leave their, any, omega alone during such a suffering time?
»I'm close to just punch you straight in the face.« Cregane was seething by now, understanding why Tahaerys was so angry moments ago.
»[Name]'s about to lose the baby and you're an asshole for not being there for him, when he needs you the most!«
Jacaerys looks confused for a moment and Cregane swears, he would break Jacaerys nose if he dares to utter one stupid question now.
»Are you that insensitive towards your own mate or just not capable of listening? I highlight two words, sitting and blood.«
Before Jacaerys could answer, Queen Rhaenyra's voice cut thru like a sword into human flesh, »Go.« she orders and when Jacaerys wasn't moving, she repeated it one more time, harsher;
»I said, go! Go to [Name]!« Rhaenyra was disappointed in her son, hugging her grandson close—it's better for Tahaerys to stay here and asking her husband to get Feyeaerys, Heinrich and Sylvain as well.
How could Jacaerys, who she had raised with the mindset to always be there for his Omega, just leave you all alone during such crucial moments?
And why does Jacaerys even believe such old fashioned nonsense about how Alphas aren't supposed to give their support when their Omegas goes through childbirth.
Rhaenyra fears, if Jacaerys has done such through all of your four pregnancies than he would face now a bitter realisation of consequences for his actions.
~~~•~~~
Daemon had gone in first, carrying Feyaerys out—the younger twin and much smaller teen was bawling his eyes out, sobbing into his grandpa shoulder, because he believes his papa was about to die any minute soon—and given Jacaerys a nasty glare.
Jacaerys enters afterwards, almost recoiling backwards from the intense smell of blood and distressed, sharp scented chili and lemon sour, almost foul, pheromones you're given out.
»[Name]?« Jacaerys calls out, uncertainty in his voice as he stepped near towards the nest.
Crouching down, Jacaerys takes in your current state—besides the obvious puddle of blood between your legs, you're drenched wet in sweat and you're shivering tremendously, breathing ragged.
»[Name]?« he asks again, reaching a hand out to touch you and when he barley grazed your skin, he couldn't believe how you flinched back from him as if he's a stranger you doesn't know—or worse, an Alpha you're feeling threatened by.
»....Alpha? Where.....my alpha?« you moan out, pupils dilated—gaze unfocused, out of it
For a moment, Jacaerys thought, you're looking at him, but that wasn't the case—your pupils are dilated, gaze unfocused.
»Please....« you beg, »I want my alpha......Jace....where are you?« you ask—so out of it, that you don't even notice Jacaerys being here, a sob racking through you—a moan of pain leaving your lips—and you let yourself fall onto the side, curling up—closing your eyes.
Jacaerys pales, drew in a sharp inhale of breath—his inner alpha howls in agony and his heart breaks—as he quickly crawls into the nest, moving behind you—his arms going under yours, around your chest—pulling you upwards and close against his chest.
»[Name]?! Hey! Hey, [Name]! Open your eyes, please, c'mon love!« he repeatedly pats your cheek till you let out a whine and bleary opening your eyes again.
What has he done? Oh, by the holy above, just what has he done? He had left you alone, always during such crucial times and now you don't recognise him—as a human and neither his alpha—anymore in your haze of pain,
»Your highness, we had been informed–« one of the Maesters begun, but Jacaerys interrupted him, »Out!« he snaps.
»Pardon, your highness?«
»I said, get out!« a snarl, but the Maesters did not leave, raising an eyebrow—stepping one step forward and Jacaerys snarls again, a warning.
»With all due respect, your highness, but as a Maesters I'm required to–«
»No you aren't! Get out. I want the midwives and only the midwives!« it's an order and the maester, with an grumbling, nods his head—walking out and ordering a guard to get the Midwives.
Jacaerys gently licks over your scent gland, nuzzling you, engulfing you with his pheromones as he holds you close, holding your hand in his—hoping to bring you out of your haze and make you recognise him again.
»I'm here, [Name]. I'm here.« he whispers over and over again, rocking you back and forth—grewing anxiously himself the longer he has to wait for the midwives.
»Jace.....?« you mewl—god, you're mewling and Jacaerys is the sole reason for it.
»Yes, I'm here. [Name], I'm here.« he says and when you let out another pained moan—a small cry, more like a scratching scream, toppling from your lips—as more blood gushes out from below, Jacaerys heart almost lurched itself into a stop, Jacaerys starts to ramble.
Jacaerys felt himself tear up, clenching his eyes shut for a moment—letting his own tears escape and dripping down his cheeks—body trembling and heart aching in emotional pain.
»I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you. I'm sorry.«
It's hours laters, the sun has set down into a sunset by now, when the wails of a newborn—mixed with jubilee shouts of joy from the other side of the door—chorused through the castle.
You can't remember much of what happen, besides the gut brutal pain you've felt, but when you heard Jacaerys voice—which you thought to have imagined in your hazed mind—close to you, praising you for doing so well and blessing him another son, you felt happiness flooding through you—letting out a minimal chirp of greeting.«
»Jace, you're here?« you had to ask, couldn't believe it that Jacaerys was really here with you and not just after birth hours afterwards, when you're back in the bedroom to recover.
»I am, my love.« Jacaerys leans down, pressing his lips against your forehead, »And I promise, here and now, with all my heart, I will never leave you alone again during such times.«
You smile, cradling your newborn son close to you, nuzzling your nose gently against his tiny head—he's so precious, of course all your children a precious to you, but he's the most precious one.
Jacaerys too has leaned down to his newborn son, doing the same as you, »How do you wanna name our son?« he ask, looking at you.
»I think....« you pondered for a moment, »Aelexaenrys,«
Jacaerys laughs, »That's a mouthful isn't it?« remembering how you have mispronounced—and butchering up—his own name back than.
»Then his nickname will be, Alexei,« you simply said, smiling even bigger now.
»I like it, it's a wonderful nickname for such a great blessing like our son.«
Ignoring the moment when his four other children had bursted through the door like a hoard of little dragons and being just as loud as them, when they demanded attention from their mother—Jacaerys leans towards your lips, placing a long lasting kiss on them.
»Ijah luvoima [Name].« Jacaerys has practiced hard with Cregane to pronounce these two words in perfections, after all your native language wasn't so easy to learn, but these words Jacaerys wanted to know.
