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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you.

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked.

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

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sceletaflores · 13 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“��But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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dduane · 8 months ago

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HOLY COW!

British Pathé was once a dominant feature of the British cinema experience, renowned for first-class reporting and an informative yet uniquely entertaining style. It is now considered to be the finest newsreel archive in existence. Spanning the years from 1896 to 1976, the collection includes footage — not only from Britain, but from around the globe — of major events, famous faces, fashion trends, travel, sport and culture. The archive is particularly strong in its coverage of the First and Second World Wars.

This is an extraordinary resource. (making a note to go hunting for some things...)

#British Pathé #online #YouTube

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luxcuriousao3 · 2 months ago

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Not-So-Creepy Landlord König

Word Count: 1484 Warnings: none Notes: He's just really, really awkward, okay? Go easy on him.

You were convinced your landlord was going to murder you.

It wasn’t even the fact that he was the most massive man you’d ever seen—nearly seven feet tall and with shoulders that spanned the breadth of a fridge—nor was it the fact that his face was heavily scarred. It wasn’t even his awkward attempts at conversation.

No, it was the highly suspicious circumstances in which you were renting your apartment that had you so convinced your grisly death was lurking on the horizon.

You’d found the place on Craigslist—yeah, the red flags were abundant from the beginning, but desperation had you grimacing while strolling right past them—and it had seemed like an answer to your prayers. Two bedroom apartment, small but not cramped, fully furnished, in a nice, safe neighborhood, and best of all, significantly below budget. You weren't even too put off by the listing stating that it was for women only, soothed by the fact that one of the rooms was already being rented by a girl, and she was only comfortable with female roommates. The little profile picture was of a girl, too, and any lingering doubts disappeared. Clearly, she was just looking for someone to split rent with—maybe even desperate herself, considering that she had to be fronting more than half of it. You sent a message and arranged a meeting with her, sure that all was right in the world.

All was not right in the world.

Turned out, the poster wasn't your roommate—instead it was the renter of the room you'd be taking over. The phone number she’d listed in the post belonged to the landlord, and he hadn’t seen fit to warn you that you were talking to a giant of a man and not the petite blonde in the profile picture.

You should’ve turned around and ran right then. But the allure of an in-unit washer and dryer was too strong. It was the promise that all utilities—including electricity—were included in the already dirt cheap rent that sealed the deal, though. Even learning that your landlord—König, he told you to call him in a voice that was surprisingly high pitched for such a big guy—kept some of his personal items stored in your apartment, and would occasionally just pop in to grab them, didn't stop you from making a terrible decision.

(“That’s weird, right?” You asked your best friend, who was staring at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, that's weird! And you signed a lease with him?”

“About that… technically, there’s no lease…”)

And yeah, it was fishy as hell that he didn't have you sign a lease. But the view! It was so distracting, such thoughts just slipped right out of your mind.

Unfortunately, the view wasn't going to save you from ending up on the six o'clock news.

(“So,” you began once the tour of the apartment had ended, craning your neck to look into the eyes of your potential new landlord. Or you would have, if he didn't stare pointedly at a spot just over your shoulder. You chose to ignore that. “I have to ask. Why is the rent so low? Any ghosts I should know about?”

Your landlord—König, you reminded yourself—didn’t so much as smile, and you tried not to wince at your joke falling flat.

“Helping vulnerable, young girls is important to me,” he said, and you gave a full body shudder. “It is my atonement.”

“Besides,” he continued while you mentally mapped the quickest route back to the nearest exit. “I grew up in that flat. I do not wish to see it destroyed by some careless dumkopf with a hammer and too much grey paint.”)

In the end, you’d forked over the euros, and less than a week later, you were fully moved into your new apartment. You locked your bedroom door every night, just in case. You never ate any unsealed foods. You counted your bras and panties every day, and when you noticed your pretty, silk pair was missing, you called off work and started packing then and there.

When you found them in the dryer that night, you realized that you might have, possibly, maybe overreacted.

König hadn’t actually done anything worthy of suspicion. It was just the circumstances and his general vibe that had you on edge. Which wasn’t really fair to him, you knew, and even kind of mean. But you couldn’t help it. Better safe than sorry, and all that.

Because God, but he was just so weird.

Every time you saw each other—which was often, considering that he lived in the apartment above you—he stopped in his tracks, hunched his shoulders, and asked how you liked the apartment, all while refusing to look at you. And every time, you told him it was great, silently counting the seconds until you could get away. He would respond with a random memory about his childhood—”My Oma once started a fire in the kitchen, that is why the curtains are so short. I had to cut off the burnt edges.”—and then leave before you could react to it. It was so baffling it almost pissed you off.

Then he started memorizing your schedule.

Well, you couldn’t say for sure that that was the case, but it certainly seemed like it. Every Monday morning before work, you would go grocery shopping, and when you got home, König was conveniently sweeping the lobby. As always, he stopped what he was doing, asked after the apartment, and dropped another tidbit of landlord lore—but this time, he didn’t immediately run away after. Instead, he plucked the grocery bags from your aching fingers—yeah, you definitely needed to invest in one of those folding cart thingies—and walked up the stairs, ridiculously long legs taking them two at a time. You blinked, confused by what just happened, and then scurried after him. But by the time you got to your door, he was gone, and your groceries were sitting innocently in front of it.

It became a routine. One you didn’t know how to stop. You weren’t even sure you wanted it to stop—it was ultimately harmless, after all, and really quite helpful. But you were still wary of him, and you didn’t want to give him the wrong idea about your intentions. The last thing you needed was your landlord kicking you out (or killing you) because he thought you were stringing him along.

But as the weeks passed by and the dreaded date offer-slash-murder never came, you slowly began to relax. You stopped locking your door at night and counting your sets of underwear. You started eating from containers of food that had already been opened. And tonight, you even brought a guy home for the first time since moving in.

Before he could so much as get his cock out, though, there was a loud, insistent knocking at your door. You ignored it, and told your date to as well.

Fatal mistake.

The door opened, and in walked König. You shrieked, hands flying up to cover your bare chest—which was where his wide, guileless gaze had landed. Figures, the first time he properly looked at you was to stare at your tits—and your date stood up in front of you protectively… only to throw his hands up in a non threatening gesture and start blubbering apologies the second he saw König.

“Oh fuck, man, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, oh fuck, please don’t kill me, I swear I didn’t know—”

König didn’t answer, having torn his gaze away from your hastily covered breasts to stare resolutely at the wall, his pale, scarred face now a bright red. Your date looked about ready to leap from the second story window rather than try to get around the mammoth of a man standing in your doorway, and you grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back down onto the couch.

“Get out!” You shouted at your landlord—and yeah, you could worry about whether that was going to get you evicted later—and König jolted before doing exactly that, the door closing behind him with a slam.

Nothing you said could convince your date to stay. He fled your apartment like he had a warrant out for his arrest, and you were once again left in the lurch. One angry wank later, and you went to bed, miserable and furious.

You woke up the next morning to an envelope slipped under your door. Inside was a note and several one hundred euro bills.

Fraulein, I am very sorry for last night. I called to tell you I was coming to get some of my things, but when you did not answer, I thought you were not home. I have returned half your rent from last month. Please forgive me. König

For a red flag, the cash in your hand looked very, very green.

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highdramas · 2 months ago

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soft descent | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

warnings: language, age gap (reader is 30, abbot is 48), SMUT! (MDNI!), character death (off page prior to fic beginning), zombie apocalypse typical gore and violence

word count: 5588

summary: (zombie apocalypse au) the emergency team did everything you could to save PTMC when a new virus brought on the undead, but it simply wasn't enough. so, you set out for where you may be useful-- fort knox. you find something to live for as you do in the first month of the apocalypse.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. you guysssss i am SO proud of this one! this is definitely the longest fic that i've ever written! it's romantic and sad and tender and sexyyyy! i'm heavily inspired by the first two seasons of the walking dead <3 this is really to give back story for some interconnected one shots in the soft descent series, so if you have requests, PLEASE i would love them <3

if there was anyone that you felt was capable of walking by your side through the end of the world, you think that dr. jack abbot is the one.

it’s not just that he’s capable– it’s more than that. you think that he’s built for this new life, in a way that you aren’t. he thinks with more practicality than you’ve ever been able to muster. you’d worked with him for years and barely knew him. you knew that he was intense. you knew that he could pin you down with a look that you would think about for weeks. you knew that his praise meant the world to you and that when you could feel the weight of his disappointment, you wanted to shuck it off instantly. you knew that he was a veteran and that it colored every part of his life and his work. you knew that he felt deeply for every person that he could not save. well, you didn’t know that. but you felt it.

and jack, as good as he is, could not save the pittsburgh trauma medical center.

it started with one or two sick patients. it ended three days later with the majority of the staff dead in the span of one shift.

and when it was becoming clear that there was no way out, no way to save everyone, no way to heal those who had been scratched or bitten… you all should’ve heeded the warning that had gone out days prior. leave the city. but he hadn’t. none of you had, because you felt the obligation to this city and this work and saving as many lives as possible.

it was a ragtag group of you that left PTMC that night. the roads were full of abandoned cars, so there was no choice but to go by foot. you. robby and abbot. dana. collins. langdon. samira. about six nurses. but there was so many you couldn’t save– their faces flash behind your eyes when you lay down to sleep at night. mel. whitaker. javadi. mckay. you’re still not over mckay. you don’t know if you ever will be.

you packed up all of the medical supplies that you could under the circumstances and began towards fort knox. having spent three days by foot, aiming for 25 miles each day, but at the same time stopping and gathering supplies wherever and whenever you can… you feel a level of exhaustion that beats out even a double in the pitt.

you’ve never known jack to be… sympathetic. he became your fearless leader in these first days, and you noted that being inspiring wasn’t exactly his strong suit. if he needed someone to give a speech, he oftentime left that to robby. but he said something that stuck with you, just as you left city limits, narrowly escaping with your lives. “we’re going to be needed now more than ever. most healthcare workers across this country have likely died. we have a purpose. that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going through this hell hole.”

you repeated that in your head, day over day– when you wanted to find a creek and lay in it and let the water wash over you. get to fort knox. save lives. make this all matter. but today was hard. it was your birthday.

it was so stupid. who cares about birthdays, anymore? you don’t know where your family is. you don’t know where your friends are. cell service went down before you even left PTMC. you don’t know if any of them are even alive anymore. you have no home, no place in this world– your apartment a forgotten relic to your past. your feet burn and your hands are dry. your stomach growls at you more often than not.

but you loved your birthday, back then. you even had tickets this year to see your favorite band. you remember thinking it as fate that they were going to be in town on your actual birthday.

the tears prick at your eyes. you set up camp for the night, the hot sun finally setting into the curve of the earth. you’re right by the water, allowing you to stick your feet in the river and feel peace, if only for a moment. you had been figuring out that the majority of walkers were still in cities. the disease had hardly touched the more rural areas, which made west virginia safer than most other places. “fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hanging your head, finally letting the tears fall.

you feel him beside you before you hear him. you start, your heart nearly jumping out of your mouth. his face doesn’t move a muscle. “sorry.” he groans as he sits beside you. he doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you. he notes the tears on your face, and for a moment, you think he might berate you for them. you feel like you should be berated. you’re so lucky to be alive– aren’t you? or are the dead the lucky ones? you’re not sure if you know anymore, but you feel like you should be fortunate for… something. “please. don’t let me stop you.”

face screwed up in disbelief, you look back out to the water. “i shouldn’t be crying.”

“and why not?”

“because i’m not even crying for that good of a reason.” you bring your legs up to your chest, resting your chin on your knees.

“let me be the judge of that.”

you look over at him with skeptical eyes. before and after everything that had happened, you hadn’t been precisely vulnerable with jack before. he must sense your hesitation, because he leans back. “you know, despite my reputation…” he stares at you with that same intensity. “i’m not as emotionless as everyone seems to believe.”

“i don’t think you’re emotionless,” you say instantly. “the opposite. you’re full of it.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, chuckling. “you’re… intense.”

jack hums at your examination of him, but doesn’t say anything else, leaving the floor open for you. looking back out at the water, you say, “i turned 30 today.” you press your lips into a thin line. “and i had all these plans– some friends and i got a hotel room for the night. we got a reservation at that nice new thai food place. my favorite band was going to be playing. it all was set up to be so… perfect. and then it wasn’t. and i just–” you blow a breath out, willing yourself to keep your emotions under control. “i’m fucking angry.”

your face goes slightly red, and something flashes behind jack’s eyes at that. “i’m so angry of what was taken from all of us. i’m angry that mckay died on my watch. i’m angry that we had to–” you wince. “that we had to kill patients. i know they weren’t there anymore, but–” you suck in a gasp of air. “i think i’ve been pushing it down, you know? focusing on what needed to be done. who we could save. getting somewhere that we can be useful. but what’s the point of being useful anymore? why save people when there’s hardly a world worth coming back to?”

“be angry,” jack says, resolutely. “i’m angry. and i don’t know if i’ve got anything encouraging to say to you other than that. that i know. and i feel it too.” a piece of hair has fallen into your face, and you flinch when jack moves to push it back behind your ear. this amuses him; the corner of his mouth turns up. “am i that bad?”

“no,” you say immediately, shaking your head. you use the back of your hand to brush away your tears, sending him an inquisitive look. “i just appreciate you checking on me.”

“don’t like seeing you upset,” he says. “you look like someone just stepped on a puppy in front of you.”

you gape at him and you again get that hint of a smile on his face. you don’t know if you’ll ever get him to grin, but you think you could live with what he gives you. you think a half smile from jack abbot is worth more than a belly laugh from anyone else. “wow.”

“i’m kiddin’,” he leans into you, brushing your shoulder with his. you settle into comfortable silence, staring out into the water. the sound of it comforts you, as does the chirping of crickets nestled in the brush. for as horrific as this all is– it’s beautiful here. as much as your back hurts from carrying your pack day over day, when you lay down and stare up at a sky full of stars… maybe there is something to hope for.

“does this remind you of being out on the field?” you ask. the question had been rattling around in your head for awhile– you’d heard some of the stories of jack’s days in the military. he was unstoppable. the intensity that he carries with him is well earned, if all the stories are true. you’d probably be intense and stoic, too.

sighing, he hangs his head. “yeah.” he swings his head over towards you. “it does. being stretched thin. never knowing what you’re going to see next. not knowing if you’re going to wake up and everyone you’ve gotten close to is dead.” he pauses. “or undead.”

you can’t help it. you laugh. “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, i just–” he furrows his brows as you grab your stomach, falling back into the grass. “it’s crazy. this is all so fucking crazy. undead. fucking undead.” you wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. “oh my god, my stomach hurts.”

you continue to giggle, eyes shut, and jack hovers slightly over you. when you open your eyes, it’s not a half smile that you’re greeted with. he’s smiling at you full on, no holds barred. “you’re gonna be alright, kid.” he touches your chin. “you’re gonna be alright if you keep laughing.”

with nothing more, he pushes himself up, groaning as his knees creak, and walks back to camp.

rolling over onto your stomach, you watch as he walks off, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. and when he looks back over his shoulder at you, you watch him chuckle to himself.

–

there’s not a big shift that comes for you and dr. abbot. not yet, anyway– that doesn’t happen until he finds you with the walkers a week later.

you did run into other survivors on the road. since so many were fleeing pittsburgh, it was inevitable. you provided medical services as you went. there was this thought always in the back of your mind– what happens when you run across someone not so nice? that’s how these things always go isn’t it? you’d read enough books to know that typically, the biggest monster was humanity.

jack must’ve had the same thought when he diverted your group onto a path that he hoped would be less traveled, if slightly longer to get to the base. “no lives to save if we all die on the way there,” he smartly observed.

you loved to walk. the others often scolded you for going out by yourself, but it was not easy to deter you. the wind against your face and the sun on your arms was sometimes the only thing that reminded you that you were alive, that there were still simple pleasures in this world. you told robby, not asked for his permission, that you were going on an evening walk. he looked skeptically, but nodded. and you didn’t go too far– but it didn’t matter. there was a figure just off in the distance. at first, you think it’s a survivor. being this far out of the city, you didn’t run into walkers much. if you did, jack or collins typically took care of it with the guns they had looted days ago.

selfishly, you were thankful to not be tasked with defending anyone. you weren’t fighters. you’re healthcare workers. you were a resident doctor. your responsibility was to heal, not to harm. and you had witnessed enough of that harm in pittsburgh. you had your fill when you screwed your eyes up tight and screamed while you drove a knife into mckay’s chest while she, entirely gone, her eyes vacant and her mouth gaping, trying to gnash at your neck. that was still the thing that kept you up at night. you didn’t want to add to the list.

but when the head perked up, and you shielded your eyes from the burning sun, you realized how wrong you were. your heart sank and you took a stumbling step backwards. you piqued the intrigued of the walker, or it caught your scent, because it began a steady walk towards you. and then another one appeared behind it, cresting the hill. and a third. all ready to plummet down this hill towards you.

they’re fast. and with the downwards slope, they can only gain momentum. you begin to run back towards camp, but then you wonder if it’s better to lead them away from camp– what if there are others? but if you lead them away, they may not hear you… “help!” your cry is full of desperation as you begin to veer left from camp, trying to stay close enough.

the three walkers have gained on you. but for as fast as they are, jack is faster– he runs up and captures you in his arms, a pistol in his hand– three shots rings out, right next to your ear, and you lower yourself to try and escape the jarring noise. “they didn’t get you? no bites, no scratches?” you shake your head no, and the silence that follows is heavy. you continue to cover your ears with your hands. you can feel your blood pumping through you, the adrenaline of near death. every limb trembles and you sink even lower, until your hands are splayed on the still warm asphalt.

the others must have approached, because you hear jack say, “go on. we’re good.” he lowers himself to your level like a true doctor, his hand rubbing, up and down, on your back. “we’re good.”

the others heed his words and tentatively walk off, leaving you two alone. “you’re good,” he repeats. he gathers your hair off of your neck to relieve some of the heat, holding it up with one big hand. “what were you doing walking by yourself?”

“i told robby,” you say around a gasping breath. “i– i didn’t–” you look over at the bodies. one of them is a woman, certainly not much older or younger than you. “i saw her, but she was still far off. i didn’t know she was…”

from a career of working with people at their most vulnerable, jack must sense what is about to break within you. it was close at the river, but then you were mourning the loss of what your life could be. this felt bigger than that. this was coming to terms with what your life now was.

and you swiftly fall apart.

you don’t expect him to hold you, at first. you begin to sink into yourself, the tears and the cries coming like the flood. but jack swoops in, his hand to the back of your head and his other arm circling your waist. you sit on the dirty road and he holds you, despite the humidity and the heat and everything else. you should’ve known that this side of abbot existed. the side that could be steady as a rock, unyielding and ready to protect.

you’re there for so long the sun begins to sink. you look up from where you’d hidden your face in his chest. a technicolor sunset is in front of you. your red rimmed eyes take it in, and jack pulls away enough to watch your face, gauge your reaction. when he sees the wonder in your eyes, he cranes his neck to follow your line of vision. he says, softly, “think mother nature knew you needed some cheering up.”

with a wet laugh, you lean back, but jack doesn’t release you from his hold that easily. “i guess so.” you look at him through your lashes, feeling embarrassed and grateful and reckless and warmed. “thank you. i won’t– i won’t go out walking.”

he scoffs. “nah. you will. we just need to go in pairs.” he looks like he might leave it at that, but then he says, “and i’ll go wherever you want.”

–

two more weeks go by and now it’s august and the days burn orange and you’re in the heart of west virginia.

from that sunset on the road on, where you go, he’s often not too far behind. the others are not oblivious to his trained eye watching you. they’re not stupid– they notice when he is the first one to pair with you for scavenging.

seeing walkers doesn’t have the same jarring affect that it did, even days ago. it’s still not regular, but you certainly see them more than when you first got into west virginia. you still don’t carry a gun, but jack, collins, robby, and dana now do. wherever you all go, one of them goes with you. and for you… that’s jack. if not by choice, by default. everyone seems to have their pair, natural duos from your time in the emergency room. you didn’t have that then, and jack didn’t, either. he has robby, of course, and that hasn’t change– but you think something in his mindset changed when you fell apart before him.

you don’t call him dr. abbot anymore. none of you use such formalities now. what’s the use?

the group moves through west virginia terrain towards fort knox. over time, you’d gotten more and more in the way of supplies. you found an abandoned RV in good shape with the keys still in the ignition. you all held a thought for the owner before you took it. dana was driving a pick up that she spotted back near weston. it made all of you laugh when you saw her behind the wheel. most of the places out here weren’t so looted– sometimes, you hit a goldmine still. jack’s clever thinking to take the road less traveled was proving useful, indeed. that felt like good enough reason to take your time. but winter was going to be coming sooner rather than later. your slowness wasn’t going to last forever. a thought lingers in the back of your mind, and you’re sure everyone else’s, too– this world needs doctors. and maybe you’re all being selfish. maybe you’re all okay with that, for the time being. you don’t know. you’re only human.

you liked to walk to clear your head. sometimes you missed it being a solitary activity, but jack was often quiet enough that you really didn’t have much of a change. honestly, you never minded when it was jack. sometimes dana would offer to walk with you, and for as much as you love her, she has the ability to talk your ear off– but jack picked up on your cues. when he thought there might be something on your mind, he would nudge your arm. when you shook your head, he dropped it. when you would begin to talk through whatever it was that you were thinking about, he would listen, rapt.

and, you think you provide him support, too. there was so much that you’ve learned about him– you know how he takes his coffee. well, in this world, at least. he likes it black but with two of those sugar packets that you got from a starbucks. not the artificial stuff, either. he wakes before you, but you always make his second cup. you’ll approach him in his seat– he always sits in the RV in the morning, working on one of the crossword books you’d taken from the hospital. you come up to him and take his empty cup. most mornings, he says, “you don’t gotta do that.”

you reply each time with, “but i wanna.”

and, over time, you get more and more of those small smiles.

for what it’s worth, the two of you get by for awhile pretending that whatever is happening simply isn’t. you roll your eyes when langdon calls you mrs. abbot. you simply nod when robby mentions jack looking for you.

it was a long day, and a storm was brewing. you had been camped in the same spot for nearly a week, spending time scavenging the area, which was largely untouched by other survivors. you take what you need, leave what you don’t– making sure that there’s enough for anyone else who might need it in the future. your body is sore from so many night of sleeping on the ground, but that’s everyone. “alright– we need to reduce the amount of tents so that we can get everyone out of the rainfall and under the trees.” dana says, hands on her hips. she starts rattling off sleeping arrangements, pointing at you and finishing with, “you’ll be in jack’s tent.”

you look at each other from across the circle, and you have to make a true effort to keep your face neutral. jack doesn’t even flinch. “yes, ma’am.”

your stomach twists in knots as you begin tearing down your tent. jack comes up from behind you and helps, making quick work of it. you glance over at him and murmur, “sorry you’re stuck with me. i’ll keep to my side of the sleeping bag.”

there’s a glint in his eye. “i don’t know. princess has told me you hog the blankets.”

“i do not!”

he smirks to himself, satisfied with getting a small rise out of you. “guess i’ll just have to be the judge of that, kid.”

–

it’s been a long time since you laid beside a man and it meant something.

you’d been single for the better part of five years– your ex was the kind of piece of work that would make anyone swear off dating for half of a decade. you had meaningless hookups and endless first dates, but nothing that stuck. nothing that gave you butterflies.

now, there’s a swarm of them in your stomach, threatening to dislodge. you brush your teeth and your eyes trail over towards jack, smirking at something that robby said. you glance away and finish up, proceeding to change in the RV. you’re not sure how you’re supposed to dress– sweats is most appropriate, right? you run warm, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. big shirt? little shirt?

zombies could come up and kill you at any point, and your concern is how much or how little you should wear while lying next to jack. the ridiculousness is not lost on you. but, there’s a shred of you that’s thankful for a feeling that’s normal amidst everything else. feelings-induced trepidation is something that you can handle.

you opt for the little shirt– a gas station t shirt you had cropped haphazardly with a knife– and sweatpants. when you come back out from the RV, jack is no where to be seen, but there is a light on in his tent.

unzipping slowly, you’re greeted by his face looking at you. you watch his eyes zero in on the strip of exposed skin on your stomach. you watch his adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows.

the tent is generous when it says that two people can fit. you can see that jack prepped your side of the bed– two pillows, and your water bottle. “you left it outside.”

“thank you.” you kick your shoes off and climb under the blanket. jack huffs a laugh. “what’s so funny?”

“you wear pants to bed?”

your face heats. “not typically.”

“don’t do it for my comfort.” he reaches at the back of his shirt, tugging it over his head. “i will be sleeping comfortably. and cool.” he halts before he says, “and a gentleman.”

you roll your eyes, but you lift your hips and shimmy the sweats off, tossing them towards your feet. settling back into the pillow, you watch jack as he does the same, eventually rolling over to face you. he has the fly trap off of the tent, so you stare up at the stars. he never looks away from you.

“dana did this on purpose,” you whisper, and it’s the closest you’ve gotten to pure admission. “you realize that, right?”

“yeah,” he puts one hand behind his head, following the line of your sight to the stars, too. “she’s been on my case since we set up camp here.”

curious, you peer over at him. “how so?”

jack shrugs one shoulder. “telling me not to fuck around with your feelings.” his neck turns towards you. “told her i’m doing my best.”

you screw your face up. “you’re not fucking around with my feelings.”

“good.” there’s such a practicality to his words. he’s not barred by fear or by unease; he’s confident. “but, for the record…” he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. “yeah, i’m not trying to fuck around with your feelings. i’ve been trying to…”

“trying to what?”

“will you let me spit it out?” jack asks with a smirk. “patience is not always your strong suit.”

you turn your chin down, indignant. “you didn’t mind when we were in the emergency room.”

“i wouldn’t go that far,” jack counters. “i think i told you to slow down on multiple occasions.”

“now you’re just deflecting.”

a clap of lightning and thunder rings out in the open air. the rain begins just after.

“i think you just proved my point.”

disgruntled now, you move to simply roll over and go to bed and pretend the entire conversation never happened. but jack laughs again and he gently wraps his hand around your arm, pulling you back. not controlling. guiding. “don’t do that,” he says. “not when i’m trying to tell you i care about you. at least give me the opportunity to say it before you shoot me down and go to bed.”

brows furrowing, you roll over to face him. “i don’t understand.”

over the course of the month or so that you’ve gotten to learn jack intimately, know the corners of his mind and the stories that weren’t often shared, you’d resolutely pushed away the notion of you not being anything but in over your head. a woman with a crush on your authority figure. broken by circumstance and clinging to the one person who moves you feel unequivocally safe.

there wasn’t a part of you the stopped to think that maybe jack was doing the same. but that he was, perhaps, more brave than you.

“i’m not good at any of this,” he says quietly. “but if we’re going to die before the new year, i want to be selfish. and if i’ve– misread, tell me, and i’ll never bring this up again.”

silence fills the tent. your mouth forms a slight o, trying to wrap your head around the string of words that he just confessed to you. “you said before, that the only thing keeping you going was the fact that the world needs us. needs doctors.” your eyes flicker down then back up. “is that still true? is that the only reason?”

“if that was the only reason, i’d be in fort knox right now.” his hand flexes where it rests on his pillow. he’s holding back– you feel the tension pulled taut within him.

“tell me,” you say with absolution.

“tell you what?”

“tell me you want me. not just because of circumstance. but because of… me.” you are growing smaller before him. “i don’t want to just be a body to keep your bed warm until we die gruesomely.”

he laughs like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. your name falls off his lips and he extends that hand to you. you take it. he tugs you closer. you push him, he pushes you. he makes you patient, you make him articulate. “i remember, once, walking by the family room. you were sitting with a little girl who had just lost her mom in a car accident. she… i couldn’t save her. and i was dreading sitting that little girl down, looking her in the eye, and telling her. but you stayed with me.” he swallows, thinking. “i’ve watched you work on the fly and save lives without thinking twice. you’re a horrible singer, but a great dancer. you love crosswords.” he pauses. “this didn’t start last week. not even last month.” last month, when you were still a resident and he was still your attending.

“wow.”

“yeah,” jack nods his head. “wow.”

you don’t know what to say. you feel shy under his gaze, and you think he knows it. he eyes you with that cocky smirk, like he knows that you want him, but that something still holds you back. “you don’t gotta say anything right now,” he shrugs. “we’ve got time. that is, long as i’m still alive.”

you gasp and hit his chest and he keeps your hand in his and then you’re looking at each other and slowly, surely, patiently– you begin to lean in. you don’t kiss him yet. you know that he’ll leave that ball in your court. but there’s something fun about your nose bumping his and feeling his breath on your cheek and feeling the way that his hand tightens around yours. “you’re not being very patient,” you murmur, and he all but growls, and you feel it all the way down to your belly. you laugh and your hand slides to the back of his head.

his hand lands on your waist. he begins pulling you closer. “say you want me,” he asks.

“i want you.”

a shuddering breath leaves him, and it settles into your brain how affected he is. he’s drunk on you, and you on him, and your leg drags up his. you finally decide to stop your cruelty, and you close the distance. your mouth rolls against his and his tongue opens you up, and you feel like something has just split your heart, and your fondness for him is spilling out of you.

you didn’t suspect jack to be a tender lover. you and mckay used to joke that he probably fucked like a jackhammer. but you should’ve known that his patience, his sheer determination, extends here, too.

he rolls you until he’s hovering above you, hand sliding to the back of your neck and squeezes the sides, just barely. you gasp into his mouth and his knee parts your legs and every part of you feels like warm honey, sliding between his fingers. there’s a restraint when he pulls back and looks at you. “you’re trouble.”

“i thought you knew that.”

“i did,” his hand runs from the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach. it travels further to the waistband of your underwear. “now, trouble,” you flush at the way that nickname makes you press your thighs together. “do you know how to be quiet?”

“yes, i know how to be quiet, you ass–” you’re cut off with a gasping sound leaving your throat as his fingers dip into your underwear. he leans in closer and chuckles in your ear and your hips roll to meet his hand.

“do you?” he asks as his hand begins to work its magic.

“yes.”

lowering until his mouth finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he kisses, sucks a mark into the skin. your hand finds a fistful of his hair and you want to let go, you want to moan so loud you bring every walker in a three mile radius to find you. it would be worth it to release, to feel freely and let the world know it. your hips keep moving on their own, chasing pleasure, and jack sits up to use his free hand to grip your hip and presses you down. “i’ll take care of you, doc. don’t worry.” he leans in and kisses beneath your ear. “and you can be as loud as you want when there’s thunder.”

your eyes roll back into your head and within moments, everything is shooting stars.

–

when the morning comes, you’re smug, and glowing. jack wakes you slowly. the mourning doves are just beginning to sing their song and he pulls you closer, hungry. “think the plan is to leave soon,” he says into the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. “but not too soon.”

it takes another thirty minutes for you to leave the tent. jack helps you back into your clothes with pride, looking you up and down. you scoff and push his face away, but then come back for a kiss. it’s easy to settle into familiarity when you spend so much time wondering where your life is going, what the point is of any of it– this. maybe this is the point. maybe this has to be the point.

holding the flap of his tent open for you, you clamber out, and the two of you are faced with… well, everyone. everyone smirking.

and without a word from either of you, dana looks at collins and says. “i told you that’s all it would take.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott imagine #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot au #the pitt fanfiction #my writing #soft descent #i'm sooo proud wow

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youraverageaemondsimp · 1 year ago

Text

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter I : The Beginning.

Summary: "Be careful what you wish for" is what everyone says, you realise that you should've taken them seriously when you find yourself reincarnated as a character in the show who never existed.

WARNINGS: CANON TYPICAL INCEST, CONTAINS SPOILERS OF F&B, S1 AND S2, reader's appearance isn't described, only the fact that she is a strong, you can imagine her however you like, the picture used in the header is only to capture the feel of the story. A/N: divider credits to @cafekitsune

masterlist // next

“Jesus Christ, fuck this show, fuck everything, what the fuck is wrong with the writing?” You exclaim in annoyance after witnessing the scene that was supposed to be heavily impactful be butchered.

“That is the most anticlimactic death scene I've ever witnessed, this has to be a joke.” You furiously ramble. You decided to give House of The Dragon a try after your friend had recommended it, the show currently has released three seasons, with the fourth season in production, you thoroughly enjoyed season one and decided to binge all the seasons.

However, everything started to go downhill from season two, yet you still decided to watch for the sake of your favourite characters, daemon and aemond, only to witness the battle that was supposed to be intense and stressful get finished in the span of two minutes.

You stared at the screen, rolling your eyes in annoyance as you witnessed Aemond falling into the lake along with Vhagar, Daemon was knocked off Caraxes too and fell to his death.

They wrapped up the battle in mere moments, which made you angry as you were so hyped up to see them fight.

“Ugh, I never hated a show more than this, waste of my time, they did season one so well, what happened to rest? I did not expect this.” You sigh in frustration, feeling like you just wasted your time.

“If only… If only I ever get a chance, I'd change entire plot and script because fuck this.” You lay down on your sofa, staring at the ceiling, the show still playing in the background. You recollected the entire plot in your head, thinking of every moment in the show, trying to come up with an easy solution.

“If only they had married Jace to Helaena, it would have been peaceful.. Or at least if they had an older daughter married to Aegon or Aemond.” You mumble, but then shake your head, “What am I saying? Things still would've been complicated anyway.” You wonder in disbelief at your own words.

You yawned loudly, stretching out your limbs and blinking your eyes rapidly, your vision began to get blurry and you sighed in content, finally willingly wanting to sleep after you forced yourself to stay up all night to binge the series.

Your vision darkened slowly as you closed your eyelids, head spinning as you took slow breaths of air, cool breeze brushes past your cheeks and before you know it, you're slowly succumbing into slumber.

You blink your eyes open, realising you fell asleep, you sigh stirring on the soft sheets, entangling them between your legs.

Soft sheets?

Your sofa doesn't have any sheets.

You quickly blink again, taking the note of a translucent veil hanging from above, surrounding the bed you're in, creating a curtain around your bed.

Why were you in bed?

You sit up looking around, taking in your surroundings, your eyes widening in fear as you don't recognize this room at all, ancient tapestries, brown wooden furniture, and the source of light being only from the candle.

Have you been kidnapped?

You look down at your body, noticing you are in a white nightgown instead of the shorts you fell asleep in. Your heart begins to race and you panic, unable to understand where you are or how you got there. You steady your breathing, wondering if someone kidnapped you to play a role in a mediaeval film of theirs? But why would anyone do that?

The sound of metal clanking harshly against the floor and a small scream made your head turn the direction it came from, the liquid in the decanter spilling out rapidly as the person behind the fallen cutlery stood in shock.

“The princess is conscious!” She yells loudly before turning around and running out of the room in a hurry.

Princess?

Is this a prank?

You barely have any moment to think when you hear the sound of multiple footsteps coming from outside to your direction, you could almost feel the ground rumbling, noting that everyone was rushing to this room.

You push the veil to the side and stand up, getting out the bed and examining your surroundings, looking at the sigils and the paintings. All of this looked familiar somehow.

A small gasp echoed through the room, coming from the entrance, which made you turn around to take a look at who was in the room once again. Your eyes widened at the sight.

A lady with platinum blonde hair, blue eyes stood in front of you, someone who resembled Rhaenyra and next to her stood Jace and Luke breathing heavily, looking at you in shock.

Did the house of the dragon cast kidnap you to play a prank on you?

That sounds too unreasonable.

“Oh my sweet daughter!” Rhaenyra rushes over to you, embracing you tightly, tears flow down her cheeks as she peppers you with kisses “I-i i cannot believe this, you finally woke up after many years.” She sobs, you look at her questioningly. “Sister.” Jacaerys speaks up, coming to you and joining the embrace of you and Rhaenyra, Luke joins in as well.

“We missed you.” Jace says and you stare at all of them confused.

This has to be a joke.

They notice the expression on your face and their faces immediately drop, “Your grace, the princess woke up after many years, she might not be able to recognise you.” The maester chimes in, Rhaenyra nods, sniffling yet understanding your condition.

“Emma? Is this a joke?” You question, referring to the actor of Rhaenyra, “I’m not Aemma darling, she is your grandmother.” Rhaenyra corrects you. “I think she must be confusing the names of everyone due to her hazy memory.” The maester tries explaining, you sigh.

Yeah this must be a dream.

You shake your head gently and immediately slap yourself to wake yourself up.

“Ouch!” You yell in pain, cupping the cheek you slapped yourself on, Rhaenyra is mortified and the guards rush in and hold your arms back so you don't further hurt yourself.

This is not a dream.

You can’t feel pain in your dreams and you will wake up right before impact.

You look at Rhaenyra’s face, she is as real as a living person, standing right in front of you.

She looks just like Emma. of course, after all Rhaenyra is indeed played by them.

But this is not them.

She is not Emma

You can feel the vibe, it's very different.

You’ve met Emma before in costume, yet they did not give off the vibes as what Rhaenyra is giving off right now, after all, when you met them; it was just a show, but now it's your reality.

Did you die in your world?

You’ve definitely transmigrated into this show, but as who?

Did Rhaenyra ever have a daughter? You knew she didn't.

“Mirror, get me a mirror.” You ask and they look at you questioningly, your form begins to shake as the realisation is too overwhelming, there are many questions in your mind, “Please!” You cry, and immediately a servant moves and rushes over with a mirror.

Your eyes widen.

It's you.

You had not become someone else, but you remained as yourself. “What is my name?” You ask, “Y/N.” Rhaenyra replies. Your mind begins to spin, you are in another world as yourself, you have not possessed anyone else, which means your body must’ve disappeared from your world.

You try to stay calm in this situation, breathing heavily, “You are?” You ask, wanting to reconfirm, you watch as Rhaenyra's face crumples into that of a sad face, probably feeling hurt that her own daughter doesn't recognise her.

“I'm your mother, you are my eldest daughter, they—” She points at Jace, Luke and Joffrey, “—are your younger siblings.” You turn towards them.

You nod, pretending to play the part while you figure out everything. “I'm sorry, I do not remember.” You apologise and Rhaenyra shakes her head, “It is alright, you have been unconscious since the past six years, this is better than losing my daughter.” She replies.

“Six years… Did I fall unconscious after Aemond lost his eye?” You think out loud and Rhaenyra looks at you in shock, “You remember him?” She asks and you clear your throat, “It's hazy, my memory.” You answer back.

“Your grace, the event was probably traumatic for her, hence why she can remember it in parts.” The maester explains it to Rhaenyra, you mentally thank the maester for covering up for you always.

You noticed how they were all dressed up, looked as if they were about to leave but their plans were cut short, and you recognize this gown of Rhaenyra.

It was the gown she wore when she left for King's Landing, in order to settle the matter of Luke's right to driftmark. “You guys were departing somewhere?” You ask, wanting to really confirm it, “Hm? Huh, Yes, We were about to leave for King's Landing.” Jacaerys answers your question.

“Can I tag along?” You blurt the question.

“.. Tag along?” Lucerys repeats your words in confusion, your language confusing him.

“I mean to say, can I come along?” You ask the question in a proper manner, Rhaenyra shakes her head, “No- you've just woken up, you might still be weak- I cannot risk-”

“Mother! I am perfectly fine!” You cut her off, breaking free from the guards hands and running around the room, doing jumping jacks, showing her that you aren't weak and are perfectly capable of physical activity.

Rhaenyra watches in shock, seeing you move like this but she chuckles, shaking her head in comic disbelief, “I guess she has not changed after all.” The maester comments which makes Jace and Luke smile.

“Very well, Pack the princess’ belongings, and get her ready for departure, we will depart two days later.” Rhaenyra orders the maids and you smile at her.

“But mother, I do not have many dresses—”

“You do, I had them tailored every year, whenever you grew, hoping that you would wake up.” She replies softly and you just then realise how Rhaenyra loves her children.

“The maesters said that you might not ever wake up, and that your body will be stunted from growth, yet… I'm glad their predictions never came true.” She smiles gently at you, you smile back.

The maids come in with a bath as everyone leaves, some of them begin packing your belongings. You notice how your body doesn't look how a person in a coma state should be looking especially in the mediaeval times, but instead you seem to be well taken care of, treated as if you were alive.

The maids quickly finish your bath and dress you up, you have to pretend to get used to this atmosphere and era even though you're highly uncomfortable, the mere thought of having servants made you feel bad.

And with that, the night fell, you couldn't sleep thinking about how you're going to deal with everything, could you really prevent war from happening? It happens due to a misunderstanding in the show right? What if the misunderstanding doesn't occur? Your mind was filled with such thoughts through the whole night.

In King's Landing.

“My queen, Rhaenyra, has sent a letter saying that their arrival will be delayed further.” The master sums up the contents of the letter in the council room, in front of Aemond who had been called by Alicent for an urgent matter.

“Why so?” Alicent asks, furrowing her brows.

“Princess Y/N had woken up from her unconscious state.”

An ear piercing shattering sound of glass is heard through the entire room, when turned to look at the origin, It is known that Aemond had dropped the wine glass he was drinking from.

“Y/N is awake?” Aemond asks the maester.

“Yes my prince.” The maester replies.

Aemond's heart begins to pound in his chest loudly, his mind spiralling at the thought of you finally waking up all these years later.

“Please excuse me.” Aemond gets up from the chair, excusing himself from the council and leaving the room, his brain occupied with the thoughts of you.

There wasn't a day where Aemond hadn't thought of you, he would at least think about you once a day- the news of you waking up from unconsciousness made the adrenaline in his body rush.

He felt like a hungry snake that had been starved for many years who at last found a prey to feast on, he felt like a drought-stricken land finally receiving rainfall, he felt like a garden void of any flowers which started to bloom once again.

He was thrilled.

He reminisces of the fond memories you both shared, he could never ever forget them, smiling at the thought of you.

He wondered if you had changed or remained the same.

Whatever it was, he couldn't wait.

He couldn't wait to receive you.

#; metanoia !#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #reader insert #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond kinslayer #aemond one eye

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 months ago

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book 7 chapter 13 part 1 thoughts!

***THIS POST CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR BOOK 7 PART 13 OF THE MAIN STORY!!*** This spans part 295 to part 327.

Part 2 of this update will be out on the 10th of this month.

Please note: this is NOT meant to be a summary or a translation; these are only my initial thoughts on the events that roughly unfold. There may be details overlooked or misunderstood in this post, so PLEASE do not use this as a translation.

WOW awful way to start this update off 💀 They’re falling from the sky and L*ONA TAKES chARGE AnD THELLS tHe otHER thURD yEARSTO TO NOT juDt FALL BUT FucKING DO SmTH… So him, Cater, and Trey use wind magic to cushion everyone’s fall.

We land on the sandy beaches of Ace’s dream. Ortho picked this spot because it has the lowest chance of encountering darkness. (zbxjsbkwdhks Cute scene of L*ona shaking sand off of himself…) Ortho worries because he still has not regained connection with Idia’s tablet.

Sebek yoinks Grim out of the sand and checks on Yuu but ignores Adeuce, who are right next to us www

Trey initiates the card soldier roll call, with Ace counting off as 1, Deuce as 2, himself as 3, and Cater as 4. They realize Riddle isn’t there and panic until Leona informs them he’s probably in that “third layer” of his dream, where he is confronted with his truest, darkest self. Omg… Leona calls that third layer “the abyss” because there was nothing else there, just “the darkness, quietly opening its maw.” SO THAT’S WHY THIS BOOK IS CALLED RULER OF TGE ABYSS, EH…

Trey begins to worry like a dad looking for his lost child (Leona’s description, not mine lol). Leona tells Trey Riddle’s strong enough to hold his own in the abyss (which I guess is his way of reassuring Trey 😂).

Ortho expresses frustration that he can’t do anything right now. If he dream hops again without Idia’s cloaking + other tech support, Malleus will surely notice them. The group decides to try and recover for now. They also reassure Ortho that he has done a lot for them.

LEONA FUCKED OFF TO NAP, BTW 💀 Bro cannot be bothered to deal with a crying kid…

Silver like. Grabs Ortho and tries to squeeze him to help release tension from his muscles. It’s something Lilia taught him. Silver shares that he understands how he feels. Ortho continues to worry that they may “lose” Idia and that he’ll break his promise to their parents (to stop them from “losing” another son). HE STARTS CRYING… Sebek shouts at Trey to do something, because him just standing there and pointing out that crying’s expected in situations like this isn’t helping. So Trey strokes Ortho’s head and provides comfort.

Everyone kinda falls asleep together on the beach?? And Ortho hears his mom’s voice. Mr. and Mrs. Shroud appear via holograms!

Shroud parents tell everyone that Malleus has invaded Idia’s dream. For now, he cannot quite barge in due to the technomantic shield in place, but Idia can only hold him off for so long. They worry about the discovery of the cheat tool Idia was working on to help them fight Malleus. Mrs. Shroud shows them a photo of recent transmission from Idia’s dream. However, the quality is pretty bad.

LOL WHYmS THAT lOOK LIKE A MISSING chILD IMGAGE…

The Heartslabyul students spot Riddle in the corner of Idia’s picture. Ortho is a little relieved that Riddle can support him, but then the others point out that Riddle and Idia have clashing personalities + cannot get along. Trey says we should put our trust in those two…

Idia wants Riddle to keep Malleus busy while he works on the cheat tool. He provides Riddle with magic coding books and tells him to read them in 3 minutes or so???? Riddle claims it’s impossible but Idia goads him saying Riddle can memorize the Queen’s 810 laws and all school rules but not this??? His big head’s ready too full, so he can’t hold more info? Okay then stick a pacifier in your mouth and let us game over :v Riddle gets annoyed but then swears he’ll memorize all the coding manuals in 2 minutes, not 3, since he owes Idia for all of his help so far.

Uhhh I think they use a coding program thing (not sure of terminology) called Spell Forge. Riddle uses a stylus called InQuill to fill out the gaps in the protection spell’s construction, since he prefers doing things by hand rather than typing (Idia uses a unique keyboard with weird shaped keys and very few of them).

New mini game thing…? Where we basically just punch in the letters displayed up top.

Malleus is made aware of Riddle’s presence and tries to meddle using frost and electricity magic. Riddle has one more book to read… he likens the coding to solving a crossword puzzle.

Malleus breaks the door off?! But Idia needs Riddle to entertain him for 3 more minutes so he can finish his cheat tool.

AgHHHhHhHHH SudDENLy…?! Ignihyde-themed main screen reboot?!

YOu’RE JOKING…

TWST iS IdIA’/s FRiGGin’ CHEAT TOOL???????? 😭

Oh my god, he had Malleus trapped on the home screen and he cannot move without “player input” 😭

Boss!!!Idia has a cool new jacket that helps him optimize his performance. If he gets a new SSR, it might feature this jacket.

We also see S.T.Y.X.'s headquarters! On the large screens in the back, you can spot some battle map plans.

UMMMMMMM Idia summons us all as SSRs via the Mirror Chamber… HE SAYS THE SAME THING THE MIRROR OF DARKNESS DOES… The exact same animations for pulling them from the gacha play. I show one example with Ortho below, but he does this for all of the cast, excluding Lilia and Malleus. (D-Does this canonize our gacha pulls...?????)

... By the way, Idia hacked himself infinity gems and 999 keys + rigged the rates to always pull SSR OTL We all wish this was us…

We’re brought to HQ to talk about our next steps. Idia moves Malleus to various isolated battle maps (with that dorm’s members there) to slowly whittle him down. Each OB boy is granted the ability to take on their OB form, which enhances their powers. LMAO they all start complaining about how lame Dream Form Change is but Idia mutes them 💀

Silver, Sebek, Yuu, and Grim are with Idia, everyone else is with their dorm members. Yuu and Grim ate going to grant support on the battle maps via the Twst app 💀 Heals, buffs, that kind of thing. They’re being very literal with us being the strategist here. Ortho meanwhile is going to go wake up the staff (bless, idk if I could have handled like 60 extra parts of waking them up too).

Silver asks about Lilia, who wasn’t summoned. Idia says he was not able to bring Lilia since he never handed him an invite.

Silver lets everyone know that Lilia is his father. (asdhbasa Cater and Kalim think he was talking about a teacher..._

Pomefiore is especially touched by Silver’s love for his father, so they volunteer to be the first to step up and fight Malleus.

OKAY OKAY SO

There’s like 6 battle maps, each of them involving the OB boy changing into their OB forms and then kicking Malleus but Malleus still manages to resist every time. Idia has to intervene to prevent him from turning us into charcoal and isolate him to the next map. There’s a lot of extra dialogue on each map, but the gist of it is we see the members of each dorm fighting alongside each other, along with some commentary interjected from members of other dorms (via projections/holograms). I’m pretty sure this is meant to show how far they’ve come in willingness to cooperate with each other, because previous battle maps did not have nearly THIS much dialogue. Before going to the next battle map, we always get a brief scene of the next dorm chatting about what happened in their dreams and then psyching themselves up for their turn to bash Malleus.

Mrs, Shroud gets in contact with her son!! She had trouble because Idia kept her account blocked. He’s embarrassed to face his mom after she’s been digging around in his computer.

Mr. Shroud also appears! He lets us know that they’re looking for a mystium in order to craft weapons that can take Malleus down, since his dragon scales are very tough. Baur (in the real world, not the dream) has joined the search as well.

Silver and Sebek realized that Lilia’s magearm contains mystium. However, it was wrapped up and shipped to the Land of Crimson Long to join Lilia in retirement. Mr. Shroud moves to contact the countries the magearm would have to pass through to get to its destination. They MUST intercept the package!

Heartslabyul is happy to reunite with Riddle. He apologizes for causing them trouble, but Ace scolds their dorm leader for thinking he can order Cater + Trey to stop him and Deuce from trying to pull him from the darkness and then going missing for a while. And now Riddle thinks he can resolve things with a simple “sorry”? There’s so much more to say!

UHHHHHH Ace starts bawling and the seniors comfort him 💦 Riddle praises Adeuce for getting their UMs. Cater says Ace must be jealous that Trey comforyed Ortho earlier??? AcE wHInES THAT THE SENIORS ShOULD LOvE hiM AnD DEUCE Ghe mOst 😭 Bro… you chose now to unleash all of your brat energy…

LOL Ace wishes Riddle learned how to comfort people instead of magic engineering… He gives Riddle’s apology 30 points.

Riddle confirms he is one month older than Ace. The seniors say Riddle is an underclassman too and start being all “aww you guys are so cute!”

Mmm so after the battles, the participants are transported to a virtual infirmary space to recover.

chzjsvejdhoawjn Idia didn’t wake the teachers first because they’d just be annoying??? 😭 Not sure if I understood that part correctly.

Azul worries that they’re violating the other dreamers’ privacies by peering into their dreams via the STORY function of the app. He then decides he should peek anyway because the dreams may contain weaknesses and secrets he can take advantage of. Idia calls Octa away for their battle map before he can.

Oh, there’s a specialist mage known as a… Returner?? They can use long range transfer magic, even being able to transfer a large number of people across long distances. Sebek realizes that humans and fae can work together to minimize damage from Malleus’s magic.

They’re able to intercept the magearm!! Either Silver’s blessing, S.T.Y.X. begins to process it into weapons for Silver and Sebek to use.

Kalim casually asks Jamil how he’s doing 😭 (since his cheeks were swollen from Kalim punching him)… He mentions that he thinks Jamil and Azul are very similar (which Jamil is insulted by) and that he even though his dream!Jamil was fun, it wasn’t the real Jamil. “It was like looking into a mirror.” Kalim admits that even though some people cannot be friends (wow, character development for him??), it is those differences that make the world an interesting place. He prefers that kind of world.

Jamil agrees with Kalim. Jewels are called jewels and not stones because they’re hard to get. He’s sure that jewels are formed through hardship… a lot of heat and pressure.

LOL???? Kalim says it’s great they were able to make up. “Hah? When did we make up?” — Jamil, #1 Kalim Hater (Kalim also tries to plead with Malleus to stop this and make up, but of course that doesn’t work.)

Idia’s getting overwhelmed managing everything. Have no fear!! Ortho comes in with Ignihyde Mobs A, B, and C, who provide backup with their technical know-how!

LMxnhdsjafTahwj Leona’s chomping at the bit to beat up Malleus 😭 Later on, Ortho says he's so impressed with his group's teamwork, which Leona brushes off. sdhasbyofayil IDIA GETS MAD AT LEONA FOR BRUSHING OFF ORTHO'S HEARTFELT PRAISE

S.T.Y.X. finishes processing the mystium! They create the Sword of Truth and Shield of Virtue, as well as Harmonia Frame/Armor. When equipped, the armor will change into the shape that best suits its pilot.

The sword is given to Silver and the shield to Sebek. It’s the opposite of their stances in their Dorm Uniform cards—Silver is standing defensively but Sebek is standing offensively, yet the items they are granted are the reverse.

There’s a battery in the item(s???) that will allow them to fire off a powerful beam, but it is limited to 2 uses.

A dragon’s horns store magical energy and amplify power…? So you have to be careful with those. Apparently it is the horns that affect the weather, which is why Malleus’s mood alters it.

They think they can take Malleus out just by grazing the corner of his horns? So accuracy is important. Silver and Sebek will train in a virtual space to prepare.

Silver and Sebek say farewell to Yuu and Grim. Silver wants to be able to meet them again when he wakes up 😭 AWWWWW

Idia and Ortho go off to have their battle map with Malleus. WaH ORTHO 🥺 He says he and Idia were able to have an adventure at NRC… the same thing he promised when they were kids…

OH MY GOD WTF 💀

Idia uses his UM to open Tartarus and summon his own Phantom army to help him fight Malleus and his army of darkness. Phantom!Ortho rises up too??!!!?!! AND GE GOES BUMBBUMBUMB 😭 and compliments robo!Ortho’s new gear, calling it cute… 🥰

I can't believe all three Shroud brothers came together for this... INCLUDING THE DEAD ONE

Malleus keeps pushing his agenda and Idia counters by saying he hates having others impose their views on him. Does Malleus realize it yet? He’s a ruler of evil, not of good.

AHHHHHH crap OTL Malleus rescinds his blessing (because he finally realizes Idia and co. are only able to stand up to him because of dream hacking. But in the real world, they’re only a smidgen of his strength—so now he’s removing the thons and taking this fight into the real world.

THAT’S WHERE THIS UPDATE ENDS…

I did not think they would stretch the final fight out to be THIS long, but lo and behold, Twst proved me wrong 💀 Again, not a fan of this pacing but I understand what the thought process behind it probably was ("we need to show everyone working together, everyone needs their time to shine!"). I especially felt that Heartslabyul's segment was way too long, but perhaps that's a byproduct of how many members there are there??

asdilbyailbyraiyorqo3iyrt3768ot3aegoffwOI I THINK I SPEAK FOR ALL OF US WHEN I SAY MY MIND WAS BLOWN WHEN I SAW IDIA'S "CHEAT TOOL" WAS TWISTED WONDERLAND ITSELF 💀 To use the design of a mobile gacha game to contain the Big Bad, as well as to summon the heroes to save the day... That's so meta??? I just have no words for this other than that, I've been stunned into silence. How very fitting for the otaku to use THIS as his oh-so-clever solution 💦💦💦

Even though I want more than anything for book 7 to just END already, I will say that I liked how minor characters are being pulled into this fight as well. We have tons of support from the Shroud parents and S.T.Y.X. staff, Ortho going to fetch the NRC staff (I assume they will be appearing later?), other family members pitching in (Maleficia, Baur, OG!Ortho), and even RANDOM MOB STUDENTS. As a mob student appreciator, you cannot believe how much I love that for them. It feels like everyone genuinely plays an important role in this story, not just the main cast of NRC.

The highlight for me as definitely the Shroud brothers reunion. HJBDSBYIAFIS I KNOW IT'S JSUT A DREAM AND OG!ORTHO CAN'T ACTUALLY RISE FROM THE DEAD WHENEVER HE LIKES IRL BUT I LOVE THE IDEA OF WANTING TO STRIKE DOWN A MAN SO BAD YOU DEFY THE LAWS OF LIFE AND DEATH TO DO IT. He gets along so well with robo!Ortho and has a mischievously cute side to him 😭

This update makes mystium and its properties relevant again (it was mentioned like once in the beginning of book 7). It's so cool that what was Lilia's weapon of war back then is now reborn into a world-saving sword and shield for his disciples to use. It feels like a dad passing on his family heirloom to the next generation.

Speaking of Lilia???? Surely he'll rejoin us next time, right????? RIGHT??????? ?? ?? ??? ? Maybe with the staff??? And since the thorns have retreated... maybe we'll even get backup from RSA students and mages from other countries (since this is an international incident now)??????? ???? ? WILL ALL OF TWISTED WONDERLAND COME TOGETHER TO COLLECTIVELY KICK MALLEUS'S ASS...

UUUUUUUUUUGGHGHHHHHHHH H HHH H HHHHH HH H HH OTL *rakes hands over my face* My stomach's clenching in anticipation for the conclusion, but I'm not even sure if next time will even wrap everything up 💦 How will it go…? The 10th can’t come soon enough…

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ovrgrwnivy · 7 months ago

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THE WALLS ; JJ MAYBANK

SYNOPSIS ; when an unknown face appears in the outer banks searching for a father she's never met, she's unaware of how her life is about to be completely turned upside down.

WARNINGS ; jjmaybank x routledge!reader, strong language, depictions of violence, afab!reader, sexual content, mentions of abuse, drug and alcohol consumption, strangers to lovers, fast burn to slow burn, canon adjacent, not proofread.

AUTHORS NOTE ; buckle up pookies, as this is merely part one of a multi-part fic that spans as far as the end of season three ( on the fence about season four but we will see ). as noted above, this fic will be canon adjacent, mainly focusing on the storyline as portrayed in the outer banks chapters of the 'netflix stories' mobile app. without any more of my yapping, i hope you all enjoy!

you can't help but squint once you step off the bus, your dollar store sunglasses doing very little to shield your eyes from the burning, outer banks sun. you bring your hand up in an attempt to further protect your eyes, needing to make your way to the seahorse hotel and fast.

a flash of long, blonde hair invades your vision, something you don't think twice about until the body attached to said hair knocks right into you, saturating your white tank top with her oversized cherry-coloured drink.

there's a beat of silence between both of you, behind darkened lenses your eyes bore into the girl before you. if looks could kill.

"shit! i am so sorry!" the blonde apologises, face turning as red as the newfound stain on your shirt. her hand darts out in an attempt to miraculously wipe the stain away "oh god, this is so embarrassing."

a part of you feels empathetic, it was an easy mistake to make in hindsight. another part of you wanted to push past the girl and continue getting on with your day.

"my name is sarah," she continues rambling, her hand still frequently scrubbing at the stain, making it worse "i didn't get your name, well no shit" the last part is barely a mumble, but you still catch it.

an unintentional laugh escapes you, finding amusement in her panicked awkwardness "if i tell you will you stop feeling me up?"

it was a joke, at least mostly, yet sarah froze in horror as the realisation set in. she was feeling up a stranger at the bus stop.

before she can begin rambling again, you speak up "my name is y/n." purposefully, you drop the surname. sure, sarah seemed sweet, but that didn't warrant spilling your life story at her feet.

sarah nodded in acknowledgement, taking a step out of your personal space and taking a proper look at you "touron?"

your face screws up, it feels like she just called you a name you couldn't repeat "excuse me?"

"you're a tourist, right?" sarah clarified, gesturing towards the scruffy backpack hanging from your shoulder.

"not quite," you trail off, unsure of how to broach your new arrival without dropping yourself in hot water "just, in town for a while."

"unlucky you.."

"unlucky how?"

sarah links her arm through yours, all but dragging you down the street alongside her "i'll fill you in on the way."

your protests and kidnapping allegations fell on deaf ears, only being told to stop being dramatic as she dragged you along. eventually, the dragging falls back into you willingly walking with her through pristine neighbourhoods that housed buildings like nothing you had ever seen.

you listened as sarah explained the outlandish rules that accompanied living on the island. the outer banks were essentially split in half, the kooks and the pouges, the haves and the have-nots, the sarahs and the y/ns.

when her pace eventually stalls, you have to tense your jaw to stop your mouth from falling open. you had seen some serious houses on the way here, but compared to sarahs they looked like dives.

"welcome to tanneyhill" sarah beams, but you can feel the uncertainty bubbling inside her as if she was embarrassed "come on, i'll show you my room."

you follow her through the glass doors and into the manor, eyes intently scanning the walls as you climb the staircase "you make a habit of bringing random strangers into your house?"

"do you make a habit of going home with random strangers?"

"depends if they're my type."

your quick rebuttal elicits a laugh from sarah as she pushes the door open, waving you into her room and heading straight for the closet "and what is your type?"

"you sweet on me, stranger?" you tease, your playful tone making it clear you were simply messing with her.

"with my whole heart, newbie" she laughs, the contents of her closet being dropped to the floor as she rifled through it "but our secret love affair must remain hidden as i am a taken lady"

with a dramatic gasp, you slap your hand to your chest and fall back on the bed "you wound me."

"sarah 'the heartbreaker' cameron is what they call me." as you're processing her surname, a white cropped tank is flung at you from the opposite side of the room "now, come on, boy talk"

"what if i wanna girl talk?" you question, holding the piece of fabric up to examine it "sarah 'the homophobe' cameron more like"

as she crosses the room to sit alongside you, sarah rolls her eyes "my sincerest apologies, sex talk then"

"cameron now i really think you want me." you wiggle your eyebrows at her, huffing when she hits you with a pink pillow with a sparkly 's' "hey! watch the rhinestones"

"you know, i was gonna try play matchmaker at the boneyard tonight but if you wanna be like that.."

"you just said a lot of words with very little meaning" you tut, not fully clued in on the outer banks slang.

by now you have risen to your feet, standing between the bed and the window as you changed into the clean shirt, balling up the stained one and stuffing it in your backpack.

"its a pre-storm rager on the beach, the one place kooks and pouges get along. we party as long as we can and when the storm hits, run for cover"

you're only half listening to sarah, instead your attention hones in on the head of curly brown hair down on the dock as it moves along a boat named 'my druthers'.

you barely register the figure by your side, watching just as closely as you were as the brunette is joined by three others, laughing and joking.

"that would be john b," without looking you can hear sarahs grin, mistaking your fascination for attraction.

"routledge?" your mouth opens before your brain can stop it, you knew who it was, but you needed to hear it.

"you know him?"

finally, your brain catches up and you somehow manage to pull a lie out of your ass "not personally, saw him on tv. some appeal for his dad."

sarah bellows out a soft, sad sigh, letting her thoughts be known without saying a word. there's an unspoken air of silence between you, until sarah, literally, shakes it off and stands upright again.

"wanna meet him?" the blonde offers, despite the fact its more of a demand as you're being dragged along once again.

only this time your refusal is much clearer, practically begging the girl to let you go before she managed to get you out into the yard. again sarah is misreading the situation, interpreting your panic as awkward butterflies.

your demands persist, though much quieter as you're dragged further down the dock, closer to john b and his friends.

"hello, ladies" john b's blonde friend greets with a low whistle and a cheeky grin, shamelessly checking both you and sarah out.

for a moment your anxiety vanishes, your entire nervous system sparking still but for different reasons. this might be the most beautiful boy you've ever set eyes on.

this. this was your type.

"you're new" he speaks, gesturing towards you "that's for sure, yet to be a time i've forgotten a face like that." with a wink, he takes your hand to place a kiss on the back of it.

you curse god. why couldn't you have met this guy somewhere else? why wasn't he the blonde stranger that took you home?

"you done macking on the kook?" a girls voice echos from behind him, her words and her expression dripping with disgust as she eyed you.

"i'm not a kook." you bite back, sightly too aggressive for a first impression but you couldn't help it with the look of clear disdain embedded on her face.

sarahs arm links through yours, a mumbled "easy, newbie" falling only on your ears "y/n is new in town, i brought her down here while i found out what you guys are doing on my dads boat." despite her civility there's a challenging edge in her voice.

"lest ye forget, i work here."

john b, suddenly emerging from the ships hull and hurling a snide smile in sarahs direction. you had only ever seen him on fuzzy news broadcasts, he was taller than you had anticipated, confrontational too.

though, genetics could explain that one.

"can we help you?" the girl speaks again, sending your eyes rolling as you face john b.

"can you tell your guard dog to stand down? last i checked one of us was invited here and funnily enough it wasn't her"

you hear another boy mumble an excited "cat fight!" to your new, blonde, hyperfixation as they exchange money on bets.

"seriously? i expect this shit from jj but pope? disappointing" john b tutted, sounding like a disappointed father as he got off the boat "not looking for trouble, just bringing back the diving shit, full."

menial conversation is exchanged between sarah and john b, though your attention mainly resides with the newly named jj. he was leaning back against the boat, rolling a joint without a care in the world.

you try to keep the glances to a minimum, after all you had much bigger problems to wade through right now, but you simply couldn't look away. he was the definition of magnetic.

even when he catches you looking, there isn't a morsel of awkwardness, just a knowing look of curiosity that lingered far longer than it should have.

then, he winks. he fucking winks before returning to rolling with that stupid, insanely hot grin on his face. you were far from shy, and only for the audience around you, you would've jumped on him long ago.

any reckless ideas potentially coming to fruition is spoiled when sarah, still linked with you, retreats back toward tanneyhill. with a final glance back at jj, you hold your thumb and pinky to your ear and mouth 'call me', earning yourself a wink and a crossed heart in return.

maybe this wouldn't pan out to be a total shit show after all.

#maybanksmusings #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj obx #jj maybank #outer banks #obx #obx 4 #obx season 4 #kiara carrera

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hanasnx · 6 months ago

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Dick fucking the reader to give her an attitude adjustment after seeing her flirting with Wally just to provoke him. 😛

MINORS DNI 18+

NOTES: DC is for December Event! — request DC characters.

Ever since DICK GRAYSON shot up past Wally West in height and in charm, there’s been some tight competition for feminine attention. At times, they make the most of it by joking about “sharing.” Wally will even refer to you as “our girlfriend” and Dick finds that harmless until you start acting on it. It’s not your fault, you think, you��ve just been largely ignored. As you know, Wally is starved for attention, and you’re willing to give him a little confidence booster while Nightwing neglects you to satiate his responsibilities as team leader.

“You’re so funny, Wally,” you tell him after you’ve finished laughing about whatever dumb joke he relayed, coiling a lock of your hair around your finger.

He doesn’t notice it at first, believing your flattery. It shows on him, raising an arm to curl his bicep in a power pose while he finishes some story about some goon he got the drop on. You don’t really care, and instead, take a step closer to him. At the sight of his arm, you reach out to palm his flexed bicep and he visibly tenses, his expression softening.

“And you’re strong, too.” you add, your fingers undulating pressure onto the muscle and he’s taken aback. Your hand falls away as his arm drops and his heel slides back as if to gain a little breathing room. “Bet you could lift me.” you challenge, inclining in his direction, and he’s hit with a wave of your shampoo.

“Uh, is this some prank I don’t know about? Am I getting punked?” his nervous stutterings are laced with a sort of hopefulness, glancing around as you slide into his atmosphere.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be so stiff.” you taunt, and it gives him half a mind to reciprocate your advances out of pure habit, straitening his posture while a single finger of yours flicks up his super-suit. Your big doe eyes peer up at him, “Aren’t I your girlfriend too?” You use that inside joke against him, and he rolls his tongue between his lips.

Usually, he’d give in to the banter, partake in a little playful flirting but something felt off—and that feeling was confirmed as soon as the narrowed white eyes of Nightwing’s domino mask landed on the two of you.

“I shouldn’t even be humoring this. I know you were just doing it to get at me—and besides, what kind of a girlfriend does that shit anyway?” Dick rambles heatedly, that frustration shining through his husky and winded tone while he yanks you back onto his cock after you shied away. Pinned down on all fours by the vigilante’s overpowering strength, you’re forced to take what he gives you. Big hands bite into your torso, putting an ache into your organs while he moves you too roughly.

You pick up your head to respond, come to your own defense a little, but a palm spans the back of it to shove you right back down into the mattress. You get a mouthful of sheets while he says, “Shut up,” rather flippantly. His hips pass a bruising pace, and you yell into the blanket between your teeth. “No more jokes, no more Wally, I don’t want any more confusion on who you belong to.” he talks as if you’re someone to give orders to while his dick is lodged up in your insides, shooting an electric shock up your spine every time it sheathes. “You’ve got some kind of attitude problem, some little princess complex and I’m sick of it.”

#DC is for December Event!#indy: drabbles #ch: dick #dick grayson drabble #dick grayson prompt #dick grayson smut #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x fem reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson fic #dick grayson fanfiction #nightwing smut #nightwing x reader #reader insert

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archive-professional-jaywalker · 1 month ago

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Mildly annoyed at the trend of people... Forgetting that many of the strong experiences one can feel about alterhumanity are historically very very common in otherkin and therianthrope? This is not... Beef toward anyone, in fact this popped up bc I checked in on a non anglophone alt-h server, but god. Like speed round. As a note this is gonna be more therian linguo heavy just bc I'm very tired, a therianthrope, and mostly was in therian spaces so it's what I default to but a lot of those are applicable to otherkin n fictionkin.

"can phantom shifts feel like physically shapeshifting"

-> yeah this was an experience talked about not uncommonly on forums. A lot of therianthropes expressed the feeling of "a pelt under your skin begging to breach out" or feeling limbs push out against their skin as the phantom shift took place. Sure a lot of people also feel very mild phantom shifts. Both exist. But this experience is in fact a phantom shift experience. We called ourselves "weres" for a reason. Seems more common in people who distinctly see themselves as werecreatures, but this is not abnormal for a phantom shift, although preferably you should do a doctor check if you feel pain (also an experience ppl talked about, but it's not usually thought of as "normal" just bc. Well that's kinda bad and may hide an injury or whatever so it's better to check mundane reasons first. But painful shifts seem to exist you should just be very very certain nothing else could be causing it).

"I can't turn off being an animal / I can't stop my instincts at inconvenient times / I don't feel suited for human society"

-> this one always surprises me when it's presented as bizarre for otherkin/therians. That was like... A baseline therian experience. Yeah no a lot of us can't either. Usually the difference is that this feeling is at an all time high when in situations where you are constantly pressured to "human" correctly, socialize and have no breaks to wild it out, which corresponds a lot to The Entire Duration Of School and is therefore a more common complaint amongst teenagers than adults. It gets a bit easier as an adult sometimes if you're lucky to have opportunities that let you manage your life around instincts and such, although sometimes, well, you gotta play by societies rules to survive n it stays hard. Also a commonly reported experience. You do learn! But some people are better at hiding instincts than other, some instincts are easier to hide than other, etc.

"I have shifts I cannot control under very intense emotions"

-> "Berserker shift" is a controversial term due to a variety of reasons that span the usual "that's too weird, don't talk about that", the fact you're still responsible for what you do while shifty, or just bc it sounds kinda... Edgy, from a first glance, but it IS a term from our history and a lot of people do report the experience of going fully animalistic if freaked out enough. Sometimes alongside extremely strong phantom shifts as described in the first point! I've heard of people who had complete verbal shutdown and could neither speak nor understand speech, could not walk on two legs, reacted with growling spitting and biting, just the whole thing. I think this experience is a bit harder to find mostly because it's... Very vulnerable, usually. It tends to require less than pleasant conditions, and tends to be very vilified, so not talked about much, but very much something that is recorded.

Transhumanism, species transition and body mods overall

-> I'm not gonna talk much about this one bc I've said a lot in other posts, but there's a reason trans species and therianthropy are super intertwined and it's... Because a lot of therianthropes did historically attempt to transition or at least modify their body and surroundings to their best capacities. The idea that therianthropes, as a rule, mostly do not attempt to modify their bodies seems to me very incorrect.

"I feel a strong, almost supernatural drive toward nature / I feel in my bones I am nonhuman / I believed I could physically shift during most of my life under the right conditions"

-> This one is going to be a bit hard for me. As a result of having psychosis, I have kind of a mental block over thinking too much about it in regards to myself. It's also I think A Major way ppl seem to be confirming physical nonhumanity, so like, you do you, I'm not Telling you anything about yourself. However I do want to note that these feelings aren't particularly rare amongst nonhumans overall. A reason why so many therianthropes got in toxic groups that promised being able to go back to one's true form was... Because a lot of us are deeply convinced in some way or another that if things align juuuuust right maybe just maybe we'll have our bodies again. It's not hard to. Understand why an entire community defined by being in the wrong body would have this trait. A lot of us felt a strong drive toward nature, a feeling of being displaced amongst humans, a lot of us attempted to physically shift.

"I wish I could have my species's offsprings / I feel dysphoria over my sexual functions / I have sexual drives that align with being weird fetishes in a human society"

-> this one is more getting erased due to puritanism I think but yeah no for a lot of nonhumans it. Does not stop magically under the belt. And it's not a problem unless any theriform animal is involved. Yes even if it's kinda nasty to think about. I will however note for the first point "no theriform animal is involved" kinda still goes, please do not adopt animals, especially exotic animals, under the impression that you can parent them as a theriform animal could? It CAN be possible to raise a theriform animal in a way that would satisfy parental instincts if you're trained for it, but we're not special. We got raised by humans, we don't magically understand our species better than people trained for it. Very imprinted animals commonly make poor parents.

"I remember my past life / I communicate with my animal self spiritually / other spiritual experiences"

-> this one is such a surprise to me to see so uncommon now. Spirituality used to be a cornerstone of otherkin and therian spaces and it's kinda wild to me to see it's so rare now. So yeah no that's very much a thing. I don't think I've seen someone soul search for their "true name" in ages, when that was everywhere on old spirituality inclined forums. I can't speak much on this bc I am not a spiritual therianthrope + point about psychosis made before but I've seen parallel lives, I've seen past lives, I've seen future lives, I've seen misplaced souls, I've seen having a chat with your theriotype as a representation of your soul... Awakening seemed to have a meaning of the... Spiritual event of your soul kinda ripping to reveal your inner self for a while, a singular event in which you start remembering. Was very common on an old french forum over here. Not sure if that was as common in English ones. A lot of people's nonhumanity was not as based on shifts and instincts as on uncovering that hidden self through spiritual means, memories, and such.

Weird Shit Happens Around Me ("I can't digest things a human should digest in accordance to my species, ppl have noted my nonhuman traits as if they could see my invisible limbs, animals react weird to me, etc")

-> noooooted in the past but I think these have always been subject to doubt to be fair. Like you can find records of stuff like that quite easily, but also its very hard to prove in any way, shape or form. So that's a reason it's not in the basics of nonhumanity. But yeah historically a lot of otherkin/therianthropes have claimed Weird Shit Happens. Not rly my case so can't speak on it.

And I think I've mentioned what I had in my brain but this is just to remind ppl like... The therianthrope who wears a mask for fun and is only mildly inconvenienced by their animality is not really a representation of the community historically. Weve always been pretty fucking intense and pretty fucking weird. Chances are, if you are experiencing a very weird thing, it's not particularly a disqualifier of therianthropy or otherkin historically. Not that people might not give you shit about it! Pretty much all the points here, while not uncommon reported experiences, ARE in fact also things I've seen ppl be antagonistic about in the community. Which to be clear is stupid. But yeah it doesn't mean you're wrong, it means they don't realize the extent of our experiences.

#therian #otherkin #alterhuman #therianthropy #might be creating. problems for myself by making big posts again but whatev this feels worthwhile to note #feel free to add a non therian centric version of this in the reblogs!#i have a lot of blind spots as a monotherian whos just been that forever

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fawnnlvr · 23 days ago

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IMAGINE THIS spencer reid x academicrival!reader

summary: a timeline of spencer reid and his academic rival turned girlfriend in the span of a twelve years.

author's note: this layout is so different from my others but i am just going to keep it up. this is also inspired by the big bang theory and young sheldon and all the clips of it i watched on tiktok because i did not watch the show. that one scene with sheldon and that little blonde girl who is in every show and movie as a child prodigy. i hope you guys now what i am talking about but that inspired this entire thing. ♥︎

the two of you were born child prodigies with incredible minds that had the powers to rule the world.

spencer was used to being the youngest and the smartest until you showed up in his college classes being just a few months younger than him, yet sharing the same space he inhabited.

your joyful personality irked him to no ends as you treated education and learning like it was just a hobby while it was his life. he wasn't sure how it started but the two of you, at age thirteen, were competing to be the top of the class.

all the other college students simply gave up when it came to trying to outdo the two of you. the two of you were front row and center at every lecture due to the heights and late growth spurts.

unfortunately, the two of you were in many of the same classes despite being different majors. as the years flew by, the rivalry only grew stronger as the two of you competed by peer review when the professors grew tired of choosing favorites. who can write the best report paper to whose research was more useful, even to who had the best coffee order— everything under the sun was competition.

"i decided to get a doctorate" spencer told you one day and you almost dropped your papers, "just so everytime we meet, you will have to refer to me as doctor."

"no chance in hell reid. if you're doing that then so am i. suck it." you told him with a strong fire of determination in your eyes. the two of you were seventeen.

at age eighteen is when things took a turn. spencer had temporarily left to visit his mom in las vegas and get her help, and you unfortunately tagged along because you couldn't do airplanes but needed to get to vegas to visit your sister. meeting at the airport and unfortunately getting assigned seats right by each other, new perspectives were unlocked.

despite gaining an understanding for one another due to all the changes occurring, one thing that stayed constant was the rivalry. in a way, this one constant was a thing that saved the both of you.

you both knew that you were adults and it was childish, but you basically grew up with one another. he was there for you when you were harassed by college frat boys when you turned of age and you were there when he was ridiculed by the same frat boys for being a scrawny nerd.

there were many encounters were you only had each other to lean on and despite claiming to hate each other, you and him always showed up when needed. something that no one else can claim in their involvement in your lives.

now the two of you were there for each other as you each started another chapter of life.

"fbi?" you laughed, "there is no way you are passing the physical tests, spencer." the two of you were now twenty one and both went by doctor.

"h-hey! i can do it. the training will last for 16 weeks. i can improve by then." he puffed his chest out, straightening his posture.

"it will take a miracle or many exceptions, all of which you would need to be extraordinary to get."

"i am extraordinary. i quite literally have a doctorate in chemistry and working on another one — and i have a bachelor's in psychology. all at the age of twenty-one. i would like the see the fbi find someone better than me."

"you're forgetting that i exist." you reminded with a sly smile and you saw him freeze.

"i thought you're aiming for nasa!"

"i am but i might just have to apply for the fbi academy to prove just how much better than you i am." you shrugged and spencer felt even more determined.

"don't even joke about it. i have had to see you on this campus for the past nine years, i might loose my mind if i have to deal with you again for the rest of my life."

"how hurtful." you huffed, crossing your arms as you sipped on your overpriced coffee that you made spencer pay for. "i don't want to see you more than i have to as well." a bit ironic since you were on a small coffee get together with him.

"glad we can agree to something." he stated, taking a sip of his overpriced coffee as well.

"well since we are already at it. do you think we can agree that this meal definitely deserves a slice of that strawberry shortcake—"

at twenty two, it was finally time for the two of you to say goodbye. at least that is what you both thought. spencer was going to the fbi academy at quantico, virginia and you had suddenly gotten a job offer at the nasa headquarters in washington d.c, virginia.

"nineteen dollars for two coffees." he interupted and you closed your mouth. broke people should never talk, as that one saying went that spencer made up the last time he was forced to pay ridiculous priced food.

a dramatic goodbye, turned into a twisted fate of ill-fortune. your letter had came in the day spencer was to leave and a dramatic departure speech unsued for a good ten minutes full of the sweetest things spencer and you wanted to get off your chest before this was goodbye.

you opened the letter before he did his entire goodbye speech and you didn't feel like interrupting him. once you revealed the truth, spencer went all red and felt like fainting but instead had opted to grab his luggage and walk out the door and try to flag down a cab.

it was hard to stop yourself laughter after the small giggle slipped out due to how red he got and you had to chase him down your apartment building. he couldn't even look you in the eyes, averting his vision to the clouds above. taking your hand, you grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.

"spencer, please don't be mad. that was honestly the sweetest thing you — actually anyone, in thst matter has said to me."

"no— it wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to end—"

"i don't want it to end." you told him, honesty clear in your voice as he finally had the courage to look at you in the eye, "i like us— i mean this. what we have now is something i truly cherish and i don't want that to vanish. i don't want to be apart from you."

spencer furrowed his eyebrows.

"for too long i mean!" you quickly added in, "i mean gosh ew, nerd. you will have fbi money soon so that means it will be in my best interest to keep you around—"

you couldn't continue your tangent because he had pulled you into a hug. yes, the germaphobe spencer had pulled you into a hug. this was the first hug he ever initiated and it was the first time you had noticed simply how gentle his touch was as he held you in his arms. you wrapped your arms around his chest without a second thought.

then a sniffle. spencer sort of flinched back, trying to pull away but you clasped your hands behind his back, making it impossible. "are you... crying?"

another sniffle. "no." the croak in your voice gave it away, "allergies."

"you little liar. you totally will miss me and that's why your accepting the position in virginia and not california where your favorite actors are."

"shut up spencer."

"you'll see me in five months. it'll be fine and when i become an agent and i get my first pay check, we can go to that seafood place you really wanted to go but only has a few locations nationwide."

"they have it in virginia?"

"i already checked." he admitted and you raised your head from his shirt to look up at him, teary eyed but your eyes held a skeptical look. then, a smile.

"you were already planning for me to be there weren't you."

spencer pushed you off of him and he didn't respond.

"you know doctor reid, if i didn't know any better i would say that you are deeply in love with me."

"in your dreams. bye liar." spencer waved down a cab who pulled up within seconds.

"see you at the captial." you cheekily stated, hands clasped behind your back as you smiled at spencer getting into the cab.

"not looking forward to it."

"liar!"

he shut the door.

at twenty three, the two of you somehow ended up being roommates and sharing an apartment together. weighing the pros and cons, you both decided that this act would be very beneficial since the rent would be cheaper, the location was in between both of your guys' work places, and it would be more comfortable to live with a familiar presence.

at twenty four, a drunken night had led to drunken kisses. as the saying goes, "drunken words are sober thoughts". thoughts of consequences were thrown out the window as soon as the clothes were thrown on the floor. waking up, the two of you screamed in horror before having a talk about all the unresolved tension and words that needed to be said that one day the two of you were exchanging goodbye messages.

finally at twenty six, you went by mrs. reid.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #fawnnlvr writes

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egglain · 6 months ago

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Letters to Santa

Rating: E (18+) - mdni Pairing: Nanami x GN! reader Content: dickcember day 4 - sexting, at work, desire

if there’s a prompt + character you want to see next, requests are open! send an ask :)

Nanami Kento was a hard worker.

He always clocked in on time, took his lunch at the same time, left his desk right as the clock hit 5.

Which is why this could not happen.

Mouth full of rice– part of the pretty bento you had packed him that morning– he had opened his phone for the first time this shift. 3 unopened message badges lit up his screen. This was always his favourite time of day; the moment he gets to hear your thoughts, to wish you a good lunch.

On his screen, at full brightness, he opened his text app.

hi <3

[1 image attached]

hope u like :) see u soon!

Nanami Kento was a hard worker.

As in– his cock had never been harder at work.

Fuck.

Thick, strong fingers typed a speedy response as white teeth worried the inside of his cheek.

Darling.

Fuck.

***

Taking a bite of your sandwich, you couldn’t help but grin at Nanami’s curt response.

Your handsome husband was perfect in every way– attentive, thoughtful, competent. The only downside? He was uptight. As fuck.

So to swear?

And at work, nonetheless?

You wish you could see him now– even if it was just as a fly on the wall.

yes, kento? <3

You finished your sandwich, calm as ever. You could witness him squirm all day without batting an eyelash– he was so easy to tease.

Five minutes passed; you put away your lunch, settling back in your rolling chair as you scrolled mindlessly on your phone.

Your lock screen lit up with a notification from Hubby <3.

[1 image attached]

Nanami Kento– your gorgeous, composed, responsible husband– was a nasty little freak.

The photo was taken from above, angled downwards in an industrial grey bathroom stall. A spotted tie was trapped between pearly teeth, chiselled jaw working the fabric. A brown leather belt hung open, khaki pressed chinos unzipped and pushed down blonde-dusted thighs.

Look what you did.

Nanami’s veiny left hand wrapped around the shaft of a pretty cock. Blonde dusted his abdomen, trimmed neatly to frame his pale, girthy base.

Fix this.

Now.

Those eyes bore into yours through the screen. He wouldn’t take no for an answer; not when he was like this.

As much as you wanted relief yourself, you knew better than to scurry off to a bathroom stall. Nanami Kento was like a bloodhound; he always knew when you had satisfied yourself (in his words). He did not take kindly to the idea, much preferring to have you unravel on his fingers, tongue, or cock.

This was a test, of sorts– if you could stay strong, get through the day being good, your reward would be so much sweeter than any half-assed release you got from your left hand now.

so needy <3

As much as he played the role of a put-together, dominant husband, Nanami Kento flustered so beautifully under your subtle teasing.

[0:14]

A voice note popped up on your screen. Fumbling for your earbuds and triple checking they connected, you hit play.

Through heavy breaths, soft grunts punctuated the rustling of what you presumed to be his arm– if the soft plaps were anything to go by.

aww,,, touching yourself, bby?

at work?

u just wanna get found

Somewhere across the city, a very red Nanami Kento fucked his fist harder.

[0:32]

This time, it was a video.

The breaths were louder. It was taken low, clearly filmed using his thighs to steady the camera. The dull, blushed head of his dick was slicked beautifully; clear precum welled up at his tip as that big hand fisted his cock. Long fingers spanned his length, stroking his many inches from base to tip. As he reached the head, strong digits squeezed, wringing out his precum and running the pad of a thumb through the mess.

He looked utterly edible.

just like that, bby

keep goin for me

You grinned, taking a peek around your cubicle to ensure you were alone. Most of your coworkers were long gone for lunch, so there wasn’t much danger, though it was a very public space.

Still, you couldn’t help unbuttoning the top of your shirt, snapping a sneaky picture of your chest.

[sent: 1 image]

need u bby <3

waiting so good 4 u rn

You had no idea just how much you affected your composed husband.

Fuck

Dotn say that shit

A typo AND two swear words? Oh, he was fucked up.

Seconds later, it loaded.

[1 image attached]

A shaky photo, taken from above just like the first. His pretty cock stood angry against his abdomen, red from tip to base. Veins strained against his thin skin, dick so beautifully swollen. A sinful bead of his thick seed drooped heavy, mid-roll down his shaft. The ropes of his release sullied his hands, connecting those thick fingers with pearlescent strings.

You wanted to put your mouth on it.

need u so bad kento.

A beat.

Yeah? Wet at work, darling?

Naughty as fuck, sending me lewd pictures like that. What if Higuruma had seen?

I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you, slut?

No touching yourself.

You’ll cum enough tonight.

banners by @strangergraphics!

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ceoofglytchell · 11 days ago

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Haunting me

Summary: The Dance is over and you get summoned to the Red Keep to be the nursemaid to the little Queen Jaehaera. However, the more days pass, the more you notice a presence always lingering around you, watching from afar.

Pairing: Ghost!Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

Word count: 7042 words

Warnings: Post Dance of Dragons Era, talks of death and war, underage marriage (Jaehaera and Aegon III), Reader is described to be female and to have long hair, my attempt at mystery, ghost stuff, angst, fluff, brief suggestive content (it’s about a tapestry), no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is for the wonderful @bearwithegg ! It took me a long time to post this, but I hope you’ll like it! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

It has been months since King Aegon Targaryen returned victorious to King's Landing and reclaimed his father's throne.

Months since the Dance of Dragons was officially over. Rhaenyra is dead, the war that tore the Seven Kingdoms apart is finally over.

And then the unthinkable happened. The king was found dead in the carriage that brought him to the Great Sept. They say he passed out as peacefully as if he were sleeping. His wine had been poisoned, but no one could tell for sure who the culprit was.

Rumors say it was Lord Larys Strong. Others say it was Lord Corlys Velaryon. Still others say it was the king himself, to end his suffering.

But one could never say with any certainty.

A few weeks later, Aegon III, son of Rhaenyra, would be married to little Jaehaera, the king's last living child. They were children, innocent and frightened, who did not know the meaning of the oaths they were speaking there.

They were both no more than ten summers old, which was why they could not rule. The council took on that responsibility for them. But that did not mean they did not need someone at their side.

The Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower, was out of the question. It was rumored that she had gone mad in the tower where she had been locked after the death of her last son. Her servants were said to hear her weeping at all hours. And when she was not crying, she was always talking about the time in her own youth when she read to the old King Jaehaerys.

Little Queen Jaehaera was all alone. The girl had no mother, no father, brother, or dragon. The war had taken all of that from her.

She needed someone by her side to take care of her.

And that was exactly why you were called to court. A young lady from a small, rather insignificant house, who had barely survived the Dance.

It was a great honor for you, as you had never dared to imagine ever seeing the Red Keep with your own eyes.

Even though times were bleak, the harvests left much to be desired, and many villages lacked young men, you were overjoyed to have been given such an opportunity.

A small ray of hope in a hopeless age.

The Red Keep was not what you had imagined.

The halls were cold and empty, the walls gray and colorless, and the people were taciturn and seemed plagued by the ghosts of the past.

Little Jaehaera quickly grew on you. Her large, amethyst-colored eyes were always sad and empty, but your heart swelled every time you made her smile.

She never laughed, but sometimes, when you told her stories from your village, you could see her eyes sparkle or the corners of her mouth lift slightly.

It was a beautiful sight that you guarded like a treasure.

You did not have much to do with the young king, as the king and queen often went their separate ways. You were also protective of the girl. The mere thought that something could happen to her sent shivers down your spine.

You did not want to know how the Dowager Queen felt. On the quiet nights when the moon was high in the sky and not even the trees moved, you could hear her weeping. It was loud, tragic, and broke your heart in two.

It must have been terrible to lose four children and three grandchildren in such a cruel way within the span of four years. The first victim was little Jaehaerys, the little queen's twin brother. Then Helaena, Aemond, Maelor, Daeron, and finally Aegon.

Her first and last.

She was only able to bury two of her children. The bones of the Kinslayer were lost forever at the bottom of the lake in front of Harrenhall, as were the bones of his mount, the mighty Vhagar.

In the villages surrounding the God's Eye, there is said to be a kind of test of courage for the younger people. They are supposed to swim to the bottom of the lake and see the bones with their own eyes. Some left a gold coin as tribute, others tried to destroy the final resting place of the prince and the dragon by kicking the bones underwater.

Depending on whose side these people had been on in the war.

Helaena and Aegon were given their graves next to each other in the Sept, so they could comfort each other even in death. It was the Queen Dowager‘s idea.

You had no connection to any of this.

You had not known any of them, had not ever seen any of them with your own eyes, and during the war, your house had been neutral. Your father did not care who warmed the Iron Throne with their behind, but only that his people were healthy and well-fed.

You had not wanted to choose either. Both sides had been right somewhere, but all that was quickly forgotten the moment the first blood was shed. After that, the flame became a walking inferno, devouring everything and everyone who approached this chaos.

You were glad you were not consumed by the fire.

"Have I already told you the story of Mattis the Foolish?" you asked Jaehaera after you had put her to bed and tucked her in.

The little girl shook her head and hugged her stuffed animal—a small cat—more to her chest. A hint of curiosity flashed in her eyes as she looked up at you.

"Well, listen carefully then. Mattis was a young man from the village I come from. He was well-read, handsome, and always quick with a joke. The young ladies idolized him, and every boy wanted to be his friend. Mattis was sure that the gods would favor him and that everyone would like him. And so he set out on a long journey to confirm his belief."

Jaehaera pulled the blanket up to her chin. "And what happened to him?"

"On his way, he encountered a group of bandits who had kidnapped a woman. She called for help, and Mattis the Heroic, as his friends always called him, rushed to the aid of the fair maiden," you continued, and you could see how the little queen became more and more curious with every word that left your lips.

"And then?" she asked you in a quiet voice. She never spoke aloud.

"He had confidence in his ability to befriend anyone, even vicious bandits. He approached them and struck up a conversation. The men fell under his charm, laughed with him, and toasted him. In the end, they gave him the woman for two gold coins and wished him luck on his journey."

"Oh no," murmured the little girl, already anticipating what was coming.

"No sooner had he set off again, the lovely maiden on his arm, he was suddenly stabbed in the back. The woman had pulled out a dagger, robbed him, and returned to the bandits' camp, while Mattis died miserably in the dirt. He had no idea that she was one of them and that she had only been out to rob good souls like him," you continued, brushing a silver strand of hair from the girl's face.

"And because he put his trust in a stranger, he is now called Mattis the Foolish?" Jaehaera asked you with a smile.

The story was dark, yes, but she liked it. You had learned that quickly after you read her a fairy tale once and she handed you a ghost story from Old Vaylria the next evening. It seemed so as if she liked the morbid and dark, which was why you had to come up with a new story every night that reflected that.

"Or simply because he believed that everyone would be his friend because he did not know any different. And what does this story teach us, darling?" you asked her as you slowly got up from the edge of the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles in your nightgown.

"That you should be careful who you put your trust in," she answered with a nod.

"Exactly. And now sleep well, my little one," you whispered to her before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

You were already halfway out the door and on your way back to your humble chambers to finally get some good sleep after your long day when you heard her voice again: "Do you... Do you think ghosts exist?"

You immediately stopped and turned to your charge, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What strange questions she sometimes asked.

"Ghosts? They are a nice thought, are they not? Your parents and siblings are watching over you, Jaehaera. One way or another," you assured her with a nod of your head.

"Good night," she murmured, turning away from you, whereupon you sighed softly and closed the door behind you.

As you walked through the corridors, you occasionally nodded to one guard or another. They all seemed tired and as if they had seen too much. The war had left its mark on everyone.

Not paying attention to who might be passing you at this late hour, you suddenly bumped into someone.

"Forgive me," you said immediately, but the man simply nodded and disappeared around the next corner without another word.

It was not until several seconds later that you realized... that he had silver hair.

But that could not be true.

The only people in these halls who still had such features were the young royal couple, and they were already in bed.

Later, you told yourself that it must have just been a trick of the light. That the man's hair had simply been ash-blond. But as you looked around the Great Hall the next morning, as most people were getting breakfast or servants were getting it for their lords and ladies, you noticed that you did not see a man with ash-blond hair anywhere.

So who was this man?

You did not want to ask around. Not because you did not want to find out, but because you were not good at talking to people. Jaehaera was the exception because it was your job to take care of her and because she was an innocent child.

Most of the time, you just felt like everyone was judging you, even if you had not done anything wrong. You could feel their eyes on you, and you hated it. You never knew why. You had always been like that. Like the young Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you too preferred to be alone. You were better off alone.

You firmly believed that you had only imagined this man. After all, you had been tired, and the girl had just said something about ghosts before you left her alone for the night.

It certainly would not happen again, you thought.

It had been two moons since you bumped into the silver-haired man that night. You had not seen him again. No sign, not even a hint.

By now, you were quite certain that your eyes had indeed been playing a trick on you. At least, that was what you thought until you suddenly saw him again.

It was one of the few days in which the young King Aegon III was supposed to listen to some of the people's petitions. Of course, he did not do this unsupervised. He actually just sat on the throne and greeted and bid farewell to the citizens of the Small Folk who spoke, while one or sometimes two council members did the actual speaking and made the important decisions.

Hidden in the shadows at the side of the throne room, a figure leaned against the cold, wet wall of the Red Keep. His skin was as pale as the snow falling in the north, his hair as silver as the moon, uncombed and falling to his shoulders. He wore a dark green doublet, which he left open. Beneath it, a blue shirt and black trousers were visible. His black boots were dirty, and a heavy gold chain hung around his neck.

No one seemed to notice him. No one spoke to him.

You could almost say he was not there at all.

But you saw him. You saw him, and you decided to approach him with quiet, cautious steps. He did not seem to notice you, and you had to gather all your strength to finally clear your throat.

"Excuse me?" you said quietly, careful to keep your voice low so the other men in the hall would not hear you. Their focus should remain entirely on the throne.

The silver-haired man—and even in this light, you could see that it was definitely silver, not just pale blond—turned slowly to you. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he looked like he had just seen a ghost.

Perhaps he was not used to being spoken to so simply?

"I think that we have met before," you spoke when he did not say anything. "Two months ago. I bumped into you in the night."

He blinked before something like recognition suddenly flashed in his violet eyes.

Violet eyes, silver hair, pale skin... was he a Targaryen?

Somehow, he even reminded you of Jaehaera. You could be wrong, of course, but they had almost the same eyes. Large, sad, and looking as if they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

"You…" he cleared his throat. "You remember?"

His voice was rough, as if he had not used it in a long time, and the look in his eyes was one of caution. You could not imagine why. You did not look like a princess or one of those fine ladies who took themselves too seriously. Your dress had hardly any embroidery, and your jewelry was silver, not gold. Unlike many others, pomp and wealth were not things that captivated you.

"I wanted to apologize again. It was late, and I was not looking. I hope you will forgive me," you explained your reasons for approaching him again.

He blinked and looked at you for a few seconds before finally nodding his head: "It is alright. Honestly, I also did not pay attention to where I was going."

You thought you remembered his gait being very purposeful, but you decided not to press the issue. He seemed to you like a man who, like a bat, avoided sunlight when it came.

"You do not look like someone who would make a request," you said with a tentative smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you nodded your head toward the throne.

His lips parted slightly, and he turned slightly toward the monstrosity built so many years ago by Aegon the Conqueror himself. A true sign of royalty, and apparently, it also had a mind of its own. People still spoke of how steel rejected the false queen and accepted her half-brother Aegon. For many who witnessed the event, this had been a sign at the time.

"Believe me, my lady, I have many requests I could make. I merely do not wish to frighten our young king," he answered with a grin, which made your knees go weak for a moment.

"Why would the boy be afraid of you?" you asked him instead, genuine curiosity in your gentle tone.

The man in front of you simply shrugged and leaned back against the wall behind him. "I am not sure. I just have a feeling."

You nodded your head and looked at the small king sitting precariously on the Iron Throne, which was far too big for him and almost swallowed him. Silver hair, violet eyes, pale skin...

"Are you a Dragon Seed?" you asked him curiously, turning back to him, only to see that the man had disappeared.

You quickly scanned your path to the left and then to the right, but you found no sign of him anywhere. How could he have run away so quickly? You had not even heard footsteps. What was wrong with you?

Who in the Seven Hells was this man?

This question haunted you in your sleep for the next few weeks. With each passing day, you believed more and more that you were simply going mad. Sometimes you thought you could see him out of the corner of your eye, but whenever you turned around, there was nothing but cold air.

Even with Jaehaera, you found no peace. The little girl bore such a frightening resemblance to the stranger that you once accidentally asked her exactly how many brothers she used to have. It had been foolish and thoughtless of you, as she immediately turned away from you and disappeared into her chamber to cry instead.

She would not even accept your lemon cake as an apology, and she would not listen to any stories in the evening. In fact, she even forbade the guards from letting you in when you tried to wish her goodnight.

You felt terrible.

One afternoon, you summoned the courage to ask a member of the council what the former Targaryens had looked like. The answer you received was anything but satisfactory. They had only told you exactly what you already knew. Silver hair, pale skin, amethyst-colored eyes that sometimes varied in color and intensity, and one of them had an eye patch. You were aware of all of this.

The one person who could still help you was the Queen Mother, Alicent Hightower, but she was rather ill at the moment because she apparently had the flu.

So you were left empty-handed.

That was until you met him again one night. You were standing on the balcony of the chambers you had been assigned when you entered the Red Keep. They were apparently the old chambers of the mad Queen Helaena, who took her own life by jumping from Maegor's Holdfast.

At the time, you had asked why you had been assigned these chambers, since you were no one of great importance. After all, you came from a relatively unknown house, and your sole duty was to look after the queen. You had expected servants' quarters, not such opulence.

The moon stood high in the sky, bathing the world in a silver glow. Otherwise, the night was warm, and the sky was cloudless. It was peaceful.

It would have been so easy to find peace that night, but you found none.

Dressed in a pale green robe and a white nightgown, you leaned against the stone railing and looked down at the city below. Your hair fell in gentle waves down your back, and only now did you begin to understand how long you had been within these walls. When you left your home, your hair had fallen to your elbows, and now the ends touched your lower back.

Although the night was windless, you could suddenly feel a light layer of gooseflesh spreading across your arms and a chill running down your spine. There was really no reason for that until you suddenly heard the sound of heavy boots behind you.

You immediately turned around and gasped in alarm when you saw the silver-haired man who had been on your mind for months.

"By the gods! How did you get in here?" you asked him, placing a hand over your heart. It was racing as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

The stranger, who did not seem much older than you, seemed as surprised as you for a moment before he seemed to recover and straighten his shoulders.

"You doors were open," he said simply.

"No, they are not," you replied, letting your gaze sweep over him. You had never before considered whether he might be dangerous. You had been too fascinated by the mystery he represented.

A small laugh escaped him, and you could feel your heart clench for a moment.

"Oh, I am pretty sure they are," he said before leaning against the stone railing next to you and looking down at the city as if he were its king. He certainly looked like one.

Confused, you blinked and looked back down at King's Landing. Lights were still burning in some of the windows, but most seemed to be fast asleep. Of course, that did not apply to the residents of the Street of Silk, where life blossomed at night like you had never seen before. You had only been there once, and you did not want to repeat the experience.

"And why do you just walk into someone's chambers without even knocking first? Especially since it is the middle of the night! I could have been asleep already," you told him, and you could feel a shiver run down your spine at the thought.

Not because he might have seen you sleeping, but rather because you would not have known.

"Believe it or not, beautiful, I honestly have no idea."

You were about to respond when he turned back to you, and the expression on his face was so frighteningly real that it swallowed the words in your mouth.

The moonlight fell on his features in such a way that it made him seem almost inhuman. Divine, even. He looked like a fallen angel who did not know what path to take. He was beautiful in a way that was hard to put into words.

"Who are you?" you finally asked him that one question that had burned itself into your mind as if Balerion himself had enclosed you in his flames.

A smile played around the corners of his mouth, but it quickly disappeared. Instead, he turned back to the city, and a sigh escaped him. Soft and barely audible, but you heard it because it was otherwise eerily quiet. Other than your breathing, you could not hear a single sound.

"Trust me, you do not want to know," he finally answered.

A single gust of wind whizzed through the night, making the already tangled strands of his hair appear even tangler. It almost looked as if he had last combed it years ago.

"But I do," you replied, taking a step closer to him. Normally, that would have cost you a lot of courage, but that was the last thing on your mind. The only thing you wanted were answers.

"I do not wish to scare you," he said with a sigh. "You would not understand."

A huff of air escaped you: "Trust me, I understand a lot of things. I am not a foolish woman, for a change. I read a lot."

For a second, you thought you saw something like recognition in his gaze, but it vanished as quickly as waves come and go at the ocean.

"You are the one who takes care of my—I mean, the one who takes care of the queen, right?" he asked suddenly, at which you just blinked for a few seconds. That had been a particularly quick change of subject.

"I— Yes," you answered him with a nod of your head.

He nodded too, and while people danced and drank in the distance, the balcony of your chambers was enveloped in a silence that was not exactly unpleasant, but was not entirely pleasant either.

Too many questions remained unanswered for it to be pleasant.

"How is she?" he asked you, his voice sounding as if he knew so much more than he let on. He sounded vulnerable, almost sad.

At first, you wanted to ask him why he cared. The answer was already on the tip of your tongue, but you swallowed it down at the last moment. You did not want to fend him off. No, you just wanted to know more about him. About this beautiful, mysterious man who had been on your mind ever since the first moment.

"I cannot say. Sometimes she smiles, sometimes she cries, but mostly she is just quiet. I try to be a friend to her as best I can, and maybe even a kind of mother figure, but it is not easy."

Once again, he nodded his head, and you could see him slowly letting this information sink in, absorbing it. It seemed like it meant something to him. Like he knew her.

"I am grateful you are with her. If she were alone... she would fall apart from all this," his words were spoken with such certainty that you could be sure of one thing, too. He was not a stranger. He was exactly where he belonged. In these halls, in the Red Keep.

You took another step closer to him, until your elbows were almost touching. You expected to feel the warmth of his body, but as you stepped closer, you felt absolutely nothing. As if you were speaking to the air.

"Who are you?"

He opened his mouth to answer you when there was a sudden, frantic knock on your door. You stood there for a moment, but then reluctantly turned away from him and hurried to the door.

They were locked from the inside, as you said. There was no way he could have entered these chambers from the outside without you noticing.

Your hand trembled as you unlocked and opened the door, only to see Jaehaera standing before you. Barefoot, wearing only her nightgown, her hair loose.

"I had a nightmare," she said without you even having to ask.

You immediately crouched down and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. You were just glad she was talking to you again, even though you had made the mistake of asking her about her brothers.

But just as you were about to hug her to tell her that everything was fine and she did not need to be afraid, her eyes suddenly widened. You had never seen her like that before.

Without a word, she stormed past you and toward the balcony.

"Jaehaera!" you called after her and quickly jumped to your feet, almost tripping over the ends of your robe.

"Where is he?" she shrieked, causing you to look at her questioningly.

"Where is who?" you replied, and then you noticed that your mysterious stranger had once again disappeared without a trace. Again.

"Daddy! Where's Daddy!?" she cried, and you were at a loss.

"Daddy?" you repeated. "Sweetheart, your father is no longer with us. You know that."

But the little queen would not listen. She pointed to the spot where the silver-haired man had just been standing, and thick crocodile tears began to run down her soft cheeks.

"No, you do not understand, he was here! I just saw him! He was standing right here!"

The coin fell. You grabbed the edge of the door to keep from falling.

"By the gods..." you whispered, disbelief in your voice.

Jaehaera wept, and you understood.

The silver-haired man was not just anyone. It was Aegon II Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. And a man who should most certainly be dead.

Weeks passed, and you had not seen Aegon again. To protect Jaehaera, you told her that she probably saw a shadow coming from the curtains and that her mind was playing tricks on her. Of course, she would not accept that, and once again she ordered her guards that you were not allowed to enter her chambers.

She was angry and sad, and you understood why, even if you could not yet explain it all.

That afternoon, some of the tapestries were to be replaced. Many were more than ten years old, and the Small Council had decided to have new ones hung. In your opinion, any change was a good thing. They apparently still wanted to suppress the past—the war that had been less than two years ago—as best they could.

Because the queen did not want to see you, you helped removing the tapestries in one of the castle's many corridors. Thank the Seven, you did not have to hang any of the new ones, because that would have required a ladder, but it felt good to tear the old ones off the wall.

Simply doing something violently helped you release some of the frustration that had been building up inside you over the past weeks and months, like a gigantic wave that threatened to bury you at any moment.

"Just coming and going, ridiculous," you muttered, while you tore one of the tapestries off the wall, which clearly depicted a sexual position. Like the other ten that were already scattered on the floor. "I mean, yes, he was the king, but that is still pathetic, is it not? Oh, who am I kidding? The man is a ghost. He can come and go as he pleases."

"If I did not know you are talking about me, I would have said you were very angry about a lover," a familiar voice suddenly spoke behind you, and you froze completely.

Slowly, you turned to him, still holding the tapestry. Aegon the Elder was standing not far in front of you, leaning against the wall with a grin on his lips that almost took your breath away.

"Ever done that?" he asked teasingly, pointing at the red carpet motif.

Your eyes widened and you looked down at the motif. It showed a woman twisting in a very unnatural way, pleasuring a man while another sat between her thighs.

"What do you take me for?" you quickly retorted, heat flooding your cheeks, turning them the color of a ripe apple.

A laugh escaped him, loud and genuine, and for the first time, you saw his eyes sparkle. He seemed happy.

"I am only jesting, my dear. I did not expect you to be involved in such activities before. Although... are you married?" he asked curiously, glancing down at the motif on the carpet for a while longer, as if fascinated by it.

The way he licked his lips made your heart leap in your chest, and you quickly tossed the tapestry to the others already scattered on the floor. His smile turned into a pout.

"No, I am not married yet," you said, and immediately he beamed from ear to ear again.

"Something any man likes to hear."

Without being able to stop yourself, you raised your eyebrows and crossed your arms. "Oh yeah? And what about ghosts? Do they like to hear that too?"

The radiant sparkle left his eyes for a moment, and instead he sighed and turned away from you to take another closer look at the remaining tapestries that adorned the walls. You followed him without saying a word.

Suddenly, a chuckle escaped him, which sounded like music to your ears.

"I tried that! Before you ask: No, it didn't work," he explained, pointing with his outstretched arm at a particularly bold motif.

"Oh..." was all he got in response from you.

Then you cleared your throat in what you hoped was a good attempt to change the subject: "You seem so happy today, Aegon."

He did not turn to you, but you could see his shoulders tense for a moment before finally relaxing. "You know my name."

"I have told you before and I will tell you again. I am no fool, Your Grace," you said, sounding perhaps a little more serious than necessary. "She saw you."

"I know," he shrugged. "And that is exactly why I was with her just a moment ago."

Your eyes widened and your mouth opened and closed for a few seconds, like a fish's.

"You—you were with her? With Jaehaera?" you asked, just to be sure.

Aegon continued down the corridor, and from the way he walked, you could sense what he had been like when he was alive. Lively, playful, and perhaps a little arrogant.

You would have liked to have known him when he was still among the living.

"I just said that. Yes, I was with her. We talked, and I was able to tell her some things I did not get a chance to."

"I hope you gave her a long embrace, because she deserves it. You are her father," you said, letting your eyes roam over him. He looked so real. As if you only had to reach out and you could touch him.

You could see the Adam's apple moving in his throat as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He seemed so human, so alive, that you wanted to pull him into the throne room and show everyone that the king was still alive and that there was no reason to treat two war-torn children like puppets.

"Believe me when I tell you, I would have loved to. But I cannot."

"You cannot? What does that mean?" you asked him cautiously, yet still curiously.

Aegon did not answer with words, but simply held out his hand, as if he were asking you to dance. Slowly, you raised yours as well and extended it. Your fingers could almost touch; you even imagined to briefly feel the warmth of his skin, but where flesh and bone should have been, there was nothing but air. Your hand simply slid through yours.

Your shoulders slumped, and for a moment, your eyes filled with tears. Here stood Aegon, former king, caught between life and death.

"But at least I do not look like a roasted chicken anymore," he jested, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

You tilted your head, but he was already explaining before you could even ask the question: "My brother pretty much set me on fire with Vhagar. My whole left side was burned, my leg was useless, and my cock did not work either anymore."

"Your— Oh. I am sorry, Aegon," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself, not knowing what else to do with them.

You had once heard that the king loved wine and women more than anything else and spent more time on the Street of Silk than in his castle. So it must have been terrible for him to suddenly no longer be able to do the things he loved most. And sex, after all, can be very liberating in stressful times.

"Oh, never mind, dove," he sighed, shrugging as if it did not matter to him, but you could see the pain was still there, lingering. "I am over it."

"No, you are not," you said with a smile.

"Guilty," he grinned, turning around. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"House Butterwell of Whitewalls," you murmured, unsure whether you wanted him to hear it or not. Your house was not one of those that immediately conjures up images of a large castle and riches as far as the eye can see. No, quite the opposite.

The silver-haired man, whose name you now knew, tilted his head, and you could see him thinking hard. "My dear, I have to disappoint you, but I have never heard of your house."

"I know," you said simply, shaking your head as a gentle blush rose in your cheeks. "That is what most people say when they ask me, which admittedly are not many."

But the former king simply shrugged and reached out as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, but his hand slid through you once again. Disappointment settled in your stomach.

A part of you wished he could touch you. You wanted to know how his hands would feel on your skin, if his lips were as soft as they looked, and if his fingers would be warm or cold.

These thoughts were dangerous, but you could not hold them back anymore. Just like the feelings that blossomed within you and were directed at him. A ghost.

But he smiled, and you knew you were lost.

From that day on, you spent almost every single day with him. Sometimes Jaehaera was even there, but often you were alone.

He often came in the evenings, when most of the lords and ladies had already gone to sleep and you were wrapped in a comfortable nightgown. You would spend hours telling each other things. Sometimes from your own lives, sometimes they were completely irrelevant and had nothing to do with you or him at all.

Aegon now knew everything about you. He knew your favorite wine, your favorite color, silly childhood memories you had confided in him, as well as your dreams and desires. You knew his entire life. His difficult childhood, his youth drowned in wine and women, and his adulthood, which had been no less difficult.

In a short time, you had grown more fond of him than any other man you had met before, and Aegon was sure—for once in his life—that he knew what love felt like.

He did not say the words, and neither did you, but somehow you both knew.

You could feel it in the way he was always there exactly when you needed him, and he knew it in the way you looked at him. As if he had personally hung the stars in the sky and made them shine just for you.

You had resigned yourself to the fact that he could not touch you. If he wanted to, he would say so instead. Imagine me placing my hand on yours and squeezing gently.

He calls you dove. You call him king.

And when he was with you, the world seemed to be in order, even if you could not explain it.

That was until the first letter reached you. Your presence at court had attracted the attention of other houses and their sons. All of them were alliances that should be considered. All of them would give your house a bigger name and fortune, and your father would be able to provide more for the citizens. Your house would finally gain prominence.

Your father and mother were excited and happy, expecting you to make a suitable choice. A charming young man who would marry you and to whom you could give heirs. The fate of so many young ladies.

They could not have known that your heart had long since been taken, and that the only man you wanted and with whom you could imagine a life was no one who could make all this possible for them.

For the man you loved was long gone.

He found you sobbing in your chambers. You were sitting at the foot of the bed, a cup of wine in one hand and a letter in the other.

He was no fool.

You were a beautiful woman and of marriageable age. It was only a matter of time before the first men crawled out of their holes to feast on you.

It was not fair. But what in this world was fair anymore?

"Who is it?" he asked you in a calm voice, hoping he could reassure you.

"I don't know," you sobbed. "Some Lord Manderly."

He knew the name, but it probably would not be the old man he was thinking about. That would make the marriage proposal almost insulting. You were in the prime of your life, and that old fart already had one foot in the grave. The bastard.

"Aegon?" Your gentle voice pulled him out of the raging thoughts he was currently trapped in.

"What is it, sweetling?"

"Do not be mad. I will not choose Manderly anyway. My father at least gave me the freedom to choose one of the men. All that matters to him is that I choose at all," you explained, wiping the salty wetness of your already shed tears from your cheeks.

A long sigh escaped the Ghost King before he unceremoniously plopped down on the bed next to you, burying his face in the soft sheets.

Your scent clung to them, and he wished he could just lean against you, hold you in his arms, and promise you that no one would ever take you away from him.

You smelled of freedom, of wildflowers, and fresh soap. Apparently, you had bathed just an hour or two ago.

"And look, my king. Jaehaera will need her nursemaid until she is at least fourteen summers old. That is still a while, and I do not think she would let someone replace me," you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Aegon froze.

Your eyes widened.

Your hand was on his shoulder. It did not just move through it, it was on him. Warm and alive.

Aegon did not hesitate for a second, but sat up and reached for your hand, squeezing it gently, as he had said so many times he would.

"You... You can—"

"Touch," he finished for you.

Not a second later, his lips were pressed against yours, his hands on your cheeks, his thumb rubbing small circles into your soft, flushed skin.

His lips were warm, soft, and so alive that you could feel the first tear rolling down your cheek. Then the second, and then the third.

"Don't cry," he murmured against your mouth before teasing your tongue with yours.

"You are crying too, Aegon," you replied, and you heard him chuckle softly.

You leaned back to catch your breath, but he was whining and trying to press another kiss against your lips, but you placed a finger on his lips to stop him.

"How is that possible?" you asked him with a genuinely happy smile on your lips.

"I have no idea, dove. But if I do know one thing, it is that I want to enjoy this evening to the fullest," he answered, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"To the fullest, you say? What about my suitors?"

The grin on his handsome face only widened before he buried his head in the crook of your neck.

"Forget them. Your king commands it."

He pressed a kiss against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you knew he was right.

For one evening, real life could rest. For one evening, the line between life and death had been blurred, and you had never been happier.

And Aegon knew this might be the last night he would ever touch, which is why he vowed to savor it to the last second.

Until he was no more.

The Dividers are from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen @sylasthegrim @danytar

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon the elder #king aegon #tom glynn carney

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circism · 2 months ago

Text

for life, featuring tighnari. ʚɞ fluff, mutual pining, confessions, reader is an amurta scholar, injuries (mild), reader hinted to be shorter than nari, tighnari 100% has separation anxiety. w.c 5.4k words.

˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡ circe's note. this is one of many reposted works i'll be doing!! i've been on tumblr for years across a wide span of blogs & different aliases but i've been in a writing stump for these past few months and so i'll be journeying across my old blogs to repost some of my works (namely my faves because i am my own worst critic) so i hope you enjoy them in a new light!

he’d first seen you before you’d even considered the amurta darshan. you were obsessed with nature; all the fauna and flora that there physically could be. you spent so much of your time studying in the avidya forest, it wasn’t particularly rare for tighnari to stumble across you while he was doing his patrols. in fact, you were becoming a highlight of his patrols. tighnari couldn’t help but flatten his ears to his head when he turns the corner and you aren’t sat under the same usual tree you always were. the next day you’d be sure to be there, apologising profusely to the fox as he’d became just as much a part of your routine as you had his.

you found him fascinating, albeit maybe because of his ears and the fluffy tail that protrudes from his lower back but also because whenever he stumbled upon you, he was keen to speak to you about your studies. he was like a walking encyclopedia and you loved it. if there was a mushroom variant you wasn’t particularly strong on, you could guarantee tighnari was. after a few meetings with him, you started to purposefully sit in spots that you knew was on at least one of his patrols. you was hoping he’d never noticed.

meeting almost daily, the two of you realised you’d never exchanged your names. you always referred to him as ‘the fox’ to your friends at the akademiya and tighnari would refer to you as “the student” to the forest rangers at gandharva ville.

“beautiful day for studying,” the familiar voice mused in a playful tone, causing your head to shoot up from your books, “what’s the topic today?”

a smile graced your lips at his arrival, his ears perked and tail swaying in the breeze. your eyes drifted down to the books surrounding you, especially the one on your lap. your smile turned sheepish, letting a little laugh out that, to tighnari, sounded like the sweetest melody.

“actually, i’m preparing my first thesis - i chose my darshan the other day and i’ve been up to my head in classes since.” you sighed loudly and perhaps a little dramatically. tighnari quirked a brow, one of his ears twitching in curiousity; so that’s where you had been these past few days.

“oh? congratulations, that’s a big achievement,” he grinned, finding himself sitting in front of you on the grass, his legs folded and bushy tail curling over them, “which darshan did you choose?”

your cheeks flushed with heat that you blamed on the sumeru summer but that clearly wasn’t the reason. you averted your gaze from tighnari embarrassedly, clearing your throat. you were in full awareness that tighnari was an alumni of the amurta darshan, he was still the talk of the school with them referencing his works. he’s your elder now officially and that made him slightly more intimidating.

“o-oh - uh,” your obvious shift in mood made a smile crack at tighnari’s lips. he knew exactly what darshan you’d choose from the moment he met you, “i’m officially an amurta student.”

you announced it with an ounce of pride, lifting your chin high to which amused tighnari. he wasn’t stupid - not that you’d ever claim him as such. he just wanted you to hear you say it himself, his ears tingling at the words.

“i knew the answer. i just wanted to hear you say it,” he chuckled, running his fingers through his tail fur as you stared at him, flabbergasted, “did you truly think i’d help your studies on the avidya forest’s flora if you were going to run off to an other darshan?”

he found the sheer embarassment on your face funny but he wouldn’t voice it right now, it’d only make your fever and racing pulse worse and he didn’t want to carry you back to gandharva ville with all of your books.

“well…” your voice trailed off, fingers nimbly fidgeting with the pages before you. you huffed a little, your stubbornness coming through as tighnari looked down at you proudly. you avoided the eye contact but tighnari didn’t mind.

“can i ask for your name now?” he hummed, his question causing you to finally give him your completely undivided attention. you felt yourself starting to smile again. unbeknownst to you, he found your smile contagious and within seconds, tighnari was also smiling.

“y/n.”

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“y/n never wants to study with us anymore,” your friend exclaimed, poking your shoulder as the rest of your friend group laughed, “we’ve been replaced!”

she dramatically threw her head back, the back of her wrist to her forehead in an “oh the agony!” moment. you rolled your eyes promptly, continuing to study from tighnari’s notes he had happily let you borrow.

“when do we get to meet the lucky man?” another friend perked up, causing you to choke on oxygen momentarily. you sent a death glare across the table at him.

“there is no lucky man - it’s just more peaceful to study in the avidya forest than listen to dumb and dumber over there bicker all the time.” you nodded your head to the twin siblings, sat looking ever-so-innocent. they couldn’t fool an archon though, all they have ever done is cause mischief and chaos for everyone.

the truth is tighnari had started invited you to gandharva ville. as sumeru entered winter, the avidya forest was prone to less humid thunderstorms and more simple rainstorms with a freezing temperature. he would hate to see you get caught in one at random and freeze to death so why not come sit in his hut? at first it was mildly awkward. tighnari would sit over his desk, grinding up herbs and plants for remedies and incantations while you studied, the hut almost deadly silent other than the sound of the wooden mortar and pestle in tighnari’s gloved hands.

you wouldn’t admit it, especially not to your friend group but you spent a lot of your so-called ‘studying’ watching tighnari. you would watch the way his tail swayed in a rhythm, his hands working meticulously on a remedy that he had recently ran out of - or perhaps he was marking collei’s homework for the week and his ear was twitching occasionally. you loved the way he’d reach up and rub his ear, pulling it down sometimes as if he was grooming it.

tighnari would chuckle to himself as he watched you leave gandharva ville, your books hugged to your chest. he knew you were unaware but he knew perfectly well that you was watching him during your time in his hut. he figured you’d understand his kind well enough considering your intricate knowledge of fauna but he perhaps underestimated how much you knew on foxes. this is exactly why he’d cunningly got you researching and studying foxes, a cheeky smile on his face as he’d passed you his notes on his kind that you accepted happily.

the more your eyes scanned the yellowed pages, the more you realised exactly what he was putting you through. the characteristics of bushy tails, big ears and superb senses… it was all tighnari. the words all began to drown out your friend group’s quarrelling at the table. your tongue poked the inner of your cheek, holding back a smile at the thought that tighnari had done this on purpose. closing his notes, you began gathering your belongings with a new found urgency to speak to him.

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gandharva ville was ever busy on its feet, forest rangers rendezvousing at previously confirmed locations before they set out on their patrols for the day and the odd scholar scratching down notes onto their parchment. despite the weather being beautiful and just the right temperature, you couldn’t spot the one person you was looking for. the occasional forest ranger would greet you as you passed, wide grins on their faces as they recognised you. you’d politely smile back, continuing towards tighnari’s hut.

but behind the leafy curtain, there was no forest watcher you were searching for. your brows knitted in concern, finding yourself frowning as you glanced over his belongings. he didn’t usually patrol at this time of day - in fact, this was usually the time of the day he’d be discussing collei’s studies with her.

“y/n?” the melodic hum of the young girl drifted from behind you, waltzing you around on your heels to meet eyes with her, “if you’re looking for master tighnari, he recently left to deal with a withering zone just north of gandharva ville.”

“alone?” you quirked a brow as she nodded. that sounds incredibly stupid of him, you think as you bid farewell to collei and began walking to where tighnari should ultimately be. you had stayed clear of withering zones, always sticking to the paths when traversing through the avidya forest and it was always because of the warnings tighnari would reprimand you with.

hugging the top layer of your student robes closer to your body, you couldn’t help but feel a sudden chill amongst the air. a sudden rainstorm? surely not. you frowned, catching sight of some dark fur on a nearby branch. your fingers plucked at it, holding it up to confirm that it belonged to the man you’d been searching for. was he in danger? you looked around, scanning the area for any more hints or signs that tighnari was here.

you took notice to how dry the grass was, crunching beneath your every step as you clutched tighnari’s fur in your fist. there was the sound of a bow amongst the darkness, followed by the occasional groan and frustrated grunt. a silence followed. it was like warmth washed over you, bringing over a fever as humidity returned to the area and the grass coloured lush green, the flowers flourishing once more. had that been a withering zone?

in the distance there sat a figure on the grass, shoulders hunched and defeated. his ears were flattened, bloody hands hugging his tail close.

“tighnari?” you whispered. his ears lifted, perked as you hurried over to the male, “are you okay?”

he smiled, grimacing somewhat as his gaze finds your worried eyes. he raised a hand, waving you off as you start searching his body in attempt to find where the blood came from. it certainly wasn’t from the terrors that lurk in withering zones which could only mean tighnari was injured. tighnari’s tail twitched in his hands, awkwardly looking away from you.

“it’s just a scratch, i promise y/n,” he chuckled meekly, clearing his throat as he scanned the surroundings, “although, could you help me back to gandharva ville? it certainly isn’t safe to stick around in the wild with the scent of blood.”

and so you lifted the male up, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders as you both stumbled back to gandharva ville in the most ungraceful manner possible. the height difference between the two of you most definitely did not help. he’d been out long enough now that gandharva ville was basically empty - people were sleeping by now and you’d narrowly avoided the night patrols. you could feel tighnari’s muscles relax when he realised he could make it to his hut without people seeing him in such a fragile state; hell, it was killing him to allow you to see him like this.

tighnari was quick to settle onto his bed, groaning out as he finally let his tail drop and you could catch the gash he had on his side. you scowled, surveying his hut that you had been in many a time now. you figured you’d know it well enough, wandering subconsciously to his desk. tighnari watched, a little perplexed at what you could possibly want by his desk but he watched you tiptoe, fingertips dancing and gripping at a vial of cream on one of the highest shelves. your spare hand was holding your weight up against his desk and tighnari swallowed the lump in his throat.

he wasn’t sure what he found more attractive in the moment, your stubborn attitude unwilling to ask for his help reaching for something or the fact you’d just grabbed the correct vial from the numerous ones on his shelves. he hadn’t even taught you about any of them let alone included you in his remedies.

“how did you know which vial-” you cut him off with a laugh, helping him shrug off his cloak so you could look closer at the wound he’d acquired from being so stupidly bold into thinking he could handle all these withering zones alone.

“i usually end up watching you work when i’m here studying,” you mused but you were embarassed to admit it to him directly, “i remember the time a forest ranger came in with an injury on their calf, you used this one - i can’t forget it because the vial is so pretty.”

tighnari hummed, chuckling despite it hurting him. you shot a glance up at his face to catch him already looking at you as you applied the cream, albeit in hesitant motions as to not hurt the male. you was about to question what made him laugh - perhaps a little defensively as you’d just let out some considerably embarrassing information but tighnari spoke first.

“you’re just like collei.” tighnari said no more and you decided not to press on the matter if it meant you got to avoid talking about how you watched him. you dressed his wound in a bandage, fingers working ever-so-gently and diligently.

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“i’d rather kiss fungi.” collei puffed her cheeks, her lips pouted as you laughed at her response. you’d pulled her to sumeru city for the day with tighnari’s permission. collei couldn’t contain her excitement but she was a little hesistant on the matter, unsure if she should spend time away from her studies. you assured her that one day wouldn’t halt her progress forever and you even promised to teach her some things on the way back to gandharva ville, as her senior of course.

“why not? i thought he was pretty cute.” you giggled, raising your drink to your lips as you tapped your fingers on the table, looking around at the bustling streets of sumeru city for another possible suitor for collei.

“like how you find master tighnari cute?” her question threw you off guard, your eyes widening and the drumming of your fingers suddenly stopping. collei’s smile turned into a tight, smug grin that had you glaring in her direction.

“who says i find tighnari cute?” you huffed, letting out of a dramatic sigh - with sounds included, “kids these days.”

collei simply wouldn’t drop her grin however as she watched the way you looked away sheepishly, the tip of your nose dusted a rosey hue of pink. you were pouting your lips ever-so-slightly and your eyes wouldn’t stay locked on one thing for more than a few seconds. you could deny it all you liked but collei knew otherwise. she had been in master tighnari’s hut while you were also there studying, she hadn’t missed how you sneaked glances in his direction while he questioned her on her homework.

“collei?” a male voice chirped up, oddly a little familiar to you as you both turned in his direction, “tighnari let you leave gandharva ville?”

“oh! mister cyno!” collei beamed at the general mahamatra, leaving you even more flustered than you’d been before, “aha, yes he did - on terms that y/n teaches me too.”

cyno’s gaze flickers to you and you hold your breath, he was incredibly intimidating to you. you’d seen him multiple times around the akademiya on the way to your classes and all you could ever think was how you didn’t want to end up on the bad side of his polearm. yet collei knows him and even more so, he knows tighnari. he catches on to how stiff you’ve turned in his presence but his gaze only softens minorly. so this is the student that tighnari will not stop yapping about in his letters? he isn’t surprised at all. he’s spent many nights drinking with tighnari and he’s heard the intoxicated ramble about tighnari’s quote-on-quote ‘ideal type’ more times than he can count his genius invocation tcg wins - you fit the ramble perfectly.

“so this is y/n.” cyno hummed, wondering if he could stir tighnari’s awful babbling even more by involving you. you quirked a brow but nodded regardless.

“it’s a pleasure to finally speak to you, general - i mean, i see you around the akademiya sometimes.” your words slowly turned into a mumble, scoffing mentally at how you struggle with social situations like these. especially when the focus was on you.

“when you’re actually there,” collei pokes with a teasing tone, “you spend more time in gandharva ville i swear.”

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you had expected all the days and nights writing theses to take its toll on your body but not like this, you sighed as you sprawled out on your bed. your whole body ached as if you had studied yourself to death but today you had submitted your final thesis - the one that determined everything about your time at the akademiya. you’d spent countless all-nighters in the house of daena, buried in books that you could barely skim through with your current attention span.

you simply wanted to sleep for months, perhaps years however that would not be wise if you were about to assume position as a scholar. you’d worked so hard for this, it’d be wrong to suddenly hibernate your life away in celebration of it. despite your mild joy at the situation, you couldn’t bring yourself to celebrate. your body simply would not move, lacking energy you’d have any other day. as much as you wanted to celebrate, you wanted to see tighnari and tell him about your final thesis more.

it had been months since you’d visited gandharva ville and with tighnari’s lack of presence outside of the avidya forest, you hadn’t ran into the fox at all. your fingers twitched suddenly, as if craving the male’s company. you scowled, turning your head to admire the night sky outside of your window. he most likely wouldn’t even be awake right now even if you did drag your sorry ass out of bed but it had been too long since you walked barefoot along the grass on your way ro gandharva ville, basking in the sounds of nature.

you didn’t truly grasp how much you’d missed these minor feelings until you was doing them again, retracing your steps to the familiarity of gandharva ville. fireflies danced in the clammy air of sumeru’s night, summer barely around the corner as temperatures began to rise again. you hadn’t even reached gandharva ville when you landed sight on someone amongst the leafy greens of the avidya forest and he too noticed you. there was a flush of warmth running through your blood like a spur of energy, heart racing at the sight of him again. there was no conscious decision as you ran towards him, grinning at the sound of his laugh as he hugged you tight, the two of you almost toppling over at the force of your hug.

“well look who it is,” tighnari teased, a hand on his hip as you awkwardly separated from the hug, “isn’t it amurta’s newest scholar?”

“how did you know?” you tilted your head, watching how his ears twitched and lowered slightly.

“did you forget that i know cyno?” he hummed and suddenly you remembered well enough, “not only that but disappearing for months? i could only assume you were in the stages of your final thesis.”

tighnari would not admit it to you but the past few months had been nothing but living hell on him. he craved your presence daily, still checking every spot you had been known to perch at on his daily patrols - even going as far as taking both the morning and evening patrols in hopes of seeing you. he knew you could just as easily turn up at his hut but he figured you’d spend your time in a much quieter spot like the ones he met you at but he never found you. there was never even a sign that you had been there.

so he began desperately writing to cyno about you, asking if he’d seen you around the akademiya by pure chance. tighnari couldn’t bear the idea that something awful had happened to you even though he knew you had studies to prioritise. something could have happened to your family, anything. he had to be reasonable. little did tighnari know, cyno had already been keeping his watchful gaze on you from across the house of daena or puspa cafe. he'd kept his eye on how you’d work yourself to death to finish your final thesis - he kept those details to himself however. tighnari was becoming an avid worrier about you, fidgety at even the slightest mentions about you. the least he could do was hold his tongue on things he knew would spiral tighnari completely out of control.

“i definitely did not forget that you knew cyno.” you muttered, looking down at the ground between the two of you. tighnari’s tail swished in amusement. of course you’d forgotten when you had so much studying on your hands.

tighnari wouldn’t know how painful these months were for you, on the other hand. he wouldn’t know how you piled yourself in books only to lose focus the second you pulled apart the pages. the text looked nothing like his handwriting, you’d think, slamming it shut in a futile attempt at keeping tighnari alive in your memory. if you could focus on a book for more than a few words then it wouldn’t be long before your thoughts drifted away, daydreaming of a much simpler time when you would sit on the grass with tighnari and bask in the sunlight.

you thought back to the times he’d mentor you - except he never liked to call it that because he never wanted to take the role of your mentor. you recalled all the patrols you’d tagged along on, your feet aching but you couldn’t care less as long as you had tighnari with you. all so you could watch his tail wag as you walked, his ears turning at the slightest of noises. he was always so aware, ensuring he never got you into danger once. because what would tighnari do if you’d got hurt under his protection? he couldn’t grasp how guilty he’d feel at the mere thought of it.

the silence between you both was deafening other than the small huffs of breath you took from your run to him. tighnari’s sweaty hands clenched the fabric of his cloak just as you played with the hem of your clothes, the two of you blurting out “i missed you” at the same moment. taken back, the two of you let out nervous laughs.

“y/n can i be honest with you?” tighnari asked in light of the situation. you nodded, the rate your heart was going at could break your ribcage, “i really like you - and i want something with you but-”

“foxes mate for life and that’s a big commitment for a human?” you finished his words, a lump in your throat as tighnari’s eyes met yours. he looked bewildered, brows knitting.

“yeah… i- how did you know?” he stumbled his words a little. you hadn’t exactly rejected him so he couldn’t feel down in the dumps but his ears flattened in worry that you caught onto quickly.

“i borrowed your notes once and you’d left that specific part highlighted unlike the rest,” you studied him just as much as you studied his works, you mused to yourself, “i really like you too, nari.”

he didn’t know which part in particular had made his ears perk up as quick as they did or made his tail wag as if it was caught in a desert sandstorm but he admired you more than he had ever done before - not only that but you called him by his nickname. not tighnari and certainly not master tighnari as collei had once got you to jokingly call him but nari. your face met the material of his clothing once more as he pulled you back into his chest, his arms tight around you. he buried his face into your soft hair, drowning himself in your familiar scent that he’d been longing for so long.

at that moment, tighnari couldn’t care about the rustles of nearby bushes or the splashes of a frog leaping through a puddle not far from your feet. he simply cared about your touch and warmth at his fingertips.

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you hummed, tapping your pen against your lips as you re-read the text in front of you again. it must have been the fifth time you had read the same sentence but it wasn’t quite sticking. you were growing frustrated, after all this particular textbook was key to your ongoing research into the origins and scientific families of the kalpalata lotus.

“i can almost hear the cogs turning in your head.” his voice chimed as the leafy curtain of his hut lifted, the fox stepping out into the sunlight with a wide arm stretch. you’d risen early to accompany collei and some forest rangers on a patrol in tighnari’s place, letting him sleep longer than he usually gets. after the patrol was over, you’d opted for sitting outside his hut with your studies instead of hovering over his desk.

“can your brilliant hearing read this damn sentence for me?” you replied with sass, too tired for his taunting this early in the morning. tighnari chuckled, brushing your hair back with his hand before he placed a kiss to your forehead.

“it’s not even midday and you’re like a boiling pot of water on a stove, dear.” tighnari could tease you all day if it was permitted but he knew your boundaries. you sighed, exasperated as you realised you’d began to overwork yourself again. the pen you was holding found its way onto your parchment and tighnari’s lips curled into a smile as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“you know, i could always do with a research partner.” you mumbled into his stomach. tighnari raised a brow, running his hand through your hair.

“is this your way of inviting me to do a research project with you?” you nodded wordlessly in response to his question, listening to his hum as he pretended to debate your offer, “i don’t see why not. not many scholars get to say they’ve released work with their partners, after all.”

#tighnari x reader #tighnari fluff #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #genshin tighnari #genshin impact tighnari #genshin x reader #genshin impact x y/n #:: signed by circe

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