Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Part Three
Text Divider by @saradika-graphics
SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.
It’s him. It’s always been him.
WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.
PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader
WORD COUNT | 24.5k [I'M SORRY]
Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!
A/N | By now it's obvious. I really don't beta read things -_-
She starts with small changes.
She takes different routes around campus, chooses study spots on the opposite end of the library, and declines any parties where she might run into him. They’re usually in different parts of the campus anyway, so avoiding him should be easy. But it isn’t. They run in the same circles, and all her friends know him. She has to be mindful, strategic, careful not to linger in places where their paths might cross.
The one shared class they have is her biggest challenge. She slips into the lecture hall just as the professor begins, taking a seat in the back, hidden among the sea of students. She keeps her head down, her attention fixed on her notes, refusing to let her eyes wander to where she knows he’s sitting.
But she feels his presence, even without looking. She can sense the way his gaze lingers on her, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. It takes every ounce of her willpower to ignore it, to pretend she doesn’t notice, that she isn’t affected by it. She keeps her mouth shut, barely even acknowledging the professor, just so Aemond won’t have a reason to notice her.
But he’s seen her. She knows he has. And yet, he hasn’t made any attempt to approach her. He hasn’t tried to talk to her after class, hasn’t texted, hasn’t even sent a cryptic message through a mutual friend.
The silence from him is both a relief and a torment. On one hand, she’s grateful that he’s giving her space, that he’s not forcing her to confront what happened. But on the other, she can’t help but wonder why. Why hasn’t he reached out? Does he understand that she needs space, or is he simply indifferent?
The conflicting thoughts whirl around her mind, making it impossible to focus. She’s avoiding him, yet she can’t stop thinking about him. She wonders if he’s reached the same conclusion she has - that whatever happened between them was a mistake. Or maybe… maybe the girl he’s seeing is back, and he’s realized that what they had was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment that he regrets.
The thought makes her skin crawl.
It stings more than she’d like to admit. It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. She should be glad that he’s keeping his distance. It’s what she wanted, after all. But the doubts creep in, feeding the anxiety that’s been gnawing at her ever since that night.
Her finals don’t help either. The pressure to perform well, to maintain her grades, is a vice around her chest. She spends long hours in the library, her nose buried in textbooks, trying to drown out her thoughts with the relentless march of deadlines and exam schedules. But he is a constant presence at the back of her mind, and she cannot shake him off.
The final exam of the semester passes in a blur, each answer she scribbles onto the paper feeling more mechanical than the last. When it’s over, she walks out of the exam hall with a numbness that clings to her. The weight of the past weeks - the stress, the sleepless nights, the constant battle to keep her emotions in check - finally catches up with her.
She spends the entire day holed up in her flat, the blinds drawn to keep out the bright summer light. The silence is thick, the hours stretching on as she flits from one distraction to another. She tries reading, but the words blur together on the page. She turns on the laptop, but the shows barely hold her attention. Even scrolling through her phone feels empty.
As the afternoon fades into evening, a slow realization dawns on her: she can’t keep hiding forever. The exams were a temporary distraction, an excuse to avoid dealing with everything she’s been running from. But now that they’re over, she’s left with nothing but her thoughts - and the gnawing certainty that she can’t keep avoiding Aemond.
He’s likely finished his exams too, probably somewhere out there, living his life as if nothing’s changed. The thought brings a fresh wave of frustration. He hasn’t reached out to her, hasn’t made the slightest effort to clear the air.
It’s almost as if he’s content to let things remain as they are. But she's not.
The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that waiting for him to make the first move is futile. He’s not going to reach out, not after the way she’s been avoiding him. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing - that she doesn’t want to see him, that she’s already moved on.
The idea of confronting him terrifies her, but the thought of continuing on like this - of pretending that she can keep dodging him forever - is worse. She can’t live in this self-imposed exile, trapped by her own fears and doubts. If there’s any hope of moving past this, of getting closure, she needs to take the first step.
With a deep breath, she makes up her mind. The decision brings a strange sense of calm, like a weight being lifted from her chest. She can’t predict how it will go, but at least she’ll be taking control, no longer at the mercy of her own avoidance.
The evening sky outside her window is turning shades of pink and orange, and for the first time in days, she feels a spark of determination. She’s not going home for the summer, and neither, as far as she knows, is he.
There’s no more running, no more hiding.
Her eyes settle on Aemond - sprawled across his bed, completely at ease, as if he’s got not a care in the world.
The familiar scent hits her first - weed, strong and pungent, curling through the air and invading her senses. She pauses at the threshold, taking it in, before leaning against the doorway.
He doesn’t notice her at first. He’s too absorbed in the book he’s holding, his fingers lazily turning a page. She can’t make out the title, but she recognizes the Valyrian text on the cover, the ancient script curling elegantly along the spine.
For a moment, she watches him. There’s a strange, almost surreal quality to the scene - like she’s an outsider looking in on his life. His face is calm, his expression softened in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restlessness that she can’t quite place.
“So this is what you do when you’re high? Read Valyrian books?”
“They’re interesting,” he replies, his voice casual, detached. He doesn’t look at her, his eye still roving over the page, words spilling out as if she wasn’t there. Almost as if they hadn’t been icing each other out for weeks.
She doesn’t know what to say. The weight of their silence presses heavily down on her chest. She hesitates, her mind racing, but before she can form a coherent thought, he gestures toward her, a lazy wave of his hand as he adjusts himself on the bed.
“Come here.”
It’s not a request; it’s a command, spoken with the kind of casual authority that’s so inherently him. She swallows hard, the tension in her stomach coiling tighter. Part of her wants to resist, to stay rooted in place, but there’s another part of her - smaller, more vulnerable - that aches for the familiarity of being close to him again.
She pushes off the doorway, her steps slow and hesitant as she crosses the room. The air feels warmer near him, the scent of weed and smoke mingling with the faint smell of his cologne, a combination that’s both comforting and disorienting. When she reaches the bed, she pauses, unsure of what to do, where to sit, what to say.
Aemond looks up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers. There’s something different in his eye now, something softer, more aware. It’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time since she walked in.
He nods and she gives in, sitting down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. There’s a tension between them, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment, but for now, it holds.
She hesitates for a moment, then slowly lies down next to him, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through the thin fabric of her shirt. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make room for her, and as she curls into the mattress, he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer.
His hand rests on her side, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on her skin through the fabric, the movement steady and soothing. She feels his breath against her hair, steady and calm, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to melt into him.
She takes her time, letting her gaze drift over him, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The book is still in his other hand, balanced carefully as he continues to read, the pages illuminated by the dim light of the bedside lamp. He’s so absorbed in it, yet his hold on her is firm, as if he’s anchoring both of them to this moment, this shared silence.
She shifts slightly, her head resting on his shoulder as she glances at the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”
He pauses for a moment, his fingers stilling on the page as he looks down at her. “It’s called The Last Embrace.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”
He chuckles softly at her remark, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through his chest. "It’s a Valyrian classic," he says. “I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies.”
“Hm.” She moves into him, and his hand roves over her clothed back, warmth seeping through. She nestles against him, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. “Read to me?” She asks softly, almost shyly, as if the request might shatter her pride.
He considers her for a moment, then gently adjusts his position, making sure she’s comfortable as he continues from where he left off. With his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close, he begins to read. The words flow from his lips - his voice deep and rich as it carries and fills the quiet space between them. She listens, captivated by the way he brings the story to life.
One word in particular catches her attention, its lilting syllables intriguing. She stops him, her gaze curious. “What does that mean?”
He looks down at her, his gaze tender and slightly dazed. “Gevie means ‘beautiful,’” he explains, his tone mellowed by a subtle high. She repeats the word, her attempt tentative. “Gevie.” Her pronunciation falters, and he gently corrects her, his voice a soothing murmur. “Gevie,” he reiterates, his lips curving into a soft smile.
She tries again, her voice more confident, “Gevie,” and he nods in approval, his hand squeezing lightly on her arm, a touch that sends a shiver down her spine.
The reading continues, and she’s captivated by another word.
“Jorrāelagon,” she asks. “And this one?”
“It means ‘love.’” He replies, his eyes soft and hazy, the high giving his voice a languid quality that almost lulls her to sleep. She echoes. “Jorrāelagon,” but her pronunciation is awkward at the first try. He guides her gently, his voice dropping as he enunciates the word.
“Jorrāelagon.”
She repeats the word again, and he nods, pleased. She doesn’t want to dwell on how pleasing him feels.
When they reach 'Vūjigon', she leans in closer, her curiosity and desire blending seamlessly. “What does this one mean?”
“To kiss,” he murmurs, his gaze growing more intense. She wonders if she’s seeing the slight red on his cheeks, or if it’s actually there. She repeats, “Vūjigon,” her pronunciation faltering again. He corrects her, his voice a velvety whisper.
As she practices the word, the anticipation builds between them. Her body shifts, aligning with his, and she straddles him, her movements deliberate and sensual. The mattress dips under her weight, and she feels the heat of his body radiate through the thin fabric of their clothes. His hands find her sides, gripping firmly but tenderly, his touch sending electric currents through her skin. She leans in closer, their foreheads touching, and she inhales deeply. The scent of his cologne mixes with the distinct smell of the weed. The high he's on adds a dream-like quality to his touch and his gaze, making every sensation more vivid and intense.
“Vūjigon,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. The correct pronunciation flows from her lips, and the air between them is heated and heavy.
His eye darkens with desire as he gazes at her, the effect of the high amplifying his senses. He responds to her unspoken invitation, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that is both urgent and tender. The kiss deepens quickly as his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, the heat of his touch igniting a fire within her.
His hands tighten on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she can feel the hard line of his desire pressing against her. The sensation sends a shudder through her, a wave of heat that pools low in her belly.
This is happening, this is truly happening-
His kisses are a heady mix of passion and need, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervor that leaves her breathless. She responds in kind, her own desire spiraling out of control as her fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as she presses herself against him. The weight of him beneath her, the feel of his body so close, so real, is intoxicating.
With a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, he flips them over, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress. His hands are everywhere - roaming her sides, cupping her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips. The urgency of his movements is matched by the haze of the high, adding a surreal, almost dream-like quality to the moment.
She arches into him, her back curving as she seeks more of his touch, more of the heat that’s building between them. His mouth leaves hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, until he’s tugging her shirt aside, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. Every touch, every kiss, feels amplified, the high making her hyper-aware of every sensation.
He’s moving with purpose now, his hands tugging at the waistband of her pants, sliding them down her hips with a practiced ease. She helps him, kicking them off, leaving her bare beneath him. He follows quickly, discarding his own clothes until there’s nothing between them but heated skin.
His hands are back on her, rough and gentle all at once as he positions himself between her thighs. She feels the blunt pressure of him at her entrance, the anticipation so sharp it almost hurts. She meets his gaze, his eyes dark and blown with lust, the effect of the high making them seem even more intense. He pauses, just for a moment, his breath ragged. “I’m on the pill,” she murmurs, as if sensing his hesitation.
He thrusts into her with a single, powerful stroke.
The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that has her gasping, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he fills her completely. He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressing against hers as he takes a shuddering breath.
Then he’s moving, his hips snapping against hers in a rhythm that’s fast and unrelenting. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through her, the friction, the heat, the intensity of it all pushing her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her own hips meeting his in a desperate attempt to keep up with the pace he’s set.
His breathing is ragged in her ear, a rough counterpoint to the smoothness of his movements. She can feel him tensing, the way his thrusts grow more erratic, more desperate, as he nears his own release. His hand moves between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.
With a low growl, he slams into her one last time, his body tensing as he comes hard, the force of his orgasm shaking him. He rides it out, his hips still moving in shallow thrusts as he chases the last remnants of pleasure.
But he doesn’t stop. Even as his breathing slows, his hands remain on her, one sliding down her body until his fingers are slipping between her folds, finding the wet heat there. He pulls out of her slowly, and she whimpers at the loss, but the sound quickly turns to a moan as his head dips between her thighs.
His mouth finds her, his tongue licking a slow, teasing stripe up her center before his lips close around her clit. He sucks gently, his fingers pressing inside her, filling her again as he works her with a relentless, skillful rhythm. She’s already so close, her body still buzzing from the intensity of what they’ve just done, and it doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build again, fast and unstoppable.
As his mouth works her, his tongue drawing her closer and closer to the edge, he lifts his head just enough to murmur against her skin, “Gevie… ao gevie issi, jorrāelagon.”
His voice is thick with desire, the words rolling off his tongue with a reverence that sends shivers down her spine. She’s too far gone to try and grasp the meaning, her mind clouded with the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving her. But something about the way he says it, the heat in his voice, makes her gasp.
“What… what does that mean?” she manages to ask between moans, her voice breathless, shaky.
He doesn’t answer right away, his mouth returning to her with renewed focus, his fingers curling inside her in just the right way. The pleasure is dizzying, her body trembling as she’s pushed closer to the brink. When he finally speaks again, his words are low and guttural, vibrating against her skin.
“Gevie… beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with lust as he looks up at her, his eye dark and filled with heat. “Jorrāelagon… love.” His hand moves in sync with his words, drawing more moans from her lips, her mind barely able to process the translations as the pleasure intensifies.
Her body arches into him, desperate for more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his fingers working her relentlessly. She’s on the edge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when he murmurs one last word against her skin.
“Vūjigon,” he says, the word slipping from his lips like a caress, his voice deeper, rougher, as he lifts his head to look at her, his gaze burning into hers.
“Kiss,” she breathes, finally understanding, the realization sending a fresh wave of desire crashing over her. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips grinding against his fingers as she chases the release that’s just out of reach.
He doesn’t give her time to dwell on it, his mouth returning to her with a fervor that’s almost too much to bear. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and need that builds and builds until she’s teetering on the edge, her mind a haze. Her hips lift off the mattress, seeking more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect harmony until she’s falling over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. She cries out, her hands fisting in his hair as he pushes her through it, his mouth never leaving her until she’s trembling with the aftershocks, her body spent and sated.
When he lays back down and his lips meet hers, she thinks there could be no better feeling than being held in his arms.
The fact that he may still have another woman in his life slips her mind completely.
Tonight, he is hers.
The morning after, he's gone off for an early class, leaving her to rest. She finds The Last Embrace on his nightstand and picks it up, her nimble fingers turning the pages as she scans his notes scattered throughout the book.
Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for.
It’s the kind of observation she can easily imagine him making aloud, his voice detached yet tinged with a subtle irony. She almost pictures him writing it, pausing to consider the implications of the passage before inscribing his thoughts with careful precision. It’s a stark reminder of how his mind works - always a step removed, always observing from a distance, even when he’s most deeply involved.
It’s so very Aemond, the way he can reduce something as chaotic and overwhelming as love to a mere intellectual curiosity, and yet, in doing so, reveal more about himself than any grand declaration ever could.
A small smile plays on her lips as she closes the book, gently smoothing the folded corner.
She least expects it, but it hits her with the force of a brick wall when it does.
She finds herself at Aemond's apartment again, perched on the familiar countertop in his kitchen, picking at a bowl of leftover pasta he’d casually reheated for her. Aemond stands at the stove, his attention focused on a kettle of water beginning to steam. He moves with his usual grace, every action deliberate and precise, but there’s something slightly different about him today—a subtle energy that she can’t quite place.
Almost offhandedly as he reaches for a mug, he speaks. “I might not be around tomorrow night. I’ve got…plans.”
He says it so casually, the words slipping out as though they’re of no consequence. But there’s a flicker of something in his tone, something that makes her glance up from her bowl, her curiosity piqued.
“Plans?” she echoes, trying to keep her voice light, nonchalant, though a strange tightness begins to form in her chest.
“Yeah,” he continues, filling the mug with hot water before turning back to her, his expression as composed as ever. “Dinner, actually. With someone.”
The way he says it - "with someone" - is so deliberately vague, so carefully chosen, that it sends a chill through her, the pieces beginning to fall into place. The quiet confidence in his voice, the way he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t feel the need to explain. It’s a subtle giveaway, but one she can’t ignore.
“Oh,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl, her appetite suddenly fading. She forces herself to take another bite, though it tastes like ash in her mouth. “That sounds…nice.”
“Yeah,” he replies, his tone so matter-of-fact, so indifferent, that it stings more than anything else. “It should be.”
For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say, the silence between them suddenly feeling heavier, more oppressive. The realization settles in slowly, a painful clarity that makes her heart ache. To him, what they have is just…convenient.
He isn’t even trying to hide it. The ease with which he mentions his plans, the lack of any concern for how she might feel about it—it all points to one thing.
Casual. Non-exclusive.
Then again, he made no promises.
The realization - reminder, if she was being practical - is a bitter pill to swallow, and she fights to keep her expression neutral, not wanting to betray the sadness that’s creeping into her. She allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this. But now, sitting there on his countertop, she sees it for what it truly is.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears as she pushes the half-eaten bowl away and slides off the counter. She offers him a small, strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Thanks,” he replies, his gaze flicking over her briefly before returning to the kettle, as if her words are of no particular importance.
As she moves to grab her bag, her movements slow and deliberate, Aemond turns to look at her. The casual indifference that colored his words just moments before falters when he sees the expression on her face - something distant, guarded, as though she’s trying to shield herself from the truth that’s just settled between them.
“You’re upset,” he says, not as a question but as a statement, his tone flat. He’s always so direct, so infuriatingly precise in his observations, as if everything in the world can be neatly cataloged and understood.
She hesitates, her back to him as she reaches for her bag, fingers brushing over the strap, but she doesn’t pick it up right away. She can feel his gaze on her, sharp and assessing, waiting for her to respond.
“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, even though the words feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “Just…you could’ve mentioned it before.”
There’s a beat of silence, the air between them taut with unspoken things. She knows he’s searching for the right words, something that won’t sound like an admission but also won’t deny the reality she’s trying to ignore.
“You always knew there was someone else,” he says finally, his voice low, almost gentle, as if that can soften the blow.
She swallows hard, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag as the truth of his words settles in. Of course, she knows. There’s always been something in the way he holds himself slightly apart from her, something that hinted at the boundaries she was never meant to cross. And yet, she crossed them anyway, hoping—foolishly—that maybe he would meet her halfway.
“Did I?” she asks quietly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She turns to face him then, her eyes searching his, looking for something - anything - that will contradict what he’s just said. But there’s nothing. His expression is calm, measured, as though they’re discussing something inconsequential.
He doesn’t answer, but the silence that follows is more telling than anything he could say. She can see it now, how he’s always been careful with her, careful not to let things go too far, careful not to give her any false hope.
But he never really needed to, did he? Because she already knew, deep down, that whatever they had was just a small part of his life - a convenience, a passing thing that will end the moment someone else comes along. Someone more important, more permanent.
She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sound heavy in the quiet of the kitchen. “Right,” she says, nodding to herself as if that will help make sense of everything. “I guess I did know.”
She hesitates, the words tasting bitter on her tongue as she adds, almost too casually, “Daeron texted about coming to Oldtown over the weekend. I probably have plans with him anyway.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, and when she dares to meet his gaze, she catches the subtle shift in his expression - a small, almost amused curl of his lips. It’s as if he can see right through her, peeling back the flimsy layers she’s tried to build around herself. The realization that he sees her so clearly, that he understands her attempts to guard herself, makes her feel smaller, more exposed than she ever intended.
His smile fades, replaced by something darker, more contemplative, and the weight of his gaze makes her want to shrink away, to hide from the way he’s dissecting her. He steps closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing as his presence looms large, overwhelming. She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could shatter her if she’s not careful. But she doesn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he’s looking at her like he’s trying to decide if she’s worth the effort of breaking down completely.
The resignation in her voice must cut through him because he shifts, leaning back against the counter, his eyes never leaving hers. But he doesn’t move toward her, doesn’t try to reach out. It’s as if he knows that any attempt to comfort her now would only be hollow, empty of meaning.
She can smell the faint scent of the coffee still lingering on him, mixing with his cologne, and it makes her head swim, makes the room feel smaller, more suffocating. Everything feels too close, too real, and she needs to leave before she says something she can’t take back.
“Look, it’s fine,” she says quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I should get going anyway. I’ve got things to do.”
He doesn’t stop her. He just watches as she slings the bag over her shoulder, his gaze cool and detached, like he’s studying her, trying to understand why she’s making such a big deal out of something they both knew had an expiration date.
But just as she turns to leave, he reaches out, taking hold of her hand. The contact is brief, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to make her pause. There’s something in his touch—something that feels more like pity than affection. It twists in her chest, making her feel even smaller, more exposed.
“Take care,” he says, his voice polite, almost distant, as if the gesture was merely obligatory.
The words sting, made worse by the way he immediately lets go, his hand slipping away as if it never held hers at all. She walks away.
She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before glancing back at him. There’s so much she wants to say, but she knows it will all sound pathetic and desperate, and she refuses to let him see her like that.
“Yeah,” she replies softly, her heart aching in a way that feels almost physical. “You too.”
She sits on the edge of her sofa, her fingers idly tracing the patterns on the faded fabric.
She stares at the shadows, feeling them stretch and distort, like her own thoughts, twisted and knotted.
The apartment is a mess - books splayed open, cold coffee mugs scattered about, and a half-burnt vanilla scented candle that hasn’t seen use in days. The quiet hum of the city outside the window is distant, almost surreal, as if it belongs to another world entirely. Inside, it’s as if time has stopped, leaving her in a stagnant pool of self-pity that she hates like nothing else.
Her mind drifts to Aemond. She can’t shake the image of him talking with his date. The warmth of his voice, the way his eyes subtly light up - it all feels so tangible, yet so out of reach. She imagines him in those moments of connection, and each thought pulls her deeper into the mire of her own emotions. The more she dwells on it, the more isolated she feels.
The room feels colder now, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. She wraps her blanket tighter, but it doesn’t offer much comfort. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting her out of her reverie. She hesitates, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling inside her. It’s probably not Aemond, she tells herself, but she can’t help the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it is.
She reaches for the phone, her hand trembling slightly. The screen lights up with Daeron’s name. She swipes to open it, her heart pounding as she sees the photo he’s sent. It’s Daeron at Oldtown Airport, his face lit up with a smile that seems to brighten the whole frame. A text follows.
Lunch tomorrow?
She smiles.
She waits outside Moonbloom, the café's warm, inviting light spilling onto the pavement. She watches as people bustle by, each face a fleeting moment in the urban blur. Her nerves are a tight knot, and she checks her phone for the umpteenth time, though she already knows Daeron will be on time. She hears his voice before she sees him.
"Hey," Daeron says, a smile tugging at his lips as he approaches. His eyes, as familiar as they are, carry a weight that wasn’t there before. They embrace awkwardly, and it makes her bristle.
Inside, the café is bustling with midday energy. They choose a corner table, its cozy atmosphere offering some solace from the crowd. Daeron settles into his seat, his movements slightly hesitant. She follows suit, their conversation initially faltering as they tiptoe around the more profound emotions that linger between them.
“So, um,” she begins, fidgeting with the menu, “have you been to this place before?”
“Not really,” Daeron replies, his fingers tapping nervously on his coffee cup. “I mean, I’ve passed by, but I’ve never actually been in. It’s...nice.”
“I love the way they’ve decorated it.”
Daeron looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture and the array of quirky knick-knacks. “Definitely. It’s kind of...charming. I guess I didn’t expect it to be this warm.”
She smiles, relieved to have found a neutral topic. “Yeah, it’s cozy. I come here when I need to get away from everything for a bit.”
“Sounds like it’s a good spot for that,” Daeron says, his voice warming slightly. “I could use a little escape myself.”
They both pause, a slight awkwardness settling over them. The menu sits between them, a practical distraction from the underlying tension. Daeron glances at it, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide.
“So, have you tried anything here that’s a must-have?” Daeron asks, attempting to steer the conversation back to safe ground.
She looks at the menu thoughtfully. “The avocado toast is really good, and the latte is pretty great too. It’s one of those places where you can’t go wrong with pretty much anything. Oh and they have a really good cheesecake!”
“Sounds good,” Daeron says, nodding as if making a mental note. “I’ll have to try both then.”
She chuckles softly, trying to ease the nervous energy between them. “You won’t regret it.”
The menu arrives, and they both laugh over the choices—an easy distraction from the real conversation they know is coming. They talk about trivial things first: the new book she’s reading, Daeron’s latest coffee obsession. The conversation is light, almost too light, as if they’re both waiting for the right moment to dive into the deeper waters.
As their meals arrive, Daeron takes a deep breath, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his coffee cup. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this. You.”
She looks up, surprised by the shift in tone. “Yeah, moving away does that to you.”
Daeron’s gaze meets hers, a mixture of nostalgia and hesitation in his eyes. “It’s like, I’ve been so caught up in trying to manage everything that I forgot to appreciate these simpler things. I’ve been trying to figure out what really matters, and I think...I think that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
Her curiosity is piqued, the earlier awkwardness giving way to a more genuine connection. “What do you mean?”
Daeron hesitates, fiddling with the edge of his napkin as he searches for the right words. “Floris and me. You know, things seemed okay, but I was always looking for the next problem, the next thing that might go wrong. I never really stopped to appreciate what we had, or how well things were actually working.”
She listens intently, her eyes softening as she senses the depth of his struggle. “And?”
Daeron sighs, his gaze meeting hers with a sincerity that tugs at her heart. “I’ve realized that I need to take a step back and figure things out. It’s why I came to stay here for the next month. It’s not just about getting away from everything. It’s more about taking the time to understand myself better. I want to be in a better place for her - when I go back, I want to be someone who’s really ready.”
The café hums around them, the sounds of chatter and clinking cutlery providing a gentle backdrop to their conversation. She absorbs his words, feeling a mix of sadness and a surprising sense of relief. “You’re actually going to do this?” she asks quietly.
Daeron nods, a small, hopeful smile touching his lips. “Yeah, I think it’s what I need. Just some time to be with myself, to figure out what really matters. I want to make sure I’m not just rushing through life, looking for the next thing. I want to be present for her, for myself. You know?”
There’s something endearing about Daeron, who he’s grown into, and his willingness to admit he needs to take time for himself. It is eons ahead of the boy she knew. For a brief moment, she sees Aemond in him, and she takes a deep breath before she lets her thoughts carry her away.
“I think that’s really brave,” she says softly. “It’s not easy to take a step back and admit you need to sort things out.”
She wonders if her words are for him, or herself.
Your Starry Sept postcards are at my place.
The afternoon sun hits just right as they walk through the market with their condensing iced coffee cups in hand. The stalls around them are alive with the scent of fresh bread, spices and flowers. It’s been days since she’s seen Aemond, and she ignores his texts and any chance to see him like the plague.
They sip their coffee, exchanging easy smiles as they pass by vendors selling everything from handmade jewelry to antique trinkets. The atmosphere is relaxed, yet a tension lingers beneath the surface. Daeron, seemingly content, glances at her and notices a shift in her demeanor as they approach an antique store.
“What’s up with you?” he asks, his tone light. “You’ve been a bit...off today.”
Now more than ever, she hates how well the Targaryen brothers know her. Her heart skips a beat.
“Uh, it’s nothing,” she says, her voice a bit too high-pitched, betraying herself. “Just...a lot on my mind, I guess.”
Daeron raises an eyebrow, his concern deepening. “Come on… We’ve known each other long enough. You can tell me if something’s bothering you.”
She looks away, her eyes darting over the colorful array of vintage items displayed in the store’s window. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The prospect of confessing her recent history with Aemond is daunting, especially since she had poured out her feelings to Daeron not so long ago.
If anything, it makes it all feel a lot less valid if she thinks of it that way.
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
The question hangs in the air, and Wylde feels a lump form in her throat. She swallows hard, weighing the consequences of her next words. She recalls the emotional turmoil she experienced when she admitted her feelings for Daeron and how vulnerable she felt. The idea of now revealing that she’s been seeing Aemond—his brother, no less—feels like an insurmountable hurdle.
She takes another sip of her coffee, trying to buy time. “It’s just...I don’t know how to explain it. There’s been some...changes, you know?”
Daeron looks at her intently, sensing her hesitation. “Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s okay.” Her heart aches at his genuine concern. She knows she should be honest, but the fear of how Daeron will react clouds her judgment. She finally meets his gaze, the weight of her secret pressing heavily on her shoulders.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s...complicated.”
Daeron’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Someone? Who?” She sees his frown lift into a smile.
“Who… that’s not relevant.”
Before he can interrupt and charm Aemond’s identity out of her, she continues. “He was already with someone, but I caught feelings for him anyway. Then we hooked up, and I worry that I just…”
“You worry that you’ve made a mistake.”
“Among other things. I…” She sighs. “I just want someone that’s mine, you know? It is a bit of a shame that the boys I like always belong to someone else.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to ask you to think well and be honest. Do you know him well enough?”
“Very well.”
“Do you think he’s the type to cheat?”
“Definitely not.”
“And did you ask him about this? What he wants from you, and what his situation with the other person is like?”
“I guess.”
“And what did he say?”
“He made no promises. He said I always knew there was someone else. I… I messed up. I shouldn’t have encouraged him, to be frank. He always knew what it was. He always knew, and I… did too. Just took a while for it to sink in. And… I was slightly foolish in hoping that he’d be just for me… for a while there it felt like… the last few months, it was all building up to it.”
“And you’re sure a fling is what he wants?”
“He went out for dinner with this other girl yesterday. Safe to assume.”
“I guess the question is…” He sighs. “Having as little of him as he can give you… is that something you’re willing to have? Because if not, you’ll have to push him away entirely. Protect yourself.”
She closes her eyes and brings a hand up to her mouth in resignation. “I feel so stupid.”
Daeron places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it takes two to make something work. Don’t beat yourself up if he isn’t.”
When she walks back to her flat that night, Daeron’s words echo through her mind like a fast growing wildfire.
Is he worth it?
She knows the answer long before she even ponders on the question. It is simply a question of whether or not she can handle it.
There’s more cheesecake in the fridge.
She avoids Aemond and his texts for the next few days, her thoughts spiraling as she wonders what he really wants from her if he’s seeing someone else. Every time her phone buzzes, she tenses, half-hoping, half-dreading it’s him.
Of course he won’t say he misses her. He won’t say he wants to see her. That’s just not his style.
She stares at the screen for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she decides to leave him on read. Her heart pounds, but she doesn't know how to respond. It’s easier to focus on Daeron, easier to avoid the growing confusion that Aemond has brought into her life.
They lie on the blanket, the sound of waves crashing below the cliffs filling the comfortable silence between them. The sky above them shifts in shades of pink and orange as the sun inches closer to the horizon. It’s a scene that could easily be romantic if things had turned out differently between them.
“You know,” Daeron starts, his voice light but thoughtful, “we’re pretty compatible.”
She turns her head to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, we are. It’s kind of a shame things didn’t… I don’t know, grow between us the way they could’ve.”
“Yeah,” he echoes, his tone carrying a hint of wistfulness. “It just never… happened.”
With you, she wants to add. I loved you for so long, you just didn’t love me back.
They both know there’s no regret in those words, just a shared acknowledgment of something that could have been but never was.
“I remember the first time I realized I had feelings for you,” she says, her voice softer now as she gazes out at the sea. “I was probably eight years old. That day on the school grounds, when you and Luke fought because he was bothering me. In my defense, I was eight years old and that was the most romantic thing ever.”
Daeron laughs, a genuine sound that makes her smile. “Eight years old, huh? Wow, I didn’t know I was such a charmer back then.”
“You weren’t. I was just an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, you had your moments,” she teases, nudging him with her shoulder. “But really, it was just a silly crush. I got over it eventually. Wasn’t great, but I managed it somehow.” The gravity of underselling her feelings hits her, but she’s not quite upset about it anymore. Daeron is a thing of her past - how much power can feelings from the past hold anyway?
“It all seems silly to me now.”
Daeron nods, understanding. “I get that. I always thought you’d make an awesome girlfriend, though.”
She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”
“You’re cool and smart, and we always have a good time together. But I just… never felt much more than that. I do love you, just…”
“You’re not in love with me. I don’t blame you.” She sighs. “At least, not anymore.”
“You know what I mean,” Daeron says, chuckling. “We were close, and it always felt like we could’ve been something more, but it never felt… right. I think I just always saw you as my best friend.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re practically perfect for each other in so many ways, but the spark was never really there. No matter how much I used to want it.”
“Practically perfect,” Daeron agrees, smiling as he echoes her words. “Maybe we’re too practical.”
“Or maybe too perfect.” She grins, looking at him through her sunglasses.
“On paper, definitely.” They both laugh, the sound mingling with the crashing waves. They’re not sad about what could have been; they’re content with what they have.
She realizes she quite likes it this way.
“Hey, you know what?” Daeron says, his tone suddenly playful. “If we’re both still single at forty, we should just get married.”
She snorts, covering her mouth as she laughs. “Seriously?”
“Why not?” he says, grinning. “We’d make a pretty awesome couple, don’t you think?”
She looks at him, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, perfect on paper.”
“Come on, indulge me.”
“Fuck no. What if I’m actually single at forty and have to follow through?”
“It won’t be so bad, I promise.”
“If I’m still single by forty, I’d rather throw myself off this cliff.”
“Be a little brave for once. It’s just a far off possibility.”
“Ugh, fine. You have a deal.” Just as she says it, she extends her hand to him.
“Deal.” He laughs, and the realization is devoid of any pesky feelings as she thinks this is the best laugh she knows.
Hearty, boyish and pure.
Came by the flat, it’s locked. Tell me you’re okay. It’s been more than a week.
I’m fine.
She doesn’t want to see him till she knows exactly what she wants to say. He’s made his stance very clear - that this is very casual to him, and that he doesn’t take what they have as seriously as she thought. She envies him, in all honesty. Why can’t her heart be as straightforward as his?
Daeron had met Aemond and their uncle Gwayne for a game of tennis at the Hightower Townhouse and invited her - but she refused politely and chose to not dwell. A few days later, he takes the private jet to Essos to visit Helaena during her exchange year and she clings to him in a tight hug before letting him go.
Like Daeron, who has chosen to relax this summer, she knows that first-year internships aren't mandatory. If she wanted one, she could easily get it - her name carries significant weight in the world of art and history. Her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Coryanne Wylde, left an indelible mark on the Westerosi art scene with her scandalous and groundbreaking series of erotic paintings titled A Caution for Young Girls. The collection - now cared for at the Citadel in Oldtown - is notorious for its bold sexual depictions, and is considered a turning point in the history of Westerosi art. That, coupled with her family’s considerable wealth - she has the luxury to forgo work during the first year holidays and focus solely on herself.
This summer, she’s embracing that privilege fully. Her days are spent immersed in books, wandering through museums, and exploring the city. She takes day trips to quaint coastal towns, armed with her sketchbook and ready to draw.
Summer will come to a close in less than a fortnight, and she’s grateful for the rest. As much as she loves studying art history, it does take a lot of energy out of her to channel that interest into wading through a structured syllabus that doesn’t run on her own time or pace.
Mornings begin with walks through the city, sketchbook always in hand, capturing the delicate lines of the older architecture or the vibrant chaos of modern installations. She takes her camera too, and each photograph she takes feels like a small rebellion against the uncertainty that has plagued her thoughts.
Afternoons are reserved for exploring the smaller towns along the coastline. She finds solace in the simplicity of these places—the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and wildflowers, the way cobblestone streets wind past charming cafes and artisan shops. She sits by the harbor, sketching boats bobbing gently on the waves, or wanders through quaint markets, photographing the scenes. She lets the local old women near the port weave flowers and shells into her hair, and wears loose fitting bright gowns that she finds in smaller stalls.
As the weeks pass, Aemond’s messages become sparse. When the texts stop altogether, she feels a pang of guilt she can’t quite shake. She knows it’s probably for the best, that she needs the space to sort out what she wants from him, but the silence echoes in her mind, leaving her to wonder what she might have done differently.
In every possibility, she realizes she wants him. But she never dwells in her thoughts long enough to understand what that means for them.
One evening, a few days before the next semester is set to begin, she finds herself at the Quill and Tankard, a charming little pub nestled in a cozy corner of the city. The warm, dimly lit space is filled with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. She orders a drink, the amber liquid swirling in her glass, and settles into a secluded booth. The conversations around her blur into a comforting background noise as she sips her drink, the alcohol loosening the tight knot of anxiety in her chest.
As the night wears on, her thoughts drift back to Aemond. She has tried so hard to avoid him, to drown out the questions and doubts he has stirred within her. But here in the pub, the memories feel sharper, more insistent. She glances around the room, watching other couples laugh and share stories, and wonders why her own connections feel so fraught with uncertainty.
Her phone buzzes on the table, a reminder of the texts that have long ceased. She glances at it, feeling a pang of longing and frustration. The lack of communication from Aemond leaves her with unanswered questions and unresolved feelings. She takes another sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her, and feels a surge of impulse.
With a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment, trembling slightly. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this, that reaching out might only reopen wounds she isn’t ready to face. But the need for some semblance of understanding is too strong to ignore.
Finally, she presses the call button and holds the phone to her ear. The familiar ringtone feels both comforting and jarring in the quiet of the pub. She takes another sip, steeling herself for whatever comes next.
"Hey, can I come over?”
Despite living a stone’s throw away from each other, she hasn’t seen him in a month - and the moment she lays eyes on him again, she’s struck by how effortlessly captivating he is. Aemond sits at his desk, a stack of papers spread out before him, his focus completely absorbed by whatever it is he’s reading. The dim white light from his half-open laptop casts a soft glow on his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his expression. He’s in his element, completely at ease in the quiet of his own space.
She realizes, not for the first time, that it’s easy to stare at Aemond. Easy, because he’s always so absorbed in whatever task demands his attention. His head is often down, his gaze fixed on the papers, books, or screens in front of him, making it simple for her to observe him without the risk of getting caught. But more than that, it’s easy to stare at Aemond because there’s something about him that draws her in. He doesn’t have the easy, effortless charm of Daeron or the overwhelming presence of Aegon, but his appeal lies in the subtleties.
There’s a sharper, quieter beauty in Aemond that reveals itself in the smallest of ways. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s deep in thought, the almost imperceptible lift of his lips when something amuses him. His beauty isn’t meant to be obvious or attention grabbing; it’s there for those who take the time to notice, for those who can appreciate the details that make him who he is. It’s the kind of beauty that makes her wonder about the thoughts that flicker behind his stormy eye, those that he keeps so carefully guarded.
In many ways, Helaena is much the same. There’s a quiet elegance to her, a softness that’s easy to overlook but impossible to forget once you’ve seen it. The two of them, siblings with such contrasting temperaments, share this unspoken, understated allure. They leave a lasting impression, like a delicate piece of art that grows more intricate the longer you look at it.
She stands there for a moment longer, taking him in - the way his long fingers trace the edge of the paper, the way a few stray strands of hair fall across his forehead. The familiarity of this scene almost comforts her as she leans into the doorway, unsure if she’s ready for this confrontation, but knowing it’s inevitable.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret, barely more than a breath. They drift into the space between them, fragile and hesitant.
“I told you to,” he replies, his voice steady, almost indifferent. His eyes remain fixed on the papers before him, the rustling of the sheets filling the silence between them.
She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “What are you working on?”
“Going through some numbers, drafting reports for Otto,” he answers, still without looking up.
“Did you work with your grandfather? For the summer?” she asks, grasping at the small talk like a lifeline.
“Yes, father wanted me to train with him.”
“Hm.”
The conversation stalls, and she moves away from the doorway, retreating to the kitchen as if the physical distance might help her regain her composure. She rifles through his fridge, finding a slice of cheesecake and brewing a pot of coffee. The mundane actions feel almost grounding, but the tension remains, coiled tight in her chest.
As she watches the coffee drip, her mind races. She’s tense at his curtness, but a part of her knows she deserves it after avoiding him for so long. Still, she can’t help the anger simmering beneath the surface. She left to protect herself, but he’s acting as if her absence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
She walks back into the room, determined now. She nudges herself between him and his work desk, leaning back with her palms pressing against the surface. He finally looks up, his gaze sweeping over her from top to bottom, assessing. His hand rests over his lips, elbows braced on the armrests of his chair. The quiet intensity of his stare sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t back down.
“What are we doing?” she asks, her voice low but firm.
“You disappeared for weeks on end, and now you’re back,” he responds, his tone maddeningly calm, as if nothing has happened.
Her nostrils flare in irritation. “What were we doing before I left?” She’s not letting him off that easily.
“Hm.” He takes a deep, audible breath, the kind that makes her want to scream. “We slept together, and you walked away to sort yourself out.”
“Are you serious right now?” she scoffs, her voice rising in disbelief. “I left because we slept together, and then you told me you were still seeing someone else! Something I asked you about, and you never bothered addressing!”
The frustration bubbling inside her threatens to spill over. She feels like a petulant child, but she knows she’s not entirely in the wrong. Yet his infuriatingly level-headed tone only makes her feel more on edge.
Without warning, he stands up, looming over her like a dark shadow. His presence is overwhelming, and when he steps closer, she can feel the heat radiating from him. His hands slam down on the table on either side of her, caging her in. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and she refuses to break eye contact, challenging him with every ounce of defiance she has left.
“Did you, for once, consider that I may not have wanted to wreck whatever it is you have with this other girl you’ve been seeing? For more than a year too, if I might add?” Her voice is laced with bitterness, but there’s an edge of vulnerability there too, one she can’t quite hide.
“Hm.”
His nonchalant response is the final straw. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” she nearly pleads, her tone wavering. It’s borderline pathetic, and the entire situation feels far messier than she can handle. “You blindsided me.”
He watches her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he finally speaks. “Do you regret it?”
Despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her, that answer is easy. “I probably should, but no.”
Her words hang between them, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushes against hers where it rests on the table. It’s a tentative touch, the barest graze of his fingers, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through her. She inhales sharply, her breath catching in her throat.
He leans in closer, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. She can feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the tension thickens, wrapping around them like a vise. His gaze drops to her lips, and she feels her resolve weakening, her anger melting away into something far more dangerous.
“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice trembling.
He tilts his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against hers. “Wylde,” he murmurs, the sound of her name on his lips making her heart stutter. His eyes darken, and she knows there’s no going back now.
She can feel the tension, heavy and palpable. And then, without another word, he closes the final gap between them, capturing her lips with his in a kiss that’s anything but gentle.
It’s messy, complicated, and far from perfect, but at this moment, he is all that matters.
His lips find the tender skin of her neck, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone. The wet warmth of his mouth sends shivers down her spine, his breath hot against her skin. His hands are everywhere - exploring, claiming, running up and down her sides under her shirt, fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to memorize the feel of her.
“Been too fucking long,” he murmurs, the words flowing like water.
She pulls his head up, capturing his lips with hers in a fierce kiss, a desperate melding of mouths that leaves them both breathless. They move together with a practiced urgency, her shirt sliding over her head, his following a second later. Her bra is discarded just as quickly, tossed aside without a second thought, as their bodies come together, skin to skin, the heat between them searing.
But when she reaches out, shifting his papers aside to sit on the edge of the desk, he laughs quietly, a low rumble that sends a thrill through her. He shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and lifts her effortlessly, his hands strong and steady beneath her. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding on tight as he carries her toward the bed.
“Those papers took me a while to organize,” he murmurs sharply, his tone laced with mock seriousness. If she didn’t know him better, she might think he was truly annoyed.
But she does know him, knows the way his eyes glint with barely concealed mirth as he lowers her onto the bed. The cool sheets contrast with the heat of their bodies, and she arches up into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him down for another kiss.
Aemond’s hands trail down her body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants as he pulls away slightly, eyes dark and intent. She watches him, breathless, as he slides her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, the cool air hitting her skin making her shiver.
He kisses his way down her body, lingering at her hips before settling between her thighs. The anticipation coils tight in her belly, her breath hitching as he looks up at her, his expression unreadable but undeniably hungry. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she feels the tension in her body build with each brush of his lips against her skin.
When he finally touches her where she needs him most, she gasps, her hips arching off the bed in response. He holds her down gently, his strong hands firm on her thighs as his mouth moves with skillful precision. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with pleasure as he takes his time, drawing out every gasp and moan that slips from her lips.
She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she loses herself in the feeling, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His name slips past her lips, a breathless plea that only seems to spur him on, his tongue and lips working in tandem to push her closer and closer to the edge.
It’s a slow build, a steady climb toward something that feels almost too intense to bear.
When she finally falls over the edge, it’s like the world shatters around her, a white-hot burst of pleasure that leaves her breathless and shaking, her hands gripping his hair tightly as she rides out the waves of her release. He stays with her through it all, his mouth still moving against her until the sensation becomes too much and she gently pulls him up to her, needing to feel his lips on hers, to ground herself in the warmth of his kiss.
Her breath is still uneven as she pulls him closer, her hand sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. She meets his gaze, eyes dark with desire, and murmurs, “I need you.”
Without breaking eye contact, her hand slips into his slacks, finding him already hard and straining against the fabric. He hisses at the contact, his jaw tightening as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking slowly, deliberately.
But it doesn’t last long. With a low growl, he pulls her hand away and stands up, quickly shedding his slacks and boxers, the clothing falling to the floor in a heap. The sight of him, fully bared to her, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through her.
He’s back on her in an instant, his mouth on hers, urgent and demanding, as he positions himself between her legs. She wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and when he enters her in one smooth thrust, eliciting a gasp from them both.
He stills for a moment, buried deep inside her, his breath hot against her neck. Then, with a groan, he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way her body reacts to him. It doesn’t take long for the pace to quicken, the room filling with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the bed creaking beneath them.
She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he drives into her, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. His grip on her hips is firm, his movements powerful and unrelenting, as if he’s intent on losing himself in her.
“Ae-mond…”
Their breaths mingle, their bodies slick with sweat as they move together, the world outside fading away until all that exists is this. A conversation is due and far from over, but her mind is clouded by thoughts of him, him, him-
She breaks the kiss, her head falling back as her body tightens around him, pulling him deeper as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He buries his face in her neck, his breath ragged against her skin, and with one final, languid thrust, he comes in pleasure as he moans into her skin.
For a moment, they remain tangled together, their breaths harsh and uneven, the aftermath of their release leaving them both dazed and spent. He stays inside her as long as he can, as if reluctant to break the connection, before finally pulling away and collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.
Her head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear. His arm is draped over her back, holding her close as if to keep the world at bay for just a little longer.
But as the silence stretches on, the reality of their situation begins to creep back in, and she feels the familiar weight of her thoughts clouding her mind. What are they really doing here? What does any of this mean? The questions swirl in her head, tugging her back to the uncertainty she’s been trying to avoid.
He notices the change in her immediately. The way her body tenses slightly, the furrow that forms between her brows. He’s seen this look before - when she’s lost in thought, when something’s weighing heavily on her. His grip tightens around her, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, trying to anchor her in the present.
She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that makes her chest tighten. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the air thick. His hand comes up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek.
Her heart skips a beat as she tries to find the words to express the tangle of emotions inside her. But before she can speak, he abruptly breaks the silence.
“It’s never going to be exclusive or long-term with her. That’s not what we have.” he says, his voice steady but laced with something she can’t quite place. “You’re not destroying anything.”
The words hang in the air between them, heavy and final. He’s said them almost as if to preempt whatever she was going to say, as if to take away the guilt and confusion that’s been gnawing at her since this all began. His eyes search hers, gauging her reaction.
She blinks, trying to process what he’s just said. The admission should bring some relief, should ease the turmoil inside her, but instead, it leaves her feeling more conflicted. The clarity she sought doesn’t come; instead, she’s left with a hollowness that only deepens the questions she’s been grappling with.
“You think saying that makes this easier?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to feel guilty,” he replies, his tone firm but not unkind. “This—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be just us, without any strings attached.”
She bites her lip, the words sinking in. He’s offering her an out, a way to keep whatever they have without the burden of labels or expectations. But is that really what she wants?
Especially now that her heart skips a beat whenever he comes around?
“You were in love with him for a long time. This is what you need. Something that won’t trouble you.” His hand trails down her arm, grounding her in the moment. “You don’t have to overthink it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “We want each other.”
She likes him. More than she should, if a fling with her is all he wants. But she can't bring herself to push him away.
“We can just be.”
She looks up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s none. He’s being honest with her, laying it all out so she can make her own choice.
“You're saying you've been seeing a girl for more than a year, but she's alright with you sleeping with me?”
“Think that's how an open relationship works. Don't you?”
She wants to ask who it is, but she has a feeling that's more trouble than it's worth.
“And what if I don't want this?”
“You can stop anytime. But you won't.”
His functional eye narrows and there's knots of muscle in both corners of his jaw, a slight twitch of the eyebrow. She likes him when he's like this.
She likes when he knows her. She likes that he's indispensable to her. She likes that he knows that too.
She kisses him and goes to sleep in his arms.
Does any of it matter if she gets to have him like this?
The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of pages as Aemond flips through her sketchbook, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders. She traces absent-minded patterns on his chest, the tip of her finger skimming over the faint lines of his muscles, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The dim light filters in through the curtains, casting a soft glow over them, highlighting the contentment on her face. Her head rests against him, hair fanned out over the pillow as she relaxes into the moment, her mind drifting aimlessly.
Aemond’s fingers lazily flip through the pages filled with rough pencil strokes, some finished, others abandoned halfway. His gaze pauses on one drawing in particular - a silhouette of a woman standing at the edge of the sea, her figure gazing out toward the endless horizon.
He runs his thumb over the page, his voice low. “What’s this one?”
She turns her head, glancing at the sketch. Her lips curve into a small smile, though her mind drifts back to the scene that had inspired it. “I was hanging out at the Sunset Sea for a few days. I’d been studying Jaeron of Lys in my class with Professor Rivers, you know, the old painter?” He shifts slightly, and she shifts along with him. “His work was all about those distant, far-off humans in his portraits, always framed by these huge, sweeping landscapes.”
Aemond listens intently, his fingers still resting on the paper as she speaks. He turns his head slightly toward her, encouraging her to continue.
“It’s why his work is so widely discussed. The people in his paintings are always so still. Silent. You barely notice them at first, almost like they’re not even the focus. But the longer you look, the more you wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. He made the audience do the work to comprehend them.”
Aemond’s brow furrows slightly, intrigued by the thought. “I’ve seen some of his work in the books. There’s this tension in it, like the figures are waiting for something, even though the rest of the world moves on around them.”
She nods. “Exactly. That tension is what makes it brilliant. What’s even more tragic, though, is what happened to him.” Her voice softens, the weight of the story pulling her deeper into it.
“Jaeron went blind in his later years. He couldn’t paint, couldn’t create for years. The grief of not being able to see art, beauty… it destroyed him. He never touched a brush again, not until he was on his deathbed. And even then, he wished for one last chance to paint.”
Aemond turns fully to face her now, propping his head on his hand, captivated by the story. “And did he?”
She nods, her gaze distant as she recalls the details from her class. “He did. Blind and frail, he recreated his first-ever painting—a woman looking into the sea. It was perfect, down to the smallest detail. His final masterpiece.”
“The class was about muscle memory in art,” she continues softly. “How creativity, no matter how burnt out you feel, is what makes you… you. Even after all that time, even when he couldn’t see, his body remembered. His hands knew the strokes, the curves, like he’d never left it.”
“Hm.” Aemond’s noncommittal sound hums through the air as she turns her head, her eyes searching his face. “It is,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I think about that sometimes - how you can leave something behind, but when you pick it back up… it’s like it never left you either. You just know.”
His thumb traces slow, soothing circles over her hand, his attention fully on her as she sighs, lost in thought.
“A lot of it translates into real life,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Like cycling, or swimming… even driving. Things that require focus and rhythm.”
She pauses, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s like learning to be in sync with something, or someone.”
Aemond’s eyebrow quirks up slightly at her words, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze as she drops her eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. She presses on, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Like how we didn’t see each other for the entire summer,” she says, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin, “but when we came back together… the chemistry, whatever it is. It was there. You didn’t forget what I liked, and I didn’t forget either.”
Her words hang in the air, the silence stretching. She feels a pang of doubt, wondering if her attempt at lightness had been too blunt, too revealing, too… stupid. She glances up at him, ready to brush it off, but Aemond is staring straight ahead, his fingers threading gently through her hair, the weight of his thoughts visible. She can see the wheels turn in his head.
“I wouldn’t want to forget anything about you,” he says. His voice settles deep within her chest.
Her breath catches, and for a moment, she’s at a loss for words, the intensity of his statement catching her off guard. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks, and she feels the fluttering in her chest threaten to overwhelm her.
Desperate to lighten the mood, to distract herself from the way his words made her feel, she lets out a shaky laugh, trying to mask her flustered mind. “You’re being fucking pretentious now,” she jokes, but her voice betrays her, a bit too breathless, a bit too forced.
Why say things like that if you don't mean them?
Aemond doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze steady on hers. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at her with a quiet intensity that makes her heart race. The flutter in her chest doesn’t fade, and the realization hits her, taking her down with the force of a well-aimed punch to the gut.
He’s seen right through her.
When she wakes, she glances at the clock—her classes start in an hour or so, but Aemond's are earlier, and he’s already gone. The quiet of the apartment feels warm, almost comforting.
She heads to the bathroom and steps into the shower. As the steam fogs up the glass, she notices faint traces of where his fingers must have absently brushed across the condensation, drawing random patterns.
Proof that this isn’t a dream, he was hers last night.
After her shower, she rummages through his cupboard to find something to wear, but instead finds a shirt she left behind long ago, forgotten until now. She pulls it on, feeling the fabric cling to her still-damp skin, and shimmies into the same pants from yesterday. The hunger hits her suddenly, and she practically inhales the toast, eggs and coffee, savoring every bite.
As she prepares to leave, she looks for the keys to lock the apartment. By the keystand, a small note catches her eye. She picks it up, her heart giving a small flutter as she reads the familiar handwriting.
Remember your postcards.
She finds the small stack right next to the note and smiles. She picks it up and almost walks out, before she walks back in and takes the note along with her too.
They sit across from each other at one of the long, narrow tables, the polished wood catching the golden hour light filtering through the tall windows.
Months have passed, and classes have begun again. Their time together has been good, even great, filled with moments that make her heart flutter more often than she’d care to admit. But with each passing day, a nagging feeling settles deeper in her chest - a constant reminder that they’re not dating, that her feelings for him shouldn’t matter. It’s something she has to tell herself over and over, especially when he does something that makes her smile in his own subtle way.
She’s focused on her laptop, typing away at her latest assignment, but her concentration wavers every now and then. She can’t help but sneak glances at Aemond, who’s engrossed in one of his textbooks, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugs at something deep within her.
Every so often, his foot nudges hers lightly under the table, a small gesture that sends a tingling sensation up her spine. It’s almost as if he does it without thinking, but the effect on her is anything but casual. She tries to keep her mind on her work, but the reminders keep coming - small touches that feel too intimate, like the brush of his hand against hers when they both reach for their coffee, or the way he sometimes squeezes her knee under the table, just for a moment, before going back to his reading as if nothing happened.
The thoughts swirl in her mind, making it harder and harder to focus. She needs a break, something to pull her away from these confusing feelings. So, she stands up, mumbling about needing a book for her research. Aemond doesn’t look up, but she can feel his presence, his quiet attention, as she walks away from the table.
She wanders through the rows of books, her fingers brushing along the spines as she tries to steady her thoughts. The library’s quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of conversation. She’s been walking for a few minutes when she suddenly stops, feeling a familiar presence behind her.
His shadow falls over her, unmistakable in its solidity, in the way it looms, tall and certain. Even without turning, she knows it’s Aemond. There’s something about the way he stands, the way his silhouette feels different from anyone else’s—broader, more composed, with an intensity that seems to fill the space around him.
She senses him draw closer, the warmth of his body pressing gently against her back. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels his hand brush her hair aside, the strands falling softly over her shoulder. Aemond’s fingers graze the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He leans in, his lips just barely touching her skin, teasing her with featherlight kisses that make her knees go weak.
“Hi,” she faintly murmurs. He grumbles just slightly, his voice low and rough in her ear, laced with a quiet amusement that makes her heart skip a beat. His breath is hot against her skin, and she can feel the faint rumble of his laugh as his lips travel along the curve of her neck.
Her breath catches as one of his hands slides under her skirt, fingers brushing over the curve of her ass, squeezing lightly before venturing lower, teasing the sensitive skin at the top of her thigh. The other hand moves up, slipping beneath her shirt. His touch is firm, confident, as his fingers trace over the fabric of her bra, finding the sensitive peaks of her nipples. He brushes over them, his touch sending a shudder through her that she can’t hide.
“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice a mix of plea and warning, but it only makes him smile against her skin.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says softly, his voice full of a challenge she’s not sure she can meet. His fingers pinch lightly, just enough to make her gasp, the sound swallowed by his quiet groan of approval.
But she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, she leans back into him, her body betraying her mind as it seeks more of his touch. His hand on her ass tightens, pulling her against him, and she feels the heat of him, the way he presses against her as if he can’t get close enough.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, his lips trailing back up to her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “You know that, right?”
She nods, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as his hand beneath her shirt continues its slow, deliberate torment.
“Say the word,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that makes her insides twist with want. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”
But the words won’t come. Instead, she turns her head slightly, catching his gaze out of the corner of her eye, the intensity there stealing whatever resolve she thought she had. His eyes are dark, filled with something deep and consuming, and it’s in that moment she knows she’s lost.
“Aemond…” she breathes again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s an invitation, and he knows it. His hand leaves her ass, sliding around to her front, pulling her even closer, and she feels the low, satisfied hum in his chest as he kisses the side of her neck, harder this time, more insistent.
The hand slides further down, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His fingers move with agonizing slowness, tracing the curve of her before dipping into the heat between her thighs. She bites down on her lip, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes her as his fingers brush over her entrance.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice thick with desire. His fingers start to move in slow, deliberate circles, teasing and tormenting her with a touch that’s just enough to make her want more but not enough to satisfy the growing ache inside her.
She grips the edge of the bookshelf in front of her, knuckles turning white as she tries to stay quiet, but every slow, precise movement of his fingers makes it harder. Her breath hitches in her throat as he presses harder, moving against her in a way that makes her whole body tense with need.
“Please, Aemond,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she’s feeling. She wants more, needs more, and she knows he can give it to her.
A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest as he withdraws his hand, making her whimper at the loss. But before she can protest, he’s turning her around, his movements quick and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for this just as much as she has.
He pushes her back against the shelves, his body pressing into hers, trapping her between the cool wood and his heat. His mouth is on hers before she can say anything else, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing the moan that escapes her as he reaches between them to tug her panties down. His fingers work deftly, the fabric falling to the floor around her ankles as he frees himself from his pants.
He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze dark and filled with something primal. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I quite like it when you scream.”
Her breath catches at his words, the anticipation tightening in her stomach as he leans in, his lips brushing against her ear. “But you’re going to have to be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”
He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s lifting her leg, wrapping it around his waist as he guides himself to her entrance. She gasps as he pushes into her slowly, stretching her inch by inch in a way that feels both torturous and utterly perfect.
She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to bear as he fills her completely. His hand slides under her shirt again, pushing the fabric up and palming her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a way that makes her arch against him, her body desperate for more of his touch.
He begins to move, thrusting into her with a slow, steady rhythm that has her head spinning. Each movement is deliberate, controlled, as if he’s savoring every moment, every sound she makes. She can’t help the small moans that escape her, each one muffled against his shoulder as she clings to him, her body trembling with the force of her need.
But even her attempts to stay quiet aren’t enough to satisfy him. He kisses her again, harder this time, swallowing her cries as he picks up the pace, his hips snapping against hers with a force that makes the bookshelf behind her rattle. The sounds of the library fade away, leaving only the echo of their ragged breaths and the wet, slick sounds of their bodies moving together.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips brushing against her ear as he pounds into her, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.
She can feel the tension building inside her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Her fingers dig into his back, holding on to him like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.
“I need you,” she gasps, her voice a desperate whisper against his neck. “Please, Aemond… don’t stop.” The thrill of being caught only seems to make her want more.
His response is a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down her spine. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot inside her, and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge, every nerve in her body alight with sensation.
“Come for me,” he whispers, his voice a dark command that she can’t resist.
And she does. Her body shatters around him, her release crashing over her in waves that leave her trembling and breathless. He kisses her again, swallowing her cries as he thrusts into her harder, faster, riding out her orgasm until she’s nothing but a quivering mess in his arms.
Aemond isn’t far behind. With a few more powerful thrusts, he buries himself deep inside her, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, groaning her name against her lips as he spills into her.
They stay like that for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together as they come down from the high. He kisses her softly, his lips lingering on hers as if he’s reluctant to pull away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them, lost in the aftermath of what they’ve just shared.
When he finally pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite place, something intense and raw that makes her heart skip a beat. He smooths her hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her adjust her clothes, his touch now tender, almost reverent.
When she’s done with adjusting herself, she brings her hands over her mouth and lets out a long, shuddering breath - disbelief, over what they’d just done. He seems quite unfazed, almost as if he constantly engages in semi-public sex and she can’t help but wonder.
Has he done this with her too?
When he pulls her into his chest with an arm over her shoulder, she smiles. She smiles and smiles and smiles until her lips go taut and her dimples are seemingly permanent.
Aemond pushes open the door to her room, stepping inside with a quiet creak of the hinges. He pauses, his gaze taking in the chaos that greets him: clothes scattered across the floor, stacks of books and sketch pads teetering on the edge of her desk, and an assortment of half-packed bags and boxes cluttering every available surface.
Raising an eyebrow, he surveys the scene with amusement. “You’ve been busy,” he says, his tone both teasing and intrigued.
She glances up from where she is hunched over a suitcase, her hands busy stuffing garments into it with an absentminded efficiency. “I am,” she says with a sigh, straightening up and brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m packing to go back home next week. One of my older half-brothers is launching his business, and my dad called me today. He’s got plane tickets for me, so I thought I’d just stay at King’s Landing until the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”
Her eyes flicker over to him, a hint of apology in them as if she were embarrassed by the state of her room. “I’m taking my classes online while I’m there.”
Aemond hums, his gaze drifting to the cluttered bed as he sits at the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, still processing her news. “You’ll be gone for three weeks.”
She leaves the mess behind and stands in front of him, between his legs. Almost as though it’s second nature, she straddles him, her legs wrapping around his waist. His hands settle on her hips, holding her in place, and she smiles. “Yes, whatever will you do without me?”
Aemond’s grip tightens around her hips as she straddles him. He lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. Without a word, she leans down, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.
It’s gentle at first. His hands roam up her back, steadying her against him, while her fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the sharp angles beneath her touch. She melts into him, savoring the warmth of his chest and the familiar feel of his arms around her.
Her mind betrays her, hitting her with the sudden realization of how much she cares for him - how her feelings have resurfaced in full force despite everything. She told herself before that this was casual, but now, pressed against him, it's impossible to ignore the tenderness of the moment, how much it means to her.
Just as she's about to lose herself entirely, Aemond pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks softly. “Come with me… to the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”
She blinks, his words cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “What?”
He meets her eyes, his thumb stroking her side. “Come with me.”
“As your date?” She raises her eyebrows, knowing very well that going with him to public events is probably not a safe bet to make.
“As whatever you’d like.”
Her heart skips a beat, the invitation sending a flutter through her chest. For a moment, she hesitates, her mind whirling. She can see herself there, on his arm, but doubt quickly gnaws at her. What about the other woman? The one she knows he’s seeing? Wouldn't that complicate things further?
But she pushes the thoughts aside, smiling softly at him as she whispers, “Okay.”
Before she can overthink it, she leans down and kisses him again, her lips urgent against his, as though trying to drown out the uncertainty lingering in her mind. But as the kiss deepens, the doubt creeps back in. Can she really be the girl on his arm without stirring up more trouble? Will his other entanglements only complicate things further? What are they even doing?
She can’t shake the feeling that it’s not as simple as he makes it sound.
Pulling back from the kiss, her breath still mingling with his, her fingers still on his chest. The question that’s been nagging at the back of her mind breaks through, and she can’t keep it at bay any longer. “What about her?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “The girl you’re seeing… is that not going to be a problem?”
Aemond’s expression shifts ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. He sighs, his hands resting lightly on her hips as he looks down, avoiding her eyes for a moment. “It’s not what we do,” he says, his voice soft but edged with a weight that makes her heart sink. “We don’t… go out.”
There’s a heaviness to his words, something almost resigned in the way he says them. It breaks her heart just slightly, the realization that this other girl—whoever she is— isn’t someone he even takes out in public. But why? Why would he hide someone if she wasn’t important to him in some way? Why come to her if she was important?
Her brows knitted together as she looked at him, searching his face for answers. “Why?” she asked softly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. “Why hide her if she’s not…?”
He met her gaze then, his expression hard to read. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as if weighing his response. “It’s complicated,” he finally said, his voice low, almost distant. “It’s not what we do. We can’t… it’s not what we do.”
The way he said it, the way the words hung between them, sent a pang through her chest. She had no idea what he was dealing with, but it was clear that whatever this was with the other woman wasn’t as simple as she’d imagined. Still, it left her wondering if she’d ever really have him, all of him, or if he was always going to be torn between worlds she couldn’t fully understand.
She looked away, trying to process it all. The warmth of his body against hers, the comfort of his arms around her—none of it could quiet the confusion that swirled in her mind. Aemond’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on her hips as he noticed the way her expression shifted, the light in her eyes dimming.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. He lifted a hand to cup her face, gently turning her head so she’d look at him. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “It’s not what you think.”
She held his gaze for a moment, her expression guarded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. “Isn’t it?”
Aemond exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. “It’s not like that with her,” he said, his voice low, steady. “She won’t mind.”
She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t-
Her time with him was all because this other girl did not mind. And if she did? What then?
The words echoed in her mind, reverberating off every wall of her thoughts until they drowned out the sound of Aemond’s voice, the warmth of his touch. She won’t mind. It burned into her, the reality she had been pushing aside - her time with him, their moments together, the intimacy they shared, all hinged on the indifference of another woman. Her existence in his life was allowed because someone else didn’t care enough to stop it.
But what if she did? What if this other woman, whoever she was, suddenly decided she did care? What if, one day, Aemond had to choose? She already knew the answer, and it made her stomach twist painfully.
Her mind raced, flicking through every moment they’d shared - every touch, every kiss, every lingering glance - and she saw it clearly now. This arrangement, whatever it was, wasn’t the casual thing she had imagined. It was precarious, temporary, held together by his convenience and Aemond’s careful balancing act between her and someone else. And if that balance tipped? If the other girl did mind?
The thought is ugly, but she can’t help it.
She’ll be the one left behind, a brief chapter in his life, an afterthought in the wake of his real relationship. The thought makes her sick. She doesn’t want to be with someone who can’t put her first, who keeps her around because it’s easy and doesn’t disrupt his life. She doesn’t want to be the girl waiting in the wings, always wondering when it’ll end, when she’ll be discarded because something else took precedence.
Aemond’s touch no longer feels like a comfort. His words, however sweet, now seem hollow. She wants him, yes—wants him desperately, but not like this. She doesn’t need him. Not so much that she would destroy herself, let herself be diminished, just to be with him.
She doesn’t want to help him keep up his image while he spends the entire night waiting to go back to her.
The realization hits her like a wave, flooding her with a clarity she hasn’t grasped before. She’s been clinging to him, holding on to the fragments of what they have because she thought she couldn’t let go. But now, she sees it for what it is. She deserves more than being someone’s second choice, someone’s convenience.
She exhales softly and looks at him, really looks at him. His sharp features, silver hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression holding mild confusion as he notices her shift. He’s beautiful, enigmatic, the kind of person who draws you in without even trying. And she loves him. That much is clear. But she loves herself, too. And this—this isn’t good for her.
For a long moment, she stays silent, her heart thudding in her chest as she gathers the courage to say what she knows has to be said. Her eyes search his face, memorizing him, this moment. Because after this, everything will change. There will be no going back.
All of this is happening on borrowed time - she deserves more.
Before she can fully process her resolve, Aemond moves. In one swift motion, he lifts her effortlessly, a startled gasp escaping her lips as he throws her back onto the bed. Her body bounces lightly against the sheets, her heart pounding as she looks up at him. He looms above her, a quiet intensity in his eyes, and for a second, everything else fades away - there’s only him.
His thumb grazes her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as if he’s committing the feel of her to memory. She can’t tear her gaze away, her breath hitching when he leans down, pressing his forehead against hers. The warmth of his skin, the closeness of his breath - it’s intoxicating, and despite everything, despite her earlier resolve, she feels herself crumbling.
“Come with me.” His voice is low, a quiet plea she can't resist. Their foreheads press together, breath mingling, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
Her heart wavers, but the word slips out before she can stop it. “Okay.”
And then he's on her, kissing her with an intensity that steals her breath. His hands roam her body, rough yet tender, like he can't get enough of her. She melts beneath him, her hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
Their bodies move together, a rhythm they know too well. He pushes into her slowly at first, drawing out her pleasure until she's arching into him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands grip her hips, holding her steady as his thrusts become more urgent, more insistent.
She moans, her nails digging into his back under his shirt as she rides the waves of her release, trembling beneath him. But he isn’t done.
Before she can catch her breath, Aemond flips her over, positioning her on all fours. The cool air hits her back, sharp against the heat of his touch, and she shivers. His lips trace her spine with sweet kisses before he grips her hips again, pulling her back towards him.
Without warning, he thrusts into her hard and deep, and she cries out, her fingers clenching the sheets as he fills her completely. His movements are rough, every thrust powerful, almost desperate, as he chases his own pleasure. She can feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers dig into her skin, the low growl escaping his lips as he loses himself in her.
Each thrust sends her reeling, her body arching as he pounds into her, the bed creaking beneath them. The pressure builds again, her senses overwhelmed by the roughness of his touch, the way his body dominates hers. It’s primal, raw, and she gives in to it, letting the pleasure wash over her once more.
He moves faster, harder, his breaths ragged as he pushes them both to the edge. His fingers tighten on her hips, pulling her back into him with each powerful thrust, his control slipping. She feels him tense behind her, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his peak, his final thrusts erratic and frantic.
With one final, forceful push, he groans, his body trembling as he spills into her, his grip tightening as he holds her close. She gasps, her own body quivering from the intensity of it all, pleasure mingling with the rawness of what they’ve just shared.
Aemond shifts beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulls her into his chest. His warmth envelops her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing against her skin. She nestles closer, feeling the way his body fits perfectly around hers, his arm draped possessively over her stomach.
The room is quiet, just the sound of their breathing filling the space. She stares at the wall, her mind still spinning from everything—the way he held her, the feel of his body against hers. It feels so real, so perfect, and it terrifies her.
"I'm hungry," she whines.
And then, he laughs. It’s quiet, just a low chuckle, but she feels his whole body move behind her, his chest pressing into her back as his shoulders shake slightly. She doesn’t need to see his face to know how he looks when he laughs - his lips upturned slightly, the sound soft but genuine, his whole body leaning forward with it. It’s rare, but she cherishes it every time.
She smiles to herself, her heart swelling in her chest. She likes him too much, more than she ever thought she would. Maybe she even loves him. The thought sends a pang through her, bittersweet and undeniable. Loving him wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, but it’s too late to deny it.
But she’ll leave soon. And when she comes back, she’ll tell him the truth. She needs to know if there’s space for her in his life, or if the woman he guards so fiercely already holds that place.
Her chest tightens at the thought. She wants to be the one he turns to, the one he holds like this, the one he laughs with. But she can’t let herself be second. Not again.
She closes her eyes, breathing in the moment, memorizing how it feels to be wrapped in his arms. Because when she returns, everything will change.
One way or another.
She sits cross-legged on Arianne’s living room floor, nursing a glass of wine as she absentmindedly swirls the deep red liquid around in her glass. The cozy, dimly lit flat is filled with the soft sounds of an old record playing in the background, casting a nostalgic haze over the room. Arianne, always effortlessly composed, lounges on the couch, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she watches her with a knowing look in her eyes.
"You sneaky little bitch," Arianne says, narrowing her eyes playfully, lips curving into a teasing smirk. She exaggerates a cross-eyed look, making her wince and laugh in guilt.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner,” she mumbles, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.
“Yeah, you should have,” Arianne huffs, tossing a pillow at her. “I would’ve liked to know you were fucking Aemond Targaryen, for gods’ sake! Girl, you should have told me!”
She winces again, guilt gnawing at her. “I’m sor—"
“Aemond. Fucking. Targaryen of all people,” Arianne says, incredulous, her eyes wide as she takes a gulp of her wine. “He doesn’t seem like your type, though. What’s going on there?”
She blinks, a little taken aback by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” Arianne begins, leaning back into the couch with a lazy smile, “he’s Aemond Targaryen. The man calls Facebook ‘Book of the Face,’ for crying out loud. Posh, arrogant prick.”
“He’s posh? You’re a bloody Martell!” She retorts, raising her glass to her lips. “And for the record, he’s not even on Facebook.”
Arianne rolls her eyes dramatically. “Weird. I’d have thought the youngest one, Daeron, would’ve been more your type. The life of the party, you know?”
Of course, she’d say that. Arianne has known the Targaryens for most of her life. The Martells, like the Targaryens, are part of Westeros' seven most prominent families—the others being the Starks, Lannisters, Tullys, Tyrells, and Baratheons. In these circles, it’s not just about wealth or influence; it's about legacy. Apart from the reclusive Starks, the children of these families grow up in each other's orbits, attending the same elite schools, galas, and events that reinforce their status at the top.
Wherever life takes them, they find one another, keeping close within their exclusive, almost impenetrable social circle. Friendships and rivalries are passed down from generation to generation, their connections as powerful as the fortunes they control. She understands this better than anyone. Her family, after all, has sat on the board of Targaryen Consolidated for generations, their fates intertwined with the silver-haired dynasty. It’s a world where the personal and professional are inseparable, where trust is as valuable as the wealth that surrounds them.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, Daeron’s... charming in his own way, but he’s basically Aegon if he wasn’t trying to screw anything in a dress.”
Arianne bursts into laughter, loud and unfiltered, leaning her head back. “Aegon’s fun though! I’ve hooked up with him a couple of times, and the sex was goo-ood!”
She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Ew, stop!”
“I’m just saying,” Arianne continues, completely unbothered. “Aegon may be a bit of a mess, but at least he knows how to have a good time. Aemond, on the other hand…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the whole situation. “I can’t believe you’re with him.”
She rolls her eyes, though a small smile tugs at her lips. “It’s not like that. Not really.”
Arianne scoots closer, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”
She sighs, taking a deep breath before the words tumble out. “I think I’m falling for him, Ari. But... It's so confusing. I mean, I was in love with Daeron not even a year ago. How does that even look? Like I’m hopping from one brother to the other.”
Arianne’s teasing expression softens at that, and she reaches out, placing a hand on her knee. “You…” she says gently, her voice lacking its usual playful edge. “You’re not hopping from one brother to the next. You’re figuring out what you want. It’s okay to change, to grow. And it’s okay to love someone new.”
Arianne tilts her head, considering her words carefully. “Look, if Aemond thought you were confused, he wouldn’t be spending all this time with you. He’s smart—too smart to waste his time on something that doesn’t matter to him. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he does care about you.”
She lets the words sink in, her chest tightening. “But it’s so much more complicated. He’s seeing someone—or was seeing someone. I don’t even know. He says it’s not serious, but…”
Arianne lets out a sympathetic sigh, pulling her into a side hug. “You need to talk to him. Really talk to him. Figure out where you both stand.”
She leans into her, resting her head on Arianne’s shoulder. “I’m scared. What if telling him ruins everything?”
Arianne rubs her back gently. “And what if it doesn’t? What if this is exactly what you both need to figure out where you’re going? You can’t keep avoiding it.”
She takes a deep breath, nodding. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him when I get back.”
“And if it’s real,” Arianne adds softly, “you won’t lose him. But if it’s not... you’ll be okay. I think you deserve better anyway.”
“Stop!” She whines. She then smiles, feeling lighter. “Thanks, Ari.”
“Anytime,” Arianne grins, nudging her playfully. “Now, can we please watch something trashy and stop talking about your Targaryen boys? My brain needs a break from all this drama.”
She laughs, grateful for the distraction. “I brought soda and chips!”
Arianne cheers, grabbing the remote. “You know just how to spoil me.”
“Ae-mond, please…”
On their last night before her flight back to King's Landing, they move slowly together, every touch deliberate and heavy. Their bodies come together with a fervor that’s almost desperate, as if they’re trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through their fingers.
Each kiss feels like a search, an attempt to erase the lingering traces of someone else’s touch from his skin. She wonders if she’ll ever fully wash away the imprint of another’s fingertips, or if she’s merely adding her own layer to him. Every caress, every kiss is an exercise in forensics, a quest to mark him with her own brand, hoping that her touch will replace any remnants of someone else.
As he presses into her with a familiar, almost instinctive harshness, she can’t help but wonder if the other girl’s body was fuller, more curvaceous. The way he handles her, the way he’s rough and gentle all at once, speaks of an experience that goes beyond her. His touch is meticulous, as if he’s dedicated to exploring every contour of her body with a reverence she feels he must have practiced before.
She’s acutely aware that he isn’t new to the art of adoration. His hands, his lips, his entire presence seem to carry a certain expertise—each stroke, each touch is a testament to a history of worshiping a woman’s body with precision and care. He seems to know exactly where to touch, how to press, as if he’s memorized the map of desire and is determined to chart every inch of her.
With every touch, she is reminded that there is someone else. It breaks her like nothing else.
Aemond’s hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, every hollow with a skill that leaves her breathless. She can’t shake the thought that this is a ritual of sorts, a final act of devotion before she departs. Each touch, each kiss feels like an affirmation of what they’ve shared, an attempt to seal their moments together into something tangible, something she can carry with her.
As she nears her release, her body arches and shudders beneath him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He follows soon after, his movements urgent and final, his breath ragged against her skin.
Afterward, they lie together in the dim room, the sounds of crickets chirping softly through the open window.
“How are you getting to the airport?” His voice is soft in a way that she wishes she can bottle up and take with her.
“Dad’s sending a car to the flat,” she replies, her voice muffled by the pillow and his embrace.
The room is filled with the subtle buzz of the lamp and the gentle rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. Aemond pulls her close, his arms wrapping around her as he kisses her shoulder tenderly.
When they wake, he says nothing as she takes a shower in a hurry to leave. He cooks a quick breakfast for them both with whatever he could find in her fridge, and she eats like a woman starved. He kisses her gently before he lets her go, and she cannot help but think.
She’s leaving every inch of Aemond to another woman exclusively for three weeks. What if he decides he does not want her when she comes back?
Then the thought at the back of her mind resurfaces - that she’s the other woman. No matter what Aemond says, she knows that much to be true.
“Aemond…?” She murmurs, quickly debating whether or not she should tell him now, if only so that he’d be tempted to not push her aside completely in her absence.
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
The words die on her tongue, just like a piece of her heart does when she gets on the plane.
The weeks pass by in a blur, and soon she finds herself standing in a crowded event hall, meeting her half-siblings after what feels like an eternity. Two of them are launching their new venture in the city, and the occasion has brought them all together. She interacts with them as much as she can, offering polite conversation and smiles, but she can’t help but feel a quiet astonishment at how little she truly knows about them. Despite the shared blood, they seem like strangers bound only by a distant connection.
It isn’t surprising, really. Jasper Wylde’s five children by his first wife had been adults long before he met her mother, and by the time she was born, the youngest of them was just leaving for college. The age gap, the separate lives - they had grown up worlds apart. There’s only so much they could have in common, and that knowledge weighs heavily on her as she exchanges pleasantries with them, feeling the disconnect more keenly with each passing moment.
She watches them closely - the way they move through the crowd, how they speak to each other with an ease that she’s never known with them. They have their own inside jokes, shared memories, and a rhythm that she’s never been a part of. It’s like watching a family dynamic she can’t quite break into, one she’s always been on the outskirts of. Even as they make small talk, she feels the invisible walls between them, the years of absence and unfamiliarity creating a distance that no amount of cordiality can erase.
But she plays her part—engages when they speak to her, listens as they recount their stories, and smiles when it’s appropriate. Yet all the while, she feels that sense of being on the outside looking in. They talk about their father, Jasper, with a familiarity that she can’t match, their experiences with him vastly different from her own. It’s clear that, in many ways, they had a father she never really knew.
What amazes her most, though, is how much closer she feels to the Targaryens than to her own blood. The realization strikes her with a quiet weight as she stands among her half-siblings, exchanging polite words, but never quite connecting. With the Targaryens, everything feels different—natural, easy, as though she belongs in their orbit in a way she never has with her own family.
With the Targaryens, she doesn’t feel like she’s on the outside looking in. She belongs. In their world, she’s more than just the youngest child of a man with a complicated past - she’s someone who matters.
Being home has made her feel strangely untethered. It’s not that she isn’t used to it—this distance from Aemond—but somehow, this time it feels different. Maybe it’s because she knows she’ll see him again soon, in just a matter of weeks, but it feels like the days are dragging by, each one marked by the weight of missing him.
She lies in bed late one evening, her phone resting on the pillow next to her, waiting for the familiar buzz. It’s become a routine—Aemond calling just before she falls asleep, his voice the last thing she hears at night. When the phone finally lights up with his name, she answers without hesitation.
"Hey," she says, trying to keep her voice casual, but her heart picks up the pace as soon as she hears his breath on the other end.
"Hey," he replies softly. There’s a brief pause, and she can hear the faint sounds of his apartment in the background—the muffled hum of traffic, the creak of his chair. "How’s home?"
"Fine, I guess. Quiet." She smiles a little, thinking of how everything feels slower here. "I saw my half-siblings today, for the launch thing."
"How was that?" His tone is neutral, but she knows he’s asking because he cares, not out of mere politeness.
"It was... weird. I don’t know, I barely know them. I guess I’m just realizing how distant we are." She pauses, feeling the words settle in the quiet between them. "I feel closer to your family than to mine. Maybe because yours is the better family. Although, I do have the better father."
He’s quiet for a moment, and she imagines him leaning back in his chair, considering her words. “I can assure you, your family is just fine. You don’t want mine.”
She laughs, a little caught off guard by the softness in his voice. "Yeah, maybe."
They fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking about nothing in particular—work, the weather, what he had for dinner. It’s all so simple, so familiar, and yet she finds herself hanging on every word, savoring the sound of his voice, the way he says her name. It’s the closest she can get to him right now, and it isn’t enough.
There’s a pause, and then Aemond asks, "So, how long now? Two weeks?"
She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. "Yeah, just about."
"You’re counting the days?"
She can hear the smile in his voice, and she feels her cheeks flush despite herself. "Maybe."
"You miss me," he says, his voice gentle, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, and it lands with a weight that she can feel in her chest.
"Maybe I do," she admits quietly, her heart pounding. There’s a moment of silence, and in that space, the truth presses at the edges of her thoughts, threatening to spill out.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more serious. "Aemond, we need to talk.”
She hears him shift on the other end, a subtle rustling of fabric. "What is it?"
She hesitates, not ready to say it yet. "A conversation best had in person."
"Alright," he says, his voice low, almost tender.
She hangs up, her heart racing, her fingers still gripping the phone tightly. The warmth of his words lingers, solidifying her resolve. When she sees him again, she’ll tell him. She’ll tell him everything.
The event takes place in a grand hall, tucked away in the heart of the city but worlds apart from the modern, bustling life outside. The walls are lined with rich mahogany wood, centuries-old oil portraits of stern ancestors in gilded frames, and shelves stacked high with leather-bound books whose spines are worn with age.
She steps inside and is immediately enveloped in the hushed murmurs of conversation, the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, and the soft rustle of fabric as guests move gracefully through the dimly lit space. Despite the outward calm, there’s an electric tension in the air as the auctioneer lifts the gavel to announce each winning bid. There’s a certain satisfaction, almost smug, in the faces of those who come away with a prized possession, as if they’ve secured another piece of their heritage. For the others, there’s no outward disappointment—just a cool, composed silence, knowing there will be another opportunity to prove their worth.
She sits back, observing it all, feeling both a part of this world and strangely removed from it. The dark paneling on the walls, the rich smell of leather and smoke, the soft glow of the fireplace at the far end of the room - it’s all familiar, yet there’s something about it that feels performative, as if the evening is a carefully constructed illusion. The charity, the good intentions, seem secondary to the ritual of it all. As the final item is brought out - a centuries-old manuscript in a glass case - the room stills. In the end, the manuscript is sold for an astronomical price. The gavel falls with a sharp crack, and polite applause ripples through the crowd, though it’s more a gesture of respect than enthusiasm.
As the final round of applause fades, the grand oak doors at the back of the room swing open, and Viserys Targaryen steps forward. His presence is immediately felt, even if he looks frail and thinner than ever before. She heard from Aemond that he’d taken up residence at Dragonstone now, having bought an apartment for himself to stay after his parents' secret, unofficial separation.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice is smooth, warm, and commanding all at once, carrying easily over the subdued murmur of the crowd. "What a night this has been. I’m not sure what’s more impressive - the art we’ve auctioned off or the fact that some of you managed to keep your bids as discreet as you did. Subtlety, after all, is an art in itself," he says with a slight chuckle, eliciting polite laughter from the audience.
"Your generosity tonight is overwhelming," he continues, his tone shifting to one of sincere gratitude. "These contributions will go a long way in supporting the causes we hold dear, ensuring that history is preserved for future generations to appreciate - something I think we all understand better than most."
"And now," Viserys adds with a glint of amusement, "I know you’ve all been quite serious about your bidding, but it's time to relax a little." The room hums in agreement.
"Please," he gestures toward the doors leading to the adjoining ballroom, "join me for a night of music, dancing, and, of course, more wine. I think we’ve all earned it after such a spectacular evening."
With a final smile, Viserys steps down from the podium, the soft clapping of the crowd filling the room as guests begin to rise from their seats, gathering their evening coats and handbags. The heavy double doors to the ballroom swing open, revealing a space even grander than the auction hall. The light spills out, golden and inviting, as the soft strains of a string quartet begin to play from within.
She takes her father’s hand and walks in with him, their pace in tandem with each other.
Do you think we’ll make it through this evening without someone bringing up a new investment opportunity?" she murmurs, her voice laced with dry amusement, eyes scanning the sea of chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and finely dressed people mingling as they enter the ballroom.
Jasper Wylde glances down at her with a half-smile. "Doubt it," he says. "There’s always someone with a 'brilliant' idea that just needs a little backing."
She lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe we should place bets on who brings it up first."
"Ten crowns on Lord Massey," he says, his tone casual, but the glint in his eye betrays his amusement. "He’s been circling us all night."
"You're on," she replies, feeling lighter as they reach the grand archway leading into the ballroom. The gentle strains of the string quartet swirl around them, and she allows herself to soak in the surroundings.
Their moment of ease is brief. As soon as they step fully into the room, a cohort of middle-aged men in dark suits, all clutching glasses of whiskey, make their approach, their faces lighting up at the sight of her father. She can see the shift in his demeanor - the casualness dropping ever so slightly, replaced by a more guarded, professional air.
"Ah, here we go," Jasper mutters under his breath.
One of the men, a stocky figure with graying hair and a booming voice, claps her father on the shoulder. "Ironrod, just the man we were looking for!" he says, raising his glass. "We were just discussing the latest venture down in Storm’s End. Care to weigh in?"
Her father gives her a rueful look, the corner of his mouth quirking as if to say I told you so. "Duty calls," he says softly to her, before turning to the group with a more affable expression. "Gentlemen, lead the way."
And just like that, he’s swept up into the conversation, nodding and exchanging knowing glances with the men as they disappear into a corner of the ballroom. Before she can fully orient herself, Daeron appears at her side, his usual easy grin plastered across his face.
"Well, look who it is," he says warmly, pulling her into a quick embrace. "I thought I'd have to search the entire ballroom to find you."
She laughs lightly. "I wasn’t hiding, just waiting for you to make your grand entrance. How was Essos?"
Daeron’s face lights up, and he launches into a recount of his summer abroad with Helaena, his energy infectious. "It was wild. Good time with Hel, she took me along to the coastline and we went around looking for almost-extinct bugs in Lys." He rolls his eyes but there’s fondness in his voice.
She smiles at the thought of Helaena. "Sounds like her. Where is she tonight?"
"With our grandfather and Aemond, somewhere over there," Daeron says, nodding toward a nearby cluster of people. Sure enough, she spots Helaena waving enthusiastically, her face alight with joy as she talks to Otto. Aemond, standing next to her, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod when their eyes meet. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should, and her heart stirs in response.
She can’t help but smile softly, and, on a whim, she winks at him. She’s had a bad feeling about this night ever since she woke, but it all dissipates massively the moment his gaze meets hers. He doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s something in his posture that shifts ever so slightly, a subtle acknowledgment.
Daeron catches the exchange but remains oblivious, laughing as he gestures to the ballroom. "Come on, let’s take a look around. It's the same as always, but a little darker, don't you think?"
“Perhaps,” she remarks dryly, glancing around at the decadent decor.
As they stroll through the room, their eyes catch Will Tyrell, who is deep in conversation with an older man near the far end of the ballroom.
"Ah, Will," Daeron says, grinning as he gestures toward him. "His father's expanding their business, you know. Will's been training to take over soon. Everyone's talking about it."
"I’ve seen him around campus," she replies, keeping her voice casual. "We almost hooked up once, actually."
Daeron raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Really? What happened?"
Her stomach twists at the memory, a flash of the panic that had overwhelmed her that night. She remembers calling Aemond, his voice steadying her over the phone as she told him where she was. He’d picked her up, no questions asked. The bitterness that rises in her throat is unexpected, but it’s there, sharp and real.
"Don’t even ask," she mutters, her voice tight as she glances away, trying to shake off the heaviness of the memory.
Daeron, sensing her shift in mood, just nods, his usual carefree demeanor faltering slightly. He doesn’t push for details, instead flashing her a soft smile as they continue to walk through the room, the tension between them dissipating into the hum of the ballroom.
"Oh look, it’s the little runts," Aegon drawls, his speech a bit slurred. He saunters toward them, an empty champagne flute dangling from his fingers, Sara Snow by his side. She’s looking slightly amused, though there’s a softness in her expression that suggests she's trying to rein him in.
"Aegon," Daeron greets him with mock surprise, a grin spreading across his face. “Dude you’re already drunk, mum’s going to kill you.”
"Give it time," Aegon quips with a lazy smirk. "The night’s still young, brother."
Sara stifles a laugh, though her eyes are warm as she glances up at Aegon. "I’m doing my best to make sure he behaves," she says, her voice carrying a playful edge.
"Oh, please," Daeron rolls his eyes. "Aegon behaving is like...what, dragons coming back to life?”
"Exactly," Aegon retorts. "No fun at all."
"Yeah, you're all fun and no taste," Daeron jabs back. "In...well, pretty much everything."
Aegon dramatically clutches his chest as if wounded. "Excuse you, I happen to have impeccable taste."
"Oh really?" she chimes in, unable to resist the tease. "Let's not forget the time you tried to convince everyone that that neon green sports car was ‘classy.’ Or when you spent a fortune on that God-awful abstract painting that looked like a child had spilled paint on a canvas."
Aegon raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Hey, that car is an acquired taste, and the painting? It’s avant-garde. You wouldn’t get it."
Daeron bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "Right, keep telling yourself that."
But before anyone else can jump in, she adds with a smirk, "To be fair, Aegon has great taste in women."
Sara, who had been quietly listening, suddenly blushes furiously, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile, but it’s clear she’s both flattered and embarrassed by the comment.
Aegon, however, grins wickedly. "Ah, finally, someone recognizes my true genius," he says, draping an arm around Sara, who shoots him a look but doesn’t pull away.
"Yeah, genius is the word I’d use," Daeron deadpans, earning another round of laughter from the group.
Aegon, noticeably tipsy and grinning like a Cheshire cat, leans in close to Sara, his words slightly garbled. "You know, Sara, I just remembered I left something...um, somewhere. How about we go find it together?"
Sara looks at him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern, but before she can respond, Aegon takes her hand and starts to guide her toward the door.
"Careful with that one," Daeron calls out, his tone light and teasing. "I’ve seen him turn a charity event into a rave before."
"Ah, don’t worry," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of laughter. "I think he’s already got plans for a private after-party."
With a final chuckle, Daeron watches as they exit, the door closing behind them.
She turns back to Daeron, her gaze thoughtful. "By the way, what’s up with Floris? I haven’t seen her around tonight."
Daeron’s expression shifts, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "Oh, um, we broke up," he says quietly, almost as if he’s still coming to terms with it.
Her heart twinges with genuine sympathy. "I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope you’re okay."
Daeron nods, managing a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks. It’s been...a lot. But I’ll be fine."
"Where is she, then? At the event, I presume?"
"Yeah, she’s here," Daeron confirms. "Probably with her parents and sisters. It was a bit weird to be honest.”
“I can imagine.” Just then, a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes comes by. They each take one, and Daeron is about to take a sip when he is called away by Otto Hightower.
As Daeron makes his way through the crowd, she turns to find Arianne Martell approaching her, her presence immediately drawing attention with her striking elegance. “You look amazing, Ari!”
Arianne’s eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief as she greets her. “So do you. But let’s cut to the chase. That’s not the Targaryen I was expecting to see you with tonight.”
“I haven’t told him yet. The time isn’t right. Soon though.”
“You mean you keep putting it off.”
“No, I just… I don’t know.”
“Look around you, babe. Half of these people are on the lookout - and those Targaryen kids? All their mothers are training their girls to get one. If my father had his way, I’d be throwing myself at Aegon!”
“Ari! Don’t be so crude.”
“I’m being realistic. Make your move.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your best friend.”
As they talk, she feels a strange unease settling in her stomach. Her gaze drifts across the room, taking in the opulence and the perfectly polished ambiance of the ballroom. Something about it all feels off, like there’s an underlying current she can’t quite grasp.
Noticing her silence and distant look, Arianne asks, “Is everything okay? You seem a bit… off.”
She hesitates for a moment before responding, “I don’t know. It’s just… something feels off. I have this gut feeling, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere. Everything is so perfect, almost too perfect.”
Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s just me being paranoid or if there’s actually something going on.”
Arianne nods, her expression thoughtful. “It’s in your head babe. Calm down alright? You’ll be fine!”
Aemond finds them, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone accustomed to these events could manage. His presence alone seems to command attention, and she feels her heart flutter as he approaches. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, his breath warm and comforting. “You look pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine.
Her eyes follow him as he straightens, unable to help herself from shamelessly ogling him. The way his dark suit fits him so perfectly, the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of his eyes—it’s all so striking that she finds it hard to look away. He’s right in front of her, and yet he feels like a distant star that she can’t quite reach, but desperately wants to.
Arianne, ever perceptive, catches the look on her face and raises an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, her tone dripping with teasing. “You know, give you some space.”
She winks at them both before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and slipping away into the crowd. Her departure leaves a space between them that feels both comforting yet like too much. “You look very nice,” she says.
Aemond’s lips curl into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he replies, his tone a mix of aloofness and affection that she finds utterly endearing. “Though I must say, I’m quite taken with how you look tonight.”
She catches his gaze, her smile widening. “Well, I’m glad I managed to impress you.”
His eyes twinkle with mischief. “You always manage to.”
There’s a pause, a moment of quiet intimacy, as their eyes lock. Aemond’s hand on her back feels reassuring, grounding her in the present. He then wordlessly gives her his hand, and she takes it. She always will, she is his.
With a gentle but purposeful tug, Aemond guides her through the maze of the ballroom, leading her into the darker, quieter corridors of the estate. The soft hum of distant conversations and the clinking of glasses fade as they move further from the main event.
Eventually, they reach a secluded room, dimly lit and private. Aemond closes the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the outside world. Without a word, he steps closer, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens. Aemond’s hands find her waist, his grip firm and possessive.
His lips are demanding, their kisses fiery and passionate. She responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. The connection between them is raw, almost desperate, as if they’re trying to make up for lost time with every touch.
Aemond’s hands roam over her back, his fingers pressing firmly against her skin, as if he’s trying to imprint her presence into his memory. She can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes, the tension in his muscles as he holds her tightly.
She gasps into his mouth as he pulls her even closer, his touch igniting a fire within her. His hands travel down to her waist, pulling her flush against him, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses along her jawline and down her neck. She arches into his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him back to her lips with a desperate hunger.
Gods, she likes him too much for her own good.
Finally, their lips part, and they break away, both gasping for breath. The room is filled with a lingering tension, the air heavy with the intensity of their embrace. They take a moment to collect themselves, their faces flushed and eyes still locked in a shared, heated gaze.
Aemond gently brushes a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender despite the fervor of their earlier kisses. “I have to go shake more hands,” he says, his voice reluctant. He offers a small, apologetic smile, his knuckles lingering on her cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away. “I’ll find you later.”
She nods, her heart still racing from their encounter. “Okay,” she replies softly, her voice a touch breathless. She watches as he turns to leave, and the moment he does - the feeling of unease comes back.
She walks back into the ballroom, smoothing down her dress and taking a deep breath to calm the rapid beat of her heart. The lingering warmth from Aemond’s touch is still on her skin, but the feeling of unease that had vanished in his presence now returns in full force.
As she steps further into the room, she spots a familiar face from across the crowd - one of the curators from the Westeros National Museum. He strides toward her with a knowing smile, gesturing to a nearby exhibit of her ancestor Coryanne Wylde’s paintings. “I was just about to ask if you’d seen these,” he says as they exchange pleasantries. “It’s rare to come across someone with a direct connection to the artist.” She smiles in response.
The curator nods in appreciation, and together, they walk over to the group of art enthusiasts who are gathered around the paintings. As they approach, she immediately recognizes someone else among them: her professor Alys Rivers. The professor’s sharp gaze softens slightly when she spots her, clearly surprised to see her here.
“Professor! So good to see you here, I wasn’t expecting you! Are you with someone?”
Alys chuckles lightly, offering a polite smile and points her finger beyond her shoulder. “That’s my brother.” She raises her eyebrows as she follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Your brother’s Headmaster Strong?”
“My half-brother, yes. Which explains the different surnames.”
“Wow, small world.”
“We were just discussing some of the first-edition Volantene classics that we’ve been trying to source for the museum,” one of the curators says, a note of excitement in his voice. “A few Valyrian classics as well. It’s been quite the hunt.”
Her interest piques at the mention of Valyrian literature. The conversation drifts toward a particular Valyrian classic, The Last Embrace, and her attention locks in immediately, memories of Aemond reading it to her still vivid in her mind. One of the curators leans forward, adjusting his glasses.
“It’s such a beautiful work,” he says. “That passage where they talk about love being both a gift and a curse? The language is so intricate, it’s no wonder it’s one of the rarest Valyrian texts we’ve managed to preserve.”
Another curator nods in agreement. “Yes, I believe the exact line is something about love being a disease, but one we choose to suffer from?”
Before Wylde can speak, Professor Rivers steps in, her voice measured and calm. “Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for. It’s one of the most poignant lines in the entire text.”
Wylde's breath catches at the familiarity of the words. It was the same phrase he had marked, tracing the words as he read.
“That line,” Professor Rivers continues, “it’s always struck me. The complexity of love in Valyrian culture—how it could be both destructive and profound at the same time.”
The first curator smiles thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating how much depth there is in just one sentence. That’s what makes it a masterpiece. We’ve been trying to source a first-edition copy for years now.”
Rivers nods. “It’s difficult to find. I was lucky enough to own one of the first editions. Loaned it to someone close a while back, actually.”
Her chest tightens. The same line. The same book. She tries to push the thought away, but it grips her, the unease from earlier settling deep in her bones.
I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies, he had said.
But she doesn’t even teach him. And he’s Aemond Targaryen - he probably knows a hundred people of resource who can find him all the books he wants.
But there’s only three known copies of the first print in Westeros…
The feeling of unease that she had pushed aside the entire night comes back in full force - she doesn’t know why. It is a nagging feeling that refuses to go away, and she does not know what she’ll do about it.
Before she can dwell on it further, an attendant addresses her. He tells her that her father is asking for her from across the room. She excuses herself, turning away from the group with a polite smile. As she moves, she catches a fleeting glimpse of Professor Rivers’ necklace, the light glinting off the familiar design. Her breath falters.
She recognizes it.
A few months ago, she had seen that very necklace at Aemond’s apartment. She remembers asking him about it, how he had alluded to it belonging to a woman that he’s seeing. At the time, she hadn’t pressed him, unsure if she even wanted to know the details.
One of the curators points out the necklace, commenting on its unique craftsmanship. “That’s a Strong family heirloom, isn’t it?” he asks with admiration. “Quite the rare piece. One of a kind, if I’m not mistaken.”
Alys smiles, her hand brushing over the pendant. “Yes, it is. Passed down through generations. Only one of a kind.”
She feels like the ground is shifting beneath her feet. She can’t stop the flood of thoughts now, the connections falling into place. Her chest tightens as she pulls away from the group, her steps unsteady, her mind whirling with possibilities she doesn’t want to entertain.
No. It’s not what you think. It can’t be.
“It’s very beautiful, professor,” she says. “It was… uhm… it was nice to see you here. I’m going back to… my father’s expecting me.” The torrid nature of her thoughts shows on her face, and she can feel her palms sweating as the music and the crowd threaten to overwhelm her.
“Are you alright, Ms Wylde? You seem quite disoriented,” her professor says. She holds her onto her elbow to help steady her even if she hasn’t quite careened to the floor yet. Her skin burns where she holds her, and she wonders if she knows.
She looks her professor straight in her eyes, hoping to find any recognition. Then again, she doesn’t want to know too.
“No, just… you know how these things can be. They tire you out quickly I suppose. I’m just going to…”
She walks out of the ballroom and into the vast expanse of open gardens. She breathes and breathes and breathes.
It can’t be.
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Mastermind
Pairing: Benny Cross x fem!rich! reader
Summary: Benny sees you at one of the car picnics the Vandals have invited themselves to. You catch his attention immediately. When his eyes land on you, he knows that nothing ia gonna stop him from getting you. Unfortunately, you're with some rich bastard. Luckily, Benny is a mastermind. And he won't stop untill you will be his.
Taglist for Benny: @aleemendoza2425-blog
My mumbling: To be honest, I don't know what it is, I just had this idea in my head and this fic took on a life of its own.
Benny Cross' Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist
"Who is this girl?" Benny nods in your direction. You eye one of the more decent cars, glancing every few moments at the Vandals’ abandoned bikes a few feet away.
But your gaze isn't full of disgust or fear. No. It's pure curiosity, excitement, a yearning for the thrill of danger. And who is Benny to ignore the call of such a beautiful girl?
At first, at a very first glance, he was simply interested in you. You were beautiful, dressed in expensive clothes, out of his league, but Benny liked a challenge and the thrill of the chase.
But when he saw you save one of the Vandals' kids from being hit by a moving car and calm the kid down, entertaining him without a shadow of aversion to the bikers' kid, until he forgot about it and went back to his parents, something in Benny clicked. No one else saw it but him. But that's the moment Benny knew you were going to be his wife.
"Don't even think about it, boy. Princess of Chicago. Her father sleeps on the cash register, it's a miracle she's even here and hangs out with commoners like us." Johnny pats him on the back, laughing. But Benny's got a plan. And he'll stick to it until he gets you.
"I asked for a name." Benny replies calmly, still glaring at you even after some stupid rich spoiled kid who spat at Vandal earlier walks up to you and wraps his arm around your waist. Benny wants to rip the man's hand off of him for that desecration of you.
"Y/N Y/L/N. The apple of her father's jewelry company's eye. Future heiress to the fortune and out of your reach, boy." Benny nods at this information, still watching you.
"You know what they say... Strategy sets the scene for the tale."
He lights a cigarette and sees you pointing at a beautiful black Triumph Fury from England. Benny doesn't say it's the best choice, but he's seen worse cars. You had... quite good taste.
His blood boils when your stupid boyfriend snaps something at you, but instead of listening to his shit, you just walk away from him and leave him alone by the cars.
Benny giggled a little.
You lean against one of the trees and reach for a cigarette. Your flame in the lighter fortunately refuses to obey. Benny sees his chance.
In a few quick steps he's in front of you while you're still struggling with the lighter. You lift your head at him and Benny swears his heart stops for a moment as your eyes finally land on him.
He watches your face carefully, inhales the scent of your sweet and probably expensive perfume as he carefully raises the lighter with the flame to your lips painted with a sinful red lipstick and lights a cigarette for you without a word as you stare at him in amazement. Benny tenses his muscles just a little to look better in front of you.
"Thanks." You mumble and grab a cigarette in your hands. You lean against the tree and exhale, calming down from the nicotine smoke and not caring about his presence.
"No problem." Benny nods and leans silently against the tree next to yours.
He refrains from looking at you and instead looks at the bikes in front of you. He barely suppresses a smirk as he feels your piercing gaze on him.
"What are you?" You ask him, looking him up and down carefully.
Benny shrugs and taps his Vandal pin on his chest a few times with his index finger. You roll your eyes at him and blow smoke from your red lips, making Benny want to inhale the cloud you exhale.
He was so lost...
"What do you want?" You ask him angrily, assuming that lighting you a cigarette wasn't a selfless act. Because it wasn't. Benny had his purpose in doing it. But you didn't need to know that yet.
"Nothing." He shrugs and lets go of the cigarette, holding it between his lips as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks at you the way you look at him.
"Then why are you standing here?"
"And why are you standing here, sweetheart?" He answers your question with one of his own. You frown, and Benny smiles softly to himself at how adorable you look all irritated and wrinkled.
"I have a boyfriend." You respond coldly. Benny, however, is not put off by this. He just throws one contemptuous glance at the loser who is your boyfriend and goes back to looking at you.
"And I have a bike." You snort at his words before you can stop yourself, and when Benny hears your soft giggle, his heart skips a beat.
A smirk tugs at his lips, adrenaline pumping through his veins from the excitement of making you laugh as he watches you intently, as if trying to memorize the exact image of you.
"Oh, I've seen." You mumble dismissively, but Benny sees your gaze fall on HIS bike.
The mere fact that you know which one belongs to Benny makes you unconsciously show him that you are at least the slightest bit interested in him. And that is exactly what Benny needs for now.
"Like it?" He asks, approaching you. He leans against the same tree as you, his bare shoulder brushing yours.
Goosebumps rise on your skin and you try to hide your reaction to his proximity by casually throwing your cigarette to the ground without looking at Benny.
"Did you steal that Harley?" Benny gives you a mischievous, mysterious smirk at your accusation.
He takes another step towards you and stops right in front of you. He's clearly invading your personal space, but he's far enough away to leave millimetres between your bodies. Your scent intoxicates him, and the heat of your body calls to Benny like a siren's song to sailors. And how much he wanted to be devoured by you...
"Who said it is an origianl one, little shrew?" You swallow and look away from him to analyse his bike again.
Benny can see the gears in your head turning, the way you squint as you try to find the difference between his bike and the original. And god, Benny is only a man, of course he took advantage of your moment of inattention and checked you out. Especially the valley between your breasts...
"Wait... you made it? On your own?" You ask impressed and he simply nods.
Unfortunately, you don't get to talk any longer. Your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend walks up to the two of you and, ignoring Benny completely, tells you that you have to go back to some stupid family dinner.
I can see in your eyes that if it were up to you, you would stay longer, but you're reluctant to leave Benny's side and follow your boyfriend.
"If you ever want a real ride, look for Benny!" He shouts after you. Out of the corner of his eye he sees you turn around but he's not looking at you anymore.
He goes to his bike and starts it with a loud roar. He adjusts the side mirror to get a good view of you and does a few of his signature stunts before he drives off.
He smiles to himself, realizing you've been watching him the whole time. The bait worked.
"Holly shit." You mumble to yourself as you stand on the side of the highway.
You sigh as you get out of your car, wondering how the hell you're supposed to get to the city now that your boyfriend's tires are flat. He's fuming, cursing at the car while you calmly smoke a cigarette sitting on the trunk of a broken-down car.
"Why aren't you doing anything?! Do something! I'm not pushing this into town. Take off that sweater and try to hitchhike." Your boyfriend yells at you angrily. You raise an eyebrow at him and continue smoking calmly, refraining from punching him in the nose. Just then you hear the loud roar of an engine.
You turn your head and see the same Vandal from the car picnic. You look at each other for a moment, intently, your boyfriend stares at you in surprise but you don't pay much attention to him anymore.
"I would use that ride now." You tell him and throw the cigarette on the road. Your boyfriend shouts something at you but you completely ignore him, staring at the Vandal in front of you.
"I thought you had a boyfriend." He says, sending you his mischievous glare. You shake your head with a small smile.
"Not anymore." You say while looking at your now ex-boyfriend.
"What the hell, Y/N?! You're really going to go with that outcast and leave me here? I'm the hottest catch in town, and you know it damn well!"
"No, no, no. I AM the hottest catch in town, honey." You correct him and grab your bag from his car. You walk over to Benny's bike and sit behind it, rolling your dress up to your thighs so as not to give anyone a show. "Have fun with your ego. God knows you two will be just fine pushing this junk through. You could always drop your pants and try to catch some desperate old lady to give you a ride. Although with your calibre it'll sooner be some guy." You wave at him as Benny gasps his bike and accelerates with a screech of tires, leaving your ex far behind.
You scream and grab the biker by his jacket, unprepared for such a fast ride. You dig your nails into his muscular torso and cling to his back, riding a bike for the first time.
Benny is in heaven. Your perfume is carried by the wind, making the ride on his bike even more enjoyable.
You press your front against his back, so he can feel every delicious curve of yours. And the way you dig your fingers into him makes his mind wander to other situations you could be doing this in. And this, surprisingly, seems much more enjoyable than riding his bike completely alone.
You rest your cheek against his back and gaze at the scenery around you. Benny is racing so fast you can barely see anything but him, your heart is beating wildly and a strange feeling of excitement inside you makes you wish he would never make it to town, but would just race you through the cornfields.
At some point, however, your ride ends. Benny parks outside the Vandals' bar and waits patiently for you to get off his bike and let him go. Although he is not at all pleased that your hands are leaving his body.
"Thanks. If not you, I would stick with that asshole." You say, and he leans against the wall of the building. He slides you one of his cigarettes, but you shake your head and take yours out of your purse. "How much do I own you?" Benny frowns at your question and stares at you as you wait for his answer, already looking for the money for him.
"I don't want your dad's money." He surprises you again. You stop all your movements and blink a few times, almost dropping the cigarette from between your lips.
"But... for gasoline..."
Benny simply shrugs as you continue to process the fact that he really doesn't want anything from you. There had to be some hidden meaning to it. There always was. Everyone wanted something from you, there was no selflessness in hanging out with you. It shouldn't be any different with this Vandal.
"My bike, my petrol."
"You drove me halfway across town and off the fucking highway. That's a lot of petrol. I insist." You say, practically shoving the money into his pocket. But Benny pulls away and grabs your wrist, before you can pay him for this little ride.
You swallow as his thumb lazily strokes your skin, bypassing the gold bracelets on your wrists to caress your skin instead of the expensive metal.
"If you care so much, you can buy me a drink, little shrew, because I won't take any money from you." Benny mumbles hoarsely and reluctantly lets go of your wrist. Before you can respond, he's already heading to the bar.
With no other option, you sigh and follow the Vandal to the bar. You try to avoid the ripped, fat men and follow Benny like a shadow, hoping that none of them will bother you.
The atmosphere of the club is thick, you can almost feel the cloud of testosterone in the air, piercing through the smell of cigarettes and strong alcohol. A real den. You've never been in a place like this. And with man like him.
"Two beers." Benny nods at the bartender. He hands you both your drinks and you quickly put your money on the table. Benny puts his arm around yours and, holding your drinks in both hands, leads you to a less crowded part of the club.
Benny's arm around yours makes you feel a little safer and more comfortable in the sea of tattooed men. Some whistle at the two of you but you follow Benny's example and ignore them, trying to focus on the man who was leading you.
Benny was different from most guys you knew. Most of them couldn't change a tire on their own car, hadn't dirty their hands with hard work, and basked in their families' fortunes.
Benny was the definition of masculinity, danger, and self-sufficiency. He was something new, exciting, titillating. Every good little rich girl's wet dream. And maybe if you were younger and more naive, you would have fallen into his arms and let him destroy you completely to his own liking. But you knew all too well how guys like him behaved. And even though Benny drew you like a moth to a flame, you preferred to keep your distance from him and any trouble he could bring. Or at least you tried hard to.
"Why are you doing this?" You ask him, getting straight to the point as you sit down at the table.
"Doing what?" He asks, sipping his beer. He looks at you like you're the only interesting thing in the world. And as much as his intense gaze sends a pleasant tingle through you, you're afraid you won't be able to resist him for long.
"This. Don't look at me like this." You say, swallowing hard. Goosebumps rise on your skin as Benny pulls his chair closer to yours, leaving only a mere centimetres between you and you can smell his scent mixed with grease, cigarettes, and the wind from the fast ride.
"Like that?" He asks innocently, resting his hands on the back of the chair and flexing his muscles.
He sips his beer, wrapping his full lips around the neck of the bottle and his gaze never leaving yours for a second. You clench your thighs and shift in your chair, embarrassed by the effect he has on you.
"Benny! Will you introduce me to your company?" With a small sigh of relief, you turn to the man who interrupted you. Benny is slouched and sulking in his chair, furious at Johnny for interrupting him when everything was going his way.
"Johnny. Club leader. Y/N. My girlfriend."
"I am not your girlfriend." You snap at him, turning your angry gaze at him. And that bastard just smiles sweetly and shrugs.
"I'm sorry. My little shrew." He corrects himself with a sly smile. You narrow your eyes at him, wanting to punch him in that smug face of his, but then his Johnny starts talking to you.
You sit in the club for a moment longer and then go to their phone to call someone from your residence to come pick you up. Once you have all the details sorted out, you don't go back to the table, you just run straight for the exit.
Unfortunately for you, Benny is very attentive.
"Stop, kid." Johnny says and gently pushes Benny into a chair. "She's not the girl for you. Better let her go and forget about it. Girls like her don't fit in with people like us."
"The first time that I saw her, I knew I wanted her badly. Nobody will stop me, Johnny. Not even her. I've already made up my mind. The dominoes cascading in the line." Benny answers confidently and runs after you.
He leaves the bar and looks around. He sees you walking far down the street, turning a corner out of his field of vision. He gets on his bike and starts it faster than ever and follows in your footsteps.
He was so close to making you care even a little as much as he did, and he wasn't going to stop now that he had you practically within reach. Benny knew that if he let you go now, all his efforts would be for nothing. And he wasn't going to start from scratch with you. His engine roars furiously beneath him as he chases after you. He smiles to himself when he sees you waiting outside one of your father's stores and pulls up to you. He stops right in front of you and doesn't turn off his engine. He doesn't look at you, just ahead on the road, waiting for your next move.
Benny hopes he doesn't show how stressed he is about what you're about to do, how impatiently he waits in the cold, deafening silence.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" You ask him, shoving your hands into your pockets. Benny sees you twitch slightly out of the corner of his eye.
"I'm waiting for you to get in." He replies calmly, taking his hands off the handles of his bike to rest his elbows on his thighs. You raise an eyebrow at him, wrapping your hand around the keys you carry in your pocket. Just in case. After all, you didn’t know that guy.
"I have no intention of doing so." You talk tough. But Benny is just as stubborn, if not more so. He won't let you off the hook that easily.
"Then I'll wait until your driver comes to pick you up and then I'll follow you to your house."
"You are lying. You can't do that. That's fucking stalking. And from what I know, you already have enough problems with the police."
"So you're interested in me after all, princess?" He gives you a dirty, wolfish grin and a wink, making your heart race. You find your reaction very pathetic, but you can't control yourself at all when this ridiculously handsome Vandal is flirting with you and doing things like this. He's a little unsettling, but also very exciting. No guy has ever wanted you as much or shown as much interest in you as this one. "Test me." He challenges you and calmly pulls out a cigarette to light it. The bike beneath him continues to roar furiously as he awaits your decision.
"Why are you doing this?" You ask, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. “You don’t want my money, but you follow me around like a lost puppy. What’s your problem, man?”
"You." He mumbles in that sinful raspy voice of his, staring at you as if he was tearing your soul apart. You swallow, trying to avoid his intense gaze.
"And what about me?"
"I fancy you." He shrugs like it’s an obvious thing to state. You stiffen as he dismounts his bike and walks over to you. You take a few steps back, gasping as your bare back hits the brick wall behind you.
"Me?"
"Uh-huh." He purrs and leans toward you. You hold your breath in some strange form of anticipation as you stare at him and wait for his next move.
A shiver runs through you as his fingertips brush your cheek. He caresses your red-hot skin, stands close to you, inhales your scent, and acts as if he's doing nothing out of the ordinary, as if being this close is proper and normal.
"I think about you. Often. When I am on the road. And I wish that you could sit behind me and hold on to me as we both race with the wind."
It's such a trite line. The one he probably fooled a lot of girls with. But God, how can you think logically when he's standing so close to you and telling you things that every girl dreams a guy will tell her?
"You'll take me home or what?" You ask, swallowing, trying to hold on to the last bit of control you have as his hand lazily brushes your jaw, tracing a line along your neck and stopping at your shoulder.
His hand is large. Warm. Rough but comfortable. His fingers dig into you, the cool metal of his rings calming you down a little. But your heart is still beating wildly, wanting to break free and give itself to the man before you. Even though he was a huge pain in the ass.
"Get in, little shrew." He says and nods to his bike. Not trusting your legs too much, you take small steps and carefully place yourself on his bike.
You shiver when he suddenly puts his warm Vandal jacket on you. You accept the cover without looking at him and put it on yourself. You almost moan as his warmth and scent envelop you, and his large, threadbare, grease-smeared jacket suddenly becomes the only one you ever want to wear.
Benny climbs onto his bike. He starts it, the engine humming and shuddering beneath you, but Benny doesn't move yet. You frown, wondering what he's waiting for. You quickly get your cue when he reaches behind your hands and wraps them around his torso. You blush, feeling his abs much better now that he's wearing just a black T-shirt.
"Harder, princess. I'll go fast." That's the only warning you get before he starts the engine. You scream and grab him hard, practically digging your nails into him. And Benny just laughs at it. Or at least that's what you gather from the way he trembles under your hands.
Because of the speed you're going, you arrive at your gate pretty quickly. The security guards stare at you in shock, but only for a moment before they return to their professional demeanor. They let you through, and Benny parks right under the steps to your entrance. You thank God your dad is away on business and won't see you riding Vandal's bike.
You get off your bike and stand there stupidly next to Benny wondering what the hell you're going to do with him now. Will he get bored and ride off? Or will he wait outside your house? Or will he want to come inside?
"Will you ever get the fuck away from me?" You ask him angrily, not knowing what to do.
"Is this what you really want?" Benny asks calmly and lights his cigarette.
You don't answer that. Somehow this Vandal became.. close to you. You don't want him to go anywhere, to leave you alone. Somehow it was exciting to run into him from time to time. But he wanted more...
"I won't date you. My dad would kill me if he saw me with one of you. Or disinherited and thrown out of the house." You tell him right away, hoping that he'll get bored and leave you alone. Because you can't tell him to fuck off anymore. You can't seem to get it out of your throat and sound sincere.
"Then it's a good thing I don't want you to date me." You try to keep a straight face at his words. You nod and turn to go home, probably get drunk and try to forget about those damn striking blue eyes. But then Benny's scream stops you. "You will marry me, princess!"
An involuntary smile forms on your lips, and that familiar, pleasant excitement returns. He really wants to race and play this game with you. Somehow, it seems much more enjoyable than the advances of those rich assholes. This one really tried and put an effort in chasing you.
"Not even in your wildest dreams, biker-boy!" You shout over your shoulder and go to your house.
Benny stands by your door for a moment longer. He finishes his cigarette and watches the lights in your house blink. Once he figures out which window is yours, he smiles at himself and starts his engine.
The real game has begun.
"Oh my God, how romantic!" Your hairdresser squeals above you, glancing over her shoulder every now and then to watch Benny lean against his bike, smoking a cigarette, watching you through the window, waiting for you to finish your hair appointment.
"Rather frustrating." You comment without taking your eyes off your reflection in the mirror as your hairdresser does your hair.
"Honey, do you know how many women come here? And do you know how many men wait of their own free will for them to leave while we finish doing their hair? NONE. And that handsome guy on the bike... get after him before one of us grabs him in our claws."
You roll your eyes at her words and light a cigarette, trying to push down the ugly feeling of jealousy at the thought of some hag riding your Vandal's bike and hugging him from behind like you do.
Not. Fucking. Happening.
"As if I cared." You mumble and let her finish your hair.
You pay her and chat for a while at the cash register when out of the corner of your eye you notice Benny, who is still leaning on his bike and waiting outside the hair salon for you to come out, now talking to some girl.
You say goodbye to your hairdresser and leave. You walk closer to the two of them and your anger flares when you hear the other girl flirting with him.
"So... do you have a girlfriend?"
"I don't know... do I, princess?" Benny shifts his gaze from her to you and raises an eyebrow, smiling stupidly and maliciously when he sees the fury written all over your face.
Without a word, you get on his bike and wait for him to join you. Benny quickly abandons the girl he was talking to earlier and starts the engine.
You dig your fingers into him a little more painfully than usual and press your body against his. You rest your cheek against his back and give the other woman a warning look, marking your territory.
Luckily Benny doesn't see it. He drives ahead with you in the back and only then do you realize your stupidity. You let him take you wherever he wanted just because you had to point out that he was yours. He wasn't yours, but...
"Here we are." He pulls you out of your thoughts. It's only because of him that you realize he took you out of town to one of the infamous Vandal picnics.
Your dad will kill you if he finds out.
You feel a little out of place in your white mini skirt among all the bikers and their women in leatger jackets, but Benny doesn't care that you don't fit in with his company with your Chanel bag.
He takes your hand and pulls you closer to the fire. A few people whistle behind you, and you involuntarily move closer to Benny, seeking safety. Seeing this, he puts his arm around you and pulls you into his side. And you wonder why the hell you're letting him drag you like a rag doll.
Benny sits on a log and waits for you to join him. You decide to sit on his lap since you don't want to get your skirt dirty on the branch of wood.
"Don't think too much about it." You mumble at him and he just smiles evilly, feigning innocence.
"I would never dare."
You spend the evening with the bikers, listening and laughing at their stories, sitting on Benny's lap. A few of them called you Benny's girlfriend and you didn't feel like correcting them. Besides, it would be hard to explain your relationship… you don't know exactly what it is that connects you with the biker.
You think about it as you ride cuddled up to Benny on his bike again. The night air hits the two of you, and you're glad you're wearing Vandal's jacket. You sigh, thinking about how over the past few days he's changed your routine and crept into your life, like a thief taking away bits of your time until you practically spent the whole day with him. And surprisingly, it didn't bother you one bit.
It's only when you stop that you notice that Benny hasn't been driving you home. Instead, you're on the outskirts of town, near a small forest. You breathe in the fresh night air and look at the stars above you.
Benny moves on his bike so you can lean against his chest. He envelops you in the embrace of his strong, tattooed arms and rests his nose against your hair, sighing your scent. You sit there for a moment in blissful silence, listening to each other's breathing and the sounds of nature. You've never known such blissful silence as with Benny.
"You enjoyed today." He states, doesn't ask.
You know him well enough now that you know he's been watching you closely all night, and your every little reaction to his Vandal family. And he was right, you quite liked it. But spending one evening like that, and all of your potential life with Benny, is a big difference. And you don't know if you'll be able to keep up with his crazy life, since you've been accustomed since you were a child to having the best comforts and living in complete safety and control.
"I did." You reply, lazily tracing patterns with your finger on his arm. You almost giggle when you see the hairs on his arms stand up in response to your touch. "But I still won't be your girlfriend."
"And I think I've already told you that I want a wife, not a girlfriend."
"You hardly know me." You adopt a new tactic, trying at all costs to dissuade him from this idea, to prove that you do not belong together at all.
"I know enough to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The moment I saw you, I knew I wanted you. And when I get to know you and your character, I realized that we are meant for each other."
The way he looks at you now, his closeness, the warmth, the smell of cigarette smoke and the beer he's been drinking make it hard to think straight. Especially when he's practically opening all his cards to you.
"I hardly know you." You mumble in shock, prepared for the fact that someone might actually care more about you, that someone is chasing you and not your dad's money, that someone wants you and not the privilages of your last name.
"You will have time for getting to know me, princess. Besides... I think you know about me much more than you are willing to admit to yourself."
You swallow hardly. Benny's hand plays with the button on his jacket that you're currently wearing. You sigh as his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer to him. His fingers travel under your shirt, and you bite your lip hard, holding back a moan as you feel his cool, long fingers on the heated skin of your stomach.
"My dad will kill you." You mumble in warning, not really paying attention to it yourself now as his roving hand gently caresses the skin of your stomach and brushes teasingly over the material of your bra.
"I'm stronger than you think, little shrew." In proof, he tightens his grip around you. You sigh slightly, biting your tongue hard to keep from moaning his name as his hand cups your clothed breast. "Nothing can stop me… unless you really don't want me." He whispers hoarsely in your ear and presses his lips to your temple.
It is both a warning and a promise. He can leave you alone, but you must reckon with the consequences. You know that a man like him leaves with the first goodbye, with the first sign that he is an undesirable element in your life. But what can you do when he pulls away from you, stops rubbing your breast teasingly, and gets off his bike, depriving you of his warmth and the strong embrace with which he protected you from the outside world? How can you reject him once again?
You have not such strength in yourself. You are already glad that you lasted that long with turning him down and didn't give in to him at the very first meeting, when he came to you and lit up your cigarette.
"I can't just marry you. It hasn't even been a month since we first met." You remind him and yourself, but you feel that along with his hot, intense gaze on you, any remnants of your common sense are melting away.
You want him. No matter who disagrees with it or how people react to it, you feel that you can no longer live without him in your life. He was everything you never had. Freedom, wildness, passion, boundless, sick love that makes you swallow you whole, and you are able to do stupid, irrational things. And you want all of it. Even if you have to sell all your nice things and walk around covered in grease and gasoline like him.
And that was a big declaration coming from a rich, spoiled daddy's little girl like you.
"Sometimes you just see and know. You can't say you don't feel it, princess. You're meant to be mine. You know it." After his words, silence falls between you. You are in a kind of staring contest, since you try to endure his deep look.
You feel that you are slowly losing control, that your life is slipping away in a completely new, unknown direction, and honestly, you do not want to turn back for a moment. But your parents raised a cautious girl.
"We are making a prenuptial agreement." Benny snorts with laughter but nods, obediently agreeing to your terms.
"I've told you before, I want you, not your money, but fine. If that makes you feel safe, fine, we will sign one." You stare at him in deafening silence, unable to believe that this was really happening, that he was really running after you just to have you, to be his. You. Not your parents' money, not the expensive things you could buy him, not the job you could offer him at your father's company. Just you. It's just you.
"You are crazy." You laugh in disbelief. His jacket wraps around you snugly, providing comfort from the cold night wind that ruffles Benny's hair, making you want to run your hand through it yourself and see if it's as soft as it looks.
"You're crazy too. You finally agree." He says with a small smile, and you blush.
You roll your eyes and shift your gaze to the forest beside us. Benny won't be having this. He steps up to you and takes your chin between two fingers, forcing you to look at him again. You swallow, your gaze travelling from his eyes to his plush lips.
"I want a ring. And fancy motorcycle's wedding. With the cans attached to your bike and everything."
"Deal." He whispers back and cups your cheek in his hand. His thumb strokes your skin, his touch searing, igniting a flame of desire so great within you that you wonder how the hell you could have lived without knowing such a feeling.
"And I want to settle down someday and have real house, family and so on."
"Okay." He mumbles and presses a kiss to your other cheek. You sigh shakily, grabbing his bike with all your might to keep from tearfully and desperately digging your fingers into Benny and pulling him closer to you. You're fucking trembling, and the guy hasn't even touched you properly.
"Seriosuly? You are going to do so and agrree just like that?"
"I told you. I want you. I will do everything to have you."
You envy the calmness in his gaze and actions as he lazily presses kisses across your face. Cheek, temple, forehead, nose, other cheek, the edge of your jaw… anywhere but your damn lips.
"You didn't even kiss me yet." You remind him angrily, and Benny can only chuckle deeply at your indignation. He tugs a strand of your hair back and takes a step towards you, standing between your spread legs as you remain on his bike.
"A mistake I intend to fix." He mumbles, and finally, after many years, centuries, enoahs, of waiting, he presses his lips to yours.
You sigh, grabbing him by his shirt and balling the material into a fist, pulling him closer to you. His lips move in such a wonderful way, caressing yours, tasting you intently as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, every little gasp at his caresses, and everything about you.
His touch is electric. It fires up every neurone in you, turning you into a whining, needy little mess as his tongue connects with yours in a mad dance. You stop caring about anything in the world, just being as close to him as possible; that's all that matters; all that matters is Benny. You break the kiss only to have him angrily rip his shirt off of him, and you quickly silence any attempts he makes to mock you and your haste by capturing his lips in another bruising kiss as you explored his muscular torso that you've been clinged to so many times while riding his bike.
Your thinking goes out the window when all you can feel and worry about is Benny.
Benny presses you against his bike and deepens the kiss as you moan into his mouth, feeling every muscle of his against your body. He practically rips your shirt and bra off of you, leaving you in nothing but his Vandal's jacket as he trails his kisses from your jaw, neck and collarbone to your chest.
You tangled your hand in his hair, pulling him as close to you as possible, and it made Benny feel like he was in heaven. You wanted him as desperately as he wanted you, and Benny was going to give you exactly what you wanted and needed.
Benny smiles against your silky skin as he leaves his marks on you. He had managed to do exactly what he had planned. And he was extremely happy about it.
And with your soft moan and the clumsy, quick fumbling with the waistband of his pants, he only has one thought on his mind.
Checkmate. Benny couldn't lose.
And now you are only his.
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Living in Secrecy
I couldn't stop thinking about this idea when I was in the middle of a uni class so ENJOY xoxo
"Hey, y'know Rose?" James starts speaking as soon as he's sat beside Sirius in the common room. He seems... antsy; Sirius watching his leg bounce, confused.
"Hufflepuff in our year, right?" He asks. He doesn't know her particularly well. Part of him thinks they were in the same charms class for a year, but he barely remembers fifth year charms. Too much was happening back then.
James nods emphatically, eyes brightening.
"Yeah! Her! I've heard she likes you. Wants you to ask her out."
"Oh, really?" Sirius asks. He tries to muster a sense of interest into his tone, but honestly? He couldn't care less. James, who unfortunately can read him like a book, picks up on this scarily quickly.
"I thought, maybe, it would be... good for you. Y'know, to go on a date." He's practically stumbling through it, but it's enough to make everything click.
Ah.
Right.
He's worried.
Sirius used to date around. He's not exactly proud of it, he spent a lot of time denying a very big part of himself, and he broke a lot of hearts in the process.
All of that ground to a halt when Remus kissed him on the astronomy tower.
He couldn't deny anything then. When Remus' lips met his, all he could think was that they'd wasted too much time not being together in this way. He's not quite there yet, but at least he knows that now. He knows he has a long way to go, but at least he has Remus. Even if he isn't ready to tell people yet, Remus understands.
That also meant no more girls.
He had gone from never being single in the eyes of the school to rejecting every advance thrown his way. He's been so wrapped up in the past few months with Remus, that he hadn't even thought about how confusing a switch that must have been for his friends.
"Prongs, I'm not really interested," Sirius says gently. He does want to tell James. It's pretty tempting, but he can't get the words past his mind and into his mouth. Not yet.
"How come?" James asks, confused. "I'm not saying you need to go back to the way you dated before!" He says quickly. "I'm glad you took a bit of a break, really I am. It's just... I don't know, I thought maybe you've had a bit of a confidence knock, or something. You've gone all quiet about your love life."
"Well, I mean, there's not much to tell," Sirius says with a shrug, panic creeping through him ever so slightly. James watches him carefully for a moment, before just nodding once.
"Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, just... think about it? Could get you back on your feet." Sirius nods dutifully.
Thank fuck that conversation's over.
He skips Divination. It doesn't matter either way, he'll pass that exam with flying colours.
Instead, he opts for laying on his bed in the dorm, lazily levitating shit with his wand. He's mostly just trying to whittle away the time, waiting for Remus.
The door clicks open, and Sirius can't help but smile before he even catches a glimpse of him.
Remus is humming Bohemian Rhapsody.
Christ, it's so bloody endearing, Sirius is grinning by the time he's stopped, noticing Sirius' presence. As he sits up, his eyes finally meeting Remus', he watches a slightly embarrassed blush spread across Remus' cheeks. He adjusts until his legs are over the end of his bed, revelling in the way his heart speeds up at the sight of Remus.
"Aren't you meant to be in Divination?" He recovers quickly, arching an eyebrow as he drops his books onto his bed.
"Mm, told Prongs to say I'd foreseen my own death and was feeling a little shaken," he answers with a shrug and a wry smile. Remus shakes his head, but Sirius can see the affection in it. He quickly gets close enough for Sirius to grab both of his hands and pull him close, before wrapping his arms around Remus' waist. He's rewarded with a hand in his hair and Merlin, he's never felt this way before. He relaxes into Remus, letting his eyes slide shut.
"You okay?" Remus asks gently. Sirius nods into him, letting him go long enough for him to sit on the bed next to Sirius. He doesn't waste a second in leaning in and connecting their lips.
He doesn't think he'll ever get over this. This feeling, this want that builds in his core whenever the two of them kiss.
How did he ever think he was straight?
"Oh," he starts, pulling away begrudgingly as the story comes to the front of his mind, "Prongs tried to get me a date, today."
"Really?" Sirius watches amusement cross Remus' face. He nods, squeezing Remus' hand once.
"Some Hufflepuff girl. I think he thinks I've lost my mojo, or something." As he talks, he watches thoughtfulness begin to flash in Remus' eyes.
"I mean... have you considered maybe telling him?"
Sirius doesn't mean to tense up; it's involuntary. The moment he does, he knows he needs to talk himself out of this. He promised Remus that they'd tell people eventually, but... no, not yet.
"Why? He'll drop it on his own, when he realises I'm not interested," he says, forcing his shoulders to relax and waving his hand a little dismissively.
"I know you don't... I'm not saying you have to tell everyone," Remus says gently, "but, I mean, it would make everything a lot easier, right? Prongs wouldn't be trying to set you up all the time." He smiles, and Sirius really wishes he could reciprocate it. His smile is just so lovely.
"I don't know. I don't think now's the right time, y'know? Quidditch has been stressing him out, NEWTs are getting closer, Lily's finally started looking his way, it's just- why dump one more thing on him?"
They both know that's not why.
"Sirius, it's okay. You don't have to tell him tomorrow, or anything, but... have you thought about it? You know he won't look at you any differently, it's Prongs."
He doesn't. Nobody knows that for sure.
Sirius doesn't really want to say that. He doesn't know what he wants to say, really.
"It's not the right time," he settles on, hurried. Honestly, he just wants this conversation to be over.
"Okay," Remus says tiredly, pulling his hand out of Sirius' to scrub over his face. "Do think about it though? Please? We can't stay a secret forever."
"Yeah, I know," Sirius says. "He doesn't need to know now, though. It's fine, it doesn't matter," he says quickly, waving off the conversation and turning back to Remus. "We've got half an hour..." Remus' face stops him in his tracks. He almost looks stricken. "Moony, what's wrong?"
"It doesn't matter?" He repeats, face going slightly dark. "What, us?"
"That's not what I meant. I just... we're not there, are we? There's no point right now." He's panicking a little, everything starting to come out wrong as the anxiety comes back in volumes.
"Right, yeah. No point. Haven't made up your mind about us yet."
"That's not what I meant," he says helplessly. He doesn't know how to tell Remus what he means, because he isn't even sure. He can't tell Remus why he's so scared, he just is. It's a little embarrassing, really.
"Mm. I don't think I want to talk about this anymore." Remus gets up, Sirius' heart sinking to his stomach.
Fuck.
God, he's really cocked this up.
"I'm going to the library."
Before Sirius can figure out how to make it better, Remus is already out the door. He drops his head into his hands and lets out a groan.
He's such a bloody idiot.
"Padfoot." James stumbles up to Sirius. He's leaning against the wall beside the portrait hole, watching the party go on and just trying to drink himself into oblivion. In his defence, he's in a foul mood, after what happened with Remus. He just needs to sulk and forget about it for a bit.
They can talk about it tomorrow.
It doesn't help that Remus is noticeably absent from a party that he helped organise. Sirius knows it's his fault. He knows that he shouldn't have said any of what he said. Sure, maybe Remus overreacted, but he knows how Remus' brain works, he should have been more careful.
So, yeah, he's feeling a bit shit.
"Wotcher, Prongs." He reaches a hand out to steady James a little as he settles beside Sirius.
"S'goin on? You're being all..."
"M'fine," he answers with a shrug, draining the rest of his drink. He can't exactly tell James why he's being such a moody git, can he? Instead, he opts for straightening up and staring at his empty goblet. "Need a refill."
With that, he heads over to the drinks table. He's starting to feel comfortably fuzzy, zoning out as he pours just a little too much firewhiskey into his goblet. Just for tonight. Tonight he can let himself go a little, and he can fix things with Remus once he's cooled off a little.
Things start to blur from there.
He's not drunk, per se, but he's getting there. He's tipsy enough that he doesn't question James talking to a girl who looks weirdly familiar.
He doesn't even question it when she walks over to him.
"Hi, Sirius!" She starts cheerily.
"Hey. Rose, right?"
-
Remus is sulking.
It's an embarrassing thing to admit, but he is. He's sitting on his bed, pretending to read as he listens to the party downstairs.
He also knows that he's not really in the right.
He told Sirius he'd give him time, and he knows that. The thing is, he's had two months of Sirius gently shutting the conversation down when it comes to telling people about them. Surely two months is enough time. Also, he did say there was 'no point' in telling James about them. Sirius' best friend, his brother, and there's no point?
Remus has a right to be upset about that.
The more he thinks about it, dwells on it, the more he realises that he needs to give Sirius some more credit. Yeah, he's not ready to tell James yet but, Merlin, Sirius is the best person Remus knows. He's scared. Of course he's bloody scared, with the upbringing he's had.
When they're alone, he takes every available opportunity to make Remus feel like the most important person in the world. He knows Sirius by now, he should know that Sirius needs real time to think on this. They need to have a real conversation about it.
That can wait, though. They shouldn't be ending the day like this.
Shit.
He needs to go and apologise.
Sirius needs to know that it's okay. That Remus really bloody likes him. It's okay if Sirius needs time, he just needs to tell him that. They just need to communicate.
Problem solved.
With that, he shuts his book, leaving it forgotten as he pulls the door to the dorm open. He feels lighter, somehow. Hopeful. They can work through this. That's what couples do, right?
He bounds down the stairs as quickly as his hip will let him, out into the thick of the party. His eyes scan the room, searching for Sirius.
It doesn't take long to spot him, talking to another seventh year. Remus recognises her, he's pretty sure she was in their charms class, a few years back. He's sure he can interrupt them, that's fine-
Until she leans in and kisses him.
Oh, fuck.
Just like that, Remus' heart stops.
For a moment, he just stares. He can't fucking look away. It's no more than a second or two, but it may as well have been hours.
God, he feels sick.
Finally, his brain decides to set him free. He manages to turn away as his soul fucking shatters. He loses all control of his breathing, going shallow as he's thrown into the depths of a panic attack he can't save himself from.
He's an idiot.
He's an idiot for thinking he would ever be enough, he's an idiot for letting himself get this far.
He's an idiot for falling in love with the prat.
The tears start before he has a chance to calm down, pulling the curtains shut around his bed. He cries until his throat is raw, until his head aches, until he exhausts himself. He only has one thought as he falls into a fitful sleep.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Remus wakes up as early as he can, the next day.
The others are probably sleeping off hangovers, anyway. It gives him the chance to slip into the bathroom, unnoticed.
As he turns the shower on, he tries to figure out how the hell he feels. It's like he's having an out of body experience. His body isn't letting him feel any of the night before.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, letting the water hit him, staring into space and trying to figure out how the fuck he's going to tell Sirius.
They were going to go to Hogsmeade, today. Slip away from James and Peter so that they could spend some time together. Instead, Remus has to relive what happened last night. It's not exactly a conversation he's excited to have.
Still, he can't avoid it any longer when someone starts knocking the door.
"Oi, Moony!" James' voice rings out. "I love you, mate, but you've been in there for years!"
"Sorry," he says back, trying to force some semblance of brightness into his tone.
It doesn't take him long to switch the shower off, wrapping a towel around his waist and emerging from the bathroom. James smiles at him, but it quickly gives way to concern. Remus must not be doing a very good job at being fine.
"You okay?"
He just nods once, a horrible lump forming in his throat that he knows will have him breaking down if he's not careful. Thankfully, James is slightly too hungover to ask, so he just squeezes Remus' shoulder once and disappears into the bathroom. The moment the door shuts, Remus realises.
Sirius is awake.
Awake, hungover, and watching him with concern.
"Hey," he starts at a whisper. Remus glances over to Pete's bed. The curtains are drawn tight.
There's no getting out of this.
"Can we talk today?" He asks softly.
For a moment, Remus just watches him. He hates the pang of worry that hits him when he notices the furrow in Sirius' brow, the way his teeth worry at his lower lip.
Well, until the night before comes screaming back to him.
He shakes his head, walking over to his bed.
"No, I don't think we can."
"Moony, what-? Are you alright?" He asks, and Merlin, he really thinks Remus doesn't know? He pulls his chest open, rooting through it for something to wear.
"I think you can answer that," he says blankly. When he doesn't get an answer, he turns to face Sirius. He just looks confused. "That Hufflepuff, from last night. She's the one James was trying to set you up with, right?" He watches as the realisation flits across Sirius' face. His eyes widen, Remus letting Sirius clear his throat a little in his shock, sitting up straight.
"Shit. Moony, you know that wasn't what-"
"What, wasn't what it looked like?" He asks. "I really don't want to hear it, Sirius. You said you weren't sure, then got with a girl. Message received." He shuts his chest a little too hard, wincing as the sound reverberates through his skull.
"Wait, Rem, please. Prongs was just-"
The curtains around Peter's bed slide open, and Sirius' mouth snaps shut. Remus turns and offers Pete a half-hearted smile, before climbing onto his bed and moving to close the curtains.
"Remus," Sirius whispers, eyes pleading.
For a moment, Remus wants to relent. He wants to pull Sirius into a hug and make everything okay. Forget that this happened and draw a line under it.
No.
Not this time.
"Leave me alone, Sirius."
With that, he shuts the curtains and bites back tears.
He almost misses breakfast, in the end. He sits and waits until he hears everyone else leave the dorm, not willing to face any of the marauders, really.
When he does eventually get to breakfast, he sits with the girls instead. Lily shoots him a concerned glance, a question in her eyes. He just shakes his head. No talking. Not right now.
He spares a glance in the direction of his usual spot. James and Peter are sat opposite one another, whispering with confused frowns. Sirius is nowhere to be seen, James throwing Remus a glance every few seconds. When he spots Remus watching him, face blank, he falters.
"You okay?" He mouths across the table.
No. He's really bloody not. He's actually a little worried that if he opens his mouth he'll burst into tears. Instead, he opts for a shrug, turning back to his food.
He feels a little like he's underwater, like nothing's real.
Breakfast is excruciatingly long, even though he's the first one finished. He needs to go. Get away from everybody. From everything.
Usually, he doesn't want to go to class around the full moon. His skin is too busy crawling, his head buzzing to the point that he can't focus. Right now, he'd fucking kill to go to class and distract himself. He stands quickly, desperate to leave. The moment he does, his heart rate spikes and he practically blacks out, stumbling a little over the bench.
Shit.
Yeah, he needs to sit down.
Lily's up in a flash, guiding Remus back onto the bench by the shoulders. She swings her legs over and stands in front of him.
"Slow down, take a breath," she says gently.
He watches James' walk over, before letting his eyes slide shut and forcing himself to breathe slowly. He just needs to hurry up and calm down. They're not going to let him leave if he doesn't.
“Come on, let’s go.” She offers him her hand, slowly helping him up.
“Go?” He asks with a frown. To be perfectly honest, he wants to go and lock himself in his bed, wallow for a little where nobody can bother him.
“The hospital wing,” she answers, James nodding like it should be obvious. Remus goes to protest. He’s not that unwell, this happens all the time around the full-
Hold on.
The hospital wing. Nobody can bother him there.
Lily’s just given him the solution.
With that decided, he lets her lead him out of the Great Hall, trying to ignore the eyes on him. James and Peter are close behind, as they walk together to the wing. Madame Pomfrey’s bound to give him something to let him sleep through the day, if he asks.
The moment he arrives, Madame Pomfrey’s sitting in front of him. He doesn’t say much, Lily explaining on his behalf. Poppy nods, listening carefully.
“I think I have just the thing. One moment, lovely.” She pats his knee, standing and walking away.
“D’you want us to stay?” James asks, offering Remus a small smile.
Thank fuck. He shakes his head, trying to mirror James’ smile.
“I’ll be fine. See you later?” They all start to leave, Lily squeezing his hand before she leaves.
It doesn’t take long for Madame Pomfrey to come back, potion in hand.
“It’ll slow your heart down a little,” she explains, as he pulls the cork off and drinks it dutifully. He can still feel her eyes on him, watching him carefully. “How are you feeling, Remus?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Remus says back with a shrug. “Freaked Lily out more than me.”
“Mm. How about in general? You seem a little dejected.”
He stiffens a little at that. Poppy’s scarily good at this stuff, but he was hoping that she’d think he was just stressed because the moon’s close. For a moment, he goes to say exactly that; he’s just feeling antsy, what with the moon being so close.
The moment he opens his mouth, a lump forms in his throat. He can’t form the word fine, it just won’t happen.
God, he’s actually going to cry.
The tears spill over before he has a chance to blink them back. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s telling Poppy everything. He’s careful to leave Sirius’ name out of it, but that’s about as much control he’s capable of. Embarrassingly enough, Poppy hears everything. The conversations they’d had about secrecy, the argument, the fact that Remus wanted to tell him he loved him. Absolutely everything, through tears and a fair amount of hyperventilating.
To her credit, Poppy listens to it all. She sits and lets him vent everything, quietly empathetic right to the last word. Once he’s finished, he feels a bit stupid. The hospital wing isn’t meant for this. He’s taking up her time. He forces himself to take a deep breath, swiping the tears away quickly.
“Sorry.”
“Remus, dear, you have no reason to apologise.” She pulls her wand out, seamlessly bringing a bar of chocolate from her office. “Here. You can stay a while, if you want to.” He fiddles with the wrapper, nodding gratefully.
“Thanks, Madame Pomfrey.”
“Of course. Have a bit of a break.”
She leaves him alone, then. Standing and leaving with a reassuring smile. He practically exhausted himself with all of that. He doesn’t even realise that he’s about to fall asleep until he’s out.
When he wakes up hours later, James and Peter are talking next to his bed. He blinks harshly, sitting up. He didn't mean to sleep for that long, but at least it got rid of his headache.
"Hey," James says. "Feeling better?"
Remus nods once. He actually feels like he's a being a bit dramatic about everything, but it's not like James can hear that, can he?
"Yeah. Ready to go, actually." He swings his legs out of bed, quickly shooting Poppy a grateful glance.
They walk back to the common room slowly. Remus doesn't really speak much. He doesn't have anything to say.
"Padfoot's pissed at me," James says suddenly, scanning the map. "I'm pretty sure he's spent the whole day trying to avoid me. Look, he isn't even in the dorm!"
Remus wants to say something, then. Say that Sirius just feels awkward after what happened between them. Still, he bites his tongue.
"Well," Pete pipes up, "you did get a girl he didn't know go and kiss him."
Remus practically stops in his tracks, stunned. It takes way too much effort to keep his legs moving.
"I didn't know she was going to kiss him!" James protested. "All I told her to do was ask him out!"
"Yeah," Pete shrugs. "He doesn't know that though, does he?"
The realisation starts to dawn on Remus, like ice water running down his back.
"He stopped her in her tracks, anyway. I don't know, I feel like it should have blown over by now, y'know? Nothing even happened!" James says, frustrated, guilt laced through his voice.
"Oh, fuck," Remus groans to himself. He's really fucked up.
"Moony, you okay?" James asks.
"Yeah. No. I don't- I'll see you later," he says quickly, grabbing the map from James and practically running off. He doesn't even think about how confused his friends must be. He can't. His mind is stuck on Sirius.
Merlin, poor Sirius.
With a quick glance at the map, he runs across the castle. It's like his brain has woken up, adrenaline feeding him, letting him ignore his hip. Nothing feels as important as getting to Sirius right now. He's jumped to the worst conclusion of his life.
It doesn't take him long to get to the One Eyed Witch passage. Sirius hasn't moved, as Remus shuts the map, pulling the entrance open. He jumps a mile at Remus' arrival, and Remus catches him subtly wiping the tears from his cheeks. His heart tugs painfully, guilt following along with it.
"M- Remus, sorry, I-"
"I, er..." Remus starts quickly, cheeks pinking a little. "I actually came to find you."
Sirius' eyes widen, and Remus steps inside, shutting the passage behind him.
"I- Padfoot, I'm so sorry."
"You're..."
"I should have let you explain. I shouldn't have just... assumed that you'd do something like that." He says gently, sitting opposite Sirius in the small passage.
"Moony, I didn't- she- I promise-" Sirius' face twists awkwardly as he stumbles for the words.
"I know," Remus answers, reaching out and grabbing Sirius' hands in his. "James said. Honestly? I should have known. It was awful of me, not letting you explain. I'm so sorry."
"No, I get it. Really, Moony, I do," Sirius says hurriedly, squeezing Remus' hands once. "After what I said, I get it. I'm- Christ, I was an idiot saying any of that." Remus tries to wave him off, but Sirius doesn't stop. "No, really. I don't think any of what I said. I'm sure, Remus. I really am sure. I just- I don't know, I freaked out. I was still thinking about Prongs not finding out, but I also wanted to tell you I love you, and I didn't-" He cuts himself off, and Remus can see the shock ripple through him.
Sirius loves him?
"Shit. Bugger. I didn't mean to-" He buries his face into his hands, groaning. "Sorry."
There's already a smile growing on Remus' face, though. This is the last thing he expected.
"Sirius," he says gently, reaching up and pulling Sirius' hands from his face. "I love you."
Sirius' breath catches in his throat, eyes darting over Remus' face.
"You- Merlin, Remus, I love you so much. I'm so in love with you," he says quickly, and Remus just can't take it anymore. He leans in and connects their lips without a second thought. Sirius lets out a muffled noise of surprise, hands moving to cup Remus' face.
It dawns on Remus, in this moment, that nobody else needs to know. He's been so worried about how Sirius felt, that he'd essentially taken the fact that Sirius isn't ready to tell people as a sign that he didn't like Remus.
Who else needs to know? This is theirs.
They can stay secret for a little longer.
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