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mourning-sapphire · 2 days ago

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bruised fruit | aemond targaryen | chapter two

Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.

Pairing: aemond targaryen x redwyne!reader

Chapter warnings: there is some bullying in this chapter, manipulation, ablesim, mocking of aemond's physical apperance (not by reader), some brief descriptions of anxiety, some mention of uncomfortable predicaments.

Word count: 16k (oops)

authors note: all i can say is enjoy, while i look at my plans and wonder how tf this turned out to be this long.

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Aemond was officially losing his will to live.

Each step he took back to his chambers echoed that frustration, the hopelessness that he was feeling just from a few short seconds with his new endeavour. Everyone in the keep was used to his boots striking stone in some sort of attitude but it was never like this, he had never felt like this before. Thoughts of mounting Vhagar and soaring away from it all to some far-off city in Essos— away from duty, from court, from expectations, from this fucking betrothal—grew increasingly more seductive to him with every passing moment.

Gods, how the image seemed so lush in that moment

He could almost feel the sharp winds of open sky, the endless stretch of somewhere like Volantis beneath him, the screams of his name lost to the roar of wings. The idea didn’t just tempt him anymore—it whispered to him, breath hot against his ear like a lover, coaxing, urging him to flee.

It was erotic in its promise of freedom, it was what he wanted.

The introductions at the docks had gone exactly as he expected— completely and utterly abysmally. His mother’s reaction had been instant to his tone, though quiet. That look in her eyes, like a brewing storm, one she rarely gave him when he acted out of par. She hadn’t raised her voice at his disregard for the Redwyne girl, hadn’t even spoken, but he knew what that particular silence meant. It was the same brittle stillness before she snapped at him, her normally softer eyes widened with rage that she rarely felt for her second youngest. No, his mother had simply taken the Redwyne girl’s arm—gently, diplomatically—and guided her away from him, not sparing Aemond so much as a reprimand in the moment.

But he knew. Oh, how he knew that the verbal thrashing was coming, sharp and cutting,. He could practically hear it now.

But he just didn’t care.

The girl was beautiful, he’d give her that. Striking, even with delicate features, with eyes too wide and too hopeful for her own good. But beauty meant little to him these days, it stirred nothing in him—not warmth, not kindness, not even the faintest urge to impress her. When she’d curtsied to him, dripped with politeness and soft expectation, he could barely bring himself to acknowledge her with little more than a nod and a cold, flat greeting.

In the eyes of his mother, and most likely the gods, he might as well have have spit on the ground in front of her. He’d watched the light falter in her face, fade like a candle by an open window, and for a brief, twisted moment, he’d felt something close to satisfaction.

He knew he was cruel. He could feel it in his marrow, like his own rot beneath polished leather armour.

Usually, he had the sense of mind to feign courtesy towards people he didn’t like, to mask his contempt behind silence. But something about her, maybe her innocence, provoked something vicious inside him. A reflex, like a wounded animal snapping at the kindness of an outstretched hand.

His pain and his anger towards marriage couldn’t be soothed with a pretty wife, no matter how gorgeous she was. If all he wanted was someone beautiful to look at, he had enough coin for that. Aemond could pay for softness, for sweet lies whispered in the dark if that’s what he truly desired. He didn’t need a wife for that. Certainly, not one who would be thrust upon him like a political offering, all smiles and subtle desperation.

The doors to his chamber practically shuddered as Aemond shoved them open, the sound biting through the corridor like a threat. He didn’t pause to acknowledge the servants within who were changing his bedding. He wasn’t usually in his chambers at this time of day, he just stormed inside in his anger, letting the doors swing shut behind him with a thunderous slam. The startled servants quickly bowed and vanished, knowing better than to linger when the prince was in such a state.

He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by morning light and silence, chest rising and falling with an emotion he couldn’t name. It wasn’t panic or fear, nor was it anger; it was something nasty that had taken all of that and burrowed in his chest. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking with the force at which he curled his fist. The quiet of his chamber itched at his skin, he hated it. Hated the way his thoughts almost echoed around the room, bouncing off the stone walls and reminding him of the hollowness of it all.

“It was all a farce, a ridiculous farce” he thought as he tore off his sword belt and tossed it on his writing desk with a thunk, his ink bottles rattling and paper crunching with the lack of care he had.

Aemond was used to being able to keep a level head about most things, about things that shouldn’t matter, but all he could think was this was another thing taken from him as his boots struck hard against the floor. He couldn’t help it but he paced —once, twice, again in front of the balcony doors—a tight line carving into the rug like a trench of his own anger.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the door open behind him until he heard her voice.

"Aemond." His mother’s voice was calm and controlled, too controlled, for how angry she probably was.

He stopped mid-step at her tone, his body stopping to look out the balcony doors. He didn’t turn to face her, he couldn’t, he didn’t want her to see the turmoil on his face and he didn’t want to see the disappointment on hers.

“Aemond,” She repeated, firmer this time, the sound of her slippers thudding on the floors told him she was walking closer to him, too close.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound more of a huff than a breath, and finally faced her. Alicent stood just by his couches, the light that bled in through the windows catching in the green and gold silk of her sleeves. Lighting her in almost a saintly light. However, what she wore best though was the light of vehemence, banked but, unmistakable in her eyes.

They stood and faced each other off like they weren't mother and son. Like something closer to enemies in that moment, enemies that shared memories, blood, and shared pain. It was heavy, so heavy that the silence in the room was only broken by a guard outside shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“Would you like to explain to me what that was?” His mother asked calmly, with no raised voice, no theatrics. Just that tone, the one that said she was holding herself together by inches. The one she had used on him and all his siblings since they were children.

Aemond didn’t respond right away, no he looked at her like one might look at a ghost. A relic of something that used to make sense, his mother once made sense to him. “Do you want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

“I always want the truth, Aemond.” She snapped softly, something rare, but there was hurt in it, dripping with it. “Though with you lately, I never know which version I’ll get.”

“Then here it is, I didn’t want to meet her, I never asked for this." He laughed—sharp and humourless, cruel. "I won’t play husband to some dainty girl with stars strung in her eyes who thinks she can smile her way into my good graces.”

“She is your betrothed,” Alicent said, stepping further into his space. “You didn’t even try to be civil, nor attempted to be welcoming.”

“She curtsied like I was a prince in some song,” he bit out like it was a mockery to him, that she couldn’t see how he was. “I spared her by not lying to her face.”

“And what exactly do you think you gain by acting like a beast?” Alicent said, anger beginning to simmer in her voice now, rumbling in her chest. “You not only humiliated her, but you humiliated me.”

Aemond turned away again. “Good,” he muttered. “Let her realise early what she's getting into.”

“That girl is meant to be your wife,” Alicent said, each word clipped, controlled, eyes widening with that familiar anger she often carried for her children. “She could have been your ally. Someone to—”

“Someone to warm my bed? To bear my children?” He whipped around to face her, teeth gnashing like the dragon he claimed to be. “To pretend she doesn’t flinch when she sees what’s under this?” He gestured to his eyepatch, the ache of his sapphire in his socket reminded him of all his agony, his voice cold with venom. “She’ll never love me. And I’ll never love her, so why should I pretend?”

Silence fell at that, thick and heavy. But Alicent’s gaze didn’t waver, though something in her expression softened—a flicker of his mother beneath the queen.

“I don’t ask you to love her,” she said quietly. “I ask you to act like a man, not a wounded boy lashing out at the world.”

That landed deeper than he expected. He looked away, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer, her voice lower now. “You think I wasn’t afraid? That I wasn’t bound to someone I didn’t choose? That I haven’t felt caged by duty since the moment I first bled?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t really.

His mothers had an affinity to twisting the situation, something he’d seen grow over the years in the resentment for his father and his half-sister. Despite looking like a pious doe most days, she still had the Hightower ability to twist something entirely so that it may forge something else. Even if that something was reminding her children of all she had sacrificed in life to bring them to this moment.

“I learned to live with it,” she said. “You don’t have to love her, but you must at least respect her, Aemond… You cannot keep spitting in the face of every chance you're given simply because you still bleed over wounds long since scarred.”

He wanted to scoff at that, she too mourned wounds that had barely scarred, longing in her eyes for cuts that would unfurl at the slightest tug.

“I only want you to survive this world,” She added, lingering around him like she usually did; his mother was one of his few allies in his world. “And in this world, you do not survive alone.”

“I make no promises.” He swallowed slightly, his face away from her, he had never been able to deal with her version of scolding. “I cannot pretend that this is what I want.”

It was the closest he would ever come to a confession.

His mother didn’t sigh, didn’t bristle. She merely stepped a little closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm—not to comfort, but to remind.

She was still his mother, and she would always be watching. Her touch was featherlight, but it burned hotter than the forge, like it would melt the leather of his tunic.

“You think I did?” she asked quietly.

And then she was gone, leaving the space colder for her absence.

Aemond stood there for a long time after, unmoving, his eye drifting to the nearest window as the afternoon light stretched slowly across the city. The sky was clear—blue and vast in a way that made the walls of the Red Keep feel all the more stifling.

The thought of mounting Vhagar lingered still, tempting and sharp. He wouldn’t leave, not entirely—he never could—but a ride, just far enough to taste the air and dull the weight in his chest, would be enough.

Something just enough to push the thought of her from his mind.

Despite only being in King’s Landing for a mere few hours, it had already felt as though you’d aged lifetimes already. The capital moved on a different rhythm than home—everyone louder, faster, more watchful. The moment you stepped off the ship onto the stone docks, your every breath felt observed, weighed, and recorded. From the lingering heat of the sun on your shoulders to the heavy scent of smoke and sea air that clung to your skin, the day had been endless, thick with expectation.

It wasn’t like Aemond and his excuse of a greeting helped that case either, the sting of his disinterest still lingering in your chest like a paper cut that just kept throbbing.

It was only under Meredyth’s gentle care that you found the resolve to slow down after you got to your rooms, to come back to yourself after the storm that was this morning. Her touch was practised and grounding, her fingers moving with quiet precision as she brushed the tension from your scalp. It was sad but her movements were familiar in a way that you know you’d also mourn soon. She didn’t speak much after her words of encouragement—she didn’t need to.

The silence between you had always been one of comfort, and right now, it was the only thing keeping you from unravelling entirely in your new rooms.

Though it was much too early to begin preparing for the evening’s feast, Meredyth had started regardless. She knew better than anyone that it wasn’t just about being ready, it was about feeling steady and looking the part you needed to. The simple, deliberate motions of care: hair detangled, oils smoothed into the skin, the rustle of linens being laid out, each act gave shape to something solid inside you. Something you could cling to when the walls felt like they were closing in again.

And that’s exactly what she did.

It was just after a modest lunch had been delivered—a tray of warm bread, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine left mostly untouched—when Meredyth got to work. You feared for your stay here if she remained as sharp-tongued with the palace staff as she had been that mid-day, but it seemed to serve its purpose.

The palace servants did as they were told, tight-lipped and efficient, scurrying about under her brisk orders, despite her having no standing here besides being your chosen maid. It was at her request that a bath was drawn not long after the lunch was cleared away, a breath of relief passing your lips as soon as you saw the steam beginning to rise from the copper tub that they placed near the hearth.

Like always, Meredyth tested the temperature herself, rolling up her sleeves and adjusting the heat with a metal kettle of boiling water until it met her standards, the ones she knew you liked from the back of her hand. Only then did she turn to you, wordlessly beginning to undo the fastenings at the back of your gown with deft fingers.

There was no true ceremony to it—only quiet familiarity of a task she'd done a hundred times over. The layers came away one by one: the soft outer bodice, the shift, the stays, the undergarments, all peeled away like the shell of someone you couldn’t afford to be tonight. It felt final to watch your comfort turn into a soft pile of clothing on the rugs, but it was needed.

When you finally stepped into the tub, the heat was near scalding—but you welcomed it, it was like a kiss to your aching soul. The water lapped at your skin, loosening the tightness in your shoulders, washing away the grime of the docks and days on a ship, slipping away the weight of watchful eyes. You sank in slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a breath or two. For a moment, the world outside the bath ceased to exist.

Meredyth didn’t leave your side, she pulled a stool close and began to wet your hair with a cup instantly, her fingers moving through the wet strands with a tenderness that contrasted the steel in her voice earlier. She said nothing, but her silence was not cold. It was protective. A shield she held up for you when you could no longer hold your own.

The scent of floral, spices, and sage filled the air as she poured oils into the water, turning it that milky colour you loved so much, her sleeves dampening at the edges with each pour of the cup. You weren’t sure whether it was meant to soothe your skin or your nerves—perhaps both. Either way, it helped.

“You’re wearing the pink silk tonight,” she said after a while, her voice low, more thought than command. “The one with the embroidered flowers and veins on the bodice. It’s gentle, but not meek. And it’ll set you apart from every other girl draped in garnet and gold.”

You nodded, eyes still shut, the warmth making it easier to breathe, you knew the dress well.

It was an exquisite gown, the colour of blooming peach blossoms at the height of spring. It was a treasured gift from a group of traders who passed through the Arbor regularly during the height of trading season. Woven from the finest silks, the dress itself almost looked alive with the way it shimmered with any soft light. It was light enough that the fabric just moved like it was constantly catching the breeze, like petals on the wind.

You knew it wasn’t exactly the fashion of the capital but you wanted some sense of self. Even if a part of you worried that the ladies of court would side eye its deeper, sweeping neckline and flowing skirts, it was romantic. All while it was topped off with a gorgeous masterful embroider; a cascade of hand-stitched florals and delicate foliage in gold, green, and rose crawling down the bodice, onto the skirts and up the shoulders too.

The dress was hanging on the dressing partitions on the other side of the room, but you could see the tiny blossoms trailing down the bodice and gather at the waist like vines in bloom. It was a gown meant to be worn under the soft lantern light in the gazebos at home, surrounded by wine and song. Not politics—it was something that was supposed to be a whispering reminder of the sweet, heady promise of spring.

It was all idyllic thought, but it was enough to detach from reality for a while, just staring at the dress and all its intricacies while Meredyth scrubbed at your body and scalp. She let you stay in the water longer than usual, sensing your reluctance to emerge. But when she did eventually help you out, wrapping you in soft linens and patting your skin dry with care, it wasn’t with impatience. It was with the understanding of someone who knew you needed a gentler hand.

Preparations continued like this into the late afternoon.

Eventually, your hair dried with the freshly lit fire, and was brushed, and styled away from your face for the evening. While you often preferred to have your hair loose and down, tonight called for it to be gathered in an updo at the base of your skull. All while Meredyth took delight in sliding floral pins and little pearls into your hair like it had been kissed by morning dew.

Personally, the best part was your skin being scented and powdered lightly; giving you the chance to try the violet and woody oils that you had been gifted on your last name day, their pepperiness and subtle sweetness causing an aura around you like a comfort blanket. Getting ready truly was a ritual for you, as your underlayers too were eventually fitted and smoothed.

And through it all, Meredyth remained your quiet constant, guiding you through each step with the same calm certainty she always had. Tonight, would not be easy, but with her hands steadying you, with her voice anchoring you, the night didn’t feel impossible. Not yet.

She moved with quiet purpose, smoothing out your gown, selecting jewellery, smoothing silks with practised efficiency. She worked like someone who knew who you were even when you didn’t, who remembered what you looked like before the Aemond Targaryen had stolen the colour from your cheeks.

You had declined the offer of assistance from the palace staff—just for today. The Keep’s servants were probably skilled, yes, but they were also strangers with too many eyes and too few loyalties. In this place, every small gesture could be noted, every weakness catalogued. You couldn’t afford to be a novelty or a cautionary tale whispered about in corridors.

Not today.

Today, you needed Meredyth, you needed her presence like breath—quiet but essential. She moved through the room with that same silent command she always had, the air bending subtly to accommodate her certainty while you stood in the centre of it all, truly a stranger in a strange place.

Her motions were purposeful, almost reverent, as she laid out the final items for your attire. Jewellery gleamed softly from your box, the dress checked for any loose threads, slippers positioned just so by the edge of the hearth to put on later.

She adjusted your posture with a nudge to your shoulders, smoothed the fabric gathered at your shoulders without a word, and checked your reflection like it held the truth of your readiness. And perhaps, in a way, it did.

Because somewhere between the soft pull of pins, the scent of violet oil clinging to your wrists, and the quiet murmur of her voice reminding you to keep your chin lifted while she added a small pearl necklace, you began to believe you could do this.

She didn’t ask if you were alright, Meredyth never had, she never needed to. She knew better than to prod at wounds not yet closed. Instead, she gave you tasks to accommodate your busy mind, small ones; lift your arms, hold still, turn, breathe.

It had always been this way, even when you were a child. You were clever, always curious and hungry for knowledge but your nerves were another thing entirely. They were sharp, unpredictable, and often paralysing. Saying no was something you’d never mastered.

Standing your ground felt like walking into the sea without being able to swim. That was part of why home had always felt like a sanctuary: there was no one to challenge, no arguments to endure. Your father, though distracted by matters beyond you, had let you move through life as you pleased. Your sisters had grown and left, leaving you the home mostly to yourself to adventure and imagine as you wanted to.

Sadly, it was only when he took you along on his journeys—through the Reach, for trade, for introductions, for marriage prospects—that the ground began to shift beneath your feet and you felt the weight of those feelings. Even the most familiar towns felt foreign when you arrived as someone to be presented, discussed, considered. You never quite found your footing right away, and more often than not, it took days before you felt like yourself again, if you ever did at all.

Each of Meredyth’s subtle commands returned you to your body, to this moment, to the rhythm of preparation that felt more sacred than ceremonial. And still, she said nothing of the morning. Nothing of the Queen, or the eyes that had followed you through the court like you were prey. Nothing of the prince who’d looked at you with ice in his gaze and no sign of what he was thinking.

Instead, she focused on now, on what she could control.

At one point, she stepped behind you and gently rested her hands on your shoulders, just for a beat. Her thumbs pressed into the knots beneath your collarbones, grounding you, pulling you back from slouching in on yourself.

“You’re holding your breath again,” She murmured, her voice low, calm as she looked you over.

You hadn’t even realised that your breath was trapped.

“Breathe.” She soothed you softly, much like you would a child.

So, you did, slow and unsteady. But you did.

“Sorry.” You murmured softly, voice barely a breath as you smoothed your sweaty palms down your pretty dress.

“Don’t be, just breathe.” She hummed back, circling you and adjusting the smallest of details, “Your father will be here soon to walk you down.”

Meredyth gave you a quiet nod of approval in the mirror, then turned her attention back to the final details. You had refused the help of the palace servants earlier without apology, and you didn’t regret it. Meredyth was the only person in this place you trusted to see you vulnerable. The only one who knew how to hold the fragile pieces of you without pressing too hard.

The Keep’s attendants would have been polite, and efficient—perfect in the way court demanded. But there would have been glances. Questions unspoken but heavy in the air. Whispers waiting to bloom into rumours. You could not afford that, not tonight. Not while everything was still so newly set in motion.

So, Meredyth stayed, and in her staying, you stayed whole for a few moments longer.

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the hush of firelight, the distant sound of bells chiming the hour, and the soft rustle of your skirts as you stood, hands clenched lightly at your sides.

She stepped back, eyes scanning you one last time. There was no flourish, no grand declaration—just the quiet finality of readiness as she nodded at you.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and composed, your father was here to escort you down the stairs.

The hour had come.

Your father wasn’t the most talkative man, but when he arrived at your chamber door, dressed in deep blue velvet and smelling faintly of wine and cedarwood, he took one long look at you and offered a quiet, honest, “You look lovely.”

No elaborate praise, no flowery embellishments for his youngest daughter. Just those three words, steady and warm, the way only a father could say them. And strangely, at that moment, they meant more than all the silken compliments you’d endured from lords and courtiers over the years combined.

Regardless of the turmoil inside you, you still offered him a soft smile, not forced for once and slipped your arm through his so that the two of you could be on your way. While you weren’t the closest as you got older, your father was still a presence that grounded you.

Though he had spent much of the day apart from you, locked behind council doors with the Queen and the Hand of the King, presumably going over dowries, titles, and the tedious logistics of your future, he seemed noticeably lighter than he had that morning. There was a glimmer in his eye that wasn’t there when you got off the boat, it was the kind you hadn’t seen in some time.

He was pleased with everything you guessed, in his head already convinced that this arrangement would secure something better for you.

It was strange, then, how the sight of his joy only made your chest feel heavier.

Nothing felt as heavy as the corridors of the Red Keep though.

They were vast and echoing, their walls tall; lined with tapestries of the Seven and heavy with history that you were sure you’d come to understand in time. Every inch of carved stone and stained glass that lined the halls reminded that this was the dragon’s domain now. It was all topped off with torchlight casting flickers of gold across ancient murals of dragons and kings long dead.

There was no need for words as the two of you walked in silence, both of your footsteps softened by the rich carpets laid down for the evening most likely to protect the floor from the guests. The scent of roasted meats drifting faintly toward you from the direction of the throne room. Music, too—soft strings and lilting pipes—floated like smoke through the air, growing louder with every step.

You were glad that hadn’t spoken to Aemond since the introductions at the dock, and that by some hope he hadn’t been convinced to walk you down to the feast. He had looked at you, no through you, once today—with that cold, pale eye of his, and you didn’t feel the need to immediately dampen the evening again by seeing him so soon.

It was cruel, but the idea of his presence had felt like needles in your skin, you had never encountered such indifference before. And not just this indifference—this quiet cruelty that didn’t manifest in direct words or gestures, but in the complete lack of them.

As if you were not worth even the effort of his disdain.

You’d spent most of the afternoon trying to tell yourself it didn’t matter, that many noble marriages were made of worse things than silence. That, Aemond Targaryen, for all his coldness, was still a prince—one who could ensure security for your house, if not happiness for yourself. But it hadn’t helped. Not when the memory of his blank stare returned to you again and again in your thoughts, uninvited.

Your father’s voice broke the quiet between you as the throne room doors came into view.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he said, though his tone was more a suggestion than a reassurance, like he couldn’t feel you gripping his arm. “You’ve spent your whole life preparing for nights like this.”

You didn’t correct him. Because while yes, you had been prepared to deal with people, those people didn’t include everyone in the Red Keep. That the people you’d prepared for were closer to a smaller house, or even domain. You couldn’t tell him that nights like this, where all the eyes in the realm would fall upon you, where you’d be dressed up like a doll and offered like a prize, were the nights that were your worst nightmare.

No, you simply nodded, your fingers tightening again on his arm.

He glanced down at you as you walked. “You’ve always known how to carry yourself with grace, it’ll serve you well.”

You gave a faint hum of agreement, your eyes glued on the towering doors now just a few feet ahead. They were carved from heavy oak, gilded with the image of a three-headed dragon coiled around itself. Two guards stood to attention before them, silent and still, save for the gleam of their polished breastplates and the same symbol as the door, ready to defend their king and crown.

Behind the doors, you could hear that the feast was already well underway. The door did little to muffle the laughter now, raised voices, goblets clinking, the low pulse of a drum weaving itself beneath the higher notes of the music.

The sound of celebration, of duty, disguised as joy.

The moment the great oak doors opened, a wave of heat and candlelight surged toward you. The throne room had been utterly transformed, tapestries in rich hues of green and gold billowed faintly in the warm air, while a thousand candles flickered in their sconces, reflecting in the glasses on tables like scattered stars. Tables ran the length of the hall, heavy with silver platters of roasted fowl, smoked meats wafting in the air, fruits glistening with honey glaze, and decanters of Arbor wine shimmered beneath the chandeliers.

A gift from your family to theirs.

The music swelled as you stepped inside, a quartet of musicians strummed lively but elegant notes from the raised platform by the far wall, and all around them nobles and highborn ladies laughed, whispered, clinked goblets, and feasted as though they weren’t aware you were ready to perish inside.

And yet, as you entered, they quieted down—not complete silence, but a noticeable softening of the room as heads turned and eyes fixed on the court's newest meals. You felt them settle on you like the sky when it begins to rain: quiet, cold, and inescapable.

It was as if you could feel their thoughts the further you walked into the feast. Sensing their speculation, judgement, curiosity, and beneath it all, the smugness that reeked from those who’d long since accepted how the game was played. A young lady from the Reach, dressed like a springtime bride, walking to the table of dragons. Another lamb sent into the dragon’s maw, only this.

While your eyes kept forward, towards the queen who sat at an emptier head table than you’d imagined, you could feel the urge clawing at you to look around. A part of you wanted to search for him. For some pathetic sign that he might be there waiting with a happier face at his new betrothed. That he might have changed his mind about you, that the man who had offered you such coldness that morning might reappear tonight with the polished mask of courtly manners.

Even if it was a lie, even if it was only for show.

Your father gave your hand the smallest squeeze, “Smile, if you can.”

And with your chin lifted, your steps even, and your heart steadily sinking into your stomach, you walked forward closer to the royal table.

Dozens of eyes followed you across the floor, some curious, some appraising, and a few too familiar for comfort. You recognised them instantly from the corners of your eyes—the faces of the Reach. Lords and ladies you’d grown up seeing at harvest feasts, who had eaten at your family’s tables, whispered in corners with their heads together. You could sense their attention as clearly as if they had spoken aloud.

You wondered what they saw in you now. A future princess? A girl sold off? A lamb walking herself to the butcher’s table? You gave them nothing of yourself in return.

Just a steady gaze and carefully measured steps.

As you and your father neared the raised dais at the far end of the hall, Queen Alicent stood. Her expression, though warm and perfectly composed, held a gravity beneath the surface—not unkind, but certainly guarded. She descended the steps as you approached, robes of deep green velvet trailing behind her, her seven-pointed star catching the firelight at her throat.

“Lady Redwyne,” she said, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, not like this morning. “Thank you for honouring us with your presence this evening.”

You curtsied low again, more eyes were watching than at the docks. “The honour is mine, Your Grace. I’m grateful to be welcomed so graciously.”

She extended her hands toward yours. The gesture was gentle, even maternal, though her touch was cool. It reminded you that her grace was not kindness while she squeezed your own clammy hands—it was composure, finely sharpened over decades in the keep.

“This dress is stunning, the colour matches you well,” she said, voice smooth and practised as her eyes looked over you. “I trust your rooms are comfortable? Did you settle in okay?”

You nodded with polite assurance. “Very much so. King’s Landing is… magnificent.” You lied.

Alicent studied you for a moment, her eyes dark and steady. Then, with a softer tone, she added, “We are pleased to have you, I can only apologise that King Viserys could not be here this evening, I believe he wasn’t feeling the best.”

“It is okay, Your Grace, I understand that the King needs his rest.” That seemed to please her.

A subtle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She offered a final, approving nod before turning towards a table just next to the dais, where you were to be seated for the evening. The music swelled again around you, chatter resumed, and you felt the full weight of the room return.

And still, the chairs beside the Queen’s remained conspicuously empty.

No silver-blond hair. No cold gaze. No dragon’s son to greet his bride.

Even among the candlelight and laughter, something cold nestled at the centre of your chest.

He wasn’t here.

Eventually, you were led to your table just below the royal dais, your father’s arm resting lightly atop your own as you descended the final steps. It took a conscious effort not to falter beneath the weight of so many eyes, you could feel them, quiet and observant, sweeping across you like fresh meat. Nobles from all corners of the realm lined the vast room, arranged in neat rows of long tables dressed in golden runners, goblets of wine already in their hands.

Your place had been set beside your father, toward the front, close enough to feel the subtle heat that emanated from the dais above, where the Queen and her children would sit. Aemond was absent, and unsurprisingly so was his brother.

Still, your eyes were drawn to the table.

From beside the Queen, you caught sight of another pale head bowed low, her fingers laced delicately in her lap, like she was fidgeting with something. The light caught in the strands of her hair, white-gold and softly curled, unmistakably Targaryen.

"Helaena." The name passed through your thoughts like a whisper.

You hadn’t met her yet, you had only heard vaguely of her from your maids back home, but there was no mistaking her from this angle. She sat quiet, withdrawn, her chin tucked so low it nearly touched her collarbone, and you doubted she’d looked up once since your arrival.

It couldn’t be Rhaenyra. You knew that. She was leagues away at Dragonstone, surrounded by her own children and her own dragons. No, the silver-blonde head near the Queen could only belong to her.

A sliver of unease wound its way through your spine as you studied her. There was something delicate about the way she sat, as if she wasnt really there to. But it was fleeting as you looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring.

Instead you drew in a slow breath where you sat, the cool wood of the bench grounding you more than anything else had all day. Your father was already reaching for the silver pitcher of wine, pouring himself a modest amount before glancing your way. His expression was still reserved but there was a lightness in the corners of his mouth, a crinkle beside one eye that spoke of quiet satisfaction.

He was happy with you.

“You carried yourself well,” he murmured, voice pitched low for your ears only. “You’ll fit in just fine here.”

You wanted to tell him then and there, that no, you would not fit in just fine. You were sure that you would probably throw yourself from Maegor’s holdfast within a month.

But instead, you offered him a faint smile in return and a soft. “Thank you, Father.”

He nodded, then turned his attention toward his cup and the people around him, apparently content to leave you to your own devices for now. If you had to guess, the number of people from the Reach that was here was your father's doing, the familiar colours around the room and the odd familiar face more likely something he was conjuring up with the hand.

So, you sat with hands folded politely in your lap as you allowed your gaze to roam across the grand, candlelit space around you.

It was beautiful, not just in the way that royal courts were always beautiful, but it was beautiful in a way that was so distinctly Targaryen. Overhead, great iron chandeliers faced with dragons dripped with wax and light, casting a golden warmth over everything they touched. Musicians played from an alcove beside the sword throne; drums, soft harps and strings weaving a melody that danced just beneath the murmur of voices. Servants glided between tables with silver trays like mice. All bearing foods they've never get to touch; dishes of roasted quail, carved venison, and piles of sugared figs. The air smelled of food, spice and smoke, of baked honey and wine.

Nobles from every house you could name sat together in varying degrees of comfort and formality. You saw girls with glass beads woven through their hair, and Lannister men in embroidered tunics worth more than some smallfolk would earn in a lifetime. Some spoke quietly, heads tilted together in earnest gossip as they flickered around the room; others laughed, bold and booming, unconcerned with the impression they made.

You recognised a few faces. Not names, not titles, but glimpses of familiarity. Ladies you’d once seen at feasts in the Reach, knights who had competed in tournaments where you’d been kept from watching the brutality, too young to truly understand the stakes. For a moment, it almost felt like home. Almost.

But the warmth didn’t quite reach your chest.

You took up your goblet, sipping carefully, if only to give your hands something to do. The wine was sweet and sharp on your tongue, tinged with peaches and citruses. It was definitely your familes making, you noted as you looked again at the dance floor. A few couples had risen already, taking hesitant steps to the music. A trio of children in courtly dress darted between the adults with giggles, narrowly avoiding the skirts of a well-fed lord who barked laughter after them.

You allowed yourself a moment to simply watch.

Then, just beyond the nearest column, your eyes caught a glimpse of movement—and you felt paused.

There was something oddly familiar in the shape of the man who stepped into view, his head turned slightly as he spoke to a companion. He was average height, lean rather than broad, with tousled flaxen hair. A green tunic, the fabric rich but well-worn, but clasped at the front was the silver pin of House Fossoway.

An apple, rendered in red enamel.

Your eyebrows raised as your chest gave a small, surprised jolt of recognition.

Ashton Fossoway.

You hadn’t seen him in years, it felt like. But you remembered him from a visit to the Reach sum years ago when your father was still looking for potential matches closer to home. You hadn't spoken in some time, not since the last time you had accompanied your father to Cider Hall.

You didn’t like to think about that particular trip.

You could still feel the burn of something foul in your chest as the memories of the last time you met came back. There had been an edge to your last conversation, a moment where civility thinned into something uncomfortable and something less kind had bled through in him. He wasnt the quiet little lordling you met at first, and even to this day you weren’t even sure if he’d meant to offend you. Perhaps that was the most irritating part.

You watched now as he took a sip from his goblet, glancing sideways at something his companion said with a smirk. He looked older, of course, hardened slightly over the years. The boyishness had faded from his features, replaced with the leaner edges of adulthood, but there was no doubt that it was him.

He had definitely seen you walk in, there was no way he couldn’t, but still, you didn’t wave or try to draw his attention. Didn’t nod either, you turned your face away just slightly and refocused on your empty plate, heart thudding with a quiet heat you hadn’t invited.

So many faces in this room—and of all of them, it was his that made your pulse spike to something uncomfortable. You were frozen in time as your father leaned toward you once more.

“I’ll take the opportunity to speak with Lord Beesbury,” he said in a low tone. “Perhaps Lord Merryweather, too, if he’s drunk enough to say something useful.” That small, rare flicker of humour passed across his face again, and then he gave your hand a brief, approving squeeze before rising and disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you blindly reached for some food to put on your plate. You wouldnt eat it, but you could exactly sit and look like you were refusing the Targaryen's hospitality. The seat beside you felt impossibly empty—a hollow gap in the warm hum of the room.

All around, people were laughing, eating, passing platters between them, slipping into old conversations. All while you sat quietly at your place, hand tightening on the silver fork like a weapon you could brandish to stab away these feelings.

You could feel the room pressing in. Not overtly, no one was looking at you directly now, but the weight of your place here, of what your presence meant, lingered on your shoulders like two hands pressing down. Aemond hadn’t even made an appearance yet, if he ever would, and still, you were on edge like you were being hunted for sport.

Laughably you were, while no one was overtly looking at you, there were people at the table near sneaking glances, or looking from the corners of their eyes.

It was already exhausting.

You let your eyes drift again, though you already knew what they would find. Ashton was still across the hall, holding court in his own quiet way, not the centre of attention, not exactly, but comfortably near it. He had a knack for positioning himself just so. Just close enough to matter, just far enough not to be noticed when he wanted. You wondered if he was still that boy who could charm a septa into breaking fast rules and talk his way out of a minor scandal with nothing more than a crooked smile and a convenient memory.

You had hoped he wouldn’t care to talk to you.

Which, of course, meant he did because at this point there might as well have been a fool screaming “LOOK AT SHE” beside you.

You caught the moment it happened. He’d been turning slightly, saying something to a seated knight beside him when his eyes flicked past the crowd and landed directly on yours. Not by accident. Not a passing sweep. His expression didn’t change, not right away, but the pause in his movement. It was that subtle stillness, told you everything. He had recognised you and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

You looked away, instinctively, but it was too late.

You saw him move from the corner of your eye—a step back from his group, a quick word of parting, and then he was crossing the floor. Not with urgency, not boldly, but casually. Almost lazily, like this was nothing at all.

You braced yourself, fingers curling lightly around the stem of your fork again as he approached your table, it was instinctive. He didn’t make you feel comfortable anymore.

“Lady Redwyne,” Ashton greeted, stopping a careful respectable distance away, one hand resting loosely against his belt. “My, it’s been some time.” His voice hadn’t changed either, smooth and neutral.

He was always too polite to be unfriendly, but also too light to be sincere.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his eyes as you carefully put down your fork. They were a shade or two darker than you remembered, but still bright with that unreadable glint—a flicker of amusement? Curiosity? Calculation?

“Ser Fossoway,” You replied with a small nod, standing with a slight head nod; as much as he unnerved you it was still rude to have a conversation with someone sitting. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

He smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly and shrugged. “You and me both, my father was keen to curry favour.” He glanced toward the dais, then back at you. “I drew the short straw and had to attend this time.”

You let a breath escape through your nose, not quite a laugh.

The air between you remained taut like a string tied too tight, stretched thin with unspoken words between the two of you. There was a circumstance never acknowledged, and memories best left buried, but it clung to you more than him, anxiety gripping at your throat just at the mere sight of him.

It clung to you like humidity before a storm rolled in, tension thick and hard to breathe through. He seemed aware of it, though whether it bothered him was harder to tell. Ashton wore discomfort well, wrapped it in arrogance and smiled through it, as if any unease was something to be thrown back at the other person like a challenge. He was the type to lean into silence, just to see if you’d flinch.

“And you?” he asked, after a brief pause. “From what I hear, this isn’t a social visit.”

No, it was far from that, but still, you kept your tone steady hands holding your wine goblet. “No. It’s not.”

He gave a thoughtful hum as if that answered more than you’d said. “Didn’t think so. Though I’ll admit… I hadn’t expected to see you walk in beside your father tonight.” A brief pause. “I wasn’t sure if you still travelled with him.”

There was something in his voice, it was not quite an accusation but it wasn’t of concern either. Just the faint suggestion that he remembered more than he let on, or at least he was leaning into something you didn’t want to get into, not with him at least, not now.

You looked at him properly then, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel deliberate.

“A lot can change in a few years,” you said simply, lips pulling in what could be a smile from afar, your hand briefly lifting the wine to take a nervous sip.

There was a flicker again in his eyes, and in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t disagree.

“And now here you are, sitting at the front like a prized swan.” He gestured loosely to the hall around you, where dancers were beginning to gather again. “So, which one of them won the honour, then? Who’s your lucky groom-to-be? Daeron?”

You hesitated for only a moment, just long enough to weigh whether telling him was worth the trouble. But then, what was the point in dancing around it? Word would spread by morning if it hadn’t already.

You met his gaze with a subtle nod, jaw flexing ever so softly like it was a drag to even let out his name, like it would summon him, “Prince Aemond.”

For a heartbeat, Ashton didn’t react. Then, a half-laugh escaped him with a tipped-back head like it was so much funnier than it was. Your skin crawling with the low, incredulous sound that was entirely unsuited to polite company, especially so close to his family.

“Aemond Targaryen?” he said, leaning back slightly as if the very idea tasted bitter on his tongue. “Seven save us, I thought you were marrying into royalty, not into a sermon.”

The sneer in his tone was unmistakable, it wasn’t just mocking, but biting. Something laced with the kind of disdain that sought to wound more than amuse. His mouth curled like he’d bitten into something rotten, as though even saying the prince’s name aloud offended his sensibilities.

“Tell me,” He went on, lifting his brows in mock curiosity, “Will your wedding vows come with a lecture? Or does he just glare at you in High Valyrian until you submit to bed him?”

Your expression didn’t change, though your stomach curled tightly beneath your ribs, the invisible fist of shame or anger tightening with each word.

He was being cruel.

He stared at you for a moment, then shook his head like he was willing something away, grin spreading cruelly over his face like oil on water. “Gods, you’re joking either.”

His voice dropped lower, certainly not veiled, not subtle. “They’re marrying you off to the one-eyed freak? That stiff phantom who skulks around the court like a bad omen? Seven hells, I thought maybe they’d give you to someone real, something warm.”

You swallowed, keeping your hands tightening around the goblet as you politely smiled, eyes flickering around in case anyone heard, like he wasn’t talking about a crown prince so close to the dais.

He leaned in closer, making it look as if he confiding something with me. “You do know what they say about him, don’t you?”

“Ashton—” you began, but he cut over you.

“No, truly, I’m curious.” His eyes sparkled with the cruelty that someone would have while butchering a small animal. “Did you draw the short straw, or did your father throw you to him like a bone to a dog just to win a favour with the Targaryen’s?" He laughed.

“Is it duty? Penance? Some sort of punishment you weren’t told about?” He continued, still leaning into your space while you tried to keep your face as neutral as possible

Your jaw tightened before you could stop it, not in defiance, but in the quiet, instinctive way your body reacted when your words failed you, the way that made you feel like the smallest person alive. He saw it, of course he did, the flicker of satisfaction that lit his face told you that was all he needed. He fed on it like the smallest crack in your composure might sustain him for weeks.

You wanted to say something, anything, to push back to defend yourself but you stood there with your throat constricted. Your voice caught behind the wall of politeness and fear you’d never be able to climb over. Your silence wasn’t strength, it was a cage you locked yourself in and hadn’t yet figured out how to open.

“By the Mother,” he muttered, more to himself now. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Almost.

He took a slow step closer, voice lowering. “Tell me, are you excited? Or are you hoping he somehow loses that other eye too, so you’ll never have to look at him properly?”

"Maybe you'll take it, finish what his nephew started." He grinned.

You forced your expression to stay calm, your voice low, hands relying on you goblet to stop them from shaking. “You’ve said enough, you’re being cruel for what reason? You do not know him.”

“I haven’t said half of it,” He shot back, too quick, too pleased with himself. “But don’t worry, I’ll save the rest for now, wouldn’t want to spoil the festivities.”

You didn’t bother replying to that, content with looking at the crowd until he left.

Suddenly, Ashton turned making a small, theatrical bow and extending his hand out to you with a glint in his eyes. “Come,” he said, loud enough that the people at the nearest tables glanced over. “It’s a feast, isn’t it? Dance with me, at least someone will be able to look at you with two eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” you said softly, eyes flitting across the room, looking for an out, a distraction, anything, your voice barely carrying over the crowd. “Really.”

But still, Ashton kept his hand out, the gesture unwavering with a smile too wide and too pleasant, like it had been nailed into place. “Ah, but you must,” he said, faux-gently, as if coaxing a child. “What kind of noblewoman sits sulking in the corner while the rest of us enjoy the night?”

You stared at him, your lips pressed into a fine unmoving line, the pulse at your throat fluttering faster, but your expression didn’t shift.

Then he leaned in again, just enough for his voice to slither into your ear like a whisper wrapped in thorns. “Unless you want to seem cold in front of everyone before your prince even arrives,” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Or… are you already practising what marriage to him will be like?”

The insult landed harder than the last, not just because it was cruel, everything he said was. But because it was manipulative, and it came at just the right volume, not loud enough to draw true attention and nor quiet enough for you to ignore.

You didn’t answer his ask, frankly, you didn’t need to, the damage had already been done.

People on the frays around you were still watching the two of you, not many, but enough. Enough to murmur if you refused, and enough for it to mean something, like a match dropping into a pile of paper.

And Ashton, of course, knew it, hence why he asked in the first place.

So, placing your goblet down, you took his hand.

Your fingers curling into his palm, light and reluctant, like you were touching a snake you didn’t trust not to bite you. While he grinned, ever triumphant, and pulled you gently but firmly towards the centre of the floor, where the music was rising into a new tempo and more couples were stepping forward.

“You always were good at pretending,” he murmured as the music swelled. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

You didn’t reply.

The longer Aemond lingered up here on the balcony that overlooked the throne room, the more inevitable it became that his mother would eventually send Ser Criston looking for him. She always did when he vanished too long, especially during events like this where his presence was mandatory. After their talk earlier, he knew he was walking a thin line, and was expected to perform the part of the prince, but he found himself caring little.

The notion of going down there and sitting with the rest of them stirred no urgency in him, only a faint, familiar ache of defiance that he was clinging to.

His fingers flexed around the cold stone railing out of habit, tightening as he leaned forward. His one eye cast down to the feast below. It was a sightly affair, that much was true, some wholesome golden thing that looked almost unreal from his perch above it, watching the affair like the Stranger.

His mother truly had spared no expense for the Redwyne’s arrival. The long tables were heavy with silver platters of food and treats, gilded goblets on every surface, the centrepieces lush with grapes brought in most likely with the Redwyne’s. Topped off with rich pomegranates and early spring flowers. Musicians played from near the corner tucked by the throne, and laughter drifted upward him in intermittent bursts, carried by the fragrant waft of roast meats and wine.

It looked like a truly joyus affair, but Aemond just stared, unmoving, reminded that feasts were never his thing.

It was all so perfectly constructed and so carefully staged by his mother and grandsire. A performance, like every other thing in his life and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t down there, seated at her side or standing tall for the court to see. As long as the spectacle unfolded as planned, Aemond himself was just another figure to be slotted into place.

His grip on the stone tightened again, knuckles paling as his worn hands gritted against the stone. From up here, it was easy to forget he was part of the farce, that somewhere in the crowd below, his bride-to-be sat beneath the glow of candelabras and courtly stares. It was easier to imagine himself a ghost haunting the rafters, unseen and untouched, than a man meant to walk down those steps and claim a life he did not ask for.

Aemond had little interest in partaking in the festivities, he wished for some peace to himself before they only got more extravagant as the wedding neared, and his contribution would be forced. But for now, he could only stand in wait.

Waiting for what, he was not sure, but Aemond’s eye scanned every inch of the floor in assessment. Anyway to kill the time he so dearly longed for.

He wasnt looking, but he did spot you like a beacon of soft pink and nervousness. The demise of his peace was stood off to the side, deep in conversation with someone he completely didn’t recognise. From his place on the balcony, it was hard to completely make out this man’s features without being face-on. But from what he could see, the man you were with was of average height, slimmer but still built enough to swing a smaller sword, perhaps a knight? Or one of the many minor lords littering the court in hopes of favour?

Aemond truthfully had little interest in what you were doing down there with the crowd of feast-goers or with that man, you could puff into smoke for all he cared. His mind truly was at ease where he was, that was until his eye narrowed on the way you stood with the man. It was not indecently close, no, still within the bounds of propriety and your standing. But it was near enough for Aemond to notice something between you, the subtle lean of the man's posture, the faint curve of his comfort in your stance as he stayed close.

There was a familiarity there from the man, unspoken, but there.

You smiled at whatever was said—light, polite—as you lifted your cup to your lips, a gesture that, to Aemond could tell was tinged with nervousness and something else. It was hard to tell from so high up but there was a look on your face that spoke volumes. And it only deepened as the man leaned in to whisper something, something clearly meant for your ears alone—something Aemond couldn’t make out from where he stood on the balcony.

It was only a brief few seconds of chatter but the look you gave was enough to have his fingers tightening on the railing instinctively.

You were uncomfortable.

It was clear on your face, and even clearer when the man held out his hand to dance, all flourish and grin, and you hesitated. Aemond saw it, the fraction of a second where your body held still like your instincts had gripped your ankles to the floor, and your eyes scanned around you like you were looking to flee. But after a second, something passed over your face and your hand rose, slowly, and you let him lead you toward the dance floor.

Whatever was going on between the two of you, clearly wasnt in your favour and he watched you endure it with the same kind of grace he’d recognised over the years in the keep. The kind bred into girls at court, taught to smile through discomfort, to bow their heads instead of raise their voices. You didn’t pull away, but neither did you lean in to it. You didn’t retreat, but you didn’t respond in kind.

The scene below unfolded in vivid detail, the man took your hand and placed his other lightly at your waist as he started to guide you in a more upbeat dance. Unexpectedly, you were composed with your eyes locked on some vague middle distance and never on him. It was a curious thing but you danced like someone trying not to be seen, while he moved with casual confidence, wanting to be looked at, speaking all the while to you. Intimately and too low for anyone but you to hear.

But too loud for Aemond’s liking.

Whoever that man was, whatever title or sigil he bore, his interest in you was laid bare for all to see. It was not subtle and certainly not harmless. Aemond could see it in the way the man looked at you like he was drinking in every inch of your presence, not just admiring, but consuming. Feasting on you with his eyes as though you were something delicate and sweet set out just for him, ripe fruit for the taking.

There was no mistaking it, not in the way the fool smiled too easily, leaned in too close, nor in the way he dared to touch you under the veil of dance, fingers grazing your hand with too much ease. It was the look of someone who wanted, who believed he had the right to want, who didn’t care if others noticed.

And Aemond noticed, even from this high up.

Whether you realised it, that was another matter.

You didn’t lean into his attention, didn’t glow under it the way some ladies in your situation might. No, your movements were tight, graceful as expected, but still nervous and a tad awkward if someone was looking hard enough. There was tension in your shoulders, in the way your jaw set when the man spoke. You smiled, but Aemond saw it for what it was, something brittle, the kind worn by women at court who had been raised to endure.

He watched your smile flicker with each step, watched you nod along to whatever insipid thing the man was saying, even as your eyes betrayed you. Uncertain, darting, never still for long. You weren’t enjoying it, that much was clear.

Aemond was no fool, he knew what it was like to be pulled by the tide of expectation, to dance when you’d rather flee, to play at pleasantries with those who made your skin crawl.

You weren’t refusing because you couldn’t.

Because your refusal would be seen, remarked upon, something for the vultures to feed on. It would be just another whispered thing tied to your name.

Aemond didn’t know your full history with the man and frankly, he didn’t care to. You were his betrothed and that was the extent of it. You were a match signed and sealed by his mother, king, and council. Another step in the tower of alliances and politics. There was no disillusionment, not after this morning and the fuss he’d kicked up, Aemond did not want you, he barely knew you.

However, your name would soon be chained to his in the mouths of lords and ladies across the realm, and frankly, he didn’t care to have a wife who would so openly dance with other men, or even have one speak to her as such. Even if it wasnt your choice.

As soon as you stepped off that fucking boat, your reputation was married to his.

He could stay where he was, and let the snakes pick you apart, but it would be far too easy for gossip to fester so early. A woman seen dancing too closely, too warmly, with a man not her intended, and before the betrothal had even been finalised? The court would feast on the scandal like dogs on meat. They wouldn’t care that you hadn’t chosen it, he knew they never did.

And then his name would be dragged into the mire alongside yours.

Aemond Targaryen, forcibly cucked and made to watch his wife fuck a reachman right under his nose, or whatever notion they’d spread around.

No, he would not let that happen.

Not because he harboured any romantic delusions about you. He didn’t. He barely thought of you beyond the obligations you represented. But as a woman soon to be his wife, whether he liked it or not, you were a reflection of him. And he would not be made to look a fool before the court while some foppish lord with wandering hands played puppetmaster on the dancefloor.

His grip tightened again on the stone balcony railing as a huff of annoyance breathed through his nose. Many ideas rolled around his head of what to do, he could have his sister intervene and ask to talk to you, or perhaps have some scene made, but the likelihood of anything happening was slim.

Annoyingly there was only one thing, he could do.

So, with one final glance down, he stepped away from the edge.

There was no rush in his stride as he descended the stairs leading down to the great hall. No urgency. No fury. He moved with the quiet certainty of a man who never questioned the rightness of his own decisions.

He would cut in. Not because you needed saving—whether you did or not was irrelevant—but because this farce had gone on long enough.

The Reachling had made his move.

Aemond’s descent into the hall was slow and methodical, rushing towards anything was beneath him, and he wouldn’t be seen scurrying towards some pretty welp of a girl. The music swelled as the musicians shifted into a new rhythm, something with a softer edge, a song made for gliding steps and brief touches, something couples would usually dance to. He took the stairs one at a time back down to the throne room, his hands folded neatly behind his back, and though the hall was bustling with the energy of the feast, it felt to him almost quiet.

As he closed the distance, he could see the discomfort in her smile clearer and clearer. It was small, so small most wouldn’t notice, but Aemond had been trained to read tension and he still saw it in the way her shoulders didn’t rise with laughter. In the way her hand looked limp in his hold, almost indifferent.

She was performing, dancing not out of joy, but out of expectation. The man she danced with, that flaxen-haired, smirking creature who looked far too pleased with himself. He held her not with reverence or courtesy, but with something else. Something indulgent. Like he was playing a private joke.

And the court was watching. Aemond felt their eyes like embers as he stepped fully into view. He was not a man who was made for feast halls. He preferred libraries, candlelit chambers, and rooms where things were quiet enough to think.

But tonight, he was reminded of the use of spectacle, of what it meant to be seen.

He crossed the floor without hurry, and as expected dancers moved around him, skirts and sleeves brushing him, heads turning as he passed, they were just as shocked as he was to even me out in the middle of the dancefloor. He heard his name in the hush, spoken in soft surprise, and watched as nobles craned their necks to see where he was going, and who he was going to.

Aemond didn’t spare them a glance.

His attention was on her, the girl in soft pink silk moving through the steps with her partner like a ghost in her own body. She was trying not to flinch when the man leaned in too close again and said something low in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear, but Aemond saw it.

Saw the small, stiff line of her jaw, the strain in her eyes.

He arrived just as the music shifted again, a convenient moment, one that made his interruption seem, at least to the casual eye, almost natural.

He stepped directly into the space next to them.

The man startled, not dramatically, but enough to falter for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the sudden presence of the Prince between himself and his dance partner. Aemond didn’t care enough to give him time to recover or even look at him. He merely extended a single hand, palm open and steady, expectantly wordlessly cutting in.

There was a moment of uncertainty, the kind that clung like damp wool, he knew he could not be denied.

“My prince—” the man began, his tone laced with false charm, the kind of arrogance only second sons and minor lords carried with such ease.

“I believe I’ll have this next,” Aemond said calmly, not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the music. His eye, cold and pale, didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He looked directly at the man, unflinching, and held his hand out without wavering.

The man hesitated, a falter in his step that told Aemond that he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. Perhaps the fool was weighing his station, his pride, against what it might cost him to challenge a prince. Aemond waited, whatever challenge the idiot could bring would be handled.

He never moved, he didn’t need to.

And like that, the other man caved like a paper house in the wind.

He resisted the want to smirk as the man stepped back with a mocking little bow, one not deep enough to be respectful, but not shallow enough to be overtly rude. Cowardice thinly veiled in civility, but Aemond paid it no mind for now. He no longer existed to him at that moment.

Instead, his eye shifted to her.

She looked up at him, startled, not afraid, but unsure. She hadn’t expected him to come down, not when he had so clearly removed himself from the night’s festivities. Her fingers trembled faintly at her sides.

“Lady Redwyne,” he said smoothly, without warmth, “Dance with me.”

There was no choice in it, not really. He was not asking her to dance, he was telling her, and they both knew it.

Still, she hesitated, a placid little thing out of uncertainty, not rebellion. There was a beat of hesitance from her before placing her hand in his, her fingers were warm, slightly clammy, and for a moment he wondered if she was embarrassed, or simply exhausted by the performance of the evening.

Aemond wasted little time and drew her into the proper frame without ceremony, his hand resting lightly but firmly at the curve of her back, his other hand cradling hers with practised grace.

And with a breath, they moved.

The first few steps were awkward, as they adjusted to one another’s rhythm. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze lingered somewhere over his shoulder, flitting from face to face in the crowd like she was counting how many people were watching.

And many were. Lords and ladies leaned closer to whisper behind their cups, and he didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know that someone had already passed word to the Queen. Aemond didn’t speak, he didn’t ask her if she was alright, he didn’t tell her she looked well. He simply danced, guiding her with ease, his body fluid, elegant, trained not for joy, but for appearances. For control.

The silk gave under his touch like water, cool yet warm from the heat of her skin beneath. The bodice had structure, yes, but the rest of it moved like it barely clung to her frame, brushing against his fingers and his boots as they turned through the dance.

It suited her, that dress, perhaps more than it should have. The colour softened her and caught the light in a way that made her seem gentler, more breakable, like a figure carved from porcelain. And Aemond, even in his indifference, noticed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was impossible not to.

Every step they took together reminded him of it, how small her waist felt beneath his hand, how the brush of her skirts swirled like wind around his boots, tangling against his legs like she was trying to trap him. There was something dissonant about it, this softness paired with the tension he could feel in her spine. She contrasted him in every way, the soft silk clashed harshly with the leather of his garments; like the way sand would meet rock, there was a line between them that was ruled all the way down to their clothing.

She moved with grace, yes, but there was a stiffness just under the surface. She wasn’t at ease. He could feel that in the slight hitch of her breath when he guided her into a turn, the way her hand twitched ever so slightly within his own.

Still, she felt light in his hands, not fragile, but held in a way that spoke of restraint. He could sense how much she wanted to shrink, to disappear from this moment. Perhaps not from him, but from the weight of the night; from the eyes, from the whispers, from the man who had tried to drag her into something unseemly just moments before.

Aemond didn’t care for her feelings, or how she would probably flee as soon as he released her from his hold.

But he did care for her name, and his.

Letting her be paraded by some shrewd Reach peacock would do nothing for their engagement. The court would smell blood, and the rumours would outlive the night. She’d only been here a few short hours but he knew that people would already be questioning the match, comparing her station, his reputation. Aemond wouldn’t have her looking weak, not because he pitied her.

But because she was his betrothed, and weakness by her side reflected on him.

So, he danced, wordless and focused, body poised like a blade sheathed in velvet.

He hadn’t come to rescue her; he had come to remind the court exactly who she was marrying.

The silence of your chambers was nearly deafening after the roar of the feast.

It greeted you like an old friend the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, muffling the fading notes of music still lingering in your head from the great hall. Having declined any help for the evening, you stood there for a breath too long to centre yourself. Your back pressed to the carved wood as if the weight of the night hadn’t truly settled on your shoulders until now, until the moment you fled and returned to your rooms. It was only then, in the solitude of the candlelit room, did your body find the will to sag, the effort of appearances finally dragging you downward as you slouched for the first time in hours.

Despite how upset you felt, you didn’t cry, you weren’t sure if that was from restraint or exhaustion, but no tears left your eyes yet. They would come, but right now, exhaustion riddled you useless.

It felt like a godly effort, but you found the strength to push off your door and walked slowly into the room, fingering itching as they reached behind to the ties of your dress. Undoing the clasps of your gown with stiff fingers and bated breath.

It wasn’t the dress’s fault, it had looked beautiful, it was beautiful, but after this disaster of a night, it clung to you like a memory you didn’t want.

The fabric was soiled with Ashton’s laughter and his cruelty, the feel of his fingers curling too tightly around yours, the mocking grin that never left his face no matter how soft his words became. It clung to the hem and the bodice like perfume, unwelcome and sour. You wondered if the embroidered flowers on the dress would somehow wilt due to his wretchedness.

The closer you drifted to your vanity, the more the weight of the evening clung to your skin like oil, like something foul that needed to be scrubbed off.

Your fingers worked on pure instinct, finding the ties and clasps, loosening seams that had felt too tight since the moment you’d stepped into the gown hours before. You didn’t even look down as it slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a sigh of fine pink silk. You could only step away from it like it was ash, something scorched and ruined, unfit to be touched again.

Let it lie where it fell. Let it burn a hole in the rug if it wanted to.

The room felt quieter without it, not in sound, but in pressure. It was like your lungs could finally expand again as you drew the first calming breath of this evening.

The fire roared in the hearth and flickered across the room, crackling softly, the orange glow crawling across the cold stone walls, licking gently at your bare skin. It didn’t chase away the chill completely, but it was something. Something tangible, something real, when so much else that night had felt like a performance.

The air was still, but not silent. There was the distant whisper of the wind outside the keep, the occasional pop of resin from the logs, and the rustle of your underthings as you peeled the last of them off. You stood there for a moment, wholly unguarded, stripped down to your skin in this foreign chamber, where nothing yet had your scent, the bed didn’t have your shape.

You could feel the weight of your hair falling down your back as the pins were plucked from it. Pearls falling to the ground like tears, and the gooseflesh rising along your arms. with each soft ping of them falling to the floor. Your heartbeat was loud, thudding steady and stubborn beneath your ribs as your hand drifted to your bare torso, soothing the skin with ghosting fingers to try and remedy the anxiousness.

It was strange, this bare newness, to be unwrapped and naked in an unfamiliar space. You weren’t used to being watched at court, not like that, not like tonight, and yet you still felt the phantom burn of eyes on your back, the heavy weight of stares you hadn’t invited to even look at you. You tried to push them out of your head, tried to will them back to the feast hall where they belonged.

But they followed you here, haunting you while their hands clung to your shoulders, a memory you couldn’t shake.

It was out of nervousness, but your gaze slid to the bed, to the nightgown hung neatly over the bedpost, waiting for you to climb into—something gauzy, simple, soft, untouched. You reached for it instantly, with fingers that were colder than you realised, brushing the linen like it might vanish if you moved too fast. You slipped it on in silence, letting it fall over your frame with a sigh.

And only then, wrapped in something that was yours, did you exhale fully. Your shoulders slumped, your throat ached as the fabric kissed your skin.

The fire in the hearth was the only warmth in the room as you moved toward it, arms wrapping around you, chilled despite the heat from the dancing flames. It was still early spring, and the heat hadn’t settled into the nights yet. It was cold and lonely in your rooms, even if there was still voices echoing in the sharp of your mind.

Ashton? No, you willed him away, your brain trying to focus on something else, you couldnt think about him, not now.

Aemond.

You hadn’t dared look at him during the dance, not properly, not like this morning on the docks. And certainly not straight-on. Your eyes had flitted, caught in the space just barely over his shoulder, to the far walls of the hall or the blur of movement from other dancers.

Anything but his face, not because he wasn’t beautiful, he was, but because what if you looked and saw disdain? Or worse—nothing at all again?

His expression from the moment he had stepped in had been carved from stone. You weren’t the type to be able to read anyone, but he was truly unreadable, untouched by the warmth of the feast. Not cold exactly, but distant, like he was seeing straight through you. His hand at your back had been firm, unmoving as his fingers sunk into the fabric, the weight of it solid and inescapable through the thin fabric of your gown.

But it hadn’t hurt, no, there was no cruelty in his touch.

You had danced with him like a ghost of yourself, there in body, swaying in time to the music, but your spirit had splintered somewhere else. You moved because you were meant to, because he had extended his hand and the room had turned to watch. Denying him wasn’t an option, not when his eye had locked with Ashton’s like he knew something you didn’t.

It had felt like you were being hunted.

When he’d taken your hand, there had been no softness in the gesture, no attempt to ease your nerves or offer comfort. It was all duty, and as he’d placed his hand on your back and led you into the dance, there had been no flicker of familiarity or curiosity in his face. Just that same look you’d seen earlier at the dock. Detached.

He was exhausting.

Not in the way that loud, foolish men were like Ashton were—no, this was something else.

It was the weight he carried, the way he seemed to suck the air from the room by simply standing in it. The way his silence spoke volumes and forced you to fill it with endless questions you weren’t brave enough to ask.

You wanted to talk to him, extend a hand and tell him that the two of you were in the same situation. But it was clear, painfully so, that he had no intention of getting to know you, not truly. You were a name, a political match, his new obligation.

A body to wed and keep.

Every thought of him had you sinking to the floor in tiredness, your fingers brushing the edge of the mantel as you stared into the fire, trying to will the heat into your skin.

The rug was rough even through your nightgown, but you didn’t care. The cold tonight wasn’t just physical, it came from a place deeper than that—clawing its way from the hollowed pit in your stomach, the ache in your throat from saying too little, and the shame that now sat so stubbornly in your chest.

There was something wrong with sitting here, childish, you thought vaguely. Something undignified in being on the floor, in nothing but your nightgown, legs curled beneath you as you watched firelight flicker and warp the edges of the room.

But still, you stayed, the warmth of the fire was the only thing that reached you and even that felt undeserved.

You tried not to think about the dance. Not about his hand at your back, not about the silence between you. Not about the way the air in the hall had shifted, how people had looked. Not about Ashton’s cruelty or smirk when he stepped away, or the way your stomach had twisted in panic when Aemond had reached out for you.

But the thoughts came anyway.

The fire snapped, and your shoulders flinched, even though it wasn’t loud. Every sound felt like it might splinter something inside you, the anxiety hadn’t lessened with the night, if anything, it had grown roots.

And you were left here, body curled in, chin resting on your knees, folding inward like maybe you could disappear into yourself.

Disappear into the heat, into the shadows cast against the stone, somewhere else but now. You hadn’t said a word to him. You hadn’t said a word to anyone that mattered, and now your silence clung to you like smoke.

You didn’t know if it would ever come off.

The stone corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were still cold at this hour—not just in temperature, but in spirit. But they had always felt like that to Aemond, a series of quiet, winding networks that little knew about. A hidden home of half-forgotten passages built for secrecy, for war, for escape. The kind of place where ghosts felt more at home than men.

He liked it here.

His boots struck the ground in a measured rhythm, their echoes soft against the stone walls. The torch in his hand sputtered with each step, its flickering light barely holding back the shadows that clung to the corners like cobwebs. The air in the tunnels always reeked of damp stone, dust, and something older—something metallic like rot.

Not that he cared, he never walked through them for the atmosphere. He was walking because if he’d stayed a moment longer in the feast hall with her any longer, he really would have climbed onto Vhagar and flown away that very night.

Part of him wanted to argue that this wasn’t about her, not truly.

It wasnt about the way her fingers trembled slightly as she danced with that smug green-and-gold Reach bastard.

No, he didn’t care. She was his betrothed at this moment, not his wife. The arrangement wasn’t of his choosing and it wasn’t a matter of love or want. She could dance with half the court for all he minded, so long as she understood the boundaries. So long as they did.

It was about that man… Ashton Fossoway.

Aemond knew his type well, soft-handed, easy-tongued lords who grinned as they slid daggers between ribs. The mocking kind who whispered poison behind goblets of Arbor gold and pretended it was a jest.

Aemond flexed his fingers even the thought og his name. His jaw tense as he passed deeper into the tunnel, his eye burning from the light of the torce—or maybe from the restraint he’d forced on himself all evening.

He had held it in, he had danced with her, cold and civil. He had kept to his role, even though he didn’t wish to. And now, here he was. Walking through the underbelly of the Red Keep in search of something. A place. A person. A moment where he didn’t have to keep holding the mask to his face.

Aemond needed release.

He had gold tucked in his belt and his cloak wrapped tight to hide his hair from any prying eyes. The guards at the postern gate knew better than to ask where he went on nights like these, or even stop him from coming and going. Some men drank. Some hunted. Some chased women.

Aemond preferred clarity. Something brutal. Something honest.

He didn’t lie to himself about what it was. There was a woman in the city, tucked away in a quiet quarter far from the eyes of court, whom he visited when his thoughts grew too loud or his temper pressed too tightly against his ribs.

A woman who asked for no tenderness, gave none in return. There were no lies in her hands, no illusions in the way she was paid to talk to him or the way she looked at him like he was not a prince. He was not a dragon in there, but a man—a man wound too tight, too cold around the edges. Who was just desperate to feel something that did not come wrapped in duty or shame.

That was what drew him into the tunnels.

What had him turning down a narrower stairwell, the stones slick with age, and inhaling slowly. It wasn’t desire, that drove him. Not lust. Not love. It was need. A crack in the wall of control, a hunger for silence in the aftermath of the spectacle he was made to endure. He had danced. He had allowed her to be touched by a fool and had said nothing.

Now he needed the storm to break somewhere.

And not within the Red Keep. Not where the walls had ears.

Not near her.

He needed something he had control of, something of his choosing, something fleeting.

He just needed release.

He had navigated the tunnels to the holdfast more times than he could count, he could walk it with his eye closed and his ears plugged, and still would end up in the same places. It was always a left at his mother’s wall, where it was always quiet. He could sometimes hear the soft shift of her footsteps, or her muted voice in prayer or conversation.

From here he knew hiis sister's apartments were further off, filled with the distant echo of her children’s laughter or the mumbles of her talking to her crickets.

Now, the part he walked down now contained the nicer guest chambers, the ones down here were often empty, and when they weren’t, they were too loud, too foreign to hold his attention long. He didn’t often didn’t linger there.

Aemond’s steps slowed as he approached the narrow corridor that let someone squeeze past the guest chambers, the light falling in through the lattices in the wooden walls. His boots made barely a whisper against the stone as he shuffled. This part of the holdfast was always quiet—intentionally so. As they should be.

He expected the silence, relished it, that was until the silence cracked.

It was soft. So soft he almost missed it if he was walking any faster—it slipped through the tunnels like the creak of old wood or a breeze slipping through a window left ajar.

But Aemond was not a man who missed things.

In losing an eye, his other senses sharped drastically, and while others might have missed it, he found himself stopping mid-step, head tilting slightly. The sound had come from behind the carved lattice to his right—one of the intricately patterned walls built to let heat and air pass from room to corridor.

It was curious, but he turned his head toward it slowly, the torch he carried lowered to the ground to let the fire burn out incase the person on the otherside saw.

He thought that maybe it was a one off noice, but there, it was again the closer he got.

A choked inhale, a trembling exhale, quiet but soaked in emotion. Then a sob, not sharp or shrill, but the kind that sat in the back of the throat, struggling to be kept down.

Through the narrow, patterned gaps in the lattice, Aemond leaned in just enough to peer into the chamber, the thick carved wood cool beneath his palm as he steadied himself. His eye fixed on the sliver of the room beyond, adjusting slowly to the contrast of light and shadow. The light from the room bled faint golden stripes through the cutwork panel, trailing down his face like stained glass.

Everything was dim, the candles had slowly gone out, but the hearth still gave the room a light that bathed everything in warm tones. The firelight licking up the shadows made the space feel softer than it truly was, filled with false warmth.

His eye narrowed further, focus sharpening as he looked around what he could of the small space. The light inside the room was steady, but not bright, which made details slow to come into clarity. What he saw first was the rug, thick and plush, patterned with rich thread, it absorbed the firelight like old velvet.

And then movement, a shift, subtle and hesitant, he stepped slowly to the side to see just past the couch, his head tilted slightly downward.

Someone was there.

When he realised who it was he felt his body go still, his breath softening as he adjusted his angle slightly, tilting his head just so just to get a clear picture.

There she was—the Redwyne girl.

Sitting low near the hearth, folded into herself as though trying to vanish entirely into the space she occupied. She sat near the hearth, wrapped just in her nightgown. The material was gauzy enough that the light from the fire caused an outline of her body. She was curled like a soft piece of cotton with knees drawn close, arms looped loosely around them.

The fire warmed her skin, painting her bare arms in soft tones, but it didn’t reach what he could see of her expression. Her face was turned slightly to the side, but it was not enough to hide the way her brow pinched and her lips trembled. Small beads of water gathers on her cheeks.

She was the one crying, not loudly, not desperately. But it was raw, real, and more honest than anything he’d seen from her since her arrival. Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, almost childlike in the way that she cuddled herself. Every so often, her breath would stutter from trying too hard not to make too much of a sound.

He didn’t move, he barely breathed as he watched her.

There was something deeply strange about watching her like this. It was not out of amusement, nor desire, nor pity. He didn’t even know what he felt. Only that he was watching, and that he could not look away.

There was something about the fragility of the moment, about seeing her so small, so unseen—that settled something uncomfortably in his chest. Something familiar, like he’d been that person before.

He should have left the moment he realised, turned and gone the way he came, left her to her grief. But his feet remained planted, his single eye fixed. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps calculation. Or perhaps something far simpler: an understanding of what it meant to bleed behind closed doors.

Watching her cry had killed that need for release that he had, that need to sink himself into some warm body and replaced it with something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he kept locked and controlled, the astute and uncomfortable feeling of being laid bare.

The restless hunger that had driven him to the tunnels in the first place—his need to sink into some faceless warmth, to dull himself in carnal release, to claw something human out of the night—died quietly in his chest the longer he watched her.

His desire was snuffed out like a candle with no air.

Aemond clenched his jaw and let his eye drift shut for a moment at her sobs, dragging in a slow, steady breath as he tried to take everything in.

Then, without a sound, he made his decision.

Finally turning and melting back into the tunnels, back to his rooms to deal with it himself, the whisper of his boots on stone the only sign he’d ever been there.

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cindol · 1 day ago

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⊂╰ ﹒ DAUGHTER .

incl — satoru gojo, toji fushiguro, sukuna ryomen,

⚠︎ ꗃ - hcs, fluff, not mentioned but reader is 17, slight gore, fem reader

𖧧 𓂃 ִֶָ — despite the kindness you got from your mother, you still had moments where your father’s side slipped out . ( hcs of when the jjk men as your dads see themselves in you . )

a /n — obv very inspired by the somg daughter by beyonce !

satoru gojo

you didn’t share much of satoru’s features, it was like genetics completely just skipped over all of his genes and gave you all your mother’s genes. What satoru definitely passed onto you though was his strength and confidence.

as kind as you are, you never hesitated to put a man in their place, especially the old higher ups and gojo always loved seeing that happen in real time.

“i’m just saying y/n, you should be more responsible, you’re a gojo.” the old man said to you with some sternness in his voice.

all day you had been getting lectured by the old man Yuriko at jujutsu high. It was honestly infuriating how you brushed off all his complaints and he still kept going.

you both kept arguing, really it was this old man yuriko complaining and you just nodding and going ‘mhm’. But still, as gojo walked he could see you and yuriko at the front of the jujutsu high school building talking.

satoru himself had half a mind to shut up this geezer himself. He already dealt with a geezer of his own, but he guessed the higher ups deemed it appropriate to have his own seed deal with a geezer that was a pain in the ass too. Satoru stopped in his own tracks when he saw you start to tell the old guy off.

“it is just my duty, as a high member of status i should be telling you to act appropriately. You’re a gojo, you should—” his lecturing came at a stop when you very rudely yawned to stop his yapping.

you let out a deep breath, preparing yourself on just what you’re gonna say to this damn geezer. “look, i get. You’re some wise old guy trying to lend knowledge to a young woman. But it’s like you said,” you smiled, giving him a toothy wide grin. “i’m a gojo. I know my duties, let me fuck off and have fun.”

yuriko’s eyes almost bulged out their sockets. He almost opened his mouth to talk back until you said, “or if you don’t wanna let me be a lady, you can deal with my dear ol’ dad over there.” you pointed your thumb in gojo’s direction, calling him right out.

sukuna ryomen .

thankfully for the servants of the ryomen palace, your mother birthed an angel. You still had sukuna’s genes with your sharp teeth and pink colored hair but you had the kindest eyes like your mother and the servants were forever grateful that you were exactly like your mother.

though, there were times you could be exactly like your daddy.

sometimes people forgot you werent just your mother’s child,Sukuna also had a big hand in raising you. He accepted the sweet nature you had but in his own words, “i’m not raising my blood to not be pushed around. You’re a ryomen, you’re gonna at the least bit know how to throw a punch.”

it took a lot for someone like you to get angry. You really had the patience of an angel, until you didn’t and in this scenario you had zero patience with these concubines.

your father’s female concubines respected you but you couldn’t say the same for the male servants. Even as long as they’ve known you for your entire life the assholes still didn’t respect you, a ryomen. You never complained about this to your father because you knew he would just say, “make them respect you.” and in sukuna’s eyes respect was making men bow to him in mercy.

but right now? oh you were forced, your hand was practically forced because of two misogynistic male concubines. They poked the friendly grizzly bear and you were all claws.

their laughs were shortened when you looked at one of the three of them and said the word, “dismantle.”

the top of the poor fool’s head slid right off and sprayed blood until his body dropped. There was some short silence until the two men left looked in the middle of them to see their sliced friend on the floor and eventually, they screamed and like clock work, they bowed.

you sighed, shaking your head and walking off. You were ashamed you had to go to those lengths but respect had to be due.

you just didn’t know your father was watching with a proud grin from afar.

toji fushiguro

there were aspects toji loved that you took from him and others he was glad that wasn’t passed onto you. He thanked the lord above you didn’t inherit his terrible gambling addiction but oh you definitely got your gun handling from your dear father and it showed.

toji on a whim decided to take you to a gun range because hell, why not. He believed you’ve gotten to the age where you should know how to use a gun in case of danger, he didn’t know if he would be on this earth for long sometimes.

but you were a damn natural

“just hold it steady, sweetheart aaaaand…”

bang !

you had a shakey hold on the pistol but for a first timer you shot right on the target of this cardboard cut out.

“well damn…” toji let out a whistle. “ain’t so bad for a first timer yourself!” he patted you on the the head.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x female reader #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk gojo

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ladyredmoon13 · 3 days ago

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DCXDP PROMPT

GPS Shenanigans

So it's a regular Tuesday for Danny. He woke up late, got to first period by the skin of his teeth, got his lunch knocked out of his hands by Dash. You get the picture. Even after all that, the universe decides to throw in a ghost attack standard with this glorious day that he was having.( Sence his sarcasm? Good!)

Anyways, it was all very normal for him by now. Very predictable. What wasn't predictable was the natural portal opening up and the Ghost he was fighting to see it as an opportunity and blast him through it. He was annoyed, even more so when the portal shot him out in the Bremuda Triangle.

Not really knowing which way to go to get home, he takes out his phone and puts in his home address, hoping to get back before the Ghost he was fighting could reek more havoc. And maybe soup them up before his test sixth period.

All was going great. He was making great time flying back. He might even wrap things up to make it to fifth period and tell Tucker and Sam about the weird event of the day. Only his phones GPS takes him to Paris, Texas. Okay, not where he ment to go, but it was alright. He can just put his address back into his GPS and be on his way home again.

Only this time, he ends up in Seattle, Washington. What? Alright, the third time is the charm. Then he ended up in Star City. What?! He tried again and ended up in some small town in Kansas. So he tried again and nearly crossed the border to Mexico.

Completely fed up at this point, Danny then restarted his phone, did two virus sweeps, and changed the settings a bit before bringing his GPS up again. Putting his address into it, again! And was on his way home, AGAIN! Only for the stupid app to take him to another random location that he most definitely did not want to be. AGAIN!!!

Grounding himself on the roof of another apartment building, Danny cursed his luck and his phone and decided to play around with the GPS settings to see if that would do anything. Because now it was nighttime, and all he wanted to do was go home, collapse in his bed, and think of a way to convince his parents not to ground him for skipping school.

As he angrily grumbles to himself, he notices a dark figure land on the roof not too far from him. Looking up from his phone screen, Danny is shocked to see the one and only Batman staring him down not even fifteen feet away. Huh, guess he was in Gotham then.

"Uh, hi-hello, Mr. Batman, sir." Danny stuttered anxiously. 'Smooth Danny, smooth.' He thought to himself as he cleared his throat before continuing." Don't mind me. Im just trying to get my stupid GPS working-" he said with more calm than he felt." At Melbourne and 6th, make a u-turn." A macanical female voice said from Danny’s phone. Oh, he must of accidentally turned on the audio voice assistance function while messing with the settings.

"At Melbourne and 6th, make a u-turn. Then go straight till Wellmore Avenue." The GPS voice said making Batman hum curiously." Those street names don't exist in Gotham." He said making Danny double check what city the GPS said his location was." It's saying I'm in Gotham." He tells the older hero." Turn left on Wellmore Avenue. Keep left and go straight for twenty six miles."

"I literally haven't moved." Danny complained to the device in his hands. Not expecting an answer from the phone but getting one from the black clad vigilante just feet away now." I take it this is not the first time this has happened bassed on your reaction." It wasn't a question but Danny still answered it like one. Shoulders sagging with a sigh Danny nods and turned to the Dark Knight

"It's been acting like this all day. No matter what I do, every time I put in my address into the GPS app on my phone it'll take me to the most random places. I've been coast to coast already and almost flew to Mexico. I've tried restarting it, I played around with the settings and locations. Nothing helps." He complains frustratedly.

"Make a u-turn at-"

"Shut up you!"

Danny gets thrown through a natural portal during a fight and ends up getting spit out in the bramuda triangle. He trys to get home be using his phones GPS but unbeknownst to him the phone was damaged, either during the fight or because of the triangle; and it keeps giving him random directions to literally anywhere but Amity Park. He finally gets so frustrated that he lands just to see what the heck is going on with his phone when Batman shows up. Having seen a very agitated meta fly over and stop in his city.

Here's a question for you. Why, in comics do they never have GPS for people who can fly, and im not talking about like in helicopters. Im talking about people with the ability to fly. Sure they can see everything while they're up there but that doesn’t mean they know where they're going, where they are, or how to get there from so high up. I myself have lived in my hometown for most of my life and I still need a GPS to tell me where some things are. Your thoughts?

#dc x dp crossover #batman #danny phantom #danny fenton #gps #danny has no sense of direction #so he relies on gps #it still doesn't help him lol

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faiszt · 2 days ago

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⠀⠀⠀ .⠀⠀⠀˚⠀ ⠀⋆⠀ ⠀ROBERT REYNOLDS IN⠀⠀:⠀⠀♥︎

02.⠀A BLACK CAR AND TWO KISSES ⠀꒰ summary ꒱⠀❛❛ i only want him if he says it first to me. ❜❜ ⠀ he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds. ✴⠀the rush was taking over you as one. something you had never felt, something you know you shouldn’t have felt, but your thoughts were taking over more than the rush and you were in his car again, thinking that, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let yourself live for the first time.⠀ LAST CHAPTER

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀contains⠀:⠀pastor’s son!bob &. younger naive!reader.⠀mentions of religion.⠀age gap ꒰ all characters are of legal age ꒱⠀ family ’n mommy issues.⠀no use of y/n.⠀strong language.⠀cheating.⠀wordcount⠀:⠀6.6k⠀!!

·⠀୨୧⠀·⠀sweet taglist⠀:⠀@lewispullsman ⠀ @rawanevil @morganfullaaa ⠀ ⠀ @hypnobeauty ⠀ ⠀ @petersluvbug @sentryluvs ⠀ ⠀ @em1989ts ⠀⠀ @mommymilkers0526 @imdefonothere ⠀ to be added comment here! ♥︎ ృ

my masterlist and the guidelines!⠀꒰ THE PLAYLIST ꒱

IN THE SILENCE OF LOVE, hate sometimes echoes louder.

the only sentence you heard being whispered against your ear before you felt your wrists being locked behind your back, just like your ankles—as you were thrown into the lake. sinking immediately, you felt your chest hurt, as if it might explode as you tried to scream and struggle inside the freezing water, drowning.

fear, despair, anger. a mix of emotions rising through your mind, making you go crazy in your last attempt to breathe. you would never return to what you were.

death.

your heart raced when you woke from your sleep, panting and sweating as if you were being warned, as if your subconscious needed to tell you something, something you chose not to listen to. “jesus...” a long sigh escaped your lips in an attempt to calm down, a hand going towards your chest. “i’m fine... i’m fine, it was just a stupid nightmare.” you tried to convince yourself before looking at the digital clock on the nightstand. 11am, you overslept.

the noise inside and outside the house was noticeable, which was nothing new when you had two energetic little girls in the house who woke up early in the morning. brushing your teeth was a reflective task when you were thinking so much, almost forgetting what happened yesterday, but you couldn’t completely forget it even if you wanted to.

no one would ever know about it, perhaps for the sake of your own reputation. at best, you would only be kicked out of your house if your mother knew that you came in bob’s car late at night without his fiancée around or anyone else.

you just had to not show that there was anything different, so she could live in her fantasy of a perfect family. as if she hadn’t been a sinner since the day she got pregnant by your father in a one night stand. what a hypocrite, demanding of you what she did not do. you had to roll your eyes in the mirror when you thought about it.

“you woke up... almost lunch time.” your mother grumbled bitterly when she saw you yawn into the kitchen. there was always a tension in the room when it was just you and her, as if the light had been sucked out even when it was daylight. you heard the judgment even when she was just being sarcastic and mean to you because she could be.

a wry smile crept onto your lips, your eyes falling to your feet as you walked to the fridge, wanting to hydrate your dry throat from the time you had that nightmare. “yeah, good morning to you too.” your attempt to avoid any conflict was the only thing you knew how to do since you were thirteen, probably, it was the most sensible way to act.

but, she was never satisfied. work hard, work hard and it’s still not enough, why can’t you be what she wants? it’s so simple, just do it. “come home from church alone last night?” the question made you stay silent for a moment, drinking the water with your back to her in the same way she had her back to you while cutting some vegetables.

“yes. i’ll meet mrs. reynolds at church again today.” it wasn’t the first time you lied about something, strangely it felt better to lie whenever she used that tone of voice where you didn’t know if she wanted to kill you or not, it was hard to understand her when she seemed to want to see you confused. “i’m not gonna have lunch, i can buy something to eat later.”

just like your silence from before, your mother also fell silent, the only noise in the kitchen being the sound of the knife hitting the wood of the board where she was cutting carrots on top. “don’t come back late, your sisters only sleep when you get home.” she said coldly, still with her back to you even as you walked past her. “and if the neighbors see you coming home late, you know what happens, so don’t do it.”

“i know, i’ll be back before dark.” it wasn’t like it would take that long to help mrs. reynolds at church, you’d be home early and could just... stay in your room alone and quiet until dinner. but, let’s face it, mrs. reynolds could probably go on for, at least, four hours talking nonstop about absolutely any subject. she talked to you more than your own mother, how funny.

later.

2pm, the sun was shining through your bedroom window when you finished putting on your dress and went out, telling your mother that you were going to the church to help mrs. reynolds like you had said to her before. with a not very pleasant look, the older woman nodded, but not before muttering a: “what a weird dress.” as if she wasn’t the one who bought it for you.

like any other day, you ignored her before walking past your father—watching the news in the living room with one of your younger sisters sitting next to him. a smile played on your lips, thinking about how similar they were. “hey, hey... where are you going?” the little girl almost jumped off the couch the second she saw you heading towards the door.

curious and energetic, the kind that probably had the energy to spend an entire day running around the yard if your parents didn’t set limits on her. “church. why?” you answered her, looking down trying to hide the smile from before.

“can i go with you? please, please, please... i promise i’ll behave!” she was almost begging, but your father quickly got up from the couch and lifted her into his arms as if the short little girl was a sack of potatoes that he had placed easily over his shoulder—which earned him a harmless, half-angry snort of protest from her.

“leave your sister alone, you’re not going anywhere now, young lady.” he said playfully, still with her over his shoulder as he turned to wink at you and whisper a: “go.” without a doubt, perhaps your father was the only adult there who could show his affection without hurting someone first. honestly, not even you were like that sometimes, you couldn’t escape your mother’s blood running through your veins.

without saying anything, you walked out the front door, calmly, as if you were going for a walk—which you should have been doing if his car wasn’t waiting for you at the end of the street. always on time, you thought. you had to look around surreptitiously, making sure no neighbors were watching while trying to find a reason to simply talk about you and use your name with blasphemy.

bob saw you in the rearview mirror, pulling his cap off his face as he leaned back against the leather seat. he could have been a gentleman and opened the door for you, but he knew all too well that you didn’t want to be seen with him. you were young, untouched, naive, everything he hadn’t been in a long time, you were like fresh air to someone who hadn’t breathed in a long time.

he knew he couldn’t stay. he couldn’t let himself be enchanted by you, not when he had a fiancée. he was going to get married in a few months and his parents were counting on it, a good marriage, with a woman devoted to god who... didn’t know him, but liked what she saw for an hour or two a day. he never said he loved anyone, that said more about him than anything else could.

what could he do? he was always trying to be what he wasn’t, trying to be the version that pleased his parents—that pleased his father, as it should be. he had to be what his older brother wasn’t.

“escaping from the cops?” a nasal laugh escaped him as you sat next to him in the passenger seat. different from what he was used to, in a simple conversation you seemed to see him as he wanted to be seen, as a person beyond his faith.

“more like escaping from my family, but... yeah, almost like that.” a small smile appeared on your lips, but you hid it, looking forward as you buckled your seatbelt. then, your nose caught a whiff of a different smell, a smell you had smelled every now and then when your father was alone in the garage fixing the car. he wouldn’t let anyone in until he was done. your eyes curiously scanned around, stopping at the open pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. marlboro red.

despite the attention he kept on the road, he noticed where you were looking and took out a cigarette, placing it in front of you. “want one?” the second he offered, you quickly denied it and pushed his hand back a little with your index finger. “right, no damaged lung for you, i guess... that’s kinda nice of you.” it was a stupid joke, he didn’t talk like that around other people, but it was good to see when you tried to hide a smile or a laugh for something he said.

“it’s called healthy behavior.” you joked back and he could see how, slowly, you were letting him see beyond the expressions of boredom and silence that were characteristic of when you didn’t feel comfortable enough to say something. he had watched you before, several times, with caution, but curiosity and something else he didn’t dare to think about.

“healthy behavior, huh?” he agreed, but couldn’t help himself and ended up laughing while scratching his chin. you noticed that this was a recurring habit of his. “yeah, i’m sure you have a super healthy behavior... like, you stare at people, don’t smoke and eat all your veggies, that’s one way to put it, kid.”

kid. he called you that and probably, that was the first time you really paid attention to the fact that the two of you weren’t exactly close in age. 32, ten years age gap, it was almost funny to think about it—you barely talked to guys your own age, suddenly you were in the car of someone ten years older than you. but, there was nothing wrong with that, right? right? guys can be friends with girls too, even if you’ve been taught to think otherwise.

or, perhaps, being 22 didn’t mean you had the mind of a woman of that age when ignorance seemed to be a good thing. it means you’re still pure... and naive, and easy to manipulate or deceive, and easy not to question. stop. you sighed, but the smile on your face had already disappeared a few minutes ago.

“here we are.” his voice woke you from your brief trance of thoughts so fast that it was as if a billion tabs were open in your consciousness at the same time, almost like modern torture that you were responsible for doing to yourself. bob was no idiot, he noticed your silence and the change in expression as soon as he parked his car. “hey, are you okay?”

you licked your lips, staring at your fingers before turning your neck towards him and trying the best reassuring smile, which wasn’t always so reassuring. “yeah, i’m okay.” lying was a sin, so why did you still attend church knowing that you wouldn’t be saved in the end? no one was there really believing that they would.

bob nodded, but from the way his eyes lingered on you, there was something you weren’t telling him and he wasn’t going to try to make you say it, not now. “fine. i’ll ride you home later... i’m helping my dad with the church garden, but as soon as you’re done, let me know and we can go.”

you couldn’t say anything other than thank him in a low tone as you got out of his car and go into the church. everything was silent and clean, freshly cleaned, you could smell the cleaning products. the closest noise was outside, where you guessed the garden was, but the rest? just silence, a melancholy silence.

your eyes slowly landed on a painting of the last supper, right next to you. on the small table below it with an empty plate and a golden cup, you observed it and noticed small flaws in the painting. some colors and lines seemed different from the original work, but it was still harmonious in itself, the flaws made it something unique. “robert who painted it.” the female voice suddenly echoed behind you, you didn’t even hear her footsteps, or you were too focused to hear anything other than the beating of your heart. “i’m sorry, dear, did i scare you?”

“no, i... i was just looking at it, i’m fine, mrs. reynolds.” you answered her, but your heart was still racing as you stepped away from the painting on the wall to stand closer to the woman. mrs. reynolds was a good woman, always elegant and kind, you never heard anything shady about her and in a community where everything could be a reason, not hearing anything bad about someone was actually a good sign. “so... was it robert who painted it?”

he painted pictures. that was something, of course, he reproduced the painting of the last supper, but there was a touch of his own to it, like the subtle changes that he knew no one would notice if they didn’t look at it for a while.

“yes, he took art classes in high school and really enjoyed painting, it’s a shame he stopped. i always thought he had talent, but his father wanted to... change things a little.” she stopped talking quickly, giving a soft cough before touching your shoulder and turning you to face the opposite side of the painting. “come on, dear, you need to help me organize the choir for the weekend.”

god knows you didn’t want to think so much about what you knew before, but how could you not? honestly, you didn’t think a man like him would have such ease in being an artist. but, he was. a great artist, by the way, and this seemed to always be hidden by a thick layer of intimidation that he wore as if it were his favorite perfume. everyone had a different side to what they showed, his surprised you.

hearing what his mother said about him made you think that you didn’t know much beyond his name and who he was son of, that’s all. robert reynolds, the pastor’s son. he wasn’t just that, you could see it, even if you didn’t know what was beyond. you wanted to see everything, everything that was about him, no matter how dangerous and stupid it was, the fun was in the challenge.

“well, i think we’re done... thank you, sweetheart, you’re a great helper.” mrs. reynolds said as she placed the last piece of paper inside a black folder. each paper had the lyrics to the song the choir would sing next sunday, but you had to make changes—that’s why she needed your help, she wasn’t good at using the church printer and she could have asked anyone else for help, but why not you?

“it’s great to help you, mrs. reynolds.” your polite words made the woman smile. she spent most of her time thinking that she wished her youngest son had a wife like you, but benjamin seemed to care more about his video games than his responsibility to the church and god. you were too good for the boy and she, as a mother, recognized that.

at least, robert would have a good marriage, since his older brother was lost in sin and his younger brother... wouldn’t find anything steady any time soon. she was trying to settle for that.

“oh, before i forget... give your mom a hug for me and apologize to her for keeping you here for so long, she must be worried when you take time to get home.” yeah, sure... although you thought your mom appreciated it when you were away from her sometimes. “and go with god, my dear, may he protect you until you get home.”

she hugged you. despite the awkwardness, you hugged her back gently and forced a sweet, but confused smile, pulling away still uncertain of what had just happened. “amen, mrs. reynolds... uh, see you soon.”

as you walked out of the church, a thought came to your mind. you remembered that even that sweet lady had not been free from the rumors that always seemed to follow people around here—as you had previously thought. it had been a while, but you vaguely remembered hearing your mother and aunt talking about how mrs. reynolds had wanted a daughter, but never had one... so, three sons.

perhaps, this was directly linked to the affection she felt for you, which was strange, but curious at the same time. but, as for incessant thoughts, you already had enough, you didn’t need more.

for now, your task was just to look for bob, wherever in the garden he was, his car was still there, at least. the sooner you get home, the better. you’ll be able to distract yourself, avoid social interactions, and think a lot less. the problem was when things liked to... get drastically worse for you in the blink of an eye, this week was definitely not yours.

you felt a headache starting right in the center of your forehead, body going limp, legs feeling weaker as your hands began to shake. just walking started to be a difficult task, as if your head was way too heavy and your vision was too dark to see where you were going. oh, you didn’t have lunch, you didn’t have breakfast, not even the holy spirit could keep you on your feet when you didn’t do the bare minimum. surprising how you hadn’t passed out before.

you leaned against a wall and closed your eyes, stroking your forehead as you tried to stay calm, with a real fear that you would simply pass out right there—that’s when the strap of your bag slipped off and fell to the ground, the noise attracted bob’s attention who was approaching.

when he saw that it was you, he almost ran towards you and put one of his hands on your back, pulling you closer. “hey, hey... what are you feeling? are you feeling sick?” he immediately became concerned, starting to stroke your back with his eyes a little wide, waiting for you to say something quick. “you look pale as hell, come here.”

he pulled you even closer, using his fingers to lift your chin and make you look at him, trying to get you to answer him right away before he did something about it himself and carried you bridal style into the car. “i’m... i’m fine, just a little dizzy.” he almost laughed bitterly, not believing your answer for even a fraction of a second.

“have you noticed how many times you say you’re fine?” he arched an eyebrow, shaking his head. “and a little dizzy? your bag fell and you almost hit the ground with it. when was the last time you ate, girl?” great question, if you weren’t feeling sick you would have thought of a way to get away from it.

“i didn’t. the whole day.” bob’s eyes almost popped out of his head and it made you think he was going to give you a worse lecture than your parents could ever give you, but he just kept quiet and ran his fingers through his hair, still looking at you very seriously. his expression changed so quickly it was almost scary.

“to the car. now.” he just pointed to his own car and let go of you, letting you go while he bent down to pick up your bag from the ground. as soon as you got in and sat in the passenger seat, bob placed your bag on your lap and continued to look at you with that eyes. “the seatbelt.” he said before closing the door and walking around to get into the car.

you did what he said faster than you thought you would, following him with your eyes before he sat down in the driver’s seat and you shamefully looked away. the dizziness was still there, you still felt weak, but at least you were sitting up now and didn’t have to worry about fainting. however, the silence inside the car disappeared when you noticed that he didn’t take the same route he had taken to take you home before.

“where are we going?” your eyes flicked towards the window, looking the opposite way he was going—your mind already starting to race again as you shifted in your seat, practically trying to ignore your weakness.

“calm down,” bob was quick to answer you, placing a hand on your knee as he tried to make you look less restless. he was just trying to do something, or rather, trying to make sure you didn’t die. “i’m just taking you to eat something in the city. i’m not taking you home like this, your parents won’t like it.”

your parents won’t like it. your parents wouldn’t like any of this, not you in his car, not you talking to him, not you even getting close to him, but he wouldn’t know about it, just like your parents wouldn’t know about him. it wasn’t a dirty little secret, but it was a secret, a secret you agreed with yourself was best kept. modesty aside, you know you’ve become good at keeping secrets over the years.

“in the city? isn’t it... i don’t know, weird?” it wasn’t a loud question, you almost whispered as you stared at his hand on your knee, but he didn’t do anything to change that, in fact, his calloused fingers just tightened their grip a little more.

the silence lasted inside the car for a brief moment, until he took his hand off your knee as if nothing had happened. “is it weird that i don’t want you to die of malnutrition?” he could even pretend he didn’t, but you both knew why that felt weird. “just... relax, it’s not like people we know will see us together, it’s no big deal, actually, we’re fine.”

he was right, to a certain extent. there was nothing wrong with all this, but you still didn’t want people to see the two of you together... what if they talked about it? what if you became everything you were taught to fear? your chest hurt just thinking about it. so you shouldn’t think, not now. the city—or rather, its center—was far from where you lived, no one would see it, no one would know.

it was something so... small, but it seemed so big to someone who had never really had it. you won’t expect him to understand, nor did you understand.

he left you alone in the car when he went out to buy hot dogs at a stand near the lake. the town didn’t seem as quiet as your neighborhood, but it was calm, with bright lights almost blinding you and the loud noise of cars coming and going. you rested your head against the window, watching him as you thought he was trying to take care of you, in his own way.

bob couldn’t deny it, he had been very worried when he saw you like that earlier. you had to be an idiot to go a whole day without eating, believing that this could be even slightly positive when you literally simply forgot to eat. you could have fainted, hurt yourself, and so many other things that he avoided thinking about the possibilities.

nonchalantly, he walked back. carrying three hot dogs, he noticed the confusion on your face. “why three?”

“two are yours.” he pushed them towards you, almost as if it was obvious that they were for you. “what? you haven’t eaten all day, don’t tell me a hot dog will be enough. you better eat it all or i’ll throw you into the lake.” the small smile that appeared on her face made him smile too, but he quickly covered it up. “stop laughing, i’m serious!”

his fake anger only makes you laugh a little harder, biting into one of the hot dogs as you looked away towards the lake you could see through the windshield. “would you really throw me in the lake?” it was a little question just to tease you, though you can’t help but remember the nightmare you had. the lake and... everything else, it doesn’t matter anymore, you just got scared by it.

“if you don’t eat it all, yes.” he let his smirk show a little more as he sat down on the seat again, starting to eat his hot dog and letting the silence welcome the two of you.

the lake cut the city in half, you remembered walking with your parents around here when you were a child, but as you grew up, your parents moved to the rural side and consequently, walking along the lake became something that no longer happened. your sisters were babies, they needed care and you could understand that your parents’ attention was no longer yours.

there was a certain nostalgia there if you looked long enough, as if you could still hear and see perfectly a time in your life that you missed.

slowly, you finished your first hot dog and it wasn’t surprising, but he was right about one hot dog not being enough, even after devouring the first one, you were still hungry. a chuckle escaped him as he looked at you out of the corner of his eyes, he felt more relieved to see you eating like you should have done before.

“this lake seemed bigger when i was a kid.” bob grumbled, letting you know that you probably shared the same feeling when you looked at the lake, even though you hadn’t said anything about it, he could kind of tell on his own. “you know... my older brother used to bring me to ride my bike with him ’round here.” he laughed to himself. “that’s how i got my first broken bone... my left arm at eight.”

he was opening up, somehow, telling you something he didn’t usually show he missed. “my brother was so desperate that he cried more than me... afraid that our parents would freak out on him.” sweet memories for him, he kept each of these in a special place in his mind, trying not to forget them over the years.

you turned a little more towards him, curiously staring at him as he spoke so genuinely about it. “i don’t remember meeting your brother... i mean, not the older one.” your words made his smile grow a little weaker, he had to sigh, there were too many thoughts in his mind about the matter.

“yeah, he... left the city about seven years ago.” it was like seeing through the surface, the subject seemed complex to him and you would never force him to talk about it. but, bob still had a little bit of it stuck inside him, no matter how much he pushed it to the back of his mind and tried to disguise it. was still there when he slept, was still there when he woke up. “i think he moved to chicago... or something, it’s been a while since i last heard from him.”

the gears in your mind worked and you were able to understand that the relationship between his older brother and the rest of the family seemed troubled, so they all seemed to ignore his existence, but bob couldn’t do it, he secretly refused. he would never do anything his parents did to a son, it was just too late now.

“i see.” you said quietly, wrinkling the bridge of your nose as you finished eating your hot dog—you felt a little sorry for him, wondering what could be going through his mind.

he coughed, fingers stroking his chin in the way you’d seen before. “anyway... i’m gonna throw this trash away.” he started picking up the hot dog wrappers. “you can come with me if you want, we can take a look at the lake.” his offer was way too tempting when you noticed that you felt much better than before, of course you accepted, already getting up from your seat.

the breeze of the wind against your face made you sigh, opening your arms a little as if you were free, finally feeling free and it was... good, like eating too much ice cream on a hot day, was what you needed. you didn’t even know what you were thinking, but it felt good in your mind.

“don’t walk too fast... you might almost fall to the ground again.” he teased, tossing the wrappers into the nearest trash before shoving his hands in his pockets to walk beside you. “what happened to all that talk about this being weird, huh?”

the part near the lake was a little darker, probably because of the trees covering the streetlights, it was almost difficult to walk without tripping a little, so you ended up holding on his arm. he didn’t push you away, nor did he complain, he just kept you there. “it’s only weird if someone is watching us.” you answered him without much care, but you thought that perhaps you should have thought about your words better before... saying them out loud.

“it’s only weird if someone is watching us? damn, someone is getting bold with her words.” you were close, you could smell him when you were clinging to his arm. he smelled like his cigarettes, but it was a stronger smell than the one inside his car, you liked the way he smelled and the way it felt welcoming even when it shouldn’t be. the problem was probably with you, or him, or both, it was a matter of time until this question was answered.

it wasn’t that you were bold with words, you just... repeated what you thought you should. but if he thought you were bold, then maybe that could be a good thing, right?

“well... it’s getting late and i’m supposed to get you home safely. your parents will want my head.” he grumbled, staring at the lake, probably imagining that your parents really wanted to kill him for taking so long to bring you home. the point is: your parents didn’t know you were with him, even more so in the city center—you had created kinda a terrible situation to deal with.

you gently let go of his arm and moved a little closer to the edge of the lake, staring at the water as the noise of traffic seemed to be further away. “they won’t want your head,” anyone else wouldn’t tell and would let the story go, but why not tell him? you made it a secret, so he should know he was involved. “they don’t even know that you give me a ride or that i’m with you now. they won’t know, will they?”

he watched silently as you turned to him, staring at him as you said your words as if you were questioning whether or not he would tell your parents. bob didn’t want to get in the middle of your family relationship, if you didn’t tell them it was because you had a reason, he knew that better than anyone. “no,” he sighed. “but, that’s just one more reason for me to take you home now... or they’ll think about things i know you don’t want them to.”

and he was completely right. your parents couldn’t suspect that you were doing things you shouldn’t, your mother couldn’t.

you were inside his car again, the same thing, staring at the rearview as he drove back to the rural side. you heard him clear his throat to get your attention, but he spoke before you even had time to look at him. “i thought it’d be better not to ask, but...” bob didn’t know how to approach certain subjects, especially family ones. he didn’t talk about it comfortably most of the time, so he preferred to think it was the same for other people. “why didn’t you tell them about me? i mean, i'm just giving you rides... it’s no big deal.”

it was cute how he thought it didn’t mean anything when people would rather assume things of their own free will. “i get why you don’t want the neighbors to see us ’cause they’re such fuckin’ gossipers... but, your parents? they should know.” he didn’t want any trouble, but he was also worried about you and your reasons for not wanting to tell your parents something so simple.

this conversation wasn’t the kind of thing you enjoyed, it was the kind of conversation that made you feel a lump in your throat every time it started. “my dad maybe, but my mom? no way, you don’t know her.” you replied, not being able to look at him, just keeping your eyes on the road with an unhappy expression. “she’d make my life a living hell if she knew about this, ’cause nothing to her is truly innocent unless she decides it is. so, i won’t tell... and she won’t get the chance to treat me like i’m someone’s other woman.”

bob swallowed hard. he didn’t know it was like this for you. he figured there might be something more beneath the surface, but he didn’t realize you saw your own mother more as an enemy than a friend. once again, you had more similarities than he first imagined. “i’m sorry for... getting you into this, i guess.” he kept his eyes on the road like you were doing, he didn’t know the reason for the apology but he asked for it anyway, if he hadn’t offered the ride then you wouldn’t have had to lie.

“don’t apologize, bob.” you said almost immediately when he stopped at the red light. “i think you’re the last person who should apologize to me. that thing i feel everywhere... that heavy feeling in my chest disappears when you’re talking to me and i don’t know why, but it feels good. i like to be myself when i’m around you, so... you shouldn’t apologize for making me feel better.”

you couldn’t completely understand why you said all that so quickly, but you said it anyway, and you could see out of the corner of your eye how confused and surprised he was by it. “i...” bob didn’t know what to say to you, the words died on his tongue before he could just say them. but, he appreciated how vocal you were about how good he was doing for you, even though you had only spent a short time together.

“you don’t need to say anything.” you grumbled, he could feel that maybe silence was the best option now, not the bad silence, it was the comforting silence when you were really understanding each other without having to actually say something. he understood you, you understood him, one way or another, you chose to believe that there was some connection between you in this.

the silence lasted until you heard the car pulling up near your neighborhood, but not exactly there, not in the same place as before. he didn’t say anything for a moment, but you turned to look at him and he knew what you would ask. “wanna go to the city with me again? friday.” he asked, a little apprehensively but genuinely, you saw the way he was shaking his leg.

“bob... we shouldn’t,” you answered him immediately, but the look of “please” on his face almost made you forget what you had said. your voice trailed off, you just scratched the back of your neck and sighed, as if you were giving up. “fine. but, you know, no one can see us and... neither can my parents.”

he knew that, those were the rules you created for that and bob wanted to be close to you, he wasn’t going to deny that now, after what you said it made him realize that he felt the same way. “i know,” his leg stopped moving. “no one will see us, i promise.”

something in you told you not to do it, not to agree to just go out with him—because that’s what it was—he had a fiancée, but he hadn’t mentioned her, not once, as if he had forgotten her. you thought it was... something to think about, but you decided not to think about it, not so much.

“it’s okay.” you started to unbuckle your seatbelt, noticing how there was something in the air and it wasn’t exactly the smell of his cigarette that seemed stuck there.

“7pm, here. i think it’s safer here than... inside your neighborhood.” he had a point. within your neighborhood someone could see through the windows much more easily, now here... it was just dark, but not far, you could walk home and it would be as if nothing had happened. nothing had happened between you and him.

you thought about saying something but stopped, just nodding as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder to get out of the car. his eyes were on you and yours met his blue ones. how dangerous, you felt a chill in your stomach, something that shouldn’t be there, but suddenly it was.

his large hand reached your knee gently, squeezing it the same way he had done before and he leaned towards you. you should have moved away, but you didn’t, you stayed there, feeling his approach and enjoying it, enjoying the rush that surged through your body when he did it.

the tips of your noses touched, your breaths slowly mingled and you smelled that marlboro red scent again, his scent, the scent that meant him. a little more, a little closer, his lips touched yours in the gentlest way a touch could be, you closed your eyes and felt the sin, the best sin you ever committed, the one which made you feel good once again.

a kiss, just a little kiss, so quick you barely tasted it, but it was... reassuring, calming, real and you imagined it that way, he imagined it that way. that was a problem, you would drown in your own feelings, but he made you not want to think about it anymore.

to be continued...

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox, you’ll be welcome. ꒰ ˶> ˕ <˶ ꒱ ♡

©⠀𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐙𝐓, 2025.⠀don’t use my work without my consent.

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crowfish-brainrot · 1 day ago

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That Damned Perfume Part 1

One of the first 5* cards I got was Rafayel's Your Fragrance and it's lived in my head, rent-free, ever since. Then it's implied that he gifts you the same perfume in the 4* Card Fragrant Dream. The fact that Your Fragrance ended with "Gotcha" has plagued me. WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT? So, this is going to explore that, what I hoped happened afterwards, and how my brat-ass MC would use the perfume after to her advantage. Part 1 of 2

Warnings for all parts: MDNI. Smut! Porn with Feelings. Biting, scent-marking, breeding kink with no consequences, two dicked Rafayel, brat!MC brat!Rafayel but everyone is a switch here, primal urges/dynamics, f reader, MC has hazy memories of a life before with Rafayel. Might be a little ooc because ya girl is still getting back into fanfic. Unedited. You get this raw (just like our fishie!)

You were bent over the sink, trying to rinse off the perfume. Rafayel either despised or adored it, you couldn’t tell. Your palm burned with lingering heat from his not-so-soft bite. It added to the heat coiling low in your belly from the weight of his lusty, almost drunk expression that danced over your skin like a physical thing.

Rafayel seemed drunk of the scent of this new perfume. The kind of drunk that came with too many glasses of wine that always ended up with clothes thrown across the floor. You considered deepening your relationship with the sassy Lemurian more times than you could count, but crossing that line now?

You thought about kissing Rafayel so many times, but you never gathered the courage to close the distance. He didn’t do anything halfway, and you knew the kiss would lead to so much more. You didn’t have time for that, not now. The exhibition started in forty-five minutes. You also didn’t want to take advantage of Rafayel if he was inebriated somehow by the perfume. You wanted him in his right mind when you took that step. Resigned to the task at hand, you splashed cool water on your neck to rinse off the perfume.

"Gotcha," Rafayel purred, his large hand splayed out on the mirror. He appeared out of nowhere, silent as a shadow until it was too late for you to escape. His left arm stretched out above you, the other clutched your waist. His hips rolled into the soft flesh of your ass and you felt him - hot, hard, and throbbing. "Silly girl, you shouldn’t have run away from me."

The sound of his voice ghosted over your ears in a deeper, huskier tone than usual. Something raw and hotter than his flames dripped into his words. Your knees trembled as you slowly turned off the water. Heat gathered low in your belly, but you didn’t dare move. "I wanted to wash the perfume off. It seems affect you, and you can't act like this at the exhibition."

"You're right. I can't go out like this." Rafayel rolled his hips, harder this time. You imagined his cock would be a good size and as pretty as the rest of him. What ground into your ass was huge, both in length and girth. Too long. It hit you once again that Rafayel, your sassy artist, was not human.

You made the mistake of looking into the mirror. His eyes met yours in the glass, but instead of their typical amethyst and pink hue, they gleamed a bright, vivid blue. Scales peppered his cheeks, his neck, and danced down his exposed chest. You had brief glimpses of this form of his, somewhat shifted, the human mask half-fallen.

Rafayel would never hurt you, but the sight of him like this made every nerve in your body pulse with the urge to run. He moaned into your hair, the sound breathless. His grip tightened as he curled his larger body over yours, completely encasing you in nothing but him. "I need you. Please."

The heat of his body burned into your back through your clothes. He hovered a breath away from your spine, and somehow that made your awareness of him so much sharper. You focused on everywhere you would’ve touched, had he not held himself back.

"What do you need me to do?” you asked. You had countless ideas on how to help him through whatever this was, but all of your ideas would make you both very, very late to the exhibition. You didn't want to assume that’s what he wanted, though. Not when he was vulnerable like this.

"I need you," he panted, his words strained. "I need you to touch me. I’ll take anything you’ll give me. I'll beg if you want. Call you master if that's what it takes. I just need you, and everything you’re willing to let me take."

Rafayel’s hot breath fanned over your neck, and goosebumps rose across your body. The tension in him became a tangible thing between you as his fingers trembled against your skin. His expression in the mirror was one of a man who was consumed by visceral need. His beautiful, glowing blue eyes were wide dark with long-repressed want. There was no bravado or sassy remarks here. Just pure, burning desire.

Your throat dried, and the heat burning in your stomach slowly overruled all your other senses. When he looked at you like that you'd give him the fucking moon if he asked for it. "There isn't anything I wouldn't give you if you needed it, Rafayel."

He made a broken, desperate sound as he rocked his hips into you again, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. As if it was instinctual for him to seek you out when he was like this. His left hand remained on the mirror, and his right slipped under the hem of your top. Long, delicate fingers splayed over your side. Almost cool to the touch. You both hissed as if it burned. His fingers shook against your stomach as he traced up your ribs to your breasts. He squeezed them through the fabric of your bra with a pitiful whimper.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses traced down your back, from your shoulders to the dip of your spine. He continued to knead your breast as his left hand abandoned the mirror to unbutton your pants. He huffed a soft laugh into your skin as he slowly pulled you into a stand. He leaned down, watching your expression in the mirror as his hot breath fanned over your ears. “What I truly need would take all night. Most of tomorrow, too. We don’t have time. I wanted this to be better. More romantic, but I can barely hold myself together because of that damned perfume.”

“Do you want me to leave? I can go home and change.”

“No!” Power laced through Rafayel’s voice, the blue in his eyes gleaming brightly for a moment before settling back down. “You aren’t leaving me. I’ll make it up to you later, give you what you deserve, but I can’t let you go right now. Can I take these off? Please, cutie?”

"Yes."

The word was halfway out of your mouth when he moved. Your pants were down around your ankles before you could blink, and the cool night air tingled against your now bare skin. Rafayel met your gaze in the mirror once again, that starving, devastating look clear in his eyes as he hovered his hand over your panties. "Are you attached to these?"

"No."

"Good." Rafayel ripped them off with one powerful tug of his hand. They ripped like they were made of paper, and your head spun at the show of strength. He clutched you against his hard chest to steady you.

Pressed firmly against his body and bare from the waist down, there was little hiding his hot, throbbing cock from you. It pulsed against your back, the size seeming impossible. With one hand pressing you into his body, his other slipped your torn panties into his back pocket.

His hand hovered over your mound, not quite touching you, as if giving you a final chance to stop him. You rocked your hips back into his. Whatever haze held his hand broke, and breathlessly, he dipped one finger between your lower lips. He shuddered behind you, his voice soft in your ear. "You're so wet."

You wouldn’t deny the truth. He barely touched you, but your desire dripped down your thighs, slick and hot from his proximity alone. Every soft noise and restrained touch only made your blood run hotter. Your legs spread open instinctively, and your head fell back against his strong chest. "Rafayel."

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” Rafayel’s voice cracked, the mask he wore cracking under your proximity. “Do you have any idea how long I waited for you? How long I searched for you? I’ve been without you longer than I’ve ever had you.”

“I’m here right now.” Your voice was soft. He was often dramatic, but something about this pulled at your heartstrings, like the memory of a distant dream.

He pressed a firm kiss into the side of your neck. “I should make you wait. Drive you crazy with want, and need. Leave you aching. I want to punish you, but if I did, I would be the one who suffered the most.”

Your knees went weak at the slight growl in his voice, something almost feral seeping into his tone. You met his dark, ravenous gaze in the mirror and thought back to the promise you made him months ago. “I swore I’d never make you wait again, didn’t I?”

“You did. I won’t let you forget your promise this time.” Rafayel slipped two fingers deep inside you in one smooth, slow motion. You both moaned. His fingers were so much longer than yours, and twice as precise.

He worked his skilled digits in and out of you slowly. His fingers curled as he made deep strokes, hitting the spot your fingers never quite managed to reach. Rafayel’s thumb strummed over your clit in slow, firm circles, and your breath hitched. You clutched to his arms for support and he hummed into your neck."That's right. Cling to me, cutie. I've got you."

Your head lulled back against his chest as he worked his fingers in and out of you. The wet noises of your pussy squeezing his fingers became the only sound in the dim bathroom aside from your heavy breathing. The coil of pleasure low in your belly curled tighter with each expert twirl of his fingers. It was as if he’d done this to you before, as if he memorized long ago exactly how you liked to be touched. Your breaths turned into gasps as you raced towards the peak of release.

His fingers slipped out of you the moment before you reached your peak. You cried out, a sharp, frustrated sound. Rafayel shushed you, the ghost of his smile brushed against your neck. With effortless grace, he lifted you onto the counter and sank to his knees in front of you. Large, slightly cool hands traced down your thigh to your knees. He rested his chin there and focused his wide, hungry gaze on yours. "Touching you isn't enough. I need to taste you, to have your scent drown me. May I?"

You spread your thighs and his breath stuttered. He kissed the inside of your knees in something that felt like worship. Your fingers speared through his silken amethyst hair and you pulled him to your dripping pussy. Your thighs settled over his shoulders, pulling him closer still. "Eat your fill."

Your voice came out seductive, rich, and far more confident than you felt. You dreamed of this, of his hands, his mouth, his cock. You had countless fantasies of this moment, but nothing compared to the real thing. The heat of his body between your spread thighs, the reverent, yet sure grip he had on you, the weight of his stare. This was real, and you burned with pent up need.

Rafayel's eyes flared at your words, and he nipped your innermost thigh with his sharp, slightly pointed teeth. His tongue soothed the sting of the bite, then he made another. Each nip lasted a little longer, pulled more on the skin, and left a deeper mark. You whimpered, and whatever game he was playing stopped. His tongue delved between your folds, and he pulled you closer to get the best angle.

He ate your pussy like he was starved. Messy and needy, he devoured you. He whimpered into your cunt. His tongue reached into your depths as his nose rubbed against your clit. Rafayel kept a steady rhythm, never pulling back to breathe. He chased your pleasure, somehow attuned to every subtle tell of your body, your sharp breaths, and the tremble of your thighs.

Your fingers clutched his hair as he pushed loud, breathy moans out of you with every swipe of his skilled tongue. He licked up, circled your clit with his tongue, and sank two long fingers inside you. He applied the perfect amount of pressure, starting slow, then increasing the speed with every cry you made for him.

"Rafayel," you moaned. He set a brutal, consuming pace at the desperation lingering in your voice. His licks over your clit became firm sucks. He thrust his fingers in time with the pulse of his sucks. The curl of pleasure in your lower stomach grew taught for the second time, humming just below the surface. "I'm going to--"

He sucked harder, a choked whine echoed in the space between you, and you couldn't hold back. You came with a cry of his name. Your thighs clenched around his head as you rode the wave of pleasure out on his face. Rafayel never let go of your pulsing clit. He continued sucking, licking, and working you through your orgasm. Still refusing to let go, he continued his brutal pace and sent you spiraling into another release.

Your choked cries and the wet sounds Rafayel pulled from your soaked cunt filled the room. He devoured you, desperate, starved. You were a mess, wet and sticky between your thighs from your release and his tongue, but he didn't let you escape. He wasn't done with you. Pleasure coiled in your lower stomach again, faster this time, the tension so tight it ached. You pulled his hair hard, but Rafayel didn't react, too lost in your pussy to care.

Your second orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. It knocked every thought out of your mind and every ounce of air from your lungs. You screamed something that sounded like his name, but also like a curse, maybe even a prayer. You gushed over his fingers, the release hitting you so hard you were undone. A breathless mess. He worked you through it, slower this time, and when the wave waned, Rafayel pulled back with a soft sigh.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, licking his fingers clean of your come. His eyes and skin were back to normal, but the hunger in his sunset eyes lingered. He pressed a soft kiss into your thigh, then nuzzled into your skin. All the tension eased out of his shoulders, as if pleasing you soothed him.

"Do we have to go to the exhibition?" Rafayel asked.

"Yes," you said, breathless. "This is important to you, isn't it?"

He licked his lips. "It's work, and you know how I feel about that."

You giggled and ran your hand through his hair. "I promised to bring you."

"We won't make it if I keep you here much longer." The playful, soft glint in his eyes signaled the last little bit of hope he had that you'd let him stay right where he was.

You leaned down and captured his lips in a soft kiss. "If you're a good boy, maybe we can leave early."

Rafayel shuddered, and slumped forward. He wrapped his arms around your stomach and pulled you close. "Fine. I'll survive as long as your scent is on me. I want a worthwhile reward, too."

"I'm sure I'll think of something," you said.

This got away from me, so I'll cut it here. Idk where the next part will start, so we'll find out together. I love this sassy fishie sm, and I thirst for him SO BAD. So, there will be more, soon.

#love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds rafayel #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut #lads rafayel #lads x reader #lads #lads smut #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you

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daydreamgoddess14 · 8 hours ago

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By Another Hand - Chris Beck 🔥

Here it is, my utterly self-indulgent space boyfriend fic!

If, after 10 years, there are any Chris Beck lovers still out there, this is for you 😘

Chris Beck x F!Reader

Summary: Stress in space affects everyone differently. You're encountering a problem you don't reeeeally want to have to discuss with the ship's medic, but it's getting unbearable.

My (first 🤭) contribution to @ramp-it-up's #PraiseMe5k celebrations with the prompt "I've got you. Always."

Ratings/Warnings: Mature. Space smut - oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, I know nothing about space.

Word count: 7k - I got completely carried away. Not sorry.

Of all the weird space things your brain had considered in the last few years, your current circumstances were not it. Stress, fatigue, loneliness... sure, par for the course.

You'd had less time to prepare. When Beth Johansson had visited family one last time ahead of the mission and came into contact with measles, you'd sent flowers and a box of sweet treats as an apology. You'd met during simulations and training in your part on the B Team, but you weren't close. You were dropped into the crew, a stranger.

The rest of them had history - inside jokes and habits built over two years of training. You had manuals and protocols. You had a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes and a gut-deep fear of being the weak link.

They knew you vaguely enough, from training and simulations, and your file information, but until you sat next to Vogel in the Ares cockpit, they didn't know you.

It had taken a frank conversation with Commander Lewis early on in the mission for you to accept the truth of your position: "You're not just some last-minute replacement. You're one of my crew. Start acting like it."

So, since then you'd been feeling good. Competent. Settled. Comfortable in your role, you even started to feel like part of the crew. Through the outbound journey, your time on Mars, your frantic leaving and the return journey.

Even the Rich Purnell maneuver didn't phase you. When you'd studied it, explained it, gone over and over it with the Commander and then with the rest of the crew, you'd flourished.

That lasted until about two and a half months ago - when your body decided to betray you halfway back to Mars.

It had never been an issue before. Not on Earth, not in isolation training, not even during the long, silent stretches of the journey so far. It was... a little beyond comprehension.

At first, you figured it was just stress - everyone has off days. But then days turned into weeks. Every attempt left you more wound up than when you started.

Sleep got harder. Concentration slipped. And worst of all, it wasn't something you could exactly bring up over breakfast.

You needed to get over it, and quickly. After a quick game of cards with Martinez, and a run on the treadmill, you took yourself back to your bunk, a woman on a mission.

You'd done everything right, set the mood (as much as you could in a single bunk on a spaceship), secured your privacy, and god knows you were tense enough.

You closed your eyes, breathed deeply. In, out, in, out. And then you let your hand wander. Brushing over your breast, raising goosebumps along the way, and down. Down into your sweatpants, pinned in place by the elastic. You opened your legs a fraction more, finding the sweet spot between space to move and friction.

You circled your clit slowly, breath hitching, chasing that flicker of heat. It built... kind of. Almost. Enough to keep going, not enough to tip over.

You pressed harder, changed pace.

But, as with every single other time for the last two and a half months, in trying to force it, your body just... wouldn't give.

The pressure fizzled out. Your hand stilled.

You lay there, skin flushed, jaw clenched, heart pounding with nothing to show for it.

Again.

Your body refused to cooperate, like someone had snapped the wires that connected your body to any kind of release.

This was getting stupid. Astronauts had faced worse challenges than not being able to orgasm.

Poor Mark was proof of that.

But god if it wasn't one of the most frustrating parts of space.

~~~~

By the time 'morning' hit your bunk in the form of a false dawn lighting system, you were in a foul mood. You floated through the ship, forcibly pushing your feet off the walls like an Olympic swimmer.

Lewis was nursing her rationed coffee, half a cup now, half a cup later. You had no such patience and not only took your daily ration, but the following days as well. Future you was going to fucking hate past you.

"You look like hell."

"Thanks, Commander," you sighed.

"You ok?"

"All good, just tired."

She narrowed her eyes at you, normally you loved her to-the-point attitude but today, you were not feeling it.

"I'm not buying it," she said shortly. "You're two snarky comments away from me scheduling a mandatory psych eval."

You smiled, just a little, although you weren't sure how much of her comment was true. "I'm just... dealing with stuff. It'll pass."

"Then talk to Beck?"

"No." You'd already made your mistake in refusing before she'd even finished the sentence.

Lewis set her coffee down slowly and looked you dead in the eye.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"You think you're the only one cracking a little out here? This mission isn't just about physical health. We all need to keep it together. Beck's trained for this kind of thing. Whatever you're bottling up, he can help."

"Commander, it's fine. I'm fine."

"You're not doing this alone, and I'm not letting it get worse. So... figure it out before I do it for you."

You sighed. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea... No! She was a married woman. She'd almost certainly say no.

Wouldn't she?

"Ok," you agreed quietly. "Ok, I'll figure it out."

You were going to talk to Beck. You'd go in, explain - calmly, clinically - and he'd be a professional about it, of course he would. He was a doctor. It would be fine.

He'd tell you what was happening, give you some tips, maybe even a workaround. You'd figure it out, get yourself off, and the whole crisis would be over.

Easy.

Simple.

A totally normal thing to ask your crewmate in the middle of a space mission.

You knew you should be able to talk to Beck but the very thought filled you with dread. You were already cursing yourself for developing a crush on the only other single person on the crew.

To have to have this conversation with him?

Your worst nightmare come true.

You might as well have been rocking up to elementary school totally naked, about to take a test you hadn't prepared for while your teeth fall out and the entire school laughs.

~~~~

You went to the med bay while desperation and two rations of coffee still coursed in your veins. It still took you forever to get there. You glided through the zero gravity spaces noiselessly.

"Beck, I need to talk to you. And I swear, if you laugh or log this, I will open an airlock."

He looked up immediately, concern flashing across his face.

"Hey. Ok. Yeah. Come in - what's going on?"

"Off the record?"

He closed his laptop slowly and raised both hands calmly.

"Completely. No notes, no judgment. You've got me."

You swallowed.

"I... have been stressed..."

Beck nodded, encouraging but quiet. He didn't fill the silence. He just waited.

Of course he did. He was good like that. Steady. Patient. A smile that make your knees buckle even in anti gravity.

God, that made it worse.

"And I haven't been sleeping well."

Still true. Still vague. Safe. At no point were you going to say the word orgasm.

He nodded again, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, a lot of us are feeling it. Is it - like racing thoughts? Nightmares?"

"No. Well, yes, sort of. Just general... tension."

"Alright," he said gently, "do you want to talk through it? Or I can help with relaxation protocols - breathing exercises... Martinez came in the other day just for a hug."

"Huh, cute," you grimaced rather than smiled.

You were going to have to say it.

You were going to have to say the words: "I can't orgasm and it's driving me crazy."

You could do it.

You opened your mouth.

And instead you said:

"Maybe magnesium?"

Beck faltered. "Sure. Yeah, we can try that."

You nodded too fast.

"Great. Thanks. That's all. Sorry. Sorry I - yeah. Bye."

And then you were gone, heart pounding like you'd actually opened an airlock.

By the time you'd thrown yourself into work and had lunch with Vogel, a blister pack of magnesium tablets were waiting on your bunk. You figured it couldn't hurt to try, so you took one and prayed for a miracle.

It turned out, all of the current supplies of miracles were being used by Mark Watney patiently waiting on Mars for you to go back for him.

You lay there again, back arched, thighs tensed, fingers working in circles that used to get the job done.

Nothing.

Not even close.

You'd tried everything - slow, fast, edging, starting cold, starting hot. You'd closed your eyes and pictured someone else's hands, someone else's mouth. His hands. His mouth.

Still, your body refused.

Probably a good thing if you ever wanted to be able to look him in the eye again.

It was like trying to start a fire in a vacuum.

The worst part was how much it hurt. Not a physical pain, but somewhere in your gut. Deep and stupid and raw.

You wanted release. You wanted your own damn body back.

You turned over and bit your pillow, trying not to cry.

~~~~

You gave the magnesium a good try. It seemed like the sensible thing to do, but a week later, you were back.

No caffeine this time. Just stubbornness. And maybe a little shame.

Beck looked up, surprised but not unfriendly. "Hey. Did the magnesium work its magic, or you here for the hug too?"

You hovered in the doorway, guiding your feet to the floor and already regretting joining NASA in the first place.

"Um. No miracle. Still tense. Still... not sleeping."

Still sexually frustrated to the brink of madness.

He smiled gently, motioning for you to sit.

"Well, there are other options. Could be hormonal, neurological - space affects a lot. We can work through it. No pressure."

God, why did he have to be so nice?

You sat, fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve.

"So... hypothetically... if someone was experiencing... like... a persistent kind of tension. Physical. But not pain, exactly. More like... stuck energy."

Beck frowned. Then nodded, slowly.

"Ok... like muscle tightness? Or -?"

"No! I mean - not just that. More like..."

Abort. ABORT.

"Actually you know what? Forget I said anything. I think I'm just dehydrated."

You stood up.

"Dehydra -"

"Thanks. You're great. This was great. I'm gonna go... drink some water."

And before he could say a word, you were already halfway down the corridor, face hot, body still buzzing with the wrong kind of tension.

~~~~

You tried in the shower. It was a poor substitute for a roaring, piping hot shower, but it was something at least.

You braced your forearm on the wall and rested your head on it, the water running (dripping, really) down your back. Your right hand moved down, fingers curling inside.

Not deep enough.

Nowhere near deep enough.

You tried again - adjusted the angle, flexed your hand, breathed - come on.

But your body was a locked door, and the key just wouldn't turn.

You gasped out a frustrated breath, forehead slipping onto the cold wall.

The water kept tapping against your skin, slow and steady and utterly useless.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you let yourself whisper it:

I need help.

The thing that terrified you most was that the help you needed was not in the abstract. Not in the "relaxation technique" kind of way.

It was in the hands-on kind of way.

Someone else's hands.

You couldn't think about that.

There had to be another way and Chris Beck was going to help you find it.

You shut off the water.

Toweled off, got dressed, and before you could talk yourself out of it again, you went to find him.

He was in the common area, being beaten at chess by Vogel.

You hovered awkwardly, trying to gauge how much attention you'd draw if you asked to speak to him.

Instead, you slumped down beside Martinez, who was shuffling cards.

"Poker?" he offered, raising a brow.

"Nah."

"Snap?"

You were about to.

"Yeah. Sure." You sighed.

Martinez dealt you both in, and you tried to focus on the game. You really did. But Beck was still in your periphery - calm, focused, chewing his lip as Vogel moved his knight.

Eventually, Vogel said something low in German that you didn't catch, but Beck laughed, shook his head, and stood.

"I'm gonna shut down the med bay," he said. "You need anything before lights out?"

The question was addressed to no one in particular, but your pulse jumped anyway.

You glanced at Martinez, who was too busy flipping his cards to notice you hesitating.

This was it.

You could get up.

You could follow him.

You let Martinez win, ruffling his hair as you left him to make your agonising trek to the med bay.

You hovered outside for way too long, watching the light through the hatch. He was moving around inside - locking drawers, powering down screens, tidying with that same quiet precision he always had.

You told yourself to leave.

You also told yourself to wait.

You didn't do either.

The door slid open with a soft hiss just as he turned toward it.

"Hey -" he started.

"I can't come, ok?!"

It was out before you could stop it. Loud. Sharp. Way too loud for a spaceship full of thin walls.

Beck froze. You froze.

To his credit, he didn't flinch.

Didn't laugh. Didn't even look surprised.

"That's actually... more common than you'd think under stress."

His tone was gentle. Medical. Matter-of-fact.

You were already flushing, words tumbling in a desperate, horrified whisper now:

"I've tried everything, Beck. I've tried so many times I've lost count. My body just - won't. I can't sleep, I'm wound so tight I feel like I'm going to explode. I need to fix it."

His expression softened just slightly - not pity. Not amusement. Just understanding.

"You want to sit down?"

You didn't.

You wanted to run.

You wanted him to help.

You had no idea what to say next.

You hovered like an idiot in the middle of the med bay, arms folded tight over your chest.

Beck leaned against the counter, watching you carefully. He didn't push. Just waited.

"I know this isn't exactly... urgent medical protocol," you said finally, staring somewhere near his collarbone. "But I've tried the stupid magnesium. I've tried yoga. I've read every article in the psych archive and I'm still..." aching. No, you couldn't say that. You exhaled sharply. "Still nothing."

God, this was the most mortifying conversation you'd ever had.

He nodded slowly. "You're dealing with a perfect storm. Stress, confinement, no privacy, no real bodily autonomy. It's not unusual. And it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"But it sucks," you snapped. "And I've had enough. I want one thing that's just mine, and my body won't even let me have it."

Silence fell again.

"There's gotta be something I can do, something I haven't thought of," you whispered pleadingly.

You stood there, breathing shallowly, the air in the med bay suddenly too warm. Beck hadn't moved closer. He hadn't looked away, either.

"I don't even know what I'm asking," you said finally, throwing your hands up. "I didn't come here with a plan."

"You don't have to have one," he said.

You looked at him, eyes searching. "If I asked for help... what... what would you suggest?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stepped gently into your space, careful not to touch you.

"If you ask," he said quietly, "I'll say yes."

Your eyes shot to his. He looked calm, maybe too calm, but there was something unreadable beneath it.

"What? You mean like...?" you started.

"I mean," he said, still gentle, still maddeningly professional, "if you needed... assistance, I wouldn't think less of you."

A moment passed.

Then, quietly he asked, "would it help if someone else touched you?"

You didn't answer out loud.

But the look you gave him was answer enough.

You looked away, ashamed. Heat crawling up your neck.

"I - no," you said quickly. "I mean... yes, probably. But - no. You're the medic. You'd get in trouble. I don't want this to be some... some ethical violation on a NASA report. Absolutely not."

He smiled softly. "Pretty sure that report would be redacted."

You huffed a laugh, but your arms were still crossed, hugging tight around yourself. "I'm serious, Beck."

"So am I." He took a cautious step forward. "I would never touch you without consent. And I would never treat you like a problem to solve. But you came to me. You asked for help."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd suggest... that."

You met his eyes again, and this time the air between you felt like something fragile - something you could break with a word.

He added, "I'm not offering out of duty. I'm offering because I care."

Your throat tightened.

Your hands opened, half surrendering. You weren't even sure you couldsay no.

Your voice came out small, barely a whisper.

"What if I say yes?"

He didn't move.

Didn't assume.

"Then... I'd take care of you." He said quietly, steadily.

"I should be able to fix this myself," you muttered.

"I know," he said quietly.

"It's probably just like... a brain block. Once I get over it..."

"Yeah."

You sighed. "They should allow vibrators in space."

He huffed a short laugh through his nose. "They really shouldn't. NASA would never survive the press leak."

"I want to say yes. I just... I don't know how to without sounding like a fucking deviant." You put your head in your hands and sighed.

Beck watched you, read you the way only someone trained - and maybe someone who cared - could.

"I think..." he started gently, "you should sleep on it."

You flinched.

Just a little, but it was enough.

He caught the flicker of devastation in your eyes before you could look away.

"Hey," he said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. "How long has it been since ..."

You didn't answer, your jaw clenched. You shook your head.

"That long?"

"I can't," you said, desperately. "I close my eyes and everything's tense. I can't unwind. I can't relax. My body's on this awful loop, and I can't break it."

He didn't say you should've come to me sooner. He didn't say you're overreacting.

He just nodded, steady and calm.

"Ok," he said. "Ok. We'll figure it out."

Not you'll figure it out. We.

You nodded, slowly at first, like your body didn't quite trust your mind to mean it.

Your voice was barely audible. "Not later. Not tomorrow. I can't keep doing this."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened like he'd been waiting to see if this was what you needed.

"I've got you," he said quietly.

You inhaled, shaky but steadying. "I don't know how this works. I've never..." You trailed off, cheeks hot again. "It's not exactly a standard medical consult."

"No," he said. "It's not."

He took a cautious step forward, close enough for warmth, far enough for safety.

"But you don't need to know how it works. We start slow. We figure it out together. And if you say stop, I stop."

Your mouth opened to respond, but the knot in your throat stole the words. You just nodded.

He took a step back and you felt his absence immediately. He pulled the curtain across, shielding his examination area from the rest of the room.

When he returned, you drew in a shaking breath.

"This is so weird," you whispered.

"It doesn't have to be -"

"If you feel like this is some sort of obligation -"

"I don't. I want to help. You can still say no," he said softly. "Whenever you need to. If it's still not... happening -"

"I know," you said, eyes locked on his chest. "I just... I've forgotten what it's like not to feel like this. Like I'm constantly on edge."

His hand lifted, hovered in the air between you. "Can I?"

You nodded.

Fingertips brushed your arm, just a light touch, but it sent a tremor up your spine. Not from lust - not yet - but from relief. From not being alone in this.

"It's not weird," he promised. "It's human to want to be held. To want to be touched."

He stepped closer again, guiding you back a little to lean against his workstation. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You could feel it already, the heat in your core tightening and building. His warm breath made you whimper. Goosebumps prickled all over. With his left hand on the workstation behind you, his right traced the waistband of your sweatpants.

You held your breath.

His fingers didn't rush. They just traced, slow and careful, reading every twitch of your breath, every shift in your body.

"Still ok?" he murmured.

You nodded, almost frantically, your body hummed with anticipation.

Then, finally, he slipped his hand beneath the fabric, and you let out a sound you hadn't meant to make. Not loud, but raw, aching.

"That's it," he whispered, more breath than voice. "Let me help."

He reached for you and your legs parted with far less hesitation than you'd expected. When his fingers brushed your core, you thought the dam was already going to burst. You weren't sure what to do with your hands, unsure whether to reach for him. Whether it was ok for you to touch him. You settled with gripping the edge of his t-shirt and bunching it in your hands, the soft cotton warm in your grip.

You were soaked, more than ready when he carefully slipped two fingers into you.

"Ohh, god -" you breathed, letting your forehead drop onto his shoulder.

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice strained and rough.

You nodded against him, your body eagerly bearing down on his hand. He drew his fingers back and pushed back in slowly, taking his time.

He moved with maddening patience, curling his fingers just enough to make you gasp.

Your grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him closer. He didn't stop you.

"Been like this for months?" he asked softly, his lips brushing your temple.

You could only nod, too far gone for words.

"Easy," he said, a little firmer. "You're doing so good."

Your hips rolled into his hand and you let out a soft, broken sob.

"Just like that," he said, the edge of restraint creeping into his voice.

You couldn't help the whimper that escaped you.

"Don't fight it. I've got you. Always." His thumb brushed against your clit, untouched til now, and your knees buckled.

Your hips jerked as his thumb circled again, more deliberate this time.

His breath hitched, just a little.

"Jesus," he whispered. "You're - God, you're perfect like this."

That was enough. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time, but it hit you like a freight train. Months of build up and failed attempts took your breath away and you cried out, muffling the sound in his shoulder. His name on your lips.

He held you through it, his hand slowing but not stopping until you'd stopped pulsing around his fingers.

You both stood totally still for a minute, his breathing just as ragged as yours.

"You ok?" He asked quietly.

You nodded and shifted slightly, his fingers - still inside you - found a new angle which made you sigh, and at the same time his breath hitched as you brushed against him.

He was hard.

Solid against your thigh.

You'd been so consumed that you hadn't realised.

He'd started moving again, "again?"

His voice was a low murmur, more breath than sound, but it curled warm through your chest.

You hesitated for just a second, "please -" you breathed.

He didn't ask for more. Just kissed your temple, and eased his fingers in and out slowly - so gently it made you shiver. You didn't realise how badly you wanted to be kissed until his lips brushed yours, tentative and soft. Testing.

You kissed him back. Immediately.

This time wasn't like the first. The first had been rushed and desperate and clinical. This felt like something new. Something that belonged to both of you.

He was surer this time. The awkwardness was still there - you still couldn't believe that you'd both almost suggested this solution together - but now he knew you weren't completely freaking out, he was leaning into it.

He leaned into you too, trapping you between his body and the workstation, his deft fingers reaching and curling mercilessly inside you.

Your hips bucked and rolled, you gasped, already sensitive, already teetering again. Your hands found his waist, anchoring there as his mouth found yours, deeper this time. Not hesitant now - hungry. Like something had been unlocked in both of you.

Your moan was swallowed into his mouth, your hips rolling into every movement of his hand. His other arm braced beside your head, steadying you both.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your lips, his voice low, rougher now. "You're so damn responsive."

You whined at that - words sinking deep, pulling your body tighter, hotter. He felt it too, the way you clenched around his fingers.

"Chris -" you gasped - warned - you weren't sure which.

"There it is," he whispered. "That's it. Don't hold back this time."

You didn't.

The second release crashed over you sharper, harder than the first. You buried your face in his neck, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, breath caught in your throat.

He didn't stop touching you until the aftershocks faded. Didn't pull away, either.

When you finally lifted your head, flushed and dazed, he was watching you like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened either.

Your eyes dropped between you, and only then did you register how hard he still was, pressed against your hip.

You hesitated, biting your lip.

"Should I -?"

He shook his head, brushing your hair back from your face.

"No. No, I can... I'm not having the same trouble as you."

That made you blush all the way to your toes.

The thought of him - of the hands that had just been inside you - pumping himself to release, quiet and alone, made something new twist inside your chest. With the clarity that came from your second orgasm, something else had taken root. Not just tension. Not just need.

Desire. Real and focused.

And now, for the first time, you weren't entirely sure who this had been for.

He didn't move right away. Neither did you.

The air between you was thick with something unspoken - something heavier than just release.

He stepped back first. Slowly. He let you go, giving you space to move away from the workstation.

You didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I should..." you started, voice hoarse. You cleared your throat, tried again. "I should go."

He gave a small nod, lips pressed together. "Yeah. Ok."

You turned to leave, then paused near the curtain. You looked over your shoulder - not at his face, but at the floor somewhere near him.

"This doesn't... mean I expect anything. I'm sure that's... I'm fine now. Should be good to just, y'know, go... solo."

"I know," he said gently. "Me neither. You - well, enjoy."

But there was something in his voice. Not regret. Not indifference. Something quieter. Something careful.

"I just..." You hesitated. "Thank you."

That made him smile, soft and tired. "Anytime."

You weren't sure if he meant that like a joke, or if it was literal. You weren't sure what you wanted it to mean.

You slipped through the curtain and out into the ship, pulling the door closed behind you before anyone could see.

You went back to your bunk, mind racing. The first time could almost be considered medicinal, you thought. Victorian doctors used to do that, right? Treat 'hysteria' with a well-placed orgasm. Hand cramps and everything. At least Beck had the decency not to charge for it.

The second time? You weren't sure you were ready to dwell on that.

You had felt borderline hysterical, and now? You couldn't remember feeling so peaceful.

~~~~

The next morning, you woke up before the lights even shifted.

Not because of stress. Not because of the usual gnawing, skin-tight anxiety that had wrapped itself around your nerves like a second skin since Sol something or other.

You were just... awake.

You'd slept. Actually slept. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that left you feeling like you'd borrowed someone else's body - someone rested. Someone sane.

For the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like screaming into the vacuum.

And then you remembered why.

The flush rose in your cheeks. The memory came back in fragments - your desperate voice in the med bay, Beck's hands, the look in his eyes. His mouth on yours.

You buried your face in your pillow and groaned.

How on earth - or not - were you supposed to act normally.

You ate your breakfast like a person who hadn't come apart for the ship's medic just twelve hours ago. You smiled at Martinez's terrible jokes. You nodded along to Lewis's briefing. You even managed to remember some of the German you'd been learning with Vogel.

Beck, for his part, played it cool.

He sat further along the table, jeered with Lewis about some suggestions NASA had sent up.

Did he regret it? Did he want to pretend it didn't happen? Had you hallucinated the whole thing?

By the time lunch rolled around, and you'd caught up on your work, you found yourself drifting towards the med bay.

He looked up from his tablet as you stepped inside.

"Hey," you said, trying to sound casual, hoping it worked.

"Hey," he replied, equally neutral. Then, after a pause, he asked, "you sleep ok?"

You hesitated.

"Like the dead."

There was a flicker of a smile on his lips. Just a flicker. But it was enough to settle the knot in your stomach.

You weren't crazy. It happened. He remembered.

Things went back to normal.

You were more focused. Less on edge and irritable. It felt like a reset.

A few days later, you settled in your bunk, your hand reaching into your shorts.

You followed the path his hand had taken, like some kind of lucky charm. You even closed your eyes and let yourself think of him - his voice, steady and warm in your ear. The way he'd kissed your temple. God, the praise. The way he'd looked at you like you weren't unraveling, like he wanted to see you come apart.

Your fingers moved slower, more deliberately. You tried to recreate the rhythm. The angle. The pressure.

It wasn't the same.

You shifted, trying again. Focused harder. Thought about his breath catching when your thigh had pressed against him. About the heat in his eyes when you'd whispered please.

Still nothing.

You let your hand still. Breathed out hard.

"Seriously?" you muttered to the ceiling.

You waited a second. Then rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket over your head like it could smother your frustration.

You couldn't go back again.

You just couldn't face it.

It was not realistic for you to spend the next two years unable to make yourself come.

He couldn't be the only way out of this situation.

You started avoiding him completely.

Not in a dramatic way, and definitely not in a way the Commander would notice. You were subtle - taking a longer route to the lab, skipping the usual post-briefing coffee refill you knew he'd be at, ducking into your bunk just before lights-out instead of lingering in the common area.

But Beck was observant.

It only took three days for him to seek you out.

You were tucked into one of the far-side workstations, supposedly reviewing data logs. You weren't. The same paragraph had been blinking at you for half an hour.

He appeared without a sound, leaning lightly against the bulkhead.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.

You jumped.

"What?" you blurted, too fast, too loud.

His gaze stayed level. Steady. "You've been avoiding me."

You gave a weak laugh. "No, I've been... busy."

He didn't push, but he didn't back off either. Just crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Then, like he knew it was coming, the frustration hit.

"Fine," you whispered, voice sharp with embarrassment. "I thought maybe it was just the reset I needed, you know? That I could pick up from there, that my body just needed a jumpstart or something, but -" you cut yourself off, exhaling harshly. "Turns out, I'm still broken."

Beck stepped in closer, slow and careful like you were something fragile. "You're not broken."

You didn't look at him.

"Pretty sure I am."

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk," he said, voice low. "But... I'm here."

You looked up at him. That steady calm. The offer, just hanging there.

And you didn't need to say anything. He already knew.

You stared at the console, jaw tight.

Then, finally, you said, without looking at him, "I know."

Another silence. Not uncomfortable, just... charged.

"I'll be in the med bay later."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

~~~~

The lights in the corridor felt dimmer than usual as you ghosted through corridors. You told yourself it was fine. That it was just like before. But you weren't sure that was true.

The door slid open with a hiss.

Beck was there - alone, waiting, his expression unreadable but calm. He didn't say anything at first. Just met your eyes like he'd been listening out for you the whole time.

You stepped inside, your heart thundering.

Neither of you said a word.

You both moved forward at the same time, his hand brushed yours, fingers curling just slightly, and you didn't pull away.

Without a word, he pulled you behind the curtain.

Your heart was hammering now - not with panic, but anticipation.

He turned to you, eyes searching.

And you made the choice.

You reached up and kissed him.

Soft, sure.

This time, there was no hesitation. No fumbling. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours, the tension melting between you like it had been waiting for this.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest to wind around his neck. He seemed momentarily at a loss with what to do with his own, but when your t-shirt rode up to expose your skin, they found their purpose again. His palms were warm on your ribs, resting in the curve of your waist.

You let your tongue trace the line of his lower lip, and he stilled. Just for a moment.

Then he made a soft sound - surprise, maybe - and kissed you back like he meant it this time. Like he wanted it too.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and when your hips pressed to his, there was no mistaking how much he wanted you.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him close. But you needed something more than touch.

"Did you... after I left?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Did you -"

He stilled. Just for a moment. Then nodded once.

You could feel the heat fill your body, crawling up your chest, and down to settle in your core.

He nudged you backwards to the consultation bed.

"Should we be doing this in here?" You asked against his mouth.

"Depends what this is. It's a little different to last time?" He asked.

You nodded, barely. "Yeah."

He searched your face. "Is that ok?"

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. "Yeah. I want -" You faltered, then said, "You."

That was all it took.

He gave you a look that suggested he'd be picking that conversation thread back up later, but then quickly lifted you to sit on the bed.

His hands gripped your hips, steady and sure, as he settled between your knees.

"And this?" he asked, voice low.

You nodded, pulling him in by the front of his shirt.

And then he kissed you again - deeper this time, less cautious.

It was hundreds of Sols without being touched, or held or kissed. It wasn't just wanting, but the relief of finally having permission.

His fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, as if he needed proof you were really here. You couldn't stop touching him - his jaw, his chest, the back of his neck - like you'd forgotten what it felt like to touch someone else.

You kissed like you'd both been starving for it. Your hands clung to each other, not frantic, just certain.

No more pretending this was just relief - for either of you.

His fingers flexed at your waist, and he exhaled like he was steadying himself.

And then -

He dropped to his knees.

Not rushed. Not demanding. Just... deliberate.

You stared down at him, stunned.

This wasn't clinical. This wasn't controlled. It wasn't even casual.

It was him, on his knees, like he'd made up his mind days ago.

Your breath hitched.

"I -, wait, what -" you tried, but the words failed.

He looked up at you, steady, sure. "Can I?"

No pressure. No assumption. Just... offering.

Your whole body answered before your mouth could. You nodded.

He leaned in, slowly and deliberately without taking his eyes off you. He slipped your sweatpants down, and when his mouth found you, your head tipped back with a sound you couldn't contain.

"Shit, oh god -" you gasped.

It had been so long you'd lost all concept of time, but you'd been on the Rich Purnell maneuver for ages already. Over halfway back to Mark, waiting for you all. You'd been away from Earth for nearly two years.

It was embarrassing how one slow swipe of his tongue had you whimpering, how his breath on your inner thigh made you tremble.

His hands anchored you in place more than any artificial gravity could, strong and steady - tightening slightly as he adjusted his grip. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips pressing into your skin, a reminder of who he was outside this moment. Capable. Calm. Always in control.

Now, he was using that control on you.

He didn't rush. Every movement of his mouth was deliberate, exploratory. Like he was mapping you - learning you by feel and sound and taste. The softness of his tongue, the way he flattened it and dragged it slowly. The stubble on his jaw grazing your thigh just enough to make your hips twitch.

You couldn't keep still. One of your hands found his shoulder, clinging to him, the other twisted in the fabric of your shirt where it bunched near your stomach.

"Chris -" you breathed, voice cracking.

He glanced up just briefly, eyes dark and focused. His lips were already slick, his mouth working you open with slow, devastating patience. And when he finally closed them around you - just enough suction to make your vision blur - you cried out, head tipping back, spine bowing.

You felt like you were burning alive from the inside out.

He was merciless. Unbothered that you were both wildly out of practice, unused to even the slightest platonic touches, let alone this.

You pushed his shoulder, needing him to stop but unable to speak.

He paused immediately, lifting his head.

"Too much?" he asked, voice low, rough.

You shook your head, breathless. "No - yeah... just... give me a second."

Your chest was heaving, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his shoulders. Every nerve in your body was singing, stretched tight from neglect and now lit up like a mission critical console warning.

He didn't move far, just rested his cheek against your thigh. Grounding. Solid. Present.

"You're not broken," he murmured again like he was determined to prove it to you.

"Well, no, apparently not. Not when you - oh, fucking fuck - when you do that -" your rebuttal was lost to his insistent mouth.

He huffed a laugh against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.

Your hand fisted in his hair, not to push him away this time, but to keep him there, anchored.

He didn't let up.

Didn't ease off.

Like he wanted to rewrite every memory your body had of being let down, left wanting.

Like he needed to prove it wasn't just release - it was care, it was connection, it was him.

You came apart with a sob. Literal tears of relief, legs shaking, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you on the ship.

He didn't stop until you gasped his name - half plea, half prayer.

When he finally pulled back, his face was flushed, eyes blown wide. He looked proud.

You couldn't move. Couldn't think. Only stared down at him, chest heaving, heat still blooming through every nerve.

"You're crying," he murmured, getting to his feet. You sat up slowly, legs trembling as he reached for you, wrapping his arms around you.

"I'm OK," you insisted, "I'm fine, totally fine."

"Totally lying," he said quietly.

"It was just..."

"A lot."

You nodded against him.

His hand slid slowly up your back, fingers light, comforting.

"It was good," you whispered. "God, it was -" You couldn't finish. Just breathed in his scent, let yourself feel how solid he was against you.

He didn't rush you. Didn't ask for anything. Just held you.

You pulled back eventually, enough to see his face. His eyes searched yours.

"I want to," you said quietly.

He shook his head. "No. No we're not keeping score, this is for you. I'm not going anywhere."

You let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. "I know."

The silence stretched, comfortable and strange.

You got dressed and sat side by side on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching.

You broke it first. "So... that happened."

He let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. Definitely did."

Silence, again, but it wasn't awkward. Just thoughtful.

Then he said, almost too casually, "I've thought about you, you know. Since before. Since Sol... I don't even know. Lost count."

You turned your head toward him. "Me too."

He looked at you properly then, eyes softer than you'd ever seen. "Didn't really work though. Not the same."

"No," you whispered. "Guess I needed you."

He nudged your knee. "Yeah, well. For the record? I really, really didn't mind."

You smiled, a real one this time, and let your head rest lightly on his shoulder. The moment held.

There was no going back. But maybe neither of you wanted to.

You stayed like that a while - shoulder to shoulder, words thinning out, breaths falling into sync.

No promises. No grand declarations. Just something quieter. Steadier.

Eventually, you said, "Maybe that's why I couldn't do it alone."

He turned, brows raised. "Hmm?"

"I thought I was broken. But maybe I just... needed you."

Something in his face shifted. A softness. A stillness.

"I was always here," he said.

"I know," you said. "I think that was the problem. I was working so hard to not think about you."

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and real. He didn't push, didn't ask for more. Just sat with you in it.

Outside the curtain, the ship hummed its steady song. But something between you had settled --- not fixed, exactly. Just seen.

And maybe that was enough.

FIN

#chris beck #dr chris beck #the martian #the martian fanfic #the martian fanfiction #sebastian stan #sebastian stan character #sebastian stan characters #chris beck fanfiction #chris beck fanfic #praiseme5k #ramp it up #tumblr challenge #writing challenge #milestone celebration #follower celebration

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ghostedgwen · 13 hours ago

Text

like sinking ships | r.lupin [part two]

note : I am trying out a new writing style through this series and hoping to improve more, if you couldn't tell. So this is a bit of an experimental fic as well as a test of whether I am still able to write out coherent series and not just non-committal one-shots

warnings/tags : hints of angst from remus' self-deprecation, mildly depressing themes, self hate(?), mentions of suggestive content, reader hates being a mermaid, mentions of injuries and disabilities, WEREWOLVES IN THIS FIC LOOK LIKE WOLVES, I repeat, THEY LOOK LIKE WOLVES because hp-canon werewolves are ugly as fuck I refuse to believe Remus looks like that

Remus Lupin was always quietly observing people through the covers of his books. So when he noticed your monthly disappearances matched his, he only had one conclusion— that was you were a werewolf like him.

A story in which the marauders beg you to help them tame the wolf with your charming powers; two children of the moon that couldn’t be more different from each other in a tangled mess of transformations, betrayal and heartbreak.

. . . with your hair falling into place like dominoes.

Remus completely forgot about catching you sneaking into the Great Lake right before curfew, he got too wrapped up in the transformation that it was off his mind until the next full moon. The next full moon, when he caught you sneaking out again.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to go with you, Moons?” James asked, always the one to first notice whenever there’s even a slight shift of anyone’s mood. Remus could swear that James has a radar for people’s emotions.

Remus shook his head to say no. “I’ll be fine, been at this for a decade,” he had meant it as a joke, but the grimace on James’s face was the opposite reaction he anticipated. “Promise.”

James looked reluctant still, “It’s getting worse.”

That wasn’t a question. It made Remus pause, instinctively gripping the edge of his sheet, he was fixing his bed when James decided to open the can of flobberworms.

“What do you mean?” Remus almost cringed. He could have been more convincing.

James as if to show that it was the worse acting bit ever, made a face at him. “I’m not blind, you know,” he then cleared his throat, shifting the weight to his other foot as he hesitated saying the next words : “You know, we can still do the Animagus plan and be with you on the - “

“No,” Remus shook his head again, a firmness to his voice. “No, you’re not. We’re not sure if it will work, and it’s too risky.”

It was then that Peter entered the dorm room, his tie askew and a smile wide on his face. He looked between Remus and James, pausing in his track. He sent a silent question towards James who ignored him to talk to Remus again.

“Since when was risk a problem for the Marauders?”

Remus could groan at his stubbornness. “This is different, and you know that,” Remus has finished fixing his bed by then, he adjusts his robe around him. “I’m off, before I turn into a monster and maul you lot to death.”

The graphic imagery made the two boys cringe, like Remus intended. He left it at that, going around Peter to exit the dorm, map in hand.

He was just about to finish his patrol when he saw your name making its way out of the castle again. He found it curious, how you also happened to be sneaking out during a full moon for the second time - but it could have just been a coincidence.

He watched your name and then put the map away, tucking it into his robe and turning to go meet Madam Pomfrey near their designated meetup tree. Too much on his plate to dwell into your late night escapes into the lake.

His friends are noticing how much worse his injuries are, he can’t hide from them. They figured out his secret in second year and they’re hellbent on helping him, when there is no helping his affliction.

This isn’t a simple disease they can cure. Not even a potion to help the transformation has been invented, because who in their right mind would bother making one?

Bother extending help to creatures regarded as lesser than wizards?

No one.

He’s not holding out hope for a cure, or even something to lessen the pain. Or even something to make sure he’s lucid enough during transformation.

It’s only a matter of time until the wolf eats him and devours him whole. There would no longer be Remus and it will just be the creature slaving to the moon. He tried shoving the fears down, but the howls were louder and his claws were more real than ever.

Every full moon has been worse than the last, he is bleeding more, and the transformation hurts and hurts. He can’t even remember where he began and where the wolf ended, it’s all just one big tangled mess now.

He wonders how long he’s going to be living this way. Surely there is more to life than just pain and fear and doubt and losing your mind? Surely.

Remus heaves a sigh as he walked past the whispering portraits. Just another full moon, nothing he hasn’t done before.

“You have got to let us help,” Sirius sounded desperate. He ran a panicked hand through his hair as he lets out a shaky breath. “You are fucking crippled now, Remus.”

Remus looks away. If he keeps seeing the look on their faces, he’d end up bawling his eyes out. It was really bad last night, he injured his back really bad and Madam Pomfrey was barely able to put him back together.

He can’t fully feel his right leg anymore, he was told he’d need a cane for the rest of his life. The wolf is truly beginning to eat away at him and he can’t even do anything to fight back, because that would just be a fight he can’t win.

Remus decided to look into the window right beside his bed and watched the way the light hit the glass. Something so simple, he chose to ground himself in the slight glint on the corner where a piece of the glass was somewhat cracked and he traced it with his eyes.

How peculiar that it hasn’t been fixed. With magic, it would be easy. But he guesses some things have much more character when broken - is that what he is then? Just a character rich in lore, and scars, like he’s not even real. If he looks at it that way, maybe his pain can be fiction too.

The three boys are feeling what can only be described as defeat. They’ve been doing their best to help in their own way, all these years. James does his best to keep people from looking in too closely, Peter always smuggling sweets into the hospital wing and Sirius never failing to make light of it all.

They were always making the best out of the full moons but it gets harder with every new scar, every new injury. But this was the final crack in their overflowing dam. The scratches were barely manageable, watching him be put back together after every full moon -

But now he won’t even be able to walk without a cane.

“This is not fair.” James spoke up. Remus still refused to look, he knows the expression on James would break his already tired heart. He can’t allow himself to burn that image into his head.

“Could be worse,” Remus forced out a bitter grin. “I could be dead.”

Peter is quiet like always. He never knew what to say during times like these, he did not trust his words to come through, so he always sat quietly and watched as the other two boys worked. He doubts he can even say something if he forced the words out of his mouth.

“Fucking hell,” Sirius said in exasperation. “Fucking shit - fuck, fuck this.”

Peter extended a hand to place on Sirius’s shaking frame. The touch was effective, Sirius stopped shaking, and he leaned some of his weight into Peter, the shorter boy only swallowed the forming lump in his throat.

“You can’t keep going like this,” James spoke again. It made Remus finally turn back to him, he didn’t want to be mean but he gets uncomfortable with his emotions that they kind of blow up in his face sometimes.

“And how have I been going?” Remus asked, voice edged and ready to cut like a knife.

James allowed a beat to pass before he answered, voice the softest it could possibly get, “Alone.”

Remus’s jaw went slack at that. Then he closed it, turning away again. He couldn’t meet his eyes, of even look at him for too long. It hurt to see how much he was hurting them. His friends loved him so much, he doubts he deserves it.

“This is how I’m supposed to be,” Remus tried to shrug, but his body was too beaten to obey, so he stayed lying down limply. “How it is supposed to be.”

“Please, just let us go through with it,” James asked, practically begging.

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll find another way,” Sirius answered instead. “We will. We’re Gryffindors for a reason.”

“It’s a really difficult spell, what if it goes wrong?” Remus challenged.

“What if it goes right?” Sirius barked back, raising a brow.

Remus knew there was no way he was winning this time. So with a resigned sigh, he looked at them and gave the faintest nod, it was the only thing that made them crack a smile at him again. And there he fully saw them.

The sullen look on each of their faces. He felt it stab him over and over, and somehow it hurt much more than the giant cut on his back did. Because what is a monster who is loved? Pitiful, that is.

You frowned, completely ignoring your toast as you watched Remus enter the Great Hall with a cane. That’s new, you told yourself. His friends appeared normal. They walked in with him, talking and laughing like Remus didn’t look like a man coming home from a war.

You trail your eyes all over him, he looks like absolute hell. His face had somehow sunken into his cheeks, his hand holding his cane was bandaged, and you can only watch in wonder as he settled on the Gryffindor table.

“Helga, still with us, ____?”

You turn your head to Willow, who was making a face at you. She rolled her eyes and gestured to the Gryffindor table’s general direction.

“Eyeing Lupin again?”

You make a face back at her. “I am not eyeing him, just curious.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve been curious since first year.”

You chose to change the topic, your eyes landing on your housemate who was showing off their quidditch gear so loudly. “Think we’re winning against the lions?”

She could tell you were dodging out of the jab and not taking her bait, she decided to humor you anyway. “Nope, those Gryffindorks are ruthless,” she shrugged and took a bite of her toast. “Potter, Black and McKinnon are a fucking force.”

You laugh at that and turned away, your eyes stealing more glances at Remus across the hall. He looks like he’s in pain with every bite and chew, he was barely hiding it, and his friends were barely successful at pretending not to notice.

Eating your toast again, you wonder how much damage he has to take before he realizes what his wolf was telling him. You could help, but it has never been your thing to meddle in other people’s business.

You were gonna wait, wait until you can’t ignore it any more.

People like that won’t just accept help, specially not from someone like you. So you shove your guilt down, swallowing it like your toast, pretending it wasn’t getting to you. Pretending you didn’t feel him every full moon.

The first time was weird, the second time was coincidence - the third, is a case. Remus frowned, tracing your name as it headed out of the castle again for the third time, right during a full moon as well.

He would have attempted to follow you, but he felt his skin crawling that he had to run straight into the Shack, not bothering to wait for the matron. He went straight there, and right on cue felt the pain rattle his body.

It was too early, the moon had just appeared, and he was transforming already - he was losing his grip on Remus, and it was more of the wolf every passing day now. Those fears faded into nothing as he is tucked away, the wolf was taking its turn - he has to sit it out now.

Only, when he came back - he was safe. He was surprised to feel that he felt less pain this time, he pushed himself up and almost screamed at the sight of a black dog, a stag and a rat? Looking right at him.

He blinked in bewilderment, until he realized it slowly. His eyes were on the black dog, it barked happily at him, letting its tongue hang out with a grin. “Sirius?” the dog barked again in glee.

Remus laughed. He couldn’t help it, his friends actually did it! They were fucking illegal Animagi, and they did it for him - he was fine because he had them, he had no new wounds, and it was all because he had company.

How simple the solution was.

He turned to the stag and spoke through his hysterical fit of laughter, “James, you have antlers!” he kept laughing as he dropped back down to the dusty floor of the shack, allowing the exhaust to overtake his body.

“And Peter is a fucking rat!”

It was too funny. He passed out laughing.

He didn’t tell his friends about you. Instead, he chose to gamble. Something he didn’t do. Other than the usual shenanigans with his friends, he never took risks. But he had to know, you snuck out every full moon like him.

The fourth full moon was tonight, and like expected - you were making your way out of the castle again. He moved fast, as fast as he could be anyway, with a cane in hand. Using the shortcuts and secret passages, he managed to cut you off.

Just as you rounded the corner, he appeared into view. You almost jumped, seeing him appear so suddenly in the dim castle hall.

“Merlin, Lupin, you scared me!”

You had a hand to your chest, and you were calming your heart when you realized just what is happening. You frowned at him, standing defensively, you grip your wand as the moon was right behind him like a dramatic backdrop.

“What is it?”

“It’s late, why are you out of bed?” He asked, raising a brow at you.

You huffed at that. “None of your business.”

“Actually, I’m a Prefect so it is my business,” he corrected you with a roll of his eyes. You felt your eye twitch at that, he’s being difficult - and he’s uncharacteristically rude. You figured it was the full moon working him.

“Right, and I heard you’re not even supposed to be patrolling here.”

He looks surprised, “How do you know that?”

You smile sweetly at him. “I have my ways. How did you find me?”

Remus appeared to be hesitating, like he was battling in his head, and you were running out of time. You tapped your foot impatiently, feeling the itch run all over you as the full moon drew closer and closer.

“Get it over with, I have places to be,” you let out an irritated sigh.

“Places to be so late in the night?”

“Can’t a girl go get a shag once in a while? Merlin,” you almost laughed at yourself. It was the worst possible excuse ever.

Remus laughed in your stead, though it was cut short with him frowning at you. “You could lie better than that, ____.”

You click your tongue in annoyance. “We should both go.”

You could almost feel it, right under your skin, and you could tell he was feeling it too. The sweat running down the side of his face was reflecting the light of the moon behind him. You eye it with a shaky exhale of your breath.

“Now.”

You didn’t even think as you pushed past him and ran like your life depended on it. Whether or not he ended up following you was neglected in your panicked state. You allowed your legs to take you to the lake and as you closed in, you were shedding off your robe. You threw it on the ground and jumped right in the lake.

As you did, you felt the cold water hit you. You went in with your legs tingling from the run, and soon the feeling went away as the scales replaced your skin. You dove lower as you felt the transformation take over, and look down to see your arms were littered by scales as well.

You blinked in the water to adjust in the darkness of the lake and found you were slowly beginning to see. With the water surrounding you, you felt at home again - only, this isn’t really home. It’s just the closest body of water that you could freely swim in.

You looked up to see the moon from where you were underwater. The moon shimmered above like a ghost caught in glass - distorted, blurred, and wavering with each gentle ripple. From beneath the water’s surface, it no longer looked sharp or certain.

Instead, it danced and fractured, pale light bending and scattering through the liquid veil. You swam up, feeling the water brush on your tail as you went for the surface, and there you came up to look at the moon.

The moon hung heavy in the sky, bright and silver, and she felt it before you saw it (as you always did), like a thread tightening in your chest, like the deep tremble of the tide beginning to turn. It called to her, as it does every full moon, ancient and merciless, dragging the sea and your soul alike toward transformation.

Even now, half-submerged beneath the surface, you could feel its pull in your blood, in the ache of your bones reshaping, skin prickling into scales, lungs surrendering to gills. The full moon did not ask, it summoned. It was never kind enough to ask, being kind was not in its nature.

As the moon pulled the tides, so did it tug at you. Beckoning you home to the waters you longed to escape from. You were born an anomaly, merpeople did not look and live like you. You could barely remember how you lived, staying in a drawn bath every full moon and waiting for it to pass.

You wanted to be a normal girl, one who did not grow a tail and gills and scales every full moon because the moon is calling on you to live out your true form. In reality, you can transform every time you are submerged in water, but you never do it willingly.

You only ever live out the other part of you when the moon demands of it.

Above, the moon wavered in the water’s skin - too bright, too perfect, like a god’s eye watching. Every mermaid was born beneath it, claimed by it, cursed by it. The same power that pulled the oceans in trembling waves claimed their bodies too, reshaping them with every lunar rise.

You stared up at it, your hair drifting around you like seaweed in the current, and hated how beautiful it was. Hated how much it owned you. And still, you can never fight back the pull. You were lost in the moon, cursing it quite loudly in your head when you heard a low growling nearby.

You turn to find a wolf staring right at you. You gasped, almost losing your balance in the water and dipping down but you composed yourself quick enough to stay afloat. Narrowing your eyes, you scanned the wolf.

It was very obvious it was a werewolf with how much bigger it was to normal wolves and that fact it's right here under the moonlight. It slowly approached you with a limp on its right leg. You gasped again, quietly this time. “Remus?” you called out. The wolf tilted its head to the side, as if asking you what you meant.

“You - “ you blinked in surprise and almost laughed. “You followed me.”

Against his better judgement he ended up chasing after you, he had to know if there was someone else like him. It would make him feel less alone, and more understood if there was someone close enough who could relate to his pain.

Only, he couldn’t be more wrong.

You swam closer to him, reaching the edge where the ground met the dark water and the wolf dipped its head to level gazes with you.

You took him in, the fur that covered him in varying shades of black and brown along with the scars that were visible on him. Then those eyes, those bright golden eyes that bore itself into yours with the moon’s reflection in them.

He was - “Beautiful.” which is odd. You would have never thought to describe a werewolf that way, never - they were terrifying, even on paper. But seeing him this close, his golden eyes looking at you like you held the answer to questions he didn’t know he had, you could only describe him that way.

Despite yourself, you slowly reached up. Scaly hands went from the water slowly reached up, and inched closer to the wolf that stayed still and watching. He turned only slightly to watch your hands, he seems calm enough.

And then, your hand is on his fur. Stroking slowly, dampening where your wet hand met his fur and you couldn’t help the giggles from escaping you. You had never once imagined you’d meet his wolf.

You knew of it, you practically heard its howls and calls whenever you would also sneak out but not once could you have imagined getting this close. He was not scary at all, far from it - it almost reminded you of a dog you had once met in Diagon Alley during a supply run.

It was gentle, and kind and it sat patiently waiting to be loved.

You blink at Remus who did not blink once while watching you. And you wonder if this wolf is the same, is it also just waiting for love?

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part three | masterlist

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