#and its just this looming presence for like the rest of the show or at least until slade is defeated and like robin has severe anxiety | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starshipsofstarlord · 2 months ago

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divine like aged wine | daryl dixon

summary. daryl begins to feel like you will get bored of him sooner or later as he is older than you, and starting to show his age. you show him just how much that doesn’t matter, and that despite the grey hairs and looming wrinkles, that you still love him (6.2k)

warnings. smut, oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, praise, slight hair pulling, insecure!daryl, older!daryl + younger!reader (reader is mid 30s, daryl is mid 50s), age gap relationship, mentions of death, angst, fluff

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The silhouette that Daryl saw in the mirror was a different man than who he had once been, he was no longer the young tracker that he was at the beginning of the outbreak. He’d aged, and there were clear staples in his appearance that made that evident. His hair was waved with its grown out length, and he carried the definition of crows feet around his eyes; his eyes that had witnessed so much misery, that had cried when he had mourned those lost.

He was bulkier, his arms held memorised muscle from his tactical efforts of taking down walkers and fighting the bad men and disastrous women that wished to cause pain in order to earn themselves power through the transpiring impact of fear. But that weight that rested either side of his torso had also brought additional huskiness to his stomach, he was no longer slender and lean like he had been when he had met you, he was a unit of the world’s making, and he was losing his appetite from looking at himself.

It would be a sin to deny the prize of food, he was aware of that, considering that in the past tense he had to survive days without consuming a meal, and you were preparing the finest dining that you could effectively make in the dim reality of the apocalypse. Years had gone by and he’d never once taken in his appearance so sullenly, but the chaos had calmed for the moment, and his thoughts were entangling in his insecure peripheral. Perhaps he could eat less, he thought to himself, understanding that there were men in better shape than him whom would risk their life to be sat at the dining table by your side.

Daryl squinted his eyes at the version of him that appeared in the bathroom mirror, the act bringing more attentive focus to the scar that ran down the left side of his face. It was on the right in the crafted glass which opposed the realistic truth, and he raised his hand to slant his fingertips against the damaged flesh. It was best for him not to turn, he was focally aware of the scars which were imbedded with cruel love upon his back’s damaged canvas. If he told himself that he was not troubled goods, he’d be lying to himself, he was imposed with the tragically acclaimed boulder of daunting tragedy casting a bland and aging shadow across his entire being.

The towel hung lowly on his wide hips, shielding the appendage that fuelled his testosterone from his own belittling view. He didn’t want to change into his everyday clothing, he’d have to discard the material that concealed half of his body and see another mound of flaws that made his heart heavier. He was lost in the time frame in which he had been discriminating his body, it had felt as though everything had been put on pause around him. But that was idly not the certified case, the soft approaching footfalls met with his ears before the door creaked to be ajar, and Daryl whipped around on the intrusion.

It was the first time that he in fact minded being interrupted following a shower by you, he’d never once flinched at your presence, and that made a light frown appear on your surprised complexion. He had been too cooped up in picking apart all the things that he did not like about his form that he had almost forgotten that you had expected him to return to you in the kitchen, and he felt surreally guilty that you had walked in on him during such a disappointing moment. “Is everything alright Daryl?” Your tone made it clear that you were concerned, and that emotion was only emphasised when he drew his gaze to the floor.

As he did so he realised that even his feet had scuffs and blisters on them, and he felt repulsed. He was attuned with the morals that he followed, but he hated the capsule of flesh that he was trapped in whilst he routinely kept somehow striving onwards. Before there had hardly been a moment where he could ponder on all the things that he despised of himself, but now there was, he realised that he had a dislike towards everything that his body had grown into. “‘m fine.” His words were not convincing, Daryl did not give you the chance however to get a conforming answer, he strode out of the bathroom, gripping his towel around himself with tight fingers as he fled from your view.

You stood there in your lonely and confusedly adjourned suffering, misunderstanding the cold attitude you had seemingly earned. All you had clambered the stairs to find Daryl was so that you could inform him that supper was ready, but he had slunk away into your bedroom, taking up the efforts of closing said door behind his retreat. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stared into the mirror, your saddened reflection gazing tiredly at you, feeling fruitless in your attempts to make the man that you loved happy. Maybe he had fallen out of love with you, you thought with solemn afflictions, knowing that if he had it would still be impossible to hate him.

The behaviour that Daryl was displaying was strange, and you felt as though you were the root for the cause, especially since he had been aiming his attention in any direction but you. With a shaky sigh you ran your hands through your hair, tidying up the frizzed strands that had moved on their own accord from the heat of the stove. Spite boiled up inside of you as you saw your first mere strand of grey, however you held it in, shaking your head softly as you realised that there were bigger problems in the current world than your own appearance. You were in your mid thirties, making you roughly twenty years more youthful than your lover.

It had never been a problem before, your age that was, it had barely come up in conversation. With a surrender towards Daryl wishing to be left alone, you trudged back down the stairs, eating your meal by yourself and enclosing the portion that you had spared for him in a tupperware container, assuming that he would venture downstairs to eat it later. But later never came, the house remained indignantly silent and still throughout the falling dusk, and you twiddled your fingers with nerves. He needed some time to mull whatever was racketing through his brain over, and you wanted to give that to him, and so you pulled a blanket onto the couch, deciding that was where you were to lay your head tonight.

Dog curled up on your midsection, and you ran a numb hand along his back, ruffing up the fur and then smoothing it down. He was nuzzled atop of you, his chin curled in the crook of your neck, gifting you with more warmth than the blanket with. The company of the loyal canine made you feel a tad better from the distantness that Daryl had treated you with, your brain mulled over the situation as you drifted out of consciousness, feeling dread for the approaching morning. You would discover the rouse that was clouding Daryl's brain, and aid him in fixing whatever was broken within it. As you closed your eyes and drifted off, you were oblivious to Daryl's presence descending down the stairs.

The bowman watched your peaceful slumber without disturbing you, his weapon of standard choice draped over his shoulder with its leather strap. He felt guilty leaving the house in the night when you were asleep, but he found solace in clearing his head through the art of hunting. To be outside the walls was something that he had always favoured, and whilst this was his home and so were you, he was aware that he was in dire need to screw his head on straight. It wasn’t fair for him to take his toll of insecurity out on you, and guilt bubbled within him from his sudden exit from the bathroom previously.

He was now draped in his outdoor wear, the same damming boots slung on his feet that had given him those gnarly blisters. There was no time for rest, he thought solemnly, it would only enforce the fact that he was growing older in your mind, and that wasn’t how he wanted you to picture him. He wanted to be the lean, protective redneck that he once was, the one that you had met during the outbreak. There was a dwindling twine of sadness that harboured within him, there was no situation where he could go back into the far past, he’d been too preoccupied with searching for a future in which you would all survive that he hardly had a chance to glance backwards.

But now the calm of the storm had set, he had that opportunity, and he resented the journey that had drifted him into the arms of safety. Your arms would be the angelic wings that would console him, but admitting his insecurities would only damage the exterior that he had built up throughout the difficult years. His age was the threat that grabbed with ferocity at his throat, with each passing 365 days his body was now growing weaker, slowing down only had the capability of enforcing the democratic, virtuous stance of becoming a senior citizen.

He wished to bend down and press a featherlight kiss to the brim of your forehead before he departed, though he would be swindled with repenting guilt if he were to wake you, and so he plodded by his lonesome out the front door, Dog watching his fleeing footsteps with one eye open. The weight that pressed infinitely down onto his shoulders did not lessen as he stalked away, his eyes were withdrawn from anything that he could fixate on, he was relevantly seeking out a distraction in his mind. There was a subdued ache in his knee, and he had gotten used to the afflicting discomfort despite it making him feel eons older. He assured that the door closed with nothing more than the click of the flattened hinge, and Dog's ears pricked up from the sound, though he remained across your torso.

The sonnet of chorusing crickets rattled their legs against their emerald wings outdoors, the symphonised ruckus leading you to peel your eyes open. It was still fairly early in the morn, the dawning sunbeams casting shapes and dusty shadows across the wooden floorboards. Dog remained atop of you, groaning with a tiresome tone as you shuffled beneath him, removing yourself from the horizontal position that you had slept in so that you could simply be seated on the aged couch. You felt disdained, there was an enveloping silence in the house, and as you drifted your gaze over to the front door, you could only release a defeated sigh. Whilst the door remained in its closed state, the scarred boots that fit Daryl's feet and his companioning crossbow had vanished from their placements.

Daryl had left. Left you and your home to find the flavour of solace elsewhere, and you were conveyed with regretful sadness; you should have assured him that he was able to open up to you, followed him earnestly until you were assured that he was fine. The youngest Dixon was the man that you had heartedly fallen for, and whilst the deterrences that he had faced had impacted him, he was still the one that you loved. With shaky hands you brushed your knuckles under your eyes, refraining any tearful emotion from sloping down your face in the form of beaded salt. There was something the matter, and it was upon you in dutiful position to uncover what it was.

You remained seated, Dog beside you as you waited and waited. However your head instantaneously whipped to the side as you heard the door moan to be ajar, and watched as Daryl entered your home with the look of failure written in irritated scripture on his face. He’d been out hunting, it was clear from his attire and stance, however there was no game strung to his belt loops, it was starved from any prey. Daryl dared not glance at you, despite how besotted with you he was - he just wasn’t good enough, those words repeatedly whirled in his brain like a thorn stuck in his side. This time though, you were not going to let the silence create a divided space between the both of you, and so you stood, and crossed the entry way into the living space. Dog retreated from his seating, first going over to greet Daryl before excusing himself, no doubt going to rest on your bed in peace.

“Talk.” The command was missing the pressure that the word often enforced by it, instead your tone was as light as a feather, it brushed across his ears in a gentle caress that tickled his senses, and you hoped that it did not provoke his problem once more. You reached out with your palm, holding his jaw with sweet exasperation as you angled his irises to connect the dots with your own. “Whatever the matter is D, communicate it with me. I’m here to listen, it’s give and take in this relationship, so don’t, for the love of god, do not shut me out.” He wasn’t going to back away this time, the sigh that he released with fruitless despair stated as much. Even though he was evading direct eye contact, he licked his dry lips as he began to speak, his sentence breaking your heart into helpless smithereens.

“I’m gettin’ old, sunshine, an’ one of these days, you’re gonna get bored of me.” There was a somber cast across his blue paned irises, derived from his prevailing insecurities that gripped him suffocatingly tight. “An’ that’s alrigh’ if yer do, I get it. Jus’ wanna be with ya fer as long as I can.” The rolling pebble of emotion drifted down his waterline, despite the irony of him leaving to hunt. Perhaps it was his sorrowful minded thinking of lessening the blow on himself of the departure that would inhibit him from losing you, though his brain’s protective coping mechanisms were righteously silly, as you had not once had the intention of ever abandoning Daryl, and you never would.

“We’re all aging honey,” you proclaimed, copiously understanding that the toll in which your partner was experiencing were enhanced due to him being your elder age wise. But since the beginning of the outbreak, none of you were as youthful as you had began your walker killing journey on, and since being induced with every inkling of distasteful grievances that outlined your persons, you certainly all appeared older than your first scuff of survival. “And that is definitely not a flaw; we’ve lived through years of shit that has been thrown out of blue at us, and we are the ones who have lived through it. You are still Daryl Dixon, the man that I love and will always love. Your age does not define what you mean to me, and it never will. I have fought my ass off to remain beside you, and there is nobody, nobody else that I would rather have settled down with. We aren’t young any more, and there’s nothing wrong with that, we’ve grown older together, and I intend to grow even older with you until our last days.”

Daryl was possessed by speechlessness, his tongue felt like it was trapped by the sharp indent of a pin that held it to the bottom of his mouth, he was strongly relieved that was your point of your view on his mental qualms, though there were still some sirens springing a constant, nightmarish lullaby in his head. “Bu’-“ He felt as though his insistent problems may irritate you after your consoling speech, and he did not want to rouse the need for your forgiveness in the air. But he could not in-debt himself with remaining quiet now, not since he had opened his worrisome rambling heart up to you. “You still attracted ta me though? I’ve got all those ol’ scars, an’ I’ve got wrinkles now, an’ I ain’t as fast on my feet as I used ta be.”

“Daryl, honey.” You braced your hands on the same biceps that were often once flaunted by his torn sleeveless flannels, holding him steady as you leant your face closer, the tips of your noses tapping against each other. “None of that makes you any less beautiful to me, it shows that you have survived an eerily long time, and I cherish anything that you see as a flaw in yourself. Because to me, you don’t have any flaws, sure sometimes there’s decisions you make that I don’t agree with, but we all do things in the spur of the moment. And in no moment will I up and leave you for a singular reason, as there is nothing that you could do or have upon your flesh that could ease everything that I feel toward you.” You words were viper sharp with passion, and in the midst of your sentimental wording, your bodies had drawn against one another, in the proximity that you never took advantage of. Just being close to Daryl was a gift, there was a whim of it being the last time, and so you made sure that you made the most of it.

“I love you woman, more than I ever thought I could.” He traced the outline of your form with comforted serenity, his hands picked your own in the clasp of his unshackled wrists, as his thumbs stroked across the back of them. “An’ there ain’ nothin’ that could stop me from worshippin’ ya. Yer sweeter than those nasty berries that you and Maggie planted, an’ more peaceful than watching the river brush over itself.” His face lowered, as he nudged the hair out of your adoration filled expression, kissing you with vigorous need. You participated with as much necessity, as you breathed heavily through your nose for oxygen access. Your body was endorsed by the coursing adrenaline that travelled within your veins, your heart was palpitating uncontrollably in your chest from the premise of a sexual endeavour with the only man in the world that you were so enamoured with.

Releasing his hands, you gripped his locks, tugging at the rooted strands as Daryl cupped your waist with sensual desire. Your mouths were copiously in sync, moulded together in blissful animosity, as you devoured every inch of controllable humanity that rested in your skeletal bodies. He moaned into your mouth as you gave one last defying tug to the brunette strands attached to his scalp, before your fingers inadvertently danced with poisoned temptation upon the metal buckle of his belt. You laughed lightly as you gave yourselves a momentous breath from locking lips, as you unshackled the entrapment that encircled his waist, allowing the combination of metal and leather to fall to the ground. “Boots off too?” You enquired, and Daryl smiled, loving how well you knew him, the blisters were excruciating although he had masked the biting pain whilst you were orally entangled in arousing physicality.

“Yeah.” He smiled, his cheekbones becoming brightly prominent during the emphasis of his lips; with you he felt truly happy, more so now that he knew that you accepted him with age riddling his entirety. “Take ‘em off sunshine.” His tone was as smooth as a block of farmhouse butter, and you were attuned to the fact that he was not referring to his tattered footwear. With the tasking tips of your fingertips, you drew down the teeth of his zipper on the jeans that he wore, descending the metal partition lower until the top of his trailed abdomen was exposed, and the tough denim became looser around his waist. The coil of starving lust swirled around in your stomach as you shimmied the hugging fabric lower until his precum ebbed length sprung up from its aroused state. He needed this, and you, and whilst he often had the preference of being the giver in these situations, he was captivated with the notion of being the centre of your devoted attention.

Daryl always looked out for others, it was a loyal tendency that he hadn’t ever relinquished, and he felt proud with you being the focal point of his priorities, though it was admittedly nice for him to feel cherished by your body and mind. His hips surprisedly jolted as you wrapped your hand around the thick girth of his cock, the contact causing an array of hormones to shoot out from the core of his apocalyptic designed being. Air rasped in puffs inwards and outwards from his mouth as you stroked him, your motions being made up from slow and teasing intentions. You wanted him to feel like he was about to burst, he had to feel alive, which was the most important part of surviving as if there was no other time to breathe a last breath. The tip of his cock was a deep hue of pink like a well gardened rose petal, precum leaking from the slit at the very top.

Daryl’s arousal rarely was as apparently throbbing in the visual aspect department in comparison to the present; his length would usually already been sheathed within one of your pleasurable spots, such as your mouth or cunt. Patience was not a virtue to either one of you, however you wished to admire every inch of his ridged flesh, as its weight was balanced in perfect disposition upon your palm. The desire to taste his supple flesh was crawling down your spine in a stoking manner, causing bumps of paralleled anticipation to outline the shape of your vulnerable human skin. You were salivating, the moisture wafted around your tongue as you leant closer to Daryl’s shaft, the swelling waiting time lessening as you opened your mouth to take his length within its oral capacity.

“F-fuck.” His accented whisper was strewn ruggedly out from his lips as he bit stubbornly at his bottom one from the sensations that raptured his soul that had felt weakened by the clouding insecurities that bereaved any whisper of judgment into a contorted flaw which made him significantly lesser than he had once been. The feeling of your supple lips gliding down his length and towards the base of his wide cock made his mind become clouded from the affects of euphoria, it was a paradise of escape from the qualms that he often faced, and he was physically too weak to push your head away from his most personal area of his form. The large tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you swallowed down the instinct to gag, instead forcing your body’s primal limitations to continue applying pleasure to the man that you so wholly adored.

This was to be about him, and you found it to be your own duty to ensure it remained so, stretching your tongue out from beneath the heavenly weight of his cock to stroke farther down the parts of his shaft that you couldn’t quite accommodate to fit into your mouth. Your cheeks ached in a delightful way as your lips were stretched around his width, and you had to focus your breathing through your nostrils as there was no route for airflow to make passage through your mouthful of him. In a gentle notion, one of your hands found purchase around his balls, lightly stroking the skin to grant the man that you called your own more pleasure.

Sweat framed his brow, glistening beneath the dim lighting as it trickled upon his temples, his teeth gnawing frustratedly upon his bottom lip, peeling at the blood flushed flesh. This was the solace he needed, not the sexual advances of your warm, wet mouth, though he wasn’t to to complain about your heavenly lips, but you in your entirety, accepting and loving him as the same. It had riddled him with an anxiety that had rattled his bones throughout thinking that he was naught enough, contorting his mindset into one of wallowing in silence and submission that he never would be.

He was attained to wearing his flaws unto his sleeve, although you had finally brought silence to the insistent pacing of his mind. And though his body was tensed, it was for an alternative reason, as he fought off the inexplicable ending that his body would succumb to with a physical release. The motive to vanquish all tension from his body was upon him, barrelling through his veins in strokes of pleasure as your tongue danced over his sensitive flesh, but he relented, taking mouthfuls of air as he staved off from surrendering to emptying his seed into your mouth.

You were intoxicated by the careless sonnets that ripped out from his chest, they were almost that of a beast than a man. He was becoming feral, you could feel as much as his sack tightened, ready to spend all that lay within. But surprise chortled you as Daryl leant decisively backwards, pushing your head away from his nethers attentively, grasping lovingly at the line of your jaw. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?” You spoke now that your mouth was vacant of his length, ogling up at him with eyes that adored to take in his appearance, not only in moments like this.

Everything felt better now that you had consoled him with the assurance that you had no intentions of abandoning him in the now nor future, and he wanted to repay your kindness with his own actions, that too would bring him a simple man’s sin of gluttonous pleasure. He lightly pulled you up by your arms, bringing you closer to his height, his lips flush from the rotation of blood in his body that you had caused. “Nah.” Daryl answered, eyes trailing across each curve that shaped your figure with his heart practically in his throat. “Not a single thing, jus’ need ta be inside ya sunshine.”

It would be the most secure embrace that would ground him to his very core, a haven from all the shit that surrounded the both of you. Times like this reminded Daryl that the difference in age between the both of you in fact was not crucial, though sometimes it did numb his mind with it as a distraction. He pulled you to him, laying you delicately on the couch as though you may break, because you were fragile, but not in the literal sense he knew. There was nothing in the world that he cherished more than you, you were his slice of peace in the fucked up reality that you both endured, and he would be damned if he cracked any mental or physical attribute that your soul attained.

You resumed your battle of tongues, playfully biting his bottom lip that stirred an animosity within him, driving him forwards to clamber over your body, pressing himself closely to you, but it was still not close enough. His hands slithered downwards, pulling with uncoordinated vigour at your pants, appreciating the aid you granted him with removing them. He was consumed by his supple lust, a man hungered for the need to be connected with the woman who he loved. All that remained was your panties that concealed you from him, and he had little patience to toy with them.

And so he tore them from your hips, the cotton splitting in two from his lack of restraint, a half in each hand which he discarded on the floor, having peeled away all of the layers that kept your sex hidden from his gaze and touch. His digits could not resist in feeling the slick that had gathered upon your core, created from the image of him lost in his pleasure. It astounded him that your attraction to him could make you so drenched, practically lathered in a river of lust; even if he was aging you found him to be as beautiful as a deity, weathered by survival but still regarded among the gods. Though he didn’t see it, and you did, there was no other man remaining in the world that was like him, he was a perished breed of human that remained on the earth. A survivor, hardened by time but continually fighting for the beliefs that formed layers around his soul.

“Stop teasing Daryl. I thought you needed to be inside me.” His previous words spat desperately from your tongue, as you regarded him with an impatience to feel all of him. It was merely torturous waiting to feel every inch of him within your cunt, even as he adjusted himself, taking a grasp of his shaft and angling it to slide down to your entrance that was yearning to be stretched open by his length. He sung a groan out as he felt how much your body desired him against the tip of his cock, he wanted to bury himself within your heavenly warmth and become doused in the comfort that the tightness of you wrapped around him allowed him to surrender to.

His movement was slow yet backboned with intent as he pushed into you, breathing out a strung out breath that had built in his chest for far too long. He had felt inflicted by the consciousness of his wilting appearance the last handful of times that you had made love together, and he had hidden that voice. It had been imprisoned in the corners of his mind, and he had tried with determination to push it away but it had not yielded. But all he had required to dull the commenting thoughts that digressed his own body was you to pour your adoration onto him despite the flaws that he resented. “Fuuuuck.”

The tone of his voice was gravelly, stripped down by the raw emotion that he felt. Your nails imbedded themselves into his shoulder blades, sketching crescent moons into his clothed flesh as your head sank deeper into the seating of the couch. A moan was strangled out from your throat from the pleasure that sparked in your midsection as he pushed deeper into you, until he was filling you with his entirety. “You feel so- fuck, fucking good baby.” The praise that you bestowed upon Daryl lit him up like a flame, a depraved hunger danced behind his eyes like burning embers. From your words, he leaned back, his hands on either side of your head and pulled back, only to push straight back into your pussy, bringing both of you ample pleasure.

There was nothing that could compare to being so close to the man that raked his hips to pivot against your own, his pace building as the explosions of ecstasy transcended between your bodies like a cycled blood transfusion. Not a single thing. Each movement was an act of pristine intimacy, a link that blessed your vessels with the passion of having the ability to be so vividly close to one another. “So do you s-sunshine.” Daryl hissed out, having forgone thinking about a singular qualm that had blinded his perception of how lucky he was in this reality. He had survived this far, and not only that, but you had too, giving you the chance of a life together throughout the maelstrom like carnage that had changed the entire planet for eternity.

He felt his tongue become drowned by the gruff noises that it permitted to leave him, responding to each whimper and keen and moan that released from your parted, panting lips. His brow bone was tense with a frown put together by focus, as he stared down at your face, pride swelling in his chest as he had the knowledge that it was him giving you rolling waves of pleasure to spin uncontrollably throughout your veins. Your arousal coated him, making it far more easier to slide in and out of your succulent walls, they parted for him each time from the accustomed entry that you always granted him. He knew that he never had to worry about another man being in his position, he couldn’t imagine it, and nor could you from the blissful contortion that rested heavily and without care on your features.

“Getting close Dar.” The information was heaved out from puffs of air, your lips mindlessly moving even when words were not falling from them. Daryl too could feel the oncoming tide of his own release, it crept up on him like a hunting predator, staving off the kill until the prime opportunity presented itself. There was plenty of things that he was still not certain of in this world, but one that he was sure of was that he was going to ensure that you came first - as he always did. Daryl’s body continued to move, spinning the room out of focus for your eyes as he continued his motions, staggering his pace just a little, but not too much so that the looming of your high would not collapse and crumble.

Your legs bound themselves strictly around his waist, your teeth clenching as spots swayed in your vision, peppering the sight of the man fucking you with pixels of black and grey. He had you where he wanted you, topping over the edge of your orgasm as it transpired around you like an aura. He thought selfishly that he was pleased that no other soul had witnessed you appear so distracted, you were always on guard when out of the confines of your home, aware that the unexpected could traipse upon you at any second that it desired. “You getting there?” Too fucked out to form full sentences, you tangled your hands in his hair, and that seemed to pull the trigger within him.

The sound of your name escaped Daryl’s lips as he buried his head into the safety of your throat, spreading little kisses against your skin as his tension dissolved. Ropes of his seed spilled within you, filling your core as he remained inside, small, almost inaudible whimpers leaving him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head as you brought your arms around him, cocooning him in the afterglow that you shared. He remained there for minutes longer, composing himself before he removed himself from your cunt, falling beside you on the couch that was too small for most, but for the both of you was as cozy as it could get. “Thank you sunshine.” Daryl murmured as he brought you closer to be resting against his body, and you stifled a chuckle at the doziness that had befallen him

“You don’t have to thank me for sex.” Your eyes rolled, but the archer shook his head of brown locks, his hand angling around you to raise your face to meet your his own, your lips meeting in a delicately languid kiss. His fingertips traced the line of your jaw, his heart swimming with leaps of love for you and only you. Daryl was a good man, he knew that he tried his best to be, however he was delirious with how you saw him. Not everyone would find him to be a diamond in a pile of cracked rocks, but here you were, always caressing his scars with care, and reminding him that he was allowed to be loved. A long, long time ago he wouldn’t have believed that he would have someone that stood by him through everything, let alone the silent battles ongoing in his mind. You had your own opinions, and you depicted them outright, always giving him time to himself when it was required, and as soon as there was a place to console him, putting yourself in it.

“Not fer tha’, for everythin’.” He thought of his life with you, and he could not have been more appreciative of it. It was never going to be perfect, you were both humans fighting to live in a world that wished to eradicate your species, but there were moments to be cherished when you were not trying to protect yourselves. Daryl wanted to kick himself for even attempting to protect himself from; it was foolish on his part, but you always managed to understand his mindset. That was one of the very many reasons as to why he loved you, and he could not voice it enough as he remained curled up with you, basking in the mortal emoting of the love that you held dearly for one another. He was aging, and he had hated it, but he despised it far less now that you had brought a light that only you could give to the natural process that was weaving through each of you, reminding him of the normality of it.

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the-halloween-jack · 3 months ago

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Déjà Vu ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: When the reader's comms grow suddenly silent, Jason Todd's worst fear takes shape — not just the possibility of losing someone, but the cold, inescapable echoes of a past he could never bury. As he fights his way through the grime of Gotham City, one truth becomes undeniable: some nightmares never cease, they resurface. Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.

Warnings: Angst, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of death, mentions of past domestic violence. Masterlist

Notes: This is my first Jason Todd piece after many years of reading them. Hopefully, it is the first of many <3

Words: 3,181k

The first hit split her lip.

The second sent her to her knees.

The third stole her breath, left her gasping, hands splayed in the warmth of her own blood beneath her.

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He drawled, ‘I have to say, I love the symmetry of this.’

The Joker laughed, one hand gesturing to her, the other twirling the gruesome crowbar between his gloved fingers like a baton. Y/N spat red onto the warehouse floor, teeth bared with something akin to a smile, though it was distorted with her wrath. ‘Go to hell.’

He tutted, shaking his head as though he were a disappointed teacher. ‘Now, now, don’t be like that, darling. You should be honoured! Not just anybody gets a starring role in one of my reruns.’

Her knees remained on the glistening crimson concrete as she forced herself upright, muscles shrieking with the exertion. Y/N could feel the blood seeping into the fibres of her clothes; it was quickly turning cold. She was trembling. Weak. But she refused to stay down, to yield. She knew what this very situation had done to Jason, witnessed the wreckage it left in its wake. The man it had turned him into.

She would not grant Joker the satisfaction of her fear.

He sighed dramatically. ‘Honestly… I was hoping for a bit more fight from you; after all, I did a number on you.’ He waved the crowbar, a looming threat. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep the rest quick. After all, we wouldn’t want lover boy to catch the show.’

Jason.

Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. She could not comprehend how he knew what Jason was to her. They had always been so careful.

He was coming. Y/N knew it; she could feel his pending presence like a tempest looming in the ether. But he would not make it here in time. That was the whole objective. The Joker had planned this, crafted it. It had all but nothing to do with her, he stitched it together like a grotesque puppet show designed solely to torment him.

Just as he had before.

Her whole form rattled with each sputtered breath; she swore she could feel her fragmented bones shift within her, but she forced herself to move, to push forward. There was something she yearned to tell him, something he needed to know; it was long overdue. If she could only stall, draw out this awful night, but she could only stretch so far before it would splinter. She could feel it; her life was drawn like a string, taut and thrumming. She feared with one more blow, it would snap under the strain.

Y/N could not bear the thought of him finding her like this, discovering her body; it left a bad taste in her mouth, it burned bitter; she choked on it.

The Joker noticed this. His wicked grin stretched wider, more daunting, eyes alight with sick amusement. ‘So you do have some fight left in you. That’s adorable.’

Then, he swung and her vision erupted with stars, they burned with a white-hot agony.

She barely felt herself hit the ground, as though her body was not hers anymore, it was something distant, something leaden, she could already feel reality receding. A small, bitter part of her recognised the poetry of it. Saw what the Joker was trying to achieve, the symmetry, as he had called it.

Y/N had spent so long learning how to crawl her way back from death. This could not be the exception.

The Joker crouched beside her, his shoes shifting against the concrete, she watched them from her new place on the floor and stared as the newly shed blood glistened from his soles.

‘Aw, don’t check out on me just yet, peaches. The real fun hasn’t even started.’

He reached out for her face as if in a caress, his gloved fingers grazing ever so gently down her cheek as though he had not just beaten her within an inch of her life. Bile rose in her throat at his touch; it burned like acid.

She could barely see him now. Her vision was oscillating, black setting in at the edges. But she could hear him. She could feel the suffocating weight of inevitability settle over her like a burial shroud.

Jason was not going to make it; this realisation settled like a cold, unforgiving weight in her chest, smothering each breath she took. The fragile threads of hope she had held onto retreated into the abyss. Her heart ached as the cruel truth settled over her; Jason would arrive too late. He would never hear the words she so desperately longed to convey; the unspoken confession burned in her chest, restricted by time.

She was not going to survive this, the Joker would never allow it. Jason would find her like this, broken, derelict. She would not get the chance to explain.

He leaned in close now, breath hot against her ear; it sent a shudder down her form. ‘I adore the symmetry I’ve created thus far, there’s only one thing left to do; I want him to see the damage I’ve done.’

‘Y’know,’ he murmured, still close to her face, voice low and sweet like the whisper of a lover, ‘he’s never gonna forgive himself for this.’

She ached to tell him he was wrong, that Jason would endure. That she would be okay. That he would not be unmade by this. But the words curdled in the warmth of her throat, thick with blood, the murk coiled around her like a patient tide; she was already ebbing from the world, conceding to its darkness.

Joker pulled away, sighing. ‘Ah well. C’est la vie.’

He stepped aside, allowing a red glow to seep into her stunted view, steady, unrelenting, and ominous. Her wavering vision had the numbers mangle into indistinct shapes, but she required no clarity. Y/N already knew what they meant. She braced herself, eyes fluttering shut.

Jason could feel it like a thrum, like static in the air, like pressure boring into his skull. He grew tense, as though a spectre gripped the back of his neck in an unrelenting grasp. The comms had gone silent. Her comms. She never went silent.

His fingers wreathed tighter around the throttles of his bike as Gotham blurred past him, neon lights receding into its gloom as he tore through the streets. The city was too loud, too alive, too unaware of what was festering beneath its surface.

His mind clawed at the last words she had said before the line cut out, ‘I’ve got it, Jay. Don’t worry.’

But he did worry. He always worried. And now that worry had shifted into something sharp and breathless, twisting deep in his chest; he fought for air.

A crackle in his ear. Tim. ‘Jason…’

‘Where is she?’ He did not like the desperation in his voice, but he could not quell it.

A pause. Too long. Too weighted.

Then, a sigh. ‘An abandoned warehouse off of Dock 52.’

He was already turning the bike. Already forcing the engine to its limit. He ran red lights and tore through intersections, deaf to the horns, blind to the people, heedless to everything but the address burning itself into his mind, searing to his vision.

A warehouse.

His stomach plummeted. He knew what that meant.

He knew what would happen there.

He knew what Joker planned to do.

His pulse pounded in his ears. His breath turned shallow, quick and useless. His grip on the handlebars was white-knuckled, and his mind — his mind was a reel of tainted memories, a horror film of times gone past. This was not happening. This was not happening. This was not...

‘Jason.’ Dick’s voice this time. Steady. Trying to ground him. It only made it worse.

‘We’ll get her.’

But Jason already knew he was too late. It could never be that easy.

The flames licked and devoured the crumbling ruins around him, their heat pressed against his skin, yet somehow, he had never felt colder. It was the awful crimson that had first caught his eye; her body, once so strong and sure, now lay in a heap, decrepit and ghastly in a pool of her own blood. He did not recall making his way to her beaten frame, but abruptly, his knees had hit the concrete, a hollow, sickening sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the desolate space. With trembling fingers, he reached for her and pulled her into his embrace.

Blood crept up his knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.

It crept beneath his fingernails.

Her blood.

His hands shook violently with this foul revelation. The warehouse smelled of rust and rot, of soot and smoke, of something macabre. Shadows stretched against the walls, twisted structures caught in the flickering light of bare bulbs, but Jason could not see them. He could not perceive anything beyond her.

His breath was trapped somewhere in his ribs, clawing at his throat, fighting its way out as a broken, trembling sob.

No. No, no, no, no...

She was still warm.

That was the worst part.

Her body had not yet caught up with the brutal finality of her death. He had been close, so close. The blood that seeped from her skull was fresh, staining the floor, staining him, sinking into the creases of his clothes, into the cracks of his skin, imbibing itself into his very bones.

He glanced unwillingly to his side and saw a joker card weighed down by a battered crowbar. It was left there to taunt him; he felt a stinging pain rise in his throat.

He already knew this story.

He had lived this story.

Jason pressed a shaking hand to her cheek, fingers skimming over the torn skin of her temple. Her head lolled, lifeless, into his palm. His vision blurred. The world was shattering around him, the air closing in too fast, too tight.

This was not supposed to happen. Not again. Not to her. Not her.

A choked sound wrenched itself from his throat, raw and brutal. He wanted to tear the world apart, wanted it to burn, wanted to take everything Joker had ever touched and reduce it to ashes, bone and dust.

But there was no world left to destroy. His world lay broken in his arms.

‘Jason...’ a voice called from somewhere behind him. Distant. Muffled beneath the rush of blood pounding in his ears. ‘Jason, we need to... ’

‘No.’

It came out hoarse, a ragged snarl carved from the wreckage of his throat. Hands were on him now, Dick’s, maybe Tim’s, he did not care, they tried to pry him away, tried to separate him from the only thing that mattered. He wrenched free, curling over her like a shield, as though if he were to hold her tightly enough, he could put her back together, force her into place, will her soul back beneath her skin.

He loved her.

And he had failed her.

Jason felt something unravel within him, something fragile and irreparable. The grief inside him was not humane. It was raw, feral, a grief that gnawed at the edges of reason, hollowing him out until only the cavern of what he had been remained.

‘Jason,’ Bruce said, he did not remember him arriving. Bruce was quieter than the others, as if his words would be enough to stop the sky from collapsing, as though it would be enough to salvage what had already been destroyed. ‘We need to bring her home.’

Home.

The word felt like a mockery.

He swallowed back the scream rising in his chest. She was his home. His arms curled tighter around her, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath shuddering as it ghosted over her cooling lips. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to rewind time. This could not be real.

But there was no waking up from this.

Joker forced her from him in the same manner he had taken him from Bruce. And this time, Jason had been the one who arrived too late.

History had repeated itself.

And she had fallen victim to it.

He was still holding her hand.

It was cold now, sickly. She looked like stone under the low light of the cave, sculpted into something reverent, something holy. If he were any weaker, he might have prayed. But there was never a god in Gotham, only ghosts, only graves.

His grip tightened.

‘Jason,’ Dick had murmured from over the threshold. He had the tone of someone who knew he had already lost his battle but was too stubborn to walk away. ‘You need to rest.’

Jason did not answer. What was the point? None of them understood. Not Bruce, who had watched him succumb to the same fate, but had seemingly not suffered the same. Not Dick, who had watched on. Not Tim, not Damian. They had not been shattered and put back together wrong. They had all known loss, but none of them, none of them, had lost her.

They tried again, in softer voices. Even Alfred, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder, spoke to him like a wounded animal. Jason did not move. He did not blink. He barely breathed.

They would not take her from him.

Eventually, they left him with her. Hours passed, or maybe minutes, or maybe lifetimes. He did not know. He just stayed, his thumb running absently over her knuckles, tracing circles into the skin. He should have been there sooner. He should have known. He should have...

Her fingers twitched.

Jason flinched, tearing his gaze from the blank, hollow of her face and down to their hands laying connected, both now dried crimson with her blood. The movement had been so slight he almost thought he had imagined it. His chest was hollowed out, a cavern scraped raw, and his mind was cracked wide with grief. He must have been seeing things.

Then it happened again.

Her breath hitched. Her shoulders jerked. A sharp inhale wrenched her back into her body, into the cage of her skin, into the cold and then to him.

Jason scrambled to his feet, the gurney rattling with the force of his pushing away. The world tilted, his stomach plummeting because this was not... this was not possible. His hands shook as he pulled away, as he stared down at her, heart hammering like a war drum in his ribs.

‘What... ’

‘Jason,’ she whispered, barely audible, as though she was speaking through water, through a fog, through the thousand miles that should exist between her and life.

He stumbled back. No, no, this was not... it could not...

She pushed herself up on her elbows, slow, deliberate, blinking the haze from her eyes. Her gaze swept the room before settling on him. He looked wrecked, as though he were unravelling at the seams.

‘I… I don’t... ’ he choked out, but his voice barely worked. ‘I held you. You weren’t breathing. You were dead.’

‘I was.’ Her voice was solemn, yielding.

He took another step back, shaking his head, trying to force this into something he could make sense of. But there was no logic here, no reason. Only his own past being referenced before him.

She watched him for a moment. Then, gently, she reached for his hand.

‘Let me explain.’ Her voice was soft, pleading.

Jason moved, did not resist, just let himself be drawn back in. The contact burned through his clothes, through his skin, down to the bones that had once shattered against the Joker’s crowbar, just as hers had.

She exhaled, steadying herself, and then began.

‘I was seven the first time I died.’

Jason felt something splinter in him, he drew in a quick breath.

‘My father…’ she trailed off, lips pressing into a thin line. A flicker of something old and ruined crossed her face before she buried it again. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. He was by no means… kind. And he…’

She halted her words a muscle in her jaw twitching.

Jason’s fingers tightened in hers. His heart was still hammering, still trying to keep up with a reality that had seemingly stumbled sideways.

‘My… return shocked him.’ Jason did not like the implications behind her words, they made him sick, but he let her continue.

‘He needed to know how I survived it; he hated the uncertainty. So he…’ She paused again, eerily composed. ‘...experimented. I always woke up. I always came back.’

Jason’s stomach twisted, nausea creeping up his throat like acid. This was too vile. Too raw. The thought of her helplessness, her fear, and the cycle of pain she had been subjected to was enough to debilitate him. The air suddenly tasted like metal, sharp and bitter, but it was nothing compared to the taste of rage searing through his veins.

He stepped back and stood still, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, but still, his breath remained steady, almost serene. The world around him felt muted, like a muffled beat, the edges of his vision fading to red with the sudden weight of this truth. He could not believe that someone meant to nurture and cherish her could cause her such anguish. Anger, raw and relentless, rose, it begged for vengeance. Wherever this foul man resides, he must pay; but not yet.

He watched as she sat pouting, she was not happy that he had drawn himself away from her, so he stood forward once more and grabbed her still outstretched palms.

She quickly enveloped his hands, grounding him. ‘I was afraid to tell you,’ she admitted, sheepish. ‘I thought you might look at me differently.’

Jason let out a hollow, humourless laugh. ‘Differently?’

Her lips twitched, almost amused, almost sad. ‘I know it’s ironic, if anyone would understand, it was you. I know, it’s a lot.’

A lot. Right. That was one way to describe the phenomenon. All Jason knew was that his world had imploded, that the grief that had so recently shifted him into something unrecognisable, was chased away with relief coiled so tightly in his gut he thought he might shatter beneath it.

But all he did was drag her forward, arms closing around her so tightly he could not be sure where he ended and she began.

‘I was going to bury you,’ he rasped against her shoulder, shaking. ‘Bury you.’

‘I know,’ she whispered, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.’

He exhaled shakily, pressing his face into her hair, trying to anchor himself to the warmth of her; the solid weight of her in his arms. Alive. But the moment ended too soon as light flooded suddenly into the room. Jason and Y/N turned, eyes narrowing begrudgingly toward the interruption, only to be met with a group of gaping faces that stood shocked beyond the threshold.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3 On a side note, the reader's ability to come back from the dead and the father's experimentation that then follows was inspired by a character from a different source material. I'm not going to say who because it is a spoiler for anyone who may end up watching the show, but I wonder if any of you picked up on the allusion.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #dc comics #joker #x reader #batman #gotham #dcu #detective comics #angst #jason todd angst #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #dc universe #dc #the-halloween-jack

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reilemon · 8 months ago

Text

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch. 1

Chapter Title ♥︎ Down The Rabbit Hole ♥︎ ch.2 𓂂 ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: A simple foraging trip takes an unexpected turn when you wake up in a mansion hidden deep in the forest. Now four captivating men are nursing you back to health, but their intentions—and identities—are a mystery.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎ cw: depictions of head injury and fever

♡︎ tags: vampire au, slow burn (-ish), eventual romance, eventual smut, eventual polyamory

♡︎ word count: 4.3k

♡︎ a/n: the first chapter of the sixth and final story for kinktober 2024. I wanted to finish off kinktober with a gang bang, but I got carried away and now this is going to be a multi chapter story. I hope you'll like this one.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

"Poor little bunny." The blue eyed man coos as he find the source of the sudden loud noise - you. The clumsy human probably slipped and fell when the sky opened and heavy rainfall started. He carefully scoops you in his arms, with your head resting on his shoulder.

A small whine barely hits his ears and he catches the moment you briefly gain consciousness. He softly chuckles when he hears your silly question before passing out again. He ignores how a little of your blood is mixing with the rain on the fabric of his coat and starts walking away.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and bleary. You adjust slowly to the dimness around you, the fireplace in front of your bed the only source of light. The ceiling looms high - a ceiling you don’t recognize. The walls are covered in wallpaper, worn and peeling in places. You don’t recognize that wallpaper either. The royal purple catches the dim firelight, a color you could never possibly afford.

You shift against the bed beneath you, the silk sheets cool and smooth against your skin. Over you is a heavy wool blanket, its weight like a comforting presence. A low groan escapes your lips as you rise and rest on your elbow. The room is beautiful, with expensive furniture, but there is this dormant energy to it.

You glance at the thick velvet curtains covering the window. The sliver peeking in the corner shows you a glimpse of the outside world. It’s nighttime, the downpour relentless, drops thrumming against the glass.

‘The rain!’

You sit up abruptly, a sharp pang of pain zapping through your skull, making you wince and press your fingers to your temple. Your fingers try to rub the pain away as you lean on your other arm to rest. Right, the rain. After closing up the bookstore, you've gone to the forest to search for some mushrooms and sweet chestnuts. A hearty dinner and sweet dessert would be a great start of your two week long vacation. The last visitor commented how their elbow hurt which meant a thunderstorm is coming. You politely smiled and packed up their books. You should've listened to their elbow.

Now, staring around this unfamiliar room, unease twists in your stomach.

‘Where the hell am I?’

Right on cue, the door creaks open, and a tall, raven haired man steps into the room. He pauses in the doorway as his eyes meet yours.

“Hello,” he says, his voice smooth and deep. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow, his presence suddenly making you aware of the mess you must look. Embarrassment prickles your skin, and you rub your temple, trying to compose yourself, only to see his brows knit with concern.

“Um, I’ve been better,” you manage, forcing a chuckle. The grogginess in your voice doesn’t help the embarrassment. You smooth a hand over the blanket, feeling a little exposed. “Why am I here?”

“My friend found you,” he explains, “Out in the forest, just before the storm. You most likely slipped on the mud and hit your head.”

He nods towards your forehead, then reaches for a small, gold hand-mirror resting on the bedside table. The antique metal glints softly as he holds it, and you take it with a hesitant hand. As you lift it to inspect your reflection, you catch a small bruise just above your brow, the skin tender and slightly swollen. Considering the circumstances, you think, it could’ve been much worse.

The man, whose name you still haven’t learned, clears his throat. “I was the one who changed you into dry clothes,” he shifts in his seat, averting his gaze briefly before meeting your eyes again. “For that, I apologize. I wouldn’t have done it if there were any other choice.”

You shake your head with a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really. If you hadn’t, I’d probably be shivering with pneumonia right now.”

His expression softens with relief. “I’m glad you understand. I would still like to listen to your lungs, Would you be comfortable with me examining you?” then he adds, “I’ve been in the medical field for quite some time, I assure you.”

Something about his demeanor, calm and controlled, makes him look trustworthy. And considering how thoroughly he must have tended to you—removing every speck of mud, leaving you dry and warm in a comfortable bed—it’s clear he has your wellbeing in mind. You nod. “Of course.”

He gives a curt nod and shifts closer to the bed. “You don’t need to do much, just sit as comfortably as you can,” he murmurs, the calm, low timbre of his voice steadies you. The shirt you wear—a loose button-up clearly meant for a man—hangs loosely over your shoulders, open at the collar. Suddenly, you feel the pulse of your own heartbeat, wondering if he might hear it already. His hand moves lightly over the fabric, as he leans closer, and then he places his ear gently against your chest, just above your heart.

The moment feels both entirely professional and so intimate. You tell yourself that this is completely normal, this is the usual routine. But he is not your doctor, and you can’t shun the butterflies you feel from having a handsome stranger resting his head on your chest. His hair, thick and dark, grazes your collarbone as he listens, his breath warm against your skin. Your heartbeat, which you’re certain must be thudding wildly beneath his ear, betrays you, a deep flush creeping up your cheeks as you try to steady yourself.

“Breathe in deeply for me,” his voice a soft murmur, his cheek brushing against you.

You comply, feeling his presence with every rise and fall of your chest. When he shifts, his head moves closer to your collarbone, the tickling brush of his hair sending a wave of goosebumps along your chest. You’re conscious of every small movement, every slight intake of his breath.

He shifts back a little, his hand grazing your shoulder as he adjusts to press his ear against your back. “One more time,” his tone is still composed, though you’re unsure if you catch a hint of restraint.

You breathe in, slowly, deeply, feeling the warmth of his palm on your shoulder. He holds still for a moment longer, listening intently. Then, he slowly pulls back, settling into his seat with a neutral expression.

“You do have a small fever,” he calmly states. “Although, there are no signs of anything serious.” He offers a faint, almost apologetic smile. “You should lie back down and rest.”

Your cheeks are warm, and not just from the fever. You nod and do as you’re told, sinking under the comforting weight of the blanket. The man briefly explains that you were unconscious for around two hours, and that your clothes are being washed.

You nod again, processing the details. “Thank you… that’s all very considerate of you.”

He offers you a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do.”

He rises from his seat and steps toward the door, his hand resting on the brass knob. “I need to check on my friend in the kitchen. There may be a fire to manage. And I’ll bring you some herbal tea.”

You chuckle. “Well, thank you, Dr…?”

A flicker of amusement lights his eyes as he opens the door, pausing for a moment. “Just call me Zayne.”

You tell him your name in return, and with that, he’s gone with the soft click of the door.

After Zayne leaves, the room slips into an almost eerie quiet. You prop yourself up against the plush pillows, trying to get comfortable despite the persistent ache in your muscles and the dull throb in your head. The room feels larger now that you’re alone. Every detail catches your attention—the thick velvet drapes, the intricate patterns on the worn wallpaper, the faint smell of stale air. You’d get up to investigate the room or try to figure out more about where exactly you are, but your body protests with every small movement. So you have to settle for gazing around the space instead, picking out details you hadn’t noticed before. The furniture is old but well-kept, the kind that belongs in a property far grander than any home you’ve ever been in. This place—it’s not like the humble cottages back in your village. No, this is different. Larger. More isolated. Somewhere far from the familiar streets you walk every day.

A shiver crawls down your spine at the thought of how far away you could be from your home. You’ve never ventured beyond the edge of the forest. You’ve heard stories about the other side. It was always whispered between older folk who’d lived through enough strange events to keep their superstitions alive. Vampires, werewolves, creatures of the night. They’d mention them, always in passing, as though acknowledging them would draw something out of the shadows.

At first, you’d dismissed it. What else could it be but old folklore? Some scary tales to spice up their lives, stories passed down from generation to generation. Something for them to talk about when the nights grew long and dark, to keep the children from misbehaving. Those creatures don’t exist. You were certain of that.

Or, at least, you had been.

You replay the events in your mind, trying to make sense of it all. Zayne said that his friend found you unconscious in the woods. They’d brought you here, tended to your injuries, and kept you warm. His behavior had been nothing but kind, gentlemanly even.

But then, why does your skin prickle as you think of him?

What if he is one of them? The pale complexion, the unnerving quiet, the way he’d moved with such elegant grace. And those eyes... there was something about the way he looked at you. Your pulse quickens. You try to reason with yourself—if this man, Zayne, were a vampire, wouldn’t he have done something by now? You were unconscious and vulnerable. He could have easily taken advantage of that moment, but he hadn’t. He’d taken care of you.

But what if... what if this is all part of some darker plan? You swallow hard, trying to silence the growing paranoia. What if they want to keep you here? What if, right now, they’re simply playing a long game, to coax you to be their little blood doll—

‘Stop.’ You force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to calm your spiraling thoughts. There’s no proof, no reason to believe that Zayne—or anyone else—is anything other than a human.

You glance toward the window. Your body feels like lead at the moment, but tomorrow you will probably be well enough to leave. The storm can’t go on forever.

A sharp knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts.

"Come in," you manage, your voice wavering just a little.

Zayne steps in, balancing a tray of a delicate ceramic tea set. The gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain brings comfort to your senses. Behind him, another figure slips into the room—a man with handsome, soft features. His tousled, blonde-gray hair looks like it would be soft to the touch. And his eyes, though shadowed by the dim lighting, have a dreamy quality, like someone lost in thought.

A faint smell of something burnt drifts into the room, cutting through the soothing scent of the herbal tea. You can’t help but frown a bit at the scent, but neither man acknowledges it. Zayne places the tray on the small bedside table, the teapot steaming. The air feels warmer now, not just from the tea.

The second man steps forward, offering you a polite nod, “Hello.” he says, his voice silky and mellow. “I’m Xavier, the one who found you.”

His soft smile makes your heart stir. It takes you a beat to find your voice to introduce yourself.

“Thank you… for, well, rescuing me,” you say with a shy smile.

Xavier gives a gentle shake of his head, his smile widening. “Why were you so deep into the forest with a storm on the way?” he asks, his tone feels almost like teasing.

You chuckle nervously as you feel the faintest flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “I – Well, I wanted to gather some things for dinner,” you admit. “It’s my first real break from work, and I may have gotten a little too excited.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, as if he’s trying to fully take you in.

“You’re lucky he was done fishing at the time.” Zayne adds as he hands you a cup of tea. His fingers brush lightly against yours as you accept it, deepening the flush on your cheeks. You are lucky to be here. Even though you’re sitting in a room with two men who are strangers, they still have cared for you with such tenderness. You could feel their warmth in every gesture, in every word. It’s hard to hold onto fear when faced with such care. Even now, you can feel yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders unwinding.

You take a sip of tea slowly, trying to mask the strange tide of emotions flooding through you. You had been so afraid, so convinced of something dark lurking beneath the surface. But now, in this quiet moment, with the warm tea in your hands and their watchful eyes on you, you feel strangely safe.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The clock on the mantel ticks softly, the brass hands showing it’s almost 1 a.m. The fire burns low, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. Your eyelids feel heavy now, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. You turn onto your side, pulling the duvet tighter, forming a cocoon around you. The warmth, the softness—everything lulls you closer to sleep. But your mind drifts, recalling the conversation with Xavier after he’d brought you dinner.

He’d placed the bed tray gently over your lap, making sure everything was within reach. Before he turned to leave, the sound of your voice stopped him.

“Did you manage to catch anything?” you asked, your voice quiet but curious.

Xavier had looked confused for a moment, then his face lit up with a soft smile. “I did. Fried a few, but Zayne didn’t let me serve it to you.” He chuckled. “Said he didn’t want you choking on a bone.”

You laughed too, the sound easing the leftover tension you’ve been holding. That explained the faint burnt smell that had lingered earlier, and why Zayne had to rush to the kitchen.

“And don’t worry,” he added. “I brought back your basket too. Everything’s intact.”

You were about to thank him, but then an image flashed in your mind—a fleeting memory of him, his hair wet and clinging to his face. The moment felt so vivid, so real, that it stopped you mid-thought. You stared at him, squinting slightly.

“What’s wrong?” His voice softened with concern, his brows furrowing.

You shook your head quickly, flustered for being caught staring. “Nothing… it’s just—did I say something to you? When you found me?”

Xavier hesitated, his lips twitching as though trying to suppress a grin. He glanced to the side, his hand coming up to cover his mouth, but his eyes gave him away. “Oh no…” you said, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “Was it something embarrassing?”

“No,” he replied, though the gleam in his eye said otherwise. “It was cute.” He paused, then looked back to you, “You opened your eyes for a moment, and asked me, ‘Are you my prince?’ Then you passed out again.”

Your heart practically leapt into your throat, your face instantly flushing. “Oh, that’s definitely embarrassing,” you groaned.

Xavier laughed then, his voice soothing. “Don’t worry, I’ve been called worse.”

And just as you wished for the shadows to come alive and swallow you, Zayne entered, saving you from further humiliation. He brought you a bowl filled with ice and a cloth. You thanked both of them, adding that you planned to leave in the morning.

Their faces changed for a heartbeat when you said that, though you didn’t miss it. It wasn’t worry exactly, more like hesitation, as though they weren’t entirely convinced you would be gone by morning. Or perhaps… that they didn’t want you to be.

That thought lingered now, swirling in your mind as your body sank deeper into the mattress. Their kindness, their calmness—they made you feel safe, soothed the fears that had gripped you earlier. Yet, there was something unspoken between the three of you.

A sigh escapes your lips. You can feel sleep creeping over you, warm and heavy, pulling you under. The memory of Xavier’s reassuring smile and Zayne’s attentive gaze lingers in your mind, their faces blurring at the edges as your thoughts dissolve into a haze.

They are both so kind. And so handsome.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

A low whine escapes your lips before you even open your eyes. The ache in your body is heavy and relentless. Every muscle protests as you shift, but you force your eyelids open. The room is warm, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth. Someone must’ve light it while you were still asleep.

‘I said I’d leave in the morning.’ You glance over at the clock—it’s 11 a.m. That’s not really morning, but it is time for you to leave. If only you felt better.

You wince as you slowly, painfully, push yourself out of bed. Your legs feel weak, your body sluggish, like you’re moving through water. Every movement sends a wave of soreness through your bones, but you grit your teeth and push through. You don’t want to linger here any longer than you have to.

Grumbling under your breath, you stagger toward the door, your feet barely shuffling across the hardwood. You’re still dressed in the warm clothes Zayne gave you, though they feel a little too big now. You’ll just ask for your things and be on your way. You’ll return their clothes once you fully recover.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin as you open the door, the chill air of the hallway shocking your senses. It is completely quiet, only the soft creak of the floorboards under your slippers breaking the silence. More doors sit along the hallway, likely bedrooms as well. You glance at them briefly, but you step towards the staircase ahead. The polished mahogany wood gleams faintly, and you internally groan at the thought of making it down the steps in your current state.

You’re about to take your first step when—

“Hey!”

The voice comes out of nowhere, stopping you in your tracks. You freeze, your heart jumping in your chest as footsteps echo from above, growing louder as they approach. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with a man descending the stairs. He’s tall and moves with an almost feline grace. His hair is gorgeous - messy curls of muted violet and his eyes, an unusual blend of blue and pink, are sharp and full of curiosity. His plump lips are pulled in an amused smirk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is teasing, though there’s a touch of disapproval in it. His arms cross over his chest, as he takes in your disheveled state.

You blink at him, still trying to shake off the fog in your head. “I - I need to leave.”

He narrows his eyes, looking you up and down. “You should stay in bed,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

He is right, you do feel like you’re about to collapse, yet you can’t help but notice how striking he is. His hair, his eyes, even the way he moves—it’s all captivating. But you force those thoughts away, shaking your head slightly. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He uncrosses his arms, offering a small smile that’s both charming and a little smug. “Oh, right. I’m Rafayel.” His voice dips slightly, your name falling from his lips. “I’m staying here too. Zayne told me what happened.”

You blink again, taken aback by how easily he says your name. You hadn’t expected to meet another guest in the house. “Rafayel,” you repeat.

He nods, brushing a hand through his unruly curls. “Yeah. I took care of your clothes. They’re drying in my room,” he adds. “It’s still raining, though, so they might take a while.”

At his words, you pause and listen. Sure enough, you hear the soft, steady patter of rain against the windows. You’d been so focused on leaving that you hadn’t even thought to check the weather. ‘Of course it’s still raining.’ You sigh inwardly, frustration and weariness settling in your chest.

“What about Zayne and Xavier?” you ask, hoping to at least get some help from them.

Rafayel smirks, shaking his head. “They’re sleeping.”

You frown. “Sleeping?”

“Yup,” he says with a shrug, almost dismissive.

Your mind races. You know why you are up so late, but why are they still sleeping. Your mind is about to wander to that corner again, but you stop yourself. ‘They must’ve been exhausted from taking care of an injured stranger.’

Still, the unease lingers. Rafayel’s gaze flickers over you, his eyes softening slightly as if sensing your discomfort. “Look,” he says, his voice gentler now, “you really don’t look like you’re in any shape to leave. Why don’t you rest a bit longer?”

You hesitate, your body aching with every breath, the fatigue weighing you down with each second. He’s right. You’re not ready to leave yet.

Rafayel’s eyes hold yours for a moment. “You’re safe here,” he adds softly.

Just as Rafayel is about to steer you back toward the bedroom, another voice cuts through the air, deep and teasing, with a velvety edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Is that the lost kitten?”

You look down the stairs, and there he is. The man who appears next makes the very air around you seem heavier. He’s taller than the other men, with strikingly sharp features. His white hair is tousled yet elegant, and his eyes - a deep, mesmerizing wine-red, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

Before you can even react, the man is standing right in front of you, his height towering over you. You can’t help but gawk, unable to stop yourself from tracing every detail of his sharp jawline, the way his lower lip looks so plump and soft.

Rafayel’s voice, sharp with annoyance, snaps you out of the trance. “You know her name, Sylus.”

But Sylus just smirks. He takes your hand, his fingers long and strong, enveloping yours completely. Your breath catches in your throat as the warmth from his touch sends heat rippling through your body. His hand is so much larger than yours, making you feel almost fragile in his grip.

“My name is Sylus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Your name drips from his lips, and he bends forward and presses a tender kiss to the back of your hand. The sensation of his cool lips against your flushed skin sends tingles across your arm. You can’t help but blush under the attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rafayel roll his eyes, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. “You’re shameless.” he mutters, though there’s a playful lilt to his voice.

Sylus simply laughs, a low, rich sound, before releasing your hand. With a light touch on your back, Rafayel guides you back toward the bedroom, his hand steady and firm against you. Sylus trails behind, watching with an amused expression.

When you’re back in the bedroom, Rafayel’s hands gently but insistently push you down by the shoulders, guiding you to sit back on the edge of the bed. “Seriously,” you protest, exasperated, “I feel better already! I don’t want to be a burden.”

Sylus leans lazily against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a smirk dancing on his lips as he watches the scene unfold. "You look much too cute to be any kind of burden, kitten," he says, his eyes fixed on you.

Before you can say anything else, Rafayel presses you back into the blankets, his firm but gentle insistence impossible to resist. As you sink back into the bed, Sylus pushes off from the door and approaches with an almost predatory grace. The teasing glint in his eyes fades slightly as he crouches beside the bed, his expression softening as his hand reaches out to press against your forehead. His touch is cool—no wonder, since the rest of the mansion is freezing—and the sensation sends a refreshing chill through your heated skin.

“You still have a fever.” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple.

Rafayel shakes his head, giving you a disapproving look. “See? You’re in no condition to leave. I’ll prepare you tea and breakfast.”

Your protests die on your lips as Sylus pulls away, his touch lingering on your skin. Both men turn around and leave before you can say anything else.

The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone once again. You sink deeper into the bed, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your thoughts swirl, still caught in the lingering effect of their presence. You turn on your side, facing the window, staring at the thick velvet curtains that block out the view of raindrops racing down the tall windows. As much as you want to leave, as much as you should leave, you know your body isn’t ready. The fever might not be severe, but it’s enough to weaken you. Slipping away now—especially into the woods with no clear path—feels like a death wish.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips. For now, the best option is to rest and regain your strength. You can’t deny how safe their presence makes you feel, even if you don’t fully understand why. Something about them pulls you in, something more than just their looks.

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion pull you under.

#love and deepspace #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #zayne love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier smut #zayne smut #sylus smut #rafayel smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader

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juricel · 4 months ago

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SILLY LITTLE REQUEST BUT LISTEN PLS 🙏🙏

fem!reader telling the beasts their tits are bigger than them 🤏🤏

a/n: ????? anon... sigh. anyway, content warnings are only suggestive themes, clothed flondling, strip tease & flirty banter—no actual nsfw content.

— shadow milk cookie x fem!reader, burning spice cookie x fem!reader, mystic flour cookie x fem!reader, eternal sugar cookie x fem!reader, silent salt cookie x fem!reader

at your words, a smug little smile curves its way onto SHADOW MILK COOKIE's lips, his gaze sharp and mischievous. "oh? are they now? like what you see?" he drawls, the tone dripping with arrogance and humor, like he's found the perfect opportunity to show off, "well—" you trail off, and he laughs: with a slow, deliberate grace, he begins to toy with the edge of his bodysuit's sleeve, peeling off the fabric slowly. each movement drawn out, agonizingly slow, until, with what seems like a painstakingly dramatic flourish, he pulls it down—just enough to expose his bare shoulder, a slight glimpse of his chest poking through.

you freeze, your mind scrambling to catch up with the scene unfolding before you. It’s not until that moment—when the sight settles into your senses—that the full absurdity of what’s happening hits you, oh. oh.

next goes his other sleeve.

It wasn’t that you meant to stare—no, not at all, not in any deliberate, perverse way—but when, before you, BURNING SPICE COOKIE's chest lay exposed, no barrier, no modesty, and that size, impossible to ignore. It was a sight that seized your attention; "I guess you'd be hard-pressed to find bigger than those. must be nice to brag about." you weren’t seducing, not exactly—but when he loomed over you, broad chest casting its shadow, you faltered. "a bigger body just means a stronger shield. nothing more to it than that. would you have that same attitude once you've been smothered beneath them? keep mouthing off, and I might just test it." he threatens. his presence presses on you, relentless, suffocating, yet curiously magnetic. you can hear the promise in his words, the challenge wrapped in those syllables. you shouldn't, of course. you shouldn't entertain the thought of it—but, to be entirely truthful... it wasn't like you were opposed to that idea...

SILENT SALT COOKIE with an air of quiet contemplation, regards you. you, naturally, interpret the stillness as a polite dismissal of your words—an imperceptible brushing aside of your rather inconsequential utterances. however, much to your bewilderment, your words are not disregarded. instead, they are misinterpreted, embraced even, as an invitation. the cookie reluctantly reaches out, hand gently squeezing your chest and in an swift motion, quicker than you could possibly perceive, immediately pulls away as if its touch were a mere whisper against your chest; fleeting, and subtle, that it might as well have been a figment of your imagination—the only remnant sign of the occurrence being the voice that rasps from them, hoarse and hushed from no use since centuries, yet it is clear enough to pass off as a murmur, “It’s not too bad.”

you blink, utterly baffled, your mind scrambling to make sense of the absurdity of it all. and then, without warning, a burst of laughter erupts from you—a deep, uncontrollable fit of giggles. sometimes you really forget how little they were experienced about these things.

ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE, her soft rosy curls tumbling in gentle waves over her delicate shoulders, withdrew her head from the chest upon which it had been resting, and she tilts her head to the side—her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lips curled into a teasing smile that promised trouble. “well, isn’t that a little perverse?” she purred, her voice light but edged with playful reproach. with a breathy laugh, she leaned closer, her voice dropping just low enough to make the air feel charged. “might i have require to punish you for being so crude?” In spite of her words, she made no move to push you away, instead, she interlocked her fingers with yours, drawing your hand towards her. with a slow, deliberate motion, she placed it gently upon her chest.

"better, mmh?" she tips her head to the side.

you might as well caress a wall if you want to touch MYSTIC FLOUR COOKI's chest.

a/n: I feel as though this request was specifically asked for burning spice considering his mantits are literally out in the open and i fear hes the only one i get... i don't really think shadow milk cookie has mantits and silent salt is enby to me and as for mystic... cmon.

#cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #cookie run kingdom x you #mystic flour cookie x reader #eternal sugar cookie x reader #eternal sugar x reader #mystic flour x reader #burning spice x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #silent salt cookie x reader #silent salt x reader

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yandere-romanticaa · 5 months ago

Text

The sun shined bright in the vast blue sky, as it always did in the Eternal City. Each footstep you took felt more draining by the minute, like a harsh shackle had been placed onto the soft flesh, the chains rattling loudly inside your mind but the soft echoes within the massive hallway were a gentle reminder that was not the predicament you were in.

An intricate golden bowl was in your hands, its content filled to the brim with various red fruits to consume, the produce fresh and ripe. It was difficult to not grab a little something from the bowl as you walked down the hallway, the sweet juices of the fruit filling your mouth to the brim as you hummed in pleasure, glee shining in your eyes, a (somewhat) pathetic attempt at trying to keep your heartbeat steady and nerves at bay.

Speaking with Mydeimos could be such a daunting thing to do. Whenever his gaze would fall onto you, it felt as though the earth would just swallow your body whole. Tiny bugs most likely had a better standing in his eye than you ever did so why were you rushing to speak to him again?

With a nervous chuckle, you recalled the small acts of kindness the harsh prince would show you. No matter the function or event he would always save a seat for you somewhere, or how he always made sure you came out unscathed from battle or if he was feeling more generous than usual, perhaps be would even share his drink with you.

Naturally, whenever someone would call him out on these little shenanigans, Mydei would shut that person down with lightning speed. He's a lot of things but he is not impolite, he'd reason with a frown.

The relationship you had with him was odd. He terrified you to the core but you still could not bring yourself to genuinely dislike him. Earlier today you had noticed that the man was feeling down - his gaze felt heavier than usual whenever you'd lock eyes, his shoulders were both too rigid and slumped at the same time, everything about him was just off.

And what better way to cheer him up than to bring him something sweet to bite?

The chirping of birds could be heard in the distance as you neared the garden. Greenery and various blooms thrived all over the place, the occasional hint of gold bringing even more life into this small corner of heaven. In a matter of moments you spotted him sitting by his lonesome, golden hair shining brightly beneath the massive tree he sat under, his back facing you. The cascading shadows of the looming branches gave the otherwise serene garden a dark energy, as if some hidden evil was just waiting to jump at you. It gave an even bigger edge to Mydei, his figure looking even more massive than it usually was, the red markings on his body almost looking like real droplets blood, dripping down his being, a warning that you should not approach the resting beast.

Even beasts crave attention. Mydei was no different. Even with all his strength, even with all his might, his wisdom, his curse - he still had a heart, even if he did not act like it.

You carefully made you way towards the man as the grass beneath your feet gave way, masking the sound of upcoming footsteps. Inching closer and closer to him felt wrong but raw, as if you were testing your luck against something. The warrior said nothing as you stood behind him, which made you wonder if he was even aware of your presence.

"What brings you here, little pest?"

Ah, of course. How silly to think that he would be none the wiser of you being close, let alone right behind him. You felt like face palming due to your idiocy but it was too late to back out of this now. Lowering yourself onto the ground, you placed the golden bowl right next to the man, the red fruit tempting him to take a bite.

Wordlessly, he did.

Golden claws inched close to the bowl, his hand now full with strawberries, raspberries and pomegranate seeds as he brought it to his mouth and swallowed it all down with a single gulp.

Wow. Perhaps bringing him a drink would have also been appropriate...

You sat like that in silence with him, your arms resting on your lap as you watched Mydei scarf down the fine fruit, his Adam apple boping up and down each time he would swallow. If he was not so fast, perhaps it could have even been hypnotizing... In a matter of moments, the bowl was completely empty and Mydei let out a sigh, his head now slightly turned towards you. He hummed, the sound low and rumbly, as if he was trying to figure out what to say. His red eye almost looked like a slit underneath the shadows which made you gulp accidentally.

He snorted, the sound loud and amused.

"You are such a confusing person. Has anyone ever told you that?" asked Mydei, his voice even and composed.

"I scare the living daylights out of you, and yet, you never fail to seek me out."

He... He was not wrong. Each time he would open his mouth, you felt like bursting into tears. Whenever he would go out of his way to talk to you, his words would always sting like nothing else, the harsh jabs wounding your heart in the process.

But even with all of the hurt, all of the discomfort he would cause you, there was a bizarre sense of comfort there. It felt less like the sweet embrace of safety and more like a thorny promise to always be there, no matter what. Perhaps you were a little insane, because why else would you do this?

You didn't even realize that you had outstretched your hands and had started to wrap them around his body. Halfway through the action you had realized just what you were doing, which the prince noticed by the sudden jolt. Warmth consumed you both as he allowed you to stay there, to embrace him in the shadows as he pondered on what he ought to do with you.

He hated you. He hated how weak you made him, utterly despised how he felt his soul come to life whenever you took time to pamper him like this. Bringing him fruits, honestly...

Your worst crime of all was having such a fragile and gentle heart. In his eyes, he could easily rip it open, claws tainted with your blood as he could already picture you begging him for mercy, to please not harm you and he would grin, because you had no right to hold so much power over him.

There were many things he wished to say. Many jabs, so many truths he wished to reveal but he ultimately chose not to.

Seeing you willingly come to him like this was enough for him. Even the strongest of predators needed to plan accordingly. Right now, he would bide his time and strike when it was right. Mydei was ready to sink his claws and fangs deep inside you and perhaps you'd let him.

That was the true horror of the situation at hand. The fact that he could maul you beyond recognition and you still would not have the heart to hate him... How dastardly.

How precious.

As a beast, he was pleased to know that such fine prey had so willingly submitted to him. But, as a man, his heart could not help but to shed a tear at the thought that there was someone who actually cared.

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rafesapologist · 9 months ago

Text

strangers ─ drew starkey; ch. 1

summary: getting casted on outer banks threw you into overnight stardom, and an unforeseeable off-screen romance with one of hollywood's newest and biggest heartthrobs.

warnings: nothing yet, just not proof read fully

author's note: i want to preface that i was heavily influenced by karen x graham from daisy jones and the six (iykyk) as well as chase and madelyn's irl relationship for this story. i'm really excited for you guys to read this and as usual, if you'd like to be on the taglist please let me know!

You couldn’t sit still, fingers twisting the hem of your shirt while your knee bounced uncontrollably in the backseat of the rented SUV. The soft hum of the engine only amplified your restlessness. Your eyes flickered around, catching glimpses of palm trees and blurred tourists through the tinted windows—offering a momentary shield from the unforgiving Los Angeles sun and the bustling crowds beyond.

“How are you feeling?” Kendra, your manager, chimed in from beside you, her smile perfectly in place, glossy lips forming a curve that felt rehearsed.

You forced a chuckle, though it barely masked the pounding in your chest. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.” The words came out flat, a thin veil over the tension twisting inside you.

Kendra gave your leg a quick pat, her reassurance as smooth as ever. “Nothing to worry about. You’ve already nailed the hardest part—the audition. A chemistry read? That’s a breeze in comparison.” Her voice was soothing, but her focus never left the phone in her hand, the gesture feeling mechanical—like a line delivered without thought.

Auditioning for the show had been a gamble, and the stakes felt even higher now. You were still a relative unknown, and Outer Banks wasn’t just any show—it was the show. A streaming giant. You’d almost declined when the offer came, the weight of its success pressing down like an invisible hand. But here you were, convinced by the right mix of encouragement and blind hope, about to see if that gamble would pay off.

"You just need to go in there and feed off your co-star’s energy. Whatever emotion they’re giving you, absorb it and give it right back," your manager instructed, her voice firm as her eyes finally lifted from her phone. She leaned forward slightly, her hand resting on your arm as if to ground you, while the SUV glided through the final stretch of traffic. The weight of her words settled heavily in the air, matched only by the tension in your chest. The destination loomed closer, visible just beyond the tinted windows, and her gaze locked on you, expectant and unwavering, as if her will alone could push you over the finish line.

“Got it,” you replied, forcing another thin-lipped smile—polite yet distant, as if dismissing her with the same gesture. Your attempt to stay cordial was barely masking your desire for space. Just then, your heart gave a hard thud, perfectly timed with the jolt of the SUV rolling over the first speed bump in the studio parking lot. The looming reality hit you like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs, as the building came into full view. Each second that passed only deepened the pit in your stomach, the dreadful weight of what was to come pressing harder.

“Thank you,” you murmured to the driver, slipping a small cash tip across the center console as your manager was already halfway out of the SUV. It was a quiet gesture of appreciation, a way to acknowledge the small but crucial role he’d played in getting you there, to this moment. He turned, offering you a kind, knowing smile before you stepped out, gently closing the door behind you. As you straightened your skirt, you couldn’t help but stare up at the building in front of you, its towering stature appearing overhead.

Kendra strode ahead, confidently leading the way as she pulled open the door and gestured for you to step inside. Though her presence could be demanding and stern, in that moment it offered a small but necessary comfort amid the unfamiliar sea of faces that now surrounded you. The room quieted as you entered, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned in your direction, their stares heavy and intense, making you feel small under the weight of their scrutiny. You forced a smile—thin but polite—trying to seem more outgoing than you felt, hoping to project the right impression even as your nerves simmered beneath the surface.

“Well, look who it is—the girl of the hour! Y/N! So nice to see you again,” an unfamiliar voice rang out, though the man’s face sparked a vague sense of recognition, likely from the audition. He stood up, extending his hand with a broad smile that was meant to put you at ease.

"Hello," you replied warmly, masking the swirl of anxiety inside as you shook his hand, maintaining a steady grip. “Thank you again for allowing me this far into the audition process. I’m very grateful.” Your voice remained poised, calm, even though your insides felt like they were twisting into knots.

Your manager’s approval resonated softly behind you, a gentle hum of reassurance as she watched the exchange unfold. “I’m not sure if I introduced myself properly last time we met. My name is Jonah; I’m the director for the show,” he said, his voice rich and authoritative, each word heavy with expectation. A lump formed in your throat, the gravity of his presence amplifying the stakes, pressing down like a lead weight.

“Today, we’re going to have you do a chemistry read with who will be your love interest on the show.” His words hung in the air like a charged whisper, and your eyes widened, disbelief swirling within you. The truth struck with the force of a summer storm; you hadn’t fully grasped the role awaiting you until now.

The thought of embodying someone’s love interest sent a ripple of exhilaration and fear through your veins, making your stomach tumble as if caught in a tempest. Would it be a playful spark, filled with laughter and fleeting glances, or a brooding romance, steeped in longing and tension?

You nodded, a practiced motion that belied the ball of anxiety swirling within. Each beat of your heart echoed the dread tightening in your stomach, the sensation bubbling up like a restless tide. The thought of being paired with one of the actors to portray a romance on-screen sent a shiver racing down your spine.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the lump in your throat aside, your gaze flickering around the room, desperate for any hint of who your co-star might be. Each unfamiliar face felt like a potential source of scrutiny, and the air thickened with tension as you scanned the room, searching for clues amidst the sea of strangers.

“Okay!” Jonah clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and authoritative, breaking the taut silence that had settled. “Let’s get Drew out here.” His voice rang out, clear and commanding, drawing every eye to the door, where a buzz of anticipation rippled through the room. You felt the air shift, charged with expectation, as if the very walls were leaning in to hear who would step through that doorway.

A wave of heat washed over you at the sound of his name, igniting a fire of recognition deep within. You had seen him countless times in glossy magazines and flickering screens, caught glimpses of him at film festivals where the air buzzed with admiration, yet never had your paths crossed until now. Though he wasn’t the biggest name yet, he was a force—a powerful actor whose presence resonated through the industry like a distant thunderstorm.

As the thought of sharing the screen with him settled in your mind, your heart fluttered, a nervous bird trapped in a cage of anticipation. How could you possibly keep pace with someone whose talent seemed to flow effortlessly, whose performances were a masterclass in emotion? Doubt began to coil around your thoughts, tightening like a vine, each tendril whispering fears of inadequacy.

The room felt like a distant echo, the chatter of voices fading into a soft hum as you waited for him to enter. Your heart raced, a wild thump that reverberated through your chest, each pulse a reminder of the anticipation coursing through your veins. The other directors and screenwriters settled back into their seats, alongside your manager, their eyes fixed on you like an audience eager for the first act to begin.

Just as you began to drown in the weight of their stares, the atmosphere shifted, the air charged with electric anticipation. The door creaked open, and time seemed to stretch, every second hanging heavy. Your gaze snapped toward the sound, and your throat tightened as a tall, brooding figure stepped into the room. His presence filled the space, his stature both commanding and slightly intimidating.

For a brief moment, your mind went blissfully blank, as if time had paused to let the reality of him sink in. He moved with an effortless grace, each step purposeful as he greeted the group at the table, his voice smooth and resonant. You could see Jonah nodding in acknowledgment, and then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, he turned his gaze toward you.

Suddenly, he was there, standing before you, and the air between you felt impossibly thick, heavy with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The moment was alive with a sense of anticipation, the unknown curling around you like smoke. You straightened your posture instinctively, trying to summon every ounce of composure, as if by holding yourself steady, you could convince the room—and yourself—that this was effortless, that you weren’t rattled by the sheer gravity of the encounter.

With a smooth, fluid motion, Drew extended his hand, the gesture both graceful and commanding, his fingers outstretched with a quiet confidence that spoke of experience beyond his years. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Drew,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft, a gentle warmth woven into the words that caught you off guard. His tone was far kinder than you’d imagined, the kind of voice that could lull a room into ease.

As you reached out to meet his handshake, his touch was firm yet light, grounding yet unassuming, and in that brief connection, the world around you seemed to pause. The noise of the room, the watching eyes, the weight of your nerves—all of it faded, if only for a heartbeat. His presence was commanding but not overwhelming, his demeanor holding the delicate balance between strength and gentleness.

"Hello," you replied, your voice lifting an octave higher than usual, a subtle attempt to come across as feminine, poised. "I'm Y/N." As his hand met yours, your attention flickered to the way his fingers moved—effortlessly, fluidly—sending a tremor through your chest. Your heart skipped a beat at the touch, your pulse quickening under the gentle but assured pressure of his grip.

You couldn’t ignore how small you felt beneath his towering presence. The realization that you had to tilt your head slightly just to meet his eyes made the knot in your stomach twist tighter. His height, his frame—it all made the space between you feel charged, his presence simultaneously grounding and intimidating.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said again, his voice smooth as honey, the warmth in his eyes unwavering. His gaze was soft, kind, a contradiction to the commanding figure he cut. You could feel his energy, an unspoken ease radiating from him, as if he could sense the nerves bubbling beneath your surface.

"If you're feeling nervous or uncomfortable at any point, just let me know," he added, his voice dropping lower, as though he were shielding his words from the watchful eyes of the casting directors around you. "But I'm sure you've got this." His tone was gentle, reassuring, his words slipping through the space between you with a quiet confidence.

You nodded quietly at his gesture, a soft acknowledgment of his awareness and kindness, the unspoken "thank you" hanging between you. Before you could find any words to respond, one of the casting crew approached, handing each of you a script for the audition. The weight of the paper felt heavier than it should, the magnitude of the moment settling in deeper.

Chemistry reads had never been your strong suit, not in the brief time you’d been working in this industry. And this? This felt like a leap into a whole new realm, with expectations looming over you. Your eyes flicked down to the script, scanning the lines with the practiced speed of someone used to absorbing words as if they were lifelines. You read them once, then twice, allowing the emotions on the page to sink in and swirl around your mind, even as the undercurrent of nerves made it harder to focus.

Drew stood calmly in front of you, his presence steadying but no less overwhelming. You could feel his quiet confidence as he glanced through his own lines. The room was still, save for the soft rustling of papers and the occasional murmur from the casting team in the background. You straightened your back, holding onto every ounce of composure you could muster, and waited for the director’s cue.

"Alright, you may begin whenever you're ready," Jonah announced, his soft smile doing little to ease the weight pressing on your chest. His eyes flickered between you and Drew, expectant, watching for the magic to unfold. As his words sank in, a queasy wave rolled through your stomach, the weight of the moment pressing harder against your nerves. There was no turning back now—any hesitation would be a glaring failure, something that could follow you like a shadow in this unforgiving industry. The thought of being blackballed clawed at your mind, and you suddenly longed to disappear, to slip into a place where eyes weren’t always watching.

But before you could let the panic take hold, Drew stepped into the moment, his voice cutting through the tension like a lifeline. He began his lines effortlessly, the words rolling off his tongue as though they belonged to him, his presence filling the room with a quiet confidence. It was as if he had taken command of the space, a seasoned professional steering the scene with ease.

As if possessed by his character, Rafe, Drew dove into his lines with raw intensity. "Maisy, I care about you. But I-I can't risk it. I would never forgive myself if I got you involved in my mess and you got hurt because of it." His hand trembled slightly, betraying the emotion he was drawing from deep within. He pointed to his chest with a shaky finger, his voice quivering just enough to feel real, to pull at the heartstrings. His head hung low, the weight of sorrow written across his face, his entire presence drenched in regret.

You stood there, momentarily in awe of his transformation. The way he embodied Rafe with such vulnerability fueled your own performance, making it impossible not to feel the emotions he was radiating. It lit a fire within you, urging you to dive into the scene, to match the depth he was offering.

"Rafe," you spoke, your voice slipping into the soft, pleading tone of Maisy, letting the character take over your body as effortlessly as breathing. The words trembled on your lips, each one laced with a quiet desperation. "I don’t care what happens to me. I just want to be with you. Don’t… don’t do this."

You shook your head slowly, your movements measured, deliberate, as you stepped forward, closing the space between you. Your hand reached out, grazing his cheek, the tender contact filled with unspoken emotion. As if on cue, tears welled in your eyes, the sting of them amplifying the moment. You gazed up at him, your expression filled with a mixture of pain and hope, as if you were begging not just for Maisy’s life, but for everything she believed in. It was a skill you prided yourself on—channeling emotion so deeply that it felt like it bled from your very soul, and in this moment, you were no longer yourself. You were Maisy, standing on the edge of heartbreak.

Drew’s eyes, glossy with unshed tears, locked onto yours, his sorrow so palpable it seemed to seep into the air between you. His hands ran through his hair in frustration, fingers gripping the ends as if trying to hold himself together. He began to pace, his movements restless, the emotional weight in his voice thick and raw.

"You don’t get it, Maisy," he started, his voice breaking with a mix of frustration and pain. "Everything I’ve ever cared about in my life has abandoned me. I’ve never had anybody who cares about me like you do. I love you so much that it hurts—it hurts me," he cried, pressing a trembling finger into his chest, the gesture full of anguish. His blue eyes, once so calm, were now brimming with tears that slipped down his face, streaking his cheeks as he stood there, vulnerable in a way that left him utterly exposed.

"I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you," he continued, his voice cracking, "but I have to protect you, even if that means letting you go." His brows furrowed deeply, his entire expression twisted in agony, his gaze never leaving yours. It was as though, in that moment, Rafe was no longer a character—he was real, and the pain etched on his face was authentic, an outpouring of emotions he couldn’t contain.

But you didn’t miss a beat. Despite the intensity of his performance, you held steady, the emotions boiling within you just as fierce. "You can’t make that decision for me, Rafe," you pleaded, your voice rising with a mixture of desperation and defiance. Your hands flew into the air as if surrendering to the chaos of the moment.

"If I get hurt, that’s on me. I knew the risk of being with you, and I don’t care!" Your words spilled out with conviction, each one wrapped in the weight of Maisy’s determination. "Nothing is going to make me leave." Your voice was firm but edged with vulnerability, the sternness in your tone undercut by the undeniable pain that flickered beneath. You stood there, watching him, as if your very heart was on the line, a pitiful sort of strength anchoring you in place, demanding that he listen—that he understand.

"Being with you is worth it all," you added softly, your voice tinged with a raw desperation that could only come from someone who had lived through heartbreak. The vulnerability in your tone wrapped itself around the moment, thickening the air between you. Drew’s blue eyes, glossy with emotion, flickered between yours as if he were trying to decode the tragedy etched in your expression. It was as though, in that fleeting silence, his heart was breaking too, caught in the moment of the scene you were creating together.

Then, without warning, his large hands cupped your face, his touch sending warmth rushing to your cheeks. His palms, rough yet tender, cradled your skin, and for a moment, the world outside the scene seemed to vanish. "Promise me you won't go anywhere," he pleaded, his voice trembling with the same desperate intensity that mirrored your own. The emotion in his words was so intense, it felt as if the two of you were teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

"I promise, Rafe," you reassured him, your voice soft but unwavering, a soothing balm to the storm brewing in the room. Despite the emotional intensity, you held steady, grounding both of you in the moment.

For a brief second, the world paused. There was silence—a sacred, fragile quiet—allowing the vulnerability between you to speak louder than any dialogue could. The casting crew sat in rapt attention, witnessing the depth you had both drawn from. Drew’s thumb gently grazed your cheek, his gaze locked onto yours, as though he couldn’t bear to break the connection. The moment was electric, heavy with meaning, as if you were no longer acting but living the characters’ truths.

"I won’t let anything happen to you, alright? I swear on my life," he vowed, his voice deep and resolute, yet drenched in emotion and passion. His words hit like a surge of energy, drawing you in, making your heart skip in response. There was something in the way he spoke that made it feel real, as if this promise wasn't just for Maisy, but for you too.

You nodded up at him, chest heaving as you breathed in the weight of the moment, each inhale heavy with the raw intensity of the scene. It felt as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you, emotions pulsing between your bodies like a silent current, your heart racing to keep up. You weren’t acting anymore—every word felt lived, every gesture steeped in the desperation and love your characters clung to. The air between you and Drew hummed, alive with the electricity of shared vulnerability, a fragile bond that tethered you both to this moment.

Then, like a sharp crack in the stillness, a clap echoed through the room. The spell shattered instantly, the delicate tension that had built between you dissolving as reality rushed back in.

"That was incredible," Jonah’s voice broke through the haze, his head shaking in awe, a grin of disbelief spreading across his face. "The chemistry between you two is beautiful." His words were thick with praise, and you couldn’t help but glance over at Drew, a faint smile teasing the edges of your lips. The connection you’d forged in those few minutes lingered, a quiet understanding that neither of you spoke aloud.

"I think we’ve seen enough," Jonah continued, his tone final yet filled with certainty. "I think you’d be perfect as Maisy."

The world around you stilled, sound fading into a distant hum as his words sank in. Your heart seemed to pause, suspended in disbelief, before it raced forward, pounding against your chest like a wild drum. It was as if time itself had slowed, every second stretching out as the magnitude of what he’d said enveloped you.

"Oh my God, thank you!" The words burst from your lips, a mix of breathless excitement and overwhelming gratitude. Your cheeks flushed a rosy pink as joy flooded through you, warmth spreading through your body in waves. It was impossible to contain the wide, radiant smile that broke across your face. The world blurred around you, your focus narrowing to this single, life-altering moment. You felt lighter, as though all the doubts and fears you’d carried had evaporated into thin air.

Your eyes darted between Jonah and Drew, the weight of their gazes making everything feel real—so achingly real. You had done it. You had stepped into the role, not just as Maisy, but as someone who had finally claimed their place in the world.

"You did great," Drew said, his smile wide and genuine, a warm glow in his eyes that radiated excitement. You could feel his energy wrapping around you, a comforting embrace that mirrored your own joy. As your smile blossomed, his grew in tandem.

Your manager beamed, clapping along with the group of directors, her expression a blend of pride and exhilaration that you had never witnessed before. The room buzzed with energy, each person caught up in the moment of celebration.

"Thank you so much for this opportunity," you replied, your voice a melody of gratitude, bubbling up from within. "I won’t let you down." You stepped forward, reaching for Jonah’s hand, your heart fluttering with excitement as you shook his hand firmly. It was a gesture of gratitude, a promise of your commitment, and you felt a rush of warmth at the connection—a shared understanding that this was just the beginning.

You moved down the line, shaking hands with the rest of the crew, each grip solid and reassuring. Their smiles met yours, each one a testament to the hard work and passion that had brought you to this moment. In those brief exchanges, you felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders, replaced by a sense of belonging and purpose that ignited a fire within you.

You made your way back to Drew, and to your surprise, he enveloped you in a hug that spoke volumes, his arms wrapping around you in a warmth that felt both comforting and exhilarating. "Congratulations," he murmured softly in your ear, his voice a gentle melody that resonated in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. The embrace lingered, a moment suspended in time, before he pulled back, his smile radiating a bright, infectious joy that lit up the room.

"Thank you. You were awesome, by the way. I'm excited to work with you," you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips, raw and unfiltered, yet undeniably true.

Drew chuckled, a rich sound that sent a ripple of warmth through you. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he nodded, "Likewise," he replied, adding a playful wink that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. In that fleeting exchange, the connection deepened, an unspoken promise of collaboration and creativity.

Turning towards your manager, you embraced her, feeling the solid weight of her pride enveloping you like a soft cloak. She returned the hug with a firm pat on your back, her touch both grounding and uplifting. "You did great, kid. I'm so proud of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion, wrapping around you like a warm embrace on a chilly day.

You left the studio with a sense of accomplishment unlike anything you had ever experienced before, a buoyant feeling that danced in your chest like a flame ignited by success. The joy radiating off your manager only amplified your triumph, her excitement palpable, like the warm glow of the sun on your skin.

As you slipped into the black SUV parked outside, a smile crept onto your face, blossoming with every heartbeat. The vehicle felt like a cocoon, enveloping you in a new sense of pride, a sanctuary that held the promise of new beginnings.

Your manager, brimming with enthusiasm, quickly dialed your agency, her voice animated as she relayed the news of your audition triumph. You could hear her words spill forth like a rushing river, each syllable a testament to your hard work and dedication.

As you absorbed your newfound outlook on life, the sunny L.A. sky seemed to sparkle with an ethereal clarity, its azure expanse stretching endlessly above you like an artist’s canvas, brushed with hues of hope and possibility. The golden rays cascaded down, bathing the city in a warm embrace, each glimmer igniting your spirit as if the universe itself were celebrating your triumph alongside you. In that moment, it felt as though no force on earth could disrupt the intoxicating high that enveloped you, each breath filled with the sweet essence of achievement.

"You better get ready for tonight, 'cause we are celebrating on me!" your manager exclaimed, her voice a jubilant melody that danced through the air, weaving joy into the fabric of the day. Her enthusiasm sparkled like champagne bubbles, promising an evening alive with laughter and camaraderie.

With a smile stretching across your face, you realized that this was just the beginning. The night was a canvas yet to be painted, and you were the artist, ready to fill it with laughter, joy, and new memories.

And in that instant, you understood: you were no longer the girl who had once doubted herself. You were a force to be reckoned with, ready to embrace every opportunity that lay ahead. The chapter of uncertainty had closed, making way for a new narrative, one filled with passion, courage, and the promise of dreams finally taking flight.

And maybe even something more.

#drew starkey #rafe cameron #obx #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe angst #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey imagine #drew #drew starkey x y/n #obx 4 #obx fic #rafe obx

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misswynters · 7 months ago

Text

hands off

featuring. sevika x reader

requested by @ekkosh

The Last Drop. A place where everyone goes to unwind with a heavy drink. It was buzzing with its usual sounds of music, chatter, and the clink of glasses. You were sitting on a high stool near the counter, sipping on your drink as Sevika had gone to grab another round for the two of you. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of spilt ale, but you’d grown used to the atmosphere of bar. It was part of being with Sevika: her world, her places, her people. As you tapped your fingers along to the bass heavy tune playing in the background, a man slid into the seat beside you, leaning closer than necessary.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he slurred slightly, though his eyes sparkled with intent. “Haven’t seen you here before. You come here often?”

You gave him a polite but firm smile, hoping the subtle tilt of your body away from him would send the message. “I’m here with someone,” you replied abruptly, however the man didn’t seem to care.

“Oh, come on now,” he chuckled, leaning even closer, his cologne and alcohol mixing into a nauseating cloud. “Whoever they are, they’re not here now. Why don’t you let me keep you company?”

Before you could respond, sevika loomed over the both of you. The change in the air was immediate: it was heavier, charged, like a storm about to break. She stood there, towering you with her metal arm shining under the dim bar lights. She didn’t say anything at first, letting her sheer presence do the talking as she took in the scene with a cold gaze.

“Is there a reason you’re talking to my girl?” she asked, her voice low and smooth but laced with unmistakable anger.

The man froze, his confidence wavering as he turned to face her. “I-I didn’t know she was taken,” he stammered, his bravado evaporating under Sevika’s glare. You couldn’t believe your ears, the guy was lying right in front of you, but you held back trying to tell the actual truth. Knowing that sevika will handle it, for the most part.

“Well, now you do,” Sevika said, stepping closer, her height and broad shoulders making him look comically small in comparison. “And unless you want to find out how hard this arm can hit, I suggest you fuck off. Now.”

The man raised his hands in mock surrender, his face pale. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” he muttered, practically tripping over himself as he fled.

Once he was out of sight, Sevika turned her attention to you, her hard expression softening. “You okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, but still gruff with residual tension.

You smirked up at her, unable to resist teasing. “I don’t know, Sev. I think I could’ve handled him. He wasn’t that bad.”

Her eyes narrowed, though there was a flicker of amusement behind them. “Don’t start with me,” she warned, but the corner of her lips twitched into a small smirk as she placed her hand possessively on your waist.

“Oh, come on,” you teased further, leaning into her and resting your hand on her chest. “You’re kind of sexy when you’re all protective like that. Big, bad Sevika swooping in to save the day.”

Her gaze darkened but not with anger. She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Keep running that mouth, babe, and I’ll show you just how protective I can be when we get home.”

Your cheeks flushed at her tone, and you bit your lip to hide the grin threatening to spread across your face. “Is that supposed to scare me?” you challenged, though your voice came out softer than you intended.

Sevika chuckled, the sound low and rumbling as she cupped your cheek with her hand. “It’s not a threat,” she murmured, her thumb brushing your skin. “It’s a promise.” The two of you stayed like that for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background. You felt safe, wrapped in her presence. Eventually, Sevika pulled back slightly, her lips curving into a smirk.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break his nose,” she said, half-joking. “Next time, though, don’t even let it get that far. Call me over sooner.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, though the sincerity in her voice didn’t go unnoticed. “Fine, fine. But you have to admit, it’s kind of nice seeing you get all worked up over me.”

Sevika huffed, shaking her head with a small grin. “Annoying,” she muttered, though the affection in her tone was undeniable.

As the night wore on, the two of you stayed close, her arm draped protectively around your shoulders. You couldn’t help but feel a little smug. After all, how many people could say they had someone like Sevika willing to scare off sleazy bar patrons and look damn good doing it?

“Ready to head home?” she asked eventually, her lips brushing against your temple in a rare display of public affection.

“Yeah,” you replied, resting your head against her shoulder. “But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook. I want to see this ‘promise’ of yours in action.”

Sevika smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief as she led you out of the bar. “Oh, darling,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “You’re in for one hell of a night then.”

taglist. @blckbny @ch-bl0gsss @b-lossm @fortluocha @ekkosh @limereance @wolfessa @themostlesbianever @simonapietra @1-800-fantasy @saikikittykusuo @sevikaishot @sugarplumz100 @chaostudi @wxwrites @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @robzo4 @puppyphia @xreadersarchive @boom58 @d3adbrainer @kylorey25 @slutmeoutfortoge @yaeil @sapphicarribean @randomperson291 @mvistl @hellokittyfeenie @literallyimthenerdemoji @nikaachuuuu @prettysupplicant @iamaboringrattat

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waynes-multiverse · 1 month ago

Text

Time After Time – Chapter 8

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language & smut (yes, we're going fully there), reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, fluff and feels, sexism/feminism, angst, the final end of the (first) slow burn

Word Count: 9.3k

Posted on Patreon April 18, 2025

A/N: Daddy Dearest is finally showing up, a feminist revolution is happening, and our couple seals the deal. Yup, 4.4k of this one is smut. Don't blame me – it was all Ben and his filthy mouth. Guess that's what happens when you let that man wait six weeks. Good luck, loves! You may need tissues for various reasons during this 😜 ✨ Chapter title comes from Gone with the Wind (1939)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn

The sky was gray with the weight of an almost-spring storm, clouds stretching low over the sprawl of the estate like a woolen blanket ready to suffocate the light. The mansion, with its high windows and columns stained faintly with soot, loomed behind him, but Ben ignored it. He didn’t even drop his suitcase inside.

His coat was slung over one shoulder, his hat clutched in his hand. Mud squelched underfoot as he crossed the back lawn, past the dormant rose beds and skeletal hedges, toward the old groundskeeper’s shed near the tree line, where George told him he’d find you.

He just needed to see you.

The door creaked as he opened it, and you turned sharply from the blackboard, where the chalk still lingered in your hand, equations spiraling behind you like maps of another universe.

“Ben?”

Your voice stopped his heart for a beat. Then it kicked back up, wild and alive. He barely managed a breath before he crossed the floor in two long strides, swept you into his arms, and kissed you like it was the first and last time all at once. You melted into it, your fingers curling into his coat, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him – his warmth, his heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“I missed you,” he said, quiet and raw like you were his lifeline. His fingers caressed your cheek, brushing a bit of chalk dust from your skin. “I’m happy you’re still here.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your smile soft and real in a way it hadn’t been for days. Your heart pounded furiously in his presence. “Happy you’re home.”

He pulled you close again, his arms tightening like he didn’t want to let go. “We came back a day early. My father was... in rare form.”

You could see it in his faintly freckled face then – the gray sheen over his usually sparkling emerald eyes like November fog, the way his jaw had set itself like stone. He even looked like he’d lost about ten pounds from stress alone. Two weeks with that man would do that to anyone, but Ben had been walking that gauntlet his whole life.

“What happened?” you asked softly, carding your fingers gently through his hair.

Ben smacked his lips, almost in defeat. “He embarrassed me,” he replied with a short laugh that had no humor in it. His voice was bitter, but beneath it, was something more wounded. “Told the board upgrading the furnaces was a pointless waste of money. Called me a dreamer. In front of everyone.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him head-on, your expression sharp with fire. “Well, he’s wrong. Upgrading those furnaces is the smartest thing he could do right now. It’s basic efficiency math.”

Ben looked at you, surprised at the blazing flames in your eyes. Then, with a crooked grin, he teased, “You wanna be the one who tells him that?”

You shrugged. “Sure, I’ll happily calculate it out for him if he’s having trouble understanding. Honestly, I’m way smarter than your father.”

Ben laughed – an actual laugh this time – and shook his head, his fingers brushing your jaw affectionately. “Are you crazy? I was kidding.”

“So was I,” you lied smoothly, with a mischievous little tilt of your head, just enough to make him wonder if you actually meant it.

Ben glanced behind you then, at the mess of symbols and curves on the chalkboard. “What is all that?” he asked, brow furrowing in curiosity. “That doesn’t look like anything from my physics textbooks.”

“As if you’ve ever actually opened one,” you quipped in an attempt to deflect. You moved a bit to block his view, feeling a pang of panic in your chest, but you still played it cool, pretending like the board wasn’t covered in time-loop projections and multiverse theory. “Just something I’ve been working on. Helps me think.”

He eyed you with amused suspicion. “Right. Thinking.”

“It’s private,” you added with a smirk, drawing his attention back to your face.

“Well, come inside, will you? It’s still freezing out here.” He slipped his coat from his shoulder and wrapped it around you, brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I don’t want you turning into an icicle.”

You followed him out of the shed and toward the back steps of the mansion. As your boots hit the porch, a faint melody drifted through the door – soft, elegant, almost hesitant.

Ben paused, confusion spreading across his face. “Is that… the piano?”

You just smiled. You knew what he was thinking – if you were here, who was playing?

Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around you. You stepped into the hallway outside the drawing room, where the grand Steinway stood like a forgotten relic – except it wasn’t forgotten now.

Ben’s mother sat poised at the keys, her fingers dancing over them with delicate grace. The melody was one of those half-remembered lullabies that felt like home.

Ben stood frozen. He hadn’t seen her like this in years.

“She’s been practicing again,” you said softly. “I asked her to teach me Chopin. Florence said it was her favorite to play.”

“Yeah, it was.” Ben nodded, entranced.

“We started talking,” you added. “She even took me to a tea room two weeks ago. I think it made her happy.”

“You went to a tea room?” He cocked a brow at you, an amused glint in the forest green of his eyes, faint traces of cinnamon freckles stretching with the hint of a smile.

“Yes, believe it or not.”

“Not.” Ben grinned teasingly. “Did you wear shoes?”

“Yes, of course I wore shoes!” You snorted, catching Margaret’s attention.

His mother looked up then, catching sight of her son. “Ben! Oh, sweetie, you’re home!”

Sweetie. You had not expected that nickname, but your heart swelled when you watched Ben’s face light up, strong brow twitching with specks of disbelief.

Margaret stood then and crossed the room with a composed kind of warmth, arms outstretched. She embraced him gently, then stepped back and cupped his cheeks, giving him a once-over like a mother appraising both her son and the state he’d returned in.

Then, with a glance past him toward you, her expression shifted. “I like her,” she said, voice low but meaningful. “You’ve got good taste… for once.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, just patted his cheek and turned back toward the piano with a small, knowing smile.

You stifled a snort. You’d grown very fond of Margaret Brooks in those last two weeks.

Ben blinked, still processing, and turned slowly to look at you. “What did you do to her?”

You smiled, laughing lightly at his bemusement. “Nothing. I just listened.”

“I think you might be magic, sweetheart,” he said, looking at you with something close to gratitude and awe.

If he only knew how right he was – in a way.

And between the music still lingering in the air of his childhood home and his mother’s sly approval, Ben felt something tighten in his chest then.

In the best way.

For six weeks of staying here, you had successfully avoided Ben’s father. But that lucky streak seemed to come to its bitter end at dinner tonight.

Tonight, the marvelous table was set with four plates: Ben, his mother, his father, and you – stuck right in the middle of the most awkward family dinner from Hell.

You sat at Ben’s left, your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying to ignore the gleam of polished silver forks (Three! And you had no idea which one to use first!) and the way the chair back dug sharply between your shoulder blades as the tension in the room built like storm pressure behind old glass.

Ben, on the other hand, looked calm enough, but you’d caught the slight twitch in his jaw when his father entered the room – black-suited, silver-templed, and cutting through the air like a Bowie knife.

Richard Brooks – steel magnate and professional tyrant from a long line of goddamn tyrants – sat down at the head of the table, only acknowledging you with a disapproving glance.

And yes, naturally, he was a Dick.

“I remember you mentioned a girl from school staying here.” The patriarch of the steel empire carved into his roast with casual violence, sipping his wine like it was penance, a pair of almond-shaped, glacier blue eyes zeroing in on his son. “Didn’t think you meant still staying here.”

You managed a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Brooks.”

He gave a short nod that might’ve been a grunt, reaching for the wine glass before saying, “Likewise.”

Ben’s mother – composed in a deep jade green dress that complimented the glint in her eye – broke the tension with a dry, almost teasing, “She’s been keeping me company. And sane.”

You glanced at her in grateful surprise, but she didn’t look at you. Her gaze was squarely on her husband, almost daring him to challenge her.

Oh fuck. You had a feeling that dinner would derail soon enough. You still remembered how your own mother always looked when she wanted to pick a fight with your father. You could see that same desire in Mrs. Brooks tonight.

Richard’s eyes flicked to you as cutting as a scalpel. “Rosemary Hall, was it?”

You smiled, knowing your alibi by heart. “Yes, sir. We, uh, crossed paths with Ben’s group at Choate once or twice. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, like he already had a list of questions and was working through them in his mind. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

You gave an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “A little of everything. Read a lot. Try to keep busy.”

Mr. Brooks leaned back with a hum, wine glass in hand. “You read. Anything useful?”

Ben’s hand tensed slightly on the table. You felt it even without looking.

“I enjoy nonfiction,” you said smoothly. “Science, history, math when I’m in the mood. Nothing too impressive.”

“Science and math?” Richard scoffed like you’d said you moonlighted as a prizefighter. “Isn’t that a bit… optimistic for a girl?”

You met his stare with even calm. “I don’t think intelligence has ever been strictly gendered. Just how it’s been credited.”

Ben actually choked on his wine this time, coughing into his napkin. Richard ignored him.

“So, I assume you’ve been enjoying your stay here,” Ben’s father continued his interrogation, eyes narrowing slightly, sizing you up.

“It’s a beautiful house,” you said simply.

“Lot of history here. Good steel money.” His eyes locked on you again. “You know anything about steel?”

You smiled, your inner Puck cutting his leash. “Only what I’ve read.”

“Ah. Reading.” He said it like the word offended him.

“She reads a lot,” Ben added carefully. “She’s sharp.”

“Is that so?” Richard raised an eyebrow. “Tell me then,” he prompted, folding his hands like a man settling in for a test he already thought you’d fail. “What would you do to improve output at a steel mill running short on coal?”

Ben looked ready to leap across the table and strangle his father. He tried to interject, “Dad, this isn’t–”

“It’s alright,” you said quietly, placing a hand calmly on Ben’s forearm, eyes still on his father. “I’d retrofit the furnaces to burn at a higher temperature with less fuel, introduce more efficient airflow systems, and probably look into restructuring the shift rotations to reduce downtime between batches. But that’s just common sense.”

Margaret paused mid-pour of her wine, looking like she had to swallow a laugh. Ben slowly turned toward you, jaw slightly dropping an inch.

Richard didn’t blink. “Not something they typically cover in finishing school.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said slyly. “I didn’t finish.”

That earned a brief, surprised snort from Ben – quickly smothered.

Richard, clearly irritated now, muttered, “Sounds like a textbook answer. No real-world experience, though.”

You opened your mouth to argue your next crushing point, but Ben’s mother cut in smoothly, sipping her wine with the elegance of someone who had just stopped giving a fuck.

“Oh, for crying out, Richard! She’s smarter than half the men you’ve got working in your mills,” Margaret huffed, breaking her silence with a sharpened edge in her voice. “Maybe if you listened to people who weren’t trying to kiss your Oxfords, you’d save a fortune running those mills.”

Ben let out a short, shocked laugh before quickly covering it with a cough. His father looked like he’d been slapped with a linen napkin – too composed to lose his temper, but clearly rattled.

You, on the other hand, stared down at your plate, half-terrified and half-impressed, trying to decide if you’d just become part of the problem or part of the revolution.

Vive les femmes?

“Honestly, I think she’s brilliant. Much more interesting than that uptight Du Pont girl,” his mother quipped, her voice deceptively light.

Richard turned toward her, jaw clenched. “Grace was–”

“A snake in a silk blouse,” Margaret said flatly, cutting her husband right off. “We saw her at a tea room two weeks ago. She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon when she realized who I was sitting with.”

Ben shot you a glance, brow furrowed. You hadn’t exactly had time to mention that little tidbit yet.

However, Richard’s expression darkened. “We had plans with her family–”

“Well, they’ll survive,” Margaret snapped. “Just like we will. Unless you’ve somehow tied our entire legacy to a debutante with no charm and less spine.”

Holy shit. You’d unleashed a dragon from the dungeon, hadn’t you?

Ben’s eyebrows hit his hairline, while you tried your damnedest not to make eye contact with anyone.

“I don’t need to remind you,” Richard said tightly, “how much damage your son did with that stunt. Publicly humiliating the Du Ponts–”

Ben cleared his throat, clearly regretting every decision in his life that had led to this moment. His knife paused mid-cut. It didn’t fall on the plate with a clatter, but it may as well have.

“Grace and I were a bad match. I told you that.”

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just embarrassed her. Publicly. And in turn, humiliated me,” his father snapped. “What do you think the Du Ponts think of this family now? Do you have any idea how much business I’ve done with them over the last twenty years?”

Ben’s voice was tight. “That’s not a reason to marry someone.”

Richard finally looked up. “It is when you’re in this family.”

Silence spread across the table like a spilled drink. You could feel Ben bristle beside you, his hand flexing slightly against his napkin. You wanted to reach out, hold his hand, comfort him, but you knew showing any affection toward him right now in front of his father would hurt more than it would help.

“Maybe if you’d focused more on the business instead of chasing after schoolgirls,” his father’s blue eyes flickered sharply to you, “you wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks making a fool of yourself in front of the board.”

“Richard,” Margaret warned sharply.

“No, no,” her husband went on, holding up a finger to his wife and turning back to his son. “You let a good opportunity slip through your fingers. Grace was respectable. She had breeding. Her father understood the importance of building strong alliances. And instead, you’re off playing house with–”

“That’s enough, Richard,” Margaret cut in. She placed her wine glass down gently, but when she looked up, her face had none of its usual softness. Her voice didn’t shake. It fucking rang.

Richard turned, mildly surprised by the newfound edge in his wife. His jaw locked tight. “You’re enjoying this.”

Margaret took a sip of her wine, calmly meeting his glare, and then – she fucking smirked. “I’m finally starting to, yes.”

You stared down at your plate again, doing your best not to appear like you were about to vanish into the wallpaper. Ben, beside you, looked like he was watching a tennis match and had no idea which side he was supposed to root for.

“Margaret–”

She met his gaze dead-on. “Don’t you Margaret me, Richard. I’m not some ghost you can order in and out of a room when it suits you. I think I’ve held my tongue long enough. I’m done pretending I don’t have an opinion. I’ve spent the better part of two decades being managed. I’m not doing it anymore.”

Richard’s face had gone a strange shade of gray. “Don’t start with this–”

“I’m already started,” she cut in again. “You push and push and never ask yourself why your son’s miserable or why your house is a tomb. I’m tired of it. I’ve been tired of it. Our son is a grown man. You don’t own him. And you sure as hell don’t own me.”

Margaret sat back and crossed her arms. Richard stared, something cold flashing in his eyes. But he said nothing. Not a word. The dining room went deathly still.

“Now,” she said casually then, as if she hadn’t just hijacked dinner, lifting her wine glass, calm as a summer storm after it had come and gone. “Pass the potatoes.”

Ben did automatically, blinking at his mother like she’d just grown wings.

You stared down at your plate, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Margaret caught your eye across the table and gave you the smallest, most deliberate wink.

Richard stabbed at his roast with renewed bitterness. He chewed slowly, as if the meal had lost its flavor.

But the balance in the room had shifted. Subtle. Permanent.

It was close to ten when you snuck out of the servants’ quarters and back to your room after your nightly hang out with Dottie. For the last two weeks, you’d been playing Gin Rummy together, chatting and giggling, while you taught her a bit of French.

She’d told you she wanted to live and work in France, travel the world a little. How could you not support that?

Besides, it was nice to have an actual friend in this time period.

As you passed through the hallway that led by the study, you froze and halted your breath, hearing the voices of father and son. You didn’t want to eavesdrop, but Richard Brooks’ authoritatively booming tone was hard to ignore.

“Would you stop with this furnace nonsense? You’re chasing goddamn pipe dreams, boy, and you’ve already embarrassed me and yourself enough for one week,” Richard grunted as you carefully leaned against the wall of the hallway, disappearing into the shadows of a potted plant.

Ben’s voice came cool, but tight. “It’s not nonsense. It works. We’ve been running the numbers.”

“We?”

There was a beat.

“She just listens,” Ben said quickly. “Talks things out with me.”

After a pause, there came a darkly amused scoff. Condescending. “Christ on a cross, you think your little romantic dreams make you stronger? You think this girl will somehow make you a man? She’s not going to help you, son. She’ll only drag you down. You think your little fantasy is going to lead anywhere? You think she’ll respect you for your weakness?”

Your heart pounded furiously in your ribcage, wanting to leap in there and choke the living hell out of that man. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm, your hands clenched into fists by your sides, trying to hold yourself back.

“You’re going to marry Grace Du Pont. End of discussion,” his father declared firmly. Whiskey was poured. A cigar was being lit. “Look, if you’re attached to your little plaything so badly, keep her on the side. You keep your fling quiet, where no one can see, you understand me, son? Just like I’ve always done. Or have you learned nothing from me? You don’t see me flaunting my affairs into your mother’s face, do you?”

Ben’s voice came out weak. Fragile. “I-… I won’t-… No, I won’t do that to her. I care about her. She’s not just some–”

“You think you’re fucking better than me?” his father cut in, tongue sharp as a machete. “You’re fucking weak, Benjamin. You’ve always been weak. You’re nothing without this family, boy. You’re nothing without my name, without the power, without the money. And I’ve given you all of it. Don’t you goddamn forget that.”

“I can’t do this, not for you, not for business,” Ben’s voice cracked with frustration. “This isn’t the life I want.”

Richard slammed a fist onto the desk, the sound loud enough to make you flinch. “Benjamin, I’m warning you! You’re going to do your duty. This is what’s best for you. What’s best for this family. Just look at me and your mother. You think she was some great catch?” he huffed bitterly. “Look where it got us. I’m trying to save you from the same goddamn mistakes I made. Maybe then you won’t be as disappointed as I am that your son turned out to be as dumb and weak as a blade of grass.”

That manipulative fucking a–

You clenched your jaw so tightly it almost shattered. And then, your inner Puck took over the wheel. Just for a few seconds.

You hit Pause on the remote control. Not on the world, not on the house, not on the men in the study. No, you only paused one little withering, black, rotten but still beating organ. Not long – only till one… two… three… four–

“Dad? Are you alright?”

Play.

A tear slipped down your cheek, body trembling. Would you actually have done it? Would you have killed someone? Even someone as cruel and awful as Ben’s father?

They’d be better off without him, though, wouldn’t they? You’d do this family and probably the whole world a favor by getting rid of him. But you could hear the worry, the concern, the fear in Ben’s voice. Even if it wasn’t strong, just barely there, just for a fraction of a second – you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“‘M fine.” A grunt. A clear of a throat. “Now get out of my sight. I don’t have any use for you. You’ve already disappointed me enough this week.”

A moment passed before you held your breath, hearing Ben’s footsteps shuffle away. As the study door closed, you stood there for a few beats, unsure whether to go to him or leave him be. Before you could make up your mind, he rounded the corner and suddenly appeared in front of you.

Ben halted, stunned for a second before his brows drew into tight little Vs. His jaw ticked once, teeth grinding, shoulders tense as he stared at you.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly. Carefully.

“Are you always eavesdropping on private conversations that don’t concern you?”

So he was defensive. Fair enough, you thought.

“Ben–”

He blew right past you without another word, but you quickly trailed after him, catching his wrist. He spun halfway toward you, brow raised, gaze unamused.

“What?” he snapped “Look, whatever you wanna say, save it for another day. I don’t wanna hear it right–”

“I love you.”

And then, time stopped on its own for once. Like God herself had clicked the button on top of her stopwatch.

No flick of your wrist. No whispered thought. Just a heartbeat too loud, a silence too deep.

The world itself held its breath and leaned in to listen, freezing out of respect for your widely open heart. The hum of everything around you dulled, dimmed, as if your powers sensed your panic and intervened, offering you this one impossible second to exist in the aftermath of what you’d just confessed.

What the fuck had you done? You hadn’t exactly planned on blurting out those three little but hugely impactful words. They just broke loose like a wild animal that had been caged against its will.

You had never meant to say them at all. Not to him. Not here.

And Ben didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

For a second, you weren’t sure if you hadn’t accidentally hit the Pause button, after all. But something in his forest green eyes flickered like a candlelight in the breeze – a stutter in the armor.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just exhaled slowly. That big, proud chest rising and falling like it was taking him real effort to stay composed.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Your voice was shaking, quiet. You swallowed. “I just wanted you to know.”

And then Ben finally looked at you.

The crinkles around his eyes, the tensely furrowed brow – it all vanished, softened just for you.

You looked at him – at the guy you shouldn’t trust, shouldn’t fall for, shouldn’t love. And your heart was tearing itself in half trying to hold onto both versions of him.

The one standing in front of you. And the one you’d seen in nightmares.

And still.

Still.

You loved him.

It was like falling off a building you’d already jumped from – the moment your feet left the edge and there was no turning back.

Slowly, reverently, Ben lifted a hand and touched your face. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was checking to see if you were real – like he wasn’t quite sure this wasn’t a daydream where you’d be gone again by morning.

He closed the space between you in a single step, cupping your neck in both hands, almost afraid time could run out and he’d miss his chance.

His mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was raw and full of everything he hadn’t said – all the longing, all the fury, all the years he’d swallowed down like bitter medicine. His hands trembled against your skin, and you kissed him back as if the moment had been waiting for you both.

The universe had cracked open and poured you two together. With force. With purpose.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathless.

A soft chuckle, laced around the edges with disbelief, escaped with a breath out. “You know, I always thought that if you ever said those words, it’d be after I rescued you from a burning building or carried you out of enemy fire. Not-, you know, the hallway after my father calls me a waste of space.”

You smiled a little at his joke while your heart sank at the message it tried to cover. Your hands slid up his chest and around his neck, fingers playing with soft strands of hair, nails scraping along skin.

“You’re not weak, you know?” you said, Ben’s eyes snapping to you, widening for a mere second. His brow twitched with a crinkle of disbelief. “You’re not stupid. You're strong... and kind... and smart. You’re a good man. And I love you exactly for who you are.”

Ben exhaled sharply, emerald eyes staying on you. His mouth pressed into a tight, pained line. And for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the way you said those words.

Your heart was thrashing in your chest, your stomach dropping somewhere below the floorboards, but you offered him the barest of smiles. “And yeah, maybe I like to keep you on your toes a little.”

“You really do.” He huffed a laugh, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “God, you do.”

His lips met yours – no hesitation, no space, no breath. Just fire. His large hands gripped your waist, dragged you against him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like the sound of your confession had set him off like a match to gasoline.

No teasing. No build-up. Just raw, unfiltered need.

You moaned into his mouth as he backed you into the wall, lips devouring, tongue sweeping in like he couldn’t get enough – like he never had and never would.

His hands were everywhere, sliding up your sides, curling around your hips, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand another inch of space between you. He was rough and reverent all at once, palms mapping flesh like a man starving for it. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his hair, heart slamming against your ribs.

His kiss was all tongue and teeth, sucking at your bottom lip like he wanted to ruin you. Ben then broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. You smiled, dizzy and aching.

You searched his eyes, your voice barely a whisper, wrecked and breathless. “You think-, uhm, you think I can stay in your bedroom tonight?”

Ben stared at you for half a second, then smiled – crooked, hungry, and so full of something deeper it made your stomach flip. He looked at you like he’d dreamt those words a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love that, sweetheart.”

Then he reached down, interlacing his fingers with yours – steady, sure. Without another word, he led you toward his room. No rush. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who’d been waiting for this moment since the second he met you.

Ben’s hand stayed in yours as he led you through the quiet house. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. Every brush of his thumb over your knuckles said enough.

The rest of the mansion was asleep. But your pulse? Wild and awake.

Ben led you into his room like a secret he’d been aching to keep. The door shut behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have, your hand slipping out of his.

Suddenly, the silence felt heavier, almost sacred. The dim light from the moon outside cut across the floorboards, and the faint scent of tobacco and cedar hung in the air. This was his space – messy, masculine, lived-in.

A lamp flickered to life – soft, amber light pooling low from a desk near the far wall. Books, worn paperbacks with bent corners, were stacked unevenly on the nightstand. Jazz records lined the shelf above a modest phonograph. The dark green quilt on his bed looked like something his mother might’ve sewn years ago and he never had the heart to throw it out.

It was the first time you saw his edges dulled.

You stood near the door, heart a riot in your chest. You’d kissed him. You’d told him the one truth you hadn’t barely dared to say to yourself until tonight. You let out a slow breath and turned toward the bookshelf like it might anchor you. Your fingers skimmed the spines.

Ben leaned back against the door for a beat, watching you in the low light. Then he smiled. Not the cocky smirk he wore like a jacket most days. This one was slow, knowing, edged with a kind of quiet wonder.

“Snooping for secrets already? You walk in here and start looking at my bookshelf like you’re trying to read me.”

“Maybe I am,” you said cheekily, glancing at him over your shoulder. But your smile was nervous, your fingers twisting together, fidgeting. He noticed.

Ben pushed off the door and crossed the room slowly, his steps careful across the creaking floorboards. He came to stand behind you. Not touching, not pushing – just close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. But you felt the shift in the air, like he was circling, waiting, watching.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low and warm as bourbon in your ear. “You know, you don’t have to be nervous.”

Easier said than done.

“I know.” You huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I’m still hoping you’ll talk me out of it.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” An amused smile grazed his lips. “That’s not really my specialty.”

You swallowed as he stepped even closer, eyes locked on yours. There was a heat in his gaze now, something molten and dangerous. He stopped just short of touching you again, like he was giving you one last chance to walk away.

But you didn’t.

You turned to face him fully, seeing the slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he didn’t want to scare you with too much charm. He closed the final gap and cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve beneath your eye.

“Gotta say, that was probably one of the wildest dinners I’ve ever experienced in this house,” Ben joked lightly, trying to calm your jittering nerves a little. “You sure all you did was listen to my mother?”

A grin spread on your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “I might have asked one or two thought-provoking questions…”

Ben chuckled, the sound warm and deep in his chest. “Yeah, you’re good at that.”

“I’m sorry I kind of riled up your mother and derailed dinner,” you said but could hardly hide the smile.

“Don’t be,” Ben said with a small laugh, but then his face turned more serious, palm warm against your cheek. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. What he said in the study. You’re not just some girl to me. You know that, right?”

You nodded. You believed him. Even now, with your pulse racing and your skin burning, you believed him.

And then Ben kissed you like he meant to ruin you for anyone else. Slow at first – just lips and breath and the lazy drag of time stretching between your bodies. But then he coaxed your mouth open with a low groan, hands sliding down your back to anchor you to him. You gasped into the kiss as his hips pressed flush to yours.

“You been holding out on me, you know that?” His lips grazed your cheek, the line of your jaw, down to your throat. “All that time pretending you didn’t want this.”

“I didn’t,” you said, breath hitching. “I mean, I did. But I was trying not to.”

His mouth brushed your collarbone, all smug and sin. “Yeah, I noticed. But here’s the thing – now that you’re here? In my room? Saying things like you love me? You might’ve just started something you can’t walk away from.”

He kissed you slowly – more tender than before. His hands moved like he was memorizing you. Your ribs, your spine, the dip of your hips. He wanted to learn you by heart. And every place he touched made you feel more grounded, more here.

“But you know, you don’t have to,” he said softly then, seriously. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. I meant it when I said you could stay. Just stay.”

“I know.” You nodded, swallowing. “But I want to. There’s just something I want you to know first.”

You looked up at him, your breath shaking, and leaned in close – so close your lips brushed against the shell of his ear as you stretched on tiptoes. And then you whispered the most personal thing about you.

Your real name.

The syllables tasted both foreign and familiar on your tongue. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of trust. Of meaning. Of everything you hadn’t said before.

His lips curved into that crooked, brazen smile – the one he always used when he didn’t want you to know what he truly felt.

“Yeah, that suits you a lot better than the other,” he said, lips ghosting over yours. “Secret’s safe with me, sweetheart.”

You smiled shyly. “You’re not gonna ask more questions?”

“No.” He shook his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and murmured, “I don’t care where you came from or why you don’t talk about it. I just care that you’re here. With me.”

All that tension you’d been carrying for weeks cracked open between you like lightning splitting the sky. And then, his mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, no hesitation. Just heat. Just want. A coaxing, intoxicating rhythm, like he was trying to draw every last ounce of hesitation from your body and replace it with pleasure.

Your bodies fitted together with maddening ease. You kissed him back just as fiercely, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his shirt like you’d fall if you let go. He whispered your name between kisses like it was an oath he meant to keep. He was tasting it, memorizing it, falling into it.

And when his lips found your neck, trailing heat along your skin, your knees nearly buckled.

“Let me take care of you,” he muttered, mouth brushing just under your ear. His hands grazed your arms, then trailed to your back, fingertips featherlight along your spine until they found the zipper. He leaned in, lips near your ear. “Turn around for me.”

You did, heart thudding wildly as your back faced him. You felt his body press behind you, firm and hot and steady. His hands slid over your sides, settling on your waist. Then came the kiss to your shoulder. Another at the base of your neck.

Once. Twice.

You felt the agonizingly slow tug of your zipper like he was unwrapping something rare, revealing just enough to make your skin prickle with heat. His knuckles skimmed down your spine, and you gasped when his mouth followed, kissing between your shoulder blades, then your lower back.

He wasn’t rushing. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying the wait. Every kiss he pressed to your spine loosened you more, drove you crazy with need.

“Christ,” he rasped behind you. “You have no idea what you do to me. You know, I’ve imagined this… What you’d look like in here. What you’d sound like.” His voice roughened as he spoke, “I want to take my time. Want to hear you gasp when I touch you just right. Want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The dress slipped past your hips, pooling at your feet in a soft whisper. You didn’t move to step out of it yet. You couldn’t. You felt too seen. Too bare. And yet, his hands were still gentle – one smoothing up your arm, the other tracing your waist.

Ben didn’t pull away. No, he pressed closer, one hand splayed low on your stomach, the other gently cupping your jaw to turn your face back toward his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said against your cheek. “But that’s not why I want you.”

He turned you slowly to face him again, gaze roaming your figure, half-lidded and devout, as if he was seeing you for the first time, and you were made of something breakable.

“I want you because you’re smart. Sharp. Trouble.” He smirked against your lips, teasing, coaxing, tempting.

He kissed you then. Deeper now, fuller. The kind of kiss that made the world blur around you. The heat curled between you two like a flame, your hands impatiently fumbling at his belt like you were already ablaze.

But Ben stilled them, gently catching your wrists.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, one brow arched in amusement. “Don’t rush. I’m not some boy fumbling in the dark. And you’re not some quick thing I’m gonna forget. This goes how I want it to go, and I want you to feel everything.”

You swallowed thickly. Jesus fucking Christ, you’d signed your own death warrant by coming into this room, hadn’t you?

It wasn’t like you’d never suspected how this would go. Oh no, it had always been more than a sneaking suspicion. You’d caught his older counterpart in enough compromising positions with even more questionable people. You’d heard the stories, both from young and old. About coat check rooms and closets and God knows what else.

No, you knew what you were getting into. Sort of. The real thing was still wilder, bolder, more thrilling than you’d ever imagined.

His thick, long fingers brushed your cheek, then your throat, then down between your heaving breasts. He smirked, looking down at you. “Me first.”

And then, the hand on your back unclasped your brassiere with an easy flick of his wrist, the straps sliding off your shoulders and down your arms, soft cotton and lace falling away. His tongue licked the smile off his lips, his green eyes fixed on your tits like they were something sacred he was about to worship.

“Christ, look at you.” He grinned, brushing his knuckles under them like he was testing gravity itself. “I should send a goddamn thank-you letter to the stars for you. What else you keepin’ from me, sweetheart?”

He dragged his thumb across your nipple, eyes darkening. He leaned in then, kissed the swell of the other one, smirk deepening as you shivered and whimpered.

“Ben–” You held in a moan as he hummed against your throat. “I’m close to internally combusting.”

And God, you were soaking wet. It was almost embarrassing since he had barely touched you at any of the spots that usually did it for you. No one had ever made you feel this way.

Your plea made him chuckle warmly against your lips, just hovering, not giving in. “I like you impatient.”

“Ben–”

Your protest was cut off by one searing kiss. His eyes roamed you, deliberate and dark with hunger – worship and want, equal parts sin and salvation.

“You want me to be gentle?” he asked before his voice dipped, gravel and smoke. “Or you want it rough? Let me ruin you a little?”

“Fuck,” was the answer you breathed out.

He grinned, wicked and wrecked. “Thought so.”

This time, you claimed his lips, needy and close to starving. “I want you,” you said breathlessly. “However you want me.”

That was all it took.

Ben guided you backward till you sat on the bed, your palms feeling the soft sheets underneath.

And then he fucking knelt.

Right between your legs, spreading them inch by inch as warm, large hands trailed up your thighs, squeezing taut flesh as they went. He kissed your knee, then the soft skin above it. Then another, higher still.

“Want you to know something,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy smile creeping across his face. His eyes met yours, your hands carding through his hair, eager to get him where you needed him most.

He was slow poison through and through.

“I’ve dreamed about this. Wondered if you’d ever let me touch you like that. Taste you,” he continued, voice like silk and sin.

His palm climbed up to your waist, higher and higher till it grabbed a handful of your tit. Squeezed. Groped. You gasped, legs shaking underneath his grip as calloused fingers rubbed and pinched your pebbled nipple between them.

You let your head fall back, lips parting, breath stuttering, hair like spilled ink on the mattress. You waved your white flag. This was your swan song.

“I’ve imagined unzipping that dress with my bare teeth.” Ben kissed the hollow of your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your underwear. You could feel the smugness on his lips. “Sliding my hands over every inch of you until you stopped pretending you didn’t want it just as bad.”

His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, like he was grounding himself, keeping his control on a leash.

“I wanted to ruin you since the second I saw you,” he breathed. “With my hands. My mouth. My cock. All of it. I wanted you soaked and begging.”

You sucked in a breath, unbearable tension curling tight beneath your skin.

“Waited to hear you breathe like this,” he whispered, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. “To feel you tremble when I touch you.” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “To make you mine in every way a man can possibly want. I want to know how you sound when you break for me.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter. But it fucking did.

His hands wandered beneath the last bit of lace and silk you were still wearing, worshiping the lines and curves of your thighs like they were sacred text and he was a man long denied prayer.

He slid your underwear down with infuriating gentleness.

“You’re soaked, sweetheart… and I haven’t even kissed you there yet.” Then he paused just long enough to look up at you again, eyes dark with want, but still asking.

When you nodded, he grinned like the devil.

“Good girl.”

And then he was fucking on you.

Time blurred. You lost sense of everything except the press of his sinful lips, the drag of his massive hands, the rhythm he built and broke and built again until your whole body trembled beneath him. He made you fall apart slowly, then all at once, like he’d known exactly how to unravel you from the start.

And Ben goddamn watched you. Every flicker of your reaction. Every shiver. Every breath. He adjusted to you, read you like a language only he understood.

And when your hips began to rise into his mouth, when the tension wound so tight it felt like your whole body might snap from the pleasure of it – he never fucking let up. He held you there, devoured you, groaned like he was drunk on the taste of you.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on,” he said, mouth wet and warm against your clit.

The high hit like a wave, dragged from you slow and hard and deep until you were gasping, boneless, shattered. You reached for him blindly, fingers digging into his arms, his scalp, thighs clenching on his shoulders.

“God, look at you,” he said, crawling back up your body, his mouth slick with proof of your surrender. “You’re fucking perfect.”

His lips sought yours, tasting you like he hadn’t already just had everything. Your hands found his chest, the ridges of muscle underneath his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that surprised even you.

Ben caught your hand and kissed your wrist, then your palm. “You still want this?” he asked, voice hoarse, his restraint visibly fraying.

You bit your lip, nodding helplessly, and he smiled as he kissed your fingers, then brought your hand down to rest against the bulge in his pants.

He was thick and firm and aching for you.

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a beat before you witnessed the wrecked look on his faintly freckled face.

“Feel that?” he asked softly, voice warm and rough and trembling at the edges. “That’s what you do to me.”

Then, he stood up, his gaze locked on yours, and he began undressing in front of you.

Slow.

Confident.

Every movement deliberate.

You watched him unbutton his shirt like he knew the effect each flick of fabric was having on you until it slid off his broad shoulders and onto the floor.

Then came the belt.

He undid the buckle with the kind of composure that made your throat dry. Like he wanted you to feel every beat of anticipation between each soft clink that echoed off the walls. His pants followed, unhurried all the same till he finally kicked them off.

And then he stood bare and beautiful in the flickering lamplight, lean muscle and heat and a low, knowing smile that made your stomach flip. There was something timeless about him in that moment. Like something carved from firelight and dark earth. A god pretending to be a man.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Ben said, stepping closer again, a smile of amusement playing on his lips. “You’re staring, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yeah, your brain had gone on vacation at this point.

His cock was long and thick and pulsing, head red and leaking, waiting to wrap itself in you and erupt.

“Still nervous?”

But you shook your head, giving him a soft smile as you found his green eyes. “No, I want you. Want you inside of me.”

Ben leaned in, catching your lips for a kiss, his gaze darkening, hand tangling in your hair at the back of your head. “Yeah? Want more? Want me stretchin’ you wide, sweet girl?”

“Ben, please…” Your words were half a plea, half a prayer.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He shushed you gently. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he said, kneeling back on the bed, crawling over you again like a promise, pressing you into the mattress as he kissed his way up your body.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “Tell me when it’s not enough.”

You exhaled a strangled breath, a quiet plea caught in the back of your throat, and his mouth curled into a smile against your stomach.

“You wanted me to learn something? Well, I’m going to learn you,” he rasped, kissing higher, past your ribs, past your tits, past your collarbone. “Every sound, every shiver. I’ll know what makes you cry out and what makes you beg, sweetheart.”

His nose dragged along your throat, and then his mouth claimed yours with a bruising force. You felt his throbbing length press against your stomach, between your thighs, hot and heavy and unashamedly ready. He groaned into the kiss, hungry and feral.

Your hands reached for him without thought, fingers skimming the soft lines of his chest, the hard edge of his jaw. He nudged your thighs apart gently with his knee, lips dragging across your neck, your shoulder, the slope of your breast.

And then, with that same careful, aching control, he pushed into you.

The air left your lungs in a single, broken gasp of his name.

Pressure. Stretch. Fullness.

Ben groaned, low in his throat, forehead pressing against yours as he bottomed out. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, and maybe he was.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed into your shoulder, sharp teeth grazing your neck. “God, you feel so good. So goddamn tight. So wet for me.”

And then he began to move.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving in the best way. He thrust into you like he knew what you needed before you could say it, hips rolling with a confidence that left your toes curling and your brain short-circuiting.

And yet he still teased – still whispered things that made your cheeks burn and your thighs shake. “You like that, sweetheart?” he murmured against your ear. “Still think I’d wait this long, want you this badly, if this was just some fling?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You barely managed to shake your head as you arched into him, legs wrapped around his waist, chasing the edge he kept just barely out of reach. Every gasp, every helpless little cry pulled from your throat was an answer.

Your body opened to him like you were made to fit around him, like you’d been waiting for this exact moment your whole life and everything before had just been a poor imitation of what it meant to be filled like this – held like this.

“Ben,” you gasped, nails raking down his back.

He hissed, pace stuttering for a moment – like you’d hit a nerve he hadn’t expected.

He fucked you harder then. A little rougher. Just enough to make the headboard creak and the bed shudder beneath you. And still, his mouth stayed on yours – kissing you through every moan, every cry, every stammer of breath.

His kisses were just as hard as the snap of his hips – needy, grateful, desperate. He moved inside you, dragged his cock through your walls like he was chasing salvation.

It was all teeth and tongue now, urgent and primal, like he’d waited long enough and couldn’t stand another second of holding back.

“Just like that,” he groaned against your lips. “That’s it. You’re doing so good, baby.”

His thrusts slowed only just enough for you to breathe, hand finding yours on the bed, threading his fingers between yours like it was instinct.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he husked, eyes locking with yours. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

“Fuck–” Your breath stuttered when he adjusted the angle slightly, only driving deeper into you. “Feel so good…”

“Yeah? Feel that stretch? That heat? That fullness?” He smirked devilishly against your jaw, but his voice was just as wrecked and ruined as yours. “All you, sweetheart. That’s what you do to me.”

His words melted something inside you, dissolved that last flicker of resistance, that echo of fear still whispering in the corners of your mind. You arched into him, mouth catching his in a kiss that was more desperation than grace.

He chuckled against your lips. “That’s it. Give it to me. Everything you’ve been holding back.”

You were too far gone to reply, seeing the pearly gates of Heaven, Saint Peter, Jesus, and fucking God herself.

“Want you to remember this,” he whispered, deep voice rough and broken. “Every time you close your eyes. I want you to remember how I make you feel. How I take care of you. How no one else even comes close.”

Something inside you broke then and you fell apart.

You shuddered around him with a cry you couldn’t hold back, stars bursting behind your eyelids as everything snapped apart and came back together in the shape of his name.

“Shit–”

Ben cursed low and dark at the feel of you tightening around him, grinding deep as his rhythm fell apart, muttering your name, your real name, like a prayer. Hips stuttered, a desperate, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he followed you into the fire, spilling hot and heavy into you.

The world went quiet after that.

Just the two of you. Tangled together, sweat-slick and panting, your hearts thudding in sync. You felt the weight of him settling over you. Not crushing. Not heavy. Just perfect.

Full.

Slowly, Ben lifted his head, brushing his nose against yours. His eyes were still dark, but softer now. His fingers brushed your damp hair back from your face, caressed your cheeks with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he’d just wrecked you – like a man who could build and break with equal skill.

He kissed the top of your head – steady, worshipful, possessive as if he knew he owned every part of you now. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiled breathlessly. “More than okay.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with you yet.” He smirked that lazy, crooked smile again. “I meant it,” he said then, pulling back just enough to look at you. “All of it. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers drifting up into his hair. “Me neither,” you whispered and placed a chaste kiss to his lips.

Something flickered behind his green eyes. Wonder. Hunger. A softness you’d never seen in anyone before, let alone someone like him.

Ben didn’t move right away. Just stayed there – still inside you, still wrapped around you, like you were something holy he hadn’t quite figured out how to pray to yet.

When he finally eased out of you carefully, you hissed softly at the sensitivity. He murmured something apologetic against your skin, kissing the hollow of your throat before pulling you into his chest.

You could still feel the echo of his mouth between your legs, the stretch of his cock, the hum of it throbbing inside you like a secret he branded into your bones.

Ben wrapped his arms around you and kissed your temple, sighing and tucking you closer. “You better get used to this room, sweetheart. There’s no chance in Hell, I’m letting you sleep down the hall anymore.”

That earned him a breathy laugh from you. “No?”

“Nope,” he said, entirely too smug. “I’ve waited too damn long. I’m going to ruin you – nicely. Thoroughly. Respectfully.”

You snorted, and he grinned against your hair.

But God help you because he surely made good on that promise all through the night.

▶️ Chapter 9: As Time Goes By

I honestly have to say I was so happy he finally got what he wanted. He really has been waiting for this since Chapter 1 😂 I hope you guys enjoyed this! For a while, I had a phase again where I really hated writing smut, but there's just something so pure about two characters exploring one another for the first time that makes it a lot more fun ❤️‍🔥

Only two more chapters in 1942. Get ready, loves!

Coming Up:

“You know, we’ve got plans, you and me,” Ben said suddenly.

“What kind of plans?” you asked, brow raised, shifting a little to look up at him.

“I said I’d figure out a way out of that hellhole for both of us. I still mean it,” Ben said, deep voice untypically hesitant like he was testing the idea out loud for the first time. “I’ve been looking at houses.”

You sat up a little, your heart pounding like a demolition hammer, throat dry. “You-, uh, you have?”

Ben nodded and smiled. “There’s one I keep going back to. Found it last week, and I don’t know… Feels right. I think you’d like it. Needs some work, though. A lot of work, actually… The porch steps need replacing, the roof’s a mess, and the windows rattle like a haunted saloon.”

“So perfect, then.”

“Perfect,” he echoed.

You were speechless. You’d never suspected he’d been dreaming behind your back. But you wanted to answer. God, you wanted to say yes and kiss him senseless and let the night carry you straight into forever. But reality tugged like a thread at the edge of your dress.

The part of you that lived in spreadsheets and time travel formulas wanted to tell him that buying a house with a girl who could theoretically be ripped out of this timeline at any moment was probably not a sound financial decision.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

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@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

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nebulaafterdark · 11 months ago

Text

The Iron Throne

Summary: Y/N is afraid that the Iron Throne will spurn her due to her parentage, Aegon disagrees. Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

18+ ONLY MDNI Targcest, Smut, Oral (F receiveing)

Y/N and Aegon speak freely when they are alone, about the weight of her duties and what he, as her husband, might do to help shoulder them. Lately the topic has been a simpler one, Y/N’s fear of the Iron Throne and how she dreads the day she must eventually sit it.

“What of it frightens you, sweet girl?” Aegon wonders, watching her pace at the foot of their bed.

“That it will spurn me, because I am unworthy.” Y/N admits.

Aegon hums. “You are worthy. Come, I will show you.”

“Now?” Y/N chokes out.

“Yes, my love there is no one there.” Not in the middle of the night.

She hesitates, wringing her hands. “You know what I am.”

“My wife,” Aegon reminds her, “my future Queen.”

Y/N sighs, holding out a hand. Allowing him to lead her down to the empty throne room, demanding the guards provide no one entrance until they are finished.

The throne looms, like a dark omen over the room. Though Aegon does not seem to notice, walking his wife towards it and turning her to face him.

“Gods, you are beautiful.” He remarks, brushing dark hair over her shoulders. “Made to be worshipped, made to be Queen.”

Y/N smiles, pressing a kiss to his lips, “you’re one to talk.”

Aegon rests a hand against the tiny swell of the abdomen. “That’s how we got here a fifth time, hmmm?”

“It’ll be an even six, no doubt.”

“Or seven,” Aegon’s eyes come alight with mischief. “Then of course, it’d have to be eight.”

“Why stop at eight when we could have ten?”

“You’re stalling,” Aegon wags a finger at her. “Sit down for me, nice and slow.”

Y/N stops breathing all together as she takes her place on the throne.

“Good girl,” he coos.

Y/N inhales, sharply.

“Just as I said, nothing has happened.”

“I want to get off now.”

“Not until you’re comfortable.”

“Please, Aegon.” She whines.

“I will never let anything or anyone hurt you,” Aegon leans forward, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I’m going to help you get over your fear of this silly chair.”

“How?” Y/N wonders.

“By feasting on your pretty cunt as you sit upon it, and each time you take to this throne, you will think of my mouth.”

She catches his face in her hands, “you cannot.”

“I must, my dearest love.” Aegon hushes her, “what kind of husband would I be if I allow you to walk around with such fear?”

Y/N swallows.

“Be good.” He affords her a reassuring smile before kneeling at her feet. Pressing a sweet kiss to the swell of her belly, the child has finally made their presence known. “Lift your hips for me.”

Y/N obeys, allowing him to slide her small clothes down to her ankles.

Her nightgown remains perfectly placed, with Aegon sliding up beneath her skirts. Applying gentle pressure to her knees until they part.

He groans, inhaling the familiar scent of her. “You are heavenly.” His tongue flicks over her cunt in practiced strokes.

His hair is hidden beneath her dress, nothing for her to cling to and the distance between them becomes too much to bear.

“I want your hand,” she chokes out.

“Yes, my Queen.” Aegon purrs, slightly muffled beneath the fabric. He slides one hand away from her trembling thigh to find hers, lacing their fingers together. “I live only to serve you.”

Her free hand curls around the arm rest, of its own volition. Her skin pristine and unscathed by the metal.

By then she’s relaxed enough that Aegon eases her legs farther apart, bending them up and over the arms of the chair. Slipping two fingers into her slick cunt.

“Aegon.”

He hums, in acknowledgement. Sometimes his sweet girl wishes to say his name just because she loves him. Because he’s pleasing her so well.

Lost in her passion, she scarcely notices the way her body is draped over the throne of swords with abandon. She is safe and loved…all she’s ever hoped to be.

Aegon redoubles his efforts, bringing her to peak. Covering his tongue and fingers with her slick, meeting her pearl with little kitten licks, until she squirms. Pushing against his head in protest, with one final kiss to her pulsing cunt, he pulls his mouth away. Curling his fingers against the spongy part of her inner walls as he stands, looming over her.

Her perfect lips agape, dark brows pulled together. “Fuck.”

“If you could see yourself now, my dearest love.” Aegon groans, “the smallfolk would line up at the foot of this throne, by the thousands for a chance to please you.”

“I only want you.”

Aegon’s eyes soften. He’s allowed one man to fuck her, so could hold her face in his hands and watch her features contort without distraction.

She took his cock well, for which Aegon praised her, though she could not find release until Aegon’s own fingers brushed her pearl. The same way he can cum for his ladies, but never as long or hard as he does for her.

Fucking is nice, something to do whilst he’s bored and craving excitement. Love making is more than that, something he only ever had the desire to do with her.

“How do you want me?”

“Inside me,” Y/N pants.

Aegon chuckles, “I meant to ask if you are comfortable? Or shall I bend you over the throne?”

“Over the throne,” she nods. “Or you could sit and I could ride your cock.”

Aegon mulls it over, “as much as I’d love you to sink down on me, I have no fear of this chair. You do, so up you go, turn around for me.” He withdraws his fingers, sucking them clean.

To his surprise she kneels, resting her cheek against the seat of the throne, with her arms folded over her head.

“I thought we might stand, my darling.”

“I cannot stand.” She whimpers, “I need your cock.”

“Needy thing.” Aegon kneels behind her, lifting her skirts once more and freeing himself from his sleep clothes. He slides into her with ease, he was made to be there. Leaning forward to place his arms beneath her, allowing her sweet face to rest against his skin rather than the cool metal swords. “I love you endlessly.”

She nods, “I love you.”

“You are worthy of this throne, you are worthy of the crown, and to rule.” Aegon feels her cunt flutter with the beginnings of her peak. “Y/N Targaryen, first of her name. Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm.”

#house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd smut #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen smut #aegon smut #aegon ii #aegon imagine

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bbyg4rl · 2 months ago

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jj gets jealous when you go out on a date with someone else . . .

cw: stalker!jj x camgirl!reader, smut/angst adjacent, stalking, creepy/obsessive & perverted behaviour, voyeurism, masturbation (m.), slight somnophilia, violence but not toward reader, wc—600.

JJ watched from the shadows, hood up, fists clenched so hard they left crescent-shaped imprints on his palms.

You were on a date. Some loser with too-white teeth and hands that hovered too close. You giggle, a cherry popsicle in your mouth, twirling your tongue around it like you knew exactly what you were doing. The shift in your date’s posture. The twitch in his jeans while he squirmed in his seat, painfully hard and trying not to show it, JJ sees it.

JJ had to hold himself back because he couldn’t snap his neck right there in the open. So he followed him home instead. Two blocks. A dark alley. One punch to the gut. Two to the face. Then JJ grabbed him by the collar and hissed, “Look at her again, and I’ll slit you open slow.”

By the time JJ left, the guy’s curled in a puddle of himself, choking on blood and panic.

Now, JJ’s back where he actually belongs: in your room. In your space. Inches from your bed, where your face is peeking out from under your covers—bare and his.

The clock says 2:17 a.m. You’re asleep, like you didn’t just perform for someone else. It makes his blood boil. He stands there, his presence looming over your unconscious figure. His breath is heavy, hard, ragged.

He yanks the blanket down far enough to expose your whole body. “You really did that,” he mutters, voice low. “Licked that thing and let him watch. I should’ve made him blind.”

He falls to his knees near the edge of your bed when you whimper in your sleep. His hands trace your thighs, hesitant, twitching to wake you up, shake you, scare you, look you in the eyes.

But he stops himself. Not now. No, you weren't ready. Not yet.

So he stares down at your sleeping face instead—mouth parted, breath steady, chest rising and falling like you're not breaking him apart.

“Wanna know what’s fucked?” he whispers, mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh. Close but not too close. “He got hard watching you eat that popsicle… and so did I.” He lets out a humorless chuckle.

His hand drags down his stomach, under his jeans. Presses his palm flat against the ache and breathes. Breathes you in, the scent of you, the air in your room, the vulnerability of you so open, so ready, so clearly needy for him. He tugs his dick out, pressing featherlight kisses to your thigh.

He’s silent. Slow. Careful. Hand stroking his cock as he breathes your scent in. Eyes closed, head resting on your thigh, bottom lip between his teeth as he swipes his thumb over his tip, he's already leaking beads of precum.

One of his hands holds your thigh gently while he bucks his hips into the other, chasing his orgasm. The room is filled with his muffled moans. Part of him hopes you wake up, watch as he falls apart for you, smile down at him and let him touch you. Give him permission to kiss you. Devour you. Own you.

He groans, tilting his head back as the coil in his stomach tightens. He imagines its your hand jerking him, up and down, squeezing him, looking up at him with those eyes you use on camera. He moves his head closer. Close but still not close enough, his nose nudges at the edge of your panties. He can smell you, it drives him feral.

He whines as his cum shoots out in thick spurts. Messing up his hand, dripping down his balls, staining his pants. He stands up instantly, realising he's stayed too long. He can't risk waking you. He swipes a dribble of his cum on your thigh. A twisted claim on you, before climbing out your window.

He'll see you again tomorrow. Even if you dont know about it.

check out my other works ! masterlist

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rememberwren · 11 months ago

Text

/•Harmless Fun 7•\

Former and further chapters can be found here.

You and Johnny kiss. With company. Ghoap/fem!reader, dry humping, kissing, handjobs, exhibitionism, suggestion of blowjobs.

Kissing Johnny only gets easier, and it was easy to begin with.

The next morning sees you running late for work. After your late night, you had forgotten to set your alarm and hadn’t awoken until the sun spilled in through your open curtains and you could hear the sound of Simon bustling around at the other end of the apartment. You had taken the quickest shower of your life, brushed your teeth, and done your best to make yourself presentable, rehearsing potential excuses in your head for your boss. There was a crash on I-57; my car broke down; a child fell down a well…

You didn’t even have time to grab a cup of Simon’s coffee before you were wrenching the front door open, but when Johnny calls out sharply for you to halt, you are startled enough into stopping your frenzied rush, turning to blink at his careful, limping approach. He cups your jaw and brings your mouth to his, tasting like creamer and sugar, just the way you like your coffee.

“Have a good day, hen,” he says when he pulls back, giving you an innocuous smile.

Your eyes flitter to Simon, who is leaning with one hip against the kitchen island, coffee halfway to his mouth, brows raised—it’s reflexive to check on him, to make sure that Johnny hasn’t made him angry with this sudden show of affection. To make sure that you’re allowed to enjoy it. When Simon’s coffee finally completes its circuit to his mouth, you look back at Johnny and give him a shy smile.

“You too,” you say for lack of better words. After you shut the door, you mouth to yourself, Oh my god. Then you remember your own lateness and rush down to the parking lot, praying for green lights all the way to work.

Inside the apartment, Johnny fixes Simon with a smug expression.

Simon shakes his head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

When you get home from work, feet aching and a knot in your neck, it all seems to melt away as Johnny sits up from where he was slumped on the couch and draws you onto his lap. You’re careful not to put too much pressure on his bad thigh, gripping his shoulders tightly, eyes flickering around the apartment looking for the looming presence of Johnny’s other half once Johnny’s intent seems clear.

“Where’s Simon?” you breathe.

“Out,” says Johnny, taking your chin in his fingers and coaxing you down toward his mouth. He pauses, lips nearly brushing. “Should we wait so he can watch?”

“What?”

Johnny grins. He leans up the last few hairs’ breadths and kisses you, and Simon finds you in a similar place nearly an hour later.

You’ve shifted of course, unable to kneel for so long without your legs falling asleep. Now Johnny lays with his bad thigh braced against the back of the couch, legs opened for you to be nestled between, your arms looped around his neck so you can play with the soft hairs at the back of his head.

Your mouth feels numb from kissing, your thoughts syrupy and slow, focused only on the softness of Johnny’s mouth, the way his stubble rubs your cheeks raw (and your neck, when he gives your mouth a break and trails his lips down your jaw to the space between your neck and shoulder). Your head feels light and airy, your heart too, positively buoyant with all the affection. The only part of you that doesn’t feel sleepy and slow is that needy place between your legs; there you ache, slick enough for your panties to stick to you every time you shift.

Johnny isn’t unaffected, either. He’s been hard since he dragged you onto his lap, but he seems completely content to do nothing about it. Anytime you try to escalate your kisses into something a little firmer, a little more satisfying, he drags you back to that soft and slow place where it feels like all your thoughts leak out your ears.

“Johnny,” you breathe into the crook of his neck, resting your own sore one. He hums in answer. “Don’t you want—more?”

“Got you in my lap,” he says, hands massaging your hips firmly. “What more could I possibly want?”

You let your pelvis settle a little more firmly against his own, rocking against his hard cock. He can’t control the way his breath hitches at the stimulation, fingertips digging into your flesh.

“Oh, him?” Johnny asks innocently. “Just ignore him.”

“I don’t want to ignore him,” you mutter sulkily. “I want to sit on him.”

Johnny guffaws. Beneath you, his cock twitches.

The door opens and Simon enters. He’s dripping sweat from his run, and for the first time you notice the backpack he carries with him, the way it seems to droop against his back, like it’s filled with something heavy. All three of you freeze at the sight of the other. The moment is broken by a buzzing—Simon fishes his phone from his pocket and sighs, pressing it to his ear.

“I’m listening,” he says, shutting the front door behind him.

Johnny reaches out softly and turns your chin back towards him. There is something in his eyes, something mischievous, but all he does is coax your mouth back down to his and kiss you again. You sigh against his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he sucks sweetly on your tongue. You hear the sound of Simon’s voice, but his words go in one ear and out the other, the warm rumble of his tenor doing nothing to help the ache between your thighs.

Johnny grips your hips in his hands and—oh, oh god. He rocks you gently against him, his cock brushing against your soaked sex through your respective layers. It sends a jolt through you, even this small stimulation feeling good after denying yourself for so long. You can’t help the sound that slips out of your throat, the little whine that Johnny swallows whole and matches with a warm, pleased hum.

You know what he’s doing now. Had he planned it to be like this? It’s hard to imagine that he hadn’t, not with his earlier flippant phrase of waiting for Simon to watch. Respectability wars with your own need, and you find that it’s far too easy to let your need win, to let Johnny’s hands guide you against his cock again and again, stoking that fire in your belly into something transcendental, something too big to be ignored.

“Johnny?” you hear Simon say to whoever is on the other end of the phone, the name briefly breaking through your stupor. “Being a pain in my ass, as usual.”

You break away from Johnny’s mouth but can’t seem to stop the gentle rolling of your hips. Instead you bury your face in his neck, hoping for some reprieve from the embarrassment that has your face aflame, from the shame that seems to be doing nothing but whetting the ache between your legs.

“Johnny,” you whine quietly. “Be fair.”

“What’s unfair?” he breathes. He jerks his hips up against you softly. “Oh—this? You want me to stop? Just say the word.”

You chance a glance toward Simon and find that he still has the phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes are focused firmly on you and Johnny, his expression of greater intensity than usual: brows lower, eyes darker, scarred mouth barely parted, like he has something to say but can’t. He meets your eyes and hums something noncommittal into the phone. You wonder if he’s paying attention to the call at all.

Simon turns his eyes away. He reaches down and grips the hem of his shirt, lifts it up to wipe at his dripping brow, and it gives you a glance of his body: pale and scarred, but so fucking strong, muscled with a nice layer of padding. Fuck, they are both so painfully beautiful. You realize that Johnny has stopped his gentle ministrations on your hips and that now all the movement is due to you: you’re the one grinding against his hard cock. You hide in his neck again, placing sloppy kisses against his steady pulse.

“That’s it,” Johnny mutters, barely loud enough for you to hear. His hands slip around to cup your arse. “Does that feel good?”

You nod. Anything would feel good after so much time spent on the most innocent of foreplay, anything would feel good with how swollen and wet you were. Johnny’s hands press against you, lengthening your strokes, turning your hasty, jerky movements into slow, sensual rolls of your hips, maximizing the contact between you both.

“Sit up, I want to see you,” he whispers. Your head is so full of cotton that you do, forgetting for a moment that Simon is there. He’s watching you again, one hand braced against the countertop, dark eyes watching the way you grind against his husband’s cock, knuckles white where he grips the phone and presses it to his ear, giving the occasional grunt to whomever is on the other line. Johnny says: “Fuck, yer beautiful.”

You ignore that, unwilling to let him fluster you any more than you already are. Instead you brace your hands against his chest and quicken your hips, feeling the coil inside your belly twist tight. You’ve needed to cum since last night, since Johnny first kissed you with Simon right there watching. All you want is to feel that sweet burst of pleasure, to let it rise up like high tide and drown you. Johnny’s hands smooth along your thighs and up your belly and cup the fullness of your breasts, and that’s all you need to cover your face, mouth falling open as a painfully embarrassing sound is torn from your throat. Your body is wracked with shivers as your pussy clenches tight around nothing, and you’d forgotten over the years just how unsatisfying these kinds of orgasms could be. You needed something inside you, something you could clench down on, if only Johnny had been willing to give it to you.

A door clicks shut. Your misty eyes open to find that Simon is gone.

“Beautiful,” Johnny says, drawing you back down into his arms for a kiss. Against your mouth, he mutters: “Yer perfect.”

“We scared off Simon,” you groan, forehead resting against his own. Beneath you, his cock is still hard, reminding you that he still hasn’t cum yet—likely can’t with just this level of stimulation.

“Yeah, he’s scared t’ death,” Johnny says, eyes rolling, his hands smoothing up and down the small of your back. “Probably already got his cock out in the next room.”

You frown. That wouldn’t make any sense. You decide to focus on what does make sense—helping Johnny find his own pleasure. Reaching down, you lightly trail your fingers over his clothed cock, feeling positively electric when he gives a shaky sigh, cock jerking beneath your tentative touch.

“Want some help?” you ask.

He just gives you a soft smile. “Actually, I know just the person who’s going to help me.”

When Johnny enters the bedroom, Simon is nowhere in sight. The light coming from beneath the ensuite door tells him all he needs to know. He raps his knuckles against the door and waits, unable to help the grin that stretches his mouth and the way his cock nudges at the fly of his denim. The door opens and a hand reaches out, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him in, pressing him back against the door with enough force to rattle the knob.

“Hi love,” Johnny coos. “How was your run?”

Simon kisses him, sucks on his full lower lips, licks into his open mouth like it is a cup he can drink his fill from. Johnny meets him with equal fervor, his hands falling to find Simon’s belt already undone, his cock already free and hard. It’s a warm, familiar weight in his palm as he strokes his lover and thumbs at the leaking head.

“Not—not being subtle at all,” Johnny warns him.

Simon just grunts in between kisses.

“What, can you taste her on me?” Johnny teases.

Simon groans and buries his face in the crook of Johnny’s neck where you had buried your own. He presses his mouth to every mark you left behind, teases your teeth marks with his own, hips thrusting into the tight fist of Johnny’s hand.

“You’re not subtle either,” Simon grits out, palms placed flat on the oak door, pinning Johnny in place. “She’s going to catch on that you’re trying to play matchmaker.”

“I’m not aiming for subtle,” Johnny breathes. He presses Simon back with a palm against his chest and drops to his knees, even as Simon’s eyes tighten with disapproval, knowing Johnny can’t remain in the position long. Johnny just grins, easy and lighter than he’s felt in weeks. “I’ve got about five minutes before my leg starts killin’ me…think you can cum before then?”

“I think that depends on how good your mouth treats me,” Simon says.

“I’d better get to work then, hadn’t I?”

#ghoap x reader #harmless fun

675 notes · View notes

novaursa · 10 months ago

Text

The Last Dragonslayer (2/2)

- Summary: The conclusion of a journey, for you, one of the many.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Bonus part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The council chamber is cold, the stone walls adorned with banners of House Targaryen, their crimson and black fabric swaying lightly in the draft. The weight of history presses down upon you, the ancient stones whispering secrets of kings and conquerors. You stand at the edge of the chamber, watching Rhaenyra from beneath the hood of your cloak. The lords seated around the table glance at you uneasily, their gazes lingering too long, discomfort plain in their eyes. You are a foreigner, an anomaly, a reminder of tales and nightmares they would rather forget.

Rhaenyra, the Queen, sits at the head of the table, her presence commanding even as shadows darken the skin beneath her eyes. She’s been restless since Daemon left for Harrenhal, pacing the halls of Dragonstone like a caged beast. Now, she listens as her advisors bicker, her expression tight, her gaze distant. They speak of the war, of the blood that’s already been spilled, and the blood that will flow if they do not act.

Alfred Broome, his voice tinged with frustration, slams his fist on the table. “We cannot continue to sit idle, Your Grace. The Greens gain more ground with each passing day! Aemond’s attack on Storm’s End—”

“—was an act of war,” interrupts Lord Celtigar, his tone measured but firm. “They have already crossed the line.”

“And yet we remain here, waiting!” Broome snaps, glaring at the others. “Waiting for what? A miracle? A sign from the gods? Aemond tried to kill Prince Lucerys, and still, we do nothing.”

You watch as Rhaenyra’s knuckles whiten, her fingers digging into the arms of her chair. Her grief is palpable, a dark cloud that has yet to lift since news of Lucerys’ narrow escape reached her. But she remains silent, her eyes flickering with a storm of emotions she refuses to let loose before these men.

It’s then that you decide to speak, your voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Action without strategy is a fool’s errand, Lord Broome. Perhaps you are eager to throw away lives in a show of haste, but the Queen’s duty is to her people, not to your impatience.”

The lords turn to you, their eyes narrowing, some in suspicion, others in outright disdain. You meet their stares unflinchingly, the cold fire of your homeland reflected in your gaze. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sword—a sword older than any of them, a relic of a time when the world was shaped by fire and blood, but not by dragons alone.

Broome sneers, his lip curling. “And what would a foreigner know of our wars? Of our dragons?”

More than you could ever understand, you think, but do not say aloud. Instead, you take a step forward, the shadow of your Banshee—your mount, your companion, and your weapon—seeming to loom behind you, though it remains far from these walls. The lords shift uncomfortably as if sensing its presence. They fear it, as they should.

“I know,” you say, your voice steady, “that Aemond did more than just attack Storm’s End. He was driven away. Chased off by something he did not expect, and that something was me. You may not trust my motives, but understand this: I have chosen to stand with the Queen, to see balance preserved in Westeros. You would do well to heed her wisdom and not let your fear cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours across the table, and for a moment, the storm within her clears. There is gratitude there, and something else—something that has lingered between you since the night you arrived at Dragonstone, the night you saved her son. The pull between you is undeniable, a silent promise that neither of you has yet dared to speak aloud. But in her gaze, you see it as clearly as the flames of a dragon’s breath.

Lord Celtigar clears his throat, cutting through the tension. “The Lady Y/N speaks true. We cannot act rashly. The Greens expect us to strike without thought. We must outmaneuver them, not merely meet them on the field of battle.”

The room falls silent, the lords exchanging glances. Broome’s scowl deepens, but he holds his tongue, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra, who now seems more resolute.

Rhaenyra straightens in her seat, the weight of the crown evident on her shoulders but her voice strong. “We will act, but we will act wisely. The Greens will not find us easy prey. We will not fall into their traps, nor will we be goaded into hasty decisions. Lord Celtigar, begin preparations for the fleet. We’ll strike where they least expect it. And Lord Broome,” she adds, her gaze hardening, “you will ensure that our forces are ready when the time comes.”

Broome stiffens but nods, his anger barely concealed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The council continues, the lords discussing strategy, but your attention drifts to Rhaenyra. The tension in her shoulders has eased slightly, but the burden she carries is still heavy. You find yourself stepping closer, a silent offering of support that she acknowledges with a slight nod, a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she turns back to the map spread out before her.

Later, when the council disperses, and the lords retreat to their chambers, you linger. The chamber is quiet now, the echo of the lords' voices fading into the stone. Rhaenyra stands by the hearth, staring into the flames, her thoughts far away. You approach her, the weight of your sword still at your side, a constant reminder of who you are and what you represent.

“You were right to keep a level head,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence. “They do not understand the full scope of what we face.”

She turns to you, the firelight casting her features in a warm glow. For a moment, she looks younger, almost fragile, but then her eyes meet yours, and the steel within her is evident once more. “It is difficult,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know when to strike, and when to hold back. But with Daemon gone, I must be even more cautious. I cannot afford to lose another child… or more allies.”

“You won’t,” you reply, your voice firm. “Not while I’m here.”

A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “I am grateful for that, Y/N. More than you know.”

The air between you shifts, charged with the unspoken words that neither of you dare to voice, not here, not now. But the promise remains, woven into the fabric of your alliance, and something deeper, something personal.

You reach out, your hand brushing against hers—a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through you both. Rhaenyra doesn’t pull away, her fingers curling slightly, as if to hold onto the warmth you offer. For a brief moment, the weight of the crown, the war, the bloodshed all fades, leaving just the two of you standing by the fire, bound by something stronger than duty.

“Stay with me,” she murmurs, her voice soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard before. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, your hand gently clasping hers, the two of you standing side by side as the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the flames a quiet witness to the bond growing between you.

The wind howls through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine. The forest is dense, the shadows long as dusk begins to settle over the land. You stand alone in a clearing, your cloak billowing around you like a dark shadow, the hilt of your ancient sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. The ground beneath your feet is soft, the earth freshly disturbed by the recent passage of men and horses—Ser Criston Cole’s forces, on their way to seize Duskendale for the Greens.

The quiet of the forest is broken by the distant sound of hooves, growing louder with each passing moment. You remain still, your gaze fixed on the treeline as they emerge—riders clad in armor, their banners snapping in the wind. At their head rides Ser Criston Cole himself, his face set in a stern mask, followed closely by Ser Gwayne Hightower and several dozen men-at-arms. They slow as they approach, their horses snorting and stamping as they take in your solitary figure.

The men spread out in a semicircle, surrounding you, their weapons at the ready. Ser Criston rides closer, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance. The tales of your deeds have reached his ears, no doubt—whispers of a foreigner with an ancient sword, a beast that haunts the skies, and the power to make even dragons flee. But it’s clear he does not yet understand the full measure of what stands before him.

“Who are you to stand in our path?” Criston’s voice is hard, commanding, as if the answer to his question will determine whether you live or die.

You don’t flinch under his scrutiny, your voice calm as you reply, “I am Y/N. I have come to give you a chance, Ser Criston. Turn back now, and you may yet live to see another day.”

A murmur ripples through the men, some of them exchanging uneasy glances. They’ve heard the tales too, and the sight of you standing alone, unafraid, seems to unsettle them. But Criston is unmoved, his expression hardening as he spurs his horse closer, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“You expect me to turn tail at the sight of a woman?” He sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You may have frightened Aemond, but I am no craven boy. I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the true king. Step aside, or I will cut you down where you stand.”

His men shift in their saddles, emboldened by their commander’s bravado. Ser Gwayne smirks, drawing his sword, the blade catching the dying light of the sun. “It would be wise to heed the Commander’s words, foreigner. You are far from home and outnumbered.”

You remain still, your expression unreadable, the forest around you eerily silent. The air grows colder, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and leaves. You speak again, your voice carrying an edge of steel. “This is your final warning, Ser Criston. I am not here to play games, nor am I here to waste lives. Turn back, or face the consequences.”

Criston’s eyes narrow, his patience clearly worn thin. He raises his sword, the motion sharp and decisive. “Enough of this. Men, bring me her head.”

The order is given, and the men begin to close in around you, their horses snorting, the sound of metal clinking as they draw their weapons. You don’t move, your hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

As the first rider approaches, sword raised high, you draw your blade with a fluid motion, the ancient steel singing as it cuts through the air. The rider barely has time to react before your sword meets his, the force of the blow sending a shockwave up his arm. His eyes widen in surprise, and in that moment of hesitation, you twist your blade, disarming him with a swift, practiced movement.

He falls from his horse with a cry, his weapon clattering to the ground. The other men hesitate, clearly not expecting such a swift and effortless display. But Criston’s voice rings out, cold and commanding. “Press the attack! She’s but one woman!”

But you are not just one woman. You are Y/N, the last of the Dragonslayers. And this is not your first battle.They charge at you, swords flashing in the dim light, but you are ready. Your movements are a blur, each strike precise, each parry executed with lethal grace. One by one, the riders fall, unhorsed by the skill of your blade or the sheer power behind your strikes. The clearing becomes a battlefield, the air filled with the clash of steel and the cries of men.

In the chaos, you catch sight of Ser Gwayne, his face twisted in anger as he drives his horse towards you. You meet his charge head-on, your swords clashing with a force that reverberates through your arms. He grits his teeth, pushing against you with all his strength, but you hold firm, the ancient power of your blade surging through you.

“You should have listened,” you say, your voice low, as you twist your sword, breaking his stance and sending him reeling. He barely manages to stay in the saddle, his eyes wide with shock as he realizes just how outmatched he is.

“You’re a demon!” he spits, his voice trembling as he regains his balance, but the fear is evident in his eyes.

“No,” you reply, your voice cold, “I am justice.”

With a final, powerful strike, you knock him from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. He groans, trying to rise, but you place the tip of your sword against his throat, pinning him in place. The other men halt, unsure whether to continue their attack or flee.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He dismounts, striding towards you, his sword at the ready. “You think you can best me?” he snarls, raising his weapon.

You turn to face him, your blade still poised at Gwayne’s throat. “I don’t think, Ser Criston. I know.”

Criston lunges at you, his strikes fast and furious, but you are faster. Your swords clash, the sound ringing through the clearing like a bell. He fights with the ferocity of a man with everything to lose, but you match him blow for blow, your movements fluid, almost effortless. He’s strong, but strength alone is not enough.

The battle drags on, but with each passing moment, Criston’s strikes become more desperate, more reckless. He overextends on a particularly vicious swing, and you seize the opportunity. You parry his strike, stepping inside his guard and slashing across his chest. He stumbles back, blood blooming across his white cloak, staining it red.

He grits his teeth, refusing to fall, but the wound has taken its toll. You don’t give him a chance to recover, pressing the attack with a series of swift, precise strikes. He barely manages to parry, each blow pushing him further back until he’s on the defensive, his movements slowing.

Finally, with a powerful upward swing, you knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying across the clearing. He falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding chest, his face pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stand over him, your sword raised, its tip pointed at his throat. “I warned you,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of inevitability.

Criston glares up at you, defiance still burning in his eyes, but there is also fear—fear of the unknown, of the force that now stands over him. “Kill me, then,” he spits. “But know this: you will never defeat one true king, Aegon.”

You lower your sword slightly, considering him for a moment. “I do not need to defeat your king, Ser Criston. I only need to preserve the balance.”

With that, you withdraw your sword, stepping back. Criston’s eyes widen in surprise, but you give him no time to react. You whistle sharply, and from the shadows of the forest, your Banshee emerges, its massive form blotting out the last of the daylight. The men around you recoil in terror as the creature lets out a bone-chilling shriek, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the cry of a thousand tortured souls.

Criston stares up at the creature, his face drained of all color, and for the first time, you see true fear in his eyes.

“Tell your king,” you say, your voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “that Duskendale is under my protection. And the next time we meet, I will not be so merciful.”

With that, you turn and mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings unfurling as it prepares to take flight. The men watch in stunned silence as you ascend into the sky, the wind whipping around you as your mount carries you away from the clearing and into the night.

Below, the soldiers of the Greens stand frozen, their leader humbled, their will to fight shattered. The tale of what happened in that clearing will spread, carried on the winds of fear, and it will be known that the last of the Dragonslayers walks the earth once more.

The great hall of Dragonstone is quiet as you enter, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of salt and smoke, the sea and the dragon forges mingling to create an atmosphere that is both heavy and foreboding. Rhaenyra and her council are gathered around the massive oak table at the center of the chamber, the map of Westeros spread out before them. Their faces are drawn, tense with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

You stride forward, the sound of your boots on the stone floor echoing through the chamber. The lords and advisors turn to you, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. You are a mystery to most of them, a shadow in the midst of their struggles, but your presence commands attention.

Rhaenyra looks up from the map, her violet eyes locking onto yours. There is a quiet strength in her gaze, tempered by the grief and burdens she carries. She nods to you, her silent signal for you to speak.

“The Greens will no longer trouble themselves with coastal points, Your Grace,” you begin, your voice steady and clear. “I intercepted Ser Criston Cole’s forces before they could reach Duskendale. They were forced to retreat, and word will spread of their defeat. They will not dare to strike at our shores again, not while I stand with you.”

Murmurs ripple through the council, some lords exchanging glances of relief, others still wary of the enigmatic figure before them. But Rhaenyra’s expression is one of satisfaction, a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“Well done, Lady Y/N,” she says, her voice carrying the authority of a queen. “You have once again proven your value to our cause.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”

The council continues for a while longer, discussions of strategy and the next moves in the war filling the chamber. But you notice that Rhaenyra’s attention drifts back to you frequently, her gaze lingering as if she has something more on her mind. Finally, as the meeting draws to a close, she dismisses her advisors with a wave of her hand.

“Lady Y/N,” she calls, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “A word, if you will.”

You nod, following her as she leads you from the great hall. The corridors of Dragonstone are dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unyielding. Rhaenyra’s pace is slow, measured, as if she is gathering her thoughts. You walk beside her in silence, the only sound the faint echoes of your footsteps.

She leads you to her chambers, a grand room that still manages to feel intimate despite its size. The air is warm here, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallways. A bath is drawn, the steam rising gently from the water, scented with herbs and oils. It’s clear that Rhaenyra sought this moment of respite, a small comfort amidst the storm of war.

She gestures for you to sit by the fire, where a table is set with a decanter of wine and two goblets. “Please, join me,” she says, her voice soft but carrying a hint of something more—curiosity, perhaps, or even a touch of longing.

You take a seat, watching as she pours the wine, the deep red liquid catching the light of the flames. She hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in the air between you, unspoken.

“I wanted to speak with you, Y/N,” she begins, taking a sip of her wine as she settles into a chair opposite you. “I realize I know so little about you, despite all you’ve done for me. You’ve proven yourself a loyal ally, but there is much I would like to understand. Who are you, truly?”

You swirl the wine in your goblet, considering her question. There is so much to tell, more than could be shared in one evening, or even in a lifetime. But you see the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine desire to know you, not just as a warrior, but as a person.

“I have seen much, Your Grace,” you say slowly, your voice carrying the weight of centuries. “More than most could ever dream or fear. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the death of loved ones, the shifting tides of history. From the brilliant Yo Ti Empire to the shadowed lands of Asshai, to the great wonders beyond the western seas… I have wandered this world longer than I care to remember.”

Rhaenyra listens intently, her eyes wide, a shiver running down her spine at your words. But it is not fear that grips her—it is something else, something that makes her heart quicken, her breath catch.

“How old are you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she is almost afraid to hear the answer.

You smile faintly, the lines of your face softening as you look into the flames. “Too old, Your Grace. Old enough to have seen the world change many times over. To be bound to a Banshee is a terrible purpose.”

Rhaenyra sits back in her chair, the goblet forgotten in her hand as she takes in the enormity of your words. For a moment, the weight of your age and experience presses down upon her, making her feel small and fleeting in comparison. But then, she realizes something—despite all you have seen, all you have endured, you are here, by her side, choosing to stand with her in this tumultuous time.

She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on yours, her touch warm, grounding. “And yet you have chosen to fight for me, for Westeros. Why?”

You look at her, truly look at her, and see not just a queen burdened by war, but a woman who has suffered, who has loved and lost, and who is determined to protect what remains. “Because, Your Grace, you fight for balance. For the hope that the world might find peace, that the fire of the dragons might warm rather than burn. That is something worth fighting for.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, her heart touched by your words. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you, Y/N. For your honesty, and for your loyalty. It means more to me than I can express.”

The room seems warmer now, the tension of the day melting away as the two of you continue to talk. You share stories of your past, tales of lands and people she can only imagine, and she in turn shares her own hopes and fears, her dreams for her children, for her realm.

As the night deepens, the conversation grows more intimate, the barriers between you falling away. The flickering fire casts a soft glow on Rhaenyra’s face, highlighting the beauty and strength that have drawn you to her from the beginning. And though the specter of war still looms over you both, for this moment, in this room, there is only warmth, only connection.

The wine flows, the stories continue, and as the night wears on, the bond between you and the Black Queen deepens, becoming something more than mere alliance, more than duty.

The night deepens as you and Rhaenyra continue to talk, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment. The wine in your goblets has long since dwindled, but neither of you seems to notice, too absorbed in the quiet intimacy of your conversation. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room, but it is the light in Rhaenyra’s eyes that holds your attention.

As the conversation naturally lulls, a silence falls between you—not an awkward one, but rather filled with unspoken words and lingering glances. You notice how Rhaenyra’s gaze occasionally drifts to your lips, how her breath catches slightly when your hands brush. It is a delicate tension, a quiet yearning that neither of you has fully acknowledged until now.

Finally, Rhaenyra breaks the silence, her voice hushed, almost tentative. “Y/N… there is something I have been wanting to do for some time now.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in her tone. “And what might that be, Your Grace?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead leaning in closer, her eyes locked onto yours. The distance between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, your hearts beating in tandem. Then, without another word, she closes the remaining distance, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft yet filled with a deep, unspoken desire.

The kiss is tentative at first, testing, but as you respond, it deepens, becoming more urgent, more passionate. Rhaenyra’s hand finds its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while your own hand rests on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress. The world outside the room fades away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this moment.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting against each other’s as you take in the reality of what just happened. Rhaenyra’s eyes are dark with desire, her voice a mere whisper as she speaks. “Join me… in the bath.”

There is no hesitation in your response, only a quiet nod of agreement. You both rise from your seats, the space between you charged with anticipation. Rhaenyra’s hand slips into yours, leading you toward the bath that still steams softly in the corner of the room. The heat from the water fills the space, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

Standing beside the bath, you turn to face each other, the moment heavy with significance. Slowly, reverently, you begin to undress one another, your hands moving with a gentle purpose. Rhaenyra’s fingers trace the edges of your cloak, slipping it from your shoulders, while your own hands find the laces of her dress, loosening them with deliberate care. Each piece of clothing falls to the floor with a whisper, leaving you both bared to each other, not just in body, but in soul.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over you, appreciation and desire evident in her eyes. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes a lock of hair from your face, her touch tender, almost reverent. “You are… beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

You smile softly, your own hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing against her skin. “As are you, Rhaenyra. You are radiant.”

There is no more need for words as you step into the bath together, the water embracing you both in its warmth. You sink into the water, Rhaenyra following, her body pressing against yours as you both settle into the comfort of the bath. The heat of the water contrasts with the cool air of the room, heightening every sensation.

You share another kiss, this one slower, more languid, as if savoring each moment. Your hands begin to explore one another’s bodies, tracing the curves and lines with a tenderness that belies the passion simmering beneath the surface. You feel the strength in her arms, the softness of her skin, and the way her body trembles under your touch.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches as your hand moves lower, finding the heat of her womanhood. She mirrors your movement, her fingers slipping between your thighs with a surety that makes you shudder. The contact is electric, sending ripples of pleasure through both of you. The world narrows to the sensation of her touch, the way her breath mingles with yours, the warmth of the water lapping at your bodies.

There is a rhythm to your movements, a dance of desire and affection that grows more intense with each passing second. Rhaenyra’s moans mix with your own, her voice breathy and desperate as she clings to you, her hips moving in time with your hand. The water sloshes gently around you, the only witness to this intimate exchange.

As the pressure builds within you both, the touches grow more urgent, the kisses more fervent. Rhaenyra’s hand tightens on your shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut as she reaches the edge. You follow her soon after, your bodies trembling together as the waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you both breathless, your hearts pounding in the aftermath.

For a moment, there is only the sound of your breathing, the gentle lap of the water, and the warmth of Rhaenyra’s body pressed against yours. Slowly, the intensity of the moment ebbs away, leaving behind a deep, abiding connection.

Rhaenyra leans her head against your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck. “That was… incredible,” she whispers, her voice still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure.

You smile, your hand gently stroking her back as you hold her close. “It was,” you agree softly, feeling a profound sense of contentment.

The two of you remain like that for some time, simply holding each other, basking in the warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies. There is a gentle, unspoken understanding between you now, a bond forged not just by passion but by mutual respect and deepening affection.

As the water begins to cool, Rhaenyra lifts her head, looking into your eyes with a soft smile. “Let’s dry off and rest,” she suggests, her voice gentle. “There is much we still need to talk about… but for now, I just want to be close to you.”

You nod, helping her out of the bath and wrapping yourselves in the towels that were left nearby. As you dry each other off, the touches are more tender, more affectionate, than before. There is no rush, no urgency—only the simple pleasure of being together.

Once dry, you both slip into the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. Rhaenyra curls up beside you, her head resting on your chest, her hand lightly tracing patterns on your skin. You hold her close, your own hand gently stroking her hair, the intimacy of the moment filling you both with a deep sense of peace.

“Tell me more about your journeys,” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice drowsy as sleep begins to tug at her.

“Of course,” you reply softly, your voice soothing as you begin to share more tales of distant lands and ancient times. Rhaenyra listens, her breathing slowing as she drifts off, content in your embrace.

As she falls asleep, you continue to hold her, your own eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. But before you succumb to sleep, you take a moment to appreciate the warmth of her body against yours, the comfort of her presence.

Together, in the quiet of the night, you both find rest, the bond between you stronger than ever before.

The dawn is just breaking over Dragonstone, casting a pale golden light across the harbor. The sea is calm, the waters reflecting the first light of day like molten glass. The ships are ready, their sails furled and waiting for the wind to carry them across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenyra stands on the dock, her expression stern, though her heart is heavy. The decision to send her children away, to safety in Pentos, has not come easily. Aegon and Viserys cling to her skirts, their young faces filled with confusion and fear, while Lucerys stands beside her, trying to put on a brave face for his younger brothers.

Jacaerys, their eldest, stands a short distance away, his jaw set in determination, though there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He is prepared to escort his brothers, to protect them as best he can, but the weight of responsibility is a heavy burden on such young shoulders.

Rhaenyra kneels to embrace her children, whispering words of comfort and love, even as her heart aches with the knowledge that she may not see them again for a long time—if ever. As she stands and turns to Jace, a shadow passes over the group. She looks up, expecting to see a cloud or a bird, but instead, it is you, descending from the sky on your Banshee, the creature’s leathery wings creating a powerful downdraft as it lands gracefully on the docks.

You dismount with practiced ease, your cloak billowing around you as you stride toward the group. The lords and soldiers present step back instinctively, the stories of your deeds still fresh in their minds. Jacaerys stiffens as you approach, sensing that something is about to change.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra greets you, her voice laced with surprise but also a trace of relief. “You’ve come to see them off?”

You nod, but your gaze is focused on Jacaerys, who meets your eyes with a mixture of respect and defiance. “No, Your Grace,” you say calmly, “I’ve come to take Prince's place.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows in confusion, and Jace steps forward, his voice firm but uncertain. “But Mother has tasked me with escorting my brothers. I can’t leave them to face this journey alone.”

“You won’t be leaving them alone, Jace,” you reply, your tone gentle but unyielding. “But your place is here, by your mother’s side. She needs you now more than ever.”

Jace opens his mouth to protest, but you raise a hand, silencing him. “You won’t make it past the Gullet,” you continue, your eyes narrowing slightly as you speak. “On my last flight, I saw ships from the Free Cities approaching fast, likely in league with the Greens. They will be waiting for you, and you will not have the strength to fight them off. But I can.”

The gravity of your words sinks in, and Rhaenyra’s hand instinctively tightens on Jace’s arm. The boy hesitates, torn between his duty to his brothers and the growing realization that you speak the truth.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts from her son to you, her eyes searching yours. There is a deep understanding between you, born of the time you have spent together, the shared battles, and the nights spent in quiet conversation. She knows you too well, and she can sense what you are not saying.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice low and laden with concern. “You intend to go alone, don’t you?”

You nod slowly, the sadness in your eyes betraying what you cannot bring yourself to say outright. “This is something I must do, Rhaenyra. It is time for me to fulfill my calling, to see this through to the end.”

“No,” Rhaenyra says firmly, shaking her head as she steps closer to you. “You are not just an ally, Y/N. You are more than that. You have become… indispensable to me, to us. I cannot let you go, not like this.”

You offer her a sad smile, one that speaks of centuries of experience, of knowing when a path must be walked alone. “I have only ever obeyed one master, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, reaching out to gently cup her cheek. “And that is my calling. This is something I must do, for myself, and for those who have gone before me. My time here is coming to an end, and it is time for me to go home.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she blinks them away, her voice breaking as she speaks. “Will I ever see you again?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze lifting to the sky, where the first stars of evening are beginning to twinkle faintly, though the sun has barely risen. “I will be watching over you every night, Rhaenyra,” you reply, your voice tender and filled with an unspoken promise. “Whenever you look up at the stars, know that I am there, looking at you.”

For a moment, there is only silence between you, the weight of the world hanging in the air. Rhaenyra reaches up, placing her hand over yours where it rests against her cheek, holding on to the warmth of your touch as if she could somehow keep you with her.

“Then promise me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I promise I will do everything in my power to return,” you say, your voice filled with the sincerity of your oath. But there is something unspoken in your words, a truth that both of you know but do not want to acknowledge—that sometimes, not all promises can be kept.

Rhaenyra steps back reluctantly, releasing your hand, her eyes never leaving yours. She nods, accepting your words even as her heart rebels against them. “Go, then,” she says, her voice filled with the strength of a queen but the sorrow of a woman who knows she may be losing someone dear. “But remember that you have a place here, with us, with me. And if you can… come back to it.”

You bow your head slightly in acknowledgment, your expression one of quiet resolve. “Take care of your family, Rhaenyra,” you say, turning to the children, your eyes lingering on Jacaerys for a moment. “And remember what I’ve taught you.”

With that, you mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings stretching out in preparation for flight. You glance back at Rhaenyra one last time, committing her face to memory—the strength in her eyes, the sadness in her smile—before turning your gaze forward, to the horizon where your destiny awaits.

The Banshee’s powerful wings beat the air as you take off, soaring into the sky above Dragonstone. Below, you see Rhaenyra and her children watching, growing smaller and smaller as you climb higher into the sky. The wind rushes past you, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the distant promise of what is to come.

As the island fades into the distance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. You have made your choice, and it is the right one.

And somewhere below, on the shores of Dragonstone, a queen stands alone, her gaze lifted to the heavens, searching the skies for a glimpse of the one she has come to care for more than she ever thought possible. As the stars begin to emerge, she knows that, wherever you are, you are looking at them too, and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your way back to her, to the home you have both made together.

But for now, all she can do is wait, and hope, and hold on to the memory of your final kiss, a promise that will echo in her heart for as long as she lives.

Years have passed, and the Red Keep stands tall against the night sky, its ancient stones bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The castle, once a symbol of unyielding strength, now bears the weight of countless battles, of loss and victory, of the bloodshed that shaped the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, despite the passage of time, one constant remains: the stars, ever-present, watching over the realm with a silent, timeless gaze.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, now older and wearier, stands alone on the balcony of her chambers. The years have etched lines of sorrow and wisdom onto her face, and her once fiery spirit has been tempered by the trials she has endured. Her long silver hair, once a brilliant cascade, now carries strands of white, a testament to the time that has passed and the burdens she has carried. She wraps her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shielding herself from the cool night breeze that whispers through the Red Keep.

Her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the stars that glitter like diamonds against the velvety darkness. The constellations are familiar to her, their patterns etched into her memory from countless nights spent searching them for solace, for answers, for a glimpse of the past. The night is clear, the sky vast and endless, and yet Rhaenyra feels a deep, aching loneliness that even the stars cannot fill.

She lifts her chin slightly, her eyes tracing the paths of the stars as they twinkle serenely above. It has become a ritual of sorts, this nightly vigil, a way to connect with something greater than herself, to find comfort in the constancy of the heavens when everything else has changed.

But tonight, the stars seem more distant than ever.

She remembers those who have been lost to the ravages of time and war—her children, her loved ones, and the countless souls who once stood beside her. She remembers the faces of those who are no longer here, their voices now echoes in her memory. And among those memories, one stands out more vividly than the rest.

It has been years since you left her, years since you took flight from Dragonstone, vowing to protect her children, to do what needed to be done. You had promised to look after them, to see them safely to the other side of the Narrow Sea. And you had promised, in your own way, to return—to find your way back to her, to the place you both shared.

But you never did.

Rhaenyra’s heart tightens at the thought, a pang of sorrow so deep it threatens to overwhelm her. She has long since stopped searching the skies for your return, knowing deep down that you had fulfilled your destiny, whatever it may have been, and that she would never see you again. And yet, on nights like this, when the stars are particularly bright, she can’t help but wonder if somewhere, in some distant part of the world, you are still watching over her, as you had promised.

She leans against the cold stone of the balcony, her hands resting on the worn edges, her gaze unfaltering. The years have taken so much from her, but the memory of you remains, as vivid as the night you shared on Dragonstone, as real as the last kiss you gave her before you took to the skies. It is a memory she holds close, a fragment of warmth in a world that has grown increasingly colder.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves of the trees far below, carrying with it the faintest scent of the sea. It is a reminder of a time long past, of a love that was as fleeting as it was profound. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wind brush against her face, imagining it is your touch, soft and comforting, as it once was.

But when she opens her eyes, the night remains as it was, unchanged, the stars twinkling impassively above. She takes a deep breath, the weight of the years pressing down on her, and yet, there is a certain peace that comes with it. She knows that you are out there, somewhere beyond the reach of mortal hands, and that perhaps, in your own way, you are still watching over her.

Rhaenyra lifts her hand, as if to touch the stars, her fingers stretching out toward the endless sky. It is a futile gesture, and she knows it, but it brings her a small measure of comfort nonetheless. She lets her hand fall back to her side, her gaze lingering on the stars for a moment longer before she turns away, retreating into the warmth of her chambers.

As she closes the balcony doors behind her, shutting out the chill of the night, Rhaenyra takes one last look at the sky. The stars continue to shine, distant and unwavering, and she knows that they will be there long after she is gone, just as they were before she was born. They are a reminder of the constancy of the universe, of the passage of time, and of the fleeting nature of life.

And as she steps back into the familiar confines of her room, she carries with her the memory of you—of the love that once was, of the promises made beneath the stars, and of the bittersweet knowledge that some things are not meant to last forever.

But even in that knowledge, there is a certain beauty, a quiet acceptance. For Rhaenyra knows that, in the end, it is not the length of time that matters, but the depth of the moments shared. And though you are gone, the memory of those moments remains, a light in the darkness, a star in the sky, guiding her even now.

And so, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to rest, knowing that, wherever you are, a part of you is still with her, in the stars above, in the memories you left behind, and in the love that will never fade, no matter how many years pass.

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