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skzdarlings · 2 months

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bodyguard: the first guard | part four | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. this chapter contains explicit sexual content. this chapter also has a content warning for descriptions of torture and dehumanization. the previously established story dynamics are prevalent. chapter word count: 14,600 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix is with the enemy. He let himself be taken.

Losing a fight was the only way to win. The enemy is well-fortified, his defences impenetrable, but offensive strikes are not a strength. The best of his men are no match for Felix, not their force or their taunting or threatening. They can torture him. They can hurt him. It is literal child’s play, every move a textbook manoeuvre from his childhood training.

After some prodding, coercion, and violence, someone decides to send word up the chain of command. It reaches the ear of the enemy, and now Felix is cuffed to a chair in some kind of warehouse, waiting to meet a monster.

The man finally strides into the room. He is average height, average build, with cold eyes but a dull demeanour.

Felix was hoping for a nightmare. Maybe that would have helped justify some of it. But the immense nothingness of the man is infuriating. This? Everything they did, everything Felix did, was because of this? Just another pathetic man hurting the weak with someone else’s hands.

The enemy stands above Felix and his shadow feels no different than Miroh.

That is how Felix rationalizes it, even with a roiling stomach as he sits beneath that man. A shadow will fall, one way or the other. His choice is no choice at all: two dark paths, neither with a light at the end.

Felix is not here to save himself. His mission is to save Chris. That is all that matters now.

“You work for Miroh,” the enemy says. “Or is that worked, if my men are to be believed?”

“That’s right,” Felix says. He sees the flicker of surprise in the enemy’s eyes. Felix’s voice has already dropped and its darker, deeper tone always surprises people. It counters his youth, his soft face, makes the enemy look twice and consider him more carefully.

Felix is everything Miroh wanted his soldiers to be. He is easy to misjudge, overlook, underestimate, but competent, deadly, and loyal to a single, unmoving cause.

Thinking of Chris, Felix says, “I know how to end this.”

His throat is dry, his voice rough. He drags it up, propelled by the pounding of his desperate heart.

“I know Miroh’s next move,” Felix says. “I know where he’ll be. I know what he’s planning. I know how to interfere. But we both know you’re the only one who can really do it.”

Flattery takes the enemy from wary to invested. He is so easy to read, more childish than Felix ever was. It is infuriating. It takes all his strength for Felix to grit his teeth and restrain himself, to not rip out of his bonds and destroy this shadow of a man.

But this is not about Felix.

“What is it you think you know?” the enemy asks.

Felix smiles, a soft, disarming smile, practiced from a lifetime of subterfuge. A lie on his face, but coupled with the truth. He thinks about everything he has done and everything he will do.

Felix says, “Everything.”

P R E S E N T D A Y

Two days ago, you were running missions for your father. You kept your head down and strove for the best, blindly believing your compliance would lead somewhere worthwhile. The ends would justify the means. You would prove yourself and everything would come together.

Now, your only plan is to tear it all apart.

Your father is dead. You are miles from the world he created, off the edge of every map he ever drew. You stare down a long, dark path with no seeming end.

You think of your friend and find the strength to place one foot in front of the other.

It is something you should have done a long time ago, but there is no time to linger in past feelings. Not the guilt of years ago, not the pain of a few days, and not the embarrassment of last night.

You lift your head as Chan approaches the park bench. Your first order of business was acquiring basic necessities, so you left the motel and ventured out. It required more than a little theft and cunning, but now you are both dressed in civilian clothes, better blending in with your surroundings.

Chan went to grab some food while you sat and mapped out a basic strategy. He has followed your lead in every regard, including conversation. You have not spoken a word about last night so neither has he, but it sits between you like a tangible block. Your eyes meet and speak without the help of words. Who are you? you seem to ask each other, and neither has an answer.

Miroh’s first guard. You think of him in the ring. You imagine him in even darker shadows. It is impossible to reconcile that soldier with the man who comforted you, who tucked you into bed, who sat with you until you fell asleep.

Miroh’s daughter. It is just as impossible to reconcile the soldier you were with the woman who not only broken down crying, but let someone comfort her with so much tenderness.

You look at each other, a flash of something between you, then you clear your throat and look away and hope it disappears.

Chan sits beside you on the bench. He hands you a sandwich.

“What next?” he asks, then takes a bite of his own.

You are both in blue jeans and flannels, baseball caps tugged over your eyes. You keep to a quiet space in the park, but there are still civilians nearby. You watch some kids throw a ball around. You don’t have much of an appetite, but your body needs sustenance if you want to heal properly. Much as you would prefer to dive into the mission, ignoring your own wellbeing, an unbalanced fight will not save Changbin.

You take a bite of your sandwich and pass the notebook to Chan.

“I’ve made a list of the main research facilities,” you say. “My father implied Changbin would be used for study so I don’t think he’s being held at any training base. I’ve ranked the research facilities in order of likelihood based on their location and general field of focus.”

Chan nods, looking over the list. You stare at him while he reads.

You need to say something. Each bite of food is excruciating because it is fighting the pit in your stomach. You are a tangle of embarrassment, confusion, and unfamiliar emotions you cannot name. Finding the right words is physically painful.

You rub the bridge of your nose and steady your breathing. Chan looks at you with an inquisitive tilt of his head, but he looks away when your eyes meet.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Despite your preparation, it is more of a blurt. “For last night, I mean.”

You cringe thinking about it, but addressing it finally alleviates the weight in your gut. You fiddle with the wrapping to your sandwich, staring at the ground and pointedly not at him.

“It’s not like me,” you say. “The past couple days, it’s just…”

“It’s fine,” Chan says. When you scoff, he bumps his shoulder against yours. “Seriously, you don’t have to apologize. Can’t really blame you, ya know, considering everything.”

“I’ve dealt with some crazy fucking circumstances,” you say. “And I’ve never…” Mortification settles as you recall last night, which drudges up all those feelings again. It twists together inside you. You put the sandwich down and rub your eyes. “I just don’t feel like myself at all.” It is a resigned admittance, sitting at the crux of everything. You are lost without your father’s map, even though you know it is better off burned. “I just don’t know how everything used to feel so easy. It’s like I’m a stranger and the whole world is just as foreign. My father drew a perfect map of his world and now I’m way off the grid.”

“Maybe it’s time to draw a new one,” Chan says.

You look at each other. You are both hunched over, elbows on your knees, bodies inclined just barely towards each other where your knees almost touch. His face is bare and yours is scarred, his tone sincere and voice as raw as yours.

The dark path ahead seems a little less daunting.

There is one more thing you have to say, and this one is even harder, mixed up with embarrassment.

Sheepishly, you say, “Also, uh… thank you. For what you did last night.”

Chan laughs, just a breath of a sound, and there is some colour in his cheeks. He deflects the gratitude with more awkwardness than the apology, stammering on some vague denial.

“Nah, nah, it’s fine, you know,” he says, then says it a dozen more times.

If crying was a break from your usual character, the little grin on your face is even more alien. But it’s there, admittedly amused as you watch the most lethal weapon in Miroh’s arsenal stumble over his words. His hair is over his ears, his hat over that, but you can see where they start to darken with a blush. You had no idea the First Guard could go so red. Maybe that’s why he has to wear a mask, you think to yourself, tickled.

But now is not the time for teasing. You bump his knee with your own then pick up your sandwich. Your appetite has returned, little by little, the worst of that pit closing.

“Yeah, just… think nothing of it,” he says.

“I’ll try,” you say, cringing.

He pats your knee consolingly, then he smiles, light-hearted, looking at you with a goofy wink. “Next time it’ll be me and you can help me out,” he says. “Then we’ll be even.”

He goes back to eating his sandwich, his attention straying to the kids and their ball game. You look at him a moment longer.

If it had been him who broke down last night, you are not sure what you would have done. But he voices such an honest belief that you would return the favour, so you cannot help but believe he might be right.

The day is spent driving. You steal a different vehicle, losing the last traceable item from the fallen facility. You replace it with something a little faster and more efficient on the road.

Once you are in the car, the conversation stays professional. Today you plan to scout the perimeter of the targeted facility on foot. It should have a secondary security outpost that will be easier to breach, at least with your skills and inside knowledge.

Chan will cover most of the physicality as he insists you need another day of recuperation before launching a proper attack. You begrudgingly admit he is right, even though you want to charge the facility to second it is in sight.

Changbin could be in there right now, separated from you by cement walls and nothing more. You look at the building as you circle it. Your heart pounds, leaping as if magnetized to your friend’s potential proximity. It makes you want to leap the wall and fight everything in your path.

Like he knows what you’re thinking, Chan nudges you. He tips his head, gesturing to the direction you need to go. You huff but follow. This is your plan and you made it for a reason.

You reach the security outpost. After Chan incapacitates the guards, you will have sparse minutes for action and acquisition.

Chan lays down the unconscious guards while you gather your intel. You know where to look, unlike an enemy or third party, so you can use the short allotted time to your advantage.

You see there were deliveries made over the past couple days, but it is unclear what they entailed. It could be anything from equipment to a body. You save the information and run through the security logs so you can strategize a full-proof infiltration plan for tomorrow night.

While you work, Chan embarks on his own search, finding a few weapons and packing them in a duffel bag.

He claps you on the shoulder with less than a minute to spare. You take your hard drive and notes, he takes his bag and guns, and you are out the door.

Back in the car, he sits in the passenger seat, assembling a gun while you drive. Your eyes are on the road but your mind is in the mission, running schematics and floor plans and security details.

Your mind jumps frantically from one thought to the next. Thinking of security logs reminds you of the information you obtained about the enemy. You told Changbin about it a couple nights ago, but it lost importance in the midst of all your personal drama. Now your mind returns there.

Miroh’s team acquired the security information from the house that night, but they overlooked the most glaringly obvious discrepancy. They were so preoccupied with the system itself that they did not notice how much of it had been scrubbed by someone who knew what they were doing, someone who had a reason to hide what transpired.

Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything.

“What’s up?” Chan says, noticing you are deep in thought.

You glance at him, shaking your head as you return to the present. You have your hands full with dismantling Miroh’s regime that the dead enemy should not really matter anymore, but it will not leave your head. The weirdness of that whole situation sits in the nucleus of everything else. The enemy’s collapse sent your father spiralling, his fears driving him straight into a self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction. In a way, you are only here because of what happened that night.

“Just thinking,” you say, struggling to summarize the tumult of thought.

“About?” he prompts when you stall. He lifts an eyebrow. “Something I can help with? Or like… something personal…?”

“Neither really,” you say. “It’s about my father’s enemy. You know my father had a lot of enemies, but… he had one that rivalled them all.”

“I know who you mean,” he says. “I didn’t really run any missions involving him, because, you know, Miroh thought it was useless to waste my skills there. The enemy was pretty well-defended. Nothing got in or out.”

“Makes sense,” you reply. “The enemy was watched more than pursued. I actually ran a lot of those missions.”

You were with the enemy while Chan was everywhere else. It is why you never really crossed paths. You knew the outcomes of his missions because it often impacted lines of business, but you did not see him. He was a weapon at your father’s disposal, less than a human and more than a soldier.

“Yeah,” Chan says, echoing that thought. “Miroh thought I would be more useful… other places.”

You look at him again. He is looking out the window, his own gaze pensive. You do not push for more detail, knowing well enough how gory and intense some of his missions were. It makes you aware of who is in this car, the weapons at his feet, the gun in his lap.

You find you are not that frightened, which is frightening in its own way.

You look at him in his flannel and baseball cap. You think about him earlier, laughing as he watched some kids playing games in the park. You picture that face in the shadows, a gloved hand around a neck, a gun in his hand, the trigger practically a part of him. It makes your heart pang.

“Anyway, what about it?” Chan asks, looking at you.

“Never mind,” you say, discombobulated as you are inundated with images of Chan’s missions. You shake your head. “It’s probably nothing,” you add. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all dead anyway.”

There is a moment of silence, then he asks, “Did we ever find out what happened that night?” His voice is a little smaller, like the question weighs heavy on his tongue. Like he also knows this new world is spinning on the axis of everything destroyed that night.

“No,” you say. You grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “And the last person who had any contact with them is being held somewhere.”

“Changbin,” Chan says.

“Changbin,” you say.

Your mind runs away again, thinking about the way Changbin talked about that mission. Or rather, the things he did not talk about. He never officially reported the details of his altercation with Felix. He never reported the fact Felix asked about Chris.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Chan asks, “Felix is dead too, isn’t he?”

Lee Felix was raised in the young soldier program with the rest of you, but you don’t remember much of him from childhood, just one face among many. Then he betrayed the operation. Miroh was securing some contracts that the enemy was also eying, and Felix was assigned to a major mission that would procure the venture. You were not on that mission, but you later learned how it was infiltrated by the enemy, how Miroh was blindsided and attacked in a rare moment of weakness instigated by the same traitor who sold out their location in the first place.

Felix got away.

Several agents died in the confrontation. By that point, other child soldiers had died on other missions. Only a few of you remained. Chan, Changbin, you. Felix was recruited by the enemy. He became a grating sore in the operation’s side. Somehow, the enemy utilizing one of Miroh’s best soldiers as a glorified babysitter was more offensive than using him for military tactics. Even by doing nothing, your father’s enemy boasted over him. Look what I have and I don’t even need it, while you fight for everything.

That was how your father put it. He always looked at the offense, the wrong-doing, the betrayal.

He never saw anything else. Just like he never saw your friendship with Changbin.

You think Felix and Chan were also friends once, maybe, or something like it. Felix would have no way of knowing what became of Chan after he left. Maybe he cared. Maybe his motivations were more complicated than an opportunistic betrayal for the sake of itself.

You look at Chan. His body is holding a lot of tension, his fingers curling and uncurling over his knee. A muscle feathers in his jaw when he clenches it.

“Yes,” you say. “Felix died that night with the rest of them.”

Chan exhales. His whole face is shadowed with the furrow of his brow.

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him. We all made difficult decisions, I guess,” you say, thinking of how to approach this conversation because there is a darkness to Chan that feels more like the First Guard. “He, uh, he asked about you apparently.”

“About me,” Chris says flatly. “What about me?”

“About what happened to you,” you say. “I guess he wouldn’t have known what happened after he left. Changbin, uh, Changbin told him you died.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, just staring across the dashboard at the stretch of highway. The sun is starting to set behind the trees, casting an orange glow in the vehicle. It brightens his eyes even while his whole countenance seems to darken.

Then he laughs. It is abrupt and harsh with no genuine humour whatsoever. He rubs his jaw and shakes his head.

“I guess that’s one way of putting it, yeah?” he says dryly.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, I guess it just—” You glance at him. He is still staring ahead, his shoulders locked with tension. “None of this is easy. I get it. You have every right to be upset.”

“Upset,” Chan says as if the word is totally foreign. It lingers in his mouth. He chews the thought over. The fierceness of his gaze reminds you of the guard that sits behind a mask – intense and dangerous.

“I guess I am upset,” he says slowly. “It means I don’t get to kill him myself.”

The response startles you. You anticipated this conversation taking a totally different trajectory.

Your glance flicks between the road and Chan. He goes back to fidgeting with the gun. His hand movements are firmer, more deliberate, the click-shuffle-click more pronounced.

It is a very unfortunate and wildly inappropriate time to find him attractive. The realization hits you all at once, leaving more whiplash than a hit to the head. You watch his quick and competent hands do what they do best. Coupled with his sudden intensity, it feels like a punch to your core.

You want to offer a remark, some acknowledgement of his thoughts, but it gets garbled in the mess of feelings. It is not like you to get so flustered. You are not used to it.

You clear your throat and look ahead. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head.

“What?” he asks. “The guy’s a traitor, isn’t he?”

“It’s not that.”

“Huh? Then what is it?”

“Nothing,” you reply.

“Nothing? You have a weird look on your face.”

“No, I don’t.”

The First Guard, Miroh’s weapon, assassin and spy and deadly agent, reaches across the console and pokes your cheek.

“Stop that,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He laughs and this laugh is sincere. You try to school your expression but the damage is evidently done because he is clearly aware he has you flustered.

You bat his hand away. Even worse than finding him physically attractive, you are a little enamoured with the sound of his laugh. It feels much better than the tension from before. You feel your own chest lifting with a clear breath.

“Just thinking about yesterday,” you lie, but now you are thinking about yesterday and how you abruptly kissed him, which makes you more flustered and makes his dimples more pronounced. Refusing to look at him, you tightly grip the wheel and say, “Sorry, by the way.”

“For?” He sounds amused.

“Kissing you.”

“Ah.” He pokes your cheek again, dodging your hand. “I thought I told you to stop apologizing to me.”

“That’s different,” you say. “Especially after everything else you told me.”

Chan has spent most of his life in the forced employ of someone else, using his body to one end or another. He told you as much last night. In light of that, spontaneously kissing him without warning feels wrong, even if you were panicked and not thinking.

He goes quiet. After a beat, he says, “I didn’t tell you that so you would pity me.”

“Well, why did you then?” you ask. You can admit you were forward last night because that is just how you are. Sexual desire is just another bodily function that needs satisfying. He was the one who continued the conversation after it ended.

“Well,” he says. “I trust you.”

“Right.” The honest simplicity just flusters you more. “Good to know.”

The car is very silent after that. Or maybe the rest of the world gets louder – the cars whizzing down the highway, the wind against the glass. Even the sun seems to fizzle in the darkening sky.

You swear you can hear his heart beating, fast, or maybe that is your own.

“It’s fine,” he breaks the long silence.

“Huh?”

You glance at him which is a mistake, because he turns his head to you, his dimples deep with the cheekiness of his smile.

“it’s fine that you kissed me,” he says.

People have outright propositioned you for explicit sexual acts and none of those come-ons ever garnered half as much heat as that simple, stupid line.

You bat it down instinctively, swallowing hard. His earlier intensity sparked your adrenaline and your body confused it for something else. That must be it. You don’t get flustered and heated like this, not so fast and not so deeply.

“Well,” you say firmly. “Don’t worry because it won’t happen again.”

“Oh?” he asks, still too amused.

Desperate to even the playing field and knock those dimples down, you grin and employ your own simple frankness.

“Tell you what,” you say. “You can fuck me all you want, but no kissing. How’s that sound?”

It works. He chokes on a nervous laugh and turns completely red. He looks away while rubbing his neck and it’s your turn to laugh.

The sound of your own laughter surprises you, the adrenaline in your chest suffusing to something gentler. For a moment, in the middle of all the anxiety and worry and terror, you feel a flicker of delight.

When you look at him, your eyes meet in a shared moment of mirth, that setting golden light flooding the car. It feels strange to smile so sincerely, but it does not feel wrong. It feels like a moment you did not realize you had been waiting for.

None of the safe houses are safe. Miroh is dead but his operation is running in fragmented pieces, so there are eyes on those houses. You stick with cheap motels for now, the little crevices and unassuming places forgotten by the passing world.

Chan lifted some money from a register at a closed service station, so you use that cash to pay for a room. It makes you think about crime, petty and big, about Miroh and his enemies, soldiers and civilians. About the ends justifying the means, and what taking down Miroh’s operation will entail.

“Ready for another fight?” you ask. You and Chan are sitting at the small table in the little kitchenette, drafting plans for tomorrow’s night infiltration.

“Always,” he says with a sigh, but smiles at you.

You take the first shower tonight. You feel better and your reinvigorated energy makes you even more restless. It feels like a waste of time, sitting here while Changbin is out there, but you know you will be in better shape tomorrow when all your plans can come together.

For now, you prepare your own weapons and combat clothes, laying everything out while Chan showers.

Your eyes lift when he emerges from the washroom, strolling into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.

You stare at him because of course you do, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow because of course he does. That cheeky smile returns and he says, “What?”

“Nothing,” you reply, frowning, looking back at your things. “Just restless.”

“You should do some push-ups,” he says.

Ugh, this guy, you think, looking up at him again. His back is to you as he stands over his bag, shifting around for some clean clothes. A snarky reply is on your tongue but then he drops his towel, silencing you as swiftly. You blink in surprise at his bare backside then look away, hot in the face.

“You know what,” you say. “Maybe I will do some push-ups.”

He chuckles and continues dressing himself while you go through a small exercise routine to expel your excess energy. It honestly works and it feels good to get some muscles moving again.

You are not totally invulnerable, but the hormone supplements administered in your childhood ensure that your healing is a little quicker than average. The worst of the pain will pass so you can fight without distraction tomorrow night. The only thing that will remain will be the scars.

You sit at the foot of your bed and touch the scar on your palm. You wonder if Changbin is sitting somewhere, touching his own scar, and you wonder if he thinks it was worth it – all of it, his whole life, offering it up to save you.

“All good?” Chan asks, a little more seriously. He is closer than you realized, standing near the bed.

You nod, closing your hand into a fist. “Yeah,” you say. “We just… We have to find him.”

You can feel yourself drifting, thoughts taking over. You stare down at the ground.

Chan touches your shoulder, just enough to draw you out of that reverie before you sink too far. You look up slowly. The back of his fingers brush your cheek before he drops his hand to his side. It feels like he touched you with a firework, a trail of heat sparkling along your cheek. You dig your nails into your palm because you do not feel like you should indulge that sort of feeling while Changbin is hurting for you.

“I know,” Chan says. “We will. But he wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself or give yourself up, would he?”

You stop clenching. You release a breath you did not realize you were holding.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Sorry. You’re right.”

You blink quickly, surprised when knocks his knuckles under your chin, a teasing little touch.

“Told you to stop apologizing,” he says, then winks and steps away.

Your dreams that night are tumultuous but not as torturous. You don’t sleep as heavily so it is easier to snap out of them.

Chan is a light sleeper and the sound of you jolting awake stirs him as well. You apologize after a few times, his groggy voice sleepily assuring you that it’s fine. That rough sound scratches your brain, tingling down your spine as you close your eyes to sleep again.

You dream of a different touch, no violence or pain, just fingers trailing softly across your cheek. Your eyes are closed but you can feel it, a lightning spark ignited under the stroke of those fingers. You tilt your face up and take in a deep breath. It fills your whole body with warmth, makes your heart race and skin heat. The touch curls under your chin and you follow where that hand guides you, eyes closed and mouth open.

Your breath is stolen by a kiss. You know this is a dream because real kisses never feel this way. They are just a touch, no different than any other.

This touch is different. It overwhelms with its gentleness, a caress more thorough and claiming than every rough kiss exchanged in a heated moment that inevitably cooled. This one does not cool, does not even simmer, but burns hotly, endlessly. Even when your lips part for air, heat lingers between you. Your fingers twitch, coming to life with the desire to touch.

You wake before that.

It is still night. You glance at the clock then across the room. Chan’s bed is empty and it startles you, snapping you from half-conscious to fully awake. You sit up in bed. The panicked race of your heart putters to a slower cadence when you see him. He is sitting at the table in the kitchenette, near the open window. The neon light from the motel’s NO VACANCY sign bathes him in a cascade of red.

“All good?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “I just—” You look at the empty bed then at him.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “Couldn’t sleep. When that happens, feels better to just look at the plans, you know?”

You nod. You understand completely.

“More bad dreams?” he asks.

“Sometimes it feels like a memory,” you say, thinking of every nightmare, then thinking of your dream. There was no reality in that fantasy, but you swear your cheek still tingles. Embarrassed, you lay back down and turn away. You stare at the wall.

To your horror, you find yourself blinking back tears. The night is clearly not your friend, overwhelming you with every thought and fear and memory, every emotion you do not know you were capable of feeling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chan says. “I promise. You can sleep.”

“Okay,” you say softly.

I trust you, he said with so much earnest simplicity. It is hard, but you return the sentiment and close your eyes.

The next night is a very different scenario. There is no opportunity for good or bad dreams, for quiet phrases and glances that you would not dare exchange in the light.

You and Chan spent the day in preparation, practiced some moves, pored over your plans. Your adrenaline builds and builds. By nightfall, you are bursting with a desire for action.

The night does not feel quiet or still, the very air around you vibrating with the shuddering power of your determination.

“Careful in there,” Chan says.

You look at him. He is not wearing the mask, not yet, but he is the soldier you first encountered. Earlier, you watched as he slicked back his hair and darkened his eyes as part of his preparation, turning himself into a strange, intimidating figure. His transformation is so all-encompassing, your heart palpitates with nerves whenever you meet his eye.

“This is gonna be a shitshow when we start taking it apart,” he continues. “After we find him, when we start hitting marks and tripping lines, it’s gonna be fast.”

First you will look for Changbin, then you will go after everything else in that facility. Wiping data, disabling networks, making the entire operation unusable. You know some agents will move onto the next one, but you’ll follow. You will follow all of your father’s work and you won’t stop until you have destroyed it all. If it means tearing out one brick at a time, that is what you will do.

You tug at a clasp to ensure your armaments are locked in place. Chan secures his mask. You nod at each other, then you advance.

It becomes abundantly obvious very quickly that this facility does not have active test subjects, just data and back-logged research storage. The deliveries were mostly data transfers and hard copies of research for ongoing trials.

That means Changbin is definitely not in this building, but you try to keep your energy up. While Changbin is not here, there should be information about his actual whereabouts. The fight is not over. Far from it.

“I’ll be across the hall,” Chan says. “Radio if something trips. We won’t have long.”

The literal fight is only half the work and not more the prevalent half. You and Chan take a system each and spend most of the night looking through files. You would rather punch something, your adrenaline still so keyed, but you put it in reserve for now.

You move and erase certain files, sifting for relevant information and finding none.

You snap upright when a related subject finally appears. You lean closer to the screen. This entire folder seems dedicated to human test subjects. The fact the folder is so big already has you nauseated. Then again, you are not surprised. You were one of those subjects, living proof of a military experiment.

You cannot find anything about the special-ops program in this folder. That means no data on Changbin, past or present. Instead, it looks like years and years of logs tracking a single experiment.

TEST SUBJECT I : SOLDIERING RECONFIGURATION

You see the word soldier and click.

No. This is definitely not Changbin or the special-ops program. You read and realize this particular experiment was something else entirely.

You look at the date. This began a long time ago. There are long memos and notes about ‘reconfiguring’ mental processes, utilizing the brain’s trauma to suppress memory through torture.

You have seen a lot of dark things, but nothing like this. Your stomach turns over itself, balking at the horror, the detailed descriptions of severe electro-shock and drowning, of starvation and long isolation.

Subject is presented with an unchanging control from which comparison can be made.

Subject recognizes control after one round of treatment.

This is worse than a fight. A fight you can control through retaliation. This, you just have to endure, your heart pounding as evocative images of dehumanization unfold before you.

They tortured someone into forgetting everything. Turned them into the perfect soldier.

Eleventh round of treatment – some effect is beginning to take. Not a recommended course of action on regular humans. Hormonal-supplement medicine improved durability.

Subject will need to be brought in on a semi-regular basis to maintain stasis.

There is a long list of all the dates and times the so-called subject was brought in. It spans years, all the way up until recently. A session was schedule two weeks ago but it was not completed.

You sit back, the white screen blaring in your face, your stomach a sickly iron weight.

Chan.

The subject is completely, irrevocably Bang Chan. You wish it wasn’t true but you know, deep down, it undoubtedly is.

The incomplete session must account for his recent behaviour. If he was not brought in for a reconfiguration within the allotted time, that might explain his deviation from expectation, his raw humanity and his spontaneous decision to join you.

It is unbearable, imagining all that torture.

He was just a boy.

Your throat cloys, feeling tight with suffocation as you imagine the darkness of a narrow well and cold water closing in around you. You close the file then look away from the screen, the shadowed room even darker after ripping your gaze away from the light. You feel that darkness tighten around you. You close your eyes, shake your head.

Though you never imagined the details, you knew Miroh did something awful to make a boy a thing. Especially that boy. For as long as you can remember, gossip about the First Guard has been whispered in every corner of the operation. Those who knew a young Bang Christopher Chan talked about the overnight change. One day he was a rebellious child, throwing tantrums in front of Miroh himself, and the next day he was complying with the worst of orders in his name.

Some people joked it was all about the bloodlust, that Chan was inherently built to be violent, steeped and raised in it. They said it came naturally to him, that he was just waiting for an opportunity to be that vicious.

You know better. You have seen glimpses of the man who spent years in Miroh’s mask, and that man has nothing in common with the First Guard. That soldier, the agent with the highest clearest level missions, with the most destruction in his wake, is not Chan. Whoever Bang Chan really is, it is not the monster that Miroh made him.

“You’ll wanna see this.”

Chan’s voice breaks the silence. You jump out of your skin with a horrible hiss, startling him in return.

“Whoa,” he says. “What is it?”

You do not hide your expression fast enough. He quickly ducks down to look in your face, those dark eyes intensely focussed. He asks something through the mask – what’s wrong, you think – but it sounds foggy and faraway. Your eyes are locked on his. The rest of the world falls away.

You reach for him without conscious thought. It is the instinctive search for a hand in the dark, a desperate grasp shooting across cold water for a lifeline.

He blinks quickly, surprised when you touch his face with both hands. He stiffens but does not stop you from removing his mask. Only when his face is clear do you come back to yourself.

Sorry forms on your lips, but you remember he said to stop apologizing. Besides, your voice is shot even though you have been sitting in silence.

You place the mask on the desk and shake your head.

Chan looks at you, then his gaze flicks to the empty screen and back.

“What is it?” he asks again, softer this time. “What did you find?”

The document mentioned the subject had a resistance to abrupt reminders. Too much sudden information could trigger the trauma response. It is better to ease the subject into slow recollection.

“Nothing,” you say. Your voice comes out rough so you clear your throat. “It’s nothing important. Just – Miroh. Some dark stuff. You know.”

He scrutinizes you for another second. His hand hovers like he might touch you, but he eventually curls his fingers and drops it.

“Okay,” he says, wary.

“What did you find?” you ask, because he burst in here with an exclamation.

He smiles. It is not a huge smile, but it looks like Chan peeking through the soldier’s mask – the one he wears even when the literal mask has fallen. It puts you at ease.

“I found him,” Chan says.

Your heart skips a beat as you are reminded of your real mission. You eagerly take the papers that Chan offers.

“Not literally, of course,” Chan says. “But look—”

The document explicitly names Seo Changbin, with the correct description of his medical history and occupation in the Miroh’s order. It doesn’t say where he is behind held, just that he has been relocated from the main base. It says he must be kept under more intense security than the main research facility can provide.

It also provides a detailed schedule for the work and tests that have been administered so far – blood samples, urine samples, even skin samples – and it states that he will be kept for more tests and evaluations. He is to be held for two weeks before more intensive studies can be conducted. It is imperative that he does not weaken or die, as he is the only viable study subject.

A massive weight lifts off your shoulders. Changbin is not here but he is alive and unharmed. It seems they are keeping him in a state of mellowed sedation and do not want to move him around.

Though you do not know where he is precisely, you know he is stationary. He is probably not too far from this one if they were concerned about security in relocation.

“We got him,” you say. Your brain is already racing ahead, narrowing down the most likely bases and what infiltration will entail. You look at Chan and your smile returns, brightening with the light in your chest. “We can actually do this,” you say. Until now, you believed it because you had to believe it, because you stubbornly refused any alternative.

But Changbin is alive. You can rescue him.

You can also eliminate a lot of other bad things while you do it.

“We still have work here,” you say.

“You’re not wrong,” Chan says, grinning. “Found some files with some political figures who probably… definitely… don’t want their affiliation getting out.”

That blatant rebellious streak fills you with even more hope.

You get to work. In the end, some alarms are tripped and you are not out before security arrives.

“You ready for that fight?” Chan asks, already drawing a weapon.

“Always,” you reply.

You fight together. You think of all that detailed violence and you funnel it into something good. You were made to fight and it does not scare you, not when it’s like this. You are far more scared of not fighting back. You will never sit back again.

You and Chan have a complimentary fight style. You were both raised in the same program, so that makes sense, but there are instinctive openings you fill, a swift understanding that does not need words. Like your eyes meeting across a park bench, you connect on another level. It is like you have fought together a million times before.

When you are done, Chan takes a turn at the wheel. The windows are rolled down and you have a few shiny new scars, but you feel good, hopeful, free. You see a light at the end of the darkness. You are not scared of the fight to get there.

Your adrenaline is still pumping when you get back to the motel. The dawn is entering twilight, streaks of light slashing across the dark sky. It is swallowed up by rainclouds but the promise of daylight persists despite the gloom. You feel like you could wrestle the sun itself, no power too great.

You also know you are running on fumes of a long, adrenaline-fueled night. You are definitely going to crash, especially when several nights of bad sleep catch up to you. But first you need to come down from that high, blood still pumping a mile a minute.

Chan exhales, clearly just as keyed. He shakes out his shoulders and stretches his neck this way and that. He sits on a chair to unlace his boots. He looks down as he says, “You can have the first shower.”

You look at him. Against all odds, you are both here, rebelling against everything that was engrained in you. You can appreciate that more now that you have some relief regarding the mission.

Despite the effort to control and change you, you made it to this place together. You are free. Your lives are yours for the first time.

You open the top few clasps of your combat shirt.

“We’re both pretty messy,” you say.

He drops one of his boots with a clunk then starts on the next one.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “That’s fine, though. Just be quick.”

He discards the other boot and lifts his head. His gaze looks even more intense with the dark lines traced around his brown eyes. A single curl escapes his smoothed back hair, curling in an endearing tuft over his forehead. He is still breathing a little hard, his combat shirt also unclasped, the skin of his neck sweaty.

When those dark eyes collide with yours, your thundering heart pounds faster. His gaze briefly, thoughtlessly, flicks down your body then back up. Heat thunders through you and it has nothing to do with a fight.

He sits straighter, holding your gaze in his.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s up?”

“I know I asked before, and I know I said it jokingly,” you say. “But I think we understand each other better now. I’m not asking or demanding anything. I’m just letting you know. I think sex is a good way to expend energy. I think the fast pleasure is good for the brain as much as the body. It’s like exercise. I know we both have complicated pasts but I’m okay with that. With me. With you. I don’t care about the past and I’m not looking for a future. If you’re interested in right now, so am I.”

You push open the bathroom door. His eyes are rivetted to you but his expression is unreadable.

You undo another clasp and shrug.

“You know where to find me,” you say, then step into the bathroom.

You are not sure what to expect from him. You cannot even anticipate your own reactions. You are startled by the erratic pounding of your heart and the nervous twist in your gut. You chalk it up to the crazy evening, to the even crazier week. It is another reason to seek release, to ground yourself in your body and forget about everything else.

You strip down, leaving the sweaty and bloody clothes in a heap. The hot water is a balm. You close your eyes, letting the simple pleasure wash over you.

You rub a sore shoulder. The muscle loosens under the heat of the water. Your hand wanders, fingertips skimming your arm.

You seldom picture a particular person when you touch yourself, hardly caring about the identity of your partner even when they are in front of you, but you cannot escape the vision of a dark pair of eyes.

Your breath catches. Your head tips back. Your hand wanders across the curve of your chest, palm across each sensitive peak, sending pleasant sparks shooting downward. Your hand follows that path, stopping just short of its destination when the door opens.

You look over your shoulder. The glass door has not fogged much so you see Chan in the doorway. He looks as dishevelled as you left him. Those dark eyes are slow in their wandering perusal down your body. It feels like fireworks again, sparking everywhere he looks.

You turn a little more. He looks up. His brow furrows like he is scrutinizing you, like maybe he doesn’t believe you. You suppose you cannot blame him. It is a forward offer to any man, never mind one who is probably unaccustomed to them. A proposition he can accept or decline of his own free will, pleasure without contracts or compromises. No wonder he looks wary, like you are going to disappear if he steps wrong.

“Well?” you say, because you are not going anywhere. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He answers with a step. He closes the door behind him. Your eyes never leave each other, locked as he swiftly undoes his shirt and peels it off. The undershirt follows, tugged over his head, messing some of his hair. Then your gaze finally drops, an intimate heat rushing inside you as you look down his body. A sheen of sweat covers most of his torso, several prominent scars cutting through an otherwise perfect body. His muscles are even more prominent, strained from fighting.

You are already thinking of all the places you want to put your mouth when he strips off his bottom layers. For a man who was so lost in contemplation, he has no uncertainty now, striding up to where you wait.

You face him fully as he steps into the shower. The glass door closes. It finally fogs with your combined heat.

His presence overwhelms this small space, much like it did that first little civilian car. It feels like he is everywhere. Your eyes move all over his body, your breath coming faster. He pushes a hand through his hair and you look up, breath catching when you meet his eyes.

“No past,” you say, practically gasping. “No future. Just now.”

“Just now,” he says.

You are so close together and so far apart, a breath away but not touching. You are uncharacteristically hesitant.

He is the one who closes the space, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You feel that small touch everywhere, shuddering despite the hot water slipping down your body.

He leans towards you.

Your heart leaps right out of your chest. You turn your face at the last second and try to sound playful when you say, “No kissing remember?”

It was supposed to be a joke but you cling to it. It must be the danger or adrenaline, maybe the heat or his eyes, but kissing feels far too intimate. The rest is just exercise. You tell yourself that.

“You don’t like kissing?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “What do you like?”

“Bet you can’t guess,” you tease. Banter is better than intimate gazing. You want release, not more tension.

“Hm,” Chan says.

He cups the back of your neck before weaving his hand through your hair, swift, smooth, smiling. He tugs and your head follows, the line of your throat exposed and a mewl of a sound escaping.

“Lucky guess,” you say, clearing your throat after that embarrassing sound.

But then you make another one. Those competent fingers find the curve of your breast and he wastes no time utterly tormenting the sensitive peak. You have always been extra sensitive there, though you seldom take the time to linger, usually rushing to the next best thing. You almost forgot how intense it feels, your whole body puppeted by the bolt of pleasure in his control.

“Lucky guess,” he says, tugging your head back when you start to curl up. “You like that?” he asks. He takes your whimper for a reply, pinching a nipple meanly before sliding his hand down your body. You rear up, eager as his fingers dip between your legs. “And that?”

This time, your body answers for itself when he finds how wet you are. You make an undignified squeak when your back touches the cold wall, the hot water cascading down his back. He lets go of your hair and plants a hand above your head, his whole body crowding yours in a way that feels more protective than suffocating. You would usually be tempted to push him away, but your whole body opens up to him. You touch his chest and rock your hips, riding the deft strokes of his fingers.

“God, you’re so wet,” he murmurs, his face in your neck, his body against yours.

“Yes,” you say. You slide both hands down his chest, savour in his gasp when you find how hard he is. You take him in hand, both of you working the other into a frenzy. “Fuck me,” you say, your voice already a low mess. “Chan, please.”

The effect of his name is immediate. He grabs you by the hips and lifts you like it is easy. He pins you to the wall so there is no space between you anymore.

You string your arms around his neck, stroking your fingers across his back as he angles you.

He is strong and his movements are effortless, but his groaning betrays a deeper desperation.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice breaking in your ear. It makes you clench, getting tight around him as he pushes in. It makes you both gasp, open-mouthed and needy as your bodies come together. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, you feel so good. I’m not—”

He is barely coherent but you are in no position to judge, clinging to him with your eyes closed and mouth hanging open. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you with no reprieve.

“I’m not—” he says again. “It’s—it’s been so long—I—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice straining. You hold the back of his head, your cheek against his, making all sorts of embarrassingly desperate sounds right into his ear. “It’s fine,” you say. “Just come. I have an implant. Want you to come like this.”

A couple days ago, he was chasing you through a building, lifting you off your feet and pinning you down in a very different way. His dark eyes felt inhuman, but now he is groaning and whimpering as he fucks you deep and steady, every snap of his hips as frantic as your racing heart. Your wet bodies are pressed together and he is all hot skin and sturdy muscle, human, real, living and breathing as much as you. They tried to make him into something that did not know how to want anything, but he wants you.

That repeats in your head until you start murmuring it, “Want you, want you, want you.”

He comes with a groan and a deep stroke. He holds you against the wall while the water continues to run down his back.

With a sigh, you descend from the high of pleasure. You breathe hard while he keeps you in place for a minute longer.

“Sorry,” he suddenly says, panting as he surfaces.

You wince with the separation, your knees shaking when he lowers you. You hold his arms, fingers clasped tightly around his veiny forearms as you stare at him. It takes a second for his word to register.

“Sorry?” you say on a breathless laugh. “For what?”

“That was, uh, fast,” he says, giggling that musical laugh, a very embarrassed sound.

You stroke your fingers up his bicep and across his shoulder, watch a shiver wrack his body even though he could not possibly be cold. You meet his eyes. They have not lost any hunger, devouring the sight of you. He wets his lips, drag his teeth across the bottom one, and you start to feel delirious from the heat and sensations.

“Trust me,” you say. “That was hot.”

His smile looks relieved. He bumps his forehead to yours, his hands loose around your hips. You rock towards him, encouraging the slow wander of his touch.

“I get it,” you say, breathy, your knees shaking as he cups a handful of your ass and squeezes, then drags his palm to up the centre of your back. “It, uh,” you stammer, eyes closing. “It’s been a long time for me too. A few months at least.” Your last liaison was well before the debacle with the enemy. It was a forgettable exchange.

You do not think you will forget tonight.

His hands curve around you like he is memorizing the shape of your body, the way your bare skin feels against his. You are close, so it is obvious when he bristles at your words.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, far too casually, avoiding your eye as he reaches around you for some body soap from the dispenser. He lathers his hands and touches you again, stroking his palm down your backside and around your waist.

It almost distracts you. Almost. You look at him at with squinting eyes, smiling a small smile.

“What?” you say again. “You sound a bit jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, too defensively.

“Oh, really?” you say.

He cups some water in his hand and runs it over you. His eyes lift from his task to meet yours.

Maybe teasing was a mistake. A flash of something dangerous sparkles behind his smile.

“Really,” he says. He turns off the water with a flick of his wrist. “I have nothing to be jealous about.”

It should stop surprising you, but you yelp when he sweeps you into his arms. You hook your legs around his waist, your arms his neck, holding tight while he carries you to the bedroom.

You are wet and the air is cold, but then a mattress dips beneath you and a bundle of bedsheets surround you. He lays you out, deliberate and measured, very different from his slow tenderness the other night.

“Quick question,” he says. He runs both hands through his wet hair, pushing it back. You look up at where he stands, your eyes wandering every plane of his body.

“Yes?” you ask.

He grabs your ankles and drags you down the bed, all while dropping to his knees. When your legs are over his shoulders and his breath is soft between your legs, he asks, “Does this count as kissing?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, his mouth interrupting any coherent thought of yours.

A part of you thinks you should conserve your energy, but then his tongue is swirling over you and nothing else matters. Your hands cover your breasts, touching yourself in time with him. You let yourself enjoy your own body and help him find his way back to his.

By the time you get to sleep, you are both thoroughly worn out. Chan falls asleep first for once, all but passing out beside you. You are sharing a bed because the other sheets are wet and used.

You look at him through sleepy eyes. You touch his cheek, amazed when you think of how much things changed in just a few days. If you were told a week ago that the First Guard would be in your bed like this, you would have laughed.

If someone tried to tell you he had dimples and warm eyes, that he would sigh your name like it was the breath that kept him living, you are not sure what you have said.

You drift into sleep. You see his face in your dreams, still peaceful and slumbering beside you until that dream becomes a nightmare. His eyes snap open. In this sleeping world, it is not the warm gaze you have come to know so well. An emotionless weapon stares back at you.

There is no time to fight before his hand is around your throat and all the air leaves your body.

You feel cold, unbelievably cold.

You hear a voice. It says, “Stop. Stop!” You swear it sounds like Chan.

Your vision blurs.

You blink, blink, blink. Your eyes open underwater. When you scream, it is suffused in the rushing cold, air bubbling past your lips and fading into darkness. You thrash to no avail, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.

They open again. There are wooden beams high, high above your head. You still can’t breathe, your chest heaving with desperation, and you can’t feel your body. Why can’t you feel anything?

“Hey, it’s me! I’m coming!” Your blurry gaze darts around for the voice. Grey smoke slithers around the wooden beams. It takes a long time for a face to emerge in the fog.

Changbin leans over you, younger, thinner, a cut on his head bleeding profusely.

“Go,” you say, because he’s hurt and he needs to go now or he will never escape. You want to tell him what’s coming, tell him he needs to run, but he shakes his head before you can.

“I’m not leaving here without you.”

The weight leaves your chest all at once. Air rushes into your lungs and fills you like a cloud. You feel as though you are flying. When you open your eyes, you are sitting on a park bench. You have never seen this park before, blossoming in green and gold with summertime sunshine. The edge of your periphery blurs, obscuring shapes and bodies into glowing phantoms. Only one face is clear.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Changbin shouts. He runs across the field towards you. He is young, barely more than a child, but he curses like an old man when he reaches you.

“Fine, fine!” He throws his hands in the air. “You’re right, you’re faster. But I’m still stronger. Watch this, princess—”

He tackles you. You hear his laughter and your own, a youthful sound, twinkling with childish delight. You roll across the grass in a giggling frenzy.

The greenery darkens as you roll away. The park changes. When you look up, the trees are a mosaic of red and orange. Leaves drift on the autumn breeze.

“Do you ever think about what else you could do with your life?” Changbin asks.

You look at him. He is older, not a teenager but not fully grown. His face is still gawky with youth, his muscles growing in. He is staring up at the sky.

“No,” you hear yourself say.

He laughs but without much humour. His eyes close and he sighs, nodding.

“Ah, yeah,” he says. “I thought you might say that today.”

You turn your face to the trees as a leaf flutters towards you. It touches your forehead and sends a painful jolt rampaging through your body. You blink, blink, blink, up at the doctor and their syringe. They say you did well but you don’t feel well, your insides churning like every organ is folding itself inside out.

The doctor steps aside and you meet eyes with another child across the room. Changbin is holding his arm and rocking back and forth. He is the only one not crying.

You cross the room. It was brimming with screaming children but now it’s empty.

“It’s okay,” you hear your voice. You see your small hand reach out, touching Changbin on the forehead where he contorts with pain in his small cot. “You can cry,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

In another blink, he is older, a teenager again, crying and curled up in his bunk.

“Changbin,” you hear yourself say.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“You’re not,” your voice says. “None of us are.” You see your hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.”

“You’re going to get hurt. And then what?”

“Then I’ll get hurt,” you hear yourself reply, speaking with more certainty than you ever remember feeling. “You’re my friend, Changbin. I don’t mind if something happens to me. I don’t care if it hurts, because I won’t be doing it for Miroh. I’m doing it for you.”

You look down at his hand when he reaches for yours. When you look back up, he is grown, sitting on a windowsill in the moonlight with a small scar on his cheek.

“I didn’t bleed for Miroh,” he says.

You blink. The wooden beams are high above you, his bloodied face full of concern.

“I’m your soldier, not his.”

The weight slams back into your chest. All the air goes out of you. You are falling, endlessly falling, all the way down to where there is nothing but cold. The walls close around you. You feel the stone under your palm. You suck in a breath of cold air only to choke on water. There is a light above your head and voices, screaming. You twist and kick like a wild thing.

You get closer to the surface. You hear Chan say, “Stop, stop—”

Then you wake in your shared bed. His voice echoes in the waking world.

You realize that is because Chan is talking in his sleep. He keeps repeating, “Stop, stop.”

You shake off the last dredges of sleep. It is not easy, your heart still skipping beats from the rapid-fire scenes.

Chan is on his back, his chest rising and falling, fast asleep but clearly in the throes of a nightmare. You are not sure how to help. You chance a tentative touch, saying his name as you brush his shoulder.

He wakes with a start, his eyes flying open. You see the flicker of panic as he forgets where he is, still half-lost in his nightmare.

Chan is much faster than you. It takes only seconds for his instincts to commandeer control, then you are the one on your back and he is leaning over you. Fortunately, he does not swing his arms around like you. His manoeuvre gives him the advantage but he doesn’t hurt you, other than leaving you a little startled and winded.

“Chan,” you say. “It’s me. It’s fine. It was just a dream.”

He blinks away the vestiges of sleep. You see the moment he recognizes you, the tension that immediately leaves his shoulders.

You are surprised yet again when he abruptly drops his weight, practically smothering you as he cages you in his arms. You put your arms around him, patting his back until his breathing slows to a normal cadence.

He eventually rolls back over, but he hooks his arms around your middle and drags you close. A part of you wants to balk, scared this is too intimate, but your own heart settles in the quiet comfort of his embrace. You let yourself rest, falling asleep to the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

There are two nearby research facilities. It is a toss-up between the smaller, closer one or the bigger, farther one. You opt for the closer base, figuring a smaller facility would be easy to incapacitate quickly. You and Chan have knowledge about Miroh’s operation that no one in the world can match. You are the only ones who can do what you are doing, so they never see you coming.

You dismantle the base but Changbin is not there. The only place you see your friend is in your dreams, emerging from smoke and disappearing as fast, leaving you with his promises and your guilt.

It is so strange why your mind keeps summoning that same vision. It smashed through something in your mind, cracked it somehow, and now it can’t relinquish it.

It is strange what a stressed mind can conjure and invent. Even stranger is its inability to let go. These days, all your thoughts and feelings slip through your mind like water in a sieve, everything flowing too fast to catch despite the desperate cup of your hands. But that image and his voice returns again and again and again.

The only satisfaction you get is watching pieces of Miroh’s operation crumble. You watch the news, keep up with the business reports, and watch as a domino effect transpires thanks to your actions.

It does mean security is going to tighten at the remain bases, but you are ready.

You move on to the next facility, even more determined. For a moment, this seems like the place. You find other enemies and subject imprisoned in the lower level cells, but Changbin is not one of them.

Chan escorts the innocent captives out while you search the remainder of the facility. It is empty, an echoing steel chamber and little more. You want to shout his name but you already know the only answer will be the reverberation of your own voice.

You search every crevice, just in case.

Your attention is rapt until you run past a certain door. At first, you merely glance inside. When you see it is empty, you turn to continue.

It’s like a tether wraps around your mind. You slam to a halt, the squeak of your boots echoing in the corridor.

You turn back around. You step into the chamber.

Every hair on the back of your neck stands up. You swear, the temperature drops by a few degrees as you step further inside. If you didn’t know any better, you would almost believe it was haunted, not like in stories of decrepit mansions, but filled with empty figments still crying out in pain. The room is rife with an unsettling chill, dank as a tomb.

You walk slowly. You feel like the echo is louder here despite your careful steps. You look around. There is lots of wiring, lots of sockets. There are dusty shapes on the floor where things used to stand, types of furniture maybe, or machines.

There is a dip in the corner, what looks like a well. You approach it cautiously, craning your neck to peer down without getting too close. It is dry as bone but deep. You can’t see the bottom. Heights don’t usually bother you, but you feel suffocated with a cloying fear. Your feet tingle as you imagine falling. You know it must have a bottom but somehow you feel like it would never end.

You realize footsteps are approaching, fast down the corridor then slow as they enter the room. You put a hand on the gun at your hip, turning quickly.

It’s just Chan. You are about to speak, or at least try looking for works, but you are stricken by the look on his face. Even though he was fiery when you last saw him, he looks very gaunt, flushed pale as he looks around the room. He is not merely unsettled like you. He looks sick.

You immediately know where you are. This was the room they used to torture him.

“You know this place,” you say, not a question. You remember all those torture descriptions. They have haunted your nightmares, all those images so vivid that you imagined them happening to yourself. If it was horrifying just reading it, you can only imagine how he feels right now.

He nods. It takes a few tries to clear his throat. “Yes,” he says weakly. He looks between you and the well as if he half-expects it to grow teeth and attack you.

He shakes his head. He crosses the room in a sharp stride, so swift that it takes you back. He grabs your arm and yanks you towards him.

“Get away from there,” he says, his voice hard. “There’s nothing in here. We need to go. Now.”

You have no argument but he waits for no reply, practically dragging you out of the room. He leads you back into the corridor, taking huge strides. His grip tightens.

“Another second and that will hurt,” you say, more calm than you feel. His energy is so panicked that it bleeds into you.

He drops your arm quickly, snapping to realization. He flexes his gloved hand.

“Sorry,” he says. He turns on his heel with a swivel so fast that you collide. He catches your shoulders and holds them, looking at you without really seeing you, his stare so intense it bores right through you. “Sorry,” he says again. His voice is shaking when he says, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I just—”

“It’s fine,” you say, understanding how overwhelming that must have been. There are tears in his eyes but he rips away before you can look too closely.

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice hard again. “There’s no one else here. It’s time to go. This place…” He spares one last glance over your shoulder. “This place is over. It’s time to go.”

You leave together.

You take a day for recuperation while you plan you next move. Neither of you slept very well last night, but at least there were no nightmares. You take turns driving, occasionally sleeping in the passenger seat.

You reach the next motel at sunset. The room only has one bed which draws Chan to a halt. He blinks at it like he doesn’t understand, then his ears get red, then he looks at you.

A laugh bursts out of you. You try to contain it but it’s hopeless. Chan smiles then laughs too, shaking his head and rubbing his neck.

“Sorry,” you say. “Just – you don’t think it’s a little late to be blushing like that? Mister Does This Count As Kissing?”

“Wow,” Chan says, playfully throwing his hands up in surrender. “Sorry for being a gentleman.”

“You’re forgiven,” you say, making him smile.

You eat dinner on the bed then place all the containers to the side. Chan watches the news while you scribble memos in your notebook. You are trying to connect dots and figure out which facility is most likely. You go back to your original notes, obtained from the first research facility, to see if you missed anything.

You fall asleep while working. The week’s travails evidently catch up to you.

You stir when Chan tries to move you. You are awkwardly slumped over your notes. You watch as he carefully places them aside and tries to lay you down properly.

The sun has long since set by now. The room is lit by the glow of the television and the warm neon light from the motel sign, such a vibrant yellow it pours through the curtains.

You look up at Chan, squinting because of the slash of light in your eyes. He tilts his head to shield you.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You are on your back and he is on his side, propped up on his arm and looking down at you. You offer a little smile which draws his eyes to your mouth.

Your breath catches and, just like that, something ignites inside you. You see it reflected back at you, all his thoughts in the depth of his gaze.

You are not sure who moves first. It might happen simultaneously. It only takes a second before your fingers are in his hair and his hands are on your waist. He climbs over you, his mouth brushing your jaw and your throat without ever landing a kiss. You shiver as his breath caresses your skin.

You had no idea so many small places were so sensitive. Even the back of your calf tingles when his leg brushes yours.

You move in tandem, with the same synchronisation as when you fought together. Your bodies are a good fit, shaped by similar lives, bearing similar scars. You tug the flannel down his shoulders and sit to remove your own shirt. When you are completely bare up top, he lays you down. Your hips lift towards him, needing him, legs parting as he presses his weight just so. He guides your leg over his hip and fits himself against the softest parts of you.

He presses a hand into the mattress, right by your head. You tip your head back and grind up against him.

“Chan,” you say.

His mouth hovers above your breasts and you grab his head and pull him close. He takes the offer and parts his lips around the hardening sensitive peak, twisting his tongue around it until you are writhing under him.

“Oh god,” you say, tugging desperately at his t-shirt. You normally don’t care about fully undressing, but you need to feel him. You want his heart beating against yours, his skin hot against your own. “Please,” you say, not even embarrassed when it turns to a whimper.

He makes a small noise, acknowledging you, but continues to lave kisses and bites across your breasts, teasing until they are almost sore with pleasure. Only when you are a mindless puddle of desire does he sit up and whip his shirt off. It flies across the room, forgotten. You both unbutton your jeans and shuffle them down. The few seconds you are apart are agony.

When he lays back on top of you, it is with no barriers. He holds your hand and laces your fingers with his, pressing it into the mattress as he spreads your legs with his own.

“You feel so—” he says, sentiment ending in a sigh. No other word suffices.

Your whole body feels alight. His thumb find the centre of your pleasure, rubbing at you while he sinks inside you. He is somehow both gentle and powerful, holding you at the best angle as he takes you. You are used to fast and dirty and this slow tenderness aches with a burn so good, you never want it to end.

“Chan,” you say his name on a breath. He releases your hand so you can put your arms around his shoulders, holding him as he rocks into you with rolling, deep strokes.

His face is so close. Your mouth is aching with the rest of you. His lips felt so good everywhere else. The delirium of desire takes over and you decide, fuck it. You have done this much, changed this much; you can be brave and accept more intimacy. It’s just a kiss. There’s nothing life-changing about a kiss.

You lean up to kiss him but you are too fast, too frantic with nerves. It lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth. Then you feel embarrassed. You shake your head.

“Sorry,” you say. “Sorry, I was just—”

Chan is frozen on top of you. He stares while you stammer an apology.

Then his nose brushes yours. You feel his breath against your lips. You stop talking. Your heart thunders.

“I told you,” he whispers, “stop apologizing.”

Then his lips are on yours. Your eyes close as you follow the give-and-take of his kiss. Your lips part and his tongue touches your top lip, then he sucks your bottom lip and moans against your open mouth. You clench around him, moaning back. His hips move again and you cling to him. The kisses start small and grow to desperate, open-mouthed passion. Coupled with his deep strokes, getting faster and faster, you feel like you are flying.

Oh, is all you think, this is what this is supposed to feel like.

You come first, the orgasm taking you by surprise. It was steadily building at a small pace before all at once striking. You cry out, burying your fingers in his hair as you rock against him. He finishes only seconds later, groaning your name in the curve of your neck then sucking a bruising kiss right there.

You hold him after, your fingers stroking down the nape of his neck, your legs wrapped around him. It feels like years before your heart comes back to a normal pace. Your breathing still comes shaky, but so does his. His strong arms seem suddenly weak as he pushes himself up with a quiver.

You separate. You try to find the words but you mind still feels like water.

You are so floaty, it takes a second to realize something is wrong. Chan is crying, or about to, sniffling hard and scrunching his face to stop it.

“Chan—”

Alarmed, you reach for him, but he moves before your hand makes contact. He gets up and wordlessly puts on his jeans and a flannel, buttoning it askew. You grab your shirt as well, tugging it on frantically to keep up.

“Chan,” you say again. “What’s wrong? Did I—”

“It wasn’t you,” he says, but he won’t look at you. He sits on a chair and starts putting on his boots. That’s when you really panic, jumping out of bed and looking for your own pants. “Stay,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s not you. It’s me.”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” you ask. “Seriously?”

“It’s my fault,” he says. “You said right now and that you were fine without the past or the future and I thought – I thought I could – but –”

He grabs his baseball cap and tugs it on. You say his name again, reaching for his sleeve as he walks past, but he does not break stride for a second.

You can’t exactly chase after him half-naked. You know he will be long gone by the time you get dressed. You can only stand there in shock and confusion as the door closes and he disappears.

You sniffle. You shake your head, refusing to cry, not after everything.

Your body does not listen to your head, unsurprisingly, and you end up sputtering through messy tears while putting on some clothes. You wipe your eyes, fighting an upward battle against your hormones as all those happy, pleasurable feelings melt into something ugly.

Chan returns almost an hour later. By that point, you have passed through several different emotions. You were worried, of course, then you were sad. Now you are irate. You were left to stew in anxiety, sitting on edge. For a while you wondered if he was coming back at all, which set off more tears.

You are certain your face is puffy and your eyes are red. Chan looks at you with a guilty expression but says nothing.

“Well?” you say, but he just stares at you. You are sitting on the edge of the bed while he stands a few feet away. “Great,” you say, smacking the bedcovers. “Fucking fantastic. We’re back to the silence, I guess?”

“I know,” he says. “Sorry.”

You wait for more but that non-committal reply is all you get.

“You told me that you trusted me,” you say, mortified when your voice breaks. “You said that one day it would be my turn to help you, but every time you start to feel something you hide it or turn away or say you’re fine or run out the fucking door with no explanation!” You stand up to put more space between you, marching to other side of the room. You wipe your eyes. “You know, I feel like I don’t even know who I’m talking to half the time.”

“I’m always me,” he says.

“And who is that?” you ask. “From the start, you’ve basically asked me to blindly trust you. One second you’re this terrifying agent who does everything my father asks, and the next you’re just standing there letting me kill him. I haven’t demanded explanations. You said it was just your mission and I accepted that, even though I knew it was bullshit. I know this is about more than jobs or missions and I – I – I’m sorry everything’s all fucked up. But we’re all we have right now.” Your voice breaks again and you choke back a sob. “You can’t ask me to trust you then push me away. You can’t say you trust me but never let me in. I’m terrified out here. We’re doing something insane and I can’t have the person I’m relying on the most shove me away. I want to be on your side. Chan, I want – I want so badly –”

He takes a breath but stays silent. His gaze is heavy.

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” you say. “I know you’re not what Miroh tried to make you. I know what they did to you. I know it was terrible. But I’m not afraid of you and I’m not judging you. I want to know you. I need to know you. I know you can remember some things. I know it’s causing you pain. If I could understand—”

“I remember everything,” he says.

You are not expecting an interjection. It takes a second to comprehend.

“What?” you say.

“I said I remember everything,” he says. He looks at you as he slowly approaches. “There isn’t a single moment of my life that I’ve forgotten for even a second.”

He stops a foot from you. This close, you can see he has been crying too. Even through your frustration, you want to touch him. You are so bad at comfort, receiving and giving, but your fingers itch to smooth his brow and cup his jaw.

You curl your fingers at your side.

“Everyday,” he says. “Every single day I think of my mistakes and what it cost. I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“What do you mean?” Your adrenaline is starting to spike. “There was a reconfiguration program. I know about it. That’s how it happened.” You know about the torture. You can see the light at the top of the well and feel the cold in the bottom of the Cell. You know about it. You can picture it. You saw that place yesterday.

You know. You know. You know.

Your chest starts to tighten with panic.

“You did all of Miroh’s work willingly,” you continue.

“Yes, I did,” he says. “But it wasn’t willingly.”

“Because they tortured you.”

“In a way.” He sucks back a breath. “I thought I was smart. I thought I could beat Miroh. I almost did, but then everything—”

A memory from a dream: a flash of grey smoke.

“It went wrong,” he says with a resigned sigh. “I was punished. That’s true. But I didn’t care what they did to me and Miroh knew that. So he took someone else. Someone I cared about. And when it was all done, I was given a choice.” His voice breaks on the word choice, the whole phrase utterly dryly. “And it wasn’t really a choice,” he says. “I could walk away. He wasn’t even going to try and stop me. But Miroh wanted a soldier. He said all the blood on his hands was going somewhere one way or another – and he said it could be on mine or hers.”

You are not sure if you are breathing anymore.

“The things they did to her – the things they made me watch.” He presses a hand to his forehead as he takes another breath. “She was a good fighter, but she wasn’t a killer. It never mattered what they did to her, she always knew who she was. She knew whose side she was on. She wanted to help people, not hurt them. I couldn’t let her become that thing. If she ever – if she ever came back to me—” He swallows. “I couldn’t let it be her. I couldn’t let her have all that blood on her conscious. I’d already failed her. Again and again, I let her down. I couldn’t do it again. I told Miroh I’d take her place willingly. I’d do anything he asked so she wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty. She could come back one day and… and…”

“What are you talking about,” you say. You fumble towards the bed and drop down heavily.

Chan looks at you. That silent conversation.

You already know what he is going to say.

“Miroh only put one soldier through a reconfiguration program,” he says. “And it wasn’t me. It was you.”

#bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #bang chan fanfiction #stray kids fanfiction #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you

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handsomemilo · 5 months

Note

You've gotta hear me out on Ithaqua getting a little too possessive towards his survivor partner during a match ! Love your works btw <3

Mmmmmm Possessive Ithaqua 😍

Warnings: You'll never guess this one but Possessive behaviours

Pairing: Possessive! Ithaqua x Gn! Reader

--------

- He isn't sure what caused it. Maybe it's his own instincts telling him he needs to protect you, or maybe the manor is affecting him somehow..

- Your Team is quite possible the worst concotion of players to have paired with you. The Prospector, the cowboy and the "prisoner". He's semi-alright with Luca, he doesn't really do much harm. Its more a case of him being annoying to deal with on a good day.

- However Kevin and Norton strike Ithaqua the wrong way.

- He immediately finds Norton but instead turns his attention to finding you, just to make sure you stay away from them.

- He finds you. Quite easily actually. He comes across you helping Luca to decode who quickly runs off in favour of saving himself. Smart man, Ithaqua has to applaud him for using that mildly malfunctioning brain of his. He does have to break the connection, if only to delay your guaranteed escape.

- He lets you finish the cipher and simply stands around impatiently huffing and puffing to the side like a bratty child not getting enough attention. And that's accurate to a certain degree.

- once the cipher is done he tells you to go into a locker so he can pick you up and take you with him. You think nothing of it as this is fairly normal behaviour he likes to carry you around you've noticed. His little giggle when he picks you up just melted your heart.

- However. Unlike the usual routine, Ithaqua takes you to the nearest corner of the map and places you there before trapping you within his arms. His cloak making the two of you practically disappear, well.. you know as much as one can with the terror radius thing..

- His eyes are animalistic and his jaw clenched, but he makes no move to act on whatever violent act is forming in his head. Just pulls you to him as though he is trying to mesh with you.

- of course, he was mostly..., kind of, calm.

-Until the two idiots turned up. And by that I mean Norton and Kevin.

-Kevin lassoed you from Ithaqua's grasp, that alone made him screeched out in rage, but just to add some extra sourness to the situation, a magnet gets thrown towards him. Forcing him back into the wall.

- You struggle your way out of Kevins hold and push him away right as Ithaqua dashes at him. Norton quickly runs off to possibly hide in case he needs to really save, or possibly help Luca to continue saving.

- "IDIOTS, BOTH OF YOU!" You yell out to nobody in particular as Kevin had already run off. Ithaqua stays still for a moment, left eye twitching.

- He turns quickly. "Stay." He commands as though you are a dog awaiting your next trick. You're going to stay near, obviously, just maybe that Cipher off to the left will somehow get finished off...

- He dashes away in the direction Kevin left.

- As you're decoding, the prospector returns around the corner.

"Hey."

"Fuck off. That was stupid and you know it."

"Yeaaah.. but got the reaction I wanted. He's a tad bit, whats the word, protective? No. Possessive. Thats the one! Like he owns you."

"If he ever got asked if he owned me he definitely would answer like that.. It's a bit much at times, maybe next time to come running up to try and save when he's clearly not going to chair me. Luckily he seems to have lost Kevin."

The last Cipher gets completed by you and Norton but just before you can run to the exit, Norton says something that irks you.

"Geez, I didn't ask for your life story.. no need to keep going on..."

Yoou dont even initially intend to do it but you're hand reaches out to slam his head against the nearest wall to temporarily stun him.

"Not so fun now is it.."

In the distance a pissed off roar can be heard from Ithaqua, who you can assume just missed hitting the now escaped Kevin and Luca.

"Now, we're gonna surrender." You tell the prospector sternly

"Why would I do tha-"

You grab his ear and stare at him, "Consider it your apology to Itha. Believe me Kevin's going to deal with far worse."

Quiet grumbles are all that are heard from the disgruntled ex-miner.

----

Hope you enjoyed :) I partially forgot what I was writing halfway through but I loved writing this ♡

#x reader #fanfic #idv x reader #idv ithaqua #idv night watch #idv nightwatch #idv night watch x reader #idv nightwatch x reader #idv ithaqua x reader #ithaqua x reader #night watch x reader

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talktonytome · 1 month

Text

mio caro

for day 2 (nicknames and terms of endearment) of @bucktommypositivityweek

“Wow, they kind of have the perfect marriage, huh?” Evan tells him. “I mean, they’re kooky, like it says in the song, but there’s so much love and devotion. I have to be honest, I kinda didn’t expect that about these movies.”

They’re watching The Addams Family as part of their Halloween month movie nights. Tommy smiles. He’s always had a soft spot for Gomez and Morticia and the romantic side of him was enchanted by their dynamic. At first, he couldn’t imagine ever loving someone that much, but leave it to Evan to prove him wrong.

“Yeah, they really do,” Tommy agrees. “You know how my family is Italian?”

Evan turns from the screen to look at him and nods. “Yeah, on your mom’s side, right?”

“Mhm. So, I’m not fluent, but I grew up hearing all the terms of the endearment from my nonna, sometimes from my mom- but mostly nonna— and that’s what stuck the most. Watching these movies, I always imagined what it would be to call someone I love the sort of things Gomez and Morticia call each other.”

Evan gives him a soft smile and twists his whole body to face him. He leans forward, ready to give this his full attention. It makes something in Tommy’s heart twinge. The movie’s momentarily forgotten. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well I think the one that strikes me the most is cara mia. Technically, it’s not wrong but, for a romantic connotation, it’d be mia cara. It’s the possessive form,” Tommy explains. His gaze is fixed on Evan, on the way he absorbs the information, the way he makes a mental note.

Evan nods slowly. “So what does it mean, exactly?”

“My dear,” Tommy says, smiling. “It’s not just me being biased, but I swear it’s somehow softer- more affectionate and romantic in Italian.”

“Say it again.”

“Mio caro.” Tommy tilts his head, impossibly fond.

Evan furrows his brow. God, he’s adorable. “I thought it was mia cara?”

“That’s the feminine version.”

“So why did you say mio car- oh!” His cheeks flush so pretty and pink to match his birthmark. “Me? I’m your-“

“My dearest? Of course, Evan. I never thought I’d get to have this sort of love, it seemed like this unattainable thing,” he admits. “I was content watching it happen to others in movies. I never even really considered using the term for anyone before, but then you happened and you threw everything I thought I knew out the window,” he lets out a small chuckle.

“Tommy,” Evan breathes awestruck. “I never thought I’d get to have this either and then a certain hot pilot kissed me into realization and that’s all she wrote, so, we’re even.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Tommy leans in closer, and reaches out to cup the side of his neck to bring him in, until their faces are almost touching. “Mio caro,” he whispers, then presses a kiss to his jaw. He feels Evan’s pulse jump under his hand.

“Again.” Evan demands softly.

“Mio caro.” This time, Tommy trails a set of gentle kisses from his birthmark to the corner of his mouth.

“Again.” Evan’s voice has gone breathless, his lashes flutter in anticipation. Tommy’s hopeless to deny him anything.

“Mio caro.” Finally, finally, he finds those sweet lips and they both sigh. He’d swear he was dreaming, but he knows he’s not. Evan’s so warm and soft and solid— and so very real underneath him. He wishes he could live suspended in this moment forever.

#listen morticia and gomez are everythinggg #bucktommy #bucktommy positivity week #my fic #dailykinley

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saucymunch · 2 months

Text

yuta okkotsu x reader , fluff, a bit of angst, slight megumi x reader, demon slayer references , NOT accurate to manga (changed a little bit to better fit my story) , CONTAINS MANGA SPOILERS

the moment you overheard maki, panda, and toge talking about yuta’s missions abroad you froze in place. you were eavesdropping on their late night (2am) conversation. you wouldn’t call it eavesdropping, you were simply gonna go get a glass of water when you decided to wait and see what they were talking about (u were totally eavesdropping).

the three second years were carelessly chatting for hours on end in the common room. toge sprawled out on the couch, panda who melted onto the rug, and maki who was rocking back and forth in the giant lazyboy rocking chair that they had convinced gojo to buy one day at the mall. it was pouring rain outside, with thunder occasionally rumbling.

the sudden strike of lighting made you flinch a bit, as your hands gripped the wooden frame of the wall. but in this moment, you were hyper fixated on the fact that your boyfriend was going to be gone abroad in a couple of days. how could he not tell you? shouldn’t you be the first person he wants to go to? you were more confused than angry. honestly, you were more defeated.

your immediate reaction was to break into yuta’s dorm, and demand answers out of the boy. but before you could lash out, you took deep breaths, just as shoko had taught you. although you possessed the rare ability of the reversed curse technique, your regular technique forced you to visit shoko more often than the others. your regular technique was a powerful defensive cursed technique that depended heavily on your breathing abilities.

you mumbled to yourself in anger with tears of frustration spilling out of your tired and puffy eyes as you quietly retreated back to your dorm, deciding to just deal with this tomorrow morning.

the next morning came too early. before you knew it, you were standing in front of yuta. you had asked him to meet him, and he invited you over to his dorm room. his bags were already packed.

“why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” you asked, avoiding eye contact.

okkotsu’s eyes widened. he pursed his lips. his hand immediately reached for the back of his head as he scratched his head.

“y/n… i was going to tell you.” he stammered, jittery and clearly heart broken.

you match his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me first? why did i have to find out from the others?” you asked, holding back tears and biting the inside of your cheek.

“i- im so sorry! i was just so scared. even the idea of leaving you had me going crazy. also, gojo-sensei told me it would be a good idea to tell you as late as possible!” he reached for your hands, grabbing them for reassurance.

you grimace at the mention of gojo. “okkotsu! you don’t listen to gojo when it comes to this kind of stuff.” you scoff, and squeeze his hands.

you decide to forgive yuta, not like you had much time to be mad at him anyway. his plane left in four days, and on sunday morning, your lover boy would be headed to africa. gojo had to watch you and yuta kiss and coo and hug each other in the airport, which is behavior the bright red flustered spiky haired boy would typically shy away from because of his timid nature, but he didn’t know when he would see you again. he told you a couple of months, but you both knew it would stretch longer.

—

after yuta had left, you had slowly fallen into a slump. your training gradually got sloppier, you barely made it out of missions, you neglected your friendships with the other second years as you were locked away in your room most of the time. this went on for a month. even though you called and texted him, there was no facetime feature on yuta’s phone, and nothing was the same.

everybody was worried for your health, both mental and physical. you became even more frail as you skipped meals and had a difficult time breathing as you weren’t training your cursed technique as efficient as before. shoko had reported to gojo that your physical state was borderline self harm, as you hardly survived any spars or missions. a special grade sorcerer was rare and extremely valuable in the jujutsu world. when the higher ups had learned about your current condition, they were furious.

after one horrid month, gojo had finally dragged you out of your chamber known as a dorm to meet the new first years.

“okay! time for introductions~” gojo grins.

the three first years were sitting on a road curb as they stood outside of an abandoned school.

“y/n, this is itadori yuji. sukuna’s vessel!” your sensei explained.

the pink haired boy waved, sending you a bright smile.

“nobara kugisaki! a country bumpkin that uses a hairpin technique.”

the girl greets her coolly, saying something about how there aren’t enough girls at school.

“and finally y/n, this is megumi fushiguro, he possesses the famous ten shadows shikigami technique!” gojo beams, poking and prodding the boy.

your eyes visibly widen as you make eye contact with the spiky jet black haired boy.

“is something on my face?” your kouhai asks, face heating up as he brushes off his chin.

you shake your head. “sorry, no you don’t. you just have the same hair as someone i know.” you reply, chuckling softly at your foolish thoughts.

gojo forces all four of you into the abandoned building populated by curses.

“he told me to kill all the curses, right?” you ask the three first years, who were instructed to just watch.

they all nod as they run behind you, trying to keep up with your pace.

“y/n-senpai! how old are you? if you don’t mind me asking!” itadori curiously exclaims, causing nobara to nag him while fushiguro facepalms.

“i’m fifteen. why?” you inquire, looking back at him.

“woah- you’re the same age as us? just asking.”

you laugh and continue running through the building and up the stairs all the way to the rooftop just to be met with a crowd of curses.

“fushiguro. what’s your favorite color?” you ask as you unsheathe your nichirin blade from your pocket.

he furrows his brows, puzzled.

“hurry.”

“sorry- um, blue?”

you rapidly mutter a water breathing technique, releasing seemingly infinite ribbons of water to kill off all the curses in the building in a split second, afterwards causing the entire school building to be flooded with shimmery water that evaporates in less than a second.

the three first years just stand in awe. when they make it back down, they’re met with a proud gojo.

“so that’s the power of a special grade.” itadori admires.

nobara and itadori can’t stop cooing about how cool your technique is, while gojo explains your other breathing styles and techniques as you guys make your way to a sushi restaurant.

as you all get seated, nobara mentions something about how you need to fix your heavy eye bags and overall dead looking face, talking about how girls need beauty sleep. you simply smile and nod, but too tired to actually respond. if you were healthy, you would be overly excited at nobara’s words and you two would probably be inseparable. but you just don’t have enough energy. and gojo knows this. he knows how much you have been wanting to meet the first years. he knows that you need whatever help you can get. and he hopes that a fresh batch of friends will help.

“order whatever, it’s on me!” gojo shoots you all a tooth-achingly sweet grin.

nobara and itadori smirk as they bicker over what they should order for everyone.

a few months go by, and ever since your mini mission with the first years, your mental and physical health had drastically improved. one could say itadori, nobara, and megumi had saved you. you were now hanging out with the second years and first years often, and yuta’s calls and messages were becoming more and more rare. gojo had noticed you had taken a specific liking to megumi, and he had also been fond of you. the two of you would hang out separately, even spending some of your winter break together. gojo walked in on the two of you laying together, borderline cuddling, on HIS couch too. he didn’t know if you two were dating, so he resorted to asking the two first years. who both denied his suspicions. the white haired man asked maki, your best friend, and she had also denied it.

and it wasn’t like you loved megumi like you loved yuta. you loved megumi like a best friend. he was so easy to talk to, and was actually surprisingly really funny when you got to know him better.

nonetheless, you were able to reclaim your spot as one of the most powerful sorcerers in history, as you trained ten times harder than before. you were officially back to your normal self.

—

shibuya. nobody had suspected that halloween night would be so gruesome. you wondered if yuta was here, everything would be alright. the last time you two contacted each other was three months ago.

you were walking with yuji and megumi through the eerily empty streets of shibuya, the only sound filling ears were the echoing crunches of rubble beneath your feet. you quickly duck behind a flipped car to use your reverse cursed technique to heal a small wound on your foot, as yuji and megumi patiently waited in the middle of the road.

all of a sudden, you hear sparring noises. but spars dont last this long, and nobody was here to spar, they’re all here to eliminate, you think as you finish up healing your foot.

this cursed energy feels all too familiar. one you haven’t felt in over a year.

you turn around, to be met with yuta okkotsu.

your dark and tense expression brightens, eyes wide. you take in his almost unapproachable appearance. the once timid and sickeningly warm and sweet face was no longer there. instead, a cold, dark, exhausted, and straight up creepy face was standing just a couple feet away from you. his eye bags are heavy. his hair has went from spiky and messy to flat and styled into a side part.

but for some reason, the boy you once had to order for at restaurants, the boy who would hide behind you every time he hd to interact with anybody, the boy who was always uptight and nervous, was trying to kill your kouhai, yuji.

shoving personal feelings aside, you charged towards yuta, unsheathing your blade, as you held your katana up horizontally to protect yourself and your two kouhai’s, who were on the ground, coughing up blood, from getting killed.

yuta’s tired eyes had shot wide open, brows furrowing, as his katana had stopped pushing against yours. you used his moment of shock to try and sweep his feet off the ground, but unfortunately, he blocked your attack and hesitantly kept blocking and dodging your blade.

“y-y/n! y/n, listen to me. you need to stay out of this.” he orders, voice slightly shaking.

“those are pathetic words to say to your girlfriend who you haven’t seen in over a year.” you reply stoically.

all of a sudden, megumi appears next to you, with his frog shikigami, that get killed in a split second by yuta.

“leave her alone okkotsu-senpai.” the shikigami user says, attempting to deliver punches to the special grade, which were embarrassingly too slow for yuta.

“megumi-kun! it’s been too long. gojo had told me you and y/n were getting oddly closer during my absence.” the special grade boy uttered, smiling as he attempted to kick fushiguro in the stomach.

you grabbed yuta’s leg, and slammed him to the concrete.

“megumi, go check on yuji.” you instruct, as you held yuta to the ground.

megumi hesitantly left, and you released yuta.

“why are you trying to kill yuji? because if you keep trying, i’m not gonna hold back on you.” you firmly state.

“the higher ups want me to. y/n, i’m gonna kill itadori-kun and then revive him with my reverse technique.” he briefly explained s through labored breaths.

you eye him suspiciously. but seeing him so roughed up and exhausted broke your heart. you’ve dreamt of this day ever since the day he left. you wanted nothing more right now than to hug the life out of him and litter his bruised face with kisses. you wanted to take in every part of him.

he finally stood up and before he went to “execute” yuji, he whispered into your ear, “i love you so much. stay right here and don’t turn around until i tell you, okay?”

you comply and nod, unable to move because of your boyfriends suddenly dominant and confident behavior.

“just wait a little more sweetheart.” he commands, his lips grazing your neck as you feel his smirk against your skin.

your body tensed up at his words, and you were left paralyzed from his disgustingly sweet tone. eventually you shook your head and waited until yuta gave you the okay.

part 2?

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delirious-donna · 3 months

Text

tw: narumi x reader, possessive gen, unwanted attention, drunk stranger, wet cat boy narumi, unprotected sex, cute little cat cafe date

Narumi wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him when he had volunteered to take on the extra mission, despite it being his well-earned day off. Eiji had sworn it would be a cakewalk, in and out in less than an hour, he’d said. It wasn’t even a Kaiju level threat, just some low-level grunts that he could smack around to boost his popularity. A silly mistake…

Six hours later and he was hurriedly showering to rid himself of the ick that clung to his skin and hair like some kind of glue. He ground down on his molars as he imagined your sweet little face, sad and searching for him. It might be the middle of high summer, but his mind conjured a picture of you shivering in a cold wind at his absence.

His clothes flew from the dresser, tugging on jeans and shirt whilst running his fingers through the mess of bi-coloured hair to bring into some semblance of artistic mess rather than looking like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Narumi gave one last half-hearted glance in the mirror, damn near whining when he wasn’t quite perfect with his appearance, but the tick of his watch forced him to propel out the door despite it.

You were due to meet outside a new cat café that had not long opened in the prefecture, a treat that he was excited to indulge you in. It was only a ten-minute walk from the gate of the base, but he was already running late. His pace quickened as he turned the corner before skidding to a halt when he saw you waiting for him outside the café.

You really had gone all out with the cat-themed clothing, all you were missing was a tail and that thought alone might have been arousing had he not been glaring at a man invading your personal space. It was only late afternoon, but the man smelled strongly of sake. His steps were unstable, and although you presented a strong façade, Gen could sense you were terrified.

Your hand tightened around the keys in your pocket, sliding the metal between your fingers just in case. The man was just some down on his luck drunk, not a real threat but it was better to be safe than sorry. He had spotted you whilst you waited for your boyfriend to appear and taken an immediate interest in your attire. It was only now that you decided that it might have been best to wait until you got inside to don your fluffy ears, an accessory especially picked for your favourite kitty boy. If only he knew who might appear at any moment, of the danger he would likely be in if Narumi was to see his display of unwanted attention.

He was getting too close, with every step back you took, they matched it, and you felt a nervous whimper build in your throat when his hand reached out towards you.

“Will you purr if I tickle you behind the ear?” he slurred, gesturing towards the cat ears sat atop your head.

Your eyes screwed shut but the touch never landed. Instead, a cracking noise followed by a pathetic scream split the otherwise silence of the street. Peeking through your fingers, Gen stared back with an impenetrable expression on his handsome face.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. No amount of good publicity was worth putting you in danger,” he whispered the last part ominously, regret evident in his striking vermillion eyes.

Listening to your instincts, you launched into his arms, trusting him to catch you. The prolific Captain did one better, bracing your weight without giving an inch of ground, securing his arms around your body and squeezing tight. You thought he might have been smelling your hair as you laughed out your gratitude.

“Oh, Gen… you’re my knight in shining armour!”

Narumi downright blushed and it was adorable, the pink hue warming his cheeks and the tips of his ears looked hot beneath his bangs. For a time, he simply held you, his large palms full of the roundness of your backside and your nose nudging happily against his. At last, he cleared his throat.

“Uh… I mean—shall we?”

The cat cafe was a complete success; however, Gen was flooded with filthy wanton thoughts and images throughout the entire session. The cats were cute as heck, but not nearly as cute as you were. He had watched you use the cat toys dotted around for customers to interact with the playful felines, thinking continually of how you might mewl and purr for him if he were to play with your—

Oh, he was torturing himself with these ideas. Images of you stretched out on his bed in nothing but those dainty little cat ears and maybe a fun little cat tail plug? If you were for it… he wondered how he would even broach the subject, his clothes feeling hotter and more suffocating the longer he mused.

It was a good thing that your perceptive skills were far more honed than his. It wasn’t difficult to sense the wayward direction of the Captain’s mind, sinful tendrils of energy leaking from him, without his realisation, to wrap around your limbs and caress your skin. To say you didn’t like it would be a bald-faced lie.

And that was how you came to find yourself mewling for him in the dark of his room. The loss of your sight only heightening your other senses as your boyfriend lost himself in your tight cunt and whispered delicious fantasies against the sensitive inside of your thighs.

His hand groped for your exposed tits, the swell of them pressed up from the tight hold of the blouse that had been opened just enough to bare you to the cool air and his earlier hungry mouth. The long languid strokes of his tongue along the length of your sopping slit were enough to make you grind against his face in earnest.

“Such a needy little kitten. You gonna purr for me?” he smirked up at you from beneath dark lashes, silver hair messy from how harshly you had tugged and twisted on the strands.

His crooked almost non-existent smile flashed in the dark room before he suckled your clit between his lips again, drinking in your moans like they were his lifeline.

“Need more,” you begged, fixing your lopsided cat ears and trying valiantly to coax Narumi into fucking you dumb. Your hips rolled, practically rutting yourself against him and the lust-blown pupils spoke of how affected he was by your actions.

Your stomach pressed against the mattress when he flipped you over without warning, hands grasping your hips to raise your ass. The blunt, fat head of his cock teased your folds before catching against your fluttering hole.

He sank in on a low groan, making you see stars as he bottomed out in one long stroke. A hand gripped the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the pillow. The position meant you could only just see the feral expression on your lover’s face as he hissed like an angry cat.

“You’re mine!”

#delirious writes #gen narumi #narumi x reader #gen narumi x reader #narumi smut #gen narumi smut #kaiju no. 8 x reader #kn8 smut #kn8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 smut

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skyrigel · 4 months

Note

Hey Rigel I love ur work like so much 💓 can I request Anthony bridgerton where he is getting married and realises his love his y/n or smth similar with him getting jealous and angry when y/n and Benedict or colin fake date like tht or anything if this doesn't make sense 😭

Enchanted | A.B x you

Pairing: Anthony bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict x fem!reader x colin ( platonic) wc - 3.8k

Synopsis: When Aubreyton's CEO strikes a match with Miss Edwina sharma, because she's nice and kind and witty, ofcourse nothing could go wrong, except you have feelings for Anthony.

Warning :CEO! Anthony x assistant! reader, Asshole! Anthony, Benedict x sophie, Polin, bridgerton's chaotic dynamic, reader and Benedict share one brain cell that's mostly with you, alcohol, fake marriage( Anthony and reader), social media au, office au, modern setting, forced proximity, jealousy jealousy, mutual pinning, fluffy fluff, bit angst, arranged marriage, bit Collen Hoover bashing but it's a joke ( maybe not ) no Edwina bashing, scary Kate sharma, yes!!! ( Might add more later )

" Your brother is an idiot." You said, gritting your teeth as your mail blew with applicants, beautiful young ladies with peculiar yet remarkable talents.

" That." Benedict catched the grape midair with his mouth," we know of." He added with a cocky grin.

" Read another ! " Colin peppered, stealing your cookies which you ignored, sighing as you opened another mail.

" Tiana Young, twenty-one, I like to read, write and sing, my favourite author is Collen Hoover—" Benedict snorted, " —I like children and hope to be a mother, I am very soft spoken and good natured, my neighbours call me Ti, because I am a tea kinda person—"

" What's a tea kinda person ? " Colin bited the smuggled cookie, Benedict pulled the remaining to his side hastily, you felt your appetite long gone.

" It's like...they are like tea..." Benedict said, more in doubt as he looked for affirmation.

" Like milk tea or another tea ? " You asked, perhaps tea could takeaway your headache.

" What's an another tea ? " Colin's hand began to pull the tray, Benedict frowned but said nothing, taking one hurriedly and breaking it into two parts, offering you the bigger one.

" No thank-you, let me fix this Tiana's appointment." You exhaled, copy pasting a paragraph how (un) grateful you were to her for reaching out, she would soon have her appointment date and bla bla bla.

" I knew my brother was workholic but this wife hunting thingy is so exhausting." Benedict wiggled his eyebrows, you knew he was being kind but he wasn't helping at all.

" It would have been over if his requirements weren't so high, like he's not looking for a wife but some utopian woman god has yet to create ! " You were ranting, you knew, but this was the only way you could stop yourself from punching Anthony for putting you into this misery.

" Why can't he just fall in love ? " Colin looked at you and Benedict seriously, his mouth covered in crumbs, " Come on, love is like...like a force to be reckoned with ! " He beamed, ofcourse it was a force, didn't Penelope wrote something smiliary in her latest book, you somehow felt your heart shuddering, what would happen if Anthony were to be in love, some intelligent, beautiful woman, some utopian goddess of his, you didn't like the idea one bit, so you laughed it off.

" Brother in love ? " Benedict was in stitches, banging his palm on the table, shaking few very important papers that laid without any significance. They will be probably used as napkin if you weren't there.

" It's not funny." Colin got up, taking his coat, he rolled his eyes when Benedict refused to stop laughing, you shaked your head helplessly as another mail popped up, Jasmine had written a essay about global peace and increasing capatilism, you groaned, damn you Anthony bridgerton!

" Good evening Anthony." You tapped save on your screen as Anthony entered the office, a beak of sweat trickling down his neck line, okay, someone got either fired or roasted down to their very existence, you preferred the former.

" Good evening y/n." He looked up at you, he worried his jaw to say more but decided against it as he settled on his chair, it was very comfy and very big, years of working with him but you couldn't fathom the courage to ever have a taste, perhaps Benedict would help, maybe then.

" There are twelve appointments I have scheduled for tomorrow, Miss Becka—"

" Cancel them."

" What ?! " You almost shouted, you didn't waste your whole day to adjust and fit these pretty woman according to the time and weather and place and Anthony's mood so nothing went wrong, did he just said cancel them like it was nothing, this—

" We are going out Tommorow, it might take all day so cancel them." Anthony ran a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply, your brain short circuited at the words more and more made some meaning, we ?! Did he, for heaven's sake said we ?

" You and me ? " You blurted and lowered your gaze when his eyes snapped to you, a deep color blazed your nose as you fiddled with your skirt.

" Yes, me and you." He confirmed and you could swore, that was a smile, a small, thin, almost unrecognisable on his always stern face, but that was a smile.

" Why ? " You closed your laptop, tucking the strands of your hair that usually came out after a long day, behind you ear.

Anthony pressed a key and it beeped, he shifted his face to you, thinking that he was almost frowning and finally, he said with a neutral face.

" I have found a match." His face gave nothing away, " Miss Edwina will be most suitable for marriage." He said it like it wasn't his marriage he was talking about, " she's very graceful and witty and would make a amiable wife and a kind loving mot—"

" Right." You snapped mid course, his mouth was hanging open with words lost in void, you knew very well Miss Edwina was a fine young lady, she was beautiful and kind and sharp at wits, ofcourse this ended your torment or perhaps began another, but not now, you needed to think.

" I..I promised Benedict for dinner. " You muttered, feeling your whole body numb as you stumbled out of your seat, Anthony watched, something glazed in his eyes but you couldn't place it, you might if you looked longer but you had no courage left now. You were almost at the glassy door, he was watching you intently and you felt his gaze burn at your back.

" You like my brother quite very much." He startled you, you paused, heart beats echoing through your throat. It was like he was accusing you, almost jabbing his finger on your chest. What does that mean ?

" What could I say ? He's very amiable." You turned to smile at him, it trembled on your lips and Anthony scoffed slightly, mouth curving in disdain but it was gone as soon as it crossed his face. Damn you !

" Have a nice day sir." You closed the door behind you, covering your face as a muffled scream cut through your cartilage.

" Miss Edwina ?! " Benedict almost screamed as you narrowed your eye sternly at him, he lowered his voice in a whisper, ducking his head down towards you, " sorry but Miss Edwina ?! "

" I know, I know." You swigged another gulp of the dizzy bubbling liquid that will give you a terrible headache tommorow but right now, you just wanted this uneasiness feeling to go away.

" Didn't her scary sister vowed to ruin him or something like that ? " Benedict licked his thumb, eye's watering at the spice, you loved this place's Chole bhature very much, last time Benedict cried when he accidentally bited the green masala filled chilly.

" Yeah, she refused to take ahead the Mayfair deal, or something like that, not that it would ruin anything and—" You sighed, leaning back your head as the soft music tickled your senses.

" What ? " You heard his faint murmur.

" Well Anthony was right, as soon as our team announced his engagement, ofcourse not revealing the bride, he's well trending—"

" He's always trending." Benedict groaned, chugging water as his lips were swollen with spiced heat.

" Yes, but not for thirsty things, i meant that Aubreyton is trending and our shares are touching the sky and it's a whole profitable season ahead." You ended breathlessly, you stared at him for full second before both your eye's crinkled with smiles and laughter that came from your hearts, it lightened the air somehow as well as your heart.

" You do remember I am part of the executive board ? " Benedict tilted his head with a warm smile and you shaked your head, feeling tipsy.

" Like you do anything except torment me and poor Colin ! " You pouted, feeling your cheeks flush as Benedict threw his head back and laughed.

" Poor Colin ? " He cooed, " he's probably getting laid tonight." He added with a wink, you slapped his shoulder nervously.

" Penelope replied ? "

" Ofcourse, my dear little brother wrote a whole ass three page message, with a picture of all her books that too hardcover and first editions."

" Wow." You said, impressed, Colin was head over heels, it was only a matter of time since the dazzling author knew.

" And what of Miss Beckett ? " You wiggled your eyebrows like Benedict did when he teased you, he turned a beetroot red as he fumbled with the last contents of his glass.

" She refused for a live in relationship." He said, his face grew sad and you mentally winced for putting him there.

" Oh." You nodded, Sophia lived with her evil mother who liked to see her suffer and she was, afterall, too good of a girl.

" Benedict..." You whispered when he closed his eyes softly, hiding his face behind his palms.

" I am not crying." He was. He sniffed as a few heads turned towards the pair of you, many with sympathy, probably thinking you had refused to marry him or something.

" Hey, hey, hey..." You pulled yourself as you dizzily tripped over to his side, wrapping your arms around him as he melted in your embrace.

" She doesn't understand..." He said it so muffled that it was unable to make out what he said, but you understood it anyway.

" She will, she loves you so much." You kissed his head and he nodded, tears streaking your shirt as he finally emerged with red, sticky face and puppy bright eyes.

" I think i drank too much." He admitted, you nodded, feeling yourself floating too.

" Let's call a cab, we shouldn't drive." You suggested, fiddling with cash as you payed the bill, leaving good tip for the teenager waiter, who smiled kindly at every inner joke Benedict shot.

" Uh huh." He focused hard on his phone, sticking his tongue out like he did when he was really, really drunk and or just really, felt the need to, or he was about to do something stupid, which he did.

Twelve minutes later, Anthony bridgerton was standing outside the restaurant with a heavy frown and it was strange to see him in normal clothes, like that grey t-shirt felt odd yet gorgeous and those sweatpants, you were way too drunk, you realised.

" You'll make a fine gentleman." Anthony curted his mouth, his words dripped with sarcasm that you and Benedict were too drunk to catch on.

" Thankyou, the cab idea was mine." He said smugly, ducking out when you smacked his ass with your purse, Anthony watched with wide eyes.

" Liar." You jabbed at him, he started to giggle and stumbled, taking you along before Anthony grabbed you by the waist and pulled you away from him, Benedict winked at you when Anthony closed his eyes, frustration or whatever that dazed him, his touch was electrifying, like current jostling in water.

Anthony pulled away his arms from you, his eyes strained like it pained him just the same it hurt you.

" You are wasting my time brother, get in the car." He glared, " come." He said to you, his gaze softened but that could be alcohol, you weren't reliable narrator especially when it was Anthony bridgerton.

" Well you could have refused." Benedict ran and sprawled inside like a bear, covering the whole back seat with his wasted body.

" Yes well, I didn't come for y—" he clamped his mouth in a thin line, nerve twitching on his forehead as he breathed hard, eyeing you as you ran after Benedict's seat thievery, you opened the door and his head almost snapped when he looked up you, it was a nauseous enough to make you vomit.

" Move." You pulled his hair, in no hell you will sit in the front seat, not like you haven't, but you were drunk and you were angry and you hated Anthony and you wished so much to just, to just, just once, once just, kiss him hard, that's alcohol, bloody alcohol.

" Leave this idiot." Anthony was suddenly behind you, he touched your elbow with same electric touch, guiding you to the empty front seat as he opened the door, you could feel Benedict wiggling his eye, you will deal with this bastard later.

" I was thinking—" Benedict started, once Anthony started driving, he was shut real quick when Anthony glared with words.

" Stop thinking." Anthony rolled the steering wheel and you looked away, those veins taunted and lured you, it was maddening and the streets were much dull and undistracting.

Benedict giggled at something he probably said in his head, you chuckled when he burped, he did too, only Anthony didn't.

" Don't you have a date tommorow with Mr. Dorset ? " Benedict craned his neck to get a view of you, two Bridgerton's eyes were too much to take as you thought hard, well yes a date, with Mr. Dorset, yes, you did remember.

" Ofcourse." You said, Anthony drifted a turn that jerked your head forward and you would have got a concussion if it wasn't his big palm that came for rescue.

" Are you okay ? " He asked, slowing down the car as his fingers pushed you back until the back of your head was pressed against the seat.

" Yeah." You confirmed, nothing was more threatening than his touch. He should bloody know that.

" Are you okay ? " Benedict mimicked and you realised he was down there, squashed on the car floor, his face hidden somewhere.

Anthony ignored him as his expressions hardened, he was breathing hard as he worried his lips, thinking and thinking.

" You do know it might take all day." Anthony finally said and you cocked your head to his side, you were drunk and well, sleepy too.

" What ? Well, it's a dinner date." You assured, Mr. Dorset wasn't letting go and a Thai curry wouldn't hurt anyway.

" Yes well, it might be very late." He was frowning now, his eyes were on the road but he would glance between nano seconds.

" Really ? " You pouted, you were way too gone now, it didn't matter, Anthony's eyes stopped at your lips and when he looked up, something changed, like it must have changed a long ago but it's colours were only visible now, like moon hiding behind the clouds, beaming but not seen and when it's finally high, hanging at sky, you blinked, expecting it to be gone, like everything, but when you opened your eyes, it was still there, as clear as ever, shimmering at you. That's alcohol, bloody alcohol.

" Yes.." Anthony gulped hard, pulling at Benedict's apartment, how much he wanted sophie to built a home with him, soon, you thought, soon.

" Oi y/n, I think I found your lipstick." Benedict hopped up, his face had lines where because he didn't bother to get up once he had fallen, with a shade that you never used in your whole lifetime, Anthony looked away when you tried to catch his eyes.

" That's not mine." You said, feeling anger creep up your neck, not knowing why, it's not that you were the only one who sat in his car and ofcourse you weren't his girlfriend, you weren't his friend even, he was your boss, you were his assistant, that's it, that's fucking it, you really wanted to punch his face, that's bloody alcohol, you would never drink again.

" Benedict, my brother." Anthony took the lipstick away which Benedict was trying to apply on himself, " get the fuck out."

" Goodbye to you too brother." He leaned to smooch Anthony when he hastily pulled away, growling.

" Bye bye sweetheart." Benedict smooched your cheek then and his lips only touched your warm skin before Anthony pushed him back in the back seat, it was, kinda rough.

" You are drunk." He told Benedict who shrugged, blinking heavily.

"He always kissed me goodbye." You glared at Anthony, this freaking bastard, chew on your lipstick, Idiot. You leaned down to kiss Benedict's cheek and he giggled softly, eyes locked with Anthony, his wide bastard grin flashing, glittering as Anthony eye rolled.

When Benedict was dropped, it was your turn, Anthony stared ahead like a statue, you were suffering in your own head.

The silence became heavy in air as the music was either tragic or too loud for your head and Anthony sensed the discomfort, turning it off altogether.

" What are we going to do actually? Venue deciding or something." You finally spoke, remembering how much you stared and stared when the article popped up, Anthony bridgerton looking for a wife !! You remembered the qualification list, should be well spoken, should be linguistic, should want kids, should be family loving, should be this, should be that, should have good enough hips to bear a child like what ?!

You remembered days and days when he would have his appointments, yes appointments, most of times he was out within five minutes, a frown on his face.

" She doesn't know algebra." He said one time when he came out within two minutes and you shrugged, well algebra was hard afterall.

And now Miss Edwina had ended all your miseries and torture, no lists, no more algebra's and Collen Hoover's, nothing of that anymore, Anthony would be a husband soon and perhaps he would love her, or already love her, he was so determined even when Kate sharma threatened to cut deals with Aubreyton if didn't stop sending flowers, well that was your doing, sending flowers because it was your idea, but well, it didn't matter.

" Well not the venue, but wedding ring and wedding dresses, Mother say we match and cake tasting and flowers—" we.

" When's the wedding ? " You looked at him scornfully, Anthony's eyes lowered at you as he stopped the car.

" Next week." Fuck you Anthony!

" Shouldn't you decide that with Miss Edwina herself ? " You were glad, but you had this feeling that he would be taken away from you, once married, he might not be yours, he was never yours, but still, why not start now ?

He frowned like it wasn't the most sensible and obvious thing.

" I..." He hesitated, " Miss Edwina might not want to go, since the wedding is too near and also, to keep it a private engagement."

" Oh." You didn't get a thing, your mind wasn't working as Anthony leaned down to open your door, you freezed, only your heart thudded loudly, could he hear ? What he did to you, well it wouldn't surprise you if he knew and still chose to torture your poor soul. " Why not state it publicly ? "

" I can't deal with the fanfictions." He said in matter of factly way. " And paparazzi giving Edwina trouble." Don't say her name, don't.

" Fanfictions ?! " You laughed so loud that he actually stopped thinking whatever he was, and just looked at you, as if taking in every detail, savouring them, drinking every bit of you in, he looked like he was mesmerized but that was just alcohol, just your silly heart, just you, who had read all those one shots, about you and him, ofcourse you weren't going to admit it and ofcourse you would be quite dammed if you ever saw Anthony getting shipped with Edwina Sharma, they are getting married in a week idiot, yes, but not today, not now, later, when it was time, please, not now. Later, now he was yours.

" You have a good choice either way." He was, for no reason, walking you to your door, you remembered how Benedict was practically kicked out earlier, he would tease you so much if you were to ever tell him.

" Oh please." You chuckled, rubbing your hands together in the chilly air, " I gifted Benedict onesies on his birthday."

Anthony smiled, it didn't leave his face until he caught you staring and you noticed how different he looked, when those lines were of joy instead of worry, he looked young and his boyishness made your heart do cartwheels.

" That was just a joke." He amused, " wasn't it ? " His smile faltered when you shaked your head in a no, fumbling for you keys.

" It wasn't so bad." Anthony said, somewhat traumatised, " Benedict wore them anyway."

" It had penguins ! " You cringed at the memory, a drunkish Polaroid like, blurred and saturated, it was vivid but just like yesterday, Anthony didn't dance until you were both so drunk, perhaps he smiled back than too, and looked just as dazzling.

" You are good y/n." Anthony said sincerely, " stop being mean to yourself." You opened the door but your hands freezed at the doornob, why Anthony had to cut the right wires, why he had to upside down your whole world ?

" Well, same to you Anthony." You said, he lingered on the doorway more than he should, it was alcohol, it really, really was but no amount of gaslighting could blur the memory away, you always remembered how brave you were that night when you leaned down, one step not much, and placed a small, chaste kiss, just a brush of your lips against his blazing skin. A touch to his soul, it sparkled and rose and busted into a thousand orbs and sprinkled like glitters on you and him.

" Good night." You whispered, Anthony stared, too stunned to say anything, then he smiled, small and enchanting.

" Good night y/n." His smile stayed.

339 notes · View notes

starryriize · 7 months

Note

any nicholas fluff thoughts pls 🥺 ppl often depict him as some kind of tsundere bc of his looks but he's actually such a sweetheart and the members have said he's a genuinely kind and caring person. he said he even tried smiling more growing up so that people wouldn't find him so intimidating oh i want to protect him with my life 😭

delulu thoughts | nico

╰┈ ⋆｡˚ 🪼genre: fluff!!

╰┈ ⋆｡˚ 🪼author’s note: i agree nonnie 🫶🏼 he deserves the world!! anyways, i hope you enjoy this love :(( hehee i giggled while writing this 🤭

🫧laur’s taglist: @chiiyuuvv @kehnarii

⋆⑅˚₊ the type of bf to have a small smile as he watches you work! or just the look of love when he sees you do anything :((

⋆⑅˚₊ plays piano for you and sometimes puts on music as he takes your hands, leading you in a slow dance in the living room (stop he would do this idc)

⋆⑅˚₊ the type to pout but smile when you call him cute!! he knows that he can come off with the vibes of "big scary dog" but like most big dogs, he's a total softie 🥹

⋆⑅˚₊ strikes me as the type to pick you up randomly and just give you big hugs!! he gets all smiley while hugging you too :((

⋆⑅˚₊ when you feel sad, he's by your side in a comfortable silence as he gives you a reassuring look 🫶🏼 words aren’t always necessary when his eyes speak a thousand words to you

⋆⑅˚₊ “why did you do that?” and “because i care” type of relationship!! he cares so much about you that he always remembers the tiniest details about you :((

⋆⑅˚₊ he’d take you on really cute dates and a lot of them are pure fun!! would buy the matching souvenirs and play games for you so he can win you the biggest prize 😌

⋆⑅˚₊ the type to always reach for your hand!! he just loves knowing that you’re his makes him feel like he saved a world in his past life🥹🫶🏼

⋆⑅˚₊ loves it when you play with his hair and let him lay down on your lap :((( it’s so comforting to him, especially after a long day in the practice room

⋆⑅˚₊ when you dress up together for a fancy occasion and you tell him that everyone's staring at him because he looks so handsome, he replies, "no love, they're staring at you." (argh stop i'm giggling even thinking about this) 🤭

⋆⑅˚₊ the type of romance that you only read about and used to dream of having! he entered your life and made you believe in true love :( the way he puts you first no matter what too :(( please it's so incredibly sweet

⋆⑅˚₊ his friends most definitely tease him when they catch him staring at you so lovingly, saying things like, "nico, when are you going to propose??" and he just stops. he secretly knows that you're definitely the one for him.

⋆⑅˚₊ often asks you why you love him because he fears that his intimidating looks might cause you to leave one day, but you always reassure him 🥹 you love him for who he is and that he has the most genuine soul and a pure heart :((

⋆⑅˚₊ he regales you with stories of his childhood and his time on i-land as you listen to each and every tale!! and then asks about your childhood while he's giggling at every word you say 😭 (he's so cute pls)

⋆⑅˚₊ KARAOKE DATES!!! hear me out when i say that he loves nostalgia and fun like...the carefree vibes! when you start dancing while singing off-key, he bursts out laughing, and at this point, both of you are just enjoying the vibes 😭😌

⋆⑅˚₊ when you're sad, he's holding you tight and letting you cry on his shirt! he's willing to listen if you want to and he holds your hands to reassure you that he's not going anywhere! through thick and thin, he'll be by your side 🫶🏼 (he gives forehead kisses too)

⋆⑅˚₊ overall, a green flag!! he's a gentleman and kind-hearted so please don't ever break his heart <3

🫧join laur's taglist!

#laur’s thoughts 🧚🏼‍♀️#andteam nicholas #&team x reader #&team reactions #&team imagines #&team fluff #andteam fluff #andteam imagines #andteam scenarios #andteam reactions #andteam x reader

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chouxsardine · 8 months

Text

Warm Honey---Jake Kiszka x reader

A short blurb where me imagining getting high with Jake and listening to classical music ended up turning into some jake-playing-guitar worship and stream of consciousness smut. I just feel it's so sexy when your partner can feel the effect they have on you, and I'd like to think Jake loves that. 18+ content below cut. Enjoy!

Warning: 18+! Minors DNI, Drug use (marijuana), sexual content, body worship (kind of)

🎧: Scriabin Sonata No.4 in F sharp major, Op.30

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He is all that you can think of, all that you feel.

Whenever you smoke joint with Jake, you always like to describe your mind as being “in a stake of Jake”. He is not occupying the space as the subject. Instead, he wraps around it in an all-encompassing way. He exists as the warmth of a blanket, a scene from the rear view mirror, the tingling on your skin as the wetness from an open-mouthed kiss evaporates.

Jake is sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, you are lying down with your head on his lap. The air is damp, saturated with the earthy smell. Jake just lets out a puff of smoke. You look up and blink. The light of the floor lamp is hazy through the smoke like the moon halo. Rachmaninoff is playing at a low volume in the background. The title of the melody escapes you. It could be Symphony No.2 or something like that. You are too far gone to put any effort into trying to recall it. Life feels really good at this moment, and that’s all you want to focus on.

Jake’s hand is resting in your hair, occasionally scratching your scalp or swirling the soft strands near your hairline around his finger, sending buzzing shivers under your skin. You squirm a bit, reaching above to grab his hand in yours. The sensation of being in touch with human flesh clashes with your stupefying illusion. Suddenly, Jake’s hands become the most interesting thing in the world.

If Jake is sober enough to look down, he will find you staring at his hand intensely with dilated pupils. The skin around your eyes is tinted with a fluffy shade of pink. And you are staring with the fervent passion of a child looking into a kaleidoscope for the first time, stunned and in awe. His hands are warm. Nails always blunt and well-trimmed, receded tamely behind the finger tips. Veins visible under his skin, knuckles strong and sturdy. You hold up his hand higher to the ceiling, looking at the light seeping through the slits between his fingers as if he has magical powers.

His hands truly are magical. The way he makes his guitar whine and moan on stage. You close your eyes briefly, recalling the way his right hand firmly grasping the neck while the palm of his left hand resting on its rear body. Sometimes he does that devious thing where he pushes the guitar back and forth as if shaking someone’s shoulder, the intensity of it cushioned by their connection through the strap, thereby creating a tensile and magnetic stretch between them. Once, you asked him why he would do that; “it helps with the trills and echoes,” he said, flashing you a smirk. You don’t believe him for one bit. When his fingers slide across the fretboard in an elegantly frantic speed, you wonder why there aren’t sparks bursting out because it surely looks like swiftly striking the head of a match against the side of the box. And you love the way he does tremolo, oh, the dazzling movement of his fingers on the higher end of the fretboard, his ring finger and pinky curved, alternating so smoothly that it looks like he is tickling someone. Well, it surely tickles your heart. And your pussy, if you are being honest. That’s when you feel it. The wetness sneaks up on you slowly. Jake always turns you on at the flip of a switch, the blink of an eye. Normally, you are already soaked as your mind is preoccupied with the yearning for his mouth, his fingers, and his cock. However, the weed amplifies all senses. This time, you can almost feel the titillation trickling down your spine, like morning dew collected on rose petals.

Without much thought (not that you can form any coherent ones now anyway), you hold up his fingers, make them spider-walk across your belly before lowering them down into your panties.

Jake lets out an amusing humph. With all the sensory stimulation stealing his words, he’s not much of a talker when he’s high. Your communication during times like these are almost telepathic—you could tell from just a simple raise of his fingers that he wants another handful of chips, and he could tell just by the slightest turn of your head that you want another hit. He always jokes that you read each other between the lines. The reassuring silence weaves a velvet blanket that falls and lands on both of you in a floating manner.

You look up and find him looking down on you with a lopsided smile. So lackadaisical that it’s almost goofy but smug nonetheless. He quirks his eyebrows, and you put up a finger against your lips.

“Shh.”

You’ve always known that Jake loves to watch. He gets so hard just by watching you getting yourself off, using all of his willpower not to come in his pants while somehow managed to take mental notes of your preference. He always looks down the moment your bodies connect, whether that’s him entering you or you sinking down on him. His mind is always blown by the way he disappears into you bit by bit and your malleability to adjust him. It’s almost like you were made for each other. The combination of the visual image and the physical sensation short-circuits his brain. The sigh and moans that escape him drive you crazy. Jake loves the process as much as he enjoys the maddening pleasure. And this time, with the weed delaying the need to fuck each other, you would like to let him experience that.

At first, it’s just his dry and warm palm covering your lower belly, his finger slotted between your fold, with his finger pad resting against your hood and finger tip grazing your clit. You feel he move, instinctively wanting to rub it.

“Nuh uh,” you tightens your grip, “I want you to feel it, babe.”

You are certain you are getting there. You can almost picture it, like honey slowly descending down the wall of a glass tube. It’s an agonizingly slow process, like a golden snake with malicious intent, twisting and turning its body; its expected sweetness drawing out the moisture of the mouth, causing one to salivate.

Ah. Here it comes.

Without meeting his gaze, you know that Jake feels it too. His fingers have long familiarized themselves as the hierarch of the territory which is your pussy. He has learned, through time and experience, the prelude of your arousal. Every respond is picked up by the tactile receptors on his finger pad and his muscle memory. Much like with his guitars, Jake is always caught in an affectionate paradox when it comes to your pussy—he walks this ground with confidence and pride over the possessiveness he has over it, albeit constantly carrying a veneration for its beauty and the sincere humbleness to learn and explore.

The previous friction has now transformed into a gentle rise of temperature and the coated slickness provided by your discharge. Your clit presses more firmly against his finger tips now that it starts to swell and throb.

“Damn, love, can almost feel your heartbeat.” Jake grunts, his words a bit slurred.

“That’s the point,” you arch your back, feeling vainglorious about your little trick, “my tell-tale heart. Feel what you do to me by simply existing?”

“Gosh, you’re gonna end me one day,” Jake tilts his head backwards, his eyes rolling back too, “but I wouldn’t want it any other way. And the epitaph would say, ‘gone doing what he loves’.”

You laugh, knowing that the filter between his brain and mouth has melted away now. Meanwhile, you are getting silkier and warmer by the second. Jake feels like he dips his finger into a jar of honey, the snugness of your walls trapped him there. He’s an insect preserved in a sea of saccharin, captivated by the moment as the waves wash over him again and again, reminding him that he is the reason why his girl is so turned on, he is the reason why this body lying against him coordinates all its nerves and cells to produce such an amazing response to his touch.

You can hear the clarinet playing in the symphony. If your memory serves you right, it won’t be long until the allegro vivace of the last movement kicks in. You look up at Jake’s face again. He swallows, his Adam’s Apple trembles in a way that makes you want to take a bite. With his eyes closed, his eyebrows pulling together, and his lips pursed, that man looks like he could be having an orgasm right there. It’s almost whimsical, given that he is the one who has his hand in your pants. You let out a low chuckle.

“What?” He cracks open an eye.

“You know they said weed slows people’s movement?” You quip, tapping your fingers provocatively over his, a sultry tone in your voice.

“Oh,” Jake’s eyes darkens, the familiar devious smile shine through his relaxed features.

“Now, those are fighting words, doll. You wanna test them out?”

--------------------------------

#jake kiszka #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fanfic #greta van fleet smut #gvf fanfiction #jake kiskza x reader #jakedown

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thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels · 8 months

Text

My life does not belong to me (but these secrets are my own)

Blood nose and a crooked tongue (I always wanted to be someone) - series masterlist here

pairing: tim drake x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.2k

genre: fluff? I guess?

warnings: red robin breaks into reader's apartment but he's very polite abt it, he also kind of intimidates and threatens but it's all for funsies

a/n: another intro another story here ya go

There's a certain fear you feel when something takes you by surprise - when you miss a step walking down the stairs or you reach into your pocket and realize you've lost your phone. These moments, you think haltingly, all pale in comparison to the fear that strikes through you when you flip on the light in your apartment and see Red Robin perched in the corner of your living room, arms crossed and scowling.

"People usually knock first," is all your brain supplies.

"The murder victim from last week. You were at the crime scene," is his only retort, curt and professional. You hum thoughtfully, throwing your keys and wallet onto your coffee table and removing your jacket, slinging it over the arm of your couch as you cross your arms to mirror his, leaning against the wall opposite him.

"And you're so sure of that?" You quip back. His frown deepens.

"A private investigator trails a man for three weeks and then he ends up dead in an alley. This is serious."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," you say, the patronizing edge to your voice making Red Robin's fists clench as your heart hammers in your chest. "But… not for me. Because you see, Red, I wasn't there, I didn't kill anyone, and I'm not the cop working this case. So, I would suggest finding someone who's actually involved in this in some way. You can go and have a very serious conversation with them, instead." Your frown matches his as the two of you stare each other down, your arms still crossed tightly against your chest as you hope he can't tell how desperately you want him to stop sniffing around and leave.

"You're awful nervous for someone who's not involved," he says smoothly.

Fuck, you think.

"Let's try this again," Red Robin pushes himself off the wall, stalking towards you. You do your best not to move - not to back away when he comes close, looking you in the eyes through the white slits in his mask.

"You were there in that alley the night that he died. You were not the person who reported the body - you fled the crime scene, instead. You've been tailing him for weeks because his wife supposedly hired you to find proof of him cheating. You must have, in all the time you spent following him, realized that his late-night rendezvous were, instead, because he was dealing drops for Falcone." You inhale sharply at Red Robin's words and he grins viciously, like a wolf who's just caught a rabbit between its teeth.

"Shall I continue?" He mimics your patronizing voice from earlier and you open your mouth, a retort dying on your tongue as he continues talking. "You claim to make your money by way of rich women hiring you to expose their lying, cheating husbands, but you and I both know that's just not true-"

"It is-"

"Oh, sure, yes - it is true. You do technically do that work. But there are some other things you have your hands in, hm? Aren't there? You do a lot more than just that for your clients. A lot that I'm sure the GCPD would be thrilled to have some evidence against."

Red Robin leans closer to you, silence dripping between the two of you as your head spins and you try desperately to grasp onto enough words to snap back with something - anything.

"I didn't kill him," you finally say firmly. "I had nothing to do with that."

"No, I know you didn't," Red Robin shrugs casually and leans away from you, rocking back on his heels as your shoulders drop in relief at the new distance between the two of you.

"Then what the fuck was that?" You snap at him.

"You were being evasive. I got impatient." He spins away from you and sits on the arm of your couch, settling in.

"You're not staying here," you say pointedly.

"Oh, only for a little while," he waves off your anger. "I need you to tell me what you learned about his drops dealing."

"Excuse me?" You retort, heart still pounding uncomfortably in your chest as you come down slightly from your panic.

"Any information we can get involving these drugs helps us," he explains, You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck where the stiffness has begun to ache.

"If I give you the file I have on him, will you leave?" You glance at your balcony door pointedly, noticing that it's no longer locked.

"Oh, I promise," Red Robin grins. You roll your eyes and turn on your heel, leaving him to go retrieve the file from your office.

Tim sighs as you walk away, rolling the soreness out of his shoulders as he listens to you slamming filing cabinet drawers open and closed on the other side of the wall. Yea, he thinks, you're pissed.

He takes the time to let his eyes wander over the details of your apartment - your home… if you can call it that. It's exactly what he expected from someone covering up an illegal lifestyle - generic, just lived-in enough for you to be able to say see? Absolutely this is my very normal apartment and my very normal life, officer. But no photos on the walls, no interests displayed, nothing that would reveal any sort of personal information about you.

He wonders idly what your very not-normal office must look like when you come back, slamming the file onto his lap with enough force that his hands shoot out to catch it. You stand in front of him with your arms crossed, glaring at him.

"Everything's in there. You can leave now." He nods at your words, flipping open the file to make sure.

"This is some good work," he muses.

"Not interested, Red," you snap back. He flips the file shut and stands, ending up closer to you than you would have liked as you lean back slightly, his chest brushing against your crossed arms. But all he does is huff out a laugh before stepping away and sliding open your balcony door.

Red?" you call out. He turns to you, cocking his head to the side. "Are you… going to give the police the evidence you have against me?"

"What evidence?" Red Robin shoots back, grinning again.

"Oh, you - you've got to be fucking kidding," you sigh, shoulders slumping as you bury your face in your hands.

"You're good at what you do - I had trouble finding anything on you. Oh and, uh… you should really lock this door. You never know who might try to come in," he quips before you hear your balcony door click shut. By the time you look up from your hands, he's gone, and you move quickly to lock the door once again.

Not that it matters, you muse, inspecting the lock for any signs of a break-in. Fucking bats - they never leave a goddamn trace.

But as you turn back to face your living room again, a note on your coffee table catches your eye. Snatching it and unfolding it quickly, the writing inside makes your jaw clench.

Call this number if you find out anything new. - Red

You sigh, throwing the note back onto the table and slouching into your couch, face in your hands once more. Somehow, you doubt that's the last time you'll be hearing from Red Robin.

#smsn.writes #tim drake #tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake imagine #tim drake fanfiction #tim drake fic #red robin #red robin x reader #red robin x you #red robin imagine #red robin x y/n

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afyrian · 2 months

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dancing to you kita shinsuke x fem!reader (fluff) m.list | wc: 1k | synopsis: you go line dancing with your friends

you take another ship of whiskey, the harsh feel of the alcohol on the back of your throat. it's robust and thick, hints of vanilla hidden within, the caramelized color swirling in the glass. music plays through the speakers to the point of nearly deafening you, boots stomping against the wooden flooring. biting your lip, you turn back to hitoka.

she has a cowboy hat on, boots matching with the wild west theme of the night. when you look at her, she's already revving to go on the dance floor, hand tapping to the rhythm against the table. "we have to join them," she tries to shout in your ear, the noise far too bold.

staring out at the sea of dancers you can feel your heart nearly pounding out of your chest. you have rhythm, in all practicality you should be able to do a simple line dance. however, your heart beating echoes through your ears and no amount of whiskey can smother it, "no, no, hitoka, i can't do it!"

the music changes tracks, her hand stilled wrapped around hers as she pulls you over. looking back at you, cheaply made cowboy hat and all, she smiles, unaware of the plea you made. baby why don't we just turn that tv off... the song plays, melody playing through your head like an old, yet familiar record. scratching your memory in a specific way.

three hundred fifteen channels of bad news on. the group starts a specific dance, kicking their feet forward and grasping the front of their belts. you watch as they step back, feet moving similarly to their's. well, it might be me, but the way i see it, the whole wide world has gone crazy! so baby, why don't we just dance?

you move your foot forward, stomping the ground in a similar motion to yachi. your boots dig into your heels slightly, one of her other shoes slightly too small for you. biting your lip, eyebrows furrowing, you follow along slowly. guess the little bitty living room ain't gonna look like much, the whole group turns quickly, kicking forward.

turning with them, you feel something slip under your shoe, possibly from the beer your neighbor to your front is still holding. you feel yourself slip to the side, boots unable to grip to the ground. when the lights go down and we move- hitting into the person next to you, you instinctively claw at him arm. feeling his hand grasp onto your forearm, you look up at him, breathing heavily.

he looks down at you, free hand reaching for your waist to keep you up, gaze matching yours. the crowd continues stepping back and forth, their heels striking the ground in an aesthetically pleasing click. "thank you!" you shout over the music, fixing your feet so you can stand up on your own, ankles killing you.

"what?" he shouts, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes a striking hazel color.

"thank you!" you reach up hand wrapping around his shoulder as you get closer to his ear, "i appreciate it!"

the mysterious dancer narrows his eyes, still trying to understand you as everyone turns again. instead of trying to shout once more, he moves his hand into yours, leading you off of the dance floor. his hands have a rough feel to them. yet the way he holds you is gentle and kind, making sure you can get through the crowd safely.

leading you to the bar, he raises his eyebrows, smiling slightly, "are you okay ma'am?"

the music is quieter where you stand, and your hand doesn't move from his quickly. in a comfortable manner you part, barely evening noticing the small interaction. "yeah, my ankles are killing me and i think my friend is lost in there.. but thank you! i would've crashed and burned honestly," your shoulders drop, pain throbbing in the ankle that slipped.

"i can ask for an ice pack for you, hate for you to be walking on a bad ankle," he flicks his hat up some before moving his hands to his hips.

you shake your head, pulling the cowboy hat off of your head, setting it down on the table. looking back up, you can see that he’s already heading for the barkeep. pursing your lips you look back at the crowd to find hitoka. through a few people she’s developed herself into the music, moving in sync with those who have practiced for months.

the room smells of alcohol and sweet, the chair slightly sticky as you sit down. moisture in the air feels abnormal against your skin, your hands reaching down to feel your ankle. pulling at the boot only worsens your pain though, “oh damn..”

“here let me help,” your mysterious savior says to you, hair sticking out of the ends of his hat, the same comforting smile on his face, “it’s a bit tricky getting these off, so if you just pull, you could disconnect somethin’.”

grabbing the ice pack from his hand, you watch as he slips his hands into your boot. your lips turn into a confused smile as he widens it some, slipping off the boot in a more comfortable motion, “once again, thank you so much! i think i would’ve died without you.”

“it’s no problem ma’am…”

“l/n y/n, someone who has never line danced and probably never will again. and you are?” you question, taking the ice pack and resting it against your ankle, the cooling sensation giving your receptors a break.

he laughs under his breath, taking a seat beside you, “i’m kita shinsuke and you really shouldn’t swear it off, it can be a lot of fun.”

you shake your head, biting your lip. on second thought, just the way you are is already driving me crazy. so baby, why don’t we just dance? the music plays beautifully with the moment, almost like he’s inviting you back. “right.. well, i think my ankle would beg to differ,” you give him a smile, shrugging your shoulders.

“we could come back together and i’d help you learn, don’t worry ms. l/n, i wouldn’t lead you astray,” kita leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees, trying to get to your level as you continue to ice your ankle.

“i don’t have any doubts about that,” you laugh, just now seeing hitoka emerge from the crowd, internally not wanting the interaction to end.

gen. taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fanfic #hq #hq fanfic #hq x reader #☆ fics #haikyuu kita #shinsuke kita #kita shinsuke #kita fluff #hq kita #kita shinsuke x reader #kita shinsuke fluff

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nixiefics · 3 months

Text

Fire and Runes - Chapter Three

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OC (Reilla)

Tropes: Arranged Marriage

Warnings: Targaryen typical incest, smut, canon typical violence and death, swearing, drinking

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a marvel of opulence and grandeur, transformed into a feast hall worthy of the newly crowned King and Queen Consort. Torches flickered on the stone walls, casting a warm golden glow that danced across the tapestries depicting scenes of Targaryen triumphs. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, laden with an extravagant array of dishes that spoke to the richness of the realm.

At the high table, Aegon and Reilla sat in places of honour, their chairs adorned with intricate carvings of dragons and their house sigils. Reilla's white gown shimmered in the firelight, the wedding cloak draped over her shoulders adding a touch of bronze to her otherwise pristine ensemble. Aegon, in his dark green tunic that nearly appeared black, exuded a regal presence, his eyes bright with the excitement of the day.

The feast had begun with a flourish, the first course arriving to a chorus of applause from the assembled lords and ladies. Platters of roasted boar, glazed with honey and cloves, sat alongside capons stuffed with chestnuts and figs. Freshly baked trout, swimming in rich almond sauce, and a whole roasted stag garnished with rosemary and lemons showcased the culinary expertise of the Red Keep’s kitchens. Bowls of exotic fruits from the Reach, wheels of cheese from the Riverlands, and baskets of warm, crusty bread completed the spread.

Servants moved gracefully among the tables, filling goblets with Arbor gold and Dorne’s finest wines. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of roasted meats and sweet pastries, creating an atmosphere of indulgence and celebration.

Lords and ladies approached the high table to offer their congratulations. Lord Baratheon, his face alight with pride, toasted the health and prosperity of the newlyweds. "To King Aegon and Queen Reilla," he proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall. "May your reign be long and prosperous, and may your union bring peace to the realm."

Reilla smiled graciously, raising her goblet in response. "Thank you, Lord Baratheon," she replied, her voice carrying across the hall. "We are honoured by your presence and your kind words."

Lady Reyne, her expression warm and familial, approached next. "My dear Queen Reilla," she said, embracing her gently. "You are such a credit to House Targaryen – beauty, grace and fire enough to survive this lot at court."

"Thank you, Lady Reyne," Reilla replied, her voice filled with genuine affection. "Your support means a great deal."

As the night progressed, Aemond made his way to Reilla’s side. His keen eyes took in the bustling hall, always observant and calculating. "Congratulations, my Queen," he said, his tone respectful. "A splendid feast and an even finer match."

"Thank you, Aemond," Reilla replied, meeting his gaze with equal respect. "I trust the feast is to your liking?"

"Indeed," Aemond nodded. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowered. "But feasts aside, there are matters of the realm to consider. I have heard whispers of unrest in the Riverlands."

Reilla's expression grew serious. "I have heard the same. What do you suggest?"

"Sending envoys to reassure the lesser lords would be wise," Aemond advised lowly, eyes flicking to his brother. "Remind them of the benefits of unity under the crown. And an envoy with Lord Larys to secure Harrenhal – Daemon would be setting his eyes on it as a seat of power…"

Reilla nodded, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "I will speak with Aegon about it. Thank you for your counsel, Aemond."

Their conversation was interrupted by the musicians striking up a lively tune. Aegon turned to Reilla with a warm smile, extending his hand. "Shall we dance, my queen?"

"It would be my honour, my king," Reilla replied, her heart fluttering with excitement as she placed her hand in his.

The guests parted, creating a space in the centre of the hall for the royal couple. As the music swelled, Aegon and Reilla began to dance, their movements graceful and perfectly in sync. The hall seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, united in their shared joy and love.

Reilla felt a thrill of excitement as they twirled and swayed, her gown flowing around her like a silken cloud. Aegon’s touch was warm and reassuring, and his smile filled her with a sense of belonging and contentment. The guests watched with admiration and delight, raising their goblets in tribute to the couple’s happiness.

As the dance came to an end, Aegon leaned in to whisper in Reilla’s ear, his breath warm against her skin. "You are truly radiant tonight, my queen. I am the luckiest man in the realm to have you by my side."

Reilla’s heart swelled with affection and pride. "And I am the luckiest woman, to be loved by a king as noble and kind as you."

They returned to their seats, the hall resuming its festive atmosphere. The night continued with more music, laughter, and camaraderie. Lords and ladies approached the high table, offering their congratulations and well-wishes. Ser Criston Cole, with his stoic demeanour, gave a respectful nod. "Your Grace, Your Majesty," he said. "May your reign be strong and just."

"Thank you, Ser Criston," Aegon replied, his tone sincere. "Your loyalty and service are invaluable to us."

Lady Redwyne, known for her sharp wit and keen political mind, approached next. "A splendid match, Your Grace," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I hope you are ready for the challenges of marriage."

"Thank you, Lady Redwyne," Reilla replied with a smile. "I do believe we are."

Aegon leaned towards Reilla, his eyes filled with admiration. "You handle these interactions with such grace."

Reilla smiled warmly. "It helps to have a strong and supportive king by my side."

As the evening wore on, the feast continued in full swing. Plates were refilled, goblets never emptied, and the laughter of the nobility echoed through the hall. Aegon and Reilla found moments to themselves amidst the revelry, their connection growing stronger with each passing hour.

Aegon caught sight of Aemond speaking with a group of lords, his demeanour calm and authoritative. Reilla followed his gaze. "He is a formidable politician," she remarked.

"Indeed," Aegon agreed. "His counsel is invaluable. And I am glad you get along well."

Reilla nodded. "We understand the importance of unity in these times."

Later in the evening, as the musicians began a slower, more intimate tune, Aegon took Reilla’s hand once more. "Shall we dance again?"

Reilla’s eyes sparkled with delight. "I would love to."

They moved to the centre of the hall, the fellow dancers watching with admiration as they danced together. The music swirled around them, creating a bubble of intimacy amidst the grand celebration. Aegon’s hands were firm and sure, guiding Reilla through the steps, his eyes never leaving hers.

"This feels like a dream," Reilla whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

"It is real," Aegon replied softly. "And it is just the beginning."

As the dance came to an end, the guests erupted into applause, their cheers filling the hall. Aegon and Reilla returned to their seats, their hearts full and their bond stronger than ever.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall of the Red Keep was electric, buzzing with the excitement of the wedding feast. The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered to celebrate the union of Aegon and Reilla, filling the room with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. The air was rich with the aromas of the feast: roasted boar, spiced lamb, honeyed ham, and a cornucopia of fruits and sweetmeats that adorned the long tables.

As the night wore on, a particularly boisterous lord, well into his cups, called out, “To the bedding ceremony!” His declaration was met with a mix of cheers and laughter from the crowd, though a few raised eyebrows and disapproving glances were also cast.

Helaena, sensing the growing tension, stepped forward with a loud and deliberate clap of her hands. “Enough of that,” she said, her voice cutting through the din. “I wish to dance with my brother Aemond.”

Her interruption was perfectly timed, and the attention of the guests quickly shifted. The hall echoed with murmurs of approval as Helaena’s boldness provided the perfect distraction.

Taking advantage of the moment, Reilla leaned close to Aegon, her breath warm against his ear. “Now’s our chance,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Aegon grinned, catching onto her plan. “Then let’s make our escape,” he replied, his voice filled with playful excitement.

Hand in hand, they slipped from the dais and darted through the crowd, Reilla leading the way. The corridors of the Red Keep stretched out before them, dimly lit by torches flickering in their sconces. Aegon, unable to resist the moment, slowed his pace, letting Reilla pull ahead just enough for him to start chasing her playfully.

“Where do you think you’re going, my queen?” he called out, laughter in his voice. “You can’t escape me!”

Reilla glanced over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Catch me if you dare!” she teased, her heart pounding with exhilaration.

They raced through the winding halls, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Aegon’s longer strides closed the gap quickly, but he allowed Reilla to stay just out of reach, savouring the playful chase. She turned a corner, her gown flowing behind her like a whisper of moonlight, and Aegon followed, his own excitement growing with each step.

Finally, Reilla ducked into a narrow passageway, her breath coming in quick gasps as she reached the door to Aegon’s chambers. She fumbled with the latch for a moment, her hands trembling with anticipation, before managing to push it open.

Aegon was right behind her, his eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. As they stumbled into the room, he caught her around the waist, spinning her in a playful circle before setting her gently on her feet.

“Caught you,” he murmured, his voice husky with laughter and desire.

Reilla’s laughter mingled with his, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “It seems you have,” she replied, breathless and exhilarated.

They paused for a moment, catching their breath and savouring the shared joy of their escape. Then Aegon’s expression grew more serious, though his eyes still sparkled with delight. “You know, I’m going to get criticism from the lords for not completing the bedding ceremony,” he said, though there was no real worry in his voice.

Reilla smiled, a soft, knowing smile. “I have just the thing to cheer you up,” she said, her voice filled with promise. “Wait for me on the bed.”

Aegon’s curiosity was piqued, and he nodded, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. As he waited, he watched Reilla disappear behind the changing screen. The anticipation was almost unbearable, his thoughts filled with wonder and excitement at what she had planned.

Reilla shed her wedding gown as quickly as she was able and slipped into the nightgown Helaena had commissioned for her. It was a masterpiece of Myrish lace, delicate and ethereal. The fabric was sheer, adorned with intricate patterns that accentuated her curves and left just enough to the imagination. The lace hugged her figure, the fine material flowing gracefully as she moved.

When she stepped out from behind the screen, the sight of her took Aegon’s breath away. He had seen many beautiful things in his life, but nothing compared to the vision before him now. His heart pounded as he took in every detail: the way the lace clung to her, the delicate patterns that danced across her skin, and the way her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

Aegon’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His breath caught, and his pulse quickened, a deep, almost primal desire flooding through him. He had never felt such a powerful combination of awe, wonder, and sexual hunger. His body reacted instinctively, heat pooling low in his belly as he drank in the sight of her.

Reilla, for her part, felt a surge of confidence under his intense gaze. She moved closer, each step measured and deliberate, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. When she reached him, she paused, her eyes meeting his, a silent question in their depths.

Aegon answered without words, reaching out to pull her gently into his arms. He could feel the heat of her body through the delicate fabric of the nightgown, and it drove him wild. His hands roamed over the lace, savouring the feel of it and the warmth of her skin beneath.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and ravenous. The connection was electric, sending shivers up Reilla’s spine and making her toes curl with delight. Aegon’s kiss was hungry and passionate, a declaration of his desire. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervour that left her breathless.

Reilla responded with equal passion, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed closer to him. The heat between them was palpable, a fierce and consuming fire that left them both yearning for more. Each touch, each caress, stoked the flames higher, filling the room with a heady mix of desire and love.

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was heavy, their bodies tingling with the intensity of their kiss. Aegon looked at Reilla with a mixture of awe and adoration. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want you right now. Issa gevie ābrazȳrys.” Aegon whispered as he slowly reached out and ran his fingers over Reilla’s lace covered breasts. His hands slid the traps of the gown down her shoulders, marvelling at the soft, milky skin. (My beautiful wife.)

“Issa sȳz jurnegēre valzȳrys.” Reilla smiled up at him, tucking some hair away from his face. (My handsome husband.)

Aegon's breath hitched as Reilla's soft whisper reached his ears, her words igniting a fierce longing within him. The delicate lace of her nightgown felt tantalizingly fragile beneath his fingers as he pulled her closer, their bodies moulding together with an urgency that belied their previous playfulness.

Reilla's hands were hesitant at first, but as they found their way to Aegon's bare chest, her touch became more confident. Her fingers traced the contours of his muscles, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin and the strength she felt beneath her fingertips. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a testament to the desire they both shared.

Aegon’s hands roamed over the intricate patterns of the Myrish lace, revelling in the sensation of Reilla’s body beneath the delicate fabric. His touch was firm yet tender, exploring the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the softness of her breasts. The nightgown left little to the imagination, and Aegon’s imagination was running wild.

He kissed her deeply; their mouths moving together in a dance of hunger and need. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before delving inside, tasting her sweetness. Reilla moaned softly into his mouth, her hands sliding up to his shoulders and then down his back, feeling the play of muscles under his skin. His back was a marvel to her, each ridge and line fascinating under her questing fingers.

Their kiss grew more fervent, more desperate, as they lost themselves in the heat of the moment. Aegon’s hands found the hem of her nightgown, lifting it slightly to brush his fingertips against the bare skin of her thigh. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through Reilla, her breath catching as she pressed closer to him.

Reilla’s fingers traced the line of Aegon’s spine, her touch light and teasing. She felt him shiver under her touch, a reaction that sent a thrill of power through her. She let her hands wander lower, exploring the hard planes of his abdomen and the slight indents that hinted at his strength.

Aegon pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire as he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I want to remember every inch of you.”

Reilla’s heart pounded at his words, her cheeks flushing with a mix of shyness and boldness. “My body is yours, Aegon.” she whispered, her hands slipping around to the front of his breeches, tracing the edge with a feather-light touch.

Aegon groaned softly, his hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He kissed her again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if trying to memorize the taste and feel of her lips. Reilla responded in kind, her kisses growing more confident, more demanding.

Their hands continued to explore, each touch building the tension between them higher and higher. Aegon’s fingers slipped beneath the lace of her nightgown, tracing the curve of her spine, while Reilla’s hands roamed over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.

Their kisses became more heated, more desperate, as they clung to each other. Aegon’s hands found the soft swell of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples through the thin fabric, eliciting a gasp from Reilla. She arched into his touch, her own hands gripping his shoulders as she kissed him with a fervour that matched his own.

The room seemed to grow warmer, the air thick with the scent of desire and the sound of their mingled breaths. Aegon’s hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, exploring, while Reilla’s fingers traced the lines of his body, committing each detail to memory.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard, their bodies trembling with the intensity of their passion. Aegon looked at Reilla with a mixture of awe and desire, his hands cupping her face tenderly. “I need you, Reilla,” he whispered, his voice filled with raw emotion. “I need all of you.”

Reilla smiled, her own eyes reflecting the same need. “Then take me, Aegon,” she whispered back, her voice a soft promise. “Mark me yours.”

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. Of course, she had heard the servants speaking of pleasure. That sometimes, if the man did ‘it’ just right, the woman would find bliss but she had never dared ask the question.

“How?” Reilla glanced at the space just above his breeches, where a small trail of blonde hair disappeared.

Aegon’s thumb caressed her cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge Reilla’s reaction. Her throat felt dry, and she longed for a cup of wine or water.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

Reilla nodded her head, untrusting of her own words. As his deft hands lifted the nightgown to her hips, Reilla fisted the sheets tight in her hands. She watched him as he watched her, or her womanhood, rather. Aegon’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his eyes twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers.

Reilla felt open… exposed. The urge to cross her legs threatened to overwhelm her, but Aegon’s hands caressing the meat of her thighs prevented her from doing so. He descended then, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of her thigh. Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and Reilla gasped when he came close to her mound, making her grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aegon…” she breathed out, eyes wild with panic.

“Let me do this for you, wife.” he whispered, taking her wrist to direct his kisses there. “Emagon pāsagon.” (Have faith.)

Reilla retracted her hand from his firm shoulder hesitantly, leaning her weight on her elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against her slit, which caused an involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses but soon progressed to little licks against her slit. His eyes flickered to gauge her reaction, where she had started to bite her lip to keep quiet. Two fingers parted her folds, baring her to his hungry gaze.

“Oh,” Reilla exhaled, tilting her head back, as his tongue delved deeper, penetrating her. With a surge of confidence, Aegon husband began to devour his little wife in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, one he had never heard before in earnest, had started to spill from her lips.

A long finger soon replaced his tongue, entering her gummy walls as though it were his cock. He thrust it in and out of her the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within her walls, Reilla’s toes clenched as her spine bowed off the bed.

“Good?” Aegon asked sincerely. Reilla merely whined, the semblance of a nod greeting him.

His lips found her pearl, and then another finger joined the other. The king soon found a rhythm, one that had her writhing and moaning without shame.

Reilla could feel the pressure in her stomach build in a steady peak. It sparked her muscles to twitch in Aegon’s hold, growing convulsive as she was pushed closer to her precipice. Aegon watched as she finally came with a whine, her head thrown back into the feather mattress, grinning to himself at his accomplishment.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Reilla asked, breathless. Black spots danced around her vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded her, his arms caging her in between his hold. “No, wait don’t tell me.”

“It is of no consequence now.” Aemond responded. Reilla dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did in order to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from her. Reilla merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of her nightgown, pulling them down to bare her fully to him. She let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his eyes that promised more. His gaze was fixed her breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much their combined delight. Reilla bit her lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aegon could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would have.

He cleared his throat and stood, beginning to unlace and remove his breeches until he stood before her, cock stood stiff and weeping for attention. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. She beckoned him closer, soft fingertips trailing his knuckles. “You are beautiful.”

He huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on her cheek before mumbling into her skin words she could not hear.

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against her hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through their veins. Aegon pulled away, the look in his eyes taking a warmer, softer tinge. The smile on Reilla’s lips melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, she watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon her entrance. His breach was smooth but still, Reilla tensed.

“Don’t tense, love.” He murmured, kissing along her jaw before taking her lips in a passionate kiss to distract her from the pinching pain. Reilla breathed slowly, busying her mind with her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He was pushing slowly, eyes shut tightly against the feel of her tight warmth around him.

“Fuck,” he growled when his hips settled flush against hers. He breathed out against her neck, raising more goosebumps. “Fuck, darling, please tell me when you’re ready.”

Reilla swallowed thickly and glanced down between them, where his cock disappeared. The pinching sensation had lessened and a blooming heat was spreading through her. He gripped at his shoulders and nodded at him, offering her mouth for a kiss.

Aegon’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into her gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. His face was buried into the crook of her neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into her clavicle. Reilla was no better, her whines of building pleasure echoing into the quiet of the room.

Aegon took hold of her fisted hands and pried them open and intwined their fingers.

“Aegon,” Reilla breathed out. His nose pressed into the side of her face, breathing into the sweet scent of her dampening flesh.

“Say it again…” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft. His lips closed around one of her nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made Reilla’s core clench around him.

“Aegon, oh, Aegon! My king,” she whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on her pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up and down her spine. She gripped him tightly, almost painfully, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel her everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, she was his after all.

“My wife, my dearest queen. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?”

Reilla nodded fervently at words, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was scrunched in concentration, lips barely an inch away from her. Their breath mingled and Reilla chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across her bottom lip playfully.

She screamed his name as her release washed over her, moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into her still, chasing his own release with the aid of her spasming walls.

Aegon pulled away to look at where they were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into her sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. With a hand on his wife’s breast, the other on her jaw, Aegon came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed deep into her womb.

When he collapsed by her side, she pulled him close to her chest, letting him lay on her breast with his softening length still nestled in her walls.

They lay there together in silence, comfortably breathless and boneless. His hand rubbed patterns on her waist, as hers ran over his back.

Slumber found them a while later, the heat emanating from Aegon’s bare body pressed against her in a comforting blanket.

Aegon and Reilla sat in the sunlit dining room of their shared quarters, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the table laden with fresh fruits, bread, and various pastries. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of Targaryen history, and the scent of freshly baked bread and brewed tea filled the air.

Aegon looked at Reilla with a smile that hadn't left his face since their wedding night, his eyes full of contentment. "You seem to be glowing even more this morning," he teased, reaching across the table to take her hand.

Reilla laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with happiness. "And you, my king, look as if you haven't a care in the world."

Aegon chuckled. "That's because having you by my side makes all the difference. But truth be told, there are still matters that weigh on my mind."

"Are you nervous about Aemond leaving for Harrenhal?" Reilla asked, her tone gentle as she took a sip of her tea.

Aegon sighed, setting down his fork. "I am. Harrenhal is a fortress, but it's also a place of dark history and Larys Strong accompanying him puts me ill at ease, but the thought of Rhaenyra's loyalists trying to take it makes me angry."

Reilla nodded, understanding his concern. "Aemond is capable and determined. He'll do everything to secure it. Besides, Larys Strong is cunning and resourceful; he would never harm that hands that feed him."

He grinned at her words, knowing how much the man annoyed Reilla. She was too smart to say anything else, knowing that having Lord Strong at their side was a boon – he could easily decide that their cause was no longer his and disappear to Dragonstone to treat with Rhaenyra. “Soon he will be but a memory, darling.”

“Not a fond one.” Reilla muttered, chomping down on a strawberry as if it were Larys’ head.

Aegon leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Mother mentioned looking at a betrothal for Aemond. She's been hinting at it for weeks, but there's been no announcement, not even a word in the Small Council meetings. It's unlike her to delay such matters."

"Do you have any idea who she might be considering?" Reilla asked, curious.

Aegon shrugged. "She hasn't mentioned any names. It's strange. She's usually so decisive."

Reilla pondered this for a moment. "I could ask her about it when I see her later. Perhaps there is something she's waiting for or some strategic reason for the delay."

Aegon nodded appreciatively. "I would be grateful if you did. Aemond deserves to know his future, especially before embarking on such a significant mission."

Reilla reached across the table and took his hand. "I'll speak with her. In the meantime, we need to trust Aemond's abilities and Larys' cunning."

Aegon squeezed her hand gently, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and love. "Thank you, Reilla. Your support means everything to me."

Reilla smiled warmly at him. "Always, my king. Together we will accomplish great things."

After finishing their breakfast, Reilla excused herself to prepare for the day. She walked to her chambers, where sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the elegant room. On the bed lay the new dress Aegon had gifted her, its rich green fabric shimmering in the light.

The dress was a masterpiece of Westerosi craftsmanship, designed to flatter her figure and exude regal grace. Made of fine silk, it was dyed a deep shade of emerald green that highlighted her striking Targaryen features. The bodice was intricately embroidered with golden thread, depicting dragons in flight.

The neckline was modest yet elegant, trimmed with delicate Myrish lace, and the long, fitted sleeves tapered to her wrists with tiny pearl buttons. The skirt flowed gracefully to the floor, creating a subtle, mesmerizing shimmer with every movement.

The dress also featured a belt of braided gold, cinching her waist and accentuating her figure. Reilla admired the way it moved as she turned, feeling a sense of pride and excitement. Aegon's thoughtful gift was not just beautiful; it symbolized his affection and support.

As she donned the dress, she completed her ensemble with delicate golden earrings and a simple necklace, her hair cascading in loose waves down her back. With one last glance in the mirror, she made her way to her next task, feeling every bit the Queen Consort she had become.

As she made her way to her good mother's chambers first, she thought about the strange delay in Aemond's betrothal announcement. It was unlike Alicent to keep such plans to herself for so long.

Entering Alicent's chambers, Reilla found the Queen seated by the window, reading a letter. The room was decorated with an elegant simplicity, reflecting Alicent's taste. Alicent looked up and smiled warmly at her daughter-in-law. "Reilla, it's lovely to see you. How are you this morning?"

"I'm well, thank you," Reilla replied, returning the smile. "I actually wanted to speak with you about Aemond. Aegon mentioned that you were considering a betrothal for him, but there hasn't been any news. He is curious, and so am I."

Alicent's expression grew thoughtful. "Yes, I have been considering a few matches for Aemond. However, the situation is delicate. We need to ensure that the alliance is beneficial to our house and strengthens our position against Rhaenyra. There are many factors to weigh."

Reilla nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I see. Aegon is concerned about Aemond leaving for Harrenhal without knowing his future. It would give them both peace of mind to know your plans, I think."

Alicent sighed softly. "I understand. I will discuss this matter with the Small Council soon. Aemond's mission is critical, and he should know where he stands before he leaves."

"Thank you," Reilla said, feeling relieved. "I'm sure Aemond will appreciate it."

Alicent reached out and touched Reilla's hand. "You've been a wonderful addition to our family, Reilla. Your concern for all my children is commendable."

Reilla smiled, feeling a warm sense of belonging. "I have found true family with you all here and I will always support that."

After their conversation, Reilla made her way to Helaena's chambers. She found her good sister preparing for their visit to the city, watching a gaggle of servants ready the baskets of fresh food they would be taking with them. The room was filled with the scent of fresh flowers, and Helaena's presence brought a sense of calm and joy.

The princess was dressed in a gown of soft lavender, the colour complementing her fair skin and platinum hair. The dress was adorned with silver thread work that glittered in the sunlight, depicting intricate patterns of flowers and vines.

As Reilla approached, Helaena's face lit up with a warm smile. "You look beautiful, Reilla," she said, her voice gentle and sincere. "Aegon has excellent taste."

"Thank you, Helaena," Reilla replied, returning the smile. "You look stunning as always. The lavender suits you perfectly."

Helaena nodded appreciatively, then her gaze grew distant, as if she were seeing something far beyond the room. "A wolf dressed in pale blue," she murmured, her tone softening considerably. "There will be a wolf dressed in pale blue."

Reilla frowned slightly, puzzled by Helaena's words. "What do you mean, Helaena?"

Helaena blinked and seemed to come back to the present, her expression softening. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Sometimes, I see things. They don't always make sense right away."

Reilla placed a comforting hand on Helaena's arm. "Your visions are a gift, Helaena. We should always heed them. Perhaps the meaning will become clear in time."

Helaena nodded, her gaze steady and reassuring. "Yes, perhaps it will. For now, let's focus on our task for the day."

The two women shared a determined look, then set off together towards the city, ready to deliver food to the orphanage. The words of the prophecy lingered in Reilla's mind, a reminder of the uncertain future that lay ahead.

As they made their way through the bustling streets of King's Landing, Reilla felt a sense of purpose and fulfilment. The people they encountered greeted them with smiles and gratitude, their spirits lifted by the generosity of their Queen and princess. The streets were alive with the sounds of merchants calling out their wares, children playing, and the general hum of city life.

Reilla and Helaena distributed food to the children at the orphanage, their hearts warming at the sight of the little faces lighting up with joy. They spent time talking with the caretakers, listening to their needs and concerns.

"These children have so little," Helaena said softly, her eyes reflecting her empathy. "It breaks my heart to see them suffer."

Reilla placed a comforting hand on her sister-in-law's shoulder. "We are making a difference, Helaena. One step at a time. And we will continue to do so."

Helaena nodded, her resolve strengthening. "Yes, we will."

As they made their way back to the Red Keep, Reilla reflected on the day's events. She felt a deep sense of satisfaction, knowing that she and Helaena were making a positive impact on the lives of those in need. Reilla knew that she and Aegon had many challenges ahead, but with the support of their family and their commitment to their people, they were ready to face whatever the future held.

Back at the Red Keep, Reilla found Aegon in their solar, poring over maps and muttering to himself about strategy. He looked up and smiled as she entered, his face lighting up at the sight of her.

"How was your day?" Aegon asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

"It was fulfilling," Reilla replied, taking a seat beside him. "We distributed food to the orphanage and listened to their needs. It's heartening to see how much a small act of kindness can mean to those children."

Aegon nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You have a good heart, Reilla. Our people are lucky to have you."

"And I am lucky to have you," Reilla said, leaning into him gently.

Their lips met in a tender, lingering kiss, filled with the warmth of their mutual affection. Aegon's hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, as he pulled her closer. The kiss was soft and slow, a comforting embrace of lips that conveyed the depth of their feelings for one another. Aegon's other hand slid around her waist, holding her gently but firmly, as if he never wanted to let her go.

Reilla felt a shiver of delight run down her spine as the kiss deepened. She melted into his embrace, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. The kiss was sweet and unhurried, each moment filled with the promise of their shared future. When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless, their eyes locking in a gaze that spoke of love, trust, and unspoken vows.

"You really do have a way of making everything better," Aegon murmured, his forehead resting against hers.

Reilla smiled, her heart swelling with pride. "I spoke with your mother earlier," she said softly, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "About Aemond and the betrothal she mentioned."

Aegon’s eyebrows raised in interest. "And what did she say?"

"She didn't give a definitive answer, but she seemed to be weighing her options carefully. I think she’s waiting for the right moment or perhaps the right match."

Aegon chuckled softly. "Matching Aemond’s intensity is no small feat. Did she hint at anyone specific?"

Reilla shook her head. "No, but she seemed thoughtful about it. I get the sense she wants to make a choice that will benefit both Aemond and the realm."

Aegon nodded, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "That sounds like Mother. She’s always thinking three steps ahead."

Their lips met once more, this time with a bit more urgency, a silent promise of their shared strength and unwavering support for one another. The warmth of their connection enveloped them, making the weight of the crown and the trials ahead seem just a little bit lighter.

The Small Council chamber was a grand and imposing room, its high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings and tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The room was lit by the warm glow of numerous torches, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. A large, polished table dominated the center of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs reserved for the council members. King Aegon II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding respect and attention.

The attendees took their seats, their expressions reflecting the seriousness of the matters at hand.

Aegon cleared his throat, signalling the start of the meeting. "We have important matters to discuss today, the foremost being the departure of Larys and Aemond to Harrenhal to secure it against Rhaenyra’s loyalists."

Larys Strong leaned forward, his face a mask of calm calculation. "The task at Harrenhal is of utmost importance. Securing it will provide us with a strong foothold in the Riverlands and prevent any incursions from Rhaenyra’s supporters."

Prince Aemond nodded in agreement; his one remaining eye gleaming with determination. "We will ensure that Harrenhal is firmly under our control. Vhagar’s presence alone will serve as a significant deterrent."

Ser Otto Hightower, his expression thoughtful, added, "We cannot afford to show any weakness."

Aemond's gaze shifted to his mother, who seemed to be waiting for the right moment to speak. Alicent took a deep breath and addressed the council. "I have two viable options for Aemond’s betrothal, which will strengthen our alliances significantly."

All eyes turned to Alicent as she continued, "The first option is a daughter of House Baratheon. A marriage to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters would secure his loyalty to our cause. Aemond, you may choose among the Baratheon girls as you see fit."

Aemond’s gaze flickered with interest, but he remained silent as Alicent presented the second option. "The second option is Rosyn Tully, the daughter of Lord Grover Tully. This marriage would not only solidify our hold on the Riverlands but also ensure that Harrenhal’s security is maintained. Additionally, if Aemond refuses Rosyn, Helaena could be married to one of Lord Grover’s younger sons, securing the alliance from another angle."

Ser Tyland Lannister, always calculating, leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. "Both alliances are beneficial. The Baratheons would provide strong military support, while the Tully’s would secure our position in the Riverlands."

Lord Jasper Wylde nodded in agreement. "We must weigh the benefits carefully. Aemond’s decision will significantly impact our strategy moving forward."

Aemond, who had been listening intently, finally spoke. "Both options have their merits. I will consider them carefully and will send my answer within a week."

Alicent smiled warmly at her son. "I know you will make the right choice, Aemond. These alliances are crucial to our success."

Aegon looked at his brother with pride. "Aemond, your judgment is valued here. Choose wisely, for the future of our realm depends on it."

The discussion then shifted to the logistics and strategies for securing Harrenhal. Ser Criston Cole outlined the security measures and troop deployments. "We must ensure that Harrenhal is fortified and that our men are well-prepared for any potential siege."

Larys Strong added, “Rumours indicate that Rhaenyra’s forces are spread thin, but we cannot underestimate her. With Vhagar at Harrenhal, we will have a significant advantage."

As maps were unrolled and plans scrutinized, the room buzzed with activity. Grand Maester Orwyle provided insights on the supply lines and the importance of maintaining them.

After a thorough discussion, Aegon turned to his council. "Is there any other business to address?"

Tyland cleared his throat. "There are reports from the western borders that require attention, but they are not as pressing as the matter of Harrenhal. We can address them in the next meeting."

Aegon nodded. "Very well. If there is nothing else, this meeting is adjourned."

As the council members began to rise and gather their documents, Alicent approached Aemond. "I trust you will make the best decision for our family and the realm."

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with determination. "I will, Mother. You can count on it."

The Small Council chamber slowly emptied, leaving behind an air of resolved determination as the Targaryens and their allies prepared for the challenges ahead. The future of the realm hung in the balance, and every decision made in that room would shape the course of history.

The Dragonpit loomed large and foreboding, its vastness filled with the echoes of ancient roars and the lingering smell of dragons. The air inside was thick with the heat of dragonfire and the musky scent of the great beasts. Stone corridors, worn smooth by centuries of use, twisted and turned, leading deeper into the heart of the pit.

Helaena Targaryen led Reilla through the massive stone corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against the cool stone floors. The faint light from torches cast flickering shadows on the walls, giving the place an almost ethereal quality. The anticipation built within Reilla with each step, her heart racing in both fear and excitement.

As they approached Dreamfyre’s chamber, the dragon’s massive, serpentine form came into view. Dreamfyre was a magnificent sight, her scales shimmering with hues of blue and silver, catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling array. She lifted her head, her eyes glinting with curiosity as the two women entered her space. Her wings, though folded, hinted at the immense power they held when unfurled.

Helaena stepped forward, speaking soothingly to her dragon. “Dreamfyre, my love,” she murmured, her voice soft and melodic, like a lullaby. “This is Reilla, my dear sister by marriage.”

Reilla stood back, awestruck by the dragon’s sheer size and grace. Dreamfyre’s eyes, large and expressive, focused on her, and for a moment, Reilla felt a connection, a sense of understanding pass between them. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes never leaving Dreamfyre’s.

“Come, she will not harm you,” Helaena encouraged, her smile gentle and reassuring.

With a deep breath, Reilla stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest. The dragon remained calm, her gaze steady and accepting. Reilla felt a sense of calm wash over her, the initial trepidation giving way to a strange comfort in the presence of the dragon.

Helaena watched them with a serene smile. “She likes you,” she said softly. “Dragons are more perceptive than most people realize.”

They spent some time with Dreamfyre, Helaena tending to her dragon and speaking in low, soothing tones. Reilla watched, fascinated by the bond between them, noticing the subtle, almost tender interactions. Dreamfyre would nuzzle Helaena gently, responding to her touch with a soft rumble of contentment.

As they finished, Reilla noticed another presence nearby. Aegon entered the chamber, his golden hair catching the light of the torches, and beside him was his dragon, Sunfyre. Sunfyre’s scales gleamed with an otherworldly brilliance, a striking blend of gold and red. His regal form moved with a fluid grace, his eyes sharp and intelligent.

“Aegon,” Helaena greeted her brother, “I thought it would be good for Reilla to meet Sunfyre as well.”

Aegon nodded, his gaze shifting to his wife. “Sunfyre, meet Reilla,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle.

Sunfyre’s eyes locked onto Reilla, and for a moment, the dragon seemed to assess her. Reilla felt a mixture of awe and trepidation, but she held her ground. The golden dragon lowered his head slightly, a sign of acceptance.

Aegon walked over to Reilla, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “He likes you,” he said, his tone softer now. “Sunfyre can be quite discerning.”

Reilla felt a rush of emotions, a sense of being embraced by these magnificent creatures. “Thank you, Sunfyre,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You have nothing to fear from him. He knows you are family now.”

Reilla looked up at Aegon, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty in her eyes. “I’m still getting used to all of this.”

Aegon chuckled softly. “It takes time, but you’ll find your place here. We’re all adjusting in our own ways.”

Helaena watched them with a serene smile. “Reilla has a good heart, Aegon. She’ll fit in perfectly.”

Eventually, Helaena turned the conversation to a more personal matter. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Reilla,” Helaena began, her tone curious and thoughtful. “What happened to the dragon egg that was sent to you as a babe?”

Reilla sighed, her expression wistful. “It never hatched. I kept it close, hoping it would one day, but it remained cold and still. And with my upbringing at Runestone, claiming a dragon was impossible. I never had the chance.”

Helaena nodded thoughtfully, her fingers absently stroking Dreamfyre’s scales. “Perhaps you could try bonding with one of the castle dragons without riders. There are several that remain unclaimed.”

Reilla’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not sure about that, Helaena. I’m not much of a warrior, though I have had some sword training.”

Helaena smiled gently, shaking her head. “Bonding with a dragon should never be about fighting, Reilla. It’s about the connection, the essence it brings to one’s life. A dragon is more than a weapon; it’s a part of you, a companion.”

Reilla pondered this, her eyes drifting to the tunnels leading to the nests of the unclaimed dragons. “Which dragon would you suggest?” she asked hesitantly.

“Silverwing,” Helaena replied without hesitation. “She’s relatively docile and loved her previous rider, Good Queen Alysanne, very much. She might accept you if you approach her with an open heart.”

Reilla’s gaze turned toward the direction of Silverwing’s lair, uncertainty and curiosity warring within her. “I will ponder it,” she said softly, her eyes lingering on the darkened tunnels. The idea of bonding with such a majestic creature was daunting, yet exhilarating.

Aegon, who had been listening quietly, added, “Silverwing is a good choice. She’s wise and gentle, perfect for someone like you.”

Reilla looked at Aegon, a small smile forming on her lips. “Thank you, Aegon. Your confidence means a lot to me.”

Helaena reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Reilla’s arm. “Take your time. The bond with a dragon is not something to be rushed. When you’re ready, Silverwing will be waiting.”

Reilla nodded, feeling a deep sense of gratitude towards Helaena and Aegon for their understanding and support. “Thank you, both of you. Your guidance means a lot to me.”

Helaena smiled, her eyes reflecting her sincerity. “We are family now, Reilla. And family looks out for each other.”

As they made their way out of the Dragonpit, the anticipation and excitement of what lay ahead stayed with Reilla. The Dragonpit seemed less intimidating now, the shadows less foreboding. The notion of bonding with a dragon, something she had long thought impossible, now seemed within reach.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as they exited the pit, the warmth a stark contrast to the coolness within. Reilla couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope igniting within her. The idea of bonding with a dragon was daunting, yet exhilarating, and she found herself looking forward to the possibilities that lay ahead.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” Reilla said, her voice filled with determination.

Helaena nodded, a look of pride in her eyes. “I know you will, and I’ll be here to support you every step of the way.”

Aegon added, “And so will I. Together, we’ll face whatever comes.”

Together, they walked back toward the Red Keep, their steps light with the promise of new beginnings and the strength of their newfound bond.

The war table in Dragonstone's grand hall was surrounded by the key members of Queen Rhaenyra’s faction, the atmosphere tense and charged with anticipation. The news of Aegon’s coronation and marriage to Daemon’s estranged daughter, Reilla, had sent shockwaves through their ranks.

The chamber was bathed in a warm, ambient glow from sconces and flickering torches, their light casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. At its centre sprawled the Painted Table, an immense block of wood carved and painted meticulously to resemble the detailed contours of Westeros as it stood at the dawn of Aegon's Conquest. Settlements and landscapes were vividly depicted, yet without the confines of borders, offering a panoramic view of the realm's expanse. Near the representation of Dragonstone, a raised seat awaited, providing an optimal vantage point to oversee the entirety of the map. Over three centuries of varnish lent the table a rich patina, while nearby, an iron brazier crackled softly, adding to the chamber's warm ambiance, complemented by the gentle heat emanating from a hearth nestled in one corner.

Rhaenyra stood at the head of the table, her presence commanding and regal even amidst the turmoil. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her violet eyes were steely with determination. Daemon stood beside her, his expression dark and brooding. His gaze flickered with anger and frustration, the tension palpable between him and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, who sat opposite with her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Rhaenyra’s voice broke the heavy silence, steady but laced with anger. “Their union strengthens Aegon’s claim substantially,” she began, her eyes scanning the faces of her loyal supporters. “We need to act swiftly and decisively.”

Rhaenys, her eyes flashing with the same fire that burned in her husband, nodded in agreement. “Harrenhal must be secured. If Aegon sends forces there, it will cut us off from the Riverlands.”

Daemon slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. “I will gather an army and claim Harrenhal. Aegon will not hold it while I breathe.”

Corlys looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. “Borros Baratheon remains undecided. We need his support if we are to secure the Stormlands.”

Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s eldest son, stood tall and resolute. “I will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Baratheon.”

“No,” Rhaenyra interjected, her tone firm. “You are needed to fly to Winterfell. We must secure Lord Cregan Stark’s aid. Lucerys will go to Storm’s End.”

Lucerys, though younger and less experienced, nodded bravely. “I will do my duty, Mother.”

The tension in the room mounted as the discussion shifted. Daemon’s face darkened further as the conversation turned to Reilla. Rhaenys brought up her concern with barely concealed contempt. “This marriage is an affront. Reilla should have been here, with us.”

Daemon’s eyes blazed with fury. “Reilla is a mistake, just like her mother. I would have bastardized her if Viserys and that snake Alicent hadn't interfered.”

Rhaenys stood, her voice rising. “You may despise her, but you cannot deny she is your blood. My sources say she is the spitting image of the late Queen Alyssa. Raised with the Royce intelligence for battle and political strategy, she would have been a powerful aid to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

Daemon’s hand went to his sword, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. “Speak another word about that child, and you will regret it, Rhaenys.”

Corlys rose to his feet, placing a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Enough, Daemon. You will not threaten my wife. We stand united, or we fall.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rhaenyra’s voice broke the silence, calm but commanding. “We cannot afford to be divided. Our enemies are formidable, and we must stand together. Harrenhal must be secured, and we must bring the Baratheons and the Starks to our side.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. “We have dragons, Your Grace. They are our greatest advantage.”

Rhaena Targaryen, squaring her shoulders, added, “Silverwing remains in King’s Landing, but Vermithor is on Dragonstone, along with Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, and Seasmoke. Cannibal is too dangerous to approach. Aemond’s dragon Vhagar is the biggest threat we face; she is powerful beyond measure.”

Daemon nodded, his expression hardening. “We have Meleys and Caraxes.”

Rhaenys squinted at her cousin shrewdly, clenching her hand on the arm of her chair to avoid saying something that would start an all-out brawl. “Baela and Moondancer will train with myself and Meleys as well, so that she might be ready for any circumstance.”

“We might search other avenues as well,” Jacaerys said trying not to let his nerves show. “We could enlist riders from outside the family-

“No dragon will accept a non-Targaryen rider.” Daemon scoffed dismissively.

“Dragonseeds have enough Targaryen blood.” Jacaerys said, eyes flicking to his mother. “Who cares where our fighting power comes from, as long as we have it.”

Maester Gerardys nodded in agreement. “The dragons are crucial to our success and there might still be some on the island with dragon blood…”

Ser Erryk Cargyll, cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I will have my men scour the island for information on any remaining Dragonseeds and descendants, Your Grace. The prince’s idea is a good one.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched and he stood abruptly, storming from the room without a second glance. Rhaenys shared a look with Rhaenyra, conveying her ire towards the Rogue Prince.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over her council. “We will move forward with our plans. Daemon, will prepare to take Harrenhal. Jacaerys, you will fly to Winterfell. Lucerys, you will go to Storm’s End. We must secure our allies and our positions.”

Rhaenyra turned to her sons, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Be careful, my sons. The fate of our House rests on your shoulders.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys nodded, determination in their eyes. “We will not fail you, Mother,” Jacaerys vowed.

The council members continued to discuss their strategies and plans. Rhaenyra spoke with Lord Bartimos Celtigar about securing additional supplies and reinforcements, while Maester Gerardys and Ser Erryk Cargyll provided updates on their intelligence and reconnaissance efforts.

The air was filled with a sense of urgency and resolve. They knew the road ahead would be difficult, but united, they were determined to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. The battle for the Iron Throne was just beginning, and they would fight with all their strength to claim it.

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