#i hope it continues respectfully

[marklikely]

tma 2 announced…

i cant even begin to imagine what theyre going to squeeze 3 seasons more of magnus content out of...

[astrxq]

Hey! I love The Dragon's Bride so much, I must have read it like 5 times already. You have beautiful writing and the fact that it's 17k is even better.

If your requests are still open, I wanted to throw an idea your way. Seeing how isolated the Blacks are getting, with the Greens conquering everything around them by land, Rhaenyra is desperate to forge another alliance that will bring her more ground stability. The perfect lord that can bring this to her only wants one thing in return: for his grandson to be the future king. So she is forced to break Jace's engagement to Baela so he can marry the lord's only daughter instead. That angst because Jace has feelings for Baela before the fluff of him discovering his feelings for his new wife like fjehdhw

It's totally okay if you don't vibe with the idea and don't want to write it btw!!

Conspiracy of Hearts

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

words: 23k

notes: thank you sooooo much anon <33, i love long fics (as you can probably tell) and i'm so so glad you enjoyed it. non-canon events, jace x baela at times, a made up lord. a bit of angst?? - fluffy. unnecessarily long fic, i apologize. i am NOT proud of this one 😭

The air in the great hall of Dragonstone was thick with tension, the stone walls seeming to close in as Queen Rhaenyra paced before the ancient Painted Table. The room was eerily quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the hearth fire and the soft rustle of her skirts as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her fingers traced the carved coastline of Westeros, lingering over the territories that had fallen to the Greens’ hands. 

"Your Grace," a voice called from beyond the heavy oak doors. "Prince Jacaerys has arrived."

Rhaenyra straightened, composing herself with visible effort. "Send him in," she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her eyes.

The doors swung open, and Jacaerys Velaryon strode in. At nine-and-ten, he was already a man grown, with the bearing of one much older. His hands rested on his sword as he approached his mother with calm.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing his head respectfully. "You summoned me?"

Rhaenyra's gaze softened as it fell upon her eldest son. "Jace," she began, then faltered. For a moment, the mask of queenship slipped, revealing the anguish beneath. "I'm afraid I have dire news."

Jace's posture stiffened, bracing himself for whatever blow was to come.

"The Greens have taken Tumbleton," Rhaenyra continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Our hold on the Reach is slipping. If we do not act soon, all will be lost."

Jace nodded gravely. "What would you have me do, Mother? I can fly to Tumbleton on Vermax, rally our forces–"

"No," Rhaenyra cut him off sharply. "I need you here, Jace. What I ask of you... it is not a battle to be fought with dragon fire, but with words and... promises."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Jacaerys took a deep breath, straightening his posture once again as he nodded once at his mother, silently promising to fulfill his duty.

"Lord Redfort has offered his support," Rhaenyra said at last. "His armies, his gold, his influence in the Vale. With his backing, we could turn the tide of this war."

Jace's eyes lit up with hope. "That's wonderful news, Mother. Why do you look so troubled?"

Rhaenyra's laugh was bitter and hollow. "Because nothing comes without a price, my son. And Lord Redfort's price is... steep."

Understanding dawned on Jace's face, followed swiftly by a flash of fear that he quickly masked. "What does he want?"

"He wants assurance that his family's loyalty will be rewarded," Rhaenyra said, each word seeming to pain her. "He demands that his grandson be promised the throne."

The implication hung heavy in the air. He felt a tightness in his chest, knowing what this meant for Jace, for Baela, for the future that had been carefully planned since their childhood.

"But... Baela..." Jace's voice was barely audible, a mixture of confusion and growing dread.

"I know," Rhaenyra said, and for a moment her composure cracked entirely. She moved to her son, taking his hands in hers. "My boy, my sweet boy. If there were any other way..."

Jace pulled away, his face a storm of emotions. "There must be another way. We can offer Lord Redfort something else, anything else."

"Don't you think I've tried?" Rhaenyra's voice rose in frustration. "I've offered titles, lands, positions at court. Nothing will sway him. It's this, or we lose everything we've fought for."

Jace turned away, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The firelight cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the anguish etched there. "And what of Baela?" he asked at last, "What am I to tell her?"

Rhaenyra's shoulders sagged. "It is duty that will drive us to victory, my son."

"So I am to marry Lord Redfort's granddaughter," Jace said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"His daughter," Rhaenyra corrected gently. "She is but a year younger than you."

Jace's laugh was hollow. "As if that matters. I don't know her. I don't love her."

"Love?" Rhaenyra's voice hardened. "Love is a luxury we cannot afford in times of war, Jacaerys. You are a prince of the realm. Your duty is to your family, to your people. Sometimes that duty requires sacrifice."

Jace's jaw clenched. For a moment, Rhaenyra feared he would refuse outright. But then, slowly, the fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

"When?" he asked simply.

"Lord Redfort and his daughter will arrive within a fortnight," Rhaenyra said, relief evident in her voice. "The betrothal will be announced immediately, and the wedding will take place as soon as it can be arranged after the war."

Jace nodded mutely, his eyes unfocused, staring at something only he could see. Without another word, he turned and strode from the room. The heavy doors slammed shut behind Jace as he stormed out of the great hall. His mind reeled, the weight of his mother's words pressing down upon him like a physical force. 

Without thinking, his feet carried him to the one place he knew he would find solace – or perhaps, he realized with a pang of guilt, the one place he shouldn't go.

Baela was in the dragon pit, tending to Moondancer. The young dragon chirped softly as she ran her hand over the scales, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. She looked up as Jace approached, her expression shifting from surprise to concern as she took in his troubled demeanor.

"Jace?" she called, setting down her hand. "What is wrong?"

For a moment, Jacaerys couldn't speak. He simply stood there, drinking in the sight of her – the way the torchlight glinted off her silver-gold hair, the gentle curve of her lips, the strength and grace in her movements. Everything he was about to lose.

"It's over," he finally managed, his voice hoarse. "Our betrothal. It's... it's been broken."

Baela's eyes widened, but to Jace's surprise, there was no shock in them. Only a deep, resigned sadness. "I see," she said softly. "The alliance with Lord Redfort?"

Jace nodded, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Of course you've heard. Nothing stays secret for long in this damned castle."

“Her Grace mentioned she was working with sending ravens for alliances, I only figured.” she said softly, patting her dragon’s head one last time before taking two steps towards him.

"Jace," Baela said, her voice gentle but firm. "You know as well as I do that this war demands sacrifices from all of us."

Her calm acceptance only fueled his frustration. He began to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Sacrifices? Is that what we're calling it now? Throwing away the betrothal made in honor of my brother’s heirship, everything we've planned for years, all for the sake of some lord's support?"

"It's not just some lord," Baela reminded him. "It's the key to holding the Vale. Without it–"

"I know it!" Jace snapped, immediately regretting his harsh tone. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I know what is at stake, Baela. But it is unfair."

Baela stepped closer, her eyes full of understanding and a pain that mirrored his own. "Our duty is to our family, to the realm. Personal happiness... it is a luxury we can't afford right now."

Jacaerys felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. 

Baela reached out, taking his hand in hers. Her touch was warm, familiar, and Jace had to resist the urge to pull her close and never let go. Jacaerys looked at her, marveling at her strength, her composure in the face of this devastating news. 

"How can you be so calm about this?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

A sad smile played at the corners of Baela's lips. "Because one of us has to be," she said. "And because I've always known that our duty might ask this of us one day. It doesn't make it easier, but... I've had time to prepare myself for the possibility."

Jace felt a wave of shame wash over him. Here he was, raging against the unfairness of it all, while Baela faced their shared loss with grace and dignity. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should be stronger. Like you."

Baela shook her head, squeezing his hand. "You are strong, Jace. But it's alright to be angry, to be hurt. Just... don't let it consume you. The realm needs you. Your mother needs you."

Jace felt a swell of admiration for her, mixed with a deep, aching sorrow for what they were losing. "I don't know if I can do this without you," he admitted.

Baela's expression softened. She reached up, cupping his cheek in her hand. "You can," she assured him. "You must. And I'll be here, Jace. Not as your wife, but as your cousin, your friend, your ally. That will never change."

For a long moment, they stood there, the weight of their shared past and the uncertain future hanging between them. Then, slowly, Jace nodded. "I must ready for my betrothed’s arrival, then.”

The new use of the word felt bitter against his tongue, eyes refusing to meet Baela’s as he uttered the words. 

Jacaerys took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. He knew Baela was right. It was time to face his duty, no matter how much it hurt. With one last look at the woman he had thought would be his future, he turned and walked out of the dragon pit.

The days leading up to Lord Redfort's arrival passed in a blur of mounting tension and barely contained dread for Jacaerys. Each morning, he woke with a heavy heart, the weight of his impending duty pressing down on him like a tangible force. His chambers, usually a sanctuary, felt more like a prison, the stone walls closing in as he counted down the days to the fateful meeting.

He threw himself into his work, training with his sword until his muscles ached and his mind was numb. The clashing of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the rhythm of his footwork became his solace until his hands bled in show of his efforts. But no matter how fiercely he fought, the looming reality of his betrothal was inescapable. His sparring partners, sensing his turmoil, gave him space, their concerned glances only serving to deepen his isolation.

Meals were equally oppressive. The great hall buzzed with whispered conversations and furtive looks. Jacaerys ate in silence, his appetite waning with each passing day. His brothers tried to cheer him with tales of their latest exploits, but their words fell flat, unable to penetrate the fog of his thoughts. Even the usually boisterous presence of his dragon, Vermax, did little to lift his spirits. The bond they shared felt strained, as if the beast sensed his master's inner turmoil.

The evenings were the hardest. As the castle settled into a quiet lull, Jacaerys found himself wandering the halls, seeking solace in familiar places. He often ended up in the dragon pit, watching the majestic creatures in their pens. Baela was always there, her presence a bittersweet comfort. They spoke little, their shared silence a testament to the unspoken pain that lingered between them. Yet he felt as if their bond had not changed one bit.

Often, Baela approached him. Her face was always serene, but her eyes held a sadness that mirrored his own. “This... brooding will only make things harder." she’d tell him. And everytime Jacaerys would nod and mumble about understanding what his duty is. 

Her words, though comforting, did little to ease the ache in his heart. He’d squeeze her hand in silent gratitude, then turn away, retreating to the solitude of his chambers. Sleep was elusive, his dreams haunted by visions of a future that now seemed out of reach.

————

The fortnight passed agonizingly slowly, each day blending into the next. The castle was a hive of activity, preparations for Lord Redfort's arrival consuming everyone's attention. Jacaerys found himself caught in a whirlwind of fittings, rehearsals, and diplomatic meetings. His mother, ever the strategist, drilled into him the importance of this alliance, reminding him of the stakes with every passing moment.

Finally, the day arrived. The great hall was adorned with banners and finery, the air thick with the scent of fresh flowers and polished armor. Jacaerys stood by his mother's side, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. He fidgeted with his fingers, his chest heaving every time he would steal a glance at Baela, who would simply give him a small smile and a supporting nod. 

As the hours passed, anticipation hung in the air like a heavy fog. Jacaerys stood in the great hall, the weight of his impending duty pressing down upon him. His armor gleamed under the torchlight, a stark contrast to the turmoil within. The arrival of Lord Redfort and his retinue was imminent, each passing moment marked by the echoing footsteps in the corridor beyond.

Rhaenyra, resplendent in her queenly attire, stood beside her son with an air of regal composure that belied the storm of emotions beneath. Her eyes occasionally flicked towards Jacaerys, a silent reassurance amidst the grand preparations, but he didn’t meet her gaze. The hall buzzed with whispered conversations and the rustle of silk as courtiers and advisors moved about, ensuring everything was perfect for the crucial meeting.

At last, the doors swung open with a resounding thud, and Lord Redfort entered with measured steps as the maesters announced his name and title. His presence commanded attention – a high lord of the Vale, his face weathered by years of governance and warfare. You walked beside him, your features bore a striking resemblance to your father. Your eyes, however, betrayed a hint of nervousness and curiosity as you glanced around the hall before settling on his.

Jacaerys's heart skipped a beat as his eyes met yours for the first time. You were beautiful, with cascading hair and a determined set to your jaw that spoke of your noble upbringing. He knew your name but little else. And yet, he knew you were not Baela. 

Lord Redfort approached Queen Rhaenyra with a deep bow, which she acknowledged with a nod. 

Your gaze finally settled on the figures at the far end of the hall – Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, regal and formidable, and beside her, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Your breath caught in your throat as you studied your betrothed. He was everything the stories had claimed – tall and handsome, with the striking features of his bloodline. But there was something else, a tension in his stance, a heaviness in his eyes that spoke of inner turmoil.

As your father bowed to the Queen, you sank into a deep curtsy, willing your voice to remain steady as you spoke. "Your Grace, Prince Jacaerys," you said, "It is an honor to be welcomed to Dragonstone."

Queen Rhaenyra's voice was warm but tinged with an underlying steel as she replied, "We are most pleased to welcome you and your father, Lady Y/n. Your presence here marks a new chapter in the alliance between our houses."

You rose from your curtsy, your eyes meeting Jacaerys's once more. His mother turned to look at him, urging him to speak. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, quickly masked by the cool formality of his response. 

"The honor is ours, we hope you find Dragonstone to your liking."

You couldn't help but notice the way Jacaerys's gaze occasionally drifted to a silver-haired young woman standing off to the side. The look they shared spoke volumes – a mixture of pain, resignation, and something deeper that made your heart sink. This, you realized, must be Lady Baela, the woman who had held your betrothed's heart until duty tore them apart.

The weight of the situation settled more heavily upon you. The challenge before you seemed insurmountable – to win the trust, perhaps even the affection, of a man whose heart clearly belonged to another.

You gazed up to your father, his serious expression settled on the Queen, arms stiffly linked and resting on his chest. “I assume my wishes were clear, Your Grace. I do not wish to impose but…”

“They were, Lord Redfort. And I assure you, your proposal is being given the utmost consideration.”

Jace’s eyes flickered to yours for a moment, his expression almost unreadable as he blinked at you, trying to gauge your own thoughts on the matter. You inhaled deeply as his eyes moved to Baela’s once again, you followed his train of sight.

Baela’s chest tightened once your eyes met, yours apologetic and Jacaerys’ hurt.

As the negotiations drew to a close, Queen Rhaenyra announced the betrothal formally. "Let it be known," she proclaimed, her voice carrying authority and finality, "that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Lady Y/n Redfort are betrothed in the sight of gods and men."

The words hung in the air, sealing the fate of all involved. Jacaerys glanced at you, his eyes conflicted yet resigned. You offered him a small, sympathetic smile, understanding the weight he carried upon his shoulders. He simply offered a tight-lipped smile before he followed after his mother.

Baela’s eyes traced his path down the hall, a sigh escaping her lips as she approached you. “I will walk you to your chambers, let you settle in properly.”

As you walked with Baela through the corridors of Dragonstone, her presence was a calming influence amidst the turmoil swirling within you. The castle walls seemed to echo with the weight of the recent betrothal announcement, yet Baela's gentle demeanor offered a brief respite from the tension.

"I hope your journey here was not too arduous, Lady Y/n," Baela said softly, her voice carrying a genuine concern.

You nodded, grateful for her kindness. "It was quite pleasant… I still have to get acquainted with the change of weather, though.”

She moved to link her arm with yours, the gesture surprised you, awaiting resentment and coldness from her after the broken betrothal between her and the prince. 

"Dragonstone can be quite humid to newcomers", Baela continued as she led you through the winding corridors of Dragonstone. Her touch was reassuring, her smile sincere.

"You'll find the climate more forgiving as you settle in," she assured you, her voice gentle. "It takes some time to get used to the island's rhythms, but there's a beauty to it once you do."

Her words offered a small measure of comfort amidst the uncertainty. You glanced at her, noting the resilience in her demeanor despite the obvious sadness in her eyes. "Thank you, Lady Baela," you said sincerely. "I appreciate your kindness."

Baela smiled softly. "Please, call me Baela.”

As you walked alongside Baela through the corridors of Dragonstone, her arm linked with yours, you couldn't help but marvel at her composure. Here was a woman who had just lost her betrothal to the man you were now set to marry, yet she showed you nothing but kindness and understanding.

"Baela," you said softly, testing the name on your lips. It felt strange to address her so familiarly, given the circumstances, but her gentle demeanor made it feel right somehow.

She glanced at you, her silver-gold hair catching the torchlight as she smiled warmly. "Yes?"

"I hope... I hope we can be allies," you said earnestly, “Despite the circumstances.”

Baela's expression softened, a mix of understanding and gentle sadness in her eyes. She squeezed your arm lightly, her touch reassuring.

"Of course we can," she said, her voice warm. "In fact, I hope we can be more than just allies. Friends, even. We're in this together, after all, as family."

You felt a wave of relief wash over you at her words. The tension that had been building in your chest since your arrival began to ease slightly.

"I'm glad," you admitted. "I was worried... well, given the situation..."

Baela shook her head, a rueful smile playing at her lips. "The circumstances are what they are. We can't change them, but we can choose how we respond to them. And I choose to see you as a friend, not a rival."

She stopped in front of two big wooden doors, thick and heavy at the sight. “Here we are,” she said, reaching for the handles before getting interrupted by one of the handmaids.

“Allow me, Lady Baela.” the girl mumbled, pushing open the doors before you. 

As the heavy wooden doors swung open, you were greeted by a spacious chamber bathed in warm candlelight. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting dragons in flight, their colors muted yet regal. A large four-poster bed dominated one wall, its dark wood intricately carved with scales and flames.

"These will be your chambers," Baela said, gesturing for you to enter. "I hope you'll find them comfortable."

You stepped inside, your eyes wide as you took in your new surroundings. A writing desk stood near a window overlooking the sea, and a cozy sitting area with plush chairs was arranged before a hearth. Everything spoke of luxury and careful craftsmanship.

"It's beautiful," you breathed, turning to Baela with genuine appreciation. 

Baela smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The servants have already unpacked your belongings," she said, gesturing to a trunk at the foot of the bed. "But if you need anything else, don't hesitate to ask."

You nodded, your fingers trailing over the smooth surface of a nearby table. "Thank you, Baela."

She stepped closer, her expression serious. "I know this can't be easy for you," she said softly. "Coming to a new place, betrothed to a man you don't know, in the middle of a war. But if you ever need someone to converse with, simply ask for my presence and I shall come to you."

With a final nod, she departed, leaving you alone in your new chambers. As the door closed behind her, you let out a long, shaky breath, the events of the day finally catching up with you.

As you settled into your new chambers, the weight of the day's events began to sink in. The journey from the Vale, the formal introductions, the palpable tension in the great hall – it all swirled in your mind like a tempest. You sank onto the edge of the bed, your fingers tracing the intricate patterns carved into the wooden frame.

Your thoughts drifted to Prince Jacaerys. His handsome features were etched in your memory, but it was the sadness in his eyes that truly captured your attention. You had known, of course, about his previous betrothal to Lady Baela. It was common knowledge throughout the Seven Kingdoms. But seeing the pain etched on both their faces made the reality of the situation hit home.

A soft knock at the door startled you from your reverie. "Come in," you called, smoothing your skirts as you stood.

A young handmaid entered, carrying a tray laden with food and a steaming pot of tea. "Begging your pardon, m'lady," she said with a curtsy. "Queen Rhaenyra thought you might prefer to dine in your chambers this evening, to rest from your journey."

You nodded, grateful for the consideration. "Thank you," you said softly. "Please convey my gratitude to Her Grace."

As the handmaid set up the meal on a small table near the window, you found yourself drawn to the view outside. Dragonstone was unlike anything you had ever seen. The castle seemed to grow out of the very rock of the island, its towers reaching towards the sky like the necks of the dragons it was named for. In the fading light of day, you could see the churning sea beyond, its waves crashing against the rocky shore.

"Will there be anything else, my lady?" the handmaid asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turned, offering her a small smile. "No, thank you. That will be all."

As the door closed behind her, you were once again left alone with your thoughts. You picked at the food, your appetite diminished by the swirling emotions within you. The tea, at least, was a comfort, its warmth spreading through you as you sipped.

Your mind wandered to the task ahead of you. How were you supposed to forge a connection with a man whose heart clearly belonged to another? The political implications of this marriage weighed heavily on your shoulders. Your father's expectations, the need for this alliance to succeed – it all seemed impossibly daunting.

You’d heard all about the making of a babe, about lust and love, you’d read all about it. But the thought of bearing the babe of a man in love with another made your stomach turn, making your throat tighten. 

—————

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun's rays filtering through the windows of your chamber. You rose early, determined to start this new chapter of your life with purpose. As you dressed, choosing a gown in the deep red and white of your house, you steeled yourself for the day ahead.

A knock at your door announced the arrival of a servant, there to get you into your skirts and come to escort you to breakfast. As you made your way through the winding halls of Dragonstone, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of nervousness in your stomach. 

The great hall was already bustling with activity when you arrived. Queen Rhaenyra sat at the high table, deep in conversation with her advisors. Your eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Prince Jacaerys, seated at a smaller table with his siblings.

Taking a deep breath, you approached. "Good morning, Your Grace," you said, dipping into a curtsy. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Jacaerys looked up, surprise flickering across his features before he schooled his expression into one of polite neutrality. "My lady," he said, rising to his feet. "Please, join us."

As you took the seat he offered, you couldn't help but notice the curious glances from his younger brothers. Joffrey, the middle child, offered you a friendly smile, while the younger kids regarded you with wide-eyed wonder.

"Did you sleep well?" Jacaerys asked, his tone formal but not unkind.

You nodded, offering a small smile. "I did, thank you. The chambers are lovely."

An awkward silence fell over the table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation from the surrounding tables. You busied yourself with your breakfast, stealing glances at Jacaerys when you thought he wasn't looking.

He seemed distracted, his gaze often drifting to the far side of the hall where Lady Baela’s seat was empty, next to her siste’s Rhaena. Each time, a flicker of pain would cross his face before he caught himself and returned his attention to his meal.

"Is it true you can ride a horse as well as any knight?" little Joffrey suddenly piped up, his eyes bright with curiosity as he stared up at you, his small hand reaching for your skirts before Jace pulled it away.

You blinked, surprised by the question. "I... yes, I suppose I can," you replied, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "My father insisted I learn from a young age."

"That's amazing!" he exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. "Can you teach me? Jace is always too busy."

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, but you saw an opportunity to bridge the awkward gap between you.

"I'd be happy to," you said, your smile widening. "If it's alright with your brother, of course."

For the first time that morning, Jacaerys met your gaze directly. Something akin to gratitude flickered in his eyes. "That would be... kind of you," he said softly.

Silence filled the air once again, awkward glances shared between you and Jacaerys as he quietly picked at his plate. 

As the uncomfortable silence stretched, the door to the great hall creaked open, drawing everyone's attention. Lady Baela entered, her graceful presence immediately commanding the room. 

Jacaerys's eyes lit up momentarily as he watched her approach, but the flicker of hope was quickly replaced by the familiar sadness. Baela's eyes scanned the room, locking onto his for a heartbeat before shifting to you. A small, serene smile graced her lips as she made her way to your table.

"Good morrow," she greeted, her voice as warm as the morning sun streaming through the windows. 

Baela took a seat beside you, her presence a soothing balm to the tension in the air. She nodded to Jacaerys, lingering their locked gaze in silence, before turning her attention to you.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, her tone genuinely concerned.

"I did, thank you," you replied, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "The chambers are lovely."

Baela's smile widened. "I'm glad to hear that. Have you had time to explore the place?"

You straightened your back, glancing at your betrothed and then back to her. You shook your head. "No, I haven't had the chance yet," you admitted, trying to keep your voice light.

Baela's eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm. "Then it's settled. I'll give you a tour after breakfast. There are some wonderful places I think you'll enjoy."

Jacaerys felt a surge of confusion as he watched Baela's calm and cheerful demeanor. Her willingness to extend kindness and camaraderie to you, the woman set to marry the man she once loved, was baffling. He had expected resentment, anger, or at least some form of cold distance. Instead, Baela seemed genuinely at ease, her smile unwavering.

His thoughts churned as he tried to make sense of her behavior. Was she truly alright with the broken betrothal, or was this a mask she wore to hide her pain? Jacaerys couldn't tell. He stole a glance at you, noting the slight relaxation in your posture as you engaged with Baela. The two of you seemed to connect in a way he hadn't anticipated. 

Baela's strength had always been a source of comfort, but now it felt like a reminder of his own perceived weakness. His own frustration clouding his judgment as hers only brought her closer to you.

Breakfast continued, the conversations light and courteous. You and Baela exchanged pleasantries about Dragonstone's architecture, its history, and its dragons. Joffrey's enthusiasm brightened the table as he peppered you with questions about the Vale and your life there. Jacaerys found himself mostly silent, observing the dynamic between you and Baela as he ate small bites of his food, dreading his leave. 

When the meal concluded, Baela rose from her seat, her eyes meeting Jace’s. "I hope you'll join us on the tour, Jace," she said softly, her voice holding a note of encouragement.

Jacaerys hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He glanced at you, noting the hopeful glimmer in your eyes, then back at Baela, who was giving him a look, telling him to go. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat. 

“If I am not busy, yes.”

Again, with linked arms, Baela urged her twin to join you both as she talked your ear off about the halls. Rhaena quickly following suit and giving you a polite smile. 

As Baela led you away for the tour, Jacaerys remained behind, his expression conflicted. He watched as you disappeared around a corner, arm-in-arm with Baela and Rhaena. A moment passed before he made his decision, quietly following at a distance.

Throughout the tour, Jacaerys kept to the shadows, observing the easy rapport developing between you and Baela. His brow furrowed as he watched Baela's animated gestures, her warm smiles, and your growing comfort in her presence. The lack of tension or resentment between you both stirred a complicated mix of emotions within him. He watched you laugh, hand holding onto Rhaena as she pointed at the dragon pit.

As the day wore on and you retired to your chambers, Jacaerys found himself restless, pacing the halls of Dragonstone. The sun had long since set when he finally sought out Baela, his emotions simmering beneath the surface.

You were about to drift off to sleep when muffled voices from the corridor caught your attention. Curiosity piqued, you crept to the door, quietly prying it open, the voices getting clearer.

"How can you be so... so accepting about all of this?" Jacaerys' voice, usually so controlled, trembled with barely contained frustration.

"What would you have me do, Jace?" Baela's response was measured, but there was an edge to her tone. "Treat her unkindly? Refuse to acknowledge her presence?"

"No, of course not, but..." Jacaerys faltered. "You act as if nothing has changed. As if our betrothal wasn't just shattered for the sake of politics less than two days ago."

There was a pause, and when Baela spoke again, her voice was softer. "Everything has changed, Jace. But that doesn't mean we must let bitterness consume us. She is not to blame for this situation."

"I know that," Jacaerys snapped, then sighed heavily, you could hear his frustration. "I know. But seeing you with her, so friendly, so at ease... it's like you don't even care that we're no longer..."

"Don't," Baela's voice was sharp now. "Don't you dare suggest that I don't care. We both knew our duty might require sacrifices. I'm choosing to face this with grace, for all our sakes."

"And I'm just supposed to accept that? To watch you befriend the woman I'm being forced to marry, while my heart..." Jacaerys's voice broke off.

"Your heart will heal, Jace," Baela said gently. "As will mine. But we must give it time, and we must not punish Lady Y/n for circumstances beyond her control."

The silence that followed was heavy. You held your breath, straining to hear more.

"I don't know if I can do that, Baela," Jacaerys finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You can," Baela assured him. "And who knows? Perhaps in time, you might find that Lady Y/n..."

"Don't," Jacaerys cut her off. "Please, just... don't. I could never."

You heard footsteps retreating, growing fainter until they disappeared entirely. Slowly, you backed away from the door, your mind reeling from what you'd overheard.

As you stood there, hidden in the shadows of the corridor, your heart sank with each word that passed between Jacaerys and Baela. Guilt gnawed at you, a bitter realization settling in your chest. You hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but now you couldn’t ignore the raw emotions laid bare before you.

Jacaerys’s voice, tinged with frustration and hurt, echoed in your mind. His words stung deeply, cutting through the uncertainty that had clouded your thoughts since arriving at Dragonstone.

Any chance of him growing comfortable, even forming an attachment to you, vanished before your eyes at his words. 

Locking the door, you sat on your bed, knees to your chest as you felt your breathing break its steady pace. The rawness of Jacaerys's emotions and his adamant refusal to even consider the possibility of developing feelings for you left a hollow ache in your chest.

Rising from your bed, you moved to the window, gazing out at the rocky shores of Dragonstone. The sea churned restlessly, mirroring the turmoil in your heart. You had known this marriage was born of political necessity, but hearing Jacaerys's words had driven home the reality of your situation in a way nothing else could have.

A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. "Come in," you called, turning from the window.

Baela entered, her silver-gold hair catching the soft candle light. Her lips faltered as she took in your drawn expression. "I did not know you were awake."

For a moment, you considered confessing what you'd overheard, but something held you back. Instead, you forced a small smile. "Just a restless night," you said. "I'm still adjusting to the sound of the waves, I suppose."

Baela's eyes searched your face, and you got the sense she didn't quite believe you. But she didn't press the issue. “I… I cannot find sleep either, I figured I’d come to see how you’re holding up with your stay.”

As you looked closer at Baela in the dim candlelight, you noticed the telltale signs of recent tears. Her eyes were slightly puffy and rimmed with red, and there was a lingering sadness in her expression that she couldn't quite hide. Her usually perfect composure seemed fragile, as if it might crack at any moment. 

Baela's shoulders were slumped ever so slightly, betraying a weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. Her fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of her nightgown, a nervous gesture that spoke volumes about her emotional state. Despite her attempt at a smile, there was a vulnerability in her gaze that tugged at your heart.

In that moment, you realized that Baela wasn't just here to check on you – she was seeking comfort and companionship herself. The strong, graceful woman who had been your guide and support since your arrival now looked like she desperately needed a friend.

You took two steps towards her, offering your hand, which she hesitantly took, and guiding her to sit on the edge of your bed. 

For a while, neither of you spoke. You sensed Baela struggling to maintain her composure, her facade of strength cracking ever so slightly. Her shoulders trembled imperceptibly, a telltale sign of the storm raging within.

Without a word, you moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Baela stiffened at first, surprised by your gesture, but then she leaned into your touch, a silent admission of her vulnerability.

“I’m sorry,” you spoke, “I do not wish for your burden.”

"It's not your burden to bear," Baela whispered hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "None of this is your fault. Jace is just… still adjusting to the idea."

Baela remained silent for a long moment, her gaze distant. Her fingers traced the intricate embroidery on her sleeve, a nervous habit betraying her inner turmoil.

"I've known Jace my whole life," Baela began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We grew up together, shared dreams of the future, of ruling Dragonstone side by side. Our betrothal... it felt like destiny."

You tightened your embrace, offering silent support as Baela's voice wavered and your guilt only grew in your chest. She leaned into you, seeking solace in your presence.

"I care for him, Y/n," Baela admitted, her voice trembling with unspoken emotion. "And seeing him in pain... knowing that our future together is no longer possible... I can't bear it."

Tears welled up in Baela's eyes once more, and this time she didn't hold them back. They flowed freely, silent rivulets down her cheeks, marking the depth of her sorrow.

"I would rather see him find happiness with you," Baela confessed in a choked whisper, her words heavy with resignation. "Than watch him cling to a love that can never be. He deserves that much, after everything. He deserves a love that is possible, that is as just and fair as it is real."

Her admission hung in the air between you, a bittersweet revelation tinged with heartache. You squeezed her hand gently, your own heart heavy with empathy for her plight. You watched as she curled up to the sheets of your bed, breathing steadying as she let sleep take over her. 

You tried to push away the guilt that threatened to overwhelm you. After all, you hadn’t asked for this betrothal any more than Jacaerys or Baela had asked for their separation. Yet, here you were, caught in the middle of their lingering emotions and unspoken regrets.

—————

The following weeks unfolded in a haze of polite interactions and strained attempts at forging connections. You accompanied Jacaerys to meetings and gatherings, each moment underscored by the awkward tension that hung between you. His gaze, when it met yours, was distant and guarded, a far cry from the warmth you had hoped to find.

Meanwhile, Baela remained a steady presence in your life. She showed you the hidden corners of Dragonstone, regaled you with stories of its history, and offered quiet words of encouragement when doubt threatened to consume you. Her kindness was a lifeline amidst the uncertainty that gripped your heart.

Still, you couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider in your own betrothal. Every smile from Jacaerys felt forced, every conversation a careful dance around the unspoken truths that loomed between you. You wondered if he saw you as a reminder of what could have been, or if he simply saw you at all.

Jace and Baela kept their distance, exchanging lingering stares, finding comfort in each other but maintaining their bond as a friendship, an impossible love threatened by duty.

You felt like a young girl with a crush on a soldier, as Rhaena and Baela attempted to bring Jacaerys closer to you. Yet, it ate at you that Baela tried to conceal her own feelings to prioritize yours and Jace's.

You found solace in unexpected places. Young Joffrey had taken to following you around the castle, bombarding you with questions about the Vale and begging for horse-riding lessons. His innocent enthusiasm was a balm to your troubled heart, and you found yourself looking forward to the time you spent with him.

One crisp morning, as you were brushing down your horse in the stables, Joffrey came bounding in, his face flushed with excitement.

"Please!" he called out, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste as he ran little steps towards you. He joined his hands in a plea. "Can we go riding today? Please?"

You couldn't help but smile at his eagerness. 

Jace watched from the courtyard. His expression was unreadable, but for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – curiosity, perhaps, or a hint of softness.

The moment passed quickly as he turned away, leaving you to wonder if you had imagined it. Pushing the thought aside, you focused on guiding Joffrey through his riding lesson. With a hand on his lower back, holding his upwards, and another holding onto the leather leash, you guided the excited child through the gardens.

As you guided Joffrey's pony through the gardens, the younger prince's laughter filled the air. 

"Look!" Joffrey exclaimed, pointing excitedly at a butterfly fluttering past. "Can we chase it?"

You chuckled, gently reining in his excitement. "Remember, my prince, we must always be gentle with creatures smaller than us. Let's watch it instead, shall we?"

As you stood there, Joffrey perched atop his pony and you by his side, observing the delicate dance of the butterfly, you felt a presence behind you. Turning slightly, you saw Jacaerys approaching, his steps hesitant but purposeful.

"Having fun, Joff?" he asked, ruffling his younger brother's hair affectionately.

Joffrey beamed at his older brother, reaching to hold his hand, almost tumbling off of the animal’s loin. "She is teaching me to ride, Jace! She says I'll be as good as you one day!"

A small smile tugged at Jacaerys's lips. "Is that so?" He turned his gaze to you, something unreadable in his eyes. "You're good with him."

You felt a warmth creep into your cheeks at his words. "He makes it easy," you replied softly. "He's a quick learner."

Joffrey huffed as he tugged on the leather leash in your hands, “When will I be allowed to ride on my own?”

Jace let out a soft laugh, the sound unexpected and somehow comforting. "In time, Joff. You need to master the basics first."

The younger boy pouted but didn't argue, his attention quickly drawn back to the butterfly that had settled on a nearby flower.

You looked at Jacaerys, noticing the shadows under his eyes, the lines of stress etched into his handsome features. The brief moments of kindness he had shown you lately had been few and far between, but they gave you a glimmer of hope.

"Would you like to join us?" you asked tentatively, unsure of how he would respond.

Jacaerys hesitated, glancing between you and Joffrey. Finally, he nodded, a small, reluctant smile on his lips. "I could use a break from all the meetings."

As the three of you walked through the gardens, the tension between you and Jacaerys seemed to ease, replaced by a tentative camaraderie. Joffrey chattered on about the lessons you had been giving him, his enthusiasm infectious.

You caught Jacaerys stealing glances at you, his expression softer than you had ever seen it. It was as if the presence of his younger brother had created a bridge between you, allowing him to lower his guard just a little.

Sadly, he’d stayed quiet the whole time, only nodding along and responding to his brother’s enthusiasm. 

For a moment, the three of you stood there in comfortable silence, watching as Joffrey tentatively guided his pony a few steps forward. You fixed your skirts, arms dropping to your side as the small prince struggled to get down from the pony, refusing to get any help. Then, to your surprise, Jacaerys spoke again.

"I... I was wondering if you might like to join me for a ride later," he said, his voice low enough that Joffrey couldn't hear. "There's a cove on the far side of the island that's quite beautiful at night."

Your heart skipped a beat at his invitation. "I'd like that," you replied, offering him a small smile.

As Jacaerys nodded and turned to leave, you caught sight of Baela watching from a nearby balcony. Her expression turned into a supportive smile when she noticed your gaze. The guilt that had become your constant companion surged once more.

Later that evening, as you prepared for your ride with Jacaerys, Baela appeared at your chamber door.

"Here," she said, holding out a cloak with a smile. "The winds can be fierce near the cove. You'll need this."

As you accepted the cloak, your fingers brushed hers. "Baela," you began, your voice thick with emotion. "I–"

She shook her head, cutting you off. "Don't," she said softly. “Jace is trying, give him a chance."

“Baela,” you began again, your voice softer this time, “I just don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. I’m trying to understand where we all fit into this... tangled mess.”

She shook her head, “I feel no pain if you and Jace are well.”

"But I don't want you to feel like you're losing something," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Baela's expression softened, a small, sad smile gracing her lips. "Jace and I... we were a dream of what could have been. But dreams change. Life moves on, and so must we. I can't hold onto something that was never meant to be."

You nodded, feeling a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you," you whispered, unable to find the words to express the depth of your appreciation.

Baela squeezed your hand one last time before letting go. "Go," she urged. "Don't keep him waiting."

With a heavy heart, you draped the cloak around your shoulders and made your way to the stables where Jacaerys was waiting. The night air was cool and crisp, just like Baela had said, the stars twinkling like distant beacons of hope in the inky sky. 

Jacaerys stood by his horse, his figure silhouetted against the faint light of the torches. His expression was thoughtful, almost pensive, as he glanced up at the sky. When he noticed your approach, his eyes softened slightly, almost as if he had been trying to get his mind ready.

The moonlight cast a silver sheen on his dark hair, lending him an almost ethereal quality. 

“I forgot to tell you to get a cloak,” he said, quickly noticing the cloth that covered your body, “you must have read my mind."

"Baela thought of it," you replied, mounting your horse. Jacaerys tried to hide the frown that appeared on his face for a second. The saddle creaked beneath you, and you patted the horse's neck, feeling its warmth through the leather gloves.

Why would Baela want to push him into another woman’s arms? The question echoed in his mind, gnawing at his thoughts like a persistent itch. 

Jacaerys’s thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior. Why was Baela so insistent on pushing him toward you? He glanced sideways at you, taking in the soft glow of the moonlight on your face, the way you seemed lost in your own thoughts. There was a delicate vulnerability about you, a quiet strength that he couldn’t quite grasp.

You rode in silence for a while, the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the distant roar of the sea the only sounds breaking the night. 

His gaze flickered over to you again. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he noticed your serene demeanor, your focus entirely on the path ahead. He couldn’t deny that there was something about you that stirred a part of him he thought was long dormant – a hope for something genuine amidst the political maneuvering and familial obligations.

Breaking the silence, Jacaerys spoke, his voice carrying a note of curiosity he couldn’t completely mask. “You seem at ease. Is the ride helping you clear your mind?”

You glanced over at him, the soft glow from your lantern casting a gentle light on your face. “It is,” you said, offering a small, genuine smile. “I don’t have siblings, like you do. I didn’t have much to be entertained by, growing up. I found solace in rides like this”

Jacaerys nodded, his curiosity piqued. "What else did you do to pass the time?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You chuckled, a hint of mischief in your eyes. "I used to sneak out to watch the soldiers train in the courtyard."

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is that so?"

You nodded, warming to the subject. "Oh yes. When I was too bored to read I would hide behind the barrels near the training yard and watch the men practice their swordplay."

"Did you ever try it yourself?" Jacaerys asked, genuine interest in his voice.

You laughed softly. "I did, actually. I'd sneak a wooden practice sword from the armory and try to mimic their movements in secret. I must have looked ridiculous, flailing about in my chambers."

Jacaerys let out a low chuckle, the sound warming you more than the cloak around your shoulders. "I can picture it," he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Did you ever get caught?"

"Once," you admitted, a blush creeping into your cheeks. "My father walked in just as I was attempting a particularly dramatic lunge. I nearly toppled into my dressing table."

Jacaerys laughed outright at that, the sound echoing in the night air. It was the first time you'd heard him laugh so freely, and the sound made your heart skip a beat.

"What did your father say?" he asked, still smiling.

You sighed dramatically, "He was scandalized, of course. Grounded me from sneaking past the courtyard for life.”

As your horses ambled along the moonlit path, Jacaerys's laughter subsided into a warm smile. You loved the sound, you realized, not having heard it often because of you, moreso because of his family.

 "Well, if you're still interested in watching swordplay, you're welcome to observe our training sessions here on Dragonstone. No need for sneaking or hiding behind barrels."

You felt a flutter of excitement at his offer. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

Jacaerys shook his head, his expression softening. "Not at all. In fact, I think the men here might appreciate having an audience. It tends to make them show off a bit more."

You chuckled, feeling more at ease than you had in weeks. "I'd like that very much. Thank you, Jacaerys."

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that hadn't been there before. 

As the path curved towards the cove, the moonlight bathed the landscape in a silvery glow. The sea's rhythmic waves against the rocky shore provided a soothing backdrop to your thoughts. Jacaerys's earlier curiosity about Baela's motives still lingered in his mind, but for now, he chose to focus on the present moment. There would be time to unravel those thoughts later.

“Um…” you started, unsure whether your question was intrusive or not, Jace’s head turned to look at you again. 

“Yes?”

“I was wondering… about the dragons,” 

Jacaerys's eyes lit up with interest at the mention of dragons. "What would you like to know?" he asked.

“I’ve never seen one up-close.” you felt rather embarrassed as your cheeks flushed, quickly turning your head to look ahead of you as Jacaerys bit back a smile. “Would you like to?”

Your heart quickened at his question, and you met his gaze, your excitement barely contained. "I would love to," you replied, unable to hide the enthusiasm in your voice.

Jacaerys smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Then it's settled. We'll visit the dragon pit tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to Vermax."

The path towards the cove became narrower, the sea breeze carrying a salty tang that invigorated your senses. Jacaerys's expression held a mixture of amusement and anticipation, the weight of the earlier conversation lifting slightly.

As the cove came into view, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, Jacaerys turned to you, his eyes reflecting the silvery light. "Vermax hatched when I was just a baby," he began, his voice taking on a more personal tone. “We grew together. I am sure he will be kind to you.”

The connection he described stirred something within you. You felt a growing sense of anticipation for the meeting with Vermax, your excitement mingling with a hint of nervousness at the thought of standing near a dragon.

As you reached the edge of the cove, the waves crashed gently against the shore, their rhythmic sound creating a soothing backdrop. You dismounted your horses, your boots sinking slightly into the soft sand. The moonlight cast a silvery sheen over everything, making the scene almost magical.

Even after having spent long in Dragonstone, the cold breeze still hadn’t made peace with you, you held the cloak tighter to your body in hopes of warmth. The chill seemed to seep through the layers, but the beauty of the cove and the company beside you provided a warmth of their own.

Jacaerys led you to a rocky outcrop, a perfect vantage point from which to watch the waves crash and froth against the shoreline. His hand was holding the sleeve of your cloak as he walked you, not ready to hold your hand just yet, Baela still somehow present in his thoughts. 

Jace’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He seemed lost in thought, the earlier conversation about Vermax fading into the backdrop as he wrestled with his own internal conflicts. You could sense the weight of Baela's memory lingering in his mind, an echo of feelings that he was trying to reconcile with the present.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “It’s a beautiful spot, isn’t it? I’ve always found it calming here, away from everything else.”

You hummed, hands going back to pressing the cloak against your shivering body, regretting not having worn more skirts for the night. “It’s beautiful.”

A small smile touched Jacaerys’s lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed to be searching for the right words, his usual guarded demeanor giving way to a more introspective side.

“Are you cold?”

“A little, yes. I should’ve worn a thicker dress.”

Jacaerys’s eyes flickered with concern as he took in your shivering form, the chill of the night evidently seeping through your cloak. The warmth of his earlier smile faded into a more serious expression.

“Come with me.” he said, his voice soft with empathy. 

He guided you away from the edge of the cove, leading you towards a more sheltered spot further inland. The sea breeze, though still present, seemed to lose its bite as you moved away from the open shore.

As you walked, Jacaerys began to explain. “The rocks here are a bit more protected from the wind, and they get the heat from the sun during the day, it retains some warmth even at night.”

You followed him, hopeful by the promise of warmth. The path became less rugged and more stable, leading to a small, secluded nook nestled between two large boulders. 

Jacaerys gestured towards the alcove with a reassuring nod. “This spot should be much warmer. It’s better than standing out in the open.”

You stepped into the alcove, trailing behind him, feeling a noticeable difference in temperature. The wind’s bite was indeed diminished, and the moss underfoot felt soothing against your tired feet. The warmth was a welcome relief, and you sighed contentedly as you settled into the corner of the nook.

Jacaerys took a seat beside you, maintaining a respectful distance but close enough to share the modest warmth of the alcove. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his earlier concerns about the chill replaced by a more focused attentiveness.

"Do you miss your home?" Jacaerys asked, breaking the silence, his voice gentle.

You considered his question, your gaze fixed on the horizon. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But I've got good company here."

Jacaerys studied you for a moment, his gaze contemplative. The alcove, with its comforting warmth and shielded position, seemed to offer a haven for both of you – a temporary retreat from the complexities of the world outside.

A faint smile tugged at Jacaerys’s lips as he broke the silence. “Joffrey’s obsessed with you, you know?”

You looked at him, curiosity piqued with a laugh. “Is he?”

Jacaerys nodded, his fingers absently brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “He always talks about you.”

“He’s rather taken with you, I would think.”

You laughed, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet of the alcove. “He’s a very kind child.”

Jacaerys nodded, his expression warm and approving. “He’s always full of stories about you – how kind you are, how brave you seem. It’s quite endearing, really.”

A smile tugged at your lips, “That’s sweet of him.”

There was a comfortable silence between you, the warmth of the alcove cocooning you both in its gentle embrace. The night outside seemed distant, its chill muted by the sanctuary you’d found together.

Jacaerys broke the silence once more, bringing his knees to his chest and staring ahead at the sea. “Baela’s been kind to you,” you couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement so you simply nodded.

“Very, she’s been really welcoming to me,” you replied, trying to match the sincerity of his tone. “I appreciate her kindness more than I can express.”

Jacaerys sighed softly, the sound barely audible above the distant crash of waves.

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments, the warmth of the alcove creating a peaceful setting around you. 

Jacaerys’s mention of Baela lingered between you like a delicate echo, and you could see the concern in his eyes. His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, but it was clear he was wrestling with his own emotions.

“You’ve been a good friend to her since you arrived,” Jacaerys said again, his voice soft but edged with a tinge of regret. “I appreciate that more than you know.”

The sincerity of his words struck a chord, and though you had tried to offer comfort, the mention of Baela’s hurt still gnawed at you. You understood that Jacaerys’s feelings were complex, his history with Baela casting a long shadow over the present.

You searched for something comforting to say, but the silence that followed was soothing in its own way. 

Jacaerys shifted slightly, his eyes softening as he glanced at you. “Sometimes it’s hard to balance past connections with the present. I suppose I’ve been struggling with that lately. For that, I apologize.”

“It’s never easy to reconcile what was with what is. I imagine it must be even harder when you care about the people involved.”

He nodded, a wistful smile touching his lips. “You are to be my wife.”

Jace’s admission hung in the air like a fragile, unspoken promise. His gaze held yours, his eyes reflecting a mix of vulnerability and resolve that seemed to shimmer in the soft moonlight. The mention of your forthcoming union brought a new layer of gravity to the conversation, the implications settling heavily between you.

“I know,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Despite the complexities of… my past betrothal, my commitment to you is sincere. I promise to give you a happy marriage. I want to give you a future where you feel valued, cherished, and at peace. As any wife should.”

His words carried a gravity that made your heart flutter. The sincerity in his eyes, combined with the warmth of the alcove, created a moment of shared hope and promise.

Neither of you spoke until the breeze caught up to the warmer spot, indicating the deep hours of the night. “We shall get back. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.” he mumbled.

You nodded, the thought of returning to the comfort of the castle appealing after the night’s lingering cold. The promise of a future together still resonated within you, a beacon of warmth amidst the crisp night air.

Jacaerys rose smoothly, offering you a hand as you stood. The gesture was simple but meaningful, a small act of support that spoke volumes to you. His hand was warm against yours, a comforting presence as you prepared to return to the castle. 

Together, you made your way out of the alcove, the cool night air greeting you with a gentle caress as you retraced your steps back to the horses.

The path to the castle was bathed in the soft light of dawn, the horizon beginning to glow with the first hints of morning. He led the way, his presence a reassuring constant beside you as the path darkened, the night making it harder to see. 

Jace offered to guard both of your horses back, while you prepared for your chambers.

As you stepped inside, a lively chatter greeted you, echoing through the stone corridors. Baela and Rhaena, vibrant and full of energy, were waiting for you near the entrance hall. Their faces lit up with excitement, their eyes sparkling with curiosity as they spotted you approaching.

“There you are!” Baela exclaimed, her voice bright and cheerful. She hurried towards you, followed closely by Rhaena, who wore an equally eager expression.

“You’ve been out almost all night,” Rhaena added, her tone filled with a mix of teasing and genuine interest. 

“We took a stroll to the cove,” you said. “It was a peaceful night. We talked, and enjoyed the quiet. It was... pleasant.”

Baela and Rhaena listened intently, their expressions shifting from anticipation to satisfaction. Baela’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she nudged you gently. “I hope Jacaerys was a good companion. We wouldn’t want you to think poorly of Dragonstone just because of a chilly night.”

You chuckled, feeling a blush of warmth spread across your cheeks at the attention. “He was,”

As you walked towards your chamber’s doors, Baela’s excitement seemed almost infectious. Yet, despite the outward cheer, you couldn’t shake a lingering uncertainty. Baela’s reactions were hard to read. 

She turned to you with a smile that seemed almost too perfect. “I’m glad you had a good night, it is important for you two to spend time together.”

Her words were kind, but the subtext felt layered. You couldn’t tell if she was giving her blessing wholeheartedly or if she was still processing her own feelings about Jacaerys. The complexity of their shared past, intertwined with the new future you were all stepping into, made the situation delicate.

As you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it, letting out a long breath. The night had been full of unexpected moments and conflicting emotions. Jacaerys's promise of a happy marriage still echoed in your mind, filling you with hope. Yet, the sadness you'd glimpsed in Baela's eyes reminded you of the complicated web of relationships you'd stepped into.

You changed into your nightgown and slipped into bed, your mind whirling with thoughts of moonlit coves, dragon pits, and the promise of a future yet to unfold.

—————

The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sun's rays streaming through your window and gently rousing you from sleep. As you blinked awake, the events of the previous night came flooding back – the moonlit ride, the intimate conversation with Jacaerys in the alcove, and the promise of meeting Vermax today.

A mix of excitement and nervousness fluttered in your stomach as you rose and began to prepare for the day. You chose a sturdy riding dress, practical yet flattering, and braided your hair to keep it out of your face. As you fastened a cloak around your shoulders, a soft knock sounded at your door.

"Come in," you called, expecting to see one of the handmaids.

Instead, it was Jacaerys who entered, looking slightly hesitant but with a warm smile on his face. His day clothes were already on, a red cape falling from his shoulders.

 "Good morrow," he said softly. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," you replied, your heart skipping a beat at his unexpected presence, fingers struggling to tie the cloak’s strings, too focused on him. "I was just getting ready for the day."

Jacaerys nodded, his eyes taking in your attire. “Need help?" he asked. 

You nodded, grateful for the assistance. Jacaerys stepped closer, his fingers deftly working on the cloak's fastenings. The proximity sent a shiver down your spine, and you caught a hint of his scent – a mixture of leather and something uniquely him.

"There," he said softly, stepping back once the cloak was secured. His eyes met yours, a hint of warmth in their depths. 

"I thought perhaps we could break our fast together before we go, if you're amenable?"

His thoughtfulness touched you, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. "I'd like that very much," you said with a smile.

As you walked together to the great hall, you couldn't help but notice the change in Jacaerys's demeanor. He seemed more relaxed in your presence, the tension that had marked your earlier interactions noticeably diminished. 

The great hall was relatively quiet, with only a few early risers scattered about. Jacaerys led you to a small table near one of the windows, where a spread of fresh bread, fruits, and warm porridge awaited.

"I hope this is to your liking," he said, pulling out a chair for you. "I wasn't sure of your preferences, so I asked for a variety. I hope it isn’t too much."

You sat down, touched by his consideration. "It looks wonderful, thank you."

As you began to eat, a comfortable silence settled between you. Jacaerys seemed lost in thought, his gaze occasionally drifting to the window and the view of the dragon pit in the distance.

"Are you nervous about meeting Vermax?" he asked suddenly, his eyes focusing back on you.

You considered the question, taking a sip of warm tea before answering. "A little," you admitted. "I've never been this close to a dragon before. But I'm more excited than nervous, I think."

Jacaerys smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Vermax can sense emotions, he'll know if you're afraid, but if you remain calm he will be as well."

You nodded, absorbing his words. "I'll do my best to stay calm," you promised. "And I truly am looking forward to meeting him."

Something softened in Jacaerys's expression at your words. He reached across the table, his hand coming to rest lightly on yours. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and you found yourself lost in his gaze for a moment. The connection between you felt stronger, a fragile bridge being built with each shared moment.

As you finished your meal, Jacaerys stood, offering you his hand. "Shall we?" he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

You took his hand, feeling the strength and warmth of his grip. "Lead the way," you said with a smile.

As you made your way through the castle corridors, Jacaerys walking beside you, you couldn't help but notice the curious glances from passing servants and courtiers. It was clear that your outing the previous night had not gone unnoticed, and you felt a flutter of self-consciousness.

Jacaerys seemed to sense your discomfort. "Pay them no mind," he said quietly, his hand briefly touching the small of your back in a gesture of support. "They'll have something new to gossip about by midday."

His touch, though fleeting, sent a warmth through you that lingered even as you stepped out into the crisp morning air. The dragon pit loomed before you, an imposing structure that seemed to dwarf everything around it.

As you approached, you could hear the low rumbles and occasional screeches of the dragons within. Your steps faltered slightly, and Jacaerys paused, turning to face you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Just a bit nervous," you admitted.

Jacaerys's expression softened. "It's natural to be nervous," he said. "But Vermax is kind, do not fret."

As you entered the dragon pit, the air grew warmer, filled with the scent of smoke and something distinctly reptilian. Jacaerys led you towards a large pen, where a magnificent creature lay curled up, its scales shimmering in the dim light.

"Vermax," Jacaerys called softly, his voice filled with affection.

The dragon stirred, raising its massive head. Its eyes, intelligent and piercing, fixed upon you, and you felt a moment of panic. But then Jacaerys's hand found yours, squeezing gently in reassurance.

"It's alright," he murmured. "Just breathe. Let him get used to your scent."

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to remain still as Vermax's nostrils flared, taking in your scent. After what felt like an eternity, the dragon let out a low rumble that sounded almost... approving?

Jacaerys smiled, his face lighting up with pride. "He likes you," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "Would you like to touch him?"

Your eyes widened in surprise. "Is that... safe?"

Jacaerys nodded in a chuckle, gently guiding your hand forward. "Just here, along his neck. His scales are warm."

He mumbled words – commands – in High Valyrian, a language that you did not quite understand. As Jacaerys's gentle voice wove through the ancient words, you felt a strange calm wash over you. His hand steadied yours, guiding it towards Vermax's neck. The dragon’s scales were warm, surprisingly smooth, and a thrill of awe coursed through you at the touch.

Vermax's gaze remained fixed on you, but there was no malice in it, only curiosity. Your hand moved slowly, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the creature's skin. The dragon emitted a low, contented rumble, and Jace's smile grew wider.

With trembling fingers, you reached out, gasping softly as your hand made contact with Vermax's humid and warm scales. They were indeed warm, and smoother than you had expected. The dragon rumbled again, the sound reverberating through your entire body.

“There we go,” Jacaerys murmured, watching as Vermax responded to your gentle touch with a low, rumbling purr. It was like nothing you’d ever heard before – a deep resonance that seemed to echo within your very bones. The dragon's presence was overwhelming, a creature of immense power and grace. Yet here, in this moment, it seemed almost… gentle.

Jacaerys stood close beside you, his hand still lightly covering yours, offering reassurance through the contact. The dragon pit was quiet, save for the occasional shifting of massive limbs and the rustling of scales as Vermax settled more comfortably under your touch. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and warm metal, an atmosphere charged with both mystery and excitement. 

"He's magnificent," you breathed, unable to tear your eyes away from the dragon's gleaming eyes, which seemed to hold a world of secrets within them.

Jacaerys watched you, his eyes soft with an emotion you couldn't quite name. "He trusts you," he said quietly. 

He marveled at how quickly Vermax had accepted you, a bond forming almost instantly. In his experience, dragons were fiercely independent creatures, wary of strangers and cautious around those they did not know. The ease with which Vermax had welcomed you was rare, a testament to something intangible that Jacaerys could sense but not quite articulate.

Jacaerys had seen many attempts to win a dragon's favor and fail; it was a delicate dance of trust and mutual respect, often requiring patience and time. Yet here you were, a newcomer to Dragonstone, and Vermax was already responding to you with a gentleness that belied his formidable nature.

Vermax cooed, his big eyes closing as you ran your hand over his scales, Jace’s cautiously hovering over. 

"He really does like you," Jacaerys said, a note of wonder in his voice. "I've never seen him take to someone so quickly."

You looked up at Jacaerys, a smile spreading across your face. "Is that unusual?"

He nodded, his eyes moving between you and Vermax. "Dragons are... particular about who they allow near them. It took some of our most experienced dragon keepers months to gain Vermax's trust to this degree."

A warmth spread through your chest at his words, you turned back to Vermax, continuing to stroke his green scales gently. "Thank you for trusting me," you whispered to the dragon.

Vermax rumbled again, the sound almost like a purr. Jacaerys chuckled softly. 

"Does he understand?” you asked.

"To some extent, yes. He senses your sincerity."

You nodded, absorbing this. The dragon's massive head lowered slightly, its eyes fluttering shut as if enjoying the sensation of your touch. Vermax's breaths came in slow, rhythmic pulses, and you found yourself mirroring them, a sense of calm washing over you. 

“He’s like a pup,” you said, a smile creeping to your face. 

Jacaerys’s laughter was soft, a warm, gentle sound that seemed to blend seamlessly with the low rumbling of Vermax. “That’s a charming way to put it.”

You hummed a laugh, eyes focusing on the beast that grumbled beneath your hand. “Look,” Jace said, pressing his palm against yours to apply more pressure on the dragon’s neck. He moved both of your hands up to the back of the ear, you on your tiptoes as Vermax moved his head down, welcoming the touch. 

Jacaerys applied pressure once again, and the dragon tilted its head, eyes half-closed in a state of pure contentment. 

Jace smiled at the sight, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pride and affection. “He truly enjoys this,” he said, his voice a gentle murmur.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. You turned to see Baela entering the dragon pit, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of you and Jacaerys.

She stood near the entrance, her gaze moving from you to Jacaerys and then to Vermax. There was a moment of awkward silence as her eyes took in the intimate scene – you, with your hand resting on the dragon’s neck, Jacaerys close beside you.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, surprised to have found somebody in the dragon pit, usually only the keepers being there. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Jacaerys’s posture stiffened, his expression slipping into a mask of polite neutrality. He took a step back, his hand reluctantly withdrawing from yours. The warmth of his touch, which had felt so reassuring moments before, was now a memory of something he seemed to regret. 

“You’re not interrupting,” he said, his voice measured, betraying none of the emotions that seemed to ripple just beneath the surface. “We were just… introducing her to Vermax.”

Baela’s eyes flickered to Jacaerys, and for a moment, the weight of their shared history seemed to press down on the space between the three of you. The warmth in Jacaerys’s expression was gone, replaced by a hint of discomfort, as if he were grappling with a conflict of emotions. 

Baela cleared her throat, attempting to bridge the gap. “I came to check on Moondancer and make sure she’s comfortable. I didn’t realize you’d be here.” 

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, the strain of his previous joy now visible in the tight set of his shoulders. “I should–” he began, but the words seemed to falter. He cleared his throat and straightened, trying to regain his composure. 

“I should let you be. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Jace offered a polite, albeit slightly strained, smile as he turned towards you. His eyes held a flicker of something unreadable, a mixture of resignation and lingering affection. "I should take my leave," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of finality. 

You nodded, feeling a pang of disappointment at the abrupt change in mood. "Thank you for introducing me to him," you said, your voice sincere.

Jacaerys’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a fleeting smile touching his lips before he turned to Baela. "I hope the rest of the day treats you both well."

Baela's expression softened as she watched Jacaerys retreat towards the entrance. As he walked away, the tension in the dragon pit seemed to dissipate, replaced by an air of quiet contentment.

After a beat of silence, she spoke, breaking the awkward moment. Baela’s gaze softened as she approached you, her initial surprise melting into genuine warmth. “I’m truly sorry for intruding,” she said, her tone sincere. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You smiled softly at Baela, trying to ease the lingering tension in the air. "It's alright, truly. You weren't intruding at all."

Baela approached, her eyes drifting to Vermax, who was still rumbling contentedly. "He seems to have taken a liking to you," she observed, a hint of admiration in her voice.

You glanced back at the dragon, feeling a mixture of awe and affection. "Jacaerys was kind enough to introduce us. I've never been this close to a dragon before, I’m quite nervous."

Baela chuckled softly, her laughter a soothing balm that eased your nerves. “That’s completely understandable,” she said. “The first time I was near Moondancer, I was shaking like a leaf. Dragons can be intimidating. But you handled it with such grace; Vermax is usually more reserved.”

Her words felt like a quiet reassurance, a bridge between your anxieties and the reality of the moment. You could see the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine appreciation she held for this small triumph. It was as if she, too, was celebrating the bond that was beginning to form.

“Jace must have really taken to you,” Baela continued, her eyes twinkling with a knowing smile. 

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at Baela's words, a mixture of pride and embarrassment flushing your cheeks. "He's been very patient with me," you admitted, your eyes drifting back to where Jacaerys had disappeared. "I'm grateful for his kindness."

Baela nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "He's got a gentle touch, that one."

You found yourself curious about the history between Baela and Jacaerys, but hesitated to pry. Instead, you turned your attention back to Vermax, who was still rumbling contentedly nearby. 

A gentle breeze stirred the air in the dragon pit, carrying with it the mingled scents of smoke and dragonhide. You watched as Vermax shifted slightly, his massive tail curling around him in a relaxed pose. The dragon’s contentment was palpable, a testament to the bond forming between you and the creature.

Baela cleared her throat, breaking the tranquil moment. “I should get going to check on Moondancer,” she said, her tone light and cheerful. “I will see you later? For our midday meal.”

You nodded, eyes trailing after her as she walked away from you. The moment with Jacaerys had been special, filled with a blend of tenderness and excitement. His departure had left a lingering sense of something unfinished, a space where his presence had been warm and reassuring. Now, as you stood alone with Vermax, you felt a pang of longing for the ease and connection you’d shared moments before.

You glanced towards the entrance of the dragon pit. Vermax rumbled again, a sound that felt almost like a fond farewell as you turned to leave. 

—————

Days drifted by, each day settling into a rhythm that felt both comforting and, at times, monotonous. Driven by a restless energy, you found yourself drawn to the training yard one afternoon, eager for a distraction from the sameness of your daily routine.

Your eyes were drawn to the center of the yard when you arrived, settling to stand nearby. You watched as knights clashed their swords, a few of them sharpening them and others simply training. Finally, your attention drifted to the grunts and louder sharp sounds that echoed in the air, Jacaerys wore a makeshift armor, only covering his chest and part of his legs as he aimed for the man before him.

There was something different about Jace. His movements were charged with an almost palpable frustration, each strike of his blade carrying a weight of unspoken anger. You watched, entranced and a little concerned, as he danced with his partner, his footwork sure and purposeful.

But then, in a moment that seemed to unfold in slow motion, Jacaerys overreached. The blade slipped from his grasp and turned against him, biting into the flesh of his hand with a viciousness that made you wince. The clang of the sword hitting the ground was like a thunderclap in the sudden silence that followed, every eye in the yard drawn to the prince’s moment of vulnerability.

It wasn't until Jacaerys stumbled back, his sword clattering to the ground, that you realized what had happened.

Jacaerys grimaced, the pain evident in the way he cradled his injured hand. Blood trickled down his fingers, a stark crimson against his pale skin. You felt a sharp pang of concern, your instincts urging you to go to him, to offer aid.

"Your Grace!" The knight exclaimed, rushing forward as Jacaerys clutched his hand to his chest. 

“Stay back.” Jace ordered, a grunt leaving his lips again as he looked down at his bloodied hand. The knight looked around, unsure of what to do.

You watched as Jacaerys waved off the knight, the young prince's eyes blazing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. It was clear that the pain was secondary to the frustration that now simmered beneath his skin, a potent mix of pride and self-reproach that made him bristle at the attention.

He stood, still cradling his hand, and straightened his posture, his expression hardening into one of determination. He nodded at the knights who had turned to look at him, his voice steady despite the obvious pain. “Back to your swords.”

The command seemed to snap the knights out of their shock, and they quickly resumed their practice, the sounds of clashing blades filling the air once more. Jacaerys remained where he was, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he fought to regain his composure.

You hesitated for a moment, torn between respecting his pride and offering the help he clearly needed. But the sight of his bloodied hand, coupled with the raw frustration etched across his features, propelled you forward. You approached him slowly, your footsteps deliberate and unthreatening.

"Jacaerys," you said softly, your voice barely rising above the din of the training yard. He turned to look at you, his eyes meeting yours. There was a distance in his gaze, a barrier that seemed to rise between you, but you pressed on, determined to offer whatever solace you could.

"Let me help you," you offered gently, gesturing to his injured hand. The words hung in the air between you, a lifeline extended across the chasm of his pride.

For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, his gaze dropping to his hand, the blood now drying against his skin. 

"I don't need help," Jacaerys said, his voice clipped and guarded.

"Let me see."

Jacaerys' jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration passing across his features before he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He seemed to weigh your words, the conflict evident in his eyes as he considered your offer.

Finally, with a reluctant nod, he extended his injured hand toward you. He avoided looking at you as you held his wrist, moving him to the inside of the castle as blood dripped down his fingers and onto the ground. 

As you led him inside the castle, away from the watchful eyes of the knights, Jacaerys' frustration seemed to simmer beneath the surface, an internal tempest he struggled to control. His movements were rigid, his silence heavy with unspoken words.

The frustration that clouded his mind was more than just about the training. It was a culmination of several things – the complexities of his relationship with Baela, the unease and uncertainty that seemed to seep into his days since you arrived, and the pressures of his own expectations. The training had become his escape, a way to channel his pent-up emotions into something tangible, something he could control.

Your presence now was a stark reminder of that inner storm. The sight of you, coming to his aid with a genuine concern that cut through his self-imposed barriers, only intensified his sense of vulnerability. It was as if your intervention had torn down a carefully constructed wall, exposing the raw nerves he had been trying to shield.

Inside the castle, you guided him to a small room, a quiet space away from the clamor of the training yard. The sunlight filtered through a narrow window, casting a soft glow on the stone walls. You set him down on a bench, your movements deliberate as you prepared to tend to his wound.

With a deep breath, you took his hand gently, the blood now congealing into dark patches against his pale skin. As you cleaned the wound, your touch was steady and soothing, a balm to his troubled mind.

Jacaerys watched you in silence, the weight of his frustration palpable in the tight lines of his face. His eyes, though distant at first, began to soften as you worked. Each brush of your fingers against his skin seemed to draw out some of the tension that had gripped him.

Yet, he refused to speak.

The room remained quiet save for the soft rustling of fabric and the gentle flow of water as you cleaned and bandaged his hand. 

As you finished bandaging his hand, you met his gaze with a soft, reassuring smile. The simple act of caring for him had forged a connection, bridging the gap created by his frustrations and the barriers he had erected. The walls he had so carefully constructed seemed to crumble, if only slightly, in the face of your genuine compassion.

"All done," you said gently, your voice a soothing murmur in the quiet room.

Jacaerys nodded, the simple gesture carrying a weight of gratitude and acknowledgment. His eyes, though still distant, held a trace of the vulnerability he had tried to shield. Unsure of what to do next, you sat in silence, his bandaged hand still sitting on yours, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the cloth. 

With a sigh, you moved to stand. “I shall take my leave–” 

“No.”

You looked at him, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in your eyes. "Is there something else you need?" you asked, your voice gentle and open.

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as if grappling with something he couldn’t quite articulate. The vulnerability that had surfaced during your care seemed to linger, a delicate thread connecting you both.

For a moment, Jacaerys remained silent, his expression a complex blend of contemplation and unease. It was clear that he was wrestling with the emotions that had surfaced – emotions that he had been trying to keep under control.

Finally, with a deep breath, he spoke. “I just… need a moment. Alone, but not alone. If that makes any sense.”

“I’m not following, Jacaerys.”

“Just… Just stay. Here.”

You studied him for a moment, the sincerity in his eyes and the depth of his request weighing heavily on you. His expression was a blend of vulnerability and longing, a quiet plea for comfort that he could not fully articulate aloud.

With a nod, you settled back into your seat, the minutes ticked by slowly, the only sounds the soft rustling of fabric as he adjusted his position and the occasional sigh that escaped him, each one a testament to the inner battle he was fighting. You watched him with quiet empathy, allowing him the space to navigate his emotions without feeling pressured to fill the silence.

Jacaerys’ gaze drifted out of the window, his eyes lost in thought. The sunlight cast a warm, golden hue over his face, and you couldn’t help but think that he looked beautiful. 

You could see the gradual softening of his features, the way his shoulders relaxed a bit more. It was as if the burden he carried had lightened just a fraction, if only because he had someone to share it with, even if only in silence.

Neither of you spoke of it since then, the needed company enough to ease the burden that Jacaerys had been carrying. 

—————

Days had passed, marked by the quiet moments of solace you'd been sharing. Jacaerys seemed to carry himself with a bit more ease around you, a small but noticeable shift in his demeanor. Though the castle continued its usual rhythm, with its clattering armor and distant roars of dragons, the moments of companionship between you had become a gentle, sincere bond.

You'd often find yourself drawn to him during those moments. It was as if the space you’d created together in the few months you’d been there had left a mark – a subtle, lingering sense of understanding that hung between you, yet not strong enough to end the awkward moments where Jace’s brain reminded him of Baela, or when he’d get nervous around her still. 

Though he didn’t have anybody to speak of it with, Jacaerys felt a stronger care towards you, slowly beginning to accept his duty and where his heart was taking him.

Whether it was through shared meals or the occasional chance meeting in the castle corridors, there was a new layer of connection that seemed to envelop your interactions.

One afternoon, as you wandered the castle grounds, you found yourself in the garden, little Joffrey laid next to you, a serene haven amid the chaos of court life. The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm, golden light over the flowering beds. 

You had come to clear your mind, to find a moment of peace, and the small child had trailed behind you, desperate for some company.

Lost in thought, you almost didn’t notice Jacaerys approaching until he was almost upon you. The soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots alerted you to his presence, and you looked up, a smile forming on your lips as you met his gaze.

Jacaerys’ expression was relaxed, a stark contrast to the intensity you had seen in him before. He glanced at Joffrey, who was now busy examining a particularly vibrant blossom with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Hello,” the kid greeted, your tone warm and welcoming.

“Hello,” Jacaerys replied, his voice carrying a gentle warmth. His eyes flickered briefly to Joffrey before settling back on you. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

You shook your head, the soft rustle of your movement blending with the whisper of the wind through the garden. “Not at all. Joffrey’s just enjoying the flowers.”

Jacaerys paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on the child. With a thoughtful expression and a small smile, he approached and gently placed a hand on Joffrey’s small shoulder. “Joffrey, why don’t you go find Rhaena? I believe she’s somewhere near the training yard.”

Joffrey looked up at him, his expression a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. “But I want to stay with you,” he protested softly.

“You’ll find Rhaena much more interesting,” Jacaerys coaxed, his tone kind but firm. “And I promise I’ll see you soon.”

“Please?”

Jacaerys’ gaze softened as he looked at the little boy. His hand lingered on Joffrey’s shoulder, and you could see the hesitation in his eyes. With a gentle sigh, he turned to you, his expression easing into a more relaxed smile, letting you choose.

“It’s alright,” you said, chuckling. “If Joffrey wishes to stay, then let him. It’s not often we have the chance to simply enjoy the garden.”

Joffrey’s face lit up with a delighted grin, his initial reluctance melting away. He clambered back to his spot next to you, resuming his exploration of the flowers with renewed enthusiasm. 

Jacaerys settled onto the ground, leaving his sword behind and nestling next to his brother, his posture relaxed as he observed the scene before him. The child mumbled flower names he’d learned about, picking some up to hold them up to you and Jace in pride. 

As the three of you sat in the garden, the atmosphere was filled with a gentle tranquility. Joffrey's innocent enthusiasm for the flowers brought a lightness to the air, his excited chatter a soothing backdrop to the moment.

Jacaerys watched his younger brother with a fondness that softened his features. His eyes, usually guarded, held a warmth that spoke volumes about his love for Joffrey. As the child continued to explore, holding up various blooms for inspection, Jacaerys found his gaze drifting towards you.

There was something different in the way he looked at you now. The tension that had often clouded his expression in your presence seemed to have eased, replaced by a quiet appreciation. It was as if he was seeing you anew, through the lens of your kindness towards your surroundings and the gentle way you interacted with him.

He felt his chest tighten in nervousness as he reached behind his brother, who was too distracted by the flowers in front of him to notice Jacaerys’ hand itching towards yours. 

“You seem more at ease,” you remarked gently, the words barely more than a whisper, yet carrying a depth of observation. “How are you finding things lately?”

Jacaerys shrugged a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I’m well, I suppose.”

Jace shifted slightly, his fingers still hovering near yours, but he hesitated. His eyes flickered between you and Joffrey, who was now eagerly describing a particularly colorful flower to you with wide, innocent eyes. The child’s chatter filled the space between you, an unwitting barrier that Jacaerys seemed to navigate with care.

He found himself drawn more and more to your presence. The way you listened attentively to his little brother, offering gentle encouragement and genuine interest, stirred something within him. It was a softness he hadn't expected to feel, a warmth that seemed to spread through his chest.

His fingers, still hovering near yours, trembled slightly with indecision. The desire to bridge that final gap, to make that physical connection, warred with the lingering echoes of his past with Baela. But as he watched you smile at Joffrey, your eyes crinkling with genuine affection, Jacaerys felt something shift within him.

Slowly, cautiously, he let his hand move those final few inches. His fingers brushed against yours, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for a breeze. But then, with a surge of courage, he gently covered your hand with his.

The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of nervousness and excitement that made his heart race. He kept his eyes fixed on Joffrey, afraid to meet your gaze, afraid of what he might see there. But he didn't pull away.

You glanced at him, but his eyes were still focused on Joffrey, though you could see a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

With a final, enthusiastic show of a particularly bright bloom, Joffrey tugged at your sleeve and glanced up at you. “I want to go find Rhaena now,” he said, his small voice tinged with excitement at the prospect of a new adventure.

You looked at him and nodded, smiling at his boundless energy. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

Joffrey beamed, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I’ll tell her all about the flowers!” he declared, holding up the few flowers that could fit in his palm before scampering off towards the training yard, his laughter and light footsteps fading into the distance.

As the child’s presence disappeared, the garden seemed to settle back into its previous serenity, leaving just you and Jacaerys alone amidst the blooming tranquility. 

Jacaerys shifted slightly, his hand still resting gently over yours. He finally allowed his gaze to meet yours. His eyes, now more open and honest, held a hint of the conflicted emotions he had been grappling with. 

You could tell something ate at him, had he not wanted to talk about it with his brother present. Gazing at him, you offered a gentle, encouraging smile. “Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?”

Jacaerys looked away for a moment, his brow furrowing as he struggled with his thoughts. His fingers tightened slightly around yours. 

“It’s just…” he began, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. “I’ve been feeling… left out. Disregarded, almost.”

You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to continue. “How so?”

Jacaerys shifted his position, the tension evident in the way he gripped the grass beneath him. “I feel like my mother… she doesn’t trust me to take on the responsibilities I believe I’m ready for.”

His words came out in a rush, as if the weight of them had been too much to keep contained any longer. “She hasn’t sent me to war, hasn’t allowed me to fly on dragonback to our allies or to attack the Greens. I understand that she wants to protect me, but it feels as though she’s holding me back, not giving me a chance to prove myself.”

You considered his words carefully before responding. "Your mother's caution comes from a place of love, Jace.” you moved to sit closer to him. “The realm is at war, and losing you would be devastating, not just for her."

His brow furrowed, a mix of understanding and lingering frustration evident in his expression. "I know that, but–"

"She's lost so much already," you continued gently. "The thought of losing you too must terrify her."

A flicker of understanding crossed Jacaerys' face. "I hadn't... I mean, I know she worries, but..."

He brought his free hand to his hair, pushing it back before. “I just wish she’d let me act. I only wish to help.”

“It might not feel like it, but sometimes being present and prepared is just as important as taking immediate action.”

He let himself fall back, hand still in yours as he laid on the grass. You settled beside him, keeping a respectful distance but close enough to offer comfort. 

"You want to make a difference, Jacaerys," you said softly, your voice blending with the tranquil sounds around you. "That’s a noble desire."

He closed his eyes for a moment, the serene atmosphere providing a brief escape from his inner turmoil. "I want to prove that I’m capable, that I can be trusted with more than just the responsibilities here at the castle."

“I rather like having you here, at the castle.” you admitted, cheeks burning as he turned to face you, you avoided his eyes.

Jacaerys’ gaze lingered on you, and you could feel the warmth of his attention even without looking directly at him. The confession had slipped out before you could fully rein it in, leaving you feeling a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability. 

You could see him processing your words, the flicker of surprise in his eyes softening into something more contemplative.

“You like having me here?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. There was a trace of something in his tone – curiosity, perhaps, or a tentative hope.

You nodded, still avoiding his gaze as you looked out at the blooming flowers. “Yes. Your presence here has been… comforting.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he almost whispered, “I like having you here, too.”

The realization that had begun to dawn upon him – the understanding of his feelings and the recognition of your presence as something deeply significant – seemed to transform the way he’d been looking at you. 

His eyes traced the contours of your face with a mix of awe and realization, as if seeing you in a light that was both startling and illuminating. The intensity of his stare spoke of a shift in his heart, a transition from the shadow of his past desires to the clarity of his present feelings.

His fingers moved to your wrist, softly caressing the skin as he stared. You felt your heart rate pick up, nervous under his gaze.

The realization that he had been holding back, that his past with Baela had obscured the thought of the potential of something new, seemed to now weigh heavily on him. Yet, despite the tumult of his emotions, there was a serene acceptance in his gaze as he watched you.

Eventually, he was shaken out of his thoughts by one of the handmaids approaching, hands together behind her back. “My prince, your presence is requested at the court.”

Jace’s hand reluctantly slipped from yours as he sat up, the moment of shared vulnerability giving way to the demands of his role. He looked at you, his expression a mix of regret and determination. “I suppose I must attend,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of reluctance.

You gave him a reassuring smile, though your heart felt a pang of disappointment at the interruption. “Of course. Duty calls.”

He rose to his feet, his posture shifting back into the prince’s armor of composure and authority. Yet, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered—a remnant of the moment you’d shared in the garden. He extended a hand to help you up, a gesture that was both courteous and intimate.

As you took his hand, you felt the warmth of his touch and the slight tremor in his fingers. It was as if the brief connection you had shared had made him more aware of your presence, more attuned to the quiet understanding that had passed between you.

“I’ll see you later?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty as he looked at you.

You nodded, trying to keep the reassurance in your tone steady. “I’ll be around.”

Jacaerys offered a small, genuine smile before turning towards the handmaid, his demeanor shifting back to the prince of the realm. He followed her down the garden path, his steps more measured, his gaze occasionally turning back to where you stood.

—————

The prince was nowhere to be found. The castle’s usual rhythm was disrupted as whispers of Jacaerys’ disappearance spread through the corridors. The once-familiar sounds of bustling servants and the distant murmur of courtly debates felt suddenly fraught with tension. You moved through the stone halls with a sense of urgency, the weight of concern pressing heavily on your chest.

It had been a restless night after Jacaerys confided in you about his plans. His frustration and the quiet desperation in his voice had painted a vivid picture of a prince caught between duty and desire. He had sneaked past your chambers at midnight and told you, in hushed tones, about his decision to leave the castle in search of allies, to rally forces in favor of his mother’s cause. He begged for it to be kept a secret, for his mother would not allow it if he was found out. 

Now, as you scoured the castle, each passing moment felt like a lost opportunity to stop him. You had hoped he’d reconsider, that the gravity of his actions would weigh on him enough to stay, but now the absence of his familiar presence was a stark reminder of his resolve. You felt anxious at the amount of hours he’d been gone, his dragon with him.

As the days passed without any sign of Jacaerys, the castle's atmosphere remained tense, with whispered conversations falling silent as you approached. You couldn't shake the feeling of being an unwilling conspirator in the prince's absence.

To distract yourself from the gnawing worry, you sought out the company of Baela and Rhaena. You spent time with them in the gardens, listening to Baela's spirited tales of dragon-riding and Rhaena's quieter musings on history and lore. Their presence offered a semblance of normalcy in these unsettling times.

As the week drew to a close, you found yourself lying awake in your chambers, your mind racing with possibilities of Jacaerys' fate. The silence of the night was suddenly broken by a commotion in the halls. Heart pounding, you rose and moved towards the door, straining to make sense of the muffled voices and hurried footsteps.

Emerging into the corridor, you were met with a flurry of activity. Servants rushed past, carrying linens and basins of water. The air was thick with tension and an undercurrent of relief. As you made your way towards the source of the disturbance, you overheard fragments of conversation.

"The prince has returned..."

"...wounded, but alive..."

"...flew in on a weak Vermax..."

Your steps quickened as you approached Jacaerys' chambers. The door stood ajar, and you caught glimpses of the prince through the gap. He was seated on the edge of his bed, surrounded by maesters and attendants. His face was pale and drawn, with a bandage visible beneath his torn shirt and a bloodied gash on the side of his face, from his eyebrow to his cheek. 

As you hovered uncertainly in the doorway, torn between relief at his return and apprehension about the consequences of his actions, Jacaerys' gaze met yours. He shared a small smile before the door was shut fully.

Hours later, when the halls had once again fallen silent, restlessness clung to you like a second skin. So, when you heard the soft knock at your chamber door, your breath hitched with a mix of relief and apprehension. You recognized Jacaerys’ familiar rhythm: two quick raps, a pause, followed by another. Without hesitation, you moved to open the door, ushering him inside and closing it behind him with a soft click.

“Jace,” you whispered, your voice a blend of concern and gentle reproach. “You should be resting. The maesters–”

“They exaggerate,” he cut in, a wry smile curving his lips. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shadowed with fatigue. “I can walk just fine, and these”, he gestured vaguely to his face and torso, “are merely flesh wounds. They’ll scar, nothing more.”

You took a long, careful look at him. Despite the bravado in his voice, you could see the toll of the day’s events etched into his features. The weariness was palpable in the way he held himself, slightly hunched as though to shield his injuries from the world. His normally bright eyes seemed dimmed, burdened with an invisible weight that hadn’t been there before he left.

“What happened out there?” you asked softly, guiding him to sit on the edge of your bed. You remained standing, unable to find the calm to settle.

Jacaerys sighed deeply, his hand running through his disheveled hair, pushing it away from his face. He shook his head, the gesture heavy with unspoken frustration and exhaustion. 

"It's... a long story," he said, his voice weary. "I wouldn't want to bore you with the details."

You moved closer, your eyes fixed on his face. "Jace, you could never bore me."

He looked up at you, a flicker of gratitude passing across his features. But then he shook his head again, more gently this time. "I appreciate that, truly. But right now... I just need a moment of peace. This past week has been..." He trailed off, seemingly unable to find the words to describe his ordeal.

"And I know that once my mother hears of my return, there will be no escaping her scolding," he added with a rueful smile. "I wanted to see you before that storm breaks."

Your heart softened at his words. You sat down beside him on the bed, careful not to jostle his injuries. "I'm glad you came," you said softly. "I've been worried sick about you."

Jacaerys turned to face you, his eyes searching yours. 

“We all have been,” you added. “Baela… your mother…”

A flicker of acknowledgement passed over Jacaerys' face at the mention of Baela, but it lacked the usual undercurrent of pain and longing you'd grown accustomed to seeing. Instead, there was a quiet acceptance in his eyes, as if a weight had been lifted.

"I'm sorry for worrying you all," he said softly, his gaze dropping to his hands.

Jacaerys remained quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on his hands. Though he didn't voice it, the week away had been harder than he'd anticipated, not just because of the physical trials he'd endured. He'd found himself missing your presence more than he'd expected – your counsel, your companionship, the comfort of your familiar face in a sea of uncertainty.

When he'd caught a glimpse of you outside his chambers earlier, a part of him had wanted to dismiss all the fussing maesters immediately. He'd longed to speak with you, to see you, to share the weight of his experiences, to seek solace in your understanding.

His eyes lifted to meet yours again, “What have you been doing in my absence?”

You huffed, fixing your posture and faking a smile. “Queen-to-be training, apparently.”

"Queen-to-be training?" he repeated, his tone a mix of amusement and sympathy. "I can only imagine. Let me guess – the maesters have been relentless?"

You nodded, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. "They were absolutely scandalized when they discovered I hadn't been taught to sew as a child. You'd think I'd committed some grave offense against the realm itself."

He shook his head, still smiling. Jace leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing as he listened to you. Despite his fatigue, he seemed genuinely entertained by your predicament. "And how are you faring with these... essential skills?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

You gave him a playful glare. "I'll have you know, my stitches are only slightly crooked now. Though I fear my embroidered dragons look more like angry lizards."

This elicited another laugh from Jacaerys, louder this time. He quickly pressed a hand to his side, but the smile remained. "Well, I for one would be honored to have a tapestry of angry lizards adorning the castle walls."

You couldn't help but smile at Jacaerys' laughter, even as concern flickered in your eyes when he winced. It was good to see him in lighter spirits, despite his injuries.

"I'm glad you find my struggles amusing, Your Grace," you retorted with mock indignation.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

You couldn't help but smile at his fake offense. "Oh! And apparently, I've been pronouncing 'Targaryen' wrong all this time."

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Oh? And how have you been saying it?"

You demonstrated, exaggerating your previous pronunciation. 

Jacaerys laughed loudly again, shaking his head. "Well, I suppose we can't have a future queen mangling the family name. Though between you and me, I think half the smallfolk say it differently anyway."

The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the genuine amusement that softened the harsh lines of his face, was a reminder of the boyish prince beneath the layers of duty and exhaustion.

You watched him carefully, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and lingering worry. “You really should rest,” you said gently, reaching out to adjust the bandage on his forehead, which had started to peel from the corner. 

His hand came up to cup yours, linking your fingers together as he hesitated. “I suppose I should.”

As if summoned by some mischievous deity, a muffled voice filtered through the heavy chamber doors, shattering the intimate moment. The maester's call, though faint, rang out clearly in the sudden silence: "My prince?"

Jacaerys tensed slightly, his hand tightening around yours for a brief moment before he let out a soft sigh.

"It seems my reprieve was short-lived," he murmured, a note of resignation in his voice.

You both stood, reluctantly letting your hands fall apart. Jacaerys moved towards the door, his movements careful and measured to avoid aggravating his injuries. 

The door creaked open to reveal the maester, whose expression was a blend of relief and professional concern. Behind him, the flickering torchlight cast shadows that danced across the walls, adding to the sense of urgency.

“My prince,” the maester began, his gaze flickering to you with a polite nod, “You must rest.”

As he turned to follow the maester, he glanced back at you, a brief, almost imperceptible smile passing across his lips. The door closed behind them, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room. The soft rustling of fabric and the distant murmur of footsteps were the only sounds breaking the stillness. After a week of restless nights, you finally let sleep take over you.

The next day dawned with a flurry of activity in the castle. You rose early, your mind still occupied with thoughts of Jacaerys and the events of the previous night. As you prepared for your daily lessons, you caught snippets of conversation from passing servants – apparently, the prince had been confined to his chambers on the Queen's orders until his wounds fully healed.

Your morning was filled with the now-familiar routine of "queen-to-be" training, barely having time to visit your betrothed. Every time you’d tried to sneak past the maester in charge, or one of the maids, you’d be given a stern look that made you sit back down to focus on your duties. 

As you moved through the castle corridors between lessons, your path took you past Jacaerys' chambers. You slowed your steps, hoping for a glimpse or perhaps a chance to check on him. Instead, you saw Baela and Rhaena approaching his door.

You hesitated, watching as Baela knocked and then entered the room with a gentleness that seemed at odds with her usual boisterous demeanor. Through the briefly open door, you caught a glimpse of Jacaerys, propped up in bed, his face lighting up at the sight of his cousins.

A pang of something – jealousy? concern? – fluttered in your chest as you observed Baela's careful movements around Jacaerys, her hand resting on his arm, a small smile on both of their faces. But as you watched their interaction, brief as it was, you realized with a sense of relief that there was nothing more than friendship between them. The easy camaraderie, the lack of tension or hidden glances – it all spoke of a comfortable, familial bond rather than the romantic entanglement that had been haunting them for the past months.

As the door closed behind the sisters, you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The knot of tension in your chest loosened, replaced by a warm feeling of reassurance. You continued on your way to your next lesson, your steps lighter than before.

Throughout the rest of the day, your thoughts occasionally drifted to Jacaerys, wondering how he was faring in his confinement. You made a mental note to find a way to visit him yourself, perhaps under the guise of delivering some reading material or simply to offer companionship during his recovery.

—————

Three days had gone by, Jace’s absense from the castle’s halls feeling like a palpable void. The castle's routine continued its relentless pace, but each day felt marked by the absence of the prince, who remained in his chambers as per the Queen’s decree. The usual sounds of the castle – footsteps echoing in the corridors, the murmur of conversations, and the clinking of dishes during meals – seemed muted without Jacaerys’ vibrant presence.

Your lessons, though diligently attended, seemed to stretch endlessly. The repetitive drills and the constant pressure to perfect every task left you feeling drained. 

On the third day, the weight of confinement began to bear down on you. The castle walls seemed to close in, and the routines felt increasingly stifling. You could no longer ignore the need to see Jacaerys, to offer him your support and comfort in person.

In the late afternoon, as the sun began to cast a warm, golden light through the castle windows, you decided to act. With a determined resolve, you gathered a stack of books, their leather covers and gold leafing catching the light, and made your way toward Jacaerys’ chambers. This time, you hoped your visit would be more than just a fleeting encounter.

As you approached his door, you took a deep breath, your nerves fluttering with anticipation. You knocked gently, the sound a soft reminder of your presence.

You were met with silence. 

You were about to knock a second time when the door creaked open just slightly, and you caught a glimpse of Jacaerys himself standing on the other side. His disheveled hair and the faint smile that tugged at his lips betrayed a hint of mischief.

Before you could react, he grabbed your hand with a swift, practiced motion and pulled you into the shadowed recess of the large closet adjacent to his door. The suddenness of the action left you breathless and slightly disoriented, but the familiar scent of cedar and leather from the closet’s wooden shelves quickly grounded you.

The closet was spacious enough to accommodate both of you. As your eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the small crack in the door, you saw Jacaerys leaning against the wooden wall, his face a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“You,” he said in a low voice, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, “have impeccable timing.”

You let out a soft laugh, your nerves calming as you realized the nature of this unexpected encounter. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” you teased, trying to peer through the sliver of light to gauge your surroundings.

Jacaerys shrugged lightly, though the movement was cautious to avoid aggravating his injuries. “The maesters have been relentless. They’ve turned my chambers into a medical haven. And every time they think I’m alone, they come barging in.”

“This is not quite the secret escape I envisioned,” Jacaerys continued, his voice tinged with a playful undertone. “But I needed a moment away from the constant attention.”

You turned to face him fully, the dim light highlighting the fatigue etched into his features. Despite his light-hearted words, the exhaustion was evident. “I can imagine,” you said softly. “I’m sorry to intrude. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

He reached out and took your hand, his touch gentle but firm. Jacaerys’ smile widened, though his eyes remained shadowed with fatigue. “I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine relief. “I’ve missed our conversations.”

“I’ve missed them too,” you admitted. 

“I’m sure they have gone to folly, they won’t let me stand from bed without making a fuss of it.” he nodded his head towards the doors, referring to the healers. Though the light was dim, you could still see some of the light hit his face, letting you see the wide smile on his face, and the less-reddened stitches on his brow.

You glanced around the small space, the closet’s confines feeling oddly intimate as you and Jacaerys stood close together, the warmth of his presence a comforting balm. You could still hear the distant murmur of servants and the occasional clatter of dishes, but the noise felt miles away from this hidden nook.

“You’ve been so diligent with your lessons,” he said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “I was beginning to think you enjoyed them more than my company.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Hardly,” you said. “If you could see the looks I get from the maesters when I try to sneak away, you’d know I’m barely enjoying myself.”

You heard the faintest sound of footsteps approaching, and your heart skipped a beat. The maesters, ever vigilant, seemed to be making their rounds again. The muffled conversation from outside the door grew clearer, and you could catch fragments of their voices discussing treatments and concerns.

Jacaerys tensed slightly, his hand squeezing yours for a brief moment before letting go. He brought his finger to his lips, telling you to be silent. He glanced towards the door, his face reflecting a mixture of concern and frustration. 

“We should–”

Jace cut you off by pushing the door to the closet, creaking it open just enough to let in a sliver of light, and you heard one of the maesters call out, “My prince?”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened slightly, and he moved quickly, guiding you further into the closet’s shadows. You followed his lead, pressing yourself against the wall.

The maesters’ voices grew louder, and you could see their shadows falling across the floor just outside the closet. “He must be somewhere around here,” one of them said with a hint of irritation. “He can’t have vanished into thin air.”

The tension in the small, shadowed closet was almost palpable. You and Jacaerys huddled together, your breaths shallow and synchronized as you listened to the footsteps drawing nearer. 

Jacaerys' hand, still warm from holding yours, rested lightly on your back, a comforting presence amid the growing anxiety. His face, illuminated by the narrow stream of light sneaking in through the partially opened closet door, reflected a hint of amusement.

The maesters' voices were now directly outside the door, their conversation laced with frustration. “He couldn’t have gone far,” one of them said with a note of exasperation. 

“His Lady is also gone.” you recognized the voice from the maester that ‘helped’ with your duties. 

The sound of the maesters' footsteps echoed ominously in the corridor, each step growing closer and more insistent. The air in the closet was warm and heavy, mingling with the faint scent of cedar and leather. You pressed yourself closer to Jacaerys, your heart pounding in sync with the increasingly agitated voices outside.

Jacaerys' attempt to stifle a giggle came out as a muffled snort, his shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth. The sound was so unexpected that it made you bite back a laugh of your own, though you knew it would only draw more attention. You nudged him gently, your eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

“Jace,” you whispered fiercely, “this is not the time for laughter.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of apology and suppressed hilarity. “I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper, his voice trembling with barely contained laughter.

"...The Lady must be with him," one of the maesters said, frustration evident in his tone. "It’s rather irregular for them both to be missing at once."

You could almost see the disapproving frown on the maester’s face. The idea of being found in such a compromising position made your cheeks burn with mortification. Your heart raced as you imagined the potential scandal that could arise from this misunderstanding.

“They must think we–”

Jacaerys, sensing your distress, gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. His eyes, despite their fatigue, held a mixture of amusement and tenderness. He leaned in slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “They’ve jumped to conclusions. Don’t worry.”

You covered your face with your hands, even though he could barely see you, he stifled another giggle. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of mortification at the thought that anyone might assume something dishonorable was happening between you. Without thinking, you reached for the doors, wishing to push them open and stop the gossiping outside that questioned yours and the prince’s ability to wait for the wedding.

Jacaerys let out a barely audible sigh, his hand still resting lightly on your back. “We should stay put,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’ll leave eventually.”

You nodded, stepping back and pressing closer into the shadows of the closet. The cool, cedar-scented air was a stark contrast to the warmth of Jace’s body near yours. The narrow stream of light that filtered through the crack in the door illuminated the small space in patches, casting elongated shadows that danced around you.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited in the tense silence. You could hear the maesters’ frustration mounting, their voices rising in pitch as they grew increasingly exasperated. Jacaerys was still smiling at the distress.

The voices of the maesters gradually began to recede, their footsteps growing fainter as they moved further down the corridor. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. Jacaerys, still pressed close to you, let out a soft chuckle, though he quickly stifled it with a hand over his mouth.

You could feel the heat of his laughter reverberating through his chest, a sensation that was both comforting and endearing despite the precariousness of your situation. You turned to him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. His smile, despite the exhaustion that lined his face, was infectious.

“You could try to find a more comfortable hiding spot, next time.”

“Noted,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. You hoped that by the time all the maesters were out of the room and you stepped out of the closet, the evident flush of embarrassment that showed in your stance and your face. 

As the final echoes of the maesters' footsteps faded away, you and Jacaerys remained hidden in the closet, the silence now a companion rather than an adversary. The tension that had clung to the air began to dissipate, replaced by a more relaxed atmosphere that was punctuated by Jacaerys' muffled chuckles and your own quiet, relieved laughter.

You shifted slightly, careful not to jostle Jacaerys too much, and peered through the narrow crack in the closet door. The hallway outside was empty, the earlier disturbance seemingly a distant memory. You turned back to Jacaerys, whose face was lit by a smile that softened the lines of worry etched into his features.

“Are they gone?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Jacaerys nodded, his expression one of satisfaction mixed with residual amusement. “I think we’re clear. Though I doubt they'll stop their search anytime soon.”

With a final glance towards the partially open door, you slowly eased out of the closet, Jacaerys following suit with a careful, measured movement. The light from the corridor spilled into the closet, illuminating the room in a warm glow that made the shadows retreat. You watched as Jace made his way to his bed, patting the spot next to him for you to sit. 

Jacaerys sank onto the bed with a sigh of relief, the weariness of his injuries evident in the way he settled. You sat beside him, careful to keep your movements gentle and unhurried. 

“I’d brought you books,” you said, pointing at the pile of books that had fallen to the floor when he pushed you into the hiding spot. 

“Would you read to me?”

The request was soft, almost hesitant, but you could see the faint hope in his eyes. 

“Of course,” you said, your voice gentle as you began to gather the books from the floor. You selected one that seemed lighthearted, its cover adorned with an intricate illustration that promised adventure and whimsy. You settled back onto the bed beside him, the book open in your lap.

Jacaerys shifted slightly, propping himself up with a few pillows to make himself more comfortable. 

The room seemed to grow quieter, the only sounds the gentle rustle of pages and your soothing voice. Jacaerys’ eyes, once shadowed with fatigue, now shone with a mixture of relief and contentment. He listened intently, his gaze fixed on you as if the story was a lifeline pulling him away from the distress of his injuries.

You paused occasionally, glancing up to see his reaction, and each time you were met with a smile or a look of fascination.

After a while, Jacaerys let out a contented sigh, his hand resting on the book as you reached a particularly gripping part of the story. 

He cleared his throat softly, a subtle gesture that drew your attention away from the book. His gaze was momentarily fixed on your face, as if seeking the right words amidst the shadows and flickering candlelight.

He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “There’s something I’d like to ask,” he said, his voice a soft murmur.

You felt a flutter of anticipation in your chest. “What is it?”

Jacaerys’ gaze fell to the book, then back to you. “Would you… kiss me?”

The request was almost shy, a contrast to the bold stories you’d been reading together. But there was something incredibly sincere in his tone, a plea for a simple yet profound gesture of closeness.

You didn’t hesitate. You set the book aside, letting it rest gently on the bed. You moved closer to him, your heart racing with a mix of tenderness and excitement. Jacaerys’ breath was warm against your cheek as you leaned in.

You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, the touch delicate and affectionate. His skin was warm and slightly rough from the healing, but there was a softness that spoke of his vulnerability. As your lips met his cheek, you felt him relax, a sigh of contentment escaping him.

When you pulled back, Jacaerys looked at you with a smile that was both grateful and serene. His eyes were bright, the earlier exhaustion giving way to a peaceful calm. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

For a few moments, there was only the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the occasional crackle of the candle flames. The evening outside continued its slow descent into night, the castle settling into a peaceful hush.

The sound of the doors opening eventually broke the silence, you almost jumped from the bed, the thought of being found in bed, unchaperoned, with Jace. 

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sound of the doors creaking open. Panic surged through you as you glanced quickly at Jacaerys, whose own eyes widened in alarm. You barely had time to react before the intruder – a young maid, her face flushed with the energy of youth – appeared in the doorway.

You froze, every muscle tensing as she looked around the room with wide, innocent eyes. The maid's gaze fell upon you and Jacaerys, sitting together on the bed. Her cheeks reddened slightly, a mix of surprise and embarrassment flickering across her face.

“I–I’m sorry, My Prince,” she stammered, her eyes darting between you and Jacaerys. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jacaerys, still propped up on the pillows, cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “It’s alright,” he said, his voice steady despite the situation. 

The maid took a step into the room, her gaze flickering nervously. “The maesters are looking for you, my prince. They’ve been rather anxious, and I’ve been sent to see if you made your way back to your chambers.”

You could sense Jacaerys’ frustration at the intrusion, though he managed to keep his demeanor calm. He looked at you, a silent plea for understanding in his eyes. You offered a reassuring nod, then moved to rise from the bed.

“I’ll go,” you said gently. “It’s best if I make my exit before things get more complicated.”

Jacaerys reached out, taking your hand with a brief but tender grip. “Thank you for being here,” he said softly, his eyes conveying the depth of his gratitude.

You smiled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before reluctantly pulling away. “I’ll see you soon,” you promised.

—————

The days that followed your clandestine visit to Jacaerys were a blend of anticipation and reflection. The castle continued its relentless rhythm, but now, each echo and murmur seemed tinged with the memory of your hidden conversation. Jacaerys’ recovery was progressing, and the tension that had initially surrounded his confinement began to ease. The maesters, though still vigilant, were less inclined to hover, and the prince’s rooms were gradually returning to a semblance of normalcy.

You had kept your promise to Jacaerys, visiting him regularly. Each visit was a delicate balance of light-hearted storytelling and quiet companionship. 

Among the many who noticed the change was Baela. The shadows of the past days had given way to a hopeful light, and Baela could sense the shift. She had seen the glances exchanged, the shared smiles, and the subtle, unspoken understanding between you and Jacaerys. It was clear to her that something had deepened between you two, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of happiness for her friend and his newfound joy.

Your months in Dragonstone, even while its halls were rumbling with conversations about the war, were a stark contrast to the familiar, yet isolating, walls of your own castle, where being the only girl and without siblings had left you feeling like a solitary figure amidst the vast expanse of family and duty.

After having spent every given moment with Baela and Rhaena, they had become your confidantes, your sisters of choice, each sharing in the trials and triumphs of your days with an openness that was both refreshing and comforting. And the enthusiasm for company of the small Joffrey made your heart ache with care.

Little Joffrey was fast asleep with his head on your lap, both of you sitting on the grass outside of the castle, under the dappled shade of an ancient oak.

Beside you, Baela and Rhaena lounged on a cloth spread out on the grass. They chatted animatedly, their voices a melodic blend of excitement and curiosity. Baela was gesticulating with animated gestures, her laughter bright. Rhaena smiled warmly, her gaze occasionally shifting to the slumbering Joffrey with an expression of affectionate amusement.

The halt of steps beside you made you look up, a small smile creeping to your face at the sight of your betrothed. 

Without a word, Jacaerys stopped by your side, his gaze flicking to Baela and Rhaena, who had paused in their conversation, their curiosity piqued by his arrival. His expression softened as he met your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had grown between you.

He cleared his throat softly, a gesture that drew your attention. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” His tone was courteous yet carried an undertone of urgency that made you sit up slightly, careful not to disturb Joffrey’s slumber.

You nodded, glancing at Baela and Rhaena, who exchanged curious glances but remained silent, their interest evident. “Of course,” you said, rising gently and carefully lifting Joffrey to lay him down on one of the girls, ensuring he remained comfortable.

As you moved away from the blanket and the lively chatter, Jacaerys fell into step beside you. His presence was reassuring, though his demeanor was serious. He guided you a short distance away from the others, near a secluded spot where the oak's branches formed a natural canopy, providing a sense of privacy.

Once you were out of earshot, he stopped and turned to face you, his expression a mix of anticipation and something akin to nervousness. His hand moved to the small of your back.

“What is it?” you asked with a smile.

“I figured we could use a moment alone,”  Jacaerys' demeanor shifted subtly as he faced you, his eyes softening with warmth. A hint of a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He stepped closer, his hand still resting gently on the small of your back.

"Well," he began, his voice low and tinged with a hint of mischief, "I've been thinking about something for a while now." His gaze flickered briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. 

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. "I was hoping we might... continue where we left off the other day?" he murmured, his tone filled with gentle suggestion.

“Whatever do you mean?” 

Jacaerys' fingers traced a feather-light pattern on your back, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, lingering there for a moment.

Jace smiled softly, his eyes twinkling with affection as he gazed at you. "You know what I mean," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand moved from your hair to cup your cheek tenderly. “I have grown to care deeply for you. You cloud my judgment.”

With a gentle tilt of his head, Jacaerys closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, sweet kiss. It was brief but filled with emotion – a tender expression of the growing bond between you. As he pulled back slightly, his eyes searched for yours, filled with hope and a question.

"Was that alright?" he whispered, his hand still cradling your cheek.

You felt a rush of warmth spreading through you, your heart beating a little faster. This moment, shared in the dappled shade of the ancient oak, felt like the beginning of something precious. The playful glint in Jacaerys' eyes mixed with genuine care, creating a connection that went beyond your formal betrothal.

In the distance, you could hear the muffled laughter of Baela and Rhaena, a reminder of the world beyond this intimate moment. But for now, wrapped in Jacaerys' gentle embrace, you allowed yourself to savor this new chapter in your relationship, full of promise and sweet beginnings.

taglist: @smurfelle @earth4angels @ @sillylittlepenguin181818 (taglist link is on pinned!)

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

How about Aegon or Aemond corrupting jace's twin? Maybe Aegon does the corrupting and Aemond is into her?

The list of morally wrong things in this one is astronomical, but it’s House of the Dragon so it’s okay. Also, this is part 1 (let me know what should happen in the next part!). I wanted to wait until it was fully finished to post, but this is 6k already so I'm splitting it

Warnings: 18+, smut, uncle/niece incest, corruption, fingering, oral (m receiving), non-consensual touch (not by Aegon or Aemond), protective!Aegon,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

It all began when a letter from your grandsire arrived at Dragonstone, inviting you to spend summer in King’s Landing. You hadn't seen your grandsire since his fiftieth namedays, which was about two years ago, so you were more than pleased to accept his invitation. The gardens were beautiful in the summer…and you hadn’t seen Haelena in a while. 

It was absolutely not in the hopes to see your uncles again.

‘’Are you out of your mind? You’re going straight to the dragons’ den! Have you forgotten how they treated us all these tears we lived there?’’ Jacaerys said, walking into your bedchamber like it was his own.

The news of your summer plans must have reached his ears after his lesson with the Maester. 

‘’They’re not horrible people, you just never got along with them,’’ you fired back at your twin brother as you continued packing your bags for tomorrow.  

Growing up, your brothers had a few differences with Aegon and Aemond — many stupid fights and a lot of bullying on both ends —, but you never had the same treatment. Mayhaps it was because you were spending more time with Haelena than the boys. Or mayhaps they just took their teasing too seriously. 

Jacaerys was not letting it go. ‘’They called you a bastard in your back, like they did Luke and I.’’ 

The first time you heard the word from Aegon’s mouth, it hurt you. Being a bastard was badly seen. Especially for the children of the heir of the Iron throne. His slur branded your mother as a whore. 

Having heard, Jacaerys had come forward, the two pushing and shoving until Ser Criston and Ser Harwin separated them. When informed that a fight had occured in the courtyard between Aegon and Jace, your mother was mad at Jacaerys but also flattered that he had defended her honor. 

‘’We both know the truth about our father, Jace,’’ you reminded him, refusing to be blind. 

Although you and your brothers were conceived from an infidelity, you didn’t feel shame in being your father’s child. You remembered Ser Harwin being around in King’s Landing and making your mother happy. He was a kind and honorable man. Leanor was rarely ever present. 

‘’If the court finds out about our father, I won’t be recognized as heir. They’ll never allow a bastard to sit on the Iron Throne.’’

‘’We’re Targaryens, and that’s all that matters, all you need to sit on the throne,’’ you insisted. ‘’Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing.’’

⁂

At your return from King’s Landing, you’ll be meeting suitors — which you dreaded. That meant that this summer was going to be the last summer before becoming a wife. The thought of getting married made your stomach churn. Marriage was not something that interested you — at all. Like your mother, you would much rather ride your dragon and travel than live in a Lord’s castle and start a family.

Your arrival was announced to the King, who summoned you in the throne room. 

He stood from the throne as you approached, a smile spreading across his face. ‘’Ah, there you are,’’ Viserys said warmly, stepping down to meet you. ‘’It's good to see you back in King's Landing.’’

You returned the smile. ‘’Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,’’ you replied respectfully.  

‘’You’ve grown,’’ Viserys remarked, his gaze appraising you. ‘’And you inherited your grandmother's beauty.’’

Though you never had the chance to meet Queen Aemma, you knew it was a compliment. The King always spoke fondly of his late wife.

‘’I’ll be ten and eight soon,’’ you informed him. 

‘’Already?’’ The King raised an eyebrow and you nodded. ‘’Time flies, doesn’t it? We’ll have a tourney in your and Jacaerys’ honor. My first grand-children turning ten and eight, it deserves to be celebrated.’’

⁂

You changed out of your traveling dress, then went looking for your aunt and uncles. 

First, you spotted Aegon soaring overhead on Sunfyre, the golden dragon gleaming in the sunlight. He had gotten so large and beautiful. You’ll have to ask Aegon to ride together next time he goes. 

Next, you made your way to the training yard, where you knew Aemond often spent his time. As expected, you found him there, sparring with Ser Criston, his movements swift and precise. He was much better than your brothers at sparring, you mentally noted.

You called his name excitedly as you stepped down the stairs, which you realized was a mistake when he almost got taken down by Ser Criston. You apologized, but Aemond shook his head. 

‘’No harm done,’’ he assured you, putting away his sword and walking over to you. 

The last time you were in this training yard, you kicked Aemond’s ass. You were only kids, but it was still one of your greatest victories. Sword-fighting was in your blood. With a little bit of training, you would be as great as the boys in this yard.

‘’Can you still hold a sword, Princess?’’ 

⁂

You and Aemond cleaned up just in time for dinner, where you greeted the Queen and Helaena. They had the same hairstyle, which reminded of you and your mother, Rhaenyra. Children look up to their parents.

After dinner, you, Helaena, Aemond and Aegon retired to the latter’s chamber and spent the evening talking, laughing and eating small cakes and other sweet treats that you had requested from the kitchens.  

‘’These pastries are divine,’’ you said, loving the bitter raspberry mixed with the sweetness of the tart. ‘’We don’t have anything like this on Dragonstone.’’ You took another bite, humming at the taste.

Just as you finished your third tart, Aegon stood and excused himself. ‘’It's been wonderful having you here, dear niece, but duty calls.’’

You glanced out the window, noticing the silver glow of the moon and the twinkling stars against the dark sky. ‘’At late hour?’’ 

Aegon paused for a moment, a confident smirk spreading across his face. ‘’Some duties can only be fulfilled at night,’’ he declared cryptically, his gaze flickering mischievously towards Aemond, who could only shake his head in response.

‘’I wouldn't exactly call it duty,’’ Aemond remarked, trailing off as Aegon interjected with a mischievous grin.

‘’A treat, then,’’ the older prince continued, redirecting his attention to you with a knowing look. ‘’You enjoy pastries. I, however, have a preference for women.’’

Confusion clouded your expression. ‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’Sex,’’ Aegon declared boldly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. 

Your gaze fell to your feet, color rising in your cheeks. ‘’Oh.’’ 

Aegon's lips twitched with amusement at your reaction. ‘’Ever had sex, dear niece?’’ 

‘’Aegon,’’ Aemond interjected, his voice a warning.

You shook your head. 

It was a good thing that Helaena had fallen asleep or she would have covered her ears. Sex always made her uncomfortable. 

‘’Not even with yourself?’’ Aegon continued. 

Confusion struck your face. ‘’Eh, no.’’

‘’You’re missing out.’’ 

⁂

Every night, you watched from your window as Aegon sneaked out through the secret passageway of the Red Keep. You had discovered these passageways when you were playing hide and seek as kids. Aemond always complained that hiding there was cheating, but you and Aegon did it anyway.

You couldn't help but wonder what was so great about sex that made him go out every night.  

One night, you decided to follow him. The curiosity was too much to resist. 

You snuck early through the secret passageways and waited for any sign of Aegon's approach. The damp, narrow corridors brought back memories of your childhood games. 

Finally, you heard his familiar footsteps echoing down the passage. As he rounded the corner, you stepped out of the shadows. 

‘’What is my favorite niece doing here?’’ Aegon asked, raising an eyebrow. He had a dark cloak over his shoulders, covering any signs that could give his identity away in the city. 

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. ‘’I want to come to the pleasure house with you.’’ 

Aegon stared at you for a moment, then laughed. 

‘’I'm serious, Aegon. I…I want to know about sex.’’ You tried to make your voice confident, knowing Aegon would send you to your chamber if he sensed a sliver of uncertainness. 

Taking your hand in his, Aegon led you through the maze of streets and alleys. It was bustling with people. Merchants and artisanal liquor sellers were pushing their beverages at you, almost forcing you to have a taste. Some people were drunk and stumbling about, while some were playing instruments with surprising skill, their melodies blending with the occasional fights breaking out nearby. You could hear obscene sounds from darkened alleys, adding to the chaotic symphony of the night. 

It was your first time coming to the city, and the overwhelming sights and sounds made you clung to Aegon, not wishing to get lost. 

He came to a stop when you reached a dark wooden door. Aegon pushed it open and pulled you inside. 

The stuffy air hit you immediately, making you wrinkle your nose. Aegon took off his hood, but didn’t let go of you. You were under his responsibility tonight. Around you, people lounged around in various states of undress, some lost in laughter, others in more intimate activities that brought a pink tint to your cheeks. 

Aegon made a stop to the bar, ordering two cups of wine. One for him, and one for you. 

‘’Drink,’’ he said. ‘’It’s nothing like what we have at the Keep, but it'll help you relax.’’ 

You took the glass and sipped tentatively, the sour taste of the wine making you grimace. He was right about this wine being disgusting. You had to force it down your throat. 

‘’What do you do when you come here?’’ you asked, looking around with a mix of curiosity and unease.

Aegon leaned against the bar as he downed the rest of his drink. ‘’I get my cock sucked. Or I fuck some whore. Depends how I’m feeling that night.’’ 

His bluntness caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks flush. ‘’What of me? How do I…’’ You bit your lip, the words shy on your tongue. ‘’I don’t have a cock.’’ 

‘’You don’t need a cock for pleasure.’’ Aegon set his empty cup on the bar. ‘’Come with me.’’ 

You followed him through the mass of people, avoiding touching or being touched by anyone. Some of these people were very handsy and pushy, asking for things you didn’t quite understand. 

One the way, a woman approached Aegon, her dress barely clinging to her body. She smiled seductively at him, her eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to him. ‘’Care for some company tonight, my prince?’’ she purred, hoping to make some good money tonight. 

Aegon glanced at you, as if gauging your reaction, then back at the woman. ‘’Not tonight.’’

The whore looked at you behind Aegon, giving you a full stare down, and glared. Did she take you for another whore? In your silk dress and jewelry around your neck?

You followed your uncle to a room, gasping in shock when you saw a woman being penetrated by two men. One was standing at her head, her mouth wrapped around him. Spit was dribbling from her mouth, but she didn’t seem to care. And the other was thrusting into her from behind, loud moans leaving their mouths. To your right, a woman with saggy breasts was bouncing on a bearded man’s cock. She craned her head back to kiss her partner, sweat covering both their bodies. 

It was not at all what you had expected. No one seemed shy or embarrassed of exposing themself in front of so many people. In fact, they didn’t seem to care at all. They were just there to take what they needed. 

‘’Don’t listen to what your Septa told you. Sex is not just for baby-making, sex is for pleasure. For the woman as it is for the man,’’ Aegon purred into your ear as you watched the people around you. ‘’Men find pleasure from their cock.’’ He pointed to a man getting his male part sucked, his head thrown back and moaning. ‘’And women from their cunny.’’ He pointed to two women in a corner, one with her hand between her partner’s legs. She seemed to be feeling great pleasure, you noticed.  ‘’Although most people here indulge in penetrative sex, penetration is not necessary for pleasure. You can find that same pleasure — at least similar to — by yourself.’’

‘’I want to try,’’ you stated, wanting to feel the same pleasure as her. 

Aegon shook his head. ‘’We’re only here to watch. I’m not letting any of these men get their hands on you.’’

You frowned. ‘’How am I supposed to learn?’’ 

Aegon motioned for one of the unoccupied whores to come up to him. Her hair was brown and very long. He gave her body a few caresses, then pointed at you as he explained something to her. She nodded in understanding and took your hand, leading you to a corner where a ‘bed’ was not being used.

‘’Larissa is gonna teach you the ways to pleasure,’’ Aegon explained. 

⁂

On your return from the brothel, you said a giggly ‘good night’ to Aegon and disappeared inside your chamber, excited to undress and try what Larissa had taught you. You had studied her movements, which had triggered tingly feelings between your legs. 

You unlaced your dress and boots, then flopped down on your bed. You opened your legs, exposing your pussy, and took a short moment to look down at it. It was different from Larissa’s. Your hair density was different and you didn’t have the floppy skin she called ‘petals’, but you didn’t think too much of it. All bodies were different, she said. 

The cool air of the room made the throbbing between your legs worse. Was this how it was supposed to feel? 

Tentatively, you lowered one hand between your legs, right against your throbbing core, and breathlessly gasped when you made contact with your sensitive skin. You threw your head back against the wall and closed your eyes at the new found sensation. 

Wetness stuck to your fingers and you pressed harder against your core, causing your eyelashes to flutter. ‘’Ahh.’’ 

Your fingers traced the seam of your slit, spreading the wetness around. Each touch sent waves of sensation through you, making you want more. Taking it to the next level, you swiped between your folds, causing you to moan as soon as you met your sensitive flesh. 

You continued doing so, humming in delight and feeling yourself relax more into the sensations your fingers were bringing. Why had no one told you about this kind of pleasure before? It was much better than eating raspberry tarts. 

Another moan slipped past your lips, the tingly feeling between your legs intensifying. You pushed your hips down onto your hand and sighed softly, arching your back from the bed. But it wasn't enough. 

Something inside you was tingling. 

Finding no better ways to relieve these tingles, you slid your middle finger inside of yourself. Immediately, your walls closed around your finger, warm and wet. It felt strange — and sinful. You began moving it in and out, your mouth opening to form an ‘O’ shape. 

‘’Oh Gods…’’ 

You began pumping your finger in and out a bit faster, thinking it was what you needed, but it did not make the tingles go away. It did feel good, but after a moment, your hand was getting tired and the tingles were growing more intense. 

‘’What am I doing wrong?’’ you asked aloud, feeling frustrated. 

⁂

On the morrow, after your afternoon tea with Helaena, you knocked on Aegon’s door. He rarely left his chambers during the day — other than for dinner or to ride Sunfire —, so you knew he would be there. 

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the heavy wooden door. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Aegon in his usual princely attire. His silver hair was tousled, and his eyes had a tired look. 

‘’I need your help,’’ you said, not wasting time with formal greetings. ‘’Something seems wrong with my body, I’m afraid…’’ 

Aegon raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. ‘’What do you mean?’’

You hesitated, second thinking if you should be going to him about your intimate problems. After all, Aegon had boy parts, how could he help you? ‘’What Larissa taught me last night, it is not working. I tried, but I cannot…make the tingles go away. My finger is not enough.’’ 

Aegon's expression shifted from curious to alarmed as he glanced on both sides of the halfway, making sure no one had heard you. If anyone knew of your little escapade into the city, Aegon would be in a lot of trouble. 

Then, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter quickly. The room was somber despite the large window dorning over the city, and the bed was unmade. You couldn’t say you were surprised by the latter. 

Aegon shut the door behind you, pulling you out of your observation, and turned to face you. ‘’You should be more careful of the matters you speak about outside closed doors. You would be surprised by the number of ill intentioned ears that are waiting for bad whispers in this castle.’’

You nodded, having not thought of that. On Dragonstone, there weren't as many maids or servants.  They mostly assisted your mother and the younger children, or busied themselves with cleaning tasks in the lower floors of the castle. 

‘’Take a seat,’’ Aegon invited, sitting down in a large velvet chair at the center of the room and gesturing towards a loveseat right across for you. ‘’And tell exactly what you mean by ‘not enough’.’’ 

You pursed your lips, trying to find the right words. ‘’I do not know how to put it into words… All I know is that when I inserted my finger inside myself, it felt good. But the tingles intensified and my finger wasn’t enough anymore. A-am I broken, Aegon?’’ 

He laughed quietly at the last remark. ‘’Broken? No. You’re not broken, my darling. You’re simply not doing it quite right. You see, in order to truly satisfy yourself when you’re all alone…a finger simply isn’t enough.’’ Aegon leaned in his seat, speaking closer to you. ‘’Would you like me to show you how to truly do it, properly?’’

You were most certain that you should not be doing this, but going back to the brothel was not a possibility at the moment. It was likely closed during the daytime and, although Helaena was a woman, you doubted she could be of help. 

Aegon stood and pulled you with him, guiding you to his bed. ‘’Lay down. Make yourself comfortable.’’

You scooted back until you hit the pillows, glaring at the sheet when your foot got stuck in it. If Aegon would make his bed in the mornings, it would not have happened. 

Once you were settled, he pulled your dress up, letting the layers bunch at your hips and pushed your legs apart. You were completely exposed to him, and rather than feeling uncomfortable under your uncle’s gaze, you spread yourself wider, desperate to feel good. 

‘’Gods,’’ Aegon growled under his breath. His hand gently rubbed your inner thigh, caressing your soft skin. ‘’You have one magnificent cunny, dear niece.’’ He moved his hand up the inside of your thigh, gently playing with your soft sparse hair there, almost teasingly. ‘’Makes me want to kiss it.’’ 

You whined, feeling a tinge of shyness at his compliment. ‘’Aegon…’’ 

‘’I mean it. I’ve seen a lot in my short life, but none ever compared.’’ He pressed his fingers firmly against you, making you mewl from the contact. 

It felt different from your own fingers. More pleasurable. 

Aegon kept up the circular motions, using a bit more pressure, as he watched your expression flicker with pleasure, your mouth open and eyebrows knitted as a moan slipped from your lips. He began swiping his thumb over your clit and it made you moan so loud anyone who was passing in the hallway must’ve heard. 

Your reaction made Aegon chuckle, amused. He brought a finger over your lips, shushing you. ‘’If you do this again, you’re gonna alert one of the maids. We don't want that, do we?’’ He stroked a piece of your hair, looking at you like you were the most beautiful woman he laid his eyes on.

You shook your head. ‘’I-I’ll be quiet,’’ you promised.

‘’Now, I’m going to put my fingers inside of you,’’ he explained as two fingers slipped down and entered you, sinking between your folds.

You gasped and pushed your hips against Aegon’s hand, realizing this was exactly what you needed. ‘’Ahh, this feels so good.’’

Aegon’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening with desire as he felt your hips move against him. ‘’See, nothing is broken. You just needed uncle Aegon’s help.’’ He increased the pace a bit, his fingers moving rapidly as your breath came in short gasps and moans as your mind got lost in the sensations. 

Your whole body was on fire, trembling by need as his thumb started rubbing your clit again. You felt the heat inside yourself intensify, you could feel the release you so desperately craved was building. 

You whined, grabbing the sheets next to you. ‘’A-Aegon, something feels strange. I think— I think I’m going to pee.’’ 

You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on not wetting the bed. How embarrassing would that be?  

‘’You’re not going to pee. Don’t worry.’’ Aegon continued his ministrations. ‘’This is good. This is exactly what you want.’’ 

‘’No. I’m going to pee, I’m going to—’’ You interrupted yourself as your back arched off the bed as your final release hit you, your hands fisting one of the pillows so hard you almost pierced a hole with your fingernails. 

Aegon’s free hand covered your mouth just in time, muffling your cries while you rode out your pleasure on his hand. 

⁂

You sat on your vanity chair while servants were cleaning up the aftermath of your bath. Your chamber smelled of lavender oil, which you poured into the water to help get a great night of sleep. The beds were luxurious in the Red Keep, but it lacked the comfort of home. 

‘’Will it be all, Princess?’’ your handmaid asked after brushing your freshly washed hair. 

You thanked her for her service. ‘’Yes. Thank you, Dyana.’’ 

‘’I will see you in the morning, Princess.’’ 

Dyana left your chambers, and you waited for the servants to do the same. You didn't want to press them, but you were impatient to watch them leave. 

Once everyone was out, you laid on your bed and pulled up your nightgown. 

At supper, you had sat across Aegon and your eyes had fallen on his hand holding his goblet of wine. Precisely his long, thick, and dexterous fingers. You knew it was sinful to have such thoughts during a family meal, but you had been unable to keep yourself from thinking about the intense pleasure Aegon's fingers brought you. You had to clamp your thighs under the table, feeling a needy ache in your cunny. 

Your fingertips skimmed over your folds, and you let out a small moan. You've been waiting all evening to do that. Your index finger slipped down to the pearl Aegon touched this afternoon and you made small, soft circles around it. A jolt of pleasure went up your spine. That felt so good. You continued rubbing soft circles, causing arousal to leak down your cunny. 

You ceased the attention to your clit and brought your middle finger down to your entrance, spreading your wetness before sinking your finger inside. A sweet moan echoed in the room, but you reminded yourself to be quiet. Always quiet. 

Closing your eyes, you imagined Aegon slipping his long, thick fingers deep inside you. Your walls clenched down on your finger, and then you slipped in a second. 

‘’Ah, Aegon.’’

Like the night prior, your fingers were too small to reach where you needed. Frowning in frustration, you searched around your chamber for something that resembled a finger. There was a forgotten spoon from when you had tea brought up — too small — and a wooden stick used to roll parchment paper — too big. Lastly, you saw your hairbrush on your vanity. Perfect. The handle of it was smooth, it shouldn’t hurt.

You wiped your fingers on the sheets and got up to grab it. You brought the hairbrush handle down to your cunny and paused. Although you were alone in your chamber, you couldn’t help but worry you would get in trouble if anyone found out about this. Shaking that thought, you cautiously pressed the handle to your hole, and steadily pushed it in. You felt your cunny squeezing and slighting bucking your hips at the brush. 

The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. As you pressed the handle deeper, you let out a soft gasp, quickly covering your mouth with your free hand to stifle any more sounds. You moved the brush handle gently at first, allowing your body to adjust to the unfamiliar intrusion.

Your other hand moved back to your clit, resuming the soft circles that had felt so good before. The combined sensations were intense, sending waves of pleasure through you. Your breath was short and your eyes fluttered closed as you imagined Aegon with you, his fingers instead of the brush.

The handle moved in and out, your movements growing more urgent as tears formed at the corner of your eyes, overwhelmed by pleasure. Your hips rocked against it, whining needily as you felt the pressure building, your muscles tightening as you edged closer to climax. Your walls clenched around the handle, and with one final push, the pleasure overwhelmed you. Your body shook with the force of your orgasm, your back arching off the bed. 

You stayed there for a moment, panting and trembling, the handle still inside you. That felt… You couldn’t find any words to describe it. 

Slowly, you pulled the hairbrush out, and placed it on the bed. Its handle was coated with your slick but you didn’t bother to clean it, pulling the covers over your body and drifting to sleep. 

⁂

‘’Good morrow, Uncle,’’ you greeted, crossing paths with Aemond in the halls of the Red Keep after breaking fast.

Aemond gave you a short nod.  ‘’Good morrow, Princess.’’

‘’Are you heading to the dragonpit?’’ you asked, noting the faint scent of smoke clinging to his black leather riding doublet. 

‘’No. Returning, actually.’’

A pout formed on your lips, disappointed. ‘’That's unfortunate. I was heading there and hoping we could go together. I would go with Aegon, but he is not a morning person, as you know.’’

‘’We could go in the morrow after breaking fast?’’ Aemond suggested, watching as a smile lit your face. 

⁂

Just as you were about to seek servants and ask them to prepare you a bath, Aegon knocked on your door and asked if you wanted to join him for another night in the city. He didn’t have any friends to accompany him, and Aemond was too much of a prude to go to brothels. Although you were younger, you didn’t have a stick up your ass. 

On the way, Aegon dropped a few gold coins and got you sweets from a street baker. He wiped the cherry glaze on your lips with his thumb, sucking it into his mouth. 

You sat at a table and indulged in wine amongst the men. Around you, women were dancing in their smallest clothes, entertaining the customers inside the brothel. Beside you, Aegon watched the curious fascination on your face while sipping his wine, pleased to see you were having fun. He made sure to drink enough to relax, but not too much he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye out.

When you finished your cup, Aegon rose to his feet and took you to the back of the brothel. Excitement was bubbling in your stomach, hearing the sounds of pleasure coming from men and women behind each of the curtains. 

As you entered one of the rooms, a woman came up to Aegon and begged to suck his cock for free, desperately wanting a taste of the prince. She was only wearing a piece of cloth tied into a skirt, her small breasts and pointy nipples bared to all. 

‘’Watch and learn, little one. Your future husband will enjoy this,’’ Aegon said with a wink. 

He shoved his breeches down, exposing his surprisingly large cock to everyone in the room. You stared at it with wide eyes. Were all the cocks big? You peaked around you, searching for comparisons, but nothing seemed to come close. 

When you drew your eyes back to your uncle, the woman was kneeling before Aegon, his cock already in her mouth. The action surprised you, but you took notes and watched as she bobbed her head down his shaft, sucking and slurping as spit dribbled from her mouth. Your eyes flickered to Aegon, who was groaning, taking pleasure from the woman’s mouth. 

‘’Agh, fuck,’’ he slurred, his head slightly back. ‘’That mouth is made to suck cocks!’’ 

On the ground, the woman looked satisfied to please him. She moaned as Aegon grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced himself deeper into her mouth, groaning obscenely until he released his semen down her throat. Some spilled from her lips, but Aegon didn’t wipe it off like he did with the cherry glaze. He pushed her off him and re-dressed himself. 

‘’Do all men enjoy this?’’ you asked. 

He chuckled softly before responding. His eyes met your wide, curious gaze. ‘’Oh yes, most men enjoy it very much. Now, would you like another cup of wine?’’ 

You smiled. ‘’Please.’’ 

You sat on a couch by yourself, waiting for Aegon’s return. Before you, a woman was getting her cunny pounded by a bearded man. She moaned loudly, grabbing at her nipples. The sight made you think of the hairbrush you had inserted in yourself last night. It had filled you up nicely, but you couldn’t help but wonder how delightful a cock must feel.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the man who approached you until he grabbed your hand and placed it on his cock. You froze, a bewildered look on your face. He said something, but you couldn’t hear it, too focused on how clammy and hairy he felt. You tried to retract your hand, but he gripped it tightly, forcing you to rub him.

The Gods must have heard your prayers because Aegon returned with the wine and saw what was happening. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed in anger. He quickly stepped in, his presence commanding attention.

‘’Let go of her or I’ll cut your fucking cock,’’ he threatened through clenched teeth, his hand on the dagger tucked into his belt. His voice was low and deadly, leaving no doubt that he meant every word.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he heard Aegon, and his grip on your hand loosened enough for you to slip away. You wiped it on the skirt of your dress, trying to erase the feeling of the stranger’s cock. Washing them with soap and water would have been better, but there was no bassin to do so.

‘’I-I apologize, my prince. I did not know the whore was yours—’’ the man stuttered, making excuses, but  Aegon didn’t want to hear them. 

He grabbed his shoulder and pinned him against the wall, bringing the dagger to his throat.  The man's eyes widened further as the dagger's blade pressed against his skin, fear flashing on his face. ‘’She’s not a fucking whore,’’ Aegon’s voice was low and dangerous, his eyes burning with rage. 

The man swallowed hard. ‘’I-I apologize again, my prince. I meant no disrespect.’’

Aegon took a step closer, the dagger still at the man's throat. ‘’Don’t. Touch. Her. Again.’’ He looked down at his manly parts, then back at his face. ‘’Unless you want to lose your little cock.’’ 

 ⁂

The journey back to the Red Keep was silent. Aegon's grip on your hand was tight, his knuckles white from the tension. He was fuming, his eyes still narrowed in anger, his mind clearly still consumed by anger from the incident at the brothel. He kept you close, his gaze scanning the surroundings to ensure no one else tried to approach you. 

When you finally reached the safety of the castle, he stopped in his tracks and turned to you. Guilt was consuming him. What happened was his fault. If he hadn’t left your side, this man would not have forced your delicate hand on his filthy cock.

Aegon opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. He walked past you, abandoning you in the secret passages. 

—

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[ashwhowrites]

Requesting for cliche story fuck boy eddie simping over a nerdy girl. Maybe angst in the middle?

Ugh one of my favorite dynamics to write. I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

⚠️no actual smut but talks of it

She's different

Eddie spent years being made fun of and being insecure. In ways, it helped him build a tough shell and made him stronger. But it also made him void of any feelings. He turned cold-hearted and didn't let anyone get close enough to him to hurt him.

He was still a teenager, and he had his own needs. And when his hair grew out and he dressed in chains and leather, more girls were at his feet than he had ever seen. Most girls were from the hideout, groupies that lived to watch him on stage. They threw themselves at him for a chance to get backstage and be under his touch.

Being in a band was the happiest thing that happened to him and he loved the easy access of girls to choose from. School was hell, but the second he was on stage, he was what all the girls wanted. And no one would take that feeling away from him.

~~~

Eddie was half asleep as he sat in class. His hand on his palm as he felt his eyes grow heavier. He had a late night with a girl's name he didn't remember. He moaned in discomfort as he felt her marks still stinging on his back.

"Hi," a soft voice spoke in front of him. He snapped open his eyes to see a girl in front of him. She had glasses, and her hair was down. She wore a little sweater and a skinny pair of jeans.

"Can I help you?" Eddie yawned

"Um..." She said as she looked around the classroom. Everyone is moving to sit with their partners. "We are partners. Were you listening?" She asked with a little giggle.

Eddie couldn't help but smile as the sound left her lips. He had to admit, for a quiet nerd, she was adorable.

"I was not, but take a seat," he said with a smile. He used his foot to push out the chair next to him. She moved delicately as she put down her books and sat next to him. He smelled her perfume and examined her even closer. She had these big curious eyes, a soft nose, and incredibly pink lips, and her skin looked soft.

"Well..." She began to explain everything he missed. He tried to listen, but he couldn't stop watching as her lips moved to form the words. He nodded along as she continued to talk.

She turned her head to look at him, she felt her face burn as he stared at her with a small smile on his face.

She coughed and removed her eyes from his. "So! Let's start."

~~~

By the third day of working together, Eddie loved saying her name. He loved how sweet it sounded as it left his tongue.

He was shocked to find himself so lost in her. Not that being a nerd was bad, he used to be one. But he never thought of himself being attractive while being a nerd. But God, did she do it well.

He was captivated by how smart she was. Way too smart to be in his class. She was mature and he could tell by the way she spoke with a high vocabulary. She didn't make him feel dumb, which was different. She was sweet and took the time to explain anything he didn't understand.

He was smitten.

~~~

Five days into working together he wanted more. He wanted to see her outside of school, outside of her shell. He wanted to see how she looked in the outside world and how her personality might change. He wondered if she had another side of her. A side that didn't stress about grades and let loose.

"What are you doing tonight?" He asked, not realizing he cut her off as she explained another part of the project. He was too lost in his head as he thought about her.

She closed her mouth and gave her answer a thought.

"Well, it's Friday so nothing." She laughed, "Why do you ask? Are you worried we won't finish? Because we have five minutes and just one last paragraph." She explained as she pushed up her glasses.

"Nah, respectfully, I could care less about this project," he chuckled, "I want to hang out, just the two of us and not focus on the project."

She froze as she looked over at him. His eyes sparkled and the sun shined perfectly on his face.

"Why would you want that?" She nervously asked. She couldn't form a single idea why he would want to hang out with her. She wasn't anywhere near his usual crowd of friends.

"Because I want to get to know you. I was thinking about a date?" He offered. He felt a little nervous and didn't understand why. Asking out girls was something he could do in his sleep, but she had his stomach fluttering and his hands sweaty.

He felt more nervous as he waited for her answer.

"Why not," she smiled. She clicked her pen and grabbed his hand. He flinched a little as the pen tickled his hand as she wrote down her phone number.

"Call me," she smiled as she picked up her stuff. A second later the bell rang and she was gone in a flash.

Eddie bit back his smile as he looked down at his hand. Her number and a little heart written next to it. He jumped out of his seat, a bounce in his step as he walked out.

~

Eddie didn't realize he was causing much of a commotion until Wayne walked into his disaster room.

"Edward, what in the hell are you doing?" Wayne asked as he took in the sight of Eddie's room. Clothes were thrown everywhere, and shoes were missing their pairs.

"I'm trying to find a nice shirt but everything is a band!" Eddie cussed to himself.

Wayne couldn't help the smile that went across his face, "And why do you all of a sudden need a nice shirt?" He was young once, and he knew exactly why his nephew was stressed.

"Don't look at me like that," Eddie groaned as he yanked off his shirt and added it to the no pile.

"What's her name?" Wayne asked, he leaned against the door with his arms crossed.

"Y/N," Eddie sighed, "I asked her out and I have nothing to wear!"

"Looks to me like you have a lot of options," Wayne laughed, "But what if we go get a nice shirt? I'll take you."

Eddie looked at his watch, he had a good few hours before he needed to leave.

"Fine but we don't speak of it," Eddie said as he pointed at Wayne.

Eddie's leg shook in the car as they pulled up to the small strip mall.

"How come you are this nervous?" Wayne asked as he got out of the car. "We share a wall so I know you aren't shy with many girls."

Eddie blushed in embarrassment, and he mumbled an apology.

"She's different, I guess." Eddie shrugged, he walked behind Wayne as they walked into the shop.

~

Eddie stood in front of the mirror as he sprayed on cologne. He used water to pat down his hair, and he ran his hands over his new button-up.

He was nervous but he was excited.

Wayne wished him luck as he walked out the door. Eddie got in his van and headed to the address she gave over the phone. His heart raced when he talked to her for a few seconds. He was not sure what he was going to do when he was with her all night.

Before he knew it he was outside her door and knocking.

"Hi, Eddie," she smiled as she opened the door. "You look very handsome." She was surprised to see him in something else other than a band shirt and ripped jeans.

"Oh, thank you," he smiled, "you look wonderful." His eyes skimmed up and down her body. She wore a simple and casual dress. It was white with little sunflowers. It matched her personality. She wore her glasses and light makeup.

"Thank you," she smiled.

Eddie gestured for her to walk in front of him, they walked to his van and got inside. She listened to his music as he drove to the location of their date. She was nervous. She had never been on a date before and definitely not with a guy like Eddie.

"I hope you like water," Eddie said, Y/N looked out the windshield and saw that there was a little pond. He got out of the van and opened her door. She thanked him as she got out. She waited as he grabbed a basket from his backseat.

He led them down a little hill, his hand holding hers as she wobbled.

Once they made it to the flat ground, he let go of her hand. He reached into the basket and pulled out a blanket. He threw it on the ground and offered her to sit first.

She smiled as she sat down, smoothing down her dress to cover her thighs. Eddie sat next to her and took out a few snacks from the basket.

Within an hour they were talking like they knew each other for years. Eddie was learning so much about her and it made him like her even more. She had an amazing personality and she was funny. She made Eddie laugh so hard that water came out of his nose. Which made her laugh so hard she had to hold her stomach.

She didn't think she had ever been so happy to be with someone.

And for once, Eddie loved getting to know someone.

As another hour passed, Eddie's urgers got the best of him. She was telling a story and he was lost in her eyes. The way the moon shined down on her and the sound of the water, it couldn't get more romantic in his eyes.

Eddie didn't notice he was leaning in until she froze. He looked down at her lips as he closed the space between them. He softly kissed her lips, and his hands reached forward to wrap around her waist.

She was nervous but she kissed him back. Her hands shook as she moved her arms around his neck. She was new to this and she wasn't sure how to kiss him back. But as he kissed her harder, she got the hang of it.

The kiss got heated as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, she shivered and was surprised to hear a moan slip from her throat.

Eddie took the moan as a green light to move forward. His hands moved down to her thighs and began to slip under her dress.

Her lips stopped and she yanked back. Her hands stopped his hands from moving even further.

"Don't be nervous," he whispered, he went to attach his lips to hers again but she turned her head.

"I'm not, It's our first date, Eddie. I don't want to rush anything." She explained honestly.

"It's not rushing. I do this on all my first dates." Eddie shrugged like it wasn't a big deal.

Y/N felt a blow hit her chest. All of his dates? How many has he been on? How many had he brought to this exact spot?

"You're a pig," she scoffed as she shoved him off of her. She stood up.

"Woah, what's going on?" He asked as he stood up. He wasn't aware his fuck boy ways were sneaking out of him.

"Absolutely nothing anymore," she glared, "take me home." She marched to his van without a glance back.

~

The car ride was silent. She didn't speak a word, just stared out the window.

She should have known better.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked as he pulled up to her house.

"I'll see you Monday." She spat as she got out and slammed his door.

"Y/N!" he yelled after her as he got out. He grabbed her arm and turned her around.

"What did I do?" he asked genuinely.

"I do this on all my dates," she mocked, her voice deep as she repeated his words. "I should have known it was all an act."

The realization smacked him in the face.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push like that." His eyes were soft as he apologized. "None of it is an act! I really like you and I'm not used to feeling that way. I'm used to something different, you know?"

"Maybe you need to figure out everything you feel, and maybe we can talk when you are ready to face those feelings." She smiled sadly and pecked his cheek. He watched as she walked inside.

~~~

The next night Eddie was all over the place. He performed and ran straight to the bar. He wanted to drink his sorrows away. He had one shot and he blew it. He showed just how washed up he was. He slammed down his shot and called for another.

"Hard night?" A random girl asked as she sat next to him. He turned his head to take in the blonde.

"Yep," he said, slamming down his second shot.

"Let me make you feel better," she whispered into his ear.

~

Eddie sat in the back of his van with the random girl on his lap. Her lips were on his neck, but everything felt wrong.

He wasn't enjoying it, and it wasn't making him forget about her. He tried to close his eyes, but all he saw was her sweet smile as they laughed by the water.

He stopped the girl's hands as they went for his belt.

"I can't do this. I'm sorry," he said, he didn't look at her as he grabbed his shirt and slipped it on.

"Are you serious? Since when?" the girl scoffed

"Have you ever really liked someone? Not like being in love, but in that area where you can see yourself falling in love with them?" He asked, the girl sighed and slipped on her shirt.

"Yeah. Chances are if you can already see yourself falling in love, it'll happen. You stuck in that spot?" She asked

"You know my reputation around here. I fuck and move on. She's different. I asked her out and we had an amazing date, then I fucked it up." He sighed, "Not sure how to fix it."

"Admitting it to yourself is the first step,"

"And the next?" he asked

"You admit it to her."

~~~

Monday morning arrived and Eddie was ready to win her back.

Since the project was finished, she wouldn't be sitting next to him. But that was not going to stop him.

He wrote a little note this morning, asking to meet outside during lunch. He walked in and saw her already sitting at her spot. He took a deep breath and handed the note to her.

She looked up at him but didn't say a word.

Eddie walked back to his desk. All throughout class he kept looking back at her.

~

Eddie waited outside and checked his watch. Lunch started ten minutes ago and she wasn't there. He was nervous he might have messed up too much and that she didn't care to fix it. She probably realized he wasn't worth the hassle or the emotions he caused.

He crunched the flowers in his grip as he looked over his shoulder.

"Hi,"

He heard her soft voice before he saw her. He turned around and smiled as she walked closer.

He was nervous as he handed her the flowers, "these are for you."

"Thanks," she said quietly as she took the flowers from his hands.

"I'm really sorry for acting like a dick. You were right, I needed to figure out everything I felt. I went to the bar and I met someone."

Y/N ignored the pain she felt as she listened.

"My plan was to do what I always did. Sleep with someone until I forgot why I was there in the first place. But I stopped it because it felt wrong. I hated myself for being with her. I kept thinking of you." He stepped closer as he held her hand.

"I was doing the wrong thing and with the wrong person. And it made me realize, that I really like you. And I want my main focus to be just on you. I want you." He looked deep into her eyes. "I would love to have the chance to take you out again. I've never actually been on a date, that was my first real one. I know I fucked up the beautiful night we had, but I really think I can make you feel special."

"I guess there's no harm in giving it a shot." She smiled

Eddie jumped to his feet with excitement.

"Thank you!" he crushed her in a hug as she laughed.

~~~

They had been dating for a month and Eddie was true to his word. She felt more special than ever and it was all because of him.

She felt a little nervous as they walked into the hideout. He was honest about his past here and the reputation he had. But she wanted to be a supportive girlfriend and watch him perform. She had to try to forget about all the girls there and just focus on her man.

"The second I'm done, I will be coming straight to you," he smiled. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She was in a territory where Eddie was never taken, and she wanted to prove herself.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him harder. She wasn't shy as she snuck her tongue in his mouth. Her body rocked against his as his hands landed on her ass.

He felt his head spin as she pulled away. His eyes slowly opened as he caught his breath

"What was that?" he asked, his eyes dark as he drank her in

"Good luck kiss," she said with a shrug and smirk

"I'm going to need luck hiding the front of my pants," he teased as he adjusted his tight jeans.

"I'll help you faster," she whispered in his ear. She enjoyed the way he shuddered.

He kept his eyes on her as he walked into the back.

~

She understood why so many girls adored her boyfriend. The way he performed was incredible. It was hard to look anywhere else.

She waited at a table in the back as he wrapped up. His sweaty body came walking towards her but a girl stepped in.

Y/N couldn't hear the conversation but she could tell the girl was flirting by the way she ran her hand up Eddie's arm.

Then another girl came after that one left. And then other.

Y/N felt sick as she watched countless girls walk up and flirt with him. It was a painful reminder of what Eddie's past was.

She was quick to run outside, needed fresh air and to be away from the scene she was stuck watching over and over.

Eddie was quick to push everyone aside and follow her out.

"Hey baby," he said softly, she was leaning against the wall.

"You were amazing!" she praised as she pulled him into a hug. Eddie hugged her back and thanked her. He pulled back but kept his arms around her.

"Want to tell me what happened in there?" Eddie asked

Y/N sighed and looked down at her feet

"I was just a little jealous."

"Why? You are my girlfriend, they've got nothing on you." Eddie explained

Y/N scoffed and unhooked her arms from him.

"They have all had sex with you, Eddie! They've got plenty on me. I mean, I am nothing like those girls."

"Exactly!" Eddie said as he placed his hands on her face. "I don't want you to be anything like them. I want you because you are you. Yes, I've been physical with them, but that is all. There is no connection or emotional ties. It's different with you because I really see myself falling in love with you."

"Really?" she smiled as she looked up at him.

"Of course." He said as he crashed his lips on hers. She moaned as she kissed him back, her hands in his hair.

After a few seconds, she pulled away. Smirking as he chased her lips. She had him right around her finger.

"You know..." she started, her hands slipped down his body and rested on top of his jeans. "Maybe I'll eliminate the one thing they have on me." Her smirk made Eddie shiver in excitement.

"As in sex?" Eddie choked out. His eyes lit up like Christmas as he practically bounced with anticipation.

"Van, now." She said as she turned around and walked towards his fan.

He watched her walk away with a dopey smile on his face.

"YOU COMING?" she yelled as she turned. She walked backward and kept her eyes on him. She laughed as he seemed to snap out of his daydream. He fished out his keys and dropped them on the floor.

"SHIT, I'M COMING!" he screamed as he bent down and grabbed his keys.

She giggled as he ran straight to the van.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt

[tiredmamaissy]

Ralak te Sepawn ieyk’itan: Special Episode V

Something is Brewing

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's insanely talented creator @zestys-stuff. Thank you so much for allowing me to play around with your characters!

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (25) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (20)

Warnings: explicit pregnancy smut, pregnancy fluff, pregnancy angst [for the plot], pregnancy [this chapter is entirely about pregnancy if you haven't caught my drift, just giving you guys a proper warning], age gap, mood swings, cravings, nausea, vomiting, reader is very clumsy, intimate/invasive medical treatment, rut cycle, sexual tension, pregnant sex, p in v, titty fucking, cum eating (m and f), oral sex (m and f), masturbation, exhibitionism (kinda, not really), lactation kink

Word Count: 17.5k (this takes the cake, i apologize)

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Hey guys! Thank you all for being so patient with me as usual. I had planned to post this chapter earlier, but with the help of @zestys-stuff, we made a last minute change to the chapter. This will definitely cause some changes in the next chapter, so I’m going to work on that right away. I won’t lie, I’m really nervous to publish this one. It's been a while and I’ve ventured into some new territory where I’ve introduced a couple of new themes and -drumroll- a new character. There are parts of this chapter that can possibly cause discomfort (technically, all of this could), so I urge you guys to proceed with caution and click off if you do feel uncomfortable in any way. Aside from that, it’s good to be back (again, lol) and I hope you enjoy!

Synopsis: A timeline of your pregnancy with Ralak’s child, shown through a series of flashbacks of your most prominent milestones—some of which foreshadow something bigger to come…

<- Previous -> Next

Pregnancy is tough. 

A beautiful blessing, but tough nonetheless. With its own set of hardships, uniquely tailored to your own being. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. A sore back, chest, ankles…the list is seemingly endless. The shift in moods, the fatigue. Adjusting to an entire new being growing inside you—one that sucks the nutrients straight from your bones and blood—has your body overcompensating.  

At first it was a dream. 

No life-changing symptoms. It was smooth sailing for the first few weeks. Life went on as usual. If anything, others were more reactive to your pregnancy than you were. Your skimwing became aggressive towards Ralak, snapping at him and whipping her tail, treating him as a threat rather than a companion. He was more than understanding, as it’s common for the protective instinct to kick in when the tsurak senses their rider is with child.  

More importantly, it was an urge that Ralak shared with the beast.

—

You watch as your tendrils intertwine with your skimwing, and how they come together with a rough tug. You let out a rugged breath and the beast beneath you starts to writhe. Ralak instinctively grasps at the harness to steady you and— 

Slash. 

Your trsuak whips her spiked tail at your mate, who blocks it with his strake.

“Shit.” You gasp, tugging at the leather strap and patting her neck to subdue her. “I thought I was in control. Are you alright?”

Ralak nods, his hair now soaked and plastered to his chest. He simply chuckles, respectfully and cautiously approaching the beast with an open hand. Despite this, your tsurak continues to thrash, repeatedly snapping her snout open and shut. Ralak clicks melodically a few times, and her pupils blow and constrict as she calms down. He strokes her snout with one hand, and lays his other on your thigh, gripping it lightly.

“She senses that you are with child.” 

“She does?”

“Yes. That is why she protects you. I understand the feeling.” His accent is thick on his tongue. 

——

Then the nausea came. It was… unbearable. Insufferable. It was almost frightful, actually. Not being able to stomach anything really brought down a sense of dread upon your shoulders. Most days, you found yourself worried about the budding life inside you more than yourself. 

Was he getting enough? Would he develop properly if you went another day without eating? 

Ralak was more worried about you, of course. Going to great lengths to find something you could stomach. Spoon feeding you as you laid down all day from the gut churning nausea. Washing the sick out of your hair when you missed the bucket at your bedside. Detangling and braiding it for you to keep it clean and out of your face. Releasing his pheromones—your only relief—just to put you to sleep at night. 

—

t.w. nausea, vomiting.

In the crisp night, a wave of nausea washes over you, waking you from your sleep. Typically, this is the only time you have a break from the nausea—your slumber. That, and the first ten minutes after throwing up.

You quickly hurl over, grabbing and heaving into your bedside bucket, something that's rightfully earned its spot at your side. Ralak jolts awake, sitting up behind you to gather your hair into his fist, rubbing your back as you retch. 

“Alrigght.” He hums lengthily. “Get it up.”

Finally, you stop. You gasp and pant for air, sitting up only to collapse back into him. “I h-hate this–haah.”

“I do, too.” He grits, reaching over you for the rag at your bedside, and wiping your mouth.

He hates seeing you so sick. He’s tried it all, and though he’s found a few foods that you can stomach, nothing seems stops the nausea. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Ralak relaxes his body, focusing on opening his scent glands to release his his pheromones. They slowly become stronger, calming you down and dulling the waves of nausea. He pulls you close to his warm body, reaching behind him for his kuru. 

“Tsaheylu.” He whispers yearningly, making the bond slowly. He sets a steady breathing pattern, slipping his hand over your tiny bump to caress it. The sickening feeling eases up enough for you to drift back to sleep, Ralak along with you.

——

Thankfully, Eywa lifted you of your säspxin [sickness] when you were about to come upon your third month of pregnancy. Cravings increased ten-fold almost instantly. On the occasion where you couldn’t keep it down—when the desperation was too much—you’d volunteer Ralak to eat it for you so that you could satisfy the craving vicariously through him.

—

“Eywa, that’s so good. One more bite.”

“Tanhí. Enough now.” He grumbles, feeling overly stuffed and almost queasy. 

You glance down at the purple hue of your connected kurus.

“Please...” Your eyes burn as they threaten to well with tears, and your bottom lip quivers, “…last one, promise.”

Ralak sighs, shoveling in another bite of boiled squid, chewing it slowly so you can savor the taste. You keep your eyes closed as he eats, tongue swirling in your mouth to swish your pooling saliva in your cheeks. And when he swallows, you swallow too, gulping down your spit. 

“Thank you.” You say shyly as you open your eyes, feeling bad for making him overeat now that you can really feel his fullness. 

It is my pleasure. Never feel bad. His accented voice tickles your brain. A smile spreads across your face, just as one does on his. 

——

And when you could keep it down, they were delightful when satiated. Keyword being satiated. It posed an issue when they were what Ralak called, ‘forest food’, or on a more rare occasion—‘sky people food’. Those were the insatiable ones. The ones he couldn’t just whip up for you. The times he'd come to you with his ears laid flat to his skull, admitting his defeat. Those were the moments where you felt something stronger than just disappointment. 

It left you gutted. 

—

You can’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks. They’re hot and leave a sticky film on your skin, clumping your eyelashes together. It’s stupid. They’re stupid. Stupid tears, from a stupid cause. All because you want your grandmother’s stupid soup. Another thing the blessing of pregnancy has bestowed on you—big, intense feelings. 

As you soak in your bath, Ralak cooks dinner and you just know that whatever is in the pot is something that will make your stomach churn. You bury your face in the palms of your hands, trying to keep your snotty sobs to a minimum. It’s ridiculous, sobbing over something like this. It’s shameful, even. How can you be so ungrateful when this man goes to such lengths to care for you?

“Tanhì!” You hear his rough voice echo from the pod. 

You quickly wipe your face clean, and scramble for your loincloth and top, slipping them back onto your body. Finally, you fix your hair and force a smile to your face. As you get up to the marui, you’re met with the sight of Ralak stirring the soup pot over the firepit. Then the smell hits you. Typically the first thing to set off your nausea to begin with. It smells like—

Grandmother’s soup.

You stare at your mate wide eyed, taking a deep breath to savour it in your lungs. Outside of Ralak’s scent, nothing has smelled this good in months. And you swear you can already taste it on your tongue, the savoury flavour with the sweet aftertaste. 

“I asked your mother. Hope that is okay.” Ralak speaks casually as he serves you a bowl.

As you let out a harsh breath, your eyes burn as the tears come back with a vengeance. You sniffle once, twice—thrice, whimpering quietly as they roll down your cheeks. Ralak looks up at you, concern and honestly a smidge of confusion fixed to his face. Putting the bowl down, he stands and comes over to you, enveloping you in his arms. 

“I do not like to see you cry.” He hums, kissing the crown of your head. “Is it the smell? I will make you something different.” 

“N-No, no. It’s… it smells great. I’m sorry. I—I” You sputter, burying your face into his chest. 

“Then what is it, tìyawn [love]? What do you need?” Ralak cups your face and gently tilts your head upwards so he can look you in the eyes. “Tell me and it is yours.” 

“Thank you.” You croak, feeling your bottom lip curl over and kiss your chin. Now his facial expression is just pure confusion. He tuts in a comforting manner, pulling you back in close to his chest as he waits for you to settle, rocking side to side. 

“Alright, my little one. Shh–shh.”

——

Soon after, that soup pot made quite an appearance. It became your favourite dish, your favourite craving. Ralak made it just like grandmother, for the most part. There were a few omaticayan herbs missing, but outside of that it tasted like…home. At that point, you felt like you had this pregnancy thing down pat and could return to a semi-normal life. 

Everything was relatively the same, except a few obvious things—your growing bump and lack of heats. That was also a blessing, not having to go through a torturous heat every month. Though, you couldn’t say that for Ralak. 

As you neared the end of your third month of pregnancy, his pheromones grew stronger, wafting by you at random times of the day. At first you thought he was just doing it for you. Or, perhaps it was your heightened sense of smell. 

But the day came when his scent was so potent, it was as if it had stained your lips. There wasn’t a moment where you couldn’t smell the scent of your mate under your nose. That was the night you realised it was out of his control. That it was his rut coming. That was the night you confronted him at the bonfire. 

The night he looked at you like you were something to eat. 

— 

Right…there.

You catch the flicker of his eyes just before he lowers his head, shifting to that deep shade of blue. He keeps stealing a glance or two. Maybe even three, or more. It’s hard to keep count when he’s looking at you like this.

is piercing eyes, sultry and alluring, tempting you to crawl through these roaring flames just to get to him quicker. His demeanour. His stance and posture. His domineering leer. Whatever he—or his body—is doing, is working. 

He sits on the boulder, elbow perched on one thick thigh and a hand propped on the other. His hair covers his chestpiece, curled ends barely brushing against his defined ribcage. His bioluminescent freckles dance under the moonlight, his turquoise skin almost golden from the cast of the fire. It’s all so intimidating. He’s exuding dominance, practically looming over you despite him being seated. But there’s something about his aura, something darker.

“I can feel it, you know.” You speak casually, uncrossing your legs.

Ralak’s eyes snap up, boring into yours. He cocks a brow, keeping his eyes locked on you as you stand and walk towards him.

“Your rut. It’s close, isn’t it?”

This would be your first, real rut with him. Without the influence of your own heat. Ralak huffs a sigh, his eyes falling to the small bump that’s in his direct line of sight. Ralak watches as it seemingly grows bigger the closer you get. 

“You are showing.” His hands gently rest on your lower abdomen. Holding his shoulders, you slowly straddle him. 

“Answer me.” You whisper as you cup his face, tilting it upwards to make him look at you. “I want to be with you… and before you say it—” Ralak grits his teeth as he turns his head away, out of your hands.

“No.” 

“Ralak. I am your mate.” You retaliate through tight lips. You knew this would pose an issue. 

“Y/n.” He growls, turning his head to look you in the eyes. “You know my rut. Must I remind you that you are with child? It is final.” 

“I do know, and that’s why I won’t let you go through that alone, ever again.” Though your voice is stern, he can hear the tenderness in it. That this comes from a place of concern and love.

“I will not be in control.” Ralak admits as he shakes his head firmly, flicking his gaze back down to your belly. 

“Look…I made a plan.” You basically confess that you’ve been conjuring up ideas on how to endure this together all day. Although his eyes and hands remain fixed on your tummy, Ralaks ears perk up. He’s listening. 

“How do you feel about…being tied up?” 

Now you’ve got his attention, eyes snapping up to meet yours. The idea of being tied up isn’t entirely foreign to him. It’s something that his people use as a punishment for those who do wrong. He’s not opposed to it. Having a rut so intense is probably something to be punished for, anyways. 

“Hands behind your back…bound to the marui stilt. I will be the one in control. I will take care of you.”

You take his hands from your stomach and tuck them behind his back, your face now millimeters from his. Ralak fights the urge to kiss you. To free his hands from his back to grab your hips and shove your further down onto his growing bulge.

“...feed you…water you…bathe you.” Your voice falters as you swallow your spit. “...fuck you.” 

“...that so?” He whispers against your lips, heart thudding wildly behind his ribcage. 

You look in his eyes, and see that they tremble with constraint. He can’t hide it, the look on his face gives it away. He’s really struggling to think straight. To keep his answer as a firm no. And it doesn’t help that he’s on the cusp of his rut. He yearns to accept. Every fibre of his being wants this–wants you. You see it in his eyes, as they flicker like the flame behind you.

He just needs a little push. 

“We’ll take it slow…gently.” You roll your hips into him and feel his cock straining against his tewng. You lean in close, lips brushing against his as you speak into his mouth. “And, if anything happens… we’ll stop. No knotting.” 

His ears twitch. He’s considering it. Really, actually considering this. But how could he? How could he expect this of you in your state? He squeezes his eyes shut, frustrated and conflicted. And aroused. So fucking aroused that when he feels your lips drag against his cheek, your tongue tasting the lobe of his ear…your breathy whisper, “Pänutìng [Promise].”, he lets out a heated, shaky breath of defeat. Of surrender. 

That seals the deal.

—

Not now. Not yet. Ralak thinks to himself, fighting his urges.

The urge to mate—to pin you down and drive himself inside you. He must remain in control. For you. For your unborn. He sits on the floor, slumped against the stilt of the marui, bowed shoulders and a heavy, hung head. His skin, flushed, and eyes swollen—glowing a vibrant mauve. His hair haphazardly sticks to his sweltering skin as his hands lethargically twiddle with the braided twine behind his back. 

Groggy, you strain to open your eyes and quickly scan your surroundings. Ralaks pheromones cloud the room, engulfing you with their overpowering scent. As you sit up, the bed creaks and Ralak lifts his head, allowing it to flump limply back into the stilt. Extra lidded eyes and tensed brows, he breathes through his mouth. He wills himself to speak, but he’s heavy and sluggish as if he were three bottles deep.

“Ralak.” Your voice is wary and full of concern. Your eyes continue to trail down his body, landing on the undeniable, taut bulge in his loincloth. His cock strains against the fabric, precum completely soaking it through. “How long have you been like this?” 

“Few hours.” He croaks out a dry throat. 

“And you didn’t wake me?” You hastily make your way behind him, slipping to your knees to take the twine from him. 

Fuck. There it is. Your scent...driving him over the edge. Wafting past his nose and making him woozy in the head. 

“Tie me.” He demands. For a moment, you’re frozen in place by his tone, unable to move your hands and fingers. “Quickly.” 

The edginess in his voice startles you, causing you to fumble with the twine. You take a breath and begin tying the knot as he taught you, weaving the twine with itself, tugging at the ends to close it.

“Tighter.” He snaps at you, making your ears lay flat. You pull the ends even tauter, witnessing the twine pinch the thin skin on his wrists. 

“Shit—sorry. Didthat hurt?” You go to loosen the knot, but he pulls at the restraints, making it even tighter.  

“Leave it.” He grumbles, tugging yet again, ensuring it’s unyielding.

Because the closer you get, the harder he finds it to resist. He needs to know that he can’t get out—that he can’t hurt you—before he loses it completely. And with that delicious scent seeping from your neck, he feels himself slipping under. 

“Are you sure? I can tie you after you drink some water and have a—” 

“No...haah—now.” He growls, dropping his head causing the rest of his hair to flow forward and cover his face. “…need you now.” 

Blood rushes to your cheeks, heating them up and flushing them over. You can even feel your heart pumping it harder–faster. It’s hot in here, but even hotter now that you feel yourself heating up too. It’s his rut, influencing you like some sort of drug. You can barely control your breathing, much less think straight. But you told him that you’d be the one in control, the one to care for him. 

“Mawey, ma’ muntxatan [Calm, my husband].” You whisper close to his ear, giving the knot a final tug. “What kind of mate would I be if I did not care for you first? Hm?”  

You shuffle to your feet, and walk away, newly widened hips swaying side to side with temptation. He’s taking in the show through the cracks of space between his clumped together strands of hair, unable to look away no matter how hard he tries. Knowing this, you bend over, lifting your tail to expose your clothed mound to him. You swear you can hear a hiss seep from his lips, and that brings a smile to yours. 

Teasing him is one of your favourite things to do. 

You scoop up some water into the cup, and bring it over to him. Using two fingers to his chin, you tilt his head back, revealing the famine in his inebriated eyes. They’re glossy with need and desperation, begging you to take his ache away. 

“Alright, alright.” You coo softly, sinking back to your knees. “I’m going to make it go away. Now, drink for me.” You bring the cup to his lips, tilting it carefully as he gulps it down thirstily. A few drops dribble down his chin and onto his already glistening chest, rolling down his unflexed stomach. 

Tossing the empty cup to the side, you bend forward and lick the beads of water up his stomach, to his throat, to his lips. His arms jerk reflexively, wanting to cup your face as your lips lock with his.

Throwing a leg over his lap, you straddle him, pressing against the bulge in his sticky tewng. You cup his face instead, deepening the kiss to have a taste of the potent desperation on his tongue.

When you pull away, your noses brush against one another and you feel woozy in the head. His rut is beginning to affect you now. Which isn’t all a bad thing if you want to be able to keep up with him for the next couple days.  

Your hand smoothes over his jawbone to the nape of his neck, where you gently grip the base of his kuru. His ears immediately lay flat to his head, reddening at just the tips. Running your hand along its length, you bring the end of his kuru in front of him. 

“Going to make the bond.” You warn him breathily, bringing forth your queue as well. 

At this point, Ralak is huffing for air and sweating profusely. It looks as if he’s nearing his peak already. This only reaffirms that you’re making the right decision by making tsaheylu—you need the direct influence of his tìsom [heat]. 

When the tendrils intertwine, you come together with a sharp tug and gasp. Instantaneously, you sink into a hazy state, heating up from within. Your breath syncs with his, and suddenly you’re panting too. 

“Ralak.” You moan softly, grinding into him for a bit of friction.

You can’t stop your hips from snapping, and your loincloth is almost completely soaked. He throws his head back into the wooden stilt, looking at you through lidded eyes as he lets loose subtle groans. He looks more than hungry. He looks starved. 

With trembling hands, you search for the knot of his loincloth at the base of his tail. After a bit of scuffling, you untether it and shimmy his tewng down his hips and off of him. Up springs his aching cock, veiny and swollen. It’s so obviously neglected, glossy and sticky with his slick, so uncomfortably hard that it’s already pulsing as it stands firmly pressed against your clothed cunt. 

“Fuck. It’s… even bigger.” You’re taken aback, unsure of how exactly you managed to take this inside you last time he was in rut. Then you notice the red tinge of colour on his cockhead, especially where his ridges stand erect. “D-Does that hurt, karyu?” Bump in the way, you shift your hips back to reveal what exactly you’re talking about. “Need your numeyu to take away the pain?” 

The giant remains silent, but his cock jumps in response, oozing out another large bead of precum. Using your pointer finger, you trace the length of his cock, swollen balls to his pointed tip, collecting that fresh bead of slick on the pad of your digit. He watches intently as you pop your finger into your mouth and suckle, swallowing his semi-sweet essence. His brows knit tightly together. 

You know this is nothing short of torture to him. And though you have every intention to take the ache away… when would you get another opportunity like this? Where this giant is tied down and unable to resist the pleasure you bring him. Where you’re completely… in control. Fuck, you’ve never felt like this before. It's exhilarating. It’s a feeling of power. Of dominance.

A smirk pulls at your lips.   

You begin to pull yourself to your knees, brushing your swollen breasts against his lips. His tongue darts out, eager for a taste. Looking down, you cup one breast with your hand, and guide your stiff nipple into his mouth. His lips pucker over it, closing once they make contact for a vacuum seal.

Your breath hitches when you feel his tongue tickle the sensitive tip of your nipple. His teeth graze against them as he tries to do this handsfree, and you let out a low hiss. Soon his movements grow erratic, being bound to the marui stilt is starting to frustrate him. 

“Ah-ah. What do you need, karyu? Just tell me.” Your voice is feigned with innocence. He breathes heavy against your chest, keeping quiet as his focus is purely on getting his fill. “You won’t get anything from them.” You tsk, tugging away little by little, until eventually you pop off his mouth. 

You continue to rise to your feet, dragging his lips along your swelling tummy, until he’s eye level to the band of your tewng. You can feel his eyes pierce into you, his stare is anything but discreet. It’s intimidating. Your hand flies to the back of your loincloth, fiddling with the knot to untie it. 

“Is it this?”

The cloth drops to your ankles, exposing your flushed cunt to him. It’s pink and hot to the touch, undeniably aroused. Your scent grows stronger with each passing second, filling his lungs. It’s driving him insane—being able to see and smell, but not touch. His rut is only making him more irritable. He just needs to fuck into something and spill himself inside. 

His eyes glisten over an even brighter shade of purple, locking onto their meal. He wets his bottom lip with a quick swipe of his tongue as you take a step closer. You cup his jawbone, tilting it upwards to look down at him. The sight is… intoxicating. His lidded eyes, blown pupils that are threatening to roll to the back of his head. Tensed brow bones and damped, slightly parted lips—not a drop of composure left in his features. 

That new feeling rushes through you again, making you take two more steps forward. Your bare cunt brushes against the tip of his nose, officially branding it with your scent. He leans into you, closing his eyes and straining his neck to indulge himself. 

Your thumb smoothes over his jaw before your hand slips to the back of his head. You fist his hair and yank his head back, sending his eyes flying open. With your free hand, you spread your pussy lips, exposing your swollen clit. It’s sticky and in need of attention, throbbing occasionally as you tug your hood back. 

“Now, suck.” You demand breathily, slowly guiding him by the head to bring his lips to your clit.

You clench around nothing when you feel his heated, slippery lips pucker over the stiffened nub, sucking gently. Sharp eyes bore into yours before they roll back, leaving nothing but the whites exposed. Lids finally fluttering closed, he sucks a little harder, tips of his canines accidentally nipping your supple skin.  

“Ss—fuck.” You hiss, hips snapping back with force, popping off his mouth with a sharp sting. Frantic fingers rub away the tingling sensation as you grit your teeth. You shuffle your feet to ground yourself as you tighten your grip on his hair and hold his head still. 

“I know you’re in rut, but be good to your muntxate [wife].” You warn through your teeth before shoving his face back into your cunt.

This time he feasts with greed, groaning like a starved man. Eating, like a starved man. He’s slurping and sucking, lapping up your slick as it coats his tongue and lips, enjoying every second of your reign.

“Oh—oh shit. Fuck. Right there—” You moan breathlessly, free hand flying to his head to fist his hair, using it as leverage to keep him just where he is.

Before you know it your hips are moving on their own, humping at his face as you hold him tightly with both hands. With each thrust you shove him further back into the stilt, until the back of your hand is repeatedly hitting its surface. 

Until you’re hunched over him, looking him deep in the eyes as you grind into whatever part of him your clit is rubbing against. He expertly holds his breath as he allows you full control to fuck his face as if you were the one in heat.

Because with each roll of your hips he feels it too.

He feels the jolt of pleasure that shoots through you when his tongue hits your clit in that special spot. When the tips of his canines graze your swollen folds. The feeling is all consuming and he’s whining into your cunt from the over—and under—stimulation. His cock shifts to a shade of purple, jumping each time you thrust into his mouth. 

‘Sorry, Ralak. ‘m sorry.’ You think to him through tsaheylu, feeling the burn in your own lungs now. 

“Haa—ah, fuck. Thrust. Fuck. Thrust. F-Fuck! I’m gonna cum—in your—ngh!” Your voice quavers as you come suddenly undone in his mouth, holding him firm and still as you rock your body into him. 

His eyes slam shut and his brows knit tightly together as he grunts repeatedly into your cunt. He tugs harshly at his restraints and his heels dig into the woven floor. Yet still, you hold onto him even tighter until your pussy stops fluttering. 

With a loud, shaky gasp, you yank him away, letting go of his hair to grab the marui stilt to stop your trembling legs from giving out beneath you. Ralak wheezes loudly, shoulders heaving harshly as he frantically pants for air. His face is bright pink, flushed and glazed in a layer of sweat. He opens his eyes but they’re so heavy that you can barely see the colour in them. 

“Rutxe [please].” Ralak begs through a desperate groan, flicking his stare downwards. And when you look, you’re met with the sight of his still-throbbing cock, covered in his sticky, thick cum. Shiney beads still ooze out and dribble down his length and onto his swollen, firm balls. 

His first word was a plea of help. 

Your heart aches in your chest. How could you let yourself go so far with your little bit of power? To be so selfish. And here he was, in so much discomfort and yet you put your needs first. Leaving him so neglected to the point his body makes the release for him. Is this how he felt after he unleashed six pent up years on you in a couple days? 

Pent up years of suffering. 

“Shh. You’re okay, my love. You’re okay.” You whisper as you slowly squat down. “I got you. I’m going to make it…” you hold eye contact with him as you lower yourself onto his cock, aligning his tip with your sopping entrance, “…all better now.” 

You wince when his cock slowly penetrates you, mewling a little higher with every inch you manage to take. The stretch is almost unbearable. This is the first rut you’ve spent with him without being in heat. 

No foggy haze to dull the ache. 

No emptiness to be filled. 

And it doesn’t help that your womb is already so full. 

Your mewl quickly turns into a whimper when your bodies become flush to one another. Ralaks head slumps back into the marui stilt and he heaves a loud, lengthy moan of relief from being buried deep inside your warm cunt. You feel so good around him, making his cock heat up and twitch inside of you. 

Snaking your arms around his neck, you hold onto him as you frantically try to adjust to his size. It’s dawning on you exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into, and that you’ve seriously underestimated his rut. A sense of uncertainty begins to tighten your stomach but it quickly dissipates when you hear Ralak’s second plea. 

“Rutxe, ma’ tanhì..” Ralak mutters with a pained, gravelly voice. 

Without another word, you move your hips up and down, dragging his length along your gummy, slick walls. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, you’re not used to doing most of the work much less all of it. With his hands tied behind his back, you can already feel the burn in your thighs and the throb in the tips of your toes. 

Regardless, you keep moving your hips. 

Bouncing up and down on his cock, pressing your forehead into his in a poor attempt to steady your position. That little sting slowly morphs into something of pleasure the more your hips meet his with a slap. And soon all you can hear is smack, after smack, after smack. The noises that split his lips tell you all you need to know. He’s feeling good and that’s all that matters. 

But exhaustion hits you quickly—unexpectedly. His cock is buried to the hilt inside you, and the more tired your legs get, the deeper it drills inside you, pressing harshly into your cervix. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably and you can barely catch your breath, leaving you no choice but to lazily rock back and forth on his cock. 

Ralak lets out a grunt and bucks his hips. 

“Haah!” You yelp.

Ralaks ears lay flat, lips pursed tightly into a thin line. He can’t hold back his frustration any longer. He’s growing impatient. If he didn’t get his real release soon he may really lose it. He’s grunting through his nose and tugging at his restraints, bruising his wrists. You feel him shift his hips up and shove his cock as far as he can inside you. 

“Ngh! I-It won’t go any deeper!” Your voice strains as you try to lift yourself up. But he just keeps pushing until his feet are grounded. And then his hips drop, pulling his cock half way out of you. 

Thrust.

Ralak slams his cock back inside you, drilling deeper than he was before. Your mouth falls open as all the air is forcefully expelled from your lungs. As you suck in a gasp of air he thrusts inside you again. And again. And again. Until he’s rutting into you in a feverish frenzy, chasing his climax as if it were prey. His thrusts turn relentless, leaving you breathless with each buck of his hips. 

“Fuck—fuck—fu—” Your voice bounces with his thrusts. 

You look down, met with eyes that are empty yet heavy with appetite. He’s in the thick of it and he’s no longer all there. He’s purely instinct now and the only thing holding him back from pinning you down and having his way with you is the twine wrapped around his wrists. 

You can’t lie and say that you aren’t enjoying the look on his face and the break from the burn in your thighs. Stars sprinkle your vision as you’re overwhelmed with the immense pleasure he’s slamming into you. He’s fucking you into submission and you’re mind is borderline blank. His groans are primal and guttural, and they grow louder with each hysteric thrust. 

“Want to knot.” He huffs suddenly—desperately. You can feel his thick knot poke and prod at your entrance, his thrusts now sloppy and erratic. 

“Fuck, I—” You know you shouldn’t, no matter how hazy his rut is making you feel. “W-We can’t. I’m still ea—rly.” But he’s too busy watching himself fuck you in a daze, drenched with sweat. “Ralak…” You grab his face, tilting his chin upwards so he looks you in the face. His gaze is hollow yet his features are tense. “…are y–ou hear–ing me, la–k?”

“Need to breed.” He growls as he fights against his restraints. He doesn’t ease up on his tussle with the twine, sweating and panting as he desperately tries to force his knot inside you. 

“Shit.” You mutter, coming to the quick realisation that he can’t stop himself. “Wait, wait, wait—” 

Your hands fall from his face to his stomach, pushing down in a panicky attempt to lift yourself off him. But his rut is making you sluggish and weak, so you make the quick decision to sever the bond with a rough yank. 

Snap. 

“Oh, fuck.” You curse under your breath. 

The twine breaks, and his arms fly forward, hands making impact with your hips, fingernails digging into the thin skin. His grip is unyielding as he holds you down firmly on his cock. You feel him throb inside you as he attempts to plug you full with his knot. 

“Lak! Ralak, h-hold on!” As much as you actually want to, you can barely take what’s inside you as it is.

“Submit.” He rasps, top lip curled tight to his teeth, baring his canines. 

“I—I’m pregnant.” You whisper quickly, voice hoarse and strained. 

Immediately, his movements cease and his eyes flick down to your tiny bump, then widen when he finally realises. In one swift, sudden move, he lifts you off him and uses your swollen pussy lips to hug his cock and finish himself off. He rocks you back and forth like a rag doll at the mercy of undying grip, growling and grunting. 

His head drops forward when he outright howls. You look down and witness his mushroomy head pulsating feverishly, spurting out his load in thick ropes, all over his stomach and chest. All whilst his engorged, throbbing knot pulses against your slit as he cums, earning some well deserved comfort and warmth.

Ralak sputters as he tries to catch his breath, hands still glued to your hips. The fog still clouds his mind but it’s less blinding now. He’s just about capable of acknowledging what just happened. To acknowledge that this was risky, and could’ve ended badly. That, if you hadn’t said something to him, he would have knotted you without mercy.

An uncomfortable silence passes between you, where you’re both breathing heavily and staring at one another. You both share the same thought—the same realisation. His rut is too aggressive for you to handle right now. 

“I must go.” Ralak looks away as he breaks the silence, wanting to take advantage of his release before the pressure builds yet again. He’s clear headed enough to leave without turning back and pouncing on you. 

“No, don’t… we can try again.” You say softly, hand cupping his jawbone, turning him to face you. You feel terrible that he may have to spend this rut alone, that you couldn’t fulfil your promise—your duty as his mate. 

“I almost knotted you, y/n.” His eyes gloss over with guilt, his hands finally peeling away your bruised hips. 

“But… you didn’t. You stopped yourself—” 

“And if I do not leave now… I will.” Ralak growls inches away from your face.

You’re a little taken aback by his bluntness, but you know it’s the truth. And it’s final. No matter what you say. No matter how it makes the flesh between your legs throb a little more. You nod, keeping yourself quiet. 

“I will see you in a couple days. I love you both.” Your lips meet briefly before he carries you to bed and readies himself to leave. You watch in silence, murmuring an “I love you, too” under your breath when he exits the marui.  

—

As time passed you grew more angsty, unable to keep in one spot or focus on a single task. All that ran on your mind was Ralak and how he was probably suffering all alone. All because you failed to do your duty as his mate. The guilt was almost sickening, having you dry heaving into your bedside bucket a few times for the rest of the day. 

Until later that night. 

You rub in the thick, oily concoction on your belly, getting ready for bed. The sound of the marui door flapping open startles you, making you jump in your skin and clutch your stomach. You’re not expecting Ralaks return so soon. 

A silhouette stands tall at the door, his bioluminescent star pattern unmistakable. 

“Ralak? Oh, Ralak. Eywa. You’re back. I should have made dinner. I thought you'd be gone for a while longer. You must be so hungry. You—” You speak urgently, eyes flicking down to his tewng, which is seemingly damp, “—was it too much? …are you alright? Let me help you, lak.”

“Tanhì.” Ralaks cuts you short, voice trembling slightly, yet full of relief. “It is done.” 

“…what?” The question is breathy. 

“My rut.” Ralak says as he makes his way towards you, scooping up a glob of your special concoction. He sits next to you, and begins massaging it into your back. “You have fixed me.” 

You come to the realization that he's talking about his rut finishing earlier than usual—like that of an average na'vi.

“You were never broken, my love.” You moan softly, closing your eyes to enjoy the massage.

Ralak then rests his chin on your shoulder, smoothing his hands down your back and around your abdomen—rubbing what's left on his hands onto your swelling belly. His touch prickles your skin, sending the tip of your tail swishing. 

“I live for you.” He mutters with a thick accent, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I will die for you.”

Your heart skips a beat when you hear his words, he must have really been suffering for the past six years. You feel your face heat up, and you try to fight the smile balling your cheeks. You opt to drop your head and hide your face instead, resting a hand on his thigh. 

“Well. We won’t have you doing that.” You giggle, rubbing his upper thigh as you turn your head to glance at him. “…the last part, that is.” 

But he just looks at you, face still as stone. He speaks sternly.

“I will.” He speaks sternly.

You swallow your spit, tempted to drop your head again as you take in the gravity of his two words. You nod, searching his eyes with yours as you close the space between you. You hover open mouthed against his lips. 

“Me too.”

——

Time waits for no one. 

At least that’s how it felt. You had ballooned overnight, round and a little heavier as you embarked on your sixth month of pregnancy. His kicks grew stronger and more uncomfortable. But it was Ralaks favourite thing to feel before bed.

You found yourself spending most of your days bouncing between your marui and your family’s marui—paying your family visits more often. They grew fond of the idea that there would be an addition to the family and it became a regular thing for you to seek refuge there when Ralak was roped in for his ‘duties’. Which seemed to increase in number the further along you progressed. 

Ralak had his daily duties—tending to the ilus, a few lessons, fishing... These were just the simpler tasks that you could say you knew for certain he did. But there were his ‘fkxaranga’ [stressful] duties’, as you liked to call them.

The ones where Tonowari would summon him with nothing else but a simple nudge or glance. The duties that were spontaneous. That stole precious hours of his time. Duties that left Ralak spent and on edge, reaching for his top shelf when he came home. Those were the ones you dreaded the most. 

The ones like last night. 

——

With a huff, Ralak chucks his gear onto the floor and roughly unclips his chest piece. His pointed tools are covered in some sort of thick, iridescent muck, shifting from green to orange as they rock side to side on the floor. It’s something you’ve been seeing recently with no idea as to what it is. 

Ralak grunts, bringing your attention to his lips, which are slightly downturned. The more you take in the sight before you the more it occurs to you how exhausted this man is. His eyes are hollow, ears droopy, tail dragging heavily behind him. His muscles are seized up despite the bow of his shoulders—he looks as if he could use a massage. 

“Manga [Hey, you].” You get up to meet him at the door, taking the chest piece out of his hands to hang up on the wooden stand. “Tonowari is working your tail off. Do I need to have a word with that man?” 

He only works up a grumble as you lead him over to the bed. “That bad? What is he making you do? Hunt akulas? Eywa.”  

Ralak sits down, face sinking into his hands before two fingers slip down to pinch the bridge of his nose. You climb up and settle behind him, huffing and puffing along the way. Your hands smooth over his back, thumbs pressing firmly into his muscles, kneading the flesh until you feel him loosen up. 

Though the question sounded rhetorical, he knew it wasn’t. He knows you’re awaiting a response, the silence is loud and clear. You always want to know more about his day, fine details and all. And he’s usually reluctant to speak of it, but insisting it’s nothing for you to worry your head over. But recently, your inquisitivity is… well founded. And he knows it.

“Not quite.” He mumbles wearily into his palm, ears laid flat to his skull–although it wasn’t uncommon for him to encounter an akula or two whilst fulfilling the olo’eyktan’s orders. 

You open your mouth to question him further, but you can tell that he’s more than tired. And it didn’t help that you were constantly needing his help, especially now that you’re growing heavier.

Going down the stairs is a struggle considering you can no longer see your own feet or keep your balance. You had been waking him up almost twice a night to help you down the marui stairs just to pee. He’d always be happy to help, though. He understands that this is what comes with the changes that are happening to your body that’s giving life to his child. 

“Rest. Please.” You say softly, tugging at him to lie down in bed with you. 

To your surprise, he actually lays down, assuming his typical position before dozing off for the night—on his back with a hand on your belly. You expected him to resist a little, insisting something or another.

He really, really must be tired. Your heart fills with something heavy. Something that makes you almost feel sick. Your brows pinch as you look beside you to see his tensed face relax into something of tranquility. 

And a smile pulls at your lips when his eyes fall shut. 

Dinner’s over the firepit—his favourite stew with extra mushrooms. The sound of it bubbling becomes louder as it thickens. With a quick, final stir, you take it off the fire and cover it to let it sit. You hope that this will help lift his mood when he wakes. You look over to him as he lays stockstill with softened features, breathing tidally. 

Holding onto a supporting beam of the marui, you bring yourself to your feet and waddle your way over to him. You extend a hand to wake him for dinner but you hesitate. He needs this. And that’s when you make the decision to allow him however long it takes to rest. Even if it means that you speak to Tonowari yourself. 

Night falls and the temperature falls with it. The glowing firepit keeps the stew and marui warm for the time being as you prepare for bed. You draw the curtains and glance over to your mate, who still remains in a deep sleep, tucked cozily under the blanket you covered him with. You drape the shawl he wove you over your shoulders, and make your way to the door. 

A silent yawn splits your lips just before you lift away the flap. Your eyelids are heavy and the drowsiness is weighing on you tenfold. You have one last step of your nightly routine before you can crawl into bed next to your husband. And that's emptying the bladder that your son uses as a footrest. Plus, if you didn’t do it now, it would just be an additional trip in the middle of the night. 

As you make your way to the door, the need to go becomes urgent. Perhaps it was all the water you thirstily chugged whilst eating, or maybe it's just the fact that you're already on your way there. Either way, you can’t seem to get there quick enough. Your movements turn hasty the second you get to the top step, hands clutching on the only thing available—your bulging belly. You’re looking down despite the fact that you can’t even see your feet.

Leaning forward slightly, you try to shift your stomach to the side to see your next step. You step down and feel your bare foot make contact with the slippery wood. Your toes press into its surface to ground you as you take your next step. You wobble when you get to the last step, and sigh in relief when you feel the cold, wet sand spill between your toes. 

After wasting no time and doing what you came to do, you quickly make your way back to the marui. The tips of your ears and tails are just going numb from how cold it is and the night dew is beginning to form. You get to the bottom step, fixing your shawl so that it’s out the way. You make your way up the first, second and third step, but when you get to the fourth your shawl falls forward. 

And so do you. 

A blood curdling shriek rips from your throat when you feel your feet give out beneath you. Your hands splay out to grab onto whatever’s around you to break your fall but before you know it you're tumbling back down the stairs at a frightening rate. You keep on your side as best you can, landing into the sand with a muffled thump. 

“Fuck. Shit—oh, great mother—” You mutter as you hyperventilate, clutching your stomach as you wait for your son to kick—to show you some sign of life. Your eyes well with tears as you rub your bump vigorously. Your heart is slamming violenting against your rib cage, so hard you can hear it over the ringing in your ears. “Please, please, please.” 

…but nothing. 

“Y/n?!” You hear Ralaks worried voice boom behind you, then his hurried footsteps down the stairs. 

Maybe it’s his fathers voice, but your unborn son gives you one of the biggest kicks yet. You sob out a laugh, rubbing your stomach as relief flows through your body. You take a few deep breaths through your mouth to calm down, feeling another reassuring kick. 

“Y/n. Y/n.” Ralak chants your name, eyes rapidly darting side to side to assess you as he kneels beside you. Concern’s etched deeply into his features as he lifts your arms and legs, searching for injuries. 

“I’m alright. I’m alright.” You repeat urgently, but he continues to look, even taking off your shawl. His eyes are wide and he seems to be in some level of shock, especially after coming straight out of a deep sleep. “Ralak. Really. I’m fine. We’re okay.” 

Ralaks features soften at your two final words. His stare falls to your swollen belly, hands taking the place of yours as he waits. After a few seconds of stillness, his eyes snap up to yours—refilling with worry. He begins to shake his head, and you reassure him with a hand to his face. 

“Talk to him.” You whisper with trembling lungs. Ralak looks back down to your stomach.

“Maitan [My son].” Your mate says in a low, steady voice, ensuring not to allow even a hint of fright slip through. Just then, he feels a little nudge against the palm of his hand. Ralaks gaze snaps up to you and his expression relaxes, hands rubbing your belly gently. “How did this happen, tanhì?”

“I…needed to pee.” You say shamefully, avoiding eye contact. “…and I tripped going up the steps.” You glance up at him to see what you perceive to be a face of disappointment. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m so stupid.” 

“No. Do not say that.” He interjects, tensing his jaw. “...you are heavy with child—why did you not wake me?” 

“You were so, so tired. You needed to rest, and I did not want to disturb you.” You turn to your side to get up, wincing when a sharp pain shoots down your back. 

“Careful.” He clears his throat, stopping you from trying to get up on your own. He watches your contorted face relax, but the heart wrenching guilt just gets worse. “You should have. Wake me for anything.” He says sternly, snaking his arms underneath you to lift you up. “Everything.”

“You really don’t have to—” Ralak continues, scooping you in his arms and holding you close to his chest. “I can walk. I’m all right, Ralak.”

You try to reassure him, shuffling in his arms to get down. But he only muffles out a sigh, glancing down at you with downturned brows and droopy ears. He then walks away from the marui stairs, to the direction of the water. 

“Where are we going?” You ask quickly when you realise that you’re walking away from home. Ralak clicks for his tsurak, taking his time as he mounts it with you tucked to his chest. “Ralak.” 

“To tsahìk.” He states, making the bond with his beast.

“Ronal?” You sound almost panicked as the idea of everyone knowing you fell up the stairs clouds your mind. It’s almost mortifying to think about. “We don’t need to do that, it’s really late too, and—”

Commanding his beast to go, you both take off at full speed. It doesn’t take long to arrive at the tsahìk’s healing pod. Many healers gather at the door when they hear the sound of Ralak’s low pitched call. And they rush out to meet him as he carries you towards them in a hurried manner. They usher you in, hushed murmurs growing louder and clearer as they bring you to Ronal. 

You didn’t even notice the burning pain in your lower back until you were about half way here. 

The Tsahìk stands upon your entrance, her crystal blue eyes widening when she sees Ralak with you in his arms. You wince as he lays you down where the healers instruct him to. She strides over to a woven basket filled with an array of herbs and needle-like wooden sticks, and quickly props it on her hip—just out of the way of her own bump. She settles herself beside you, feeling your stomach as she channels Eywa. 

Ronal throws a look to Ralak, whose hands are on his hips as he waits patiently for the verdict. 

“She fell.” He says, only for Ronal to cock an eyebrow. “Stairs.” He finishes. Then both her eyebrows raise, and she reaches for a jar of a ground up, purplish herb. She pours half of it into a wooden bowl, and activates it with a few drops of water from the spirit tree. 

“Baby is strong. Very strong.” The Tsahìk announces, and both you and Ralak heave a loud sigh of relief. “But—” Ronal props your legs up on the makeshift table, spreading them slightly. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks as you look over to Ralak. “You are still at risk.”

Ralak moves closer to you, taking your hand in his to keep you calm. You both watch as Ronal rolls the fabric tightly into a small cylindrical shape. You swallow your spit when you realise exactly where that’s going. 

“This ensures he stays. It will also help with the pain.” She states, glancing at Ralak to see the glare he’s trying to hold back. She shakes her head slightly and hands you the precautionary apparatus. “Insert. Rest…and remove at sunrise.” Ronal continues, drawing back the curtain to give you some privacy. 

“Sunrise?” You whisper to yourself as you watch her step out.

Your eyes dart up to Ralak who is clearly concerned, staring down at you with worry in his eyes. Embarrassment heats up your cheeks and your nerves fray. Why are you so shy all of a sudden? He’s your mate. Your husband. 

You sit up a bit more and try to see over your stomach to get the task done with shaky hands. You fumble and struggle with the flimsy cloth, blindly doing your best. But each time you lean forward the pain in your back burns hotter.

Ralak’s supporting you with a hand on your upper back, patiently waiting for you, noticing your trembling fingers and little grunts. He uses his free hand to cup yours, stilling your hurried movements.

“Mawey [calm]. Breathe.” He hums, gently taking it from you and helping you lay down. 

You look him in the eyes as he inserts it carefully, wincing when the concoction stings a bit. Ralak gives your hand a light squeeze, speaking as if he had access to your thoughts. You nod, trying to smile through the burning sensation, but he picks up on your discomfort. 

“What is it? Is it your back?" His voice quavers with worry.

“No… just burns a little.” You say quietly. You watch his jaw flutter and his shoulders droop as he huffs out a sigh. “Not to worry. It’s going away now.” 

As he’s about to speak, the curtain is drawn to the side and Ronal comes in and stands at the arched entrance, hand on her hip. Ralak averts his attention to her, his eyes glancing down at her unborn moving in her belly. Although you were both six months pregnant, you were noticeably bigger than her. 

“A word.” Her serious tone of voice brings him out of deep thought, and her nudging head tells him that it’s something urgent. 

Ralak looks at you, not wanting to leave you alone but you smile and reassure him with a light nod. He clenches his jaw but you give him a gentle push towards Ronal. He squeezes your hand before letting go and leans in to plant a firm kiss on your forehead. You watch as he leaves, laying back and taking in the ripples in the curtain as you strain to hear their hushed conversation. 

“Ronal. Oe irayo si ngaru. [Thank you]” Ralak begins, bowing before the shorter na’vi.

“I worry for your mate.” Ronal cuts to the chase, using her hand to guide him further away from the curtain. 

“For what reason?” He asks, keeping his head hung to hear what she has to say. They walk until they’re nearly at the entrance of the healing pod. 

“Your son is fast growing.” She speaks calmly but quickly.

Ralak is a little puzzled, although he doesn’t show it. Is that such a bad thing? He continues to look down at her with the same expression, listening intently to what the tsahìk speaks of.

“Her body will struggle. Birth will be hard. Very long and painful.” Now Ralak is having a hard time keeping his emotions concealed as they chisel themselves into his features. Yet he remains silent. “You must warn her about mun’i [the cut].”

“Pxasìk [no way/fuck that]” Ralak curses through a hiss in his native tongue as he stands at full height, figuratively and literally taken aback. How dare she call that upon his mate? Ronal returns a low hiss as Ralak moves away from her, staring down at her with a mixture of emotions. 

Concern. Surprise. Fear. 

Mun’i [the cut] is rare and risky. Only three have been performed since the birth of this clan, all done in desperation when hope was gone. The last one was performed by Ronal's mother herself. It is an extremely invasive procedure where the mother is cut and the infant is removed. It’s only done in dire situations, where the mother is incapable of giving birth to their young naturally, and risks dying in the process.

Ralak can’t help but feel a burning anger amongst the sea of emotions flooding him at once. How could she suggest such a thing to him? Something so dangerous and grave? All because you will give birth to ‘a different kind’. He’s more than confident that you’re capable of this, despite the murmurs circulating the clan. 

He has always been aware of Ronal's perception of you, and her opinion about the mating. It was no secret, though she never outwardly told Ralak as he is like a son to her. She often insisted that you two were not compatible in more ways than one, and always saw you as the forest girl who needed special training. But to know that Ronal doubts your capabilities to give life ignites a flame in his chest. 

One that he must quickly put out. 

“Ralak!” 

He hears you call out for him, prompting him to quell the flame and shoot Ronal a glare of displeasure. “She is stronger than you know.” Ralak speaks through his teeth before turning his heel to tend to you. 

Heart pounding, he makes his way through the curtain to be met with the joyous sight of you cradling your stomach with a smile plastered to your face. That only further calms the flicker of the flame in his chest, making a smile tug at his lips. He sees you glance up at him, pearly teeth glistening in the luminosity of the night. 

“Sorry if I startled you, it’s just—he’s kicking so hard. Come, come feel!” You blubber excitedly, reaching out for his hand to place it on your belly. He slowly takes a knee, staying still as stone to soak up each movement. “He is so strong, Ralak. Like you.” You whisper, looking down at your mate doting on your bump. 

Though he should be proud of your words, he can’t help but feel a little nervous by them. If this child is really like him, then what Ronal said may have some truth to it. Yet he smiles, smoothing his thumb over your protruding belly button. 

“He is strong like his sa’nu [mummy].” He says softly, perhaps in attempts to reassure himself and calm his own nerves. Your smile only grows and you place your hand on top of his. 

“What did Ronal say?” Ralaks eyes snap up to yours, wide and almost panicked, wiping the smile off your face instantly. “Oh, no. Is it bad? Is something wrong?” 

“No, no. She says…” He drops his head, watching his unborn move as he contemplates telling you. You need rest, and this would further stress your mind and body. Ralak urges himself to smile—to create a new mask—one of feigned happiness. “…you must rest. Wait until sunrise.” 

“Oh, okay.” You exhale a sigh of relief, “Good. I—I can do that.” 

—— 

After such an eventful night, sleep found you easily. Ralak carried you up the marui stairs, tucked you into bed and watched as your eyes fluttered shut. And even so, he remained at your side for some time, ensuring you were deep in sleep before embarking on his new task. 

It began with a ‘quick’ trip inland for the right kind of wood. The kind that holds up well against the elements and the saltiness of the water. The kind that doesn’t have a slip to it when it's been wet for more than a few hours. It took a few trips to get it all back to the beach but it was more of an irritable task than a difficult one.

Ralak tried to keep as quiet as possible, spending the rest of the night—until sunrise—cutting and carving the wood, binding them together with twine, sap and wooden pins. And by the time the first few rays of sunlight beamed in, he was engraving his finishing touches. 

—

Ralak chucks down the tool and it lands into the sand with a muffled thud. Using the back of his strake to wipe his forehead clean of sweat, he looks up at his work for a final time—railings for the marui stairs. Then the bright ray of sun shines before his eyes, standing between his two new creations. 

You.

You’re surprised to see him out this early, still in his gear from last night. The realisation dawns on you that he’s been up all night, doing this. You can actually feel your chest warm up as your heart pumps the blood through your veins at an insane rate. It rushes to your cheeks, making them hot and flushed. 

“Is this what you’ve been doing all night?” You ask the question under your breath, dragging a hand along the railing. It’s smooth under the pads of your fingers, and warm to the touch, as if they’ve just been filed down. You notice a small carving on the side of the railing—your son’s initial.

R. 

“Mm.” He grunts, not that he could have slept anyways. He glances at the initial that you’re staring at. “I should have done it long ago.” The shame in his voice is loud and clear. You look down at your feet, unsure of what to say, noticing that he’s redone the steps too. 

“Ralak—”

“You must still wake me. Understand?” He cuts you off, already knowing what you’re about to say. 

You take a step down, holding tightly onto the railing with one hand and the other tucked under your bump. He rushes up the stairs and supports you by the arm. You lean into him for a hug, nuzzling your face into his chest. “… thank you, my love.” 

“Kea tìkin [no need (for thanks)].” He presses his lips onto the crown of your head, words muffled by your hair. His hand slips down your arm and rests on your lower back. “Still feeling pain?” 

“No. I feel good. Like new.” You smile, watching his features soften and his lips pull into a subtle smile. “Your son, too. He kicked me all night.” 

“Is that so, young one?” He leans down to speak to your belly as you watch intently, “you must be gentle with your sa’nu [mummy].” 

As he looks back up to you, your eyes follow his every move. And suddenly it’s just the two of you, before the orange glow of the sunrise, sharing this intimate gaze with one another. 

“Ralak… I see you.” You say softly, witnessing his pupils blow until there’s nothing but thin rings of blue.

He swallows, you see the lump in his throat undulate, and the balls of his cheeks stain a light pink. He blinks a few times, leaning in until his lips brush against yours. He lingers there for a bit, jaw fluttering as he grits his teeth a few times. He can’t help but feel a pang in his chest. 

How could he keep this from you?

“Oel ngat kame, ma’ muntxate.” He husks the words before locking his lips with yours.

But as he pulls away, you see the glint in his eye. When he sees your lowered brows and inquisitive eyes, he attempts to fix his mask of indifference—no, happiness. But you see right through it—

The glint of guilt. 

“What is it?” You ask, reaching behind him for his kuru. It’s your way of saying, 'no secrets'. He’s quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. Unsure of how to say what he should say. You urge him with a light tug to his queue, creating a little more distance between you to look him dead in the eye. “Ralak.”

“Ronal doubts…you.” He says plainly, trying hard to rid himself of the thought of childbirth taking you away from him.

“I don’t understand. What—what does that mean?” You ask, confused and worried. 

“I should have told you about it when you asked.” Ralak says, shaking his head. “But…you were already under so much stress. In pain. Our son—” 

“Ralak. Tell me about what?” You whisper quietly—quickly. Ralak looks at you, allowing a few seconds of silence to pass before he speaks. 

“Mun’i [the cut].” Ralak’s voice cracks with pain as the dreaded thought floods his mind. 

Ralak goes on to explain mun'i, giving you a brief lesson on its history and typical…outcome. He explains why Ronal urged him to warn you about it. And exactly what he told her in return. That he is confident that you are more capable of doing this. 

It ends with a comforting embrace and the both of you coming to the conclusion that a conservation with Jake is needed. If the cut were to happen, the sky people’s medical advancements would be…useful. 

——

Since then, Ralak adapted a very strict agenda when it came to the preparation of the birth. In some ways, it reminded you of the beginning of your relationship with him as teacher and student. Karyu and Numeyu. A revision of previous lessons, such as breathing lessons. 

—

“Deeper breaths, tanhì. Slow.” Ralak instructs you with his hand on your round belly. 

“It’s hard…” your voice is strained, “when his feet are in my lungs.” 

Ralak chuckles, nodding in understanding. “Right. Do your best.” 

You attempt to follow his demonstration a fifth time, inhaling deeply through your nose, holding it, and then slowly letting it out through your mouth. “Light headed now.”

“You did well.” Ralak praises you, snaking an arm around you as he lowers you onto your back. “You all right?” 

“Just fine.” You mutter, grateful for the new position. 

Ralak looks at you for a while, taking in a sight that may be similar to the one of you giving birth—giving life. The reality that you will soon be a family quickly dawns on him. The reality that… Ronal's words still weigh heavy on his heart.

“And when you bear down…” Ralak pulls your leg back, your knee now grazing against your cheek as they flush with embarrassment. “…shallow, fast breaths. Do not hold it.” 

He then demonstrates, emphasising the sound of the breathing technique to ensure you’re doing it properly.

'…hee—hee—hoo…'

You mimic his sounds, looking down to see nothing but your protruding bump. It may be strange to some that Ralak is teaching you a lesson on something such as childbirth. But with his mother-figure being the tsahìk, there were just certain things he grew to have knowledge of. 

“Ronal says there are times where it is best to allow your body to take over. Focus on breathing him out. Let your body do the work for you…” You nod slowly as you practice deep breathing in this new position, “…she will show you some positions in your lesson tomorrow.” 

"What?" Your ears perk up. For some reason one on one interactions with Ronal always make you nervous. 

“The other expecting women of the clan will be there.” 

Your ears relax, and you feel a little more at ease knowing you won’t be alone, even if it’s a sea of gossiping women. At least they were more discreet about it. 

——

As you neared the final months of your pregnancy, Ralak was called out more frequently. The aches and pains that came along with being so big were just as frequent, it seemed. They’d hit you at the strangest times, during your sleep or whilst on your tsurak.

But when the pain spread to your abdomen is when Ralak urged you to take things easy. But they didn’t stop him from going anywhere. No matter how badly he wanted to stay home and tend to you. It was more complicated than that. Something that you were blissfully unaware of. Something he wanted to keep that way until it was the right time to tell you. 

—

“Must you go?” You ask hopefully, tugging at his bicep. “You just got back.” 

“Tono will have my head, tahnì.” He states, buckling his chest gear yet another time for today. 

“It’s not fair. Not even the warriors back at home tree were called out so much. Especially if their mate was this far along.” You huff, letting go off his bicep to clutch your protruding belly. He cups a hand over yours, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“Ah. I know, I know. I want to stay, I do—” He’s cut off by your sudden gasp, and your face screwing with discomfort. “Are you alright?” His voice turns fills with concern, head tilting even more so that he can look you in the face. It felt as if your back set ablaze and your stomach hardened into rock. It eases up within a few seconds and you take a quick breath before answering. 

“Yeah, I think so.” You feel around your bump, taking note of how it’s softened and back to normal. “…that’s the second one today.” 

“Hm. It is. See Ronal while I am gone.” Ralak insists, tucking a couple loose braids behind your ear. You nod in response, gritting your teeth from the reminder that he’s leaving again. “I will speak with Tonowari today.” 

He’s quick to kiss you, lingering longer than he should. You savor his tender touch, breathing him in until you’ve gotten your fill to last you until he’s back. He pulls away, a grimace fixed to his face as it’s almost painful to do. He rubs your belly a final time, clicking for his beast. Reluctantly, he leaves, and so do you.

—

‘Practice Contractions.’

Ronal’s diagnosis of your pains. 

You’re not entirely unfamiliar with the concept. Mom calls them something different, but it all means the same thing at the end of the day. The body’s way of preparing to give birth. The constriction of your stomach, accompanied by intense pain, at random times with no rhythm. 

It’s normal, and expected. Ronal was particularly pleased to see your body do this early in your pregnancy. It typically occurs a couple weeks prior to birth, and both of you weren’t due for another month. 

They’re nothing to worry about, but she advises to rest if they get too intense. You waddle home with your tail dragging behind you, unhappy to see no sign of your mates return. 

—

“You are late.” Tonowari speaks monotonously, back turned to Ralak as he keeps his eyes on his task—forging a new tool. Ralak has to swallow his frustration and maintain his confidence. 

“It will happen soon.” He responds in a similar tone, his eyes following as the olo’eyktan stands. “I must be with her.”

“I understand. I do. But—” Tonowari finishes up the last touches, giving the tool its final inspection. “This is your duty, son.”

“She, is my duty.” Ralak snaps, his frustration slipping through. 

Feeling challenged, Tonowari turns to face him, now eye level with Ralak as he slowly nears his subordinate—chest to chest. But with a pregnant mate of his own, and the fact that Ralak is like his own son, Tonowari huffs a sigh and gives this a pass.  

“This is for her, too. For the people of the clan. You know what we are about to face. You will do this.” The olo’eyktan states sternly. “When the horn sounds… you come. And that…” he shoves the tool into Ralak’s chest, “…is an order.” 

Holding the tool against his own chest, Ralak looks away from Tonowari, grinding his back teeth hard enough to file them flat. He breathes heavily, attempting to recenter himself and stamp out the flame flickering in his chest. Tonowari gives him space, going ahead and mounting his skimwing, readying himself to embark on their journey. Whilst Ralak is left behind to let out a sluggish, shaky breath, closing his eyes when it dawns on him...

…what he must do, where he must go and who he must see. 

All before coming home this evening. 

—

“Zu’té.”

Ralak calls his name outside of the secluded, dim marui pod. It’s familiar, yet so unknown. It’s an eerie feeling to be standing here. It’s as if no one’s home. Not a single flame burning, nor the residual heat of a smothered fire pit. But Ralak can sense his presence. It’s thick. Aggressive. Just as it’s always been. It’s only intensified since the incident. 

The silence is deafening now. A message loud enough to have Ralak reconsidering his actions—rethinking his feelings. No part of him really desired to ask anything of this man, much less this. But in the case Tonowari really doesn’t budge with his decision, it is something he must do. No matter how many years have passed. Ralak has moved on…come to terms with what’s happened, and is in a much better place in his life now. Because of you.

You.

He’s doing this for you. Or is he? The fact he’s fathered a child has a major influence on his decision to be standing here to begin with… perhaps it’s something within him driven by nature—by instinct. The further you’ve progressed, the more he’s thought about rekindling this relationship. But he always brushed off these passing thoughts, until they were no longer just thoughts that passed. They became thoughts that lingered and kept him awake some nights. 

Showing their faces the most when Tonowari reminds him of the imminent danger the clan may face.

They reminded him of the good times when they were children. Teasing the ilus when no one was looking, sneaking off to the reef where the adults went to hunt just to see what it was like. But it also reminded him of the more unfortunate moments they shared. Those that will forever leave a scar on their souls, branded by pain and suffering. Since then, Ralak took an oath to never allow his own family to suffer the way he did. 

If this is what he must do, he’ll do it.

“I am in need of a favour.” Ralak finally admits, witnessing a tall, thick silhouette emerge from the marui. 

At this angle, its darkness looms over Ralak ominously. Green glowing eyes peer down at Ralak as the figure's hands cross defensively over his chest. He steps out of the darkness, revealing his inked face and intricately up-kept hair. He looks as if he’s been disturbed or rudely interrupted, evident in the way his eyes pierce fearlessly into Ralak. But Ralak simply returns the leer. 

“Zu’té.” Ralak speaks his name again, a little more sternly this time.

“Brother. To what do I owe this visit?” His tone is sarcastic with undertones of hostility. 

Ralak sighs, turning his head away from his older brother, fixating his gaze elsewhere. His jawbone flutters as he struggles to figure out what words to string together next. This isn’t easy for him—being here with his tail tucked between his legs. 

“It is no way easy for me to ask you of this…I know we have not spoken for some time.”

“Really? You think so? I would say it has been a little more than ‘some time’, no?” Zu’té’s irritation is shining through now.

“Agreed.” Ralak speaks sharply, dropping his head, gaze piercing into his own feet. He swallows and sighs once more, finally lifting his head to look his brother in the face. "I need your help, brother."

“Hm.” Zu’té scoffs, meeting his stare flagrantly. “Let me get this right. You come here, wake me out my sleep, speak to me like this for the first time in over forty-eight seasons…and demand my help?”  

“You are the only one I trust with this.” Ralak grinds out the words, they are hard to admit. 

This quietens Zu’té, causing his features to soften and his fixed stare to falter. To hear this after twelve years, straight from his brother’s mouth has him a little taken aback. There’s only one thing that it could mean—that could bring the golden child before him, begging for a favour. 

War. 

“What does our ‘mighty’ olo’eyktan have you up to now, baby brother?” Zu’té’s tone is especially sardonic when speaking of their father-figure. 

“Plenty.” Ralak chuckles quietly, shaking his head in amusement. His curved lips fade into a thin line, returning his grim expression when he’s reminded yet again of his exact reason for being here. “Look…” Ralak exhales, “...it is nowhere likeable for me to show my face like this. Trust me, I have thought of every possible solution. But…" he shakes his head, hesitant to share what he must say next. "My mate...she is pregnant."

Zu’té’ sighs when he realizes the gravity of the situation, eyes narrowing as they look behind Ralak to scan his surroundings. He’s far from all of the neighbouring marui pods, being the last pod along the mangroves. But if someone were nearby, they could eavesdrop with ease.

Zu’té lightly nudges his head, giving Ralak the silent signal to enter his marui. Ralak moves slowly, a little surprised by his change in...heart. Annoyed with Ralak's sluggish movement, Zu’té rolls his eyes.

“What? You expect an invitation?" Zu’té asks the rhetorical question loud and clear, watching in awe as his not-so-little brother stands almost eye to eye with him. "...you've grown."

"Surprised?" Ralak mutters, ears spasming from his brother's comment—shuffling past him.

"Don't get smart with me, little brother." Zu’té snaps with his ears pinned to his skull, automatically slipping back into disciplining his younger brother like he once used to. Ralak fights the smirk pulling at his lips, making his way further into the neat, well-decorated marui.

——

Ralak came home that night, as he does most nights nowadays with a heavy tail and tensed muscles. That night he broke the news that he had no luck with Tonowari. That he remained tied to his duties as a warrior, teacher, hunter and evidently more…that you had no knowledge of. 

But he made it clear that none of them came before you—his most important duty of all. He promised not only to your father, but also to you, to put you first, no matter what. That he will do whatever he needs to ensure your safety is never compromised. Even if it means putting his pride aside, and asking for help, as he did that night. 

The desire to prepare for your son's arrival grew with each passing day, making you nest like an expecting ikran. You smoked enough meat to last for the next couple months, and gathered as many herbs and fruits that you could manage.

Weaving has been one of your more frequent tasks, making a couple slings and a few more blankets. Ralak was quick to build the cot when he got into a nesting frenzy, too.

But regardless of what your next task was, it was always a little bit harder…a little bit more tiring. Until you were so round and heavy that most of them became unachievable. Your size started to affect you in more ways than just physical. It started to affect you mentally, too. Playing tricks on your mind, making you think negatively about yourself.

And Ralak picked up on that very quickly. 

——

As you wait for his return, you give the marui another deep clean. You take small breaks often, sitting down whenever you become short of breath.

Whilst you sweep the patio, you see your mate trudge up the stairs, ears pinned back and exhaustion wrinkled into his forehead. Ralak sees you and wastes no time to take the broom from you and pull you into his chest. 

He holds you in silence. Comfortable silence. Savouring how you feel against his body. The thud of your heartbeat, the warmth of your skin. You’re his safe place. His home. As he is yours. His embrace is what you look forward to the most after a long day apart. 

Perhaps this is what you both need. A moment of peace and quiet, where your focus is purely on the person in front of you. A break from the mayhem that life can entail, from the pull and push of the rough tides. Serenity. All to be interrupted by Ralak pulling away, holding you by the arms to create some distance between you two. 

Furrowed brows and beaded eyes stare back at you when you look at him. He’s staring at you, but not at you. His eyes pierce into your chest, and then peel away to flick down at his stomach. A smile creeps on his face, and a huff of air through his nostrils as he chuckles softly. His gaze finally meets yours, and he lets go of your arms.

“Your milk is in.” He almost whispers, his fingertips grazing against your stomach. 

“What?” You breathe, caught off guard to say the least. Your head snaps down, eyes searching every inch of your shawl to find two large, growing wet spots on it. “O-Oh.” You stutter, looking back up at him, catching sight of the glistening liquid on his stomach. “Oh.” 

Your cheeks grow hot when blood rushes to them from embarrassment. Just another thing pregnancy has bestowed upon you. “Sorry, Lak.” You turn to reach for the nearby cloth that hangs by the window. 

“What for?” He asks innocently—a little confused. 

He watches as you wipe him down in an almost frantic manner. He stills your movements by grasping your wrists, causing you to drop the cloth. He brings your hands to his lips.

“Mawey [Calm]. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He speaks into the palm of your hands. You hear his words, but you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. “Hey.” 

He lets go, and cups your cheek, urging you to look at him. When you finally do, he’s smiling down at you, allowing his hand to slip down to the bow of your shoulder—his fingers hooking underneath the hem of your shawl. “Let me clean you up, hm?” 

“Oh—okay.” You stutter shyly, feeling his fingers slip under the woven fabric to slip it off your shoulders. “W-Wait.”

And when the material hits the floor, a shiver shakes your spine. Your breasts are exposed to the cool air, sticky nipples hardened into peaks for him to see. They’ve darkened in colour, and are even a little more puffy too.

Honestly, you weren’t the biggest fan of them anymore. You wore thicker tops or shawls to conceal them, just as you did your stomach with your new…stripes. But Ralak loves them, always stealing a glance at every given chance. 

But to know that they’re full with milk makes him feel…on edge. 

His eyes bore into them, unapologetically taking in every detail. His smile falls into a slight smirk, which then droops into a thin line. His jaw flutters as he grits his teeth, biting back his urges. 

“Don’t stare.” You whisper shyly, covering your chest with one arm and your belly with the other. He looks at you, and reaches for your arms, peeling them away from your body. 

“Beautiful.” He states as a fact, intertwining his fingers with yours. “So beautiful, carrying my child.” 

“‘m really not.” You mumble, looking away in shame. You feel his hand move to your face, two fingers tugging at your jaw to have you look up at him. When you finally give in to his nudges, you see the look on his face. It was as if you had deeply and personally offended him.

“You are.” He insists softly. 

You simply shake your head, arms instinctively wrapping around your chest and belly once more. “I don’t feel it. I don’t even know how you can look at me and say that.” 

Ralak almost feels angered by your words. It hurts him to hear you speak of yourself in such a way, especially when it’s far from the truth. If anything, he’s even more attracted to you. Knowing that this is what your body is going through to bring his child into the world has made him even more appreciative of you. 

“Never say such things.” He husks firmly, removing your hands from your body and keeping them in his grasp. “Do not hide.” 

“You have barely touched me.” You retaliate, voice cracking with hurt. 

“Not for that reason.” He’s quick to cut you short, making sure you know that the last thing stopping him from pouncing on you every chance he gets is the way you look. Absolutely not. 

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, then—”

Frustrated, Ralak shoves your hand onto his loincloth, pressing it firmly against the bulge that strains against the material. “You feel that?” 

You do, you feel every inch of it, hard and warm against your palm. Your face heats up even more, cheeks staining a bright red. Your breath turns raggedy as you struggle to find the words to say. 

“Hm?” He grunts as he presses himself even harder against the palm of your hand. 

“Y-Yes.” You stutter. Ralak turns you around, pressing himself into you from behind. His heated lips are flush against your ear, hot breath prickling your skin. 

“This is what you do to me.” Ralak husks into the shell of your ear, grinding his bulge into the swell of your ass. “Day after day.” He groans almost painfully, filled with all sorts of emotions. He holds you firm against his body, grazing his bottom teeth against the lobe of your ear. “All it takes is a single glance.” His words have your clit pulsing under your tewng and your thighs rubbing against one another. “The sight of you…of your swollen breasts… your swollen womb…” he hisses, on edge and high strung as he caresses your belly, “…it makes me lose myself.” 

“Fuck.” You breathe, reaching behind you to tug his loincloth down in a frantic manner. You feel his lips nibble and nip at the skin behind your ear, making their way down the back of your neck. You can’t help but moan from the feeling, your already stiff nipples tingling from his gentle touches. 

You feel his hands wander over your stomach and under your tewng, his fingers fondling your folds as he gently parts them. He grunts against your neck, inhaling your scent deep in his lungs as his hips stutter into you. Your stickiness coats his fingers as they slip and slide over your hardened nub. 

You tug even harder at his loincloth, struggling to get the annoying thing off him. You let out a frustrated grunt, and he lets loose an amused chuckle, peppering soft kisses down to the bow of your shoulder.

“What is it? Need me to take you right here?” He husks low, voice muffled by his continuous kisses. “…where someone may see?” 

Right, you’re on the patio. 

Out in the open, under the light of the moon. Ralaks marui pod is far from the village on a cul de sac. The only thing further than here is sand, open water and a couple smaller islands off in the distance. However, there' is's always the slim chance of a na’vi or two going for a late night swim or on a romantic adventure far from the village.

But you simply didn’t care. 

If anything it only riles you up more—the riskiness of it all, the thought of being caught. The need to be sneaky and quiet, when all you want to do is moan his name until your voice goes dim. It seems that Ralak feels similarly as you feel him throb against you, excited to take you where you stand. 

“I don’t mind.” You huff shakily, finally tugging the cloth down enough for his cock to spring out. “Do you?” 

You feel him smile against your shoulder when you grip it in your hand, smooth teeth bumping into your skin as his free hand cups your full breast. 

“Not at all, my tanhì.” He breathes, gently kneading the soft flesh, feeling the trickle of your milk flow over the back of his hand. 

“Good.” Your lungs tremble beneath his touch, hand desperately stroking his length. Yet he remains gentle with his touches, pinning your clit between his two fingers as he rubs you slowly. “Then hurry…I need you inside.” 

Ralak quickly moves his kisses back up your neck, and you feel the tip of his tongue tickle the lobe of your ear before he suckles on it lightly. Tingles ripple up your spine, sending your head into a shiver as you lean into his mouth. His fingers dip into your soaking core just as he rolls your tender nipple between his other two digits. 

It’s all too much. All-consuming. Making you gasp for air in lungs that won’t seem to fill. Fog clouds your head. How did you get here? How did this happen? Fuck, it doesn’t matter. Not when you feel like this.

You’re already so sensitive as it is, so tender and delicate, like silk under his fingers. He pushes his two fingers even deeper inside your aching pussy, curling them and earning a whimper from your lips and quiver of your tail.

“Not too loud, oeyä sevin muntxate [my pretty/beautiful wife]”. Ralak whispers the hushed praise, knowing it’s what you need to hear. 

You’re so much warmer around his fingers than usual, so much softer. Wetter. With each curl of his digits comes out a squelch as he works you open for his cock that he’s been dying to plunge inside you. 

You wrap your leg around his, perching your heel on the side of thigh as you lean all your weight back into him. He steadies his knees, supporting you with ease. Your head slumps back into his shoulder, opening up your neck to his hot breaths, an arm reaching behind you to fist his hair. 

His brows are tense and his breath is heavy. He’s overcome with arousal and he can’t keep his composure as your scent grows stronger now your throat is directly under his nose. Truthfully it’s been too long, he knows that. He knows he’s been too protective, too cautious. Depriving you and him of the touch that’s necessary between a mated pair. 

His fingers slip out of you, now expertly unravelling the loose knot just barely keeping your tewng on you. As it drops to the floor his fingers are back where they were, rubbing sloppy circles into your clit before spreading your pussylips apart. His hips stutter as he attempts to align the crown of his cock with your slit and finally buck forward when he senses your little, exposed hole. 

His cock sinks inside you at an achingly slow pace—inch by inch. You let loose a lengthy moan when you feel him fill you completely, no longer caring if anyone hears you. 

“Hnng—I missed you.” The gruff words slip out as he bottoms out inside your cunt. He has longed to feel your gummy walls squeeze oh-so tightly around his cock. “You alright?” He checks on you in a daze, voice thick with want—with the desire to pummel your little pussy until your voice is hoarse. But the last thing he wants is to hurt his heavily pregnant mate. 

“Mhm, ple-ase.” You purr with need, closing your eyes and relaxing completely into him. Trusting someone this much feels too good. Ralak moves slowly, pumping his cock in and out of you in a languid haze, tickling your sensitive clit with just the tips of his fingers. 

“Tanhì—haah—you are squeezing me so tight.” Ralak moans as his strokes grow with intent. His hips roll deep, shoving and forcing his cock inside your sensitive cunt until his swollen balls kiss your clit. 

He’s unapologetically coaxing out the orgasm you’ve been denied for so long with only a few lazy thrusts. And he knows it. He can feel it from the way you clench around him. From the way your thighs tremble a little more after each deep stroke…from the sweet, filthy noises that shamelessly drip from your lips. 

“Oh my—Ralak! I-I’m gonna—” You sputter the words between choked sounds, eyes welling with tears from the burn between your legs. 

“I know, I know.” He huffs, dragging his hot tongue along the length of your throat. The truth is, he’s close too. But he can’t allow himself to finish inside you. He can’t risk letting himself go and pounding recklessly into your poor, tender pussy. He’s already had a long day. “Let it out, tìyawn [love].”

Its almost cathartic. 

Weeks of pent up frustration released in a few minutes, leaving you near convulsing in his grip. You can’t stop the flutter of your pussy walls if you try, it’s out of your control, much like the surge of white fire going right through you. Your legs fight to stay open and you hold onto your mate to keep you standing. Gurgled noises spill from your lips as your body shudders under him. His hips still, keeping his cock buried to the hilt inside your quivering cunt as he holds you tight, supporting you until you finish riding out your high. 

“Good girl. Good girl.” He praises you in a hushed, shaky voice, extremely wound up from feeling you flourish so beautifully under his touch. It's a miracle that he didn't empty himself inside you right then and there. 

“But you—but you haven’t—” You sputter, collapsing into him as your legs give out. 

“I know. It is alright..” He hums, carefully leading you inside the marui to lay you on the bed. 

“Thought you were c-cleaning me u-up. Not mak-king m-more of a mess.” Your breath is relentlessly hitching as you watch him hastily remove his tewng that’s been digging into his thighs. A reminder of exactly how quickly things happened. 

“You are right.” Ralak tsks, cocking a brow as he stares down at you with a predatory leer. “I did say that, didn’t I?” 

Ralak situates himself between your legs, crouching over you, ensuring there’s plenty of space between him and your stomach. His cock presses between your sticky folds as his lips press against your clammy neck. He tastes the faint saltiness of the thin film of sweat on your skin as he drags his lips down your chest—between your breasts. 

“Lak…” You whisper, back bowing against the bed. 

You’re way too sensitive right now, like an exposed nerve. His eyes snap up and lock with yours, responding to you moaning his name. His tongue darts out, sampling a taste of the spilled milk on your breast. Then his eyes slam shut, tensed brows and scrunched nose telling you that he’s unsure of the flavour in his mouth. 

Eyes widening, you’re taken aback by his actions, feelings of shyness and embarrassment creeping back in. Fisting his hair, you pull gently at his head to pry him off your chest, only for him to resist your tugs. 

“You shouldn’t have done—why’d you do—” You struggle to find the right words at this moment, flustered and nervous that he’d do that. 

But what leaves you even more speechless is when he opens his eyes to reveal dots for pupils, a look you only see when he’s high strung. And then he eagerly takes your nipple into his mouth, latching on and ensuring the suction is airtight. The tip of his tongue flicks at your hardened nipple a few times before he gently suckles at your breast.

A tingling sensation radiates your chest and you feel it in the pit of your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat, a little surprised by his lewd behaviour. And soon, all you can hear are the repeated, muffled gulps of your warm milk flowing down his throat.

“W-What are yo-ou d-doing, my love?” You mewl, squirming underneath him from the strange feeling. He unlatches harshly with an audible pop, leaving your pointed nipple misshapened and exposed. 

“Cleaning you.” He huffs quickly as he catches his breath, diving back in to lap up the milk leaking from your other neglected breast. Your head throws back in what is undeniably pleasure now, legs tightening around his waist. You look down in a daze, watching him feast greedily, feeling his hips begin to stammer against you. 

“Fuck—I didn’t know this i-is what you meant.” You’re finally calming down from your orgasm now, already feeling your body gearing up to have another. His desperation is pungent. Evident in the way his cock grinds between your soft, slippery folds, scenting your cunt with it. 

He pulls off you with yet another pop, his tongue swiping his bottom lip so not to let the bead of milk dripping off of it go to waste. He’s huffing and puffing against you, trailing his wet kisses down your curved stomach as he tucks your legs back. You feel his hot breath against your thighs and your legs tremble in anticipation. 

“Kalin, kalin [sweet, sweet].” He mumbles, kissing your pulsing clit. “Oeyä kalin [My sweet].” 

“Oh shit.” You let loose the breathy curse when you feel his lips pucker around your over sensitive nub, and squeal when he begins to suck on it too. Your hands fly to his head, grasping at his hair to shove his face further into your cunt. He devours you with exhilaration, lapping at your leaking slit to savour your sweetness. 

His cock is aching now. He’s so hard it’s painful. He can’t stop throbbing and his cock strains so hard it’s swollen. He wants to shove himself back inside you— your warmth—and hump at you until his marked you with his essence. 

He can’t help but touch himself as he pleasures you. Stroking his cock with every lick of your pussy. Thrusting into his hand when he feels you throb against his tongue. He’s groaning and grunting into your cunt, urgently chasing his own release as he sucks on you for his own pleasure. 

Too busy to realise that you’ve been begging him to slow down a bit. That you’re too sensitive. That you feel like you may explode if he continues. 

“Ralak! I just came! F-Fuck—” You yank his head away, hurriedly rubbing at your sore pussy.

Ralak pants for air, pulling back into a standing position to reveal that he’s been fucking his hand this entire time. It’s glossy with his precum as it dribbles down his strake. He’s frantically stroking himself, staring brazenly down at your pussy—taking in how it’s flushed and swollen, glistening with his spit and your slick. It’s a delicious sight, tempting him to go in for another taste. 

He’s close and you can tell, his hips are stuttering erratically and he’s groaning like a dying man. You sit up slowly, bringing yourself to your knees as you shuffle your way closer to him. Your chest is level to his cock and you cup your full breasts with both hands, pushing them together only inches away from him. 

He seems a little confused, unsure of what your next move may be. Fuck, you aren’t even sure of what your next move is. But you’re going with your instinct, pinching your nipples until they begin to leak milk. His brows jump, the sight of that sends his hips stammering into his hand. With each huff and thrust sends his cock a little closer to you, until his swollen cockhead is poking at your breasts. 

You shuffle a little closer, moaning softly from watching him get off like this. Then you feel his sticky cock slip in between your breasts, and his hand falls to your shoulders. 

Now he’s fucking your tits in a frenzy, his leaking tip prodding at your lips. You stick your tongue out for a taste, allowing his cockhead to slip and slide against it. He’s groaning and moaning, eyes fixed in the sight beneath him. The pressure from his fat cock between your breasts only makes you leak even more, and that’s when he loses it completely.

“Oh, fuck.” He growls, thrusting hard enough to shove his cockhead into your mouth. You feel him throb violently against your tongue, his thick, hot load coating your cheeks until they're full to the brim. He pulls out as soon as he realises what he’s down, immediately reaching for your bedside bucket to spit in. 

But you shake your head, glossy eyes staring up at him as you swallow his cum with a singular, loud gulp. His eyes bulge, his hands flying to cup your cheeks as he quickly searches your eyes. You simply smile, using a thumb to swipe the single bead of cum on your chin and pop it into your mouth. 

Features softening, he returns the smile, chest heaving wildly as it swells with pride. 

——

[evielmostdefinitely]

Pls do something with peacekeeper!Coriolanus I have yet to see anyone do that trope + I feel like he’s more mean and protective in that era

mastermind |peacekeeper!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|

prompt: based off above prompt, but wanted to tweak it a teeny tiny bit so this is how coriolanus meets capitol!reader. the plot of the original film is altered a little to fit this.

contains: tw- violence, guns, shooting. dark, protective, manipulative coriolanus. not super heavy, but there are some kinda darkish themes so read at your own discretion.

“Snow,” Commander Hoff’s gruff voice rang through the doorway, hitting Coriolanous head on, his heart lurching with fear. They found out about Lucy Gray, that she’d escaped after Mayfair and Billy’s death. Or maybe worse, maybe she hadn’t headed north, maybe she’d told them. 

His mind raced as he took a step forward, helmet in hand respectfully, hoping Hoff wouldn’t see the way his hands trembled. “Commander, Sir.” Snow held his head high. If this was to be the end, he wouldn’t go out crying. Not like Sejanus- no, Corio would have pride. 

Hoff set the papers down on his desk with a huff, head jerking back for Coriolanus to come towards him. “Snow, I need you to escort Miss Duke to the Mayor’s office.” He nodded towards the corner. “I guess with the recent tragedy of his daughter, Mayor Mayfield’s mind has been elsewhere. He didn’t get his quarterly tesserae count turned in. The Capitol sent Miss Duke to get them, so make sure she gets there.” 

Coriolanus’ eyes wandered to you, standing in the corner properly, hands clasped elegantly in front of you. A shining beacon in the dark skies of the coal country, a glimmering ray of good after all the bad Corio had. He could tell you were from The Capitol, though you tried to dress more humbly for the visit to the district, he supposed. 

You gave him a smile, and for a moment, Corio’s heart leapt with excitement. That familiar rush of heat returning, coursing through his chest. “Private Snow will take you there, Miss Duke. He’s one of our best. On his way to officer training in Two. You’re in good hands.” Commander Hoff nodded. 

You thanked him quietly, kitten heels clicking across the hardwood floors. Coriolanus followed you, trying to keep his stoic expression, though his eyes wandered to the swell of your ass, hugged perfectly in your dress. 

“Snow,” Commander Hoff called before he left. “A word?” 

The icy chill of fear flooded back into Corio’s system, gripping the knob. You didn’t seem to notice, nodding politely, shutting the door behind you. 

“Sir?” Coriolanus swallowed the lump in his throat, approaching the desk slowly. 

Hoff leaned back in his chair. “You know who that is, right?” 

Coriolanus blinked. His mind had been so occupied with his impending doom, his fate had seemed to turn and tread on the worst sides of things, he was so sure it would continue. “Miss Duke?” 

Hoff blinked at him, laughing softly. “Yeah, Duke, Snow.” He pressed. Coriolanus felt dumb, small like he did when he talked to Highbottom. “Snow, does the name Atticus Duke mean anything to you?” 

Coriolanus' eyes widened lightly, turning towards the door in surprise. “Atticus Duke? The-” 

“-The man who owns half of Panem?” Hoff snorted lightly. “Yeah, that’s his youngest out there. Only girl, alright?” 

Coriolanus felt his curiosity peek. He’d been wallowing in the loss of Lucy Gray, he didn’t even put it together. Thinking you were just another Capitol girl. Not the Duke Heiress. 

“Yes, sir. I-I see that now.” Corio nodded dumbly. 

“Good. So you know that her father paid for the destruction of the rebellion? That he funded the Capitol? And that if these people see her, those fucking Rebels are likely to want to hurt her?” Hoff pressed, his eyes narrowed in seriousness. “And that if something happens to her, our entire platoon will be hanging from that tree- or worse?” 

It shouldn’t have made Coriolanus as excited as he was. The thought of having that much power. He could easily have that level of control, have people quaking with fear- even the powerful ones, trembling at his feet the way Atticus Duke did. Oh, how he envied it. How he craved it. 

“Yes, sir.” Coriolanus nodded. 

“Snow, listen to me.” Hoff sat up straight, leaning over the desk. “If any of them get close to her, no mercy- do you understand?” 

Coriolanus nodded again, spine straightening with authority. “I have others trailing and leading the both of you- crowd control, but I wanted her to feel safe. Feel welcome. So I stuck her with you. Figured a familiar face from the Capitol would put her at some ease. Keep her from telling her father something that would have him questioning my rank and order around here.” 

“I understand, Commander.” Coriolanus said firmly. “I’ll keep her safe.” 

“Wow,” You muttered, looking around the cobbled street. The Peacekeepers ahead of you barking orders, scaring off any pedestrians wandering about. “Is it always like this?” 

Corio blinked, his gun cradled in his hand, finger on the trigger- ready. “Always like what?” 

“This,” You waved around you. “It’s very…” 

“Depressing?” Corio muttered, a grumble, eyes scanning the perimeter in front of him over the gray skies and smog filled air. 

“Yeah.” You smiled softly. “I pictured it… prettier?” 

“It’s the coal district, Miss Duke.” Coriolanus said, the barrel of his gun pointed for backup at a scurrying coal miner. 

“So that’s what makes it so sad?” You challenged, brow raised. 

Corio didn’t answer. He knew what you were implying, and he wouldn’t humor it. Instead, his eyes scanned the street. “May I ask why you’re here?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. 

“What?” Corio snapped, harsher than he meant to. 

“Why you’re here?” You repeated. “I, uh, I don’t want to sound rude. I just- I saw you on the games. You were the mentor who won. I just, I figured you would be at University with the others.” 

“I made an enemy. A powerful one.” Corio quipped shortly, jaw set. He couldn’t let his mind race and spiral, not now. He needed to stay focused. 

“Oh,” You muttered, looking down at the wet, broken road. “I’m sorry.” 

Corio’s heart skipped, maybe with joy, maybe with fear. “May I ask you why you’re here?” Coriolanus asked, eyes cutting down towards you. 

“I have to get the count for the tesserae.” You motioned towards the Mayor’s office before you. “I have to take them back to The Capitol.” 

“Yes, but,” Corio paused, scanning the area. “You’re- Surely, you don’t need to do that, Miss Duke.” He muttered, voice dropping to a low octave. 

You blushed, sheepishly looking towards your shoes, ruined from the muck in the road. “So, Commander Hoff briefed you on me?” You grinned. 

Coriolanus didn’t answer. “I already knew.” He lied easily, eyes cutting to you. “We’ve met before. In passing. I was Sejanus’ friend.” 

“Oh,” Your face fell. “Right. I-I am so sorry for your loss. It was-” 

“-Yes.” Corio nodded, the bile rising in his throat. “We-We met at the Academy’s Ball two springs ago.” 

You turned, looking at him fully for the first time. He tried not to blush, icy eyes meeting your own for a moment. “That’s right.” You grinned. “You-You had longer hair. Tigris’ cousin?” 

“Yes.” Coriolanus nodded. 

“She was apprenticing for my aunt.” You smiled softly. 

Corio looked at you, his rigid posture slacking just for a moment, relaxing in your presence. “Why aren’t you doing something like that?” He asked, brows furrowing for a moment. “Or in University, yourself. Surely that would be… more appropriate than this.”

You bit back a smile, chin ducking down. “Maybe.” You shrugged. “I like this job, though. I get to see the Districts.” 

“Why would you ever want to do that?” Corio snarled lightly. “I can’t wait to get out of them. Get away from these people.” He muttered bitterly. 

You blinked at him, eyes narrowing lightly, stopping before the steps of the Mayor’s building. “You seemed quite fond of that song bird you helped win.” You countered. “And she was among these people.” 

Coriolanus was stunned, mouth opening stupidly, before swallowing his jumbled words. Instead, he offered you his arm politely for you to steady yourself on while you climbed the steps to the Mayor’s office. 

Coriolanus waited outside the office at attention while you collected the tesseraes for the quarter from a distraught, and clearly drunken, Mayor Mayfield. His slurred speech, pores sweating out whiskey soaked odor. 

You took the envelope, thanking him before quickly slipping out. Coriolanus stood beside you, falling back into step with you, the other Peacekeepers joining around the two of you. 

“You’re returning to The Capitol today?” Corio asked, though his eyes stayed straight ahead. 

“They asked me to stay the night.” You answered simply. “Something about a train leaving in the morning?” You looked at him carefully. You knew he was to join you with the others. You’d given the orders from Dr. Gaul to Commander Hoff that morning.

Coriolanus frowned, turning to you curiously. “Tomorrow? Why would they make you-” 

The ravenous bark of Peacekeepers in front of you made you jump, a deranged looking man, covered in soot from the mines, charging at you with a vengeful pace. You froze, clutching the envelope in front of you like a shield, glued to the concrete in pure fear. 

“Gimme that envelope, you stupid bitch!” The man roared, mere feet away from you. “Get my daughter’s name outta there! Take it out!” 

You flinched, bracing for the impact of him hitting you, his body hurling towards yours. It never came. Instead, a shot behind you had a gasp tearing from your lungs. The bullet so close to your own head, you heard it whizzing past you like the June Bugs that flew in the fields in the countryside of the district. 

The man grunted, a bloody gurgle, a crimson patch seeping through his stomach. The other Peacekeepers seized him, shouting and grabbing at him, hauling him away roughly. Your hand trembled, pressing to your lips. Coriolanus stood behind you, gun lowering, finger still on the trigger. 

His face was hard, stoic, eyes narrowed dangerously- furiously. “Come on.” Coriolanus muttered, a hand gently on your back, guiding you forwards. The crowds were peering, poking around at the sound of gunshots, the groans and screams of the man. “We need to get you to the Commander’s Quarters.” 

“Snow, hey, look we-we didn’t see him-” One Peacekeeper jogged frantically, hands trembling in fear. “He just- He came out of nowhere. I’m so sorry, Miss.” 

“It’s alrig-” 

“-Come on.” Coriolanus hissed, cutting your apology off short. “We need to get her back quickly. Can you manage that?” He snapped at the other boy. 

The other boy faltered for a moment, scrambling back into line. You were still shaking, pushed into Corio’s side far closer than what would be appropriate for two strangers. “He-He was just saying sorry.” You muttered, your own eyes scanning around you. 

“He nearly got you killed.” Coriolanus snapped, his eyes hard but they never met your gaze, scanning around you protectively. “His carelessness nearly cost you your life.” Cost us all our lives, Corio thought. 

You didn’t respond, only stepping with his quickened pace. 

“Are you alright?” You asked Coriolanus, peeking around the corner of the train station towards him. 

He was surprised to see you, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. He assumed the ‘Princess of Panem’ would have her own private carriage on the train, not subjected to riding with him. 

“I think I’m supposed to ask you that.” Corio gave a half smile, a tone much lighter than it was before. 

You blushed, looking down. “I’m alright.” You sighed lightly. “I told your Commander that. I promise I don’t need an escort back to The Capitol.” 

Coriolanus looked down at his bags. “I’m not- I’m returning to The Capitol as well.” He said, chest boasting at the words. 

“Oh?” You lifted a brow. “No District Two?” 

“No,” Corio shook his head. “I’ve been asked to return.” It was vague, and he knew it- knew it piqued your interest. 

“Well, congratulations. I’m sure your family will be excited.” You smiled politely, lifting your own overnight bag when the train doors opened. 

“Here,” Coriolanus stopped you, reaching for the strap of the bags. Your hands brushed in the smallest way. Overlapping as he took the bag politely, a surge of electricity jolted between both of you, rapid sparks that would crescendo in the days, weeks, years to come. 

You blushed, turning your head to hide the way it flustered you. It was so embarrassingly juvenile, his eyes sparkling, lips tugging in a grin when he looked at you, pinky grazing over your knuckle just for a moment before he held the bag. 

“Allow me.” Coriolanus was smug, proud, pulling the bag up. He let you on first, placing the bags away, eyes cutting towards you. You were stealing a glance at him, turning after being caught sheepishly. 

You had the window seat, looking out at the smoggy station. “Is this seat taken?” Corio asked, hand resting on the arm of the seat next to you. 

You shook your head, moving your hands to your lap. You were so poised, Corio knew it had been drilled into your head since you were young, just as it was to him. His mind raced with excitement, the idea of getting you to be so improper, defile you. 

“Do you know your orders once you return?” You asked, looking at him carefully. The trains whistle trilling in the background. 

“I’m not sure.” It was a complete lie, he only knew a fraction of what awaited him when he returned. All the more reason he needed an ally, a powerful one at that. 

“Why?” Corio pressed, leaning forward to look at you. His dog tags hung loosely around his neck, draping over his underclothes of his uniform. It made your heart race. 

“I was just curious.” You shrugged, swallowing gently. 

“You were wanting to see me again?” Corio pressed, boldly. His heart skipped when you whipped around, staring at him with a wide eyed expression. 

“W-What?” You choked out, trying to remain calm, composed, but your heart was beating so fastly you were sure it would burst. 

“Were you wanting to see me again?” Coriolanus hummed, shifting in his seat to turn towards you. You were pressed against the glass, pinned by his gaze. “Because I was hoping to see you again. If you’d have me.” 

“You would?” You squeaked, sure that your fluster was apparent all over your face. 

“If you’d let me.” Corio purred smoothly. “I’d like to take you out sometime. Get to know you better. I’m very,” His fingers brushed over your own hand, satisfied at how you shuddered. “Interested in getting to know you.” 

You swallowed. No man had ever been so direct with you. He’d saved you the night before, so effortlessly. The feeling of his bicep around you, shielding you away, strong and steady. It had you sneaking your fingers between your thighs later that night shamefully at the thought. 

“I-I would like that.” You nodded, mind screaming when his hand held your, cradled with such care, you almost forgot how brutal he was yesterday. 

“Tomorrow?” Coriolanus asked, head tilting to the side. He wanted to set the date before you forgot, before you had time to ask around about him or think too much about his actions before. 

“That-That would be lovely.” You nodded, tongue swelling thickly in your mouth, heart hammering as he pushed closer and closer. 

His hand cradled your jaw softly, thumb stroking over your cheek bone. “May I?” Corio hummed, eyes lustful. 

You nodded. You weren’t quite sure why, you’d certainly never done something like this before. But then his lips were on you, hand cradling your jaw, moving to the back of your head gently. He migrated into your chair, somewhere between the Districts, hands on your back, pulling you in closer and closer. He kissed you like a man starved, possessively and passionately all at once- it made your head spin. 

It dawned on Coriolanus, what Dr. Gaul was talking about. Sacrifice, while brutal, was necessary. Losing Lucy Gray, Sejanus, without that would it have ever brought you to him? He would be in the woods, starving with a girl who nearly used him to survive, or hanging from a tree next to Sejanus. Certainly not sitting side by side in the train car, stealing small smiles and gentle kisses with you. His fate had turned, re-routed and he could see it now- his future, his empire with you. 

[drchucktingle]

Hi Dr. Tingle,

I just wanted to say, as someone who has been in the Homestuck fandom for a long time, that I'm so sorry people connected to the game and the comic have been so unnecessarily unkind to you, and that they've carried on this bit so far past the point of decency. Homestuck as a piece of media is deeply saturated with a very particular brand of early 2010s online irony, and there are some folks in the fandom who just refuse to let it go.

I think there are a lot of people out there who choose to take your sincerity as mockery, because to do otherwise would force them to confront their own cynicism and irony-poisoning and commit to self reflection in a way that they're not willing to do at this point in their lives. I'm not saying they're inherently bad people, because I don't believe that and (based only on the limited snapshot of yourself that you give to the world) I don't think you would either, only that they're making unkind decisions out of a fear of difference. Your work is both delightfully fun and incredibly meaningful, for me and a lot of others, and I just wanted to say that.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, so I'll just say that I hope your day is going well if/when you're reading this.

Respectfully,

Ray/cultivating-saplings

P.S. I would classify Hussie as a light scoundrel, in a 'season 1 villain who you can tell is eventually going to move into the heroes' apartment later in the show and hang out eating all of their chips' sort of way.

P.P.S. I like your lab coat :]

i do not have a lot to respond with other than I LIKE THIS MESSAGE and i think you are correct not just with this way of a specific fandom but with a HUGE PORTION OF THE INTERNET and a certain age range who trotted up in online forums and various websites.

there is a deep deep deep irony poisoning going on with some of these buckaroos and i think my trot kind of short circuits that and it is difficult for these folks to grapple with it. i think when you are used to every single thing on the internet being drenched in irony and every big reveal of an online presence being some keyboard goofball 'trotting for the lulz' it can be very difficult to see chuck and just accept that i am sincere. i have empathy for this.

i should also add that, of course, not all irony is bad. too much can be very destructive though.

all i can do is keep creating my art and being sincere about it, and i think the longer that continues to more irony poisoning will drain from some of these veins. that is one way i can prove love is real i think.

[moonjxsung]

No Guts / No Glory

Copyright Ⓒ 2024 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Read part 1 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 18.2k

Warnings: nipple/breast play, clitoral stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, sex in a semi-public establishment (no one is around), creampie, spitting during sex, depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood

Synopsis: Bang Chan competes in the biggest title boxing fight of his life, terrified at the prospect of losing two things now- this match, and you.

18+. Mdni!

•

“The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

•

Contrary to the truths of a boxer, a trainer’s punctuality is typically admirable.

And Mr. Seo is no different, you quickly learn, as he enters the interviewing studio at a whole five minutes prior to his call time.

He’s a bit hesitant to approach you at first, the same way Chan once was, bowing politely as you gesture to the folding director’s chair across from you. And when he finally takes his seat, smoothing down a sleek black blazer he wears paired with a silk blue tie, you take notice of the way his jacket seems to constrict around the broad muscles he flaunts, the buttons of his shirt practically clinging onto the fabric that hugs his chest.

“Thanks for having me,” he says respectfully, giving you a small nod as his lips pull into a closed-mouth smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you say nervously, scanning his gaze in hopes of reading him better.

But he’s entirely unreadable, evident in the way his eyes don’t leave yours, awaiting some form of instruction as you toy with the camera and ensure it’s begun recording.

“Could you state your name, and relationship to the subject for the camera?” You begin, swallowing a lump in your throat as he folds his hands in his lap and shifts his gaze to the lens.

“Mr. Seo,” he begins, clearing his throat before continuing. “Bang Chan’s personal trainer.”

To which you then nod, satisfied with the introduction, as you begin the interview.

“How long have you been training Bang Chan?” You inquire, observing the way he furrows his brows in concentration.

“Gosh,” he begins, exhaling a sharp breath before beginning his response. “Around ten years now. It was just a hobby for him, when we initially began. I don’t think either of us figured he’d be participating in a title fight one day.”

“What’s it been like, watching him grow so quickly?”

“Exhausting,” Mr. Seo admits, slouching back in his seat as he now crosses his arms across his chest. “He loses his winning streak, I lose all my credibility.”

He chuckles as he finishes, shaking his head and gesturing with a wave of his hand. “I’m kidding. Chan’s great. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s as stubborn as they come, but he’s very talented. It’s all him.”

Your gaze remains on his in a passing moment of silence, desperate to ask him all the burning questions heavy on your mind this evening; how Chan had reacted to the agonizingly transparent rendition of his docu-series. What he’d spoken to Mr. Seo about, upon the realization that the private conversations you’d shared with him had now been broadcast to thousands of anticipatory viewers. His most vulnerable emotions on display for the whole world, your betrayal made apparent with the sweeping number of viewers the episode had garnered. And especially how he’s doing now, considering he’s failed to answer any of your calls since the episode’s broadcast.

Your heartbeat quickens in your chest as you think back to the series, and you shake your head as you’re brought back to the present moment once more, Mr. Seo sat across from you as he awaits another question.

“Could you tell us how your relationship to Bang Chan first started?”

Mr. Seo thinks it over briefly, his eyes scanning the ceiling, and then he nods once before beginning.

“He was only fourteen. Walked into our gym like he owned the place. I watched him from outside the ring, and he caught my eye because he seemed so angry, the way he threw uppercuts like a pro. I suggested he softened his hits a little- work on his form, instead of just his strength. He kept coming back, and I took him under my wing.”

Mr. Seo sighs, and then he uncrosses his arms, grasping his knees lightly before continuing.

“Maybe I should’ve seen it back then,” he finishes.

You furrow your brows, cocking your head as you observe his gaze fall to the floor.

“Seen what back then?”

He shrugs lightly, as though he’s unsure of his response, and then he delivers an answer much harsher than you’re anticipating.

“That he doesn’t want to do this.”

There’s a silence in the room as he shuffles around in his seat, and then his eyes flicker over the lens of the camera before you can utter a response.

“You mean… the fame,” you question, your eyebrows knitting together as you ponder his words.

“Boxing,” he clarifies.

The silence grows louder the second time around, and your back rests flat upon the back of the back of the chair as you allow yourself to get a little more situated in your seat.

“He doesn’t want to box anymore,” Mr. Seo repeats, pursing his lips and nodding to affirm his statement. He seems to think for a moment, as though carefully recalling Chan’s words, before elaborating.

“He’s wanted to quit for years now. He gets in these mental slumps, where I can’t get him to do anything. Nobody can. At first, I thought it was just for fear of losing that damn winning streak. I’ve since realized it’s more than that.”

He seems to fix on something in the distance beyond your seated figure, and you shift in your seat nervously, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, you nod meekly in his direction, gesturing for him to continue.

“What is it, then?”

Mr. Seo is quiet again, chewing on the inside of his lip as he deciphers an adequate response.

“Tell me,” he begins. “You ever stood in the middle of that ring?”

You think back to all those times with Chan, staring out at the rows of punching bags that line the walls, the gallery of famous boxers peering down over the vast space and the suffocating confines of the wired rope that lines the four corners.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Few times.”

“What’d it feel like to you?”

Nerve-wracking. Entirely too large- and yet somehow still claustrophobic, all at once. Intimidating, daunting. Voyeuristic.

“It’s awful,” you voice back, swallowing a knot in your throat. “It’s so… public.”

He nods understandingly.

“Fourteen years,” he echoes back. “He’s been under that pressure. On an unbroken winning streak since he started professionally. He’s been dubbed ‘miracle athlete’, ‘athletic genius’- you name it. I’ve never seen him more miserable.”

You don’t say anything just yet, realizing this is exactly what Mrs. Bang couldn’t seem to coax out of him. The harsh reality that although it’s his passion, his lifelong dream to win this title fight, perhaps boxing just doesn’t serve the same purpose it once did for him. It’s now accompanied by the constant expectation to win, the all-consuming fear of what it means to lose, more eyes on him as his private life is publicized and monetized. And now the crushing reality that his reservations surrounding the sport have been televised, much to his utter dismay.

As you make sense of his words, your gaze snaps to the camera, at the blinking red light that indicates this conversation is being recorded, too. Your hand darts out to the shutter release, in an effort to not repeat the same mistakes, and Mr. Seo chuckles when he takes notice of your urgency.

“It’s fine,” he says simply, eyes fixed on the lens again. “He knows I’m airing it all out. It was his request, actually.”

Your motions come to a halt as he speaks of Chan, and you turn to catch his gaze once more, eyebrows arching in an apologetic expression as you find the words to say.

“How is he?” You ask, completely veering off your list of required questions, as you inquire about Bang Chan’s whereabouts.

“It’s been days,” you continue. “I didn’t know they were going to televise all of it. He trusted me, and I get if he doesn’t want anything to do with all of this-”

“He was a little taken aback,” Mr. Seo interjects. “I haven’t heard too much from him, either.”

“You haven’t?” You echo, feeling a pit form in your stomach at the fact that he’s even chosen to distance himself from his trainer in the aftermath.

“Not aside from his request to be as honest with you as possible,” he affirms. “Relay whatever he’s unable to say.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you gesture to the camera again.

“You mean… he wants this to be broadcasted?”

He nods, pursing his lips.

You can’t fathom why he’d want this conversation part to be televised, knowing very well that even Chan himself has trouble opening up about the subject. And now he’s urged Mr. Seo to relay these truths to the viewers- the truths that boxing has kept him in a mental slump for the better part of his whole career now. That his favorite sport is just another burden he bears, alongside a long list of fancy titles and recognitions. And that he simply doesn’t want to be a boxer anymore. Confessions that could hurt him preceding the title fight- and may only indicate one final outcome.

“He can’t quit,” you voice quietly. “He wouldn’t just leave all of this behind him… right?”

“It’s hard to say,” Mr. Seo responds. “He’s in another one of his slumps. He’s missing schedules, the fight’s just around the corner. Chan’s done this before, but it seems pretty serious this time around. The whole world’s watching him. I don’t blame him for wanting to walk away from all of this- I would, too.”

The pit in your stomach seems to grow tenfold as he speaks, and despite his assurances to record the conversation, your hand darts out to stop the recording anyway.

“He can’t quit,” you say again. “This is his life’s dream. He said it himself- losing scares the shit out of him. Doesn’t forfeiting fulfill the same thing?”

“I’m sure it does,” he counters, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve talked him out of it a dozen times before. Unfortunately I can’t get through to him this time around.”

Your eyes dart over the camera, and then back to Mr. Seo, as you ponder Chan’s words tirelessly.

Maybe you should’ve seen this coming long before it got to this point- his desire to walk away from all of this has been evident for as long as you’ve known him. The anger that festers deep down inside of him as he throws uppercuts in the ring, the way he gets so fixated on his sport, he shuts out the rest of the world around him. His fear of losing, but also a hatred for winning so consistently. Putting greater trust and vulnerability in a journalist rather than the people he’s known all his life.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of your distress, cocking his head to meet your gaze which falls onto the tiled floor beneath his leather shoes.

“Hey,” he voices gently. “None of this is your fault. Somebody who’s that down on himself is bound to come to terms with it eventually. He doesn’t resent you, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

He shuffles in his seat once more, and then he sighs a little before speaking again.

“He has a training session tomorrow, in the evening. If he makes it, you can swing by after and get a word in with him. Just don’t say I sent you.”

You nod at his words, swallowing nervously as you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater in your lap. And then you meet his gaze once more, furrowing your brows before speaking.

“Mr. Seo,” you begin. “Why wouldn’t he resent me? I’m no better than the spectators. If anything, I’m worse. Chan probably wants me dead as we speak.”

He chuckles lightly before shaking his head.

“You’re just doing your job,” he explains. “Everybody is well aware of that.”

He thinks for a moment, before continuing.

“I haven’t seen him come to terms with his own emotions like this before- maybe ever. All he knew was anger for so long- I saw it from the moment I met him at the tender age of fourteen. He’s finally being honest with himself about what’s causing these mental slumps. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never witnessed in him before- it’s hardly possible when he’s constantly being told to ‘man up’ by the rest of the world. Did you know he cried in front of me the other day?”

Mr. Seo shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

“He did, if you can believe it. He really cried.”

And you say nothing, in response, simply thinking back to the sight of Bang Chan crying in front of you first, back at his apartment. The way tears cascaded over his hurt expression, and the way he had sniffled in between shaky confessions that losing is what scares him. Losing a boxing match, losing his passion, losing sight of his future in the careful process of finding himself. Forfeiting the biggest title fight of his life, and walking away from all of this as nothing more than a loser.

And perhaps losing you, too- the one person he still finds some semblance of sacredness in.

“Thank you,” you voice to Mr. Seo, as you reach out to shake his hand. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to make this right.”

*

The following evening lulls by painfully slow, as you wait for word from Mr. Seo. Your work doesn’t see you in for the afternoon, as you dismiss yourself early to prepare for the conversation at hand in the comfort of your apartment.

And realistically, what can you say to Bang Chan, to convince him not to walk away from this title fight?

I’m sorry nothing is sacred to you anymore. I’m sorry you’re held to such unsustainable standards. Your mom is right to be worried about you, as is Mr. Seo. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be frustrated with all of this at the same time. Thank you for letting me bear witness to the real Bang Chan, not just the perfect boxer. You’re far more to me than just a video subject.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, or probably assumed already- but perhaps the future of his career depends on this conversation, and it weighs just as heavy on you, too.

As the evening draws to a close, you’re relieved to hear that Mr. Seo confirms Chan has indeed shown up to his scheduled training session like he’d promised.

“He’s a little down tonight,” he details in a short text to you. “But he’ll be here after hours, if you care to swing by.”

And there’s nothing you would miss the opportunity for, you think to yourself, as you shoot him a quick text back and begin toward the training gym.

Your mind runs rampant with endless possibilities of how the conversation might play out. Perhaps he’ll be angry with you, and send you off with a curt wave of his hand. Maybe he’ll be just as emotional as he was with Mr. Seo, assuming the same disposition he did when he first cried to you that night in his apartment. Or maybe he’ll actually listen to what you have to say, the same way you lent a kindly ear to his vulnerable display of emotions.

It’s hard to say- he’s certainly not an easy read, the way you once presumed him to be.

The gym is void of its usual commotion- in fact, if not granted entry by Mr. Seo first, you’re not sure you would've assumed it to be occupied at all. The entrance is dark, as is the hallway, and you can just barely make out his silhouette when he approaches with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mr. Seo remarks in a low voice. “He’s in the back.”

He looks exhausted, mentally and physically, and though he flaunts a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead from training, he wears it somberly, as though Chan’s emotions have now extended to him.

“How is he?” You inquire cautiously, and Mr. Seo shrugs in response.

“I couldn’t say. He’s hardly talking.”

Your heartbeat quickens suddenly at his words, at the thought that you’re trying to talk him out of something he’s already practically set on, even to his trainer’s standards. Realistically, there’s nothing you can say to change his mind- so does it even make sense to try? Is there a good reason to make an appearance, if at all?

“Y/n?” Mr. Seo questions, taking note of the way your gaze fixes beyond his standing figure at the darkened hallway, almost tuning out his presence.

“Yeah,” you say simply, giving him a small nod. “Thanks for letting me in. I really appreciate it.”

He just nods in response, standing aside to grant you full access. And then he’s off without another word, the low hum of his engine starting up in the parking lot.

The gym has never felt more uninviting than in the current chilling atmosphere, as you stride down the hallway and glance around nervously. The gallery wall of boxers is almost indistinguishable amidst the darkness, except for the beaming white smiles of their prideful expressions staring you down. You’re quickly overtaken by discomfort, as your eyes scan the dark gray walls, at the neat rows of boxers that mimic each other with their wide grins. The winners are hard to tell from the losers, and the losers might as well resemble just any normal spectator. Even the greats are unrecognizable to you, despite your proximity to their elegant portraits. And as hard as you squint at the array of frames above you, Baik Hyun-Man could be any of the boxers on this dreary wall.

It’s not until a loud thump echoes in the distance, that you’re brought back to reality, snapping your head in the direction of the boxing ring. It’s dark, like the rest of the gym, with the exception of the dimly-lit recess lights over the punching bag.

And stood in front of it, knees bent, fists positioned to deliver an uppercut, his jaw clenched and heavy bags under his eyes, Bang Chan.

He produces another hard punch to the bag as you take a reluctant step toward him, and then he hits two more times, the contact echoing around the room in tandem with your strides.

Thump. Step. Thump. Two more steps.

When you’re finally behind the ring, your knees grazing the raised platform, you hoist yourself over the edge, finding your balance to resume approaching him. And Chan’s punches finally come to a halt, his chin tucking over his shoulder as he attempts to catch a glimpse of you without turning around fully.

“Hi,” you say simply, halting your actions of nearing him.

Chan remains like that for a passing moment, scanning your standing figure out of his peripheral vision, before turning back toward the bag. He doesn’t deliver another punch, nor does he make any efforts to distance himself from you. He simply exhales deeply, before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have answers for you right now.”

“I’m not interviewing.”

It’s only then that he pivots cautiously on his heels, facing you now, a resigned expression on his face. He’s damp with sweat, glistening under the recess lighting, his thin white tank top practically glued to the convexes of his torso with perspiration.

“Then what do you want?”

“I told you,” you say to him, taking a single step toward him now. “I want to talk.”

His gaze flickers to your hands, which toy nervously with loose threads under the sleeves of your shirt. His lips part to say something, and then he scoffs lightly, before speaking once more.

“What, no camera this time around?”

Your heartbeat quickens at his words, feeling a suffocating sense of guilt as you realize he’s still upset with how the series unfolded in its last broadcast.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to him, dropping your hands at your sides in defeat. “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too.”

Chan is quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed as though he’s challenging you.

“I promise I asked them to omit the footage,” you assure him nervously. “It got into the wrong hands.”

And then you take a sharp breath, before continuing.

“I became obsessed,” you say to him. “With the film. With you. I just wanted to know you better. And when I found that you weren’t this superficial shell of a person like I assumed you were, I couldn’t stop myself from feeding into their asks for this voyeuristic glance at your life.”

Chan’s expression seems to soften as he registers your apology. A part of him knows you’re right- and just like Mr. Seo had conveyed, he doesn’t resent you. Because a part of him is a little relieved he got it out there, for the whole world to comprehend just how scared he is of losing. And in turn, how to go about coping with it.

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore,” Chan remarks, his head hanging a little as he toys with the bandages around his wrists. “Because I quit.”

You can feel the room spin around you as his words pierce through your chest- you’d assumed that an apology would perhaps change his mind about the brash decision. Maybe Mr. Seo was wrong about him, and he is still keen on carrying through with a lifelong dream. But as he stands here before you, his gaze locked on his wrists and his shoulders sagging with shame, you know Mr. Seo had the correct read on him, after all.

“You can’t quit,” you utter reluctantly. “You can’t give up your life’s work because you’re afraid of losing.”

“And be made to look like a complete idiot? Yeah, great idea. I’ll be the first boxer to lose a winning streak to a title fight in over 20 years. That makes me a loser in every sense of the word.”

“This fight isn’t about winning it,” you counter. “It’s about showing up. You think your role models won anything by forfeiting?”

“You don’t get it,” He retorts, a frustrated scoff leaving his lips. “You never will. You’re just here to write some story for your own benefit.”

He seems to regret the words when they escape his lips, evident by the way he meets your gaze and toys with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. And he begins to apologize, but not before you’re interrupting him again.

“Write a story?” You repeat with a scoff, taking a single step toward him and narrowing your eyes. “You think I’m just here to write a story? Is that what you think this is?”

“I could never even begin to explain it to you,” Chan says finally, lowering his head in defeat. “Just… forget it.”

The words pierce through your miraculously still-beating heart, and you can almost feel your blood boil when you see him pivot away from you to make his departure.

Your eyes force themselves away from him, far too agitated with the sight of him to even warrant a brief glance in his direction. And as you stare past him at the gray gallery wall, your gaze meets the familiar sight of the monochromatic photograph, the subject beaming down at you while you search for a final word.

“You know what?” You voice to him, sounding much calmer now as you find the confidence to speak. “You are a loser.”

“What?” He questions, halting his steps to turn his head in your direction.

“I called you a loser,” you emphasize, observing the way he turns to face you now. “Any respectable boxer would know that I’ve always been here to tell your story, not conjure up some sensationalized version of it. Forgive me for caring so much about all of this. About you.”

Chan remains quiet, interest piqued at the way you manage to reach a stalemate with your carefully chosen words. And then he plants two feet on the floor, toying with the straps of the boxing bandages around his knuckles, as he turns away from you and begins toward the back of the gym.

“I’m talking to you,” you practically shout, following in his footsteps and pulling yourself through the gap off the raised platform. You stumble as your feet plant themselves onto the floor, and then you walk briskly behind him, eyebrows furrowed crossly as frustrated tears brim your eyes.

“Sure, just walk away from all of this,” you shout at him, growing increasingly irate at the way he struts down the hallways in front of you, not even switching on the lights as you trail behind him.

“And you know what? Your mom is right,” you voice at him loudly. “You are so fucking preoccupied at being the best at what you do, and that’s exactly what brings you down. It’s like pulling teeth trying to talk to you. I’ve seen it in all you pretentious athletes before, but you’re by far the worst.”

Chan turns a corner, still silent at your remarks as he makes his way into a narrow tiled hallway and into the gym showers. The thought crosses your mind to leave, knowing that you have no business following your video subject into the men’s showers. And yet you don’t, maintaining your stance confidently as you watch him toy with the faucet handle on the wall.

“You don’t even realize the way being so cold affects the people around you. The way they so clearly worry about you- and all you can do is dismiss them, and lie to their fucking faces. Everybody’s walking on eggshells around you.”

Chan pushes the steel lever to the right, and you take a step back when the shower head begins to run with a steady stream of water, cascading over his lean figure as he remains standing. You stutter to speak as you watch Chan pull the black t-shirt he wears over his head, discarding it onto the now wet tiled floor and running two hands through his dampened hair.

And your eyes make every effort to refrain from staring too hard at the toned body he reveals to you- dripping in beads of sweat and water alike, trickling down the muscular contours of his chiseled abs and finding purchase along the elastic waistband of his shorts.

The etched convexes of his pectorals flex with subtle movements as his head hangs, brows furrowed in deep concentration as he pulls on the tightly-bound bandages around his knuckles- to no avail, the water drenching them as he continues to tug on them frustratedly.

“I hope you know that the silent treatment won’t do anything for you,” you admonish, approaching him with a single step.

You recall his strong aversion to getting his bandages wet, so instinctively your hands find his, pinching the nylon fabric between your fingers and beginning to undo the bandages around his bruised fingers as his gaze fixes onto yours.

He says nothing, the damp ends of his hair dribbling warm droplets of water onto your shirt as he towers over you, the running shower drowning out the sounds of his heavy breathing as he admires you at this proximity to him.

Your ears are flushed a deep shade of red, still riddled with clear frustration as you rant to him about all his shortcomings- and yet he can’t shake the endearing fact that you’re still helping him, despite the callous words you throw at him.

“Asshole,” he hears you utter, amongst his own deafening thoughts of you. “You can go your whole life running away from all of this whenever you feel the slightest bit threatened, and you might be fooling everybody else, but not me. I know boxing hasn’t inhibited you to be this shell of a human. Good luck with everything,” you snap, pulling the last of the bandage off from around his hands.

“But I hope you know that not even a trophy could refute the fact that you’re a fucking loser.”

Chan lets a breathy chuckle escape his lips, eyes flickering over your pursed lips when you finally crane your neck to look up at him. He’s properly drenched now, strands of hair falling into his face as his expression grows serious.

Neither of you say anything, heavy breaths escaping your parted lips and swirling into each other as he waits for you to make your departure. And yet you don’t, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths as you observe the way his eyelashes glisten under the cascading water. You watch the way the water collects along his philtrum, fusing into one reflective sphere along his top lip and dangling as he searches for the words to say- and he can’t find them, simply shutting his eyes as the water streams over his eyelids, practically forcing them shut.

He waits for the sound of your departing footsteps, or maybe for the shower to shut off if you’re even the slightest bit keen on talking things out.

And yet his body relaxes down into yours when he feels you heighten your still-standing figure, shifting your weight onto the tips of your toes so that you can brush strands of wet hair out of his face.

He shivers in your touch, exhaling a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in this whole time. And then he works against you with ease when you finally press your lips to his, allowing the water to transfer from his open mouth to yours, the salty flavor of his sweat still present on your tongue.

Chan doesn’t say anything when you pull away once more, mentally preparing himself for you to scold him, slap him, something to confirm that you loathe him the way he believes you now do. But it’s the last thing he expects when you cup his face between your hands again, pulling him down toward you and allowing his troubled expression to meet your gaze.

You think to kiss him again, your eyes flickering briefly over his- but you don’t, simply giving him a short nod when you finish speaking.

It’s Chan who opts to kiss you again, with more intensity the second time around, his hands finding the small of your back when he pulls you in against him and allows his lips to work against yours. Your hands press to his toned stomach, grazing fingertips along his flesh as he pulls you a little closer, and you make no effort to push him away or halt your forbidden actions,

Your head is in a daze- somewhere between seething and perhaps also roused as a result of it, knowing very well that this is possibly the worst way you could handle the situation.

He’s stubborn and dejected, and though he knows that being vulnerable is the only way to come to terms with what boxing has become for him, he only seeks resolution by opting to put a lifetime of work behind him. And it’s driving you mad, to practically beg him to let you in like this- yet it feels like the only way to shut yourself up from negotiating with the shell of the man he’s become is to remain exactly like this, your lips on his, hands all over each other, letting gasped breaths escape your lips as he works his kisses along your jawline.

“I missed you,” Chan confesses with a groan as he tilts your face further up between the gentle hold of his thumb and index finger.

You say nothing back, shutting your eyes as you allow his lips to travel down the column of your neck, his hands lowering to find yours and take your wrists in his grasp. He resumes desperate little kisses down your neck, walking you back along the tiled flooring, until your body is effectively slotted between Chan and the wall below the shower head. And when he pulls back momentarily to let his thumbs caress the curves of your hips, the water cascades over you, too, engulfing you in a steady stream of water and wetting the clothes you still wear. Chan watches, mesmerized, as the white fabric of your blouse clings around your body like cellophane, outlining every convex along your flesh, your hair dripping with beads of water and hanging loosely into your face as you look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquires softly, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

You pause for a moment, your eyes locked on the droplets of water that trickle down the tiled wall across from you. He scans your expression as he awaits an answer, using his index finger to tilt your face toward him again. The shower seems to drown out in white noise for a moment, Chan’s gaze flickering over your trembling eyes as he waits. Your mind goes back to the feeling of being in that boxing ring- far too big, and yet claustrophobic, at the same time, especially at the thought of hundreds of eyes on you. You think of your camera, and the sight of the little red light blinking to indicate it was recording him, and how it remained angled at him for hours at a time most days, capturing every little movement he produced. You think of the newspaper publications, the faces of the viewers who recognize him in public, even the worried expressions of the people closest to him as he bites back from indulging them in the truth about all of this.

And then you swallow, confidently straightening your posture, as you finally provide an answer.

“I think about you a suffocating amount.”

He cocks his head, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, visibly satisfied with your response.

“Yeah?” He questions. “Missed me that much?”

You let out a small gasp when he lowers his lips to your chest, and then he places a single, open-mouthed kiss on the curve of your breast, his pupils flickering to hold eye contact as he does.

“Maybe,” you breathe back to him, feeling your throat still bubble with vexation. “Of course maybe I was just looking forward to watching your fight.”

He places another kiss, and then another, and then several more, traveling inward until he’s just between the valley of your breasts. And then he lifts his head up again, grazing over your parted lips, but not yet kissing you.

“I’m afraid of what will happen,” he says in almost a whisper, toying with the damp hem of your blouse.

And Chan smiles between the tender kiss when you pull him back down and indulge him anyway, allowing the indignation you feel at the hands of him to be replaced by the pulsing sensation between your legs, shutting up your thoughts with the erotic sight of him shirtless, hands all over your wet body as you melt into his touch.

“Then do it afraid,” you tell him.

You breathe between heavy kisses as his hands snake down to your blouse, rolling buttons between the pads of his fingers to undo them. He hums into the kiss when you do, letting your hands tangle in his hair as the final button is undone, your blouse hanging open loosely and exposing your chest to the cold water that continues to streamline over your desperate bodies.

You can feel Chan smirk into the kiss, entirely too satisfied with the method you’ve both chosen to adjourn this prolonged chapter of tension that seems to exist every time he’s near- of words unspoken, knowing looks and stories that barely scrape the surface of who he really is. And though you’re still peeved at his reluctance, it feels right to be all over him like this- perhaps this is the closest you’ll ever get to him, when he’s looming over you with every desire to undress you and know the curves of your body as intimately as you long to know his mind.

The thoughts agitate you the more you ruminate on them, and yet every annoyance is shut up by the sensation of his mouth working against yours, hands snaking down to the small of your back again where he sprawls his fingertips out over the goosebumps raised along your skin.

Of course Chan will never admit that perhaps this is the closest he’s ever gotten to letting somebody into the innermost complexities of his mind- but still, he’s well aware that the desire to let you in is heightened by the reality that he wants you to know him fully.

“Is this okay?” he breathes again, as his fingers graze a little lower, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The audible groan you emit practically relays an answer to him already, yet he smiles devilishly in response to your clear frustration, your hand tracing eagerly along the waistband of his shorts. You don’t have to advance any lower to know that he’s definitely hard for you- it’s clear in the way he whimpers at the near-contact, his breathing growing ragged when you hum softly into his mouth and tug at his hair a little.

“Answer me,” Chan commands, his hands finding their way to your pants and toying similarly along your waist. Your hand rests atop his, guiding him to pull them lower as if granting him permission, and then he wastes no time discarding them entirely, tugging the soaked fabric that clings to your thighs harshly down your body and allowing them to pool around your ankles.

“Yes, it’s okay,” you gasp, moaning softly when his lips reattach to your neck.

Your lingerie is already soiled, clinging tightly against the outline of your body, and Chan’s clothes now clearly outline his fully-erect cock, strained against the thin fabric of his shorts and desperate for some release.

The shower temperature seems to have risen several degrees with the passing time, cascading over you with almost scalding water as you feel Chan’s hands lower to take yours in his. He caresses your wrists as he pulls away from your lips momentarily, and then he spins you around to press you gently against the wall, his lips finding purchase in the shell of your ear as he prods into your lower thigh from behind. He feels big against you, his whole body indicating his clear desire to take you right here, in the hardly-private environment of the gym showers, and you shiver when you feel him work kisses down the column of your neck once more, now latching your flesh between his teeth to suck a line of bruises where his lips trail.

The reality crosses your mind again, briefly, that you’re definitely not supposed to be getting physically intimate with an interview subject for a second time now. But when his hands trail down to trace behind the strap of your bra, tugging on the fabric until his nimble fingers are working over the clasp, you don’t dare utter a single word of protest at him.

Unlike the way he retracts from opening himself up to you, his movements now are purposeful. He knows what he wants in the way he so skillfully undoes the clasp of your bra, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle of water as his hands now find the mounds of your breasts. And he has clear intentions when he then slips his hands into the sides of your panties and tugs harshly, letting those pool around your ankles too, now, his hands massaging the curves of your ass as you arch instinctively and wait for him to continue.

“Will you let me return the favor now?” Chan asks boldly when his hands travel back to his own shorts. He touches himself over the fabric of his shorts, cupping a hand around his own hard girth to then stroke himself with just enough pressure to coax a heavy exhale from the back of his throat. And when you nod beneath his touch, swallowing the shower water that dribbles from between your lips to rest upon your tongue, his fingers find your face, tilting just enough to meet your gaze with his.

“I didn’t hear you,” Chan states, not yet undressing himself. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe back, hoping the impatience in your voice isn’t picked up so easily in your tone. You’d beg him to fuck you if you weren’t already begging him to let down his stubborn walls.

He smirks at your near-desperation, and then his hands resume the action of gliding upon the grooves on the elastic waistband of his shorts- only this time, he tugs them down in tandem with his boxers, allowing his exposed erection to grow against his abdomen as his clothes fall to the tile beneath him. His hand wraps itself around the base of his cock, positioning himself behind you and pumping himself a few times. And then before he makes any move to enter you, his hand slots itself between your legs, resting along your upper thigh as he presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder.

“I still think you’re a loser,” You say to Chan, for the second time now, gasping when you feel his fingers graze your clit and rub in circular motions. “If you walk away from all of this.”

“Yeah?” he says with a breathy chuckle, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder. “Is this your way of saying you care about me?”

“Hardly,” you breathe back, eyebrows arching in pleasure when he quickens the pace of his movements.

“I see the way you look at me,” Chan whispers against the shell of your ear. “Either you’re really passionate about this story,” his fingers prod against your entrance, gathering the slick of your arousal onto the pads of his fingers before dipping them into your cunt and smiling when you gasp in response. “Or you’re just as drawn to me as I am to you.”

“Am I right?” He says when you arch back against him, gasping as he moves his fingers in, and then out, swirling them around your clit and back inside of you once more. “Tell me,” he continues. “Do you always get this wet for the people you interview?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you breathe back, your chest rising and falling with every labored breath as he resumes his thrusting motions in a rhythmic pattern. “You’re the one who drags me everywhere with you like I’m your fucking assistant.”

“You could’ve declined,” Chan says plainly, his tongue finding your neck and tracing along your throat in one long stripe, before latching his teeth around the flesh as he had previously. “I think you just like me.”

You begin to respond, quickly unable to as he thrusts his fingers at a particularly fast pace now, your words coming out as a series of high-pitched moans, instead. You silently pray he can’t tell you’re enjoying this entirely too much.

He pulls his fingers out again, and you spread your thighs a little to grant him access to your clit once more, yet he doesn’t indulge you, simply letting his hand find your waist again and caressing your damp skin.

“Why’d you stop?” You say a little too abruptly, earning a chuckle from him as his hand wraps around the base of his cock.

“Someone’s eager,” Chan remarks, and you mentally scold yourself for audibly sounding it.

“Just hurry up, will you?”

His hand caresses the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb toying with his pink tip as he hums in response to your anticipation. And then he pauses again, before tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

You watch as Chan’s neck cranes up, too, his adam’s apple bobbing outwardly as he faces up at the shower head that continues to shoot a steady stream of water over your tangled bodies. He shuts his eyes momentarily, allowing the water to cascade in two streams down his cheeks now as it makes contact over his pronounced nose bridge. And then you watch his plump lips part above you, the flow of water merging into one steady stream once more as he lets it fill his mouth, his chin almost trembling as he struggles to take it all in one mouthful, quickly spilling over and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t swallow the mouthful, he doesn’t dispose of it as he turns to meet your gaze again. Instead, he angles your face toward him with the gentle maneuver of his thumb on your chin, his lips pulling as much as they can into a cocky grin as he cups your face and allows your mouth to remain agape for him.

No words are exchanged as he partakes in the lewd action of allowing the water to dribble down into your mouth, strings of saliva accompanying the salty taste of his sweat and the metallic taste of gym shower water. He allows his mouth to fully empty into yours, guiding strings of saliva back between your parted lips when your respective mouthful begins to spill over, too. And then as the caress of his thumb along your chin instructs you non-verbally to swallow it, to let the concoction dribble down to the back of your throat and glide with ease past your trembling lips, he’s guiding himself inside of you at the same time, his hands spreading your thighs as he guides his cock into your entrance and holds it there for a still moment.

You want to verbally remark how big he feels inside of you, but you can’t speak just yet as you swallow the remainder of his saliva, gasping for a breath when he pulls back to then thrust into you with a little more force. And then his hand reaches around to your clit once more, the pads of his fingers working you in circles again as he begins to move with rhythmic motions.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks in a gentle voice, as he gathers your hair with his vacant hand, draping it over your shoulder to press a chaste kiss against your neck.

You nod quickly in response, far too overcome by the sheer pleasure of his flesh working in and out of your glistening walls to give him a proper answer, and he takes the heavy panting that escapes your lips as answer enough.

“God you feel so fucking good,” Chan remarks, as he gives your hair a little tug. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

He lets his eyes shut in a blissful state of euphoria as he fucks you, satisfied groans escaping his lips as his fingers grasp at your flesh eagerly, careful not to loosen his hold on you as though he might lose you.

And then before he can ponder the implications of his breathless speech, he’s breaking the silence again, regret overtaking his dizzied state the moment he speaks again.

“What are you thinking about?”

The words are near insensitive as it now stands, and Chan knows very well that he’s going to be met with some version of dispute from your breathless figure. But you surprise him for the second time this evening, when you don’t argue against his callous actions, instead letting your lips part in pleasure as you breathe out a response.

“You,” the simple answer conveys. And Chan can feel his cock twitch inside of you at the admission, another groan escaping his parted lips as he feels himself grow twice as roused at the fact that he consumes your thoughts just as much as you do his.

Between the rhythmic sounds of his groans that precede your gasps for air, muffled by the steady stream of the shower that nearly drowns out your voices the same way the pleasure nearly drowns out your thoughts, you feel his hand reach around to grasp your fingers between his. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he angles your parted legs toward the shower stream, letting the water cascade in a pulsing vibration directly on your clit. And the dizzying sensation of your joint frustration and pleasure only reminds you that the thoughts are not limited to just him.

Thinking about Bang Chan extends far beyond just the charming public figure he now is- they exist in a capacity much larger than a longing to know him for the purposes of any stupid docuseries. The thoughts of him transcend the superficial established connection of a subject behind a camera lens- instead, you long to know the very intricacies of his consciousness, to pick his mind and comprehend his real fears, his hangups, his shortcomings and his plan for a life beyond this one. It’s a longing to know him beyond just his tales of guts and glory, and this life he’s so scrupulously centered around his boxing career.

He’s purposeful- in his strategy and his movements, and you’re quickly brought back to the gym locker showers when you feel him spread your lips a little wider toward the shower stream, earning a fervent moan from you as you feel his cock twitch again inside of you.

“Fuck,” Chan exhales, through gritted teeth, as he staves off his orgasm momentarily.

He observes the way your eyebrows arch in sheer pleasure, all fucked-out as you take him so obediently and allow the shower to pleasure you where he can’t. And then he angles your face toward him as he indulges you in one final sloppy kiss against your parted lips, the lewd remnants of sweat and spit and water still exchanging from his body onto yours.

“I’m sorry,” is all Chan can breathe against your lips, as he assists you in reaching your finish, giving your hand an affirming squeeze as your legs tremble in his touch, your walls contracting around his cock, as the shower water that cascades onto the floor is now mixed with your juices and and the echoing sounds of your high-pitched moans. And Chan nibbles on the lobe of your ear, confessing a string of apologies as he reaches his finish now, too, filling your still-aching body with his load and not loosening his grasp around your fingers.

Before pulling out, his trembling hand finds the steel handle of the shower, which he pushes into an ‘off’ position once more, before relaxing his figure against yours, hands finding purchase on your hips as you both catch your breath.

The tiled room grows much quieter now as heavy breaths escape both of your parted lips, chests rising and falling against each other as his chin rests on your shoulder.

The stream of the shower has now reduced to the repetitive tap of dripping water along the floor, echoing in the near-silence of the steamy room as you remain pressed against each other, bodies languid and far too drained of your frustrations to speak.

And yet amidst the eerie silence of the room, Chan speaks in a voice above a whisper, his fingertips intertwining with each other as he tightens his grasp around your frame.

“I’ll do it,” he says breathlessly, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Do what?” You challenge, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair out from his eyes.

He chuckles softly, cocking his head as you await a response.

“Say it,” you reiterate, and he rolls his eyes playfully before answering.

“I’ll do the fight,” Chan says finally, his shoulders seeming to relax when he comes down to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll show up, and I’ll do this match.”

His head hangs as his figure towers over yours, fingers giving yours a little squeeze before he finishes speaking.

“And we can finish telling this story together.”

And the gentle gargle of the shower drain succeeds his words, disposing a mix of sweat and water and arousal alike.

*

GOLDEN GLOVES CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE FIGHT- BANG CHAN VS. KANG-DAE

It’s not unusual for boxers to flaunt a long list of rituals on fight days. Some have particular food specifications the night before, others ensure a strict routine of stretches. You distinctly recall a few playlists shared by previous athletes you’ve interviewed, and even lucky articles of clothing for others.

For Bang Chan, sherbet popsicles are a considerable factor in his pre-boxing rituals. And yet for the first time in his career, they’re unavailable to him.

“You tried the convenience stores on the south side?” He asks again, pacing back and forth as Mr. Seo slings his belongings into a gray storage locker.

“All sold out,” Mr. Seo explains. “There’s a few similar ones in the freezer at the back. Not sure if you wanna give those a try.”

Bang Chan thinks it over momentarily, electing not to respond as frustratedly as he wants to. And then he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts, hanging his head in defeat.

All around him, the hallways of the stadium are teeming with movement- from security in black jumpsuits traversing the rooms, sports commentators readying their equipment, makeup artists organizing their respective supplies. Even Mr. Seo seems to be heads-down in his own tasks, hardly uttering words of consolidation as he makes his way over to another staff member.

And all Chan can do is simply wait, in the green room, for further direction, as he tries his best not to get in the way. Mr. Seo had once described this part of the process as a “hurry up and wait” sort of phenomenon- something Chan never fully understood until he was participating in some of his biggest fights to date. The makeup artists will usher him to a swivel chair, where they’ll begin with a base of primer on his face, and then they’re gone again, disappearing to retrieve more supplies from beyond the green room. Staff members will begin to explain the timeline of this evening’s events, and then they’re quickly caught up in an entirely different conversation, not even completing their sentences before they’re a whole room away from him.

Even Mr. Seo will begin a pep talk, reminding Chan to “loosen up”, and that “whatever happens, happens”- and then he’s absent once again, too, quickly reminded of something he’s forgotten back at his designated locker.

So all Chan can do is wait, his eyes scanning rows of photographs that line the unfamiliar walls of this foreign stadium.

He’s entirely riddled with fear, the way he always is before a fight. Yet his thoughts are also plagued with you, and you, and more of you, as he recalls the way all of his previous evenings alongside you had unfolded.

Perhaps all of the desperate kisses you’d exchanged, and the now several times you allowed him to return the favor, served as pre-ritual enough for Chan, who practically bites back a smile when he remembers the way your delicate fingers weaved between his, reassuring him for one final time that he’s not a loser for showing up.

All of your sagely words circle his mind as though he’s indulging himself once more in the sacred moment of a boy and his favorite sherbet popsicle- apologetic confessions that he’d become an object of fascination for you. A myriad of shaky words detailing a sheer gratitude for allowing you to know him this intimately, the way he’s been withholding from the people closest to him. And although his truths had been publicly broadcast, a newfound appreciation for this level of vulnerability.

And he’s quickly brought back to reality when Mr. Seo makes his entrance again, folded blue satin grasped tightly in his hold.

“Robe’s here,” Mr. Seo explains, as he nears Chan’s seated figure. Chan cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the familiar article of clothing- blue, upon his mother's particular liking to his first pair of sparring mitts.

The whole room seems to halt their actions and stare when Chan finally rises from his seat, pulling his ribbed white tank top off over his torso with the swift motion of a hand. And beneath the bright lights of the green room, a series of camera flashes illuminates the space around him, as they capture the first moments he’s finally undressed.

“Arms out,” Mr. Seo commands.

He assists in pulling the robe over Chan’s broad shoulders, smoothing down the silken fabric as Chan adjusts the collar.

Another staff member unbeknownst to Chan gestures for his hands, where she begins to wrap nylon around his knuckles. One more readies his boxing gloves, pulling open the velcro from around the closure strap.

Makeup artists begin to circle him again, brushing powder along his nose and instructing him to pout his lips for chapstick.

As they prepare him for the biggest title fight of his career, Chan can still only think of you.

He knows you’re prohibited from interacting prior to the fight- rules which you mutually opted to establish, knowing it would be entirely too difficult to conceal your emotions in the presence of each other. But the fact stands, that he misses you, and that in the absence of his typical pre-fight ritual, you’re the only other means of instilling a sense of calmness within him.

“Kang-Dae’s already here,” Mr. Seo then says, as he fastens the strings of Chan’s robe.

“He’s here?” Chan echoes, eyes widening as the realization sets in.

He pictures the green room opposite to his in the stadium; it’s probably just as busy, with staff members working to prepare Kang-Dae for what will also be the biggest fight of his career. Chan realizes for the first time that he’ll be face to face with the same figure he’s spoken so highly of, the same person he’s made strategic efforts not to run into, and the same person he’ll now be facing in the ring- not just a practice match against Mr. Seo, or even a punching bag.

“He arrived not long ago,” Mr. Seo explains. “We have 15 minutes until entrance.”

Chan rotates his hands, at the staff’s request, as they fasten the black sparring mitts around his fists. And then his gaze falls to the mirror across from him as another stripe of powder is brushed along his nose.

His eyes scan his own standing figure for a moment- he looks taller than usual, and stronger, his shoulders pulling back as the blue satin robe hangs loosely around his toned body. His hair is smoothed back again with a gel comb, his shoes knotted three times at the laces.

And then his gaze falls to the standing figure behind him, as you make entrance into the green room at last, a colleague by your side and a team of cameras filing in after you.

“… you can begin setting up in ten,” a staff member directs them, gesturing to the hallway beyond them.

You do your best to register the instructions, nodding your head as they speak right past you, yet completely unable to do so, as Chan’s lips pull into a closed-lip smile.

He can say nothing at the sight of you, simply admiring the elegant black double-breasted dress you sport, your hair pulled back to flaunt a sophisticated makeup look. And your eyes remain locked with his for a passing moment, as you examine his appearance in all its glory- the way the blue satin robe falls loosely around his chiseled abs, the glow of his makeup under the bright lightning, even the new sight of his gelled hair, pushed out of his face to reveal his handsome features to you.

He hardly looks familiar to you this way- much less like the Chan you know at the proximity of his lips on yours, and more like renowned boxer Bang Chan, the way the rest of the world refers to him.

Mr. Seo seems to take notice of Chan’s eyes on yours, his gaze flickering over Chan’s intense stare in the mirror and then around to you, who scrambles to face your camera crew once more. He smooths down the collar of Chan’s robe one last time, giving him a pat on the shoulders, and then he calls out to the nearby staff in a moment of understanding.

“Let’s give Bang Chan a moment,” he says, gesturing to the hallway with a cock of his head. “We’ll make entrance in ten.”

The makeup crew packs the last of their belongings, shuffling out with briefcases of pallets and brushes. Security assume their positions just past the door in the hallway, shutting the heavy steel door behind them, and Mr. Seo leads the rest of the crew out, shooting Chan a small wink as he observes you maintain a safe distance from Chan.

When the green room is finally cleared, the steel door shutting fully with an echoing thud, Chan pivots to face you, leaning back on the vanity, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robe.

“Hi,” he muses curiously.

You take several steps toward him, arms crossed at the elbows, and then you halt in front of him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“You look cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips pulling up into a smile. “Like a winner.”

He chuckles softly, standing up straight now, his broad figure towering over you as he maintains an amused smile. He begins to close the gap between your smiling figures, but you reach a hand out to stop him, sprawling your fingers out across his stomach and pushing him away lightly.

“You can’t kiss me,” you say to him. “It’s bad luck.”

“Oh really?” Chan questions. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you voice back, chuckling softly in response. “You just got your makeup done. And I don’t want to run the risk of being seen by somebody.”

“There’s nobody around,” he emphasizes, taking your hands in his. “Besides, the makeup’s going to get ruined enough as it is.”

“Still,” you say to him, reaching up to run a finger along his gelled hair. He searches for the words to refute your argument again, but instead he’s silent, cocking his head to observe your expression.

“If I can’t kiss you,” he begins. “I think it’s only fair that you indulge me in a story. For good luck.”

You smile up at him, thinking it over a second. He rubs his fingers over yours tenderly as he awaits a response, and then his expression grows serious again when you begin to produce one.

“In 1988, Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics. He trained for an incredible amount of time, and he swept in his division that same year.”

Chan nods as you speak, recounting the tale in his own mind.

“Two years later, he retired. And the world didn’t know what to make of him. In his final speech to the world, he detailed his reasoning- that maybe through tales of his, of guts and glory,”

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried,” Chan finishes.

He says nothing as your lips pull into a smile, mirroring his.

And then he gives you an understanding nod, as a knock is heard on the steel door, indicating time for his entrance.

*

The arena is almost deafening with heavy anticipation when you finally make your entrance, assuming a reserved spot at the front, amidst the rows of occupied seats. Spectators sport face paint and signs, balancing buckets of popcorn in their elbows and chugging gargantuan cups of soft drinks and alcohol. The chatter of sports commentators can already be heard overhead as they detail the sight to viewers at home. And as you glance around the arena, you can’t help but worry for Chan, who you know already feels suffocated enough in the confines of the practice gym.

The same emotions you harbor when staring out at the gym are elevated- perhaps tenfold, as you lose sight of the rows in the shadows beyond the bright white recess lighting. Your cameras are set up alongside you by the crew, who assemble the tripods and angle the lens toward the ring.

And you watch nervously, waiting for sight of Chan’s entrance. Your eyes scan the sea of people, who talk excitedly amongst themselves, and then back to the boxing ring, which seems to glow under the blinding white lights- and then your attention is drawn back to the seat beside you, as a figure shuffles past toward you.

“Mrs. Bang!” You exclaim, bowing graciously as she mirrors your action.

“So good to see you again!” she states, a warm smile on her face. “We’re sitting just that way.”

She points to the right of your spot, and beyond rows of fans, you can clearly locate what appears to be the rest of Chan’s family, who greet you with smiles and excited waves.

“Wow, there’s so many of you,” you say back to her, chuckling lightly as you wave them down.

“We’ve never missed a match,” she explains. “He always knows where to find us.”

The statement is comforting to you, as you recall how nervous Chan is to have hundreds of eyes on him at any given moment- at least among a sea of spectators, he can always still count on a few familiar faces rooting for him.

“Listen,” she begins to say. “I wanted to thank you for this whole film. We had a long conversation about it, following the second part of his series. I always knew it was taxing for him- I guess I just hadn’t realized how scared he was of all this.”

She lowers her voice to just above a whisper, glancing nervously at her side, before continuing to speak.

“It was eye-opening for all of us, to view it from a different perspective. We all want him to win- just not at the cost of his well being.”

You’re quick to shake your head, shooting her an understanding smile.

“I wanted to apologize to you- I didn’t know they were going to air a lot of it,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean for his secrets to be so… televised.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Bang reassures you. “It’s the kind of honesty nobody’s been able to coax out of him before. Sure, it reached a lot of people. But it was bound to, considering how long he’s kept all of this from us. Sometimes when we’re most vulnerable, it’s the only time we’re able to truly understand what we want.”

You ponder her words momentarily, not yet separating from her gaze, as her lips pull into a small smile. You see a lot of Chan in her- restless when she’s distressed, and yet a robust willingness to decipher a meaning from all of the pain. She’s enchanting the same way Chan is- it’s no wonder he holds his family so close to his heart.

“Thank you,” is all you can utter in reply, as she reaches out a hand to give your forearm a squeeze.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she voices. “I’m glad we got to tell this story. I think you’ve done a fine job at knowing him.”

You return her words with a smile of your own, your eyes darting back to the ring, where staff members circle about and make their final preparations.

“It’s not over yet,” you remind her. “We’re still telling it.”

And she shoots you a knowing wink, as she bows graciously and begins back toward her designated seating.

*

When the spotlight illuminates over the west wing of the arena, the rest of the venue goes dark, crescendoed chatter making itself known all around you as fans eagerly await the entrance of both athletes.

“… tonight’s biggest match of the year here at the Golden Gloves Championship,” you can hear a commentator announce from the platform far above you.

“Bang Chan vs. Kang-Dae, a battle of undefeated superstars, scheduled for 12 rounds of boxing. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you our participants in tonight’s main show.”

All eyes seem to shift nervously over the west wing, squinting amidst the contrast lighting to make out whose entrance will precede the next. And when the commentator begins to speak again, your heart practically drops in your chest, when you observe the first.

“Introducing to you first, on my right, fighting out of the red corner, wearing red mitts,” he begins. “A campaign record of 23 wins, 19 coming by way of knockout. Please welcome the hard-hitting, former lightweight champ of the second division, boxer Kang-Dae.”

Your eyes fall to his looming figure on the left, observing the way he jogs in place, a bright red robe draped over his muscular build as he wears a cocky smile on his face.

He sports a shaved head, cracking his neck with a jerky movement of his neck, his buff build flexing beneath the overhead lights. If you’d previously assumed Chan to assume the appearance of an arrogant athlete, Kang-Dae’s definitely broken that record now, made even more clear in the way he raises his fists to the audience and circles the ring as they cheer for him.

“And on my left,” the commentator begins, your head snapping to the other side of the ring.

“Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue mitts, completely undefeated in his division on a rampant winning-streak. A total of 40 wins, 26 coming by way of knockout, we welcome the electrifying king of boxing and rising star to fame, champion boxer Bang Chan.”

The lights are illuminated over Chan’s standing figure now, and your heart skips several beats when you witness his powerful stance in all its glory, for the first time in a professional setting.

Chan adjusts the velcro around his wrists, pulling it taut between his teeth, craning his neck out at the audience, before raising a single fist and shooting the spectators a nervous, closed-lip smile.

The crowd is much louder this time around, the entire arena erupting in a sea of applause and cheers, as he rolls his shoulders back now, his gaze finally falling onto Kang-Dae’s.

You reckon you could cut the tension with a knife when they make visual contact, their eyes darting over each other’s statures and mentally relaying words of self-righteousness at one another. Although Bang Chan is visibly nervous, he looks angry, the same way he does when he’s throwing punches in the practice ring. As they approach each other at the center, your gaze is drawn back to the referee, who holds a hand out in front of each of their figures, beginning to voice a list of rules.

“Touch ‘em up,” he tells them, as you watch them raise their mitts to make contact just once, before retreating to their respective corners.

The noise is drowned out momentarily amidst your own thoughts, eyes scanning nervously over Chan’s figure, as you watch Mr. Seo fit a mouth guard over his teeth. He talks loudly over the deafening cheers as he relays some form of instruction to him, giving his shoulders an affirming tap and gesturing to Kang-Dae.

Your own gaze falls to your camera crew, who meticulously adjust the lenses to not miss a second of Chan’s movements, and you chew the inside of your lip nervously as you wait for him to assume his position. On the overhead screen, you crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of their names in flashy text, illustrating ROUND 1 alongside a headshot you’ve never seen of Bang Chan.

And then before your gaze falls over his figure once more, the double chime of a boxing bell fills the room loudly, indicating start time for the two.

It happens faster than you were prepared for, when Kang-Dae lunges forward to deliver a harsh hook, just barely missing Bang Chan as they begin to circle around each other.

Both sides of the arena are equally deafening, fans practically rising from their seats to cheer for either member. Chan’s movements to dodge Kang-Dae are swift, yet sharp, as his blue mitts conceal his serious expression, his tongue rolling once over the harsh blue color of his mouth guard.

“Approaching the midway point of a cautious start to the first round,” a commentator states. “There’s a jab, from Bang Chan in the blue. Who just barely misses Kang-Dae’s dodge- folks, do you see that footwork?”

The screen overhead now displays a timer- 45 seconds left of round one, and you turn to your own cameras when you take note, observing the way Lin fidgets with the pan arm.

“He’s being careful,” Lin comments. “We should start seeing more action by round 3.”

Your lips part to say something, but you simply turn back to the ring again, eyes darting briefly over the screen.

20 seconds, 19, 18…

“It’s neutral,” another commentator states. No one’s attempting to put the other out just yet.”

14, 13, 12…

“Listen for that bell, gentleman,” the referee announces.

“A landing jab, from Bang Chan on the right! And time, right there.”

As both boxers return to their places, you can see Mr. Seo approach Chan, who assumes a spot on a little stool in his corner, exhaling sharply before he’s quickly surrounded.

“Perfect start,” Mr. Seo tells him, pulling the mouth guard out from between his teeth. “He’s gonna start making some hard moves at you. We’re looking for counters, right? Just be relaxed, and be light on your feet.”

Bang Chan nods, as somebody to the right of him brings forward a sports water bottle and gestures for him to take a swig. When he pulls away once more, they reach out to wipe a drop from the corner of his mouth. Another figure behind him runs what appears to be a bag of ice over the back of his neck, giving him a quick massage, before retracting.

Chan doesn’t say anything for the duration- he simply nods, seemingly regulating his breathing and focusing on Mr. Seo’s advice.

And when the break is called to an end, both parties meet at the middle of the ring again, as the referee ushers for them to start round 2.

The boxing bell is just as jarring the second time around, a double chime echoing loudly throughout the arena. And this time, Chan doesn’t waste a second lunging at Kang-Dae first, his fist making robust contact with his opponent’s stocky build, a loud thump revertebrating from the hit.

Kang-Dae seems to duck as he does, his fists coiling around Chan’s waist, as he holds him tightly in his grip and shoves him forward, earning the attention of the referee, who holds out two hands to stop them both.

“Stop, stop,” he calls out. “Not another until I say go,” he explains. And the two shoot furious looks at each other, before the referee announces “go!” once more. Kang-Dae dodges a series of quick punches from Chan, whose footwork remains light and skillful, as he circles the perimeter of the ring.

“Bang Chan utilizing lateral movement along the ropes,” a commentator says loudly. “Now, Kang-Dae is still excellent coming off the ring.”

Kang-Dae quickly coils his mitts around Bang Chan a second time, swiftly pushing him forward once more, and the referee is louder when he admonishes a second time.

“Back,” he tells Kang-Dae aggressively. “Can’t tie him in a hold.”

At a minute-thirty into the match, Chan delivers another punch, this time landing hard.

And with bated breath, you watch as Kang-Dae takes a harsh tumble to Chan’s left hook, quickly pulling himself off the floor again and retreating to his corner.

The audience erupts in roaring cheers as Chan adjusts the waistband of his shorts, rolling his tongue again over his mouth guard. The referee says something indistinguishable to Kang-Dae, who nods furiously in response, and then they meet in the middle of the ring again.

“After a slow start to round 1, Bang Chan drops Kang-Dae in round 2, marking only the second time to occur in his career,” the commentator announces. “We’re at 15 seconds left now.”

Both continue dodging a series of punches and circling each other, with neither delivering another jab as ceremonious as Chan’s for the remainder of round two. And then the referee calls time again, as the boxing bell chimes five times now, and they retreat to their corners once more.

While their respective teams make haste to tend to both athletes, the large screens overhead project highlights from round two in slow motion. You watch proudly as the recap shows Chan deliver a particularly harsh jab to Kang-Dae’s chest, lunging him backward until his footing is lost, his muscular thighs making contact with the floor of the ring. While he’s quick to get back up again, his expression is irate, and Chan does a perfect job of maintaining his stance when he attempts to hit back ten times harder.

“Focus,” Kang-Dae’s trainer tells him, as another member dabs at the beads of sweat that line his brow. “Don’t think about his campaigns. This is about you. Remember- he’s scared. Take advantage of it. Get up. Man up.”

Kang-Dae hardly produces an answer, simply grunting, as the mouth guard is pulled from between his teeth.

“He’s fast,” he says between labored breaths.

“Then be faster.”

On the opposing side of the ring, Mr. Seo pats Chan’s knee, pulling out his mouth guard and allowing him a swig of water.

“Atta boy,” he says to him. “Don’t overcommit. Perfect energy.”

Chan simply nods, rolling his shoulders back, as he’s massaged in the remaining seconds. And then they’re at the center of the ring once more, as the referee calls for round three.

*

Five rounds in, Bang Chan continues to take lead of the match, delivering a sharp uppercut to Kang-Dae’s jaw, which precedes another series of smaller punches.

The crowds seem to be much louder for Chan, his punches eliciting excited reactions from all over the arena as he throws hit after hit, and Kang-Dae’s expression appears defeated each time he retreats to his corner.

“Keep it coming,” Mr. Seo tells him. “Watch for those counters. Your hooks are perfect.”

He appears more breathless each time he hoists his body over the little stool, simply nodding in response to the praise around him. And right before the sixth match, he cranes his neck, as though he’s looking for somebody in the crowd of people. His eyes tremble as he scans over the east wing, and then the west wing, his staff members practically pivoting his body back in place to hydrate and clean him of sweat.

“Focus,” Mr. Seo says, forcing his gaze back upon him. Chan nods sheepishly- but Mr. Seo is well aware that Chan seems to be seeking you out amidst the crowd, a sort of desperation present within him like he’s never observed before.

He’s competent in this evening’s fight, but he also appears distracted, like there might be something more important to be found in your presence rather than the biggest fight of his life.

And ten rounds in, Mr. Seo’s theory proves correct when Chan’s performance begins to falter.

He fumbles a little in response to Kang-Dae’s swift attempts at a landing jab- and consequently, just enough to permit contact, failing to dodge when he produces a sharp uppercut to Chan’s left side.

It feels as though it’s another slow-motion replay when you watch it unfold, observing the way Chan’s whole body jerks to the left, his eyes squeezing shut and a stream of saliva escaping from between his parted lips. He successfully dodges another one at 10 seconds to the round’s conclusion, but he’s visibly rattled when they finally call for a break.

“Easy,” Mr. Seo instructs the staff who assist him onto the stool and pull his mouth guard away, strings of saliva finding purchase on his chin and then swiftly wiped off.

“What was that?” Mr. Seo questions. He’s stern, but still gentle in his speech, and Chan just shakes his head in response.

“Spit,” a staff member chimes in. Chan turns his head to expel a thick mix of saliva and bright crimson blood into a bucket, and then he holds it agape for a swig of water, swishing it over a deep cut on his inner lip before swallowing.

“Listen, you’re getting shaky out there,” Mr. Seo tells him. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s y/n?” Chan interjects, earning a deep sigh from Mr. Seo, who simply shrugs with his hands on his hips.

“Doesn’t matter,” he counters. “Don’t get distracted now. We’ve got three rounds left to win this thing.”

Chan’s shoulders seem to sag in disappointment, attempting to peer over his shoulder again for a glimpse of you, but Mr. Seo is quick to force Chan’s gaze back to him again.

“Listen to me,” he says sharply. “Get your head back on. You start getting distracted, and you’re practically handing him the belt. Focus.”

Chan hangs his head again, and then he nods understandingly, extending a hand to hoist himself back up.

“Two rounds,” Mr. Seo repeats. “Two more rounds, and you can take home the title. Knock him out.”

Chan nods again, as staff members tighten the velcro around his wrists once more, and then the timer reduces by the seconds, as he prepares to meet Kang-Dae in the center ring again.

When the boxing bell chimes twice for round eleven, Lin turns to you, arms folded at the elbows as she leans in to speak loudly above the chatter.

“Hey,” she says, and your head turns to meet her gaze.

She watches the match for a moment, admiring the sight of Chan dodging a hard jab, and then she resumes speaking.

“I know this series didn’t necessarily follow the footing you were expecting.”

You remain quiet, wanting for Lin to conclude her speech before producing any sort of response.

“But I wanted to say thank you. As of…” she glances at a wristwatch briefly, and then back to you, folding her arms again. “Fifteen minutes ago, we’re officially the most tuned-into channel for this fight. All because of your series.”

Your eyes widen when you meet her gaze properly, mouth parting in disbelief at her words.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Numbers are in, too- he averaged 15.2 thousand fans per broadcast. That’s more than twice of what we pulled in the last series.”

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips at the fact- it’s no secret this series was predicted to be huge for the channel, but you were hardly expecting to outdo your last by more than double the viewership.

Both your gazes fall to the ring, distracted momentarily at the sight of Chan delivering another hard jab to Kang-Dae’s side.

“I wanted to propose an offer,” Lin continues.

Your heartbeat quickens when she begins to speak the next part- perhaps she’ll convey to you that she knows broadcasting the moments which weren’t meant to be aired was wrong- and subsequently, it’ll be an offer to pull it from the channel entirely. Maybe she’ll acknowledge that you haven’t cared for this genre of series in a long while now, and suggest a transition to another topic.

“… for you to direct the next few parts, this time about his post-win life.”

You pause from viewing the match when she speaks, turning slowly to face her again, your expression visibly dropping at the proposal.

“Next… few parts?”

“That’s right. Seeing as he’s definitely going to win this thing, it’ll be huge. I’m thinking we can pivot to some… sports reality show, about Bang Chan only.”

She wears an amused smile on her face, nudging you with her elbow, as your gaze remains fixed on the match.

Below you, you watch Chan skillfully dodge a series of hooks, stumbling back on his feet.

And then in one swift movement, Kang-Dae delivers a strong uppercut to Chan’s left side, striking him hard in his jaw. You can hardly make out Chan’s demeanor when his whole body contorts to the left, his mitts coming up in an attempt to hold his jaw. But you can make out the unsightly image of blood and saliva trickling down the side of his mouth, and the way his eyes squeeze shut in a pained manner.

When the bell chimes five times to call for an end to round eleven, you shuffle quickly past Lin to the stairs, beginning your way down to where Chan’s team prepares a bucket and a towel. You don’t have any sort of plan devised, knowing very well that you’re prohibited from congregating in the midst of a match, but you make your descent anyway, overtaken with sheer panic at the sight of his weak silhouette.

“Hold that thought!” You call out to her, assisting yourself down the banister with the swift brush of your hand.

“What- where on earth are you going?” She calls, being met with no response, as she watches you near the blue corner of the ring.

*

“Is he okay?” You call out to Mr. Seo, quickly shuffling past Chan’s team to where he’s hoisted over the stool. His body lies limply back on the surface, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths as they dab blood from the corners of his mouth with a white towel.

Several members grant you entry to make your way closer to him, until you’re standing just behind his slouched figure, your hands coming up to grasp the ropes as you raise your voice.

“Chan!” You call, and he seems to straighten his posture, finally pivoting around to meet your gaze. His lips pull into a hazy smile, exposing his blue mouth guard, which drips with thick, stringy saliva, mixed with the harsh contrast of bright crimson blood. A single hand comes around to pull it out of him, instructing him to spit into a bucket. It’s Mr. Seo’s hand, you quickly realize, as Chan complies and swishes a mouthful of water over his wounds.

His brow appears bruised, a gaping cut being cleaned by several pairs of hands, and his shoulders look weak, you notice, as they work to loosen them up in massaging motions.

There’s no time to position him back into place, so Mr. Seo simply lets the conversation unfold between you two, dabbing at Chan’s bloodied wounds and understanding that leading you away is only going to distract him even more.

“I still haven’t been fully honest with you,” Chan begins to say to you, between labored breaths. Blood continues to dribble out from out between his lips, wiped away as fast as possible while the timer counts down until his return to the match.

“What?” You question, confused at the direction of his speech. You shake your head, aware he may simply be concussed, as your eyebrows arch in concern. “Chan, are you okay?”

“About what scares me,” Chan continues. He chuckles as he speaks, sounding almost crazy, as the etches of his gums are outlined again by deep crimson, dribbling onto his chapped lips.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan says to you. “But not just losing a match,” he clarifies.

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch a hand come around to dab at the gash on his brow again, the fresh white towel turning a dark shade of red as his blood soaks right through it.

“I never told you that I loved you,” Chan finishes.

You halt speaking, and perhaps also breathing, as his lips pull into a satisfied smile. “And that losing you is what scares me the most now.”

His team members glance at you curiously as they work to get him cleaned up, some of them just having seen you for the first time. A few of them know you to be the “filmmaker”, a little perplexed at his admission of romance to you. But before you can respond, Mr. Seo is shoving a guard back into his mouth and gesturing to the ring.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Seo commands. “Last round and we can bring this thing home. Let’s finish this at round twelve.”

Although Chan remains weak, he rises from the stool, kicking it aside and rolling back his shoulders. His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a moment, shooting you a saccharine smile, before pivoting back toward the ring and tapping his mitts together.

“Let’s finish this at round twelve,” he repeats, eyeing Kang-Dae’s figure from across the room.

And you say nothing- somewhere between dazed and also in love, as you begin back toward your seat.

The boxing bell rings just twice to indicate the start to round twelve- or otherwise the start of what could be the very last round in this match.

“And so we begin round twelve of this historic confrontation, between undefeated champ Bang Chan and his opponent Kang-Dae,” an announcer echoes loudly over the arena. Chan coming in again with strong jabs, appeared to be fully re energized as he corners Kang-Dae in the ring again.”

Your view of him is much more intimate than it was prior to being stood here on the outskirts of the ring. You can now observe every minuscule bead of sweat that flies off either member when the other produces a hit, and the thumping echos of their jabs are much louder at this proximity.

“This is certainly an adjustment by Kang-Dae,” the announcer states. “He seems to be quicker on his footwork. Chan seems like he’s resuming with heavy punches like before, but he’s still stumbling a little bit.”

Your heart races at their words, taking note of the way he visibly falters when Kang-Dae delivers a punch to his chest.

At the sight of Chan pivoting to dodge an uppercut, you glance around at the spectators, observing the sea of people whose eyes all remain set on his stumbling figure. They gasp when he gets hit once more, and they seem to laugh when he regains his balance, his arms darting out to strike Kang-Dae’s torso.

They flaunt colorful face paint, parade signs with images of his smiling face and shout for him to “fight, win!” as though their discoordinate voices may somehow be the defining factor of tonight’s outcome. And upon closer inspection, they even twirl sherbet popsicles around in their grasp, devouring them with such desperation, as though they could ever begin to comprehend the sacredness of Bang Chan’s favorite dessert- something entirely out of his reach now, unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

It’s only then that you realize the deep sense of discomfort the sight instills within you- it’s entirely unnerving to be entertained by his fear- and even his pain, like this. To consume the sacred intricacies of his life, to know him at such proximity and put him on a pedestal like some higher power. Only to rob him of all things sacred, televise his secrets and serve as a stepping-stone into a life he never wanted for himself. Whether it be the relativity of a spectator to his public image, or of a lover to his vulnerability, it feels wrong. You can make sense of why Chan hadn’t wanted to do this for a good amount of his life now- it feels entirely too voyeuristic.

“… The current unofficial score reads 10-9, still in favor of Bang Chan,” the announcer reads. “Who’s keen on uppercuts- but Kang-Dae certainly isn't far behind with his jabs.”

Chan dodges another harsh jab, producing a strong hit to Kang-Dae, who appears breathless as he regains his composure.

“Folks, this could be the night Bang Chan maintains his unbroken winning streak, putting him ahead of all boxers in the Golden Gloves Championships for the last 20 years.”

The audience erupts in another wave of cheers when Chan hits Kang-Dae again, and again, producing repeated, robust punches to his torso.

You shift your weight onto your toes to catch a better glimpse of him, admiring the way he clenches his jaw angrily, fists spread to shield his face.

And at just 30 seconds to the conclusion of round twelve, Kang-Dae strikes again, lunging forward to deliver a harsh uppercut to Chan’s lower right jaw.

At first he stumbles backward a little bit- and then he seems to loose his balance entirely, collapsing onto the ground beneath him, his mitts outspread to soften the landing.

Although the arena is louder than ever before, it seems to grow almost silent as you hold your breath.

You approach the ring a little closer, your eyes scanning over Chan’s lying figure, his eyes blinking in a dizzied state as the recess lights illuminate his glistening torso.

He’s bloodied, in several more areas now, a generous stream of crimson growing in a patch on the side of his right eye.

You call for him once, and a second time, and then a third time- to no avail.

Perhaps your screams only escape from between your lips as whispers, if at all- that, you can’t tell, as the sound of your own heartbeat drowns out the physical noise of the arena.

A comforting hand is felt on your back, quickly realized to be Lin, from out of your peripheral vision, who watches equally as paralyzed.

The referee makes his way to Bang Chan, beginning to count down aloud, as the audience scream from all sides of the room at him.

“Get up!” They say, making erratic motions with the wave of their hands.

“You can still win!” Another is heard shouting, their voice in a clear state of panic.

“10, 9, 8…”

And as Chan lies, his back parallel to the floor of the ring, he remembers the feeling of this beside you, your languid figures silently relishing in the presence of one another.

Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner. Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“6, 5 …” the referee continues.

From well beyond his position, he can hear something about the historic event of watching a boxer lose his winning streak for the first time in his career, amidst the crescendoing sounds of simultaneous cheering and booing alike.

Kang-Dae jogs in place, tapping his own mitts together as he awaits Chan’s next move, mentally pushing for the second hand on the timer to move faster than 2mm per second.

“4…”

Yet Chan remains there, parallel to the floor of the ring he was practically raised in, letting a gush of crimson now conceal his sight, as his head cocks to one side in defeat.

“3, 2, 1.”

The word “loser” is uttered somewhere in the announcement of his loss, as Kang-Dae’s fist is raised victoriously in the air by the referee, preceding the loud blow of a whistle and another uproar of cheers.

And although the word rings throughout his ears like he’d always feared it would, it doesn’t sound nearly as scary as he imagined it might.

In fact, you’d have thought he won the match, by the way his lips pull into a satisfied smile, as the weight of a lifetime is lifted off his shoulders at last.

*

EPILOGUE

Calloused hands adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of Chan’s button-down shirt, his fingers easing through the process, as he’s already done this a dozen times now.

He raises his index finger up to his right brow, running it along the row of butterfly bandages still adhered to the gaping wound he boasts, and your hand darts out instinctively to stop him, lowering his wrist back onto his lap.

“I said don’t touch it,” you instruct him.

He seems to wear an amused smile for the millionth time today, as though maybe he’s doing it on purpose to elicit a reaction from you.

Chan observes as you scribble something onto a stack of papers, your head lowered in concentration to review a long list of questions.

And then you meet his gaze finally, mirroring his smile with one of your own, as you gesture to the camera.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, and he’s swiftly met with a nod of your head.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “We’re rolling.”

His hands fold in his lap, the jingle of his silver bracelet making itself known as he fiddles nervously, and then you start with the first question.

“Chan,” you begin. “You recently lost your first boxing match ever.”

He nods, not appearing disappointed, but rather contented, as he crosses his legs at the ankles.

“Can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

His eyes scan the ceiling momentarily, chuckling softly, before he speaks again.

“Nobody wants to lose,” Chan admits. “When I started boxing fourteen years ago, all I wanted to do was win. And I won consistently- at some point, losing ceased to even feel like a possibility. I hadn’t considered it very seriously.”

You nod as he speaks, and then Chan swallows nervously, before continuing.

“And then I began to think about losing,” he says. “And I couldn’t stop. The thoughts consumed me, to constantly imagine putting myself in the shoes of somebody who had to walk away from something so… unvictoriously.”

He sighs, and then he shrugs his shoulders just once.

“And now I’m a loser,” he finishes. “And I realize that there’s a lot more to boxing than just winning or losing. In fact, there’s more to the word than simply being a person who didn’t come out of it unvictorious.”

“What do you mean by that?” You say to him.

“Well,” he begins. “Prior to this event, I was fully set on forfeiting the whole thing. It’s something I had wanted to do for a long time- something I felt was right, in the midst of my aversion to this… vulnerable version of myself, that I kept tucked away from the public for my whole life.”

His expression grows serious now, brows furrowed as best as he can manipulate them, in deep concentration.

“And I realized that walking away from something you’ve always wanted, in response to a fear of your vulnerability- that’s unvictorious. I was scared for people to see me as any less than a strong, consistent winner. But that’s not realistic.”

You nod as Chan speaks, shooting him a proud smile- he’s allowing himself to be vulnerable on camera for the first time since you’ve met him. And though his voice shakes a little as he speaks, he conveys his truths so elegantly, the same way he did when you first interviewed him. He upholds this new image of him with such dexterity, careful not to accidentally portray a version of himself which might somehow contradict all that he’s learned. Yet it’s easier than he assumed it would be, he quickly realizes, when he finishes with a small nod of his head.

“I might be a loser in the sense of a boxing match,” he explains. “But relative to everything else I’ve gained along the way, I feel pretty victorious.”

You glance down at your papers, brushing your fingers over the next set of printed questions, and then you disregard them entirely when you meet his gaze again, producing your own now.

“You’re stepping down from being a boxer for the first time in your life,” you say to him. “Are you scared?”

Chan thinks it over momentarily, and then he shakes his head.

“I used to get punched by people for a living. There used to be so little that actually scared me.”

Your lips pull into a smile, recalling this conversation from long before his championship match.

“That being said-” he continues. “I’m terrified. But I guess that’s just a part of being honest with yourself. I’m just going to do it afraid.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, your eyes not leaving his as he observes the way you smile back at him. He’s just as charming as the day you met him- but he’s also real, and fascinating from this distance, made more perfect by extension of all his very human traits. His fears, reservations, embarrassments, frustrations- they’re all a part of who he is- not some “perfect boxer”, or a “born winner”, but simply Bang Chan- an imperfect boxer with one hell of a story to tell.

“Chan- what’s next for you?” You ask Chan, cocking your head slightly as you speak.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, his eyebrows raised curiously as he ponders the question.

“I’ll return to boxing someday,” he confesses. “It’s been an honorable 14 years here. I’m just going to find what else makes me tick. Maybe… pick up a thing or two about journalism?”

You laugh lightly when he does, shaking your head in response.

Of course he jests on the topic of journalism, knowing very well that you too, are set to take a break from this line of work following the air of the final interview.

With Chan losing the fight, Lin had begged you to rope him into another series, knowing that the general public had not faulted Chan for his broken winning streak. In fact, they had taken a larger liking to him than ever before, publishing raving reviews about his persistence to compete, despite his fears. And though you’d been offered a hefty pay to film another voyeuristic series into some new athlete’s life- a fencer, so you’ve heard, the offer was politely declined, as you opt to follow Chan on to the next chapter.

“Only if you teach me a thing or two about boxing,” you say to him, and he holds out a hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

“That’s a wrap,” you tell Chan, as you press the shutter release one last time, detaching your camera from its tripod and stowing it away into its leather casing.

“Last time, huh?” A voice says from behind you.

You pivot on your heel to meet the gaze of Mr. Seo, who shoots you a kind smile as he makes his entrance, giving Chan a friendly pat on the back.

“Hey!” Chan exclaims, turning around to deliver a warm hug to him, instead.

“I was just leaving for the evening,” Mr. Seo tells you both, his hands on his hips. He then raises his eyebrows knowingly, glancing around at the gym, before gesturing to the wall with a cock of his head.

“Come on,” he says. “I wanna show you one last thing.”

You both exchange confused looks, and then oblige to follow him down the hallway into the ring, where he halts just in front of the gallery wall.

You crane your necks up to the portraits- all the familiar faces remain in their respective positions, except for the addition of one new photograph, concealed by a white sheet.

Before Chan can inquire about the recent addition, Mr. Seo pulls it off ceremoniously, letting the white fabric drape onto the floor of the gym to unveil a brand new photo.

This one’s in color, for the first time, the stark contrast of the bright blue mitts against his tanned skin drawing the attention of all your eyes. It’s a still shot of Bang Chan, his fists extended into a mean uppercut, eyebrows narrowed into a stern expression as he strikes at his opponent. You recognize it to be from the night of Chan’s title fight, and although he hadn’t taken home the title that evening, the photograph is no indication of any form of loss. In fact, he’s entirely indistinguishable from the rest of the winners housed on the wall- including Baik Hyun-Man, who now lives just to the left of him.

“You’re kidding,” Chan exclaims through tearful laughter. Mr. Seo just smiles, shrugging casually in response.

“All the greats are meant to live here,” he tells Chan. “Especially the winners.”

Before Mr. Seo makes his departure, the same black duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder, he stops in his tracks, turning to Chan with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Seo exclaims. “Popsicles!”

“What?” Chan questions with a small chuckle.

“I found them finally, in the convenience store on the south side! I left them on the table for you toward the gallery wall, though. You’d better eat them before they melt.”

And then he’s off at last, the setting sun outlining his departing figure beyond the glass gym doors.

Chan does as he’s told, retrieving what are indeed his favorite sherbet popsicles from the table by the gallery wall, and providing you with one this time.

“You’re gonna love these,” he says to you, undoing the wrapper of both your popsicles and discarding them both on the gym floor.

“You’re making a mess!” You exclaim, as Chan shoves one into your grasp, instructing you to devour it entirely.

You bring the bright orange dessert up to your lips, taking a small lick, and Chan eagerly awaits your reaction.

“Well?” He questions, beginning on his own in the process.

“That’s phenomenal,” you say to him with a chuckle, taking another lick, and then another, and several more, the dessert quickly melting in your grasp and finding purchase along your forearms.

Chan laughs, too, bringing his lips down to your arm to trace his tongue along the trail of sticky sherbet and leaving a trail of tender kisses as he cleans you up. And then he kisses you just once when he’s finished, a sweet mixture of sherbet present on both your tongues as you bite back a smile.

When he pulls away to resume working on his popsicle, he cranes his neck up at the gallery wall once more, cocking his head to examine the rows of portraits.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, the way he always does, and you chuckle lightly in response.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say instinctively. And then you hum softly as you crane your neck, too, remembering you’re no longer an interviewer relative to Bang Chan, but rather comfortably in love with him, as you move onto the next chapter alongside each other.

“I’m thinking about all these boxers,” you opt to say instead. “Like, where do you think Hyun-Man is now?”

Chan hums in response, shrugging at your question. It’s a strange thought when he remembers how future spectators will be pondering his whereabouts someday, as they hold their respective gazes on this very wall.

“I don’t think he’d want us to know,” Chan confesses. “I think he purposely left us only with tales of guts and glory to remember him by.”

He tilts his head the other direction now, working his tongue along the base of his popsicle, before speaking again.

“Through tales of mine, of guts and glory,” Chan voices deeply, mimicking the renowned boxer’s famous last speech. And then his words are pacified by his popsicle, as he relishes in the flavor of something finally sacred to him once more.

But neither of you need to utter another word to conclude his sentence, mentally finishing it on your own.

“… we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

[diamater]

.

[imaginedanvrs]

drunken confessions ft. wanda maximoff

“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” Wanda huffed, catching you before you stumbled into the wall on your left. 

  “I think it was more like five hours,” you giggled as your best friend propped you up against the wall so she could unlock your room door for you. 

  “Whatever you say, lightweight,” she chuckled. Wanda opened the door and helped you inside where you made your ungraceful journey towards your bed, collapsing in a dramatic heap. 

  “I wish you would have been there,” you told her, struggling to sit up so that you could find where the redhead had disappeared to. She was searching around your room for some night clothes to put you in, eventually finding the corny rainbow set she had bought you as a joke only for you to frequently wear. 

  “You know I’m not a big drinker,” she replied, though part of her wished she had been there because apparently no one at the bar decided to tell you that you had had enough. Wanda had only come to take you home because you had ‘accidentally’ called her, only to start rambling about the fuck-me-eyes Kate and Yelena were giving each other. 

  “Yeah but I miss you when you’re not around,” you pouted. Wanda hummed, choosing to tease you about the confession the next day rather than encourage any more. Apparently you didn’t need encouragement. “Kate said I was talking about you too much,” you huffed, watching as Wanda slipped your shoes off and placed them neatly at the end of your bed. 

  “Arms up, detka,” she instructed. You lifted your arms up momentarily but the momentum threw off your poor balance and you fell backwards, giggling to yourself as you did. “You’re so drunk,” Wanda chuckled. 

  “Am not!” You slurred as you sat back up and lifted your shirt over your head. You had been best friends for a while so Wanda had seen you topless before, but she still averted her eyes respectfully as she handed you your night shirt. You managed to get it on and did the same with your trousers while the Sokovian grabbed the packet of face wipes and sat on the bed by your side. 

  “How much did you have?” She took a wipe out and gently began wiping away the remaining makeup on your face. 

  “You’re so gentle,” you mumbled, closing your eyes in content and completely blanking the question you couldn’t answer. 

  “You’re a mess,” Wanda countered. 

  “I’m glad you’re here,” you continued. “I always like when you’re around. You’re my favourite person to be around,” you insisted, gazing at your best friend in adoration and a love you couldn’t communicate in fear of messing everything up. “I hope you know that,” you added when she didn’t reply, appearing too focused on ensuring your features were clean. 

  “I do now,” she muttered, trying to downplay the hopeful excitement in her chest at your words. Wanda returned your loving gaze and placed a brief kiss to your cheek. 

  “You missed,” you told her, eyes growing heavy as you tapped your lips with your pointer finger. “I wish I could kiss you,” you muttered. The exhaustion from the night’s events was starting to hit you so you missed the surprise that graced your best friend’s features. “I always want to kiss you.” 

  Wanda stared down in disbelief before a smile began to creep onto her lips. You were drunk, and now fast asleep, so she couldn’t let herself get her hopes up too much, but it was too easy to join the dots of everything you had said the past few minutes. It was enough to give her the push she needed to confess her own feelings… as soon as you got over your hangover the next day.

  “I want to kiss you too.”

[leilanihours]

request: kate martin x gf/teammate!reader

kate is always calming the reader down when she's getting heated throughout the game because of unnecessary calls to her/them (based on what kate's doing to cc when she's getting heated) THANK YOU !!!

-🤍

# SUPERPOWERS

pairing: kate martin x iowa teammate!reader

word count: 1111

warnings: none !

summary: kate is the only one who knows how to keep you centered when you drift away from your priorities.

⭑ from lani: hi anon i love all the reqs youve sent and im so sorry im only now getting to them LOL 😭 i also hope its okay that i made kate and reader friends in this fic rather than in an established relationship 🤍

masterlist !

"I'M SO SICK of this shit, dude!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up in frustration as you paced across the backcourt while the player you "fouled" took her free throws.

"y/n, chill," kate says, turning around to make sure the referees didn't hear your outburst.

"no, kate, i'm serious! the second we stepped onto this court the refs were up our asses and kissing theirs!" you complain, referring to how there were so many forced calls and ignored violations.

"y/n, i get it," she cautions, "i'm on that court, too, i see it. but you gotta calm down before you get a tech."

"i-"

"look at me, y/n," she demands, putting her hands on either side of your face to force you to look into her blue eyes, "you're a fucking beast, okay? you can't let these dumbasses - respectfully - get in your head. got it?"

you falter for a second, suddenly becoming aware of the small amount of distance between you and kate. your breath hitches as you decipher the sincerity and passion behind the girl's words, her entrancing eyes adding to the intensity of the exchange.

"yeah, i got it," you mutter with a flustered look on your face.

"okay then," she smirks at your reaction as she brushes some of the loose hairs out of your face that had fallen from your ponytail, "let's get this win, yeah?"

with a simple nod of your head, you dap up kate and bump your fist against hers before sprinting to get back on offense.

after kate's advice, you ended up practically breaking ankles and scoring a sweet double-double.

------

"i have a question for y/n l/n," the reporter starts with a friendly smile, "i think it's fair to say that you are not afraid to stand your ground and voice your frustrations on the court - it's something that viewers have grown to love. as you prepare to leave iowa, one common supportive thread throughout your collegiate career has been one kate martin, who has always been at your side when things get too heated. care to comment on that?"

you let out an airy laugh as you glance over at the blonde next to you, who also lets out a chuckle.

"well, i mean, i've known this girl for as long as i've been here at iowa. i seriously can't think of a time in the past four years where i didn't have the blessing of her presence, so i think the constant exposure to each other and just the overall tight bond we've formed carries onto the court.

and what i mean by that is whenever i let my emotions get the best of me, kate knows exactly what to do or say to calm me down. i mean, she knows me like the back of her hand after all, so she doesn't hesitate to step in and make sure i keep my eyes on the prize.

she's always by my side for a reason, and that's to keep me grounded. i'm so grateful for it and i try to do the same for her but she's less aggressive than me so not much for me to do there," you end with a laugh.

smiling, you lean back in your chair as you listen to your teammates answer questions of their own. as the panel continues moving smoothly, you fiddle with your hoodie strings as you wait to be asked another question.

"for kate, it looks like there was a brief, heated conversation between you and y/n in the third quarter," the reporter asks as kate's face lights up at the sound of your name, "in relation to the question she got earlier, what does it take to calm down one of the most expressive, confident, and independent players in the game? how is it different from talking to your other teammates?"

you turn to kate when you hear your name mentioned, catching the delighted look on her face. you sit watching her intently as she answers the question.

"right off the bat, i'll say she's stubborn," she starts with a laugh, making the whole room (including you) chuckle at her bluntness, "especially in the middle of a game when she's locked in and completely in her head. it's definitely not a bad habit by any means but sometimes she tends to block out what we tell her which can lead to conflict build-up on the court.

but i think the fact that i notice this and am aware of it kinda lets me know that i have the ability to break through it, if that makes sense. i don't mean to toot my own horn, but as the team leader it's kinda my job to read my teammates and help them out in any way possible that benefits all of us and the score by the end of the night. with y/n it's just easy because i know her so well as a person, so i automatically know her as a player too.

so i guess that's how i'm able to calm her down a little bit but there's definitely a struggle to do so here and there. i mean, like you said, she's one of the most independent players out there which is amazing but we're definitely still working on how to get her to accept help more often."

"i don't know if i should be moved or offended," you playfully mumble into the mic, placing a hand over your heart in pretend pain.

kate chuckles at your reaction before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to her in a tight hug.

you're both smiling and joking for the rest of the conference, spirits lifted after hearing each other's affectionate words about the other.

there was something so comforting in the way you viewed each other and so greatly valued your friendship. you were best friends, sure, but the strength of your bond was one that didn't need to be put into words, it was simply a mutual understanding.

but hearing each of your perspectives spoken publicly for not only you two to understand, but for the whole world to understand made it so much more meaningful.

now if this friendship were to blossom into something more than what it currently is, that would be up to you and kate.

it definitely helped that your teammates also noticed how particularly close you two were. kate eventually learned that apparently they not only loved playing basketball at iowa, but also loved playing matchmaker for the two of you. and for that she was grateful.

— leilani signing off ! 📁

[bananami]

and just like that i’m back on my nanami bs. i hope this helps you all heal from the trauma that was season 2 of jjk <3 (cw: pure fluff, dad!nanami, wife!reader, sex is alluded to a number of times, nanami is just desperate for his wife ok)

“he just passed out, he usually naps for a good 30 minutes. i can do it in 20.”

you can’t help but laugh at your husband. ever since adopting yuuji the two of you have been adapting to your lives with a toddler. that included very limited one on one time, and it was taking a toll on nanami.

“i have to fold the laundry,” you’re tone is apologetic but your face tells him you find this amusing.

“you’re the greatest multitasker i know.”

you feel his arms wrap around you as you continue to fold yuuji’s t-shirts. the kid was so messy sometimes, it caused him to go through his entire closet in a weeks time. “we need to seriously go shopping and get him more things to wear.” you spun around to wrap your arms around his waist. “your child is a dirty little gremlin.”

“your husband is trying to be one too but you won’t let him act on it.”

“you are not gonna be 20 minutes, you say that but you’re not quick with it anymore old man.”

“who are you calling old man? i’m spry for my age.”

“see, you even sound like an old man.”

“an old man who just wants to show his wife how much he still loves her.” his hands slide up and down your back, holding you to him and bringing his lips to yours. “i love you. i miss you.”

“i miss you too kento,” you let him take his time kissing you. “ok, what if-“

“i love where this is going already.”

“i haven’t even told you.”

“the prospect of things makes me excited. really gets me going.”

you giggle, “so repressed.”

“you have no idea, it’s taking everything in me not to turn you around and accost you right here on the dining room table.” he leans his face down to nuzzle and kiss at your neck.

“accost?”

“accost. respectfully.”

you tighten your arms around his waist, satisfied with the heavy affection he’s showing you. “what if i call up gojo-“

“and just like that i’m soft.”

“kento!” you smack him in the back but can’t help the smile that sneaks onto your face. he’s so easy to rile up.

“you know the emotions his name invokes in me. i can’t stand him.”

“i was going to say, what if i called him up to see if yuuji can spend the weekend at his and geto’s place with megumi, and then you and i can have the entire weekend together. just the two of us.”

“i love him.”

“wow, wait until i tell him you said that.”

“i’ll never admit to it.” nanami takes your face into his hands, kissing at your lips over and over until a giggling voice breaks the moment.

“eeeeew!!” yuuji runs forward from the other side of the hallway, jumping up and down at nanami’s feet. “up, up, up!!” and when he does the pink haired little boy leans over to give you a kiss on the nose.

“thank you, yuuji,” you give his nose a kiss in return.

“thank you, mama!!”

nanami narrows his eyes and scratches at the boy’s belly, sending yuuji into another round of giggles at being tickled. “guess who’s house your gonna sleepover at this weekend.”

you send a look toward your husband. “he hasn’t agreed yet, i still have to call him.”

“he’ll agree. because if he doesn’t,” he presses a million little kisses all over yuuji’s face, “i might actually die. and then who will he have to annoy at work?”

“he does like to annoy you.”

“i’m well aware.”

“i’ll call him now.”

nanami sets yuuji down, sending him into the kitchen. before following him, he leans over to give you one last lingering kiss on the lips. “i love you,” his smile lifts into a tiny smirk, “and it is for that reason exactly that i say, with all of the love i can muster, i am going to ruin you this weekend.”

“ruin me?”

“ruin you. respectfully.”

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Helloo how are you? Can you write Jacaerys Velaryon and the female Snow reader? The reader may be Cregan's (older or not) sister. Thank you in advance 🌸

I started this one when the first images of Jacaerys from season 2 came out... I apologize for taking so long, but it's 3.5k words, so it should make up for the wait

Warnings: nudity (skinny dipping), implied cheating

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The visit of a prince in the North was unusual, but necessary. The new-crowned Queen needed to know if the Lord of Winterfell — Cregan Stark — was supporting her claim. So, she sent her eldest son, Jacaerys, as messenger. 

Without surprise, the northmen were a little shaken when they saw the prince arriving on Vermax. Most of them had never seen a dragon. Some were afraid, others intrigued by the ‘large beast’, as they called it. The name made Jacaerys laugh. Vermax was nothing to be scared of in size, there were much bigger dragons. 

Ones they should be scared of.

The day of his arrival, Cregan kindly showed the prince around Winterfell — the courtyards, the horses. However, the visit ended rather quickly as he noticed Jacaerys was getting cold walking around in his riding clothes. The leather was thick enough to keep him warm through the winds when on dragonback, but not for the dry cold and snow. 

‘’Let’s continue the visit in the morrow,’’ Cregan suggested. ‘’We have a chamber prepared for you. I imagine you would like to retire and warm up before we gather for dinner. I hope you like boar. My men and I hunted this one only days ago. It’s not everyday a prince graces us with his presence!’’

Jacaerys nodded appreciatively, trying to suppress his shivers. ‘’Thank you, Lord Stark. I will let the Queen know of your warm welcome when I return.’’ 

Cregan chuckled. ‘’Speaking of warmth. I’ll have someone bring you warmer clothes — a cloak and gloves — to your chamber so you won’t lose a finger or two during your stay.’’ 

‘’That’s very kind of you,’’ the prince replied, smiling at Cregan’s humor. His breath formed small clouds in the cold air as he spoke. 

The Nortman walked him to his chamber, then left Jacaerys to himself. Looking around the room, he noticed how small and dark it was compared to the ones at the Red Keep or on Dragonstone. There was a large hearth already ablaze with a roaring fire, and the bed was draped in thick furs, promising a warm night’s rest. 

Before he could sit by the fire to catch some warmth, there was a knock at the door. 

It must be the clothes Cregan offered for him. 

‘’Come in!’’ 

The door creaked open, and you stepped in, the heavy wooden frame groaning in protest. The warmth of the fire hit you as you entered the chamber, holding a dark cloak lined with a fur collar. ‘’Prince Jacaerys,’’ you greeted, dipping your head respectfully. ‘’Here are the clothes my brother promised you.’’ 

Jacaerys turned, surprise flickering across his face. Brother? He didn’t know Lord Cregan had a sister.

He thanked you and took the clothes from you, your fingers brushing slightly, then set them down on the bed behind him. He’ll look at them later. 

‘’How do you like Winterfell so far?’’ you asked, trying to make conversation, and mask the sudden flush on your cheeks. You couldn’t deny, the prince was handsome. He also didn’t look much like a Targaryen with his dark curls and eyes, but you didn’t comment on that. 

‘’I have never seen snow before,’’ he admitted, glancing towards the frost-covered window. 

You chuckled softly, his answer common from someone from the south. ‘’It must be cold up there for a boy of the south.’’ 

Jacaerys nodded, rubbing his hands together. ‘’Dragons don’t like the cold.’’ 

‘’I heard my brother has planned a visit to the Wall. I suggest you double up on the layers and wear knit under your clothes,’’ you advised.

The fire crackled in the hearth, echoing in the small room, slowly warming up Jacaerys. He forced a smile, honestly not looking forward to this trip to the wall. To an even colder climate. ‘’I appreciate the advice. I'll make sure to stay warm.’’

‘’Don’t be afraid to ask for more. We wouldn’t like to be held responsible for a prince’s frostbites.’’

*

During dinner, politics were not discussed. Instead, Cregan bragged about the boar you were eating, which he himself hunted a couple of days ago. 

‘’Have you ever been hunting, Prince Jacaerys?’’ 

Jacaerys shook his head. He heard of the royal hunt, but never participated himself. He found it barbarous. ‘’I have not, Lord Stark,’’ he replied, his voice steady but polite. 

He didn’t want to sound privileged, but all meat was bought and brought to Dragonstone. There was no need to learn how to hunt when you were born in royalty. 

Cregan raised an eyebrow. ‘’All men should know how to hunt!’’ he stated firmly, slapping the table for emphasis. ‘’My father took me on my first boar hunt at fourteen. There's something primal about the hunt. The chase, the kill...it's in our blood. It’s part of becoming a man.’’

Jacaerys paused, taking a sip of his wine. ‘’We don’t hunt in the south, but my father taught me how to wield a sword.’’

*

On his first night, sleep turned out to be difficult to find. Jacaerys tossed and turned under the soft fur blankets, the crackling fire nearby providing warmth but no comfort. Frustrated, he slipped out of his bed, deciding that a walk might help clear his restless mind.

As he wandered through the quiet corridors of the castle, the cool night air coming through the windows brushing against his skin, he noticed someone else up and about, leaning against the banister. Jacaerys assumed it was a woman working for the Starks — a maid, perhaps —, but as he got closer, he recognized you. 

‘’Couldn't sleep either?’’ Jacaerys asked, his voice cutting through the silence of the night.

You jumped, pulling your cloak tighter around you. ‘’Prince Jacaerys.’’ Your heart was beating fast in your chest, startled by the prince. No one was ever up at this hour of the night. 

‘’I apologize, Miss Stark. I did not mean to scare you.’’ 

‘’All is well,’’ you assured, offering a small smile. ‘’Is the bed not comfortable enough for a prince?’’

Jacaerys shook his head. ‘’Nothing wrong with the bed, sleep just won't come,’’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘’You have not answered my question?’’ 

You exhaled a deep breath and sat on the bench overlooking the courtyard. ‘’Too much on my mind.’’

Jacaerys joined you on the bench, the cool night air brushing against your faces as you asked him about Vermax. You had seen him flying over the hills a few minutes ago, but had since gone to sleep somewhere close to the castle. Your curiosity surprised Jacaerys, but he was happy to tell you all about Vermax. How he hatched, how they bonded, and even his first ever ride. 

‘’Just because my parents are dragon riders doesn’t mean I wasn’t terrified on my first flight. Trust is important when riding a dragon. There are possibilities of falling off and dying. But I trusted Vermax,’’ Jacaerys explained.

You could sense the bond between him and Vermax was more than just rider and dragon. It was a deep, unspoken connection.

‘’How does it feel like?’’ 

Jacaerys' face brightened. ‘’Nothing compares to the feeling of riding a dragon. The sky is the best place in the world. It's a thrill and freeing at the same time. I could take you on a ride before I return to Dragonstone,’’ he suggested, a playful glint in his eyes. ‘’If you desire.’’

‘’I’ll hold you to that.’’ 

*

In the morning, Cregan Stark took Jacaerys on a full tour of Winterfell, showing him every corner of his ancestral home. They started with the horse stables, where the horses nickered softly in their stalls, then moved to the godswood, the ancient heart tree standing solemn and silent. They explored the crypt, with its long lines of statues of the Stark ancestors, before finally arriving in the courtyard.

As they walked into the courtyard, Jacaerys saw you sparring with one of the trainers of the castle guard. He paused, taken aback by the fluidity and force of your movements. He had never seen a woman wield a sword with such skill and confidence. Your strikes were precise, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next, and the determination in your eyes was unmistakable.

‘’My sister was born holding a sword,’’ Cregan said with amusement, following Jacaerys’ line of sight. ‘’She is more skilled than some of our knights in training.’’ 

A smile curled on the prince’s lips, watching you with amazement. His uncle Aemond would eat dirt if he were to duel with you in a tourney.

Cregan snapped Jacaerys from his staring. ‘’Ready for some training?’’ he asked, a playful challenge in his eyes as he took out his sword from his belt. ‘’Let’s see if Leanor Velaryon taught you well.’’ 

When he said his father taught him to wield a sword, Jacaerys meant Harwin Strong, not Leanor. But correcting Cregan would feed the bastard rumors about him and his brothers, so he kept his mouth shut. 

*

The following day was the dreaded visit to the Wall. Although the place sounded fascinating, Jacaerys was not looking forward to colder weather. He doubled on the layers as you advised him, and got on horseback with Cregan and a small group of men. They should be back in three days. 

As always, Winterfell would be in your charge during Cregan’s absence. 

‘’Is Vermax going to the Wall?’’ you asked, noticing Jacaerys struggling to secure his bag to the saddle.

‘’Yes. He will follow us. I could never leave Vermax behind. He goes wherever I go,’’ Jacaerys said, watching your smaller fingers deftly tie a knot to secure everything. ‘’Thank you for the help, Miss Stark.’’ His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

‘’Your welcome, Prince Jacaerys.’’ 

Everyone got on their horses, ready to leave. 

As Cregan ordered the gates to be opened, Jacaerys looked down at you, his breath visible in the chilly air. ‘’I hope it is not as cold as you made it sound.’’

‘’Have a safe travel,’’ you wished, your eyes meeting his. "And never take your gloves off outside. You’ll lose a finger."

Jacaerys chuckled softly, a playful glint in his eye. "I'll try to remember," he said, before nudging his horse forward, leaving you with a lingering smile as they rode off.

*

Although you enjoyed being in charge of Winterfell, you counted the days until the men would return from the Wall. It had been difficult admitting it to yourself, but you had fallen for the prince’s charm and were impatient to see a green and red dragon in the sky.

He had promised to take you on a ride before leaving the North, and you will be holding him up to that when he returns from the wall. You had seen him talk to a few of the women around Winterfell, but Jacaerys hadn’t offered anyone else a dragon ride. Only you. It made you feel a little special.

Every time you passed the banister where you had spoken that night, you could almost hear his laughter and feel the warmth of his presence. The anticipation of seeing him again was a constant flutter in your chest.

You wondered if he thought of you while he was away.

Your question was answered when he seeked for you after lunch. You had been getting ready to train in the courtyard when you heard a knock on your door. Jacaerys had a nervous smile on his face, silently praying you would still be on board with that dragon ride. 

‘’How was Castle Black?’’ 

‘’Nothing like I expected. The Wall is very impressive. I have never seen anything this tall before.’’ 

‘’It was built by Brandon the Builder of House Stark about 800 years ago, with assistance from Giants,’’ you said, proud of your family history. ‘’But Cregan has probably already told you all about the Wall…’’ 

He had, but Jacaerys didn’t mind hearing it all again from you. 

Dragons were impressive when you were standing next to them. Very impressive. 

You stayed behind as Jacaerys approached Vermax, speaking to him in High Valyrian as it was the language used to train and command dragons. A small bubble of fear rose within you, knowing dragons only allowed their riders to get close. Would Vermax try to kill you if you got too near?

‘’Come,’’ Jacaerys encouraged, extending his hand to you. ‘’He won’t hurt you.’’ He was standing by Vermax’s face, introducing him to you. ‘’He’s been eating less since we arrived. It’s his way of saying he is unhappy. I don’t know if you have noticed, but Vermax doesn’t like the North. Dragons can tolerate the cold, but they prefer warm temperatures.’’

Jacaerys’s hand rested over yours as you gently touched Vermax's scaly skin. ‘’I apologize for our cold weather, Vermax,’’ you said, your voice soft as you addressed the dragon. 

Vermax’s eyes, large and intense, regarded you with a curious intelligence. You felt a shiver run down your spine, but not from the cold. Jacaerys’s reassuring presence gave you the courage to stand your ground. You trusted that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. 

‘’He’s magnificent,’’ you whispered, marveling at the dragon's sheer size and power.

With a confident gesture, Jacaerys climbed onto Vermax’s back, then extended his hand to help you up. You settled in behind him, and he placed your hands securely around his middle. 

‘’Hold on tight,’’ he said, his own hands gripping the handles of the saddle as Vermax spread his massive wings. 

With a powerful leap, the dragon launched into the sky, the ground rapidly falling away beneath you. The cold wind whipped past, making you cling onto the prince. 

As Vermax soared higher, the place you always called home transformed into a breathtaking panorama of gray stones, snow-covered vales and distant mountains. The exhilaration of flight was overwhelming, filling you with a sense of freedom unlike anything you had ever experienced.

Jacaerys grinned and leaned forward, making Vermax dive as you approached a forest and hover over the trees. His feet brushed the tip of the trees, shaking off the snow covering them, before going up again with a powerful flap of his wings. 

You gasped and held onto Jacaerys tighter, the mix of fear and excitement making your heart race. ‘’Are you trying to make my heart burst?’’ you shouted, laughing despite the rush of adrenaline.

Jacaerys laughed, his voice carried away by the wind. ‘’I’m only giving you a true experience.’’

Vermax continued to glide through the sky, and you savored every moment — the rush of the wind, the closeness of Jacaerys, and the incredible feeling of soaring above the world.

An idea sparked in your mind as the scenery below began to look familiar. ‘’How do we land?’’ you asked. 

‘’Ilagon,’’ Jacaerys commanded, and Vermax dived down again. 

You climbed down from the dragon, your feet sinking into the marshmallow-like softness of the virgin snow. ‘’Follow me,’’ you said, glancing back at Jacaerys.

He was right on your heels as you led him to a cave. He was confused about what you were doing inside a cave, but let you lead the path. You’ve grown in the North, you must know where you were going. Right? 

‘’Where are we going?’’ 

‘’You said dragons don't like the cold.’’ 

The further you ventured inside the cave, the more you began to feel a gentle warmth emanating from deeper within. 

‘’So I’m keeping my prince warm,’’ you teased with a smile. You took another turn and then came to a halt. ‘’After your visit to the Wall, I figured you’d like to warm up.’’ You stepped aside, revealing a hidden hot spring, steam rising invitingly from the water.

Jacaerys's eyes widened in surprise and delight. ‘’This is incredible,’’ he said, his voice filled with awe. ‘’How did you know about this place?’’

‘’I got lost a few years ago during a hunt. The snow had turned into a blizzard and I could not find my way back to the campment. I was missing for hours. My father found me and took me here until the blizzard calmed down. My little hands and feet were almost frozen.’’ 

‘’You should not have left campment.’’ 

‘’I was a rebellious child.’’  

Jacaerys shook his head with a smile. 

Without hesitation, you began to undress, unbuckling your cloak and peeling off your gloves. You pulled at the laces of your boots, freeing your feet from their confine, and moved to the front of your dress, loosening the laces until it slipped from your shoulders. That hot water was going to feel amazing on your cold skin. 

‘’You need to undress before getting in the water, you know?’’ you teased, your eyes flickering to Jacaerys and seeing him still dressed.  

His cheeks flushed slightly. ‘’Yeah, I… I’ll…’’  

Slowly, he began to undress, his movements a bit tentative. His cloak fell to the ground along with his riding jacket and undershirt. You couldn't help but find his shyness endearing. 

You continued with your dress and socks, until you stood bare in the soft glow of the cave. As you waited for Jacaerys to finish undressing, you found yourself peaking at his smooth and slightly defined chest. You wanted to feel it pressed against you.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped into the hot spring, the water swirling around from your movement. The spring was deeper than you expected, and soon the warm water was enveloping your breasts and shoulders. The heat was intense at first, almost too hot, but it felt incredible compared to the biting cold of the North. You were used to the cold, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t cold. 

You let out a sigh of relief. The steaming water was blissful after being hit in the face by the cold air during the ride. 

You glanced back at Jacaerys, who was finishing undressing, his bouncy curls moving around as he pulled off his socks. His back was to you, giving you a perfect view of his behind. You sank deeper into the water, trying to drown the inappropriate thoughts filling your mind.

‘’Careful, it’s hot,’’ you warned as Jacaerys was about to step in, standing naked at the edge of the spring, the steam rising around him. 

He dismissed your warning and stepped in without a sound. ‘’I have Targaryen blood. We tolerate the heat better than others,’’ Jacaerys said, sinking down until the water covered up to his neck. ‘’This feels amazing. I wish I could come and swim here everyday.’’ He basked in the warm water, closing his eyes as he floated. 

A soft smile grazed your lips. 

The moment of calm was disrupted as Jacaerys swam closer to you, a boyish grin on his face before he splashed water at you. You gasped in shock, and splashed him back, laughing with child-like joy. Ultimately, Jacaerys was the one to give in, raising his arms up to surrender. Your laughter fades away with the wind, leaving you both in a comfortable silence. A silence that didn’t need to be filled, nor did you want it to be. 

The two of you meet in the middle, a flutter of excitement filling your stomach. You felt his leg brush your tibia, the proximity making you acutely aware of your nakedness. The thought of sinking deeper into the water crossed your mind, but the clarity of the spring left little to the imagination. Your supple breasts and hard nipples were visible beneath the surface

‘’Prince Jacaerys?’’ you spoke softly, your voice almost a whisper.

‘’Jace,’’ he corrected gently. ‘’You can call me Jace.’’ He reached out and tucked your wet hair behind your ear with a tenderness that sent shivers down your spine.

You leaned into his touch, a small smile playing on your lips as you nodded. ‘’Jace?’’ 

His gaze dropped to your lips, battling his inner dilemma of kissing you or not. The chemistry between you was undeniable, a magnetic pull that neither of you could resist. Though he was a prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, he was still a boy first, and in this moment, all titles and duties seemed to melt away.

You opened your mouth to speak again, but Jacaerys leaned in, closing the distance, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss. You had fantasized about sharing this kiss on more than one occasion while he was away at the Wall. Now, his lips were moving over yours — for real — and your dreams had not done justice to the reality of him. 

The heat of the spring seemed to intensify, wrapping around you as the kiss deepened, a mix of tenderness and passion. His hands caressed every spot of your body he could reach on you, your breasts pressing against his chest as you locked your arms around his neck and shoulders and wrapped your thighs around his waist. 

You pulled back to catch your breaths, and looked at him, admiring him. His hair was slowly getting its curl pattern back, a smile looking back at you. 

Jacaerys doubted that by ‘finding shared interests’ his mother meant falling for Lord Stark’s sister.

—

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[vrystalius]

Hi, I’m not sure if this counts as NSFW but I was wondering if I could request how the Hashira would react to their wife asking them to check their breasts for lumps or something similar. Like their wife is paranoid and asks them for their opinion. Please and thank you. If you’re uncomfortable writing this then it’s okay to ignore this.

Check-Ups

(TW breast cancer/cancer)

You ask the hashira to check your breasts for any signs of cancer or any lumps. How will they react?

Pairing: Sanemi, Kyojuro, Gyomei, Giyu x fem!reader

(Mentioning of nsfw, non-sexual nudity)

Sanemi Shinazugawa

He’d eye you suspiciously at first. Are you kidding? Does Sanemi look like a qualified doctor to you? But then again, he’s quite familiar with your assets and how they feel. He’ll probably notice any changes and differences. So, he agreed to give you a small check-up.

Sanemi averted his eyes as you opened your robes up and removed your bra. He roughly palmed your breast and just stayed there for a couple seconds, staring at the wall next to him.

“Uhh, dear… you have to squeeze and move around a little.” “Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

He grumbled quietly while checking the one breast, then the other. Sanemi was awkwardly squeezing and feeling around, feeling nothing unusual. He was still not facing you, refusing to look either at your chest or your face to hide his flushed face. Sanemi knows that those kind of check-ups are important and that it’s not the first nor the last time he’ll be touching you like this (may it be inside or outside the bedroom), so he’ll have to get used to it. He’ll try to power through his without embarrassing himself…

“S’all good. Nothin’ weird, feels like usual. N-Normal, I mean. Y’know.”

Kyojuro Rengoku

He’d comply no hesitation! This is definitely something important and Kyojuro wants to make sure that you are doing good! He’ll keep his usual smile and avert his eyes respectfully when you undress partly for him and try to continue being respectful as he leans in a little closer.

Kyojuro is used to seeing your chest exposed during showers or in bed, but they still make him blush everytime he sees them anew.

His hand is steady and feels pleasantly warm wrapped around your breast like this. He squeezes your flesh gently while his brows furrow in concentration. Kyojuro looks kind of adorable when he’s so focused… if only his gaze wasn’t glued to your exposed chest.

“Mhm! I don’t feel anything, my love!”

He has a bright smile after finishing his inspection. He wouldn’t mind doing future check-ups like this, but he would like it even more if you get professional check-ups by someone like Shinobu. She knows what she is doing, while Kyojuro just tries to feel out if there is anything different about his favourite pillows by gently groping them.

“How about I talk to Shinobu tomorrow? You two can schedule regular check-ups if you are worried!”

Gyomei Himejima

He will do it happily for you. Gyomei wants you to be healthy and happy at all times, meaning if this eases your mind, he’ll of course do it. He’ll pray under his breath while listening to your robes slip off your shoulders. Your hand wrapping around his wrist is signalling to him that you are ready and that he can go ahead with the check-up now.

Gyomei’s eyes will close while his hand managed to cup almost all of your breast at once. His hand was carefully squeezing and pressing down with his fingers, checking for anything unfamiliar to him. He continued his prayers during the inspection, silent tears running down his face.

“I do not feel anything, my love.”

Gyomei has explored your body with his hands many times before, meaning he will notice any changes almost instantly. But he wasn’t feeling anything abnormal, so his tears slowly dried up. A soft smile rested on his face as Gyomei nodded silently. He is glad you trust him with this thing and hopes that you will come to him in the future as well.

“You did well, my pearl. Thank you for trusting me.”

Giyu Tomioka

What? Why are you asking him to do this? Are you suspecting you might have cancer? Do you think Giyu should be the one to determine that? Why do you put so much trust in him anyway?

After reassuring him that he is going to notice if there is anything wrong, Giyu stood across you, his eyes fixated on your chest as you slipped your robes aside to expose your naked chest to him. He will never get used to the sight of your chest and the way it makes him blush in the brightest crimson colour.

Giyu’d cup your chest awkwardly and just remain like that, glancing at your face for reassurance and guidance. You need to hold his wrists and guide him through this check-up. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to be looking for.

“Isn’t Shinobu more qualified for this? Or Mitsuri? They have… breasts. They know more.”

He was very unsure about all of this. Giyu’d feel so much better if you just went to Shinobu’s clinic and get a check-up there, but if you feel more comforted by him, he gets that as well.

Luckily, he found nothing unusual or special. Just that he might do this outside of these… check-ups. You feel really warm, your chest might be really good handwarmers.

“Would you… let me put my hands beneath your chest? For when I’m cold.”

💠

A little shorter than usual, hope you don’t mind! Thank you for being so respectful, I really appreciate it <3 Hope you enjoyed reading this! I have a lot of requests in my ask-box right now so I’ll try to work through them during the week. Hope you look forward to it!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough <3

Take care of yourselves! <3

[leviathans-watching]

hi sophie! you can deny this request if it's too suggestive for you, but i was wondering if you could write how the brothers react to an MC that walks around the house shirtless/in a sports bra if they're fem bodied when it gets too warm? it's super hot this summer and i've been doing this recently to calm down haha

no worries if you can't! anyway i hope you're well :3

~ nessa ♡

seeing you shirtless

includes: lucifer, mammon, asmo, beel x/& gn!reader (no pronouns/body type mentioned/described)

wc: .4k | rated t | m.list | pt 2

a/n: oml this was so fun to write ty for this idea!! my inbox is open to chat, req, or leave feedback, so come say hi!

warnings: minorly suggestive (thirsty brothers), explicit language

please reblog <3

➳ lucifer is a gentleman, so he doesn’t comment on your choice of–lack of–attire, however, he finds himself looking more often than is polite, more often than he should, studiously taking in the unfamiliar slope of your shoulders, the way your spine sits in your back. you’re magnetic, and though he tries to be subtle he’s sure you’ve caught him staring by now. perhaps that’s why you keep entering the room, stopping to stretch directly in his line of sight with a poorly concealed smile across your lips. lucifer tears his eyes away, looking at his book, but the words are incomprehensible.

➳ mammon wonders if his blush is permanently on his face. he’s seen you in a swimsuit before, hell, more than once, but this is somehow different. maybe it’s because you’re in his house, in his room, acting in such a familiar way in such a familiar setting but looking so unfamiliar, like something straight out of his dreams. and look, it’s not like he’s trying to objectify you or anything, but he can't deny that you’re attractive. distantly, he wonders if you have any freckles previously undiscovered, before he shakes himself. he’s the great mammon! he shouldn’t be swayed by some human! and yet… god, even his ears are red.

➳ asmo whistles, eyes wide. you’d been complaining about the heat lately, something asmo’d totally forgotten was a thing, given that he was a demon in the fiery pits of hell and all, but he’d never thought this would be your solution. instead of being shy, you wink at him, continuing to wipe down the glass of the sliding door, body moving in such interesting, delectable ways. look what you’ve done to him, made him fantasize over cleaning for god’s sake! asmo continues to watch, debating the merits of stripping out of his own shirt as well.

➳ beel doesn’t notice for a long moment, but when he does, he can’t stop himself from admiring your body, loving how it looks in its natural shape. he loves everything about you, something he hopes you know, and can’t believe how lucky he is. for once, he's not hungry, sated with the feat in front of his eyes. or maybe he’s more hungry. hard to tell. but he’s nothing if not polite, so he acts as if nothing’s happened, taking care to maintain eye contact with you respectfully, even offering his help with chores. but when you turn around… damn, he’s so lucky.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (5)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!targ/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For all previous chapters, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. The Faith of the Seven works a little differently here, and they never fully accepted brother-sister marriages. Trust the process.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Red Keep, as Rhaenyra walked the familiar corridors, her steps light and purposeful. The castle was already bustling with the day’s activities, courtiers and servants moving through the halls, each engaged in their own tasks. But despite the steady hum of the Keep, Rhaenyra felt a sense of calm as she made her way toward the Great Hall, her newly appointed protector, Ser Criston Cole, trailing a few steps behind her.

Ser Criston’s presence was still new, but it was a welcome one. There was a quiet confidence about him, a sense of reliability that Rhaenyra appreciated. She had chosen him herself, after all, and she felt a certain pride in that decision. The Kingsguard had always been composed of men of noble birth, but Ser Criston was different—he was a man who had proven himself in battle, a man who understood the realities of war and loyalty.

As they walked, Rhaenyra was lost in thought, her mind occupied with the matters she was expected to attend to that day. But her thoughts were interrupted when she caught sight of a familiar figure coming down the hall toward her, his presence instantly commanding attention. It was you, her brother, and the sight of you brought an immediate smile to her face.

"Brother!" Rhaenyra called out, her voice bright with warmth as she quickened her pace to meet you.

You smiled as you approached, your demeanor relaxed but with that ever-present air of responsibility that seemed to follow you everywhere. You were on your way to the training yard, where your presence was often required, but the sight of your sister brought a welcome distraction.

"Rhaenyra," you greeted her warmly, stopping in your tracks as she came to stand before you. "I see you’re off to attend to courtly matters. Hopefully nothing too tedious?"

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, shaking her head. "I hope not, though you know how these things can be. What about you? Off to the training yard to beat sense into some poor squire?"

"Something like that," you replied with a grin. "But I couldn’t pass by without saying hello."

As you exchanged pleasantries, your gaze shifted to the man standing just behind your sister. Ser Criston Cole stood at attention, his armor polished and gleaming, the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders. Your expression brightened with recognition.

"Ser Criston," you greeted, nodding in acknowledgment. "I see you’ve traded your old armor for the white cloak of the Kingsguard. It suits you."

Ser Criston inclined his head respectfully. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady. "Thank you. It is an honor to serve."

You nodded, clearly pleased. "You served well under my command, Ser Criston. I haven’t forgotten the skirmish we had on the border near Yronwood. You fought with courage that day, held the line when others might have faltered."

A flicker of surprise crossed Ser Criston’s face, quickly replaced by a look of quiet pride. "Thank you, Your Grace. I’m honored that you remember."

With a final nod, you turned your attention back to your sister, your smile warm and genuine. "Take care, Rhaenyra. I’ll see you at the council later?"

Rhaenyra nodded, her smile lingering. "Of course, Brother. I’ll be there."

With that, you continued down the hall, your guards falling in step behind you. Rhaenyra watched you go, a small smile still playing on her lips. There was something comforting about your presence, a sense of stability that she had always relied on.

As you disappeared around the corner, Ser Criston spoke, his tone thoughtful. "I must admit, Princess, I’m surprised the prince remembered me at all. I was just a foot soldier in that battle, after all."

Rhaenyra turned to face him, her expression soft with understanding. "My brother remembers everyone who served under him, Ser Criston. Whether they’re lords or common soldiers, it doesn’t matter. He values loyalty and bravery above all else."

Ser Criston nodded, though his expression remained contemplative. "It’s just that… it’s one thing to remember the sons of important lords or famous commanders. But for him to recall a mere foot soldier like myself… it means a great deal."

Rhaenyra smiled, her admiration for you evident in her eyes. "That’s who my brother is, Ser Criston. He doesn’t see people as just titles or ranks. To him, every man who fights for his family and his realm is worthy of respect."

Ser Criston’s gaze shifted downward, his thoughts clearly turning inward. He had seen many lords and commanders throughout his years of service, but few had ever treated him with the kind of respect and recognition that you had just shown. It was a humbling experience, and it only solidified his resolve to serve the Targaryen family with all the honor he could muster.

Rhaenyra noticed the introspective look on Ser Criston’s face and decided to lighten the mood. "Come now, Ser Criston," she said, her tone playful. "Let’s not dwell on the past too much. We have matters to attend to, and I’m sure there will be plenty of time for reflection later."

Ser Criston looked up, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Of course, Princess. Lead the way."

The training yard of the Red Keep was alive with the sounds of clashing swords and the grunts of exertion as new recruits tested their mettle against seasoned trainers. You stood at the edge of the yard, your arms crossed over your chest as you observed the proceedings with a critical eye. The morning sun was climbing higher in the sky, but you were focused on the work at hand.

The recruits were a mix of eager young men and more experienced soldiers looking to hone their skills further. As the prince, you had taken it upon yourself to oversee their training whenever you could, ensuring that the men who served your house were of the highest caliber. You had been through enough battles to know that preparation was everything, and you took your responsibility seriously.

You watched as one of the trainers—a burly man with a weathered face and a scar running down his cheek—barked orders at a pair of recruits who were sparring with wooden swords. The younger of the two was struggling to keep up, his movements clumsy and unsure. You frowned slightly, making a mental note to spend some time with him later, to help him refine his technique.

As you continued to observe, your thoughts briefly drifted to the conversation you’d had with Daemon the night before. His words about taking control of your own fate had resonated with you, and though you had pushed them to the back of your mind to focus on the day’s duties, they lingered like a shadow, waiting to be addressed.

Meanwhile, not far from the training yard, Alicent Hightower walked alongside her brother Gwayne, the two of them making their way toward the gates of the Red Keep. Gwayne was set to return to Oldtown, and Alicent had insisted on seeing him off, a quiet farewell before he departed.

As they walked, Alicent’s eyes kept drifting to the side, stealing quick glances at you as you oversaw the training. The distance between you and her was enough that you likely didn’t notice, but Gwayne certainly did. He had always been protective of his sister, and he was keenly aware of the pressure their father placed on her to secure the favor of the Targaryen prince.

Gwayne’s gaze flicked between his sister and you, his expression growing thoughtful. After a moment, he cleared his throat, drawing Alicent’s attention back to him. "Alicent," he began, his tone carefully neutral, "is this something Father wants… or something you want?"

Alicent felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks, the question catching her off guard. She had known Gwayne would notice, but she hadn’t expected him to be so direct. She hesitated, searching for the right words, but the truth was more complicated than she wanted to admit.

"It’s… both," she finally admitted, her voice soft. "Father has his plans, and I understand what’s expected of me. But it’s also something I feel I have to do. For our family."

Gwayne sighed, his expression tightening with concern. "Alicent, you know how these things can go. Court life is dangerous, and playing with the affections of a prince—especially one like Y/N—is no small matter. You need to be careful."

Alicent looked down, her hands clasped in front of her as they walked. "I know, Gwayne. But what choice do I have? Father has made it clear what he expects, and if I don’t at least try…"

Gwayne stopped, turning to face her fully. "You’re more than just a pawn in Father’s game, Alicent. Don’t lose sight of that. The prince may be noble, but he’s also burdened by his own duties and expectations. If you get too close… if things don’t go as Father hopes…"

Alicent met her brother’s gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "I understand the risks, Gwayne. But I have to do what I can for our family. It’s what’s expected of me."

Gwayne’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Just promise me you’ll be careful, Alicent. Don’t let Father’s ambitions blind you to your own happiness."

Alicent nodded, offering him a small, strained smile. "I promise."

With that, they continued their walk to the gates, Gwayne’s concern lingering in the air between them. Alicent’s thoughts were a jumble of uncertainty and duty as she glanced back toward the training yard one last time before they reached the gates. You were still there, focused on your responsibilities, seemingly unaware of the silent turmoil playing out in the hearts of those around you.

As Gwayne mounted his horse and prepared to depart, he looked down at his sister with a final, reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself, Alicent. I’ll see you soon."

Alicent nodded, watching as he rode away, the weight of his words and the pressure of her father’s expectations heavy on her shoulders.

The air in your chambers was stifling, despite the late afternoon breeze drifting in through the open window. You had been pacing for what felt like hours, your mind restless and unsettled. The allure of flight was strong, and the thought of taking to the skies on Silverwing, leaving behind the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep, was becoming harder to resist. You longed for the freedom that only a dragon’s wings could bring, the vast expanse of the sky where no courtly intrigue or whispered plots could reach you.

As you stood by the window, your gaze drifting out toward the horizon, the quiet knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. A moment later, Ser Harrold’s voice came through the heavy wooden door.

"Your Grace, Lady Alicent Hightower seeks an audience with you."

You turned, surprised by the announcement. Alicent had rarely sought you out on her own, and while you had nothing against her, you couldn’t shake the suspicion that her presence here was likely on her father’s orders rather than of her own accord.

"Let her in," you said, your voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

The door opened, and Alicent entered the room, her steps measured and graceful as always. She was dressed impeccably, as befitted a lady of her station, her hands clasped in front of her as she approached. Her expression was polite, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes as she met your gaze.

"Your Grace," she greeted you with a slight curtsy. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

You shook your head, though the truth was you had been yearning for solitude. Still, you motioned for her to come further into the room. "No disturbance at all, Lady Alicent," you replied, keeping your tone neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Alicent hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "I’ve come to relay a message on behalf of my father, the Hand of the King." Her voice was steady, though you detected the underlying sense of duty that drove her. "He wished to discuss the upcoming negotiations with the Free Cities and thought it would be prudent if you were present at the council. He believes your insight would be invaluable."

You nodded, unsurprised. Otto Hightower had always been a man of strategy, constantly maneuvering the pieces of the court to his advantage. It made sense that he would want you involved in such discussions, especially with the growing tensions beyond the Narrow Sea. But still, the thought of another meeting in the council chambers filled you with a sense of unease. The court had never felt like your place, not the way it did for your father or for men like Otto.

"I’ll attend," you said simply, your voice betraying little emotion. "Tell your father he needn’t worry."

Alicent inclined her head in acknowledgment, though she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes scanning your face before settling on your expression. You felt her gaze, and after a brief pause, she spoke again, this time more softly.

"You look… tired, Your Grace."

The comment caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. You studied her, trying to gauge her intentions. There was nothing malicious in her words, no hidden barbs. If anything, she seemed genuinely concerned.

You exhaled softly, the weight of the Red Keep’s walls pressing in on you once more. "The Red Keep has that effect on me," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "I’ve never been one for court life. My father thrives in it, but I… I feel trapped here. Agitated. Like I’m not meant for this."

Alicent listened intently, her hands still folded in front of her as she took a step closer. "I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Your Grace," she said gently. "The courtiers speak highly of you. They respect you, and many admire the way you carry yourself."

You smiled faintly, though there was a touch of weariness in the gesture. "Perhaps. But I feel more at ease with a sword in my hand than I ever do in the council chambers. Politics, alliances, all of it—it’s like fighting a battle without ever knowing who the real enemy is."

Alicent seemed to ponder your words for a moment before speaking again, her tone still measured. "That’s exactly why your presence is so important, Your Grace. You bring a sense of stability, a strength that many in the court lack. Your uncle Daemon, as skilled as he is, doesn’t have the same restraint. Your father relies on you more than you may realize."

You considered her words, but even as she spoke, you could feel the gulf between the two of you. Alicent was polite, always diplomatic in her conversations, but there was something distant about it. Her attempts to engage you, to compliment you, felt more like duty than genuine interest, much like this visit itself.

You nodded, acknowledging her point. "I understand the necessity of my role, Lady Alicent. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy it."

The conversation drifted into a more comfortable silence, though Alicent still seemed to linger, her eyes searching your face as if trying to find some way to connect. But despite her efforts, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all part of her father’s plan, that she was here not because she wanted to be, but because it was expected of her.

Finally, sensing that her attempts were making little headway, Alicent straightened her posture slightly, preparing to take her leave. "Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Your Grace," she said, her tone still courteous but tinged with a hint of disappointment. "Thank you for your time."

You offered her a polite nod. "Thank you for relaying your father’s message, Lady Alicent. And for your… kind words."

Alicent gave you one last curtsy before turning to leave, her expression unreadable as she made her way toward the door. As she stepped out of the chamber, you found yourself alone once more, the brief interaction already fading from your mind.

For a moment, you stood there, gazing out of the window once again. The Red Keep felt more suffocating than ever, its walls closing in around you. The thought of escaping to the skies on Silverwing grew stronger, the urge to leave the court behind for a time nearly overwhelming.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. Alicent had been polite, even complimentary, but there was no spark of connection, no real interest that went beyond the surface of courtly duty. She, like so many others, was part of the world that you struggled to navigate—a world where words were often more dangerous than swords, and where alliances were forged not in battle, but in whispered conversations behind closed doors.

As the door closed behind her, you felt a sense of relief but also a lingering sense of frustration. Whatever her intentions had been, the conversation had left you feeling more disconnected than before, a reminder that the court was not a place where you could truly be yourself.

The decision to leave for the Dragonpit was made the moment you closed the door behind Alicent. The walls of the Red Keep felt too close, the weight of your duty pressing down on your shoulders. The pull of Silverwing, the freedom of the skies, was irresistible. You were halfway to the door, ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of your chambers, when the sound of the door opening again stopped you in your tracks.

Rhaenyra entered, her eyes immediately locking onto you. She seemed amused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she observed your state of readiness to flee.

"Planning a great escape, brother?" she asked, arching an eyebrow as she sauntered into the room and took a seat with casual grace.

You chuckled, leaning back against the edge of the table. "Maybe," you teased. "The Red Keep is starting to feel more like a cage with every passing day. I was just thinking about flying—Silverwing and I, far away from all this."

Rhaenyra smirked. "Always running off to your dragon. What would Father say?"

You shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. "Father would say what he always does—something about duty, responsibility, and how I should learn to enjoy the trappings of court life."

Rhaenyra laughed softly but then noticed the contemplative look in your eyes. She leaned forward, curious. "What’s really bothering you? It’s not just court."

You hesitated for a moment before deciding to mention it. "Your friend Alicent was here, a few moments ago."

At that, Rhaenyra’s amusement vanished. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alicent? What did she want?"

You raised an eyebrow at her sudden change in demeanor. "She came to deliver a message from her father, about a matter in the council. Something to do with the Free Cities."

Rhaenyra’s annoyance deepened, and she crossed her arms, clearly irritated. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course she did. She’s always doing her father’s bidding," she muttered, more to herself than to you. She shifted in her seat, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "I’ll need to speak to her about this later."

You sensed that her frustration with Alicent ran deeper than just the message. It was something about the way she had reacted—how quickly her mood had soured at the mention of Alicent’s name. Still, you decided to change the subject.

"Speaking of Father," you began, leaning back slightly, "he’s been pushing me lately. Urging me to find a wife."

Rhaenyra’s expression changed in an instant. Where there had been annoyance moments ago, now there was something much sharper, more intense. Her lips parted slightly, and a flicker of unexpected anger flashed in her violet eyes.

"Father’s pressuring you to marry?" she asked, her voice low, almost as if the idea itself was a threat.

You noticed the shift in her tone, and you sighed inwardly, knowing this conversation was heading into dangerous waters. "Yes, he thinks it’s time I consider it. He’s worried about securing alliances through marriage, the usual concerns of the crown."

Rhaenyra stood up abruptly, her annoyance boiling over into outright protest. "But you can’t marry just anyone!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with something deeper than frustration.

You raised your hands in a placating gesture. "I know, Rhaenyra. But it’s not just me. Father is also feeling the pressure himself to remarry, and…" You paused, watching her closely. "He’s also being pushed to marry you off as well."

Her expression darkened further, and she took a step toward you, her fists clenched at her sides. "I don’t want to marry, Y/N. I have no desire to be some tool in a game of alliances. I belong to myself, not to some lord looking to secure power."

You could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce independence that had always defined her. But you also knew that your father’s worries weren’t so easily dismissed. "Rhaenyra, I understand. Believe me, I do. But Father fears what might happen if we don’t secure ourselves soon. The council’s already pressuring him, and he’s dreading having this conversation with you."

Her eyes flashed with defiance as she stepped closer, her voice rising slightly. "Then I’ll tell him myself. I don’t want to marry anyone, and I refuse to be forced into it."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, knowing this would not be an easy conversation. "Rhaenyra, I’m not calm about this either. But we both have duties—"

"How can you be so calm about it?" she interrupted, her voice sharp as she moved even closer, her face now only inches from yours. "I know you, Y/N. I know this isn’t what you want. But you’re letting them control you, push you toward something neither of us wants."

You hesitated, unsure how to respond, when her eyes locked onto yours, and her expression shifted. There was something there—something intense and unspoken, lingering between you both since that day in front of the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra’s voice lowered, becoming more intimate, more insistent.

"I know you felt something too, that day," she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. "After our flight, when we nearly…"

She trailed off, but the memory was crystal clear in both your minds. The closeness, the shared moment when the lines between you had blurred. Her words sent a jolt of emotion through you, something you had been trying to suppress for days.

"Rhaenyra," you said softly, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory, "it’s complicated."

But she didn’t relent. Her eyes never left yours as she pressed closer, her voice low and determined. "No, it isn’t. You felt it, just like I did."

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours with a boldness that sent your heart racing. You felt her hesitation, but also the certainty behind her actions. When the kiss deepened, you didn’t pull away. The moment lingered, the connection between you undeniable, until finally, you both pulled back, breathless.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were filled with a mixture of relief and longing, and she spoke with quiet conviction. "You can tell Father to wed me to you. In the traditions of our house. It’s what we both want, isn’t it?"

You stared at her, torn between what you felt and what you knew was expected of you. "Rhaenyra," you began, your voice heavy with the weight of duty, "it’s not that simple."

She shook her head, determined. "It is simple. King Jaehaerys married his sister Alysanne, didn’t he? It’s in our blood, in our history."

You sighed again, stepping back slightly to clear your head. "Jaehaerys and Alysanne married in secret, and even then, it was a different time. The Faith might approve now, but Father—and the court—they’ll want to use us for alliances to strengthen the crown."

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, her defiance unbroken. "Then let them think what they will. I don’t care what they want. I care about what we want."

You could feel the pull of her words, the temptation of a future free from the court’s manipulations, but you knew that your path, and hers, was far more complicated than either of you could admit in that moment.

For now, the decision hung in the air between you, unresolved, as the reality of your positions slowly settled back in.

Rhaenyra sat in her brother's chambers long after he had left for his flight on Silverwing. The tension between them still lingered in the air, and her heart raced in her chest as her mind replayed the kiss over and over. It had been so brief, so unexpected, yet it had ignited something deep inside her—a yearning that felt both familiar and foreign. She had always loved her brother, Y/N, admired him, and looked up to him as a strong, dependable force in her life. He had been her protector, her confidant, the one person she could always trust.

But now, something had shifted. The love she felt for him, once innocent and pure, had taken on a new, more dangerous form. She couldn't deny the physical attraction that had bloomed between them, the pull she felt whenever they were close. It scared her, and yet she couldn't resist it. The kiss they had shared wasn't just a fleeting moment of weakness—it had been something inevitable, something that had been building between them for years.

Rhaenyra stood from her seat, pacing the room as her thoughts tumbled over one another. She could still feel the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his breath had mingled with her own. She had always known she was possessive of him, but now, that possessiveness had taken on a sharper edge. The idea of him marrying anyone else filled her with a jealousy so fierce it was almost painful.

And then there was Alicent.

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as her thoughts shifted to her so-called friend. Alicent had come to her brother’s chambers—of course, under the guise of delivering her father’s message, but Rhaenyra had seen through it immediately. Alicent had been trying to get close to him, no doubt hoping to secure his attention for herself. The thought made Rhaenyra’s blood boil. How dare Alicent, who had always claimed to be her friend, make such a blatant move behind her back? And her brother, so polite, so unaware of what was happening, had entertained her.

Rhaenyra couldn’t sit still any longer. She needed to confront Alicent, to make her understand that whatever she thought she was doing, it had to stop. Without another thought, she swept out of her brother’s chambers and made her way through the winding halls of the Red Keep, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

As she walked, her thoughts returned to Y/N. She had felt the way his body had tensed when she kissed him, the hesitation in his response, but he hadn’t pulled away. He had kissed her back, and that gave her all the reason to believe that he felt the same—whether or not he was willing to admit it. They were Targaryens, after all. Their blood was different, their traditions different. She had heard the stories of their ancestors—Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the greatest king and queen Westeros had ever known—who had married each other in secret and ruled side by side. Why couldn’t she and her brother do the same?

But the idea of anyone else—anyone else—trying to steal him away from her was unbearable. And she knew that Alicent, for all her demure politeness, was playing her own game. Rhaenyra would not stand by and let it happen.

She found Alicent in the gardens, sitting quietly beneath a tree, her hands folded neatly in her lap. There was a peacefulness to the scene, but Rhaenyra was anything but calm. Her anger boiled over as she strode toward Alicent, her footsteps loud enough to announce her approach.

Alicent looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of her friend, and immediately sensed the storm brewing in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent greeted cautiously, standing to meet her. "Is everything all right?"

Rhaenyra didn’t bother with pleasantries as she stormed forward, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “Don’t act as if you don’t know,” she snapped, her voice low but laced with venom.

Alicent blinked, genuinely taken aback by the sudden hostility. “I… I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, closing the distance between them, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “You went to my brother’s chambers.”

Alicent’s face paled slightly, but she tried to hold her ground. “Yes, to deliver my father’s message,” she said, though her tone wavered with uncertainty.

Rhaenyra scoffed, her anger flaring. “Your father’s message?” she echoed mockingly. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

Alicent’s hands tightened in front of her, her composure faltering under the weight of Rhaenyra’s accusations. “I… I was only doing what my father asked of me. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to what? Go behind my back? Try to gain my brother’s favor?” Rhaenyra’s voice rose as she stepped closer, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of betrayal and possessiveness. “I thought you were my friend, Alicent. But friends don’t do what you did.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, her voice faltering. “I am your friend, Rhaenyra. You know that. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides as she fought to keep control of the emotions surging within her. The kiss with her brother was still fresh in her mind, but she couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the truth slip out—not yet. “A friend wouldn’t try to worm her way into my brother’s life like this,” Rhaenyra hissed, her anger spilling over. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing. The way you look at him. The way you linger when you speak to him.”

Alicent’s expression hardened slightly as she realized where this was coming from. “And what if I do look at him?” she countered, her voice steadying. “He’s a prince, Rhaenyra. You know as well as I do that if he doesn’t choose me, he will choose someone else. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne. It’s his duty to marry, to strengthen his house.”

Rhaenyra felt a flash of unexpected jealousy burn through her chest. She stepped even closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. “I know his duty,” she spat. “I know better than anyone.”

Alicent met her gaze, searching her face for answers, for some understanding of why Rhaenyra was so deeply affected by this. “Then why are you so angry?” Alicent asked, her voice tinged with frustration. “There’s nothing wrong in what I’ve done. Your brother has a responsibility to marry, to secure alliances for the crown. You can’t stop that.”

Rhaenyra’s chest tightened at Alicent’s words, and she nearly let slip the secret she had been holding onto—the kiss, the feelings that had stirred between her and her brother. But she stopped herself just in time, swallowing the confession before it could escape her lips. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Alicent’s brow furrowed in confusion, her tone softening. “Then help me understand, Rhaenyra. Why are you so angry? Is it because of me?”

Rhaenyra’s hands trembled at her sides, her emotions spiraling out of control. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling without revealing too much—without revealing the truth about her and her brother. But the thought of Alicent trying to take him from her, trying to gain his favor, made her sick with jealousy.

“You have no idea,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Alicent, still perplexed, tried to reach out to her friend. “Rhaenyra, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just doing what’s expected of me, the same as you. Your brother is—”

Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice hard again. “My brother will make his own choices. And I’ll make sure he knows what you’ve been doing.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in shock at the veiled threat, her voice trembling. “I’m not trying to steal him from you, Rhaenyra. I—”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice cold and final. “Just stay away from him.”

With that, Rhaenyra turned sharply on her heel and stormed away, her heart racing and her mind spinning with a tangle of emotions she couldn’t quite control. The kiss, her jealousy, her anger at Alicent—it was all too much. But what hurt the most was the uncertainty of it all. Her brother hadn’t rejected her kiss, but he hadn’t embraced it fully either. And the thought of him being forced to marry someone else—whether it be Alicent or another noble lady—made her stomach churn.

As she walked through the gardens, her thoughts returned to the moment in front of the Dragonpit, when she and Y/N had been so close to crossing a line that neither of them could come back from. That kiss had awakened something in her—something she had been trying to ignore for so long. She loved him, she had always loved him, but now it was different. Now it was a love that burned with a dangerous intensity, a love that she wasn’t sure she could keep hidden for much longer.

One thing was certain—she would not let anyone, not even Alicent, come between her and her brother.

The sky stretched endlessly above you as Silverwing’s wings beat in steady rhythm, carrying you high above the Red Keep. The wind rushed past, cool against your skin, and the sound of it drowned out everything—every voice, every demand, every burden you carried. Up here, there was no court, no intrigue, no weight of duty pressing down on your shoulders. It was just you and Silverwing, soaring over the vast expanse of Westeros, far from the tangled mess of emotions and expectations below.

But no matter how far you flew, no matter how high you soared, your thoughts couldn’t escape the turmoil inside you.

Rhaenyra.

Her name alone was enough to stir something deep within you, something you had been trying to suppress ever since the moment you left her chambers. The kiss you had shared had ignited a fire between you, one that you had feared for some time. In that fleeting moment, it was as if all the walls you had built, all the careful distance you had maintained, had come crashing down. You had always loved your sister, always admired her strength and spirit, but over the years, that love had grown into something else, something dangerous.

And now… now you couldn’t deny it any longer.

Your grip tightened on the reins as Silverwing dipped lower, gliding gracefully over the hills that stretched beyond King’s Landing. The dragon’s power beneath you was a comforting presence, but it did little to calm the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. The memory of Rhaenyra’s lips against yours haunted you, the way her body had pressed close, her words a whisper between you: "You can wed me. We are Targaryens."

She had said it so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps for her, it was. You had grown up hearing the stories of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the dragon-riding king and queen who had been siblings and lovers, ruling together in harmony. But that had been a different time, and even their union had sparked controversy. The Faith had never fully accepted the Targaryen tradition of sibling marriage, and the realm was no longer the same as it had been under Jaehaerys’s rule.

Could you truly wed Rhaenyra? The thought was daunting, and not just because of the moral or political implications. She was your sister, your blood. Yet, when you looked at her, it wasn’t just as a brother looks at his sister. In those three years you had been gone, she had grown into a woman—beautiful, fierce, and full of life. Her presence had always been a comfort to you, but now, it stirred something far more complicated. Something you feared you couldn’t control.

You exhaled sharply, trying to clear your mind as Silverwing carried you higher, the city of King’s Landing growing smaller beneath you. Your father, Viserys, would never approve. That much was certain. Even if the Faith were to tolerate a union between you and Rhaenyra, the realm would demand alliances. Viserys had always been a king who sought peace, and he would never risk alienating the great houses or the Faith for such a marriage. The political consequences could be dire. The Targaryens were powerful, but they could not afford to make enemies of the Faith, not now.

And then there was the court, always whispering, always plotting. Otto Hightower, your father’s Hand, was no fool. He would see through any plans you and Rhaenyra might try to make. Otto’s mind was sharp, always calculating the next move for House Hightower, and you knew he had ambitions of his own. The idea of him maneuvering behind your back only made your head ache more.

You grimaced, your thoughts turning to the meeting you would have with Otto soon—another matter that weighed heavily on your mind. The council was preparing for trade negotiations with the Free Cities, and Otto had insisted you be part of the discussions. It wasn’t something you particularly relished; your strengths lay on the battlefield, not in politics. But duty was duty, and as the heir to the Iron Throne, you had no choice but to be involved. The coming talks would be critical for the realm’s economy, and your presence was expected, even if the court’s intrigues made your skin crawl.

Still, it was the matter with Rhaenyra that gnawed at you the most. How could you face the council, the court, even your own father, with this secret between you and your sister? The kiss had opened floodgates you feared you couldn’t close again. Rhaenyra had made her feelings clear, but you… you were torn between what you wanted and what your duty demanded of you.

Silverwing let out a low rumble beneath you, sensing your unease. You patted the dragon’s neck absentmindedly, grateful for the connection you shared. Up here, with Silverwing, there were no expectations, no demands. But you couldn’t stay in the sky forever. Eventually, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face the reality waiting for you below.

As you flew further, your thoughts kept returning to Rhaenyra’s suggestion that you wed her. The logic behind it wasn’t without merit. You were both Targaryens, and such marriages had been part of your family’s legacy for generations. Rhaenyra had even pointed out that King Jaehaerys had wed his sister Alysanne, and they had been beloved rulers. But it wasn’t that simple anymore. The court, the Faith, the realm—all of them would expect you to marry for alliances, not love. Certainly not for a bond that many would see as an abomination.

You felt a knot of frustration tightening in your chest. Rhaenyra was right about one thing: you did feel something for her. That kiss had stirred something primal, something you had tried to bury, but it was undeniable now. But no matter how much you desired her, how much you wanted to throw caution to the wind and claim her as yours, the responsibilities that came with your title loomed larger than your desires.

If you were to marry Rhaenyra, the realm would demand answers. Otto Hightower, in particular, would be the first to protest. He had his own designs for Rhaenyra, no doubt aiming to secure her hand for a lord that could strengthen House Hightower’s position. And then there was the matter of the Faith—if you wed your sister, you risked reigniting old tensions with the Faith of the Seven, tensions that could spill into conflict. The crown couldn’t afford another war, especially not one fought over such a personal matter.

The irony of it all stung. For all the power and privilege you held as a prince, you were just as bound by duty and expectation as anyone else. The thought of being used as a political pawn infuriated you, but that was the price of being the heir. Your desires were secondary to the needs of the realm.

And yet… what if you could make it work? What if there was a way to marry Rhaenyra and still keep the peace? The idea seemed impossible, but you couldn’t shake it. You were a Targaryen, after all. The rules had always bent for your family before. Perhaps, if handled delicately enough, you could find a way to navigate the court’s demands and still claim the one person you truly wanted by your side.

But as you flew over the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the decision that loomed before you. The kiss had changed everything, and now you were faced with choices that could shape not just your future, but the future of the realm.

Silverwing let out another low rumble, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts. For now, you would enjoy the freedom of the skies, the cool wind against your skin. But soon enough, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face Rhaenyra, your father, and the court that watched your every move.

The small council meeting had drawn to a close, with the lords and advisors filing out of the chamber one by one, their voices still murmuring about the matters of trade, security, and the upcoming negotiations with Essos. You remained seated at the table, your thoughts drifting far from the council’s discussions, far from the politics that had dominated the room. Though you had offered your insight where needed, your mind had frequently wandered—to the skies, to Silverwing, and, most of all, to your sister, Rhaenyra.

As the last of the council members left, Otto Hightower lingered. He rose slowly from his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on you, watching as the room emptied. There was always something calculating about Otto, a keen intelligence behind his measured words, and you could feel his eyes on you even before he spoke.

"Your Grace," Otto began, his voice smooth and polite, "if I might ask for a moment of your time. There are a few matters I wish to discuss privately."

You nodded, already suspecting where this conversation might lead. The chamber doors closed softly, leaving just the two of you, the dim light of the candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. You leaned back in your chair, your fingers drumming lightly on the wooden table, waiting for Otto to make his move.

Otto took his time, folding his hands behind his back as he approached. "I must say," he began carefully, "the court feels more… grounded with your return, Your Grace. The king has been much more content now that his heir is safely home. Your presence has brought a sense of stability to the capital that was sorely missed."

You inclined your head slightly in acknowledgment. "I’m glad to hear it, Lord Hand. It is my duty to be here for the realm and for my father. Though I admit, I sometimes find the weight of court affairs to be a heavy burden."

Otto’s lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "A burden, yes, but one that you carry with admirable grace. It is no small thing to be the heir to the Iron Throne. Your father, the king, relies on you more than you may realize."

You knew where this was going, the subtle flattery, the careful words meant to soften what was coming next. Otto Hightower never spoke without intention, and you could feel the shift in the conversation as he guided it toward more personal matters.

"I imagine," Otto continued, his tone still polite, "that your time in Dorne was… challenging. A different kind of duty, certainly, but one that suited your skills well. But now, being back at court, you must find it… refreshing to be surrounded by family again."

You nodded, though your mind was already elsewhere. "It is good to be home. My family means a great deal to me."

"Indeed," Otto said, his voice taking on a slightly more casual tone. "And speaking of family… I believe my daughter, Alicent, had the pleasure of delivering a message to you today. I trust she was able to assist you adequately?"

There it was. The real reason for this conversation. You could see the way Otto’s gaze flicked over your face, gauging your reaction, trying to read you. He was probing, testing the waters, to see if his daughter’s attempts to gain your attention had borne any fruit.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, offering a polite but noncommittal smile. "Lady Alicent was very kind. She delivered her father’s message with grace and professionalism. I appreciate her assistance."

Otto’s smile widened slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was a man used to maneuvering through the intricacies of court politics, and he wasn’t easily dissuaded. "I am glad to hear that, Your Grace. Alicent speaks highly of you, as does the rest of the court. It is clear that your presence here brings a sense of calm and strength, particularly to those close to the king."

His words were deliberate, carefully chosen to steer the conversation toward Alicent without being too direct. But you could see through it easily enough. Otto was testing your interest, trying to discern whether you saw his daughter as anything more than a messenger or a polite face in court.

You nodded again, keeping your tone courteous but distant. "Lady Alicent is a fine lady, and I value her friendship with my sister."

Otto tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, but he didn’t press. "Yes, she and Princess Rhaenyra have grown quite close over the years. It is a friendship that has been a great comfort to my daughter, and I believe it has been mutually beneficial for both of them. Strong friendships are important, especially in court, wouldn’t you agree?"

You could feel the shift in Otto’s approach, the way he was trying to guide the conversation toward more personal matters. It was a delicate dance, one you had seen countless times in court. You knew what he wanted—you knew he was hoping to plant the seed of a potential match between you and Alicent. But your thoughts were far from the Hand’s daughter. Every time he mentioned her, your mind drifted back to Rhaenyra. Her kiss, her words, the fire that had sparked between you both.

"I agree," you said after a pause, choosing your words carefully. "Court can be a lonely place without strong bonds."

Otto’s gaze sharpened, his tone growing just a touch more pointed. "And bonds of marriage, of course, are among the strongest of all. They unite houses, strengthen alliances, and secure the future of the realm."

You nodded, though your thoughts remained distant, swirling around Rhaenyra and the tangled mess of emotions she stirred in you. Otto continued to speak, but his words began to fade into the background as your mind wandered to the possibility that Rhaenyra had raised. Marriage. It wasn’t just a political tool for you anymore—it was something personal, something tied to the fierce and complicated love you felt for your sister.

"Of course," Otto was saying, "there will come a time when certain decisions must be made about the future of the realm—decisions about alliances, about securing the throne through marriage. It is a delicate matter, but one that I trust you will handle with wisdom and care."

You blinked, refocusing on the conversation at hand, though you had heard enough to understand his meaning. "I am aware of the responsibility I bear, Lord Hand," you replied, your tone still courteous but distant. "But some matters require careful thought, not haste."

Otto studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He could tell that you weren’t fully engaged in the conversation, but he chose not to push further. Instead, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Of course, Your Grace. There is always time to consider these matters carefully. But know that you have the support of those who wish to see you succeed—myself included."

You nodded, offering a polite smile. "Thank you, Lord Hightower. I appreciate your counsel."

With that, Otto seemed to understand that there was little more to be gained from this conversation. He bowed his head respectfully. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace, you know where to find me."

As Otto took his leave, you let out a quiet breath, the tension of the conversation still lingering in the air. You had played your part well, keeping your responses polite but noncommittal, careful not to give Otto any more insight than was necessary. But beneath the surface, your thoughts continued to churn.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the importance of what Otto had said—alliances, marriage, duty. These were all things that had been drilled into you since you were a child. But every time you considered the prospect of marriage, it wasn’t Alicent, or any other noble lady, who came to mind.

It was Rhaenyra.

Her kiss still haunted you, the memory of it sharp and electric. You had always admired her, always loved her, but now… now that love had grown into something you weren’t sure you could control. And the thought of her being married off to someone else, of her being taken from you, was enough to make your chest tighten.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from your chair and walking toward the window. The view of King’s Landing stretched out before you, but your gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sea met the sky. Somewhere out there, Silverwing was always waiting, the promise of freedom calling to you. But freedom wasn’t something you could easily claim—not with the weight of the realm on your shoulders.

And not with the tangled mess of emotions that now bound you to your sister.