Summary: You were forced into a marriage without love. Years later, when something shatters your fragile serenity, you must uncover the secrets that could ruin everything.
TW: arranged marriage, Oberyn is older than you, use of female pronouns and reference to female features of the main character, use of you, Oberyn likes men and women like in the TV series, death, violence, smut. I will mark chapters with a warning if there are descriptions that might bother you.
1. Broken roots
2. In the castle
3. The woman who cannot choose
4. Among strangers
5. The Dance of Ashes
6. The Cost of Breathing
7. The Mantle of Sand and Thorns
8. A wife in name only
9. Whispers beneath stone
10.What They Think They Know
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Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Content Warnings: emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst.
AN: This fic won the vote! I promise that this is not all doom and gloom, but the reader has a rough go of it at the beginning. Lyonel has my entire heart in this.
** = smut
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight**
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten**
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve**
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen**
Chapter Sixteen**
Chapter Seventeen**
Wed to Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon, you leave your family and the safety of court behind, bound for Storm’s End and a future shaped by thunder rather than flame. (2/2)
Chapter 1
pairings: Lyonel Baratheon x (Targaryen) Reader
warnings: age difference (i know what u are) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), filthy smut (yes, the stag crown is involved)
words: 6k
━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
Daella,
My dearest, beautiful sister, how have you been?
Is it true our brothers have been lost? I have been praying every night toward their safe return under our father’s gaze. Daeron is a bigger fool than I thought, to have taken little Aegon with him as well! I have half a mind to slap him dry myself when he finally appears. Daella, do not listen to the cruel, mercurial whispers of the court, for you know how they slither. Our brothers are safe. I know it to be true. I would ride out myself, if needs be, to meet our father halfway and scour the lands together. I shall try my hardest to stay his hand from beating Daeron senseless, though I make no great promise.
I also write to tell you that my heart knows no beauty like the verdant lands of my husband, Lyonel. He loves me with a fire that verily rivals our own dragon blood, and I find myself returning that heat in kind. He has gifted me a coal-black mare from the Dornish borders; she has kind eyes and a stalwart gait that carries me from the deep shadows of the rainwood to the salt-sprayed cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay. When the household duties are settled, I lose myself in the Lysene scrolls and histories from the Free Cities. Daella, all my fears have been for naught. The people I now watch over are like their lands, strong and indomitable, yet they do not look upon my silver hair and black clothes in fear, they look to me in awe and respect. A few squire boys tripped over their own two feet as they pushed each other to give me your letter from last time! As the days passed I have found myself to regard this stormy land around me as my own.
Daella, after you meet your betrothed, please do tell me that you will visit my formidable home. As my husband is the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, many great houses have now pledged their allegiances to me as well, one of them being House Tarth of Evenfall Hall. I know of your love for the Sapphire Isles and you must come and meet them, for their stentorian stories rival that of Lyonel himself. My dear sister, Lord Tarth’s eyes never left me as he kissed my hand. He whispered that his great-grandmother once saw the titanic Vhagar pass overhead and whilst growing up in her stories, he had remained in monolithic respect towards our family. The noble houses of my husband’s lands are nothing like the vipers that haunt King’s Landing. They are a true, honest people.
Soon we will make haste to the tourney at Ashford. I am so incandescently happy to finally witness a tourney with my very own eyes! Lyonel says he, too, will fight, but I am so scared that something might befall him that I have been constantly pestering him to stand down.
Alas, House Baratheon’s stubbornness rivals our own!
Please do send a raven as soon as you can for I miss you dearly and long to read your thoughts.
I remain your loving sister.
━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
The ink barely dried on the paper as you heard the grand oak door to your chambers creak open.
“There you are!” Lyonel beamed at you. He had traded his heavy armor for a soft tunic of black linen, laced at the throat with yellow cords that stayed loose and casual. He looked every bit the stalwart lord, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He had a spring in his step as he came closer to your desk. “What is my dragon doing?”
You folded the letter neatly in your hands and smoothed out the dark silk of your sleeves embroidered with subtle silver dragons and smiled. You had a wolf pelt to your shoulders that brought out your eyes. “Writing to my sister.” The thoughts of your brothers, lost on the road somewhere, have plagued you day and night since you heard of it.
You crossed the oak and kissed him as his hands found your waist. His beard rubbed your own chin and you almost giggled like the maid you no longer were. “You taste sweet, have you tried that apple cake in the hall?”
“Nay, my Lord. I think that is just the natural taste of your wife’s lips.” Lyonel let out a boisterous bark of a laugh. He delighted in your witty quips, finding more joy in your sharp tongue than in all the flattery of his bannermen.
“Oh, yes! I must beg your forgiveness, my Lady!” He bowed like a squire despite his frame and you laughed. The fire in the hearth cracked with the noise of wood. Your stag decorated bed had been covered with as many furs as possible, for the nights were cold and the storms could rise the sea to the windows.
Though you were never afraid of it sweeping in.
━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
The carriage that brought you to the tourney rocked to the side and back again in a near nauseating rhythm and you stared longingly through the curtains at the sight of Lyonel on his great warhorse, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud. You knew it would have been better, cleaner and way faster to ride your Dornish mare at his side, but you were a Princess of the Blood. To ride astride in the view of a thousand smallfolk would have invited whispers that would stain your reputation deeper than any joy the wind could bring. So, you endured the velvet-lined cage.
The countryside had transformed as you traveled west, the green rainwood given way to the golden field of the Reach. The air no longer smelt of salt and was now replaced by the smell of wheat and wildflowers. You passed through villages where children ran alongside your carriage with bare feet, some with toy dragons made out of carved wood, laughing and kicking up dust as they waved at you. Lyonel would toss away gold coins, laughter booming across the yellow fields.
“You better be back before the sun sets, or I’ll go mad.” Lyonel whispered in your ear the next morning as you told him you wanted to walk around the grounds alone, and see the splendor and the depravity with your own eyes. You loved your husband fiercely, but the "Anvil" and the "Storm" both shared a common trait: they tended to crowd the air around you.
You shifted in the cocoon of his arms, turning to face him. His eyes were slowly opening, their hazel color peeking through at you. You smiled at him as he kissed your nose, then your forehead. He smelled of the ambergris he used in his bath and the distinct, heavy scent of your own perfume, from your affections towards him the night before. You toyed with his earring, turning the gold in your fingers.
“I swear I will do so.”
The grounds had a great cacophony of noise and people mingling about, a swirling vortex of boisterous knights and desperate merchants. Men yelled over the din of clashing practice steel, while others bartered for pungent spices and low-born comforts. You moved through with a secret delight, the tempestuous energy of the crowd a far cry from the quiet halls of Storm's End. Closely behind you walked two guards, stalwart and silent as stone pillars, their presence was a silent vow that any man brave, or foolish enough to insult you would find his life forfeit before he could blink.
You felt the weight of your gown as you walked, its deep obsidian hue a stark contrast to the muddy rags of the smallfolk.
The Ashford hall came into view and your heart fluttered in your chest. You wanted to see if your family had arrived, so you bid your guards to stay watchful at the gate as you went to the main entrance.
Mayhaps, you were too focused on the doors, maybe too excited to catch sight of your father or uncle that you bumped into a wall!
Nay, not a wall. Into a man!
“Pardon me-” his voice was thick and low.
“Oh!” he looked into your eyes, then at your hair, and your clothes as he slammed down one knee in front of you. His voice shook. “My Lady, I humbly beg for your forgiveness…I did not see you-”
“Rise, ser, it is I who was unaware of your presence.” You laughed, for how could you not see him? He was a formidable tower of a man, yet he stood there trembling as if he were a page boy caught stealing tarts. Lyonel would roar with laughter at your retelling of this.
He looked at you like you barked or neighed like a horse, before your words and jolly nature settled in his brain. He stood once more, eclipsing the sun from behind him. He looked at a complete loss of words and you wondered if any noble had ever treated him kindly.
“Were you going somewhere?” You tilted your head up towards him, much like when you spoke to your own man.
“Yes…uh, no-n-no, My Lady. I wanted to ask for an audience with the Lord of Ashford.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will see to you.” A lady called for a maid to be brought, the princes needed their hands washed. Your heart leaped into your throat. They were here! Your father and uncle were just beyond those doors.
“Good morrow, Ser,” you said, already gathering your skirts to depart.
“Go-good day to you, My Lady.” He bowed his head again, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped the hilt of his sword for strength, as if he expected you to transform into a dragon and take flight.
Well, that was endearing. Truly so.
Inside, the Great Hall was cooler, smelling of beeswax and expensive oils. Your uncle had his back to you, washing his hands. His brown hair so unlike that of your own that he scarcely resembled a Targaryen, albeit his clothes had every bit the royal grandeur the heir to the Iron Throne should bear.
“Good day to you both.”
The servants and lord bowed before you as your uncle and father looked to the door.
“Good day. I was just thinking about you.” Baelor came to you and caught your face in his hands with a smile in a soft, paternal gesture as pressed a bearded kiss to your temples. He smelled of travel,responsibility and the weight of the crown.
Maekar came to you after. His kiss upon your cheek was cool, almost formal, yet in the way his hand lingered on your shoulder, you felt the love he had for you. You stood in front of them as you started talking of the tourney, then the weather. And finally your brothers-
“You! Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?” Maekar, always looking for traitors in the dark, looked next to you, towards the door. Someone was there. Your father stood, passing you as if to protect you from any sort of ill-meaning intruders.
His red hair came first into your view and then his clothes, worn down and ripped apart. The man from outside.
Surely the Lord’s Audience can wait your conversation with your family.
His face was pale and he looked as if he was dropped in a cage with hungry beasts.
“I do apologize for my interruption,” he said, taking a few tentative steps forward. He was trembling, yet there was a stalwart honesty in his eyes. “I’ve… I’ve asked for Ser Alfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I might enter the lists, but he has refused…”
He looked into your eyes like he was seeking an ally as you tilted your head, so this is why he wanted an audience.
Maekar looked at you, then at Baelor.
“Who? What the fuck is going on?”
“We are the intruders here, brother,” Baelor interrupted, his voice like liquid silk, instantly cooling the heat in the room. He beckoned the knight forward with a sovereign grace. “Come closer, Ser.”
“-and others too. You see, they say that they know not of Ser Arlan of Pennytree, but he served them.” The hour was already growing late and your belly was restless as you had yet to break bread. You gave your father a kiss on the top of his head and nodded to your uncle as you passed the man on your way out.
The time for talking would arrive, mayhaps tomorrow you and your father could look for Daeron and little Aegon.
━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
The tent was positively bursting with laughter and song!
Your husband’s counselors and bannermen were deep in their cups, their voices rising like a storm as they traded jests and war stories.
You sat beside Lyonel, your ears burning with a delicious heat as he showered you with his neverending attentions. Between bites of rich venison, he pressed bearded, wine-stained kisses to your neck, murmuring words that promised a very different kind of celebration later. His stag crown was passed from his head to yours at some point, though you already forgot when it happened. It was heavier than it looked. Your silver hair was unbraided. Lyonel liked it best that way as he kept running his large, calloused hands through the strands whenever he leaned back in his chair, as if to remind the room that the dragon was his.
You were both dressed in black, twining shadows draped in heavy mantles of Baratheon gold.
A sea of knights and minor lords swirled before the high table, all vying for a nod of acknowledgment from the "Laughing Storm."
You don’t know when, but after the main course, you spotted it. No, him.
The great “wall” moved through the crowd. And you, who usually kept these sort of exclamations to yourself, were emboldened by the wine and the atmosphere that you completely disregarded your sweet husband’s hushed words in your ear:
“When we get back to our tent, I’m going to take you like-”
“Ser!” you waved at him, wishing he could see you. You giggled at the sound of your own voice, loud, but drowned in the sea of people. That “Arbor gold” was truly something else!
Lyonel’s steward, a man with a big grey beard and a somber expression, noticed your intentions and caught the man’s gaze as he was eating some cake. He and you both motioned to the man to come closer.
The giant froze, pointing a thick finger to his own chest in disbelief, his eyes wide as if there were other men the size of a carriage in the tent.
“Yes! You!” you cried, laughing at his bewildered expression.
When he finally reached the high table, “Have you received what you sought? I realize now I never caught your name.” you said.
The giant looked at your husband, and his body went rigid, as if some unseen hand had pulled him taut. You heard the ominous creak of wood as Lyonel leaned back in his great chair, the legs protesting beneath his weight. The warmth that had filled his eyes moments before vanished entirely, snuffed out like a candle caught in a sudden draft. You hiccuped.
“Yes, ma’a- Your Grace. I have,” the giant stammered. He offered you a small, shaky smile.
“This is my Lord husband, Lyonel of House Baratheon,” you said, remembering your manners even through the wine haze. “And I-”
“You’re a Targaryen,” he interrupted earnestly.
There was no insolence in it. Only unguarded awe.
You beamed despite yourself: “That I am.”
“What is your name, man? Or are you as deft as you are tall?” Lyonel’s voice had changed. The lust was gone, replaced by the timber of the Storm Kings of old.
“Dunk- Ser Dunk, my Lord.”
Lyonel scoffed, a sharp, derisive sound. You turned your silver head toward your husband, confused by his sudden bite. He didn't look at you. His eyes were locked on Dunk.
“That’s ridiculous,” Lyonel dismissed. “Is that the noise your head makes when it bumps into the ceiling?”
The table erupted in cruel laughter from the counselors, a cacophony of sycophants eager to please their lord. You whispered a soft ‘Lyonel” trying to soothe the tempest rising in his chest, but he was beyond hearing.
“Why do you cower like a maiden on her wedding night?” Lyonel, mocked a punch toward his own jaw. “So you don’t get punched?”
“No, my Lord,” Dunk said, his voice low, trying to find his words. “From where I come from, one learns to make himself small. That’s all.”
You reached up to fix the antlered crown as it slipped forward, the heavy gold sliding over your brow.
“The Seven Above gave you tallness…” He let a moment pass, “so be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you, or drown you, or- whatever is it we do to heretics?” Dunk looked into your eyes, his gaze pleading and raw. Was this why you had beckoned him? To be a sacrificial lamb for your husband’s pride? Anger began to simmer in your gut.
“Burn them, my lord.”
“What have you brought us?” He sighed as he tossed the dagger he received earlier that evening from a minor lord.
“Um” he thought about what he might say “Begging your pardon ser, I di-din’t realise.” All men must pay their due, yet this was a celebration, and you were sure Dunk didn’t have much to bring anyway. You sank back into your chair, the wood hard against your spine. You bit back the urge to intervene, knowing that to challenge Lyonel in front of his bannermen would invite scrutiny. You held your tongue, though it felt like a lead weight in your mouth.
“You wish to curry my favor some, yet you come with an empty hand?”
You wondered if it was better to have just enjoyed the celebration quietly, not bring the man to your husbands’ attention so crudely. Leave it to you to destroy someone’s night on the one time you actually raised your voice.
“Lord Caffron, the smug cunt in red,” he pointed with the dagger from the table, “he is scarce to pay his rent. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this bauble from his family’s cellar for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help…or your head.”
He paused a beat. “You’ve come for my head then.”
You looked to the wooden floor, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. Lyonel was trying to scare this man senseless.
“No-n-no..Gods no.” Dunk stammered.
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
You couldn’t take this any longer.
“I’ve called for Ser Dunk.” All eyes snapped to you. Your husband turned a bit to the side, to see you better. You looked at him and said “We’ve bumped- well, I’ve bumped into him, on my way to see my father. My Lord, you shouldn't be so crass with him, as he is my guest.”
Lyonel regarded your face, looking all over for anything that might prove your words a lie.
Someone fell down somewhere in the tent. A definite crash accompanied by the sound of laughter.
You looked at Dunk again, a silent wish for him to agree: “Yes, yes my Lord. Your be-beautiful wife had asked me to join you.”
You closed your eyes, already envisioning what Lyonel will say. Good Gods why must honest men be so dull.
“You think my wife beautiful?” Lyonel’s smile bore no happiness, his teeth bared under the hair of his beard akin to those of a wolf.
“Your words are kind, Ser.” You replied. Good Gods. Leave, now. Bid your ‘goodnights’ and leave the tent. Say you have a stomach ache, say you are drunk, say you are slow in the head. Say anything so you may see the morrow with both your eyes!
“You think my wife needs remembering of her beauty by a lowly knight in rags?” Lyonel continued.
Dunk took a deep breath, and it seemed he too, realized the extent of his remark. In what world does he live in, where he can compliment a Lord’s wife in his own tent?
“Ser Dunk-” You rose, trying to catch your footing, your obsidian dress swaying around you, the heavy antlered crown shifting once more. “Let me lead you outside. I think we have had our fill of the evening's excitement.”
Lyonel’s gaze went to you. You knew this cruelty was born of pride. He was usually the biggest man in every room.
As you stepped out, the cool night air hit you like a blessing. The people could still be heard, albeit way quieter now.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t mean-” He bowed his head once more. He was still holding the piece of cake.
“I know what you meant, Ser. It is my husband who was unbecoming towards you and it is I who must apologize, for I didn’t think anything of the sort might happen as I called you to me.” Dunk must’ve seen as many winters as you. You tried to put on a graceful face, already thinking about what Lyonel might say and what you might tell him. His humors were like the storm sometimes.
You bid him goodnight, and yet you didn’t return to the high table. You went to your own shared tent.
You mustn’t have waited long for you to hear the strong footsteps of your Lyonel. You were taking your cloak off. Stag crown heavy on your head. You quite liked it, it made you look less like a princess and more like a conqueror.
You could feel his presence behind you, “You mock me.”
“You mock yourself.” You turned around after you took your gold earrings off and nearly dropping one “Why have you been so cruel?”
Your husband’s voice was sharp, though you knew he bore no ill intent. “What’s it to you?”
Your candles illuminated his face, casting warm shadows over that black and grey hair of his. He was a very handsome man. With a comely smile and a deep voice, that vibrated through his chest when he spoke, especially when he would whisper as it would travel through your ears, to your belly and finally- What were you talking about?
“You were cruel to that man, for no apparent reason, my love. Why? For he had done nothing to you.” Your words came out softer than intended, dulled by the wine and your husband standing tall next to you.
“I’ll be as cruel as I wish in my tent.” His eyes tracked the slight sway in your stance.
“Untie my dress.” You turned as he moved to the back of you, fingers moving fast over your cotton laces. “That’s not the man I married. The man I married was kind. Strong, yes. Fierce, yes. But not cruel without cause.” You remembered his gentle attentions towards you the night you married.
“Who is that man to you?”
“He is someone I encountered on the road to Ashford Hall, I was curious of his predicament. That is all.”
“Well, be curious no more.” Your dress pulled at your ankles and you placed it down on your wooden chest, your maids will take care of it tomorrow.
The weather inside the tent was becoming hotter, be it because of the wine or the dragon blood in your veins you could not say. It boiled beneath your skin and prickled. You dressed into your nightshift as Lyonel sat down with a huff, unbuckling his boots.
His eyes rose to continue the conversation but they caught sight of you, body barely concealed beneath your nightgown as you struggled to find the hairbrush. The light from the candles illuminating it and giving your husband plenty to look at from behind.
“You know, Lady Swann had such an interesting story about her daughter. She told me-“
“I can’t hear you from over there.”
He was probably five hands away from you.
“Come closer, so I may hear my wife's voice.” His eyes, hazel and bright like the great trees dominating his lands were filled with a mischievous glint. You knew he heard you well enough. He smiled, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. “Come on.”
He looked at you as he beckoned you closer. And you made sure, easy steps towards him. His hand reached for your own and he brought it close to his broad chest. You let yourself be led to his strong leg, sitting down upon it as you have done so before.
Lyonel adjusted the stag crown, murmuring a ‘it suits you’ as you continued your story.
By the time you reached about the midway, he started kissing you with small noises of pleasure leaving him. First it was your cheek, then the side of your mouth as you told him how the Lady’s daughter had tried to run away with a knight. Remembering the story proved to be quite hard behind all the wine you drank.
Lyonel made small sounds of acknowledgement as he often mumbled ‘mhm’ and soft murmurs of ‘tell me more’ as you would stop to close your eyes. His arms held your waist and you knew even if you tried to get up, it was for nought, even if that was madness to you right about now. He brushed your silver hair back as his beard made contact with the soft skin of your neck, his lips were soft as he kissed you and you almost giggled a few times when he tickled you with it.
You finally stopped telling the story after you moaned, “Please don’t stop, for I dearly need to know what happened to Lady Swann’s daughter Meredith-”
“-Margery-“
“Aye, Margery.” You kissed him as he groaned in your mouth. Lyonel pressed you tightly into him, like you might disappear any second. You could feel something pool in your belly and by the looks, and feel of it, your husband felt the same. You touched him beneath the leather as you opened your mouth to his.
You must’ve stayed in his arms for what felt like an eternity, as you kissed each other and fondled one another like two teenagers. You could not, for the life of you, remember what you were talking about beforehand. He would push up into your hand and grab hold of your breast, telling you how beautiful you were and how much he loved you between feverish kisses.
While his leg was sturdy enough, you desperately needed the attention towards another spot that your husband carried. He fell backwards on the bed, and you took the opportunity to finally rest your whole body on top his own. Lyonel seemed more great tower than man below you.
He grabbed your waist and smiled, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with your attentions and the promise of what is to come.
“You’re far too dressed.” You pressed your heat down on the spot between his legs, and he opened his mouth in a soundless gasp, eyebrows furrowed.
“You are far too dressed.” He quipped back, arms holding you there. “Come up.” His smile was like that of a servant boy who just caught himself a pie for the night.
You laughed, “I am up.”
“Up I say. To my face.” A stone fell through your stomach and you felt its pleasure sweep right between your legs. “Come.”
You crawled to his face as he rose your nightshift up in desperation. You didn’t wish to hurt him, but he didn’t seem to care for your worries as he raised himself up and caught the taste of you.
Your face snapped to the headboard and your eyes were glued shut. He had wanted you like this before, but never in this position. You slowly lowered down, so his head might be placed comfortably on the bed and moaned.
You wished you could stay upright, but he bent you in two from his love below, your fingers in that thick nest he called hair as you moaned. You didn’t want to hurt him, but slowly moving your own hips against his face felt so good, you had to do so. His beard an almost scratch on your butt.
Your feet curled against his shoulders. You thought this pleasure must be what they wrote songs about, thought it could be much at times. When his tongue would brush against your flower too quickly and too eagerly, you would shoot up, wishing to put distance between you and keep away from the need to shake like an autumn leaf against your husband’s face. Lyonel had both his arms holding you there, both holding you tightly against him, so you may not run. You couldn’t help grabbing his hair like a rein.
You thought it might be enough as you felt a simmering heat in your belly and even in your flower. This was too much. Your arms felt as if they were made of silk and your voice rose, tethering on the edge of someone standing on a cliff.
He would moan against you and you would close your eyes so tightly you saw little black spots when you opened them up again. You felt a layer of sweat pool on your body and it was becoming too much, the heat, the slight noise from outside and your husband. You felt tears prick at your eyes.
You shuddered and cried, a little tear escaping you as you tried to do so as well. He finally relented as you went straight to the pillows, slamming forward like a corpse and laughing.
“Good Gods Lyonel.” You tried to catch your breath as you heard him undress, the sound of leather unstrapping the only thing in your ears, that and the ringing. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, your heat pulsating down between your legs as your belly almost caught pain in it from the pleasure you received.
Lyonel was deathly serious as he lowered down on you. He took the stag crown and threw it somewhere in the room as you felt him raise your nightshift again. He pressed himself to you and you moaned into the pillows.
“Kiss me.” he said, voice spent. You lifted and turned your head as he made you open your mouth. His beard was all wet from you and you tasted yourself on his tongue. Your heart felt warm with the thought of him being all yours when he dragged himself out and back in, only you would have him like this, only you.
You tried to stay quiet, truly so, but he was everywhere and everything in the room and you drank enough wine to not care anymore. He pressed both elbows to your head as you lowered down a bit on the bed, his hairs tickling your face, his big hands sought your own soft ones. He intertwined your fingers as he pressed his other hand to your waist, then to your hair. You moaned into each other’s mouths, as you felt his body press up time and time again.
He would reach so far you would feel him right in your belly and it made you squeeze his hand all the harder. Lyonel pressed his cheek to your own as he groaned, a grey hair fell across his brow like a stroke of lighting. You felt him lose the rhythm he built up so far as he rose to his knees and lifted the sweaty nightgown even higher on your body. He would grab and fondle you as you both moaned. The soft splatter of rain could be heard as it hit the tent. You felt a pleasant dizziness in you, from the wine and from the release you had. You must’ve been the happiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms right now.
You heard him groan and whimper when his legs shook above your own, the same heat pulsing inside of you that did so every night. He pressed down once more into you as he made a sound of pleasure and whispered his ‘I love you’. You smiled with your head to the side.
Lyonel’s heart was still beating fast as you both laid in the bed. The candles were still burning, but you surely wouldn’t have any problem sleeping with them. You turned to look at him. He had his eyes closed, hair sweaty and chest rising fast as he fought to find his breath. You chuckled as you looked at him.
“You have another grey hair… right here,” you pointed to the left side of your own temple “did you know?”
“You better name it. For it is yours.” He breathed out through his nose and swallowed “You gave it to me.”
“By the time I’ll bear your first son, you’ll be as grey as a stormy cloud. They’ll call you Lord Lyonel “The Cloud” Baratheon”. Another loud hiccup left your chest and you pressed your hand to your mouth.
“You think you are mighty amusing, nay?” His eyes opened once more as he looked at you. Smiling, as he often did when he gazed at you.
“Oh so I do.”
As your dear husband’s breath grew slow and rhythmic beside you, his fingers still loosely encompassing your own beneath the cotton blanket, your mind wandered as it so often did in the quiet moments before sleep claimed you. Tomorrow, you would ride out with your father to search for dreamy Daeron and little Egg. If the Gods were good, you would find one drunk out of his mind and the other tucked somewhere safe, beneath another’s careful guidance and protection. You smiled faintly at the thought. You prayed then, once in the common tongue, and once more in the language of your ancestors, long dead and scattered to ash by the Ruin. You resolved to write to Aemon as soon as the dawn allowed it, for you wished with an almost painful longing to hear of his life at the Citadel. You thanked the Gods you had not yet crossed paths with Aerion as you would sooner eat grass and bleat like a sheep than endure your brother’s company. You prayed for the morrow’s tourney, for your stag would ride in it, and for the safekeeping of your family. You had ruled these lands for hundreds of years, surely your guidance still held weight, even if the dragons had deserted your kind. Even if you did not know whether you would ever be worthy again of their return.
Sleep found you gently.
And in it, you dreamt the strangest thing!
You dreamt of beasts and banners, of the great animals of the mighty houses of the realm locked in battle, claw and horn and tooth. When you woke with the pale morning light, a smile curved your lips and a quiet flutter stirred in your chest as Lyonel gently snored in your ear.
In your dream, the stag had won.
━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
Author's note: Part 2 is here yall and I hope it is to your liking. I have managed to get it to you in time and i am so so happy. I cant wait to see what my husband Lyonel does next. I got the nastiest exam tomorrow and i reallyyyy gotta go study. You can write to me whatever whenever u wish and I will try to get back as soon as possible to u, thank u for reading my story and if you remained patient enough to let me finish part two, you have my deepest gratitude. HAVE A GREAT DAY BABES ily <3
my great taglist (come get yall juice, if i forgot anyone im so sorry and im gonna die):
summary 𓂃 you’re a journalist with two weeks to find a story or you lose your desk. Jason todd is a street fighter with good hands and nowhere to put them. You pretend to be a beginner at his gym to get closer to him with hopes of using him for your next headline. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
tags 𓂃 boxer!jason todd x journalist fem!reader ╱ from rags to riches ╱ slow burn ╱ betrayal ╱ fake identity ╱ trauma bonding ╱ angst-ish ╱ 2nd person ╱ poverty ╱ enemies to lovers… ish? ╱ opposites attract ╱ she fell first but he fell harder .
i don’t care if you’re sick, i don’t care if you’re contagious.
𖥔 summary since befriending tim drake you have known exactly how he feels about his brothers: offlimits, forbidden, do not enter! this was never too difficult to maintain, never too hard to turn away when one smiles a little too bright, yet when sweet and sultry jason walks into the room it become harder to turn the other cheek.
𖥔 pairing jason todd x reader
𖥔 genre/tw best friends brother au!! fem!reader !! reader is tim’s bff, fluff! angst?! probably suggestive at times i can’t lie, intoxication, swearing !! jason is a softie, none of that charmer fuck boy jason here!! petnames, kissing, reader and jason are real yearners !! reader and tim are supposed to be like 21-22 which puts Jason at like 25-26 or so (in my mind) batfam mentions and cameos! we love!! librarian!jason !! historian!reader !! tim and reader are platonic soulmates <3 also tim calls reader chicken, idk why!! also thers gonna be typos and run on sentences probably (i blacked out)
𖥔 w/c 8.3k and some change
𖥔 a/n this came to me in a dream… idk i just feel like tim has such strong protective girl bestie vibes so this is what happened. i love tim and reader and reader and jason and i really hope you do too!! lemme know xoxo
masterlist | requests open!!
Since the moment you became friends with Tim Drake, you understood his brothers were completely off limits. It was apparent in how he would go out of his way to not mention them by name—only my brother this or my brothers that—it was in the look of pure disgust when someone would bring up just how hot his oldest brother was when he showed up on the news: alerting the public not to be worried about some crime in Blüdhaven. Even you, his best friend since the trauma of Philosophy 204 bonded you together, were not allowed to ask about them without a deadly glare shooting your way.
You understood, if you had a famous family full of wealthy handsome boys, you too would want to keep them aware from your friends. You shudder at the thought of some girl asking if your brother was single, thus whenever Tim gives you attitude about it, you allow yourself to laugh it off. It wasn’t until the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year that you were even allowed near Wayne Manor, and into the lives of his illustrious family.
Now, five years into your friendship, you could say that you’ve fit yourself into Tim’s life quite nicely. Being his favorite lady, you’re often his date to galas and Sunday brunches with the wives of Wayne Enterprises, The person who comes along when Bruce says “you can bring a friend”, and most special, who he turns to when one of his brothers annoys him. Like now,
“I just don’t know why I’m suddenly Damian’s chauffeur," Tim says, a familiar annoyance seeping from his voice. “Like, my father has billions of dollars yet I have to be the one to drive my little brother around, come on.”
You laugh, but the easy way in which he talks about his family’s wealth brings a bad taste to your mouth… You, a girl born and raised in the lower sector of Gotham, find it quite gross how easy your friend throws his money around sometimes, which you remind him with a swat on the back of his head. “Hey! what the fuck was that for?” He exclaims with a laugh.
“Timothy, you know better than to be all waspy when I’m around…” you sigh, “and anyway, it’s not like Damian goes anywhere but the library and the planetarium… he's just a kid.”
“A kid who threatens to poison me if I don’t buy him bug juice—which I gotta say he is getting too old for.”
“Ahh, Timmy, are you just sad about your baby brother growing up?” You say, pouting your lips in the exact way you know annoys him.
You’ve always thought it’s funny how annoyed Tim gets about Damian, a boy who’s only ever sweet to you—asking you about your favorite animals and telling you about the new exhibits at Gotham’s Natural History Museum. “I don’t get why it's so terrible, Dami’s just a sweetheart,”
“Ugh, maybe to you,” Tim replies, “he just thinks you’re cool cause you work at the Historical Society and you make fun of me,”
“Well, there’s a lot to make fun of.”
“Ha.Ha. Real funny guess who's uninvited to Dick’s birthday party.” With this, you pause. It’s true that most of the parties surrounding Tim’s family are unnecessarily boring and involve fitting into a tight dress and making your hair look presentable. There’s been quite a few times when you’ve wished that Tim would go with someone else and gift you the reprieve from a drawn out conversation with a doctor or a politician, (or whoever else Mr. Wayne invites to drum up philanthropy). However, you look forward to Dick’s birthday every year; a night filled with laughter and sweet drinks, getting to see Dick and his girlfriend Kory get a little too drunk and attempt to do gymnastics on the club’s dancefloor… Even better, it’s the one chance you really get to see Jason, Tim’s older and outcasted brother..
You remember the first time you met him, a Friday dinner you accompanied Tim to… It was the one night a week Alfred was free from dinner duty, thus the two of you had brought chinese and gelato for dessert and Damian kept pestering you about bringing him to the Zoo to see the snakes.
You had already met everyone else, Dick with his charming smile and the spark in his eyes when he pulled your chair out (you’re sure it had more to do with annoying his brother than being a gentleman,) You’d met Duke when he followed his brother into university becoming a welcome third to your little group, and his father–Initmaditing and encompassing Bruce Wayne, but you’d never met Jason.
You’d heard about him, heard the sighs from his father when he noticed his second son hadn’t shown up… Watched the careful way he was spoken about by his family, in past tenses and thinly veiled sadness. Tim had rarely brought him up to you, barely mentioning how there was some sort of accident, how it destroyed their father and separated Jason from himself and his family.
You never liked seeing your best friend sad, it hurt too much to see his blue eyes gloss over, so you never brought him up, yet you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t curious. You remember seeing it on the news, the day that Jason Todd went missing… It wasn’t surprising to hear about a missing boy–living in Gotham meant a new tragedy every day–yet, you remember being shocked that something would happen to that bright young boy, grinning ear to ear in the school picture the news showed.
You were only twelve, but you can think back and see so vividly the magic behind that smile, and how sad you were to realize that this boy, who could have very well gone to school with your sister, was gone… How sad he must be, you remember thinking, to be without his family.
He was quite the mystery to you, more so after becoming friends with Tim, his brother who would so rarely mention him. It was when you saw him slouching at the dinner table and arguing with Dick, that your curiosity came back, you couldn’t believe it–he was so handsome, prettier than the newspaper made him look, and so tall, but you remembered Tim… Remembered how upset he got when Hannah Beauchamp asked him for his brother’s telephone number, so all you did was smile and say hello.
After that you saw Jason more often, always quiet, always bright, but it was still glaringly rare… You never knew when he’d be there, unlike Dick who is unquestionable in his loyalty to family functions, Jason could be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Thus, the only surefire way to see him, is to go to Dick’s birthday, a gathering that Jason always appears at, showing his rare smile and a rare wish to his big brother.
You can’t be uninvited, you really can’t be…
“Timmy, you know I love you,” you say, giggling at the way his nose scrunches, “Please let me go with you to Dick’s party? Please please please!! I didn’t mean it, it’s so hard to make fun of you!”
You know you’ve won when his head tilts, nose sticking straight up like an aristocrat in a children’s novel, you know you’ve won because he sighs into a sweet smile–bringing his hand up to muss your hair.
“You know I can’t go anywhere without you, Chicken.” At his words you unceremoniously jump at him, encircling him into your grasp and squealing out ‘thank you’s.’ “But,” you groan. “You have to come with me tonight… If I have to hear Damian go on and on about Casseiopeia, you do too.”
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
The party was in full force when you arrived, music blaring, couples kissing, the whole nine; It smelled like sweat and tequila, and fancy perfume, and you wished you could feel this way more often.
Tim doesn’t like going out, doesn’t feel safe bringing you out into the Gotham nightlife–your best friend, sweet and loyal and protective, over his family, over you… You know he’s just looking out for you, but the frustrated sighs and the “that place isn’t safe for a little Chicken like you,” get exhausting. He gets frustrated when you go out by yourself, insistent that your group of girls would be much safer if you guys partied at home, yet he never seems to have a problem if his brothers are there too… more eyes on you, he says when you ask.
Still, you wouldn’t trade him for the world–how lucky were you, that your best friend cared so much…
He had gasped when he picked you up, a caricature of your sisters and girlfriends: he squealed and told you he loved your dress, (as if he wasn’t the one who paid for it), a routine that was familiar and warm. He’d driven you both himself, complaining about traffic and assholes who don’t use their blinker, he was telling you about his day and the “insolent” acts Damian committed at school. It was rather nice, just you and Tim listening to shitty pop-punk and laughing, a familiar scene that’s gotten rarer and rarer as his responsibilities have piled on.
He had squeezed your hand before getting out of the car, smiling at you with earnest eyes and a mischievous grin, and told you: “If Dick’s friend Wally hits on you, tell him I still have the pictures from last summer.”
You were a ball of nerves in the elevator, stomach dropping as it went up, up, up to the Penthouse, shying away from the stares and whispers that follow Tim around. But now, encased in house music and the saccharine smell of young lust and birthday magic, your anxiety eases and the smile you send your best friend’s way is finally sincere.
He takes your hand to lead you through the erratic rhythm of dancing bodies, sending dirty looks to men who look at you too long, leading you through the suite like he’s Orpheus on a mission. He doesn’t turn back to smile at you until you’ve reached your destination, the large rooftop patio where the pool lives, here you find Dick–front flipping into the pool fully clothed. His form is perfect, spinning into the water with a ballerina like elegance, a visage so striking against the electronica pumping through the night.
He comes up for air with far less grace, however, shaking his hair out like a dog and yelling at Kory to join him. When he sees his little brother, his face breaks into the most earth-shattering smile, before he breaks into senseless giggles–telling everyone, “You guys! My baby brother Timmy is here!”
Tim, a boy who loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe you, grins at the older boy's voice–pulling you along to greet him properly.
“Happy birthday, Dick!” You tell him, voice raising to be heard over the music and the squealing euphoria of his guests.
“Oh my! Timmy’s little Chicken is here!” Dick’s fondness for you is no surprise, as a professional older brother it is his job to love everyone his siblings love. “Jason! Look who's here!”
It's almost comical how fast you look up, how curious you are to see him, so curious you don’t hear Tim’s sigh or the way his hold on your arm tightens. Like Magic, Jason stands in front of you, leaning against a wall like a poor parody of James Dean. He looks a bit put out, a little annoyed to be interrupted in what looks like a riveting conversation with Roy Harper– a man you’ve only ever met through Tim’s phone on nights when he goes out without you.
“Hey guys,” He says, friendly enough yet you can’t help but notice how much tenser he looks now that Tim stands before him. “Timmy, I heard you’re taking up more and more roles at Dad’s,” he sounds strained, but it’s obvious that he’s trying.
“Yeah, our little baby brother is awesome, Bird, but let’s not forget it’s my turn to receive your compliments.” Dick exclaims, panting a bit from treading water.
“Yeah, yeah, Dickie, you just gotta wait for it, man.” Jason says, before turning back to Roy, you know at once that their exchange is over, you’re not sure what happened… It seems almost like Tim and Jason fought, niceties were exchanged, yes, but the look in their eyes: exhausted and awkward, says more than the short conversation they shared.
They get like this sometimes, a phenomenon you don’t quite understand… You’ve witnessed moments where they seem like best friends, joking and joining together in teasing Damian, yet there's other times… Moments like this, when it seems like there's years of separation and frustration between them.
You can feel Tim pulling you away, his hold on your hand a little tighter than you would like it to be… You can hear Dick yelling at him to stay, ‘the waters nice and warm,’ he yells, yet it's obvious he’s not too worried about it once Kory swims over to him. More than anything you can see Jason, nodding at you from his place against the wall–his drink tipping your way as if to say goodbye.
You’re still a little confused when Tim drags you back into the suite to dance, finding Conner and Stephanie along the way. The four of you twirl and laugh and drink, the boys spinning you and Steph around and around–passing the two you back and forth until you're dizzy and drunk. Tim’s hands steady you, leading you in a crazy dance the two of you made up junior year, and grinning when you drunkenly tell him you love him. The night is alive, it’s burning with winter yearning and the feeling that you’d never be this young again. How you love your friends, how you wonder what's ailing them.
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
The music is thunderous, eating away at your ear drums and seeping into your bones until your body sings along. You’re not sure what time it is any more, or where Tim went… Your last memory is Conner giving you his jacket before pulling your friend away, a sight that made you giggle and roll your eyes. Steph’s seemed to disappear too, leaving you all alone on the dance floor, swaying in time with the music and whispering jokes to nobody.
The crowd seems to have gotten bigger and the drinks stronger, a revelation that sends you in search of Tim or Dick, or someone you know. Yet, you can’t find them anywhere, off with Conner and Kory surely, abandoning you with only vodka and an empty chip bowl to keep you company. The party seems lonelier now, the music dull and throbbing in your ears, and all the dancing seems out of rhythm. It’s almost like you’ve stepped out of the faery ring, released yourself from an enchantment, and now everything that was once magic is all wrong.
That things happening, that thing where you begin to have nostalgia for the moment you’re in, a kind of bittersweetness veiling over your eyelids as you take in the dark room. This happens sometimes, where you get a sudden case of the blues–too much adrenaline, too much happiness for one person, so it comes out as sad. It doesn’t help that you’re all alone, that Tim left you to go kiss Conner and you don’t really know anyone else, not truly–not the way you need to know them for a moment like this.
You find yourself on the stairs, leaning against the railing as you attempt to regain your balance. The world seems to be spinning, whether it's from the alcohol or all the dancing you’re unsure of, yet the sky seems to be under your feet. You wished Tim was here… he always knew what to do, always knew how to make you laugh when you’re sad and get you home without a scratch… Stupid Conner, you think, stealing your best friend from you when you need him most… typical.
It's minutes later that you feel someone nudging you awake, shaking you from your place on the stairs. The person's hands are rough and warm and gentle, easing you back into consciousness, accompanied by whispers of “come on, little one.”
You don’t feel very good, the alcohol and the sadness filling your throat with the taste of vomit, yet you find it in yourself to look up. Light invades your senses and that same blaring electronica finds a home in your ears again, a repeated refrain of call on me beating into your bones. You find the eyes of the intruder, green like summer; they’re looking down at you in concern, all squinty like a crescent moon. It's not until the song changes that you realize it’s Jason looking at you, your mystery come to find you.
“Jason?” you ask, your voice covered in sleep and intoxication. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Where’s Timmy?”
“Off with Conner.” You harrumph, sneering at his name as if they aren’t two of your most treasured friends.
“And he left you all alone?” He looks a little surprised by this, and a little upset, a combination that will surely keep you up thinking about what it means.
“Yeah, can you believe that?! He’s a treacherous traitor who betrayed me.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure all those things mean the same thing.” He laughs a little, and you wish you were sober just so you could really hear him, the fear you feel that you might not remember this fills you with dread. It's so rare that you get to see him, so rare that you get to talk to him without Tim around to make things different and tense… your crush on Jason is not so hidden, a truth that eats at you in moments like this. You’re sure they probably all know, can all see how flustered you get around him, but you’d never act on it–you’d never do anything to hurt Tim, (that includes kissing his brothers), thus you pretend like it doesn’t affect you as much as it does. But here now, with Jason sitting next to you on the stairs, sharing space and oxygen and more words than you’ve ever spoken to each other before, you feel it becoming harder and harder to pretend.
“Why are you sitting with me, Jason?” You ask him.
‘What?” He replies, eyes wide in shock or maybe confusion. “You’re my little brother’s best friend and you’re asleep on the stairs, why wouldn’t I be sitting with you.” His voice is pure Gotham, it brings a smile to your lips.
“I see, is it just because I’m Timmy’s best friend.”
“Are you flirting with me, Casanova?” he laughs, bringing a bottle of water up to his lips.
“Never ever, Mr. Todd, I swear it, cross my heart.” You can see how he’s smiling, goofier than you’ve ever seen it, less sculpted than the usual smirky grin he wears around his brothers.
“You’re drunk.” He says, before handing you his bottle of water, “Drink.” He says it like a command, like something you couldn’t say no to even if you tried, so you listen, yet you can’t stop thinking about his lips around it just a few seconds before. It invades your senses– the image of his rosebud lips curling around the top like a kiss… What is a kiss if not two mouths touching? What is a kiss without a kiss? Shared saliva and phantom smiles pressing against your own?
One of his large hands goes to the bottom of the plastic bottle–tipping it up further as if to get you to drink more, his eyes swallow you, commanding eye contact as the water tumbles down your throat. “That’s a good girl.” He tells you, voice low and pleasing. It’s only when the bottle is empty that he takes his hand away, lowering the bottle from your lips and looking back into the humid party.
How handsome he is, you think, it’s obvious he dressed up a little more for this than when you usually see him. He’s in all black, slacks and t-shirt displaying some 90s anime, he even has jewelry on: silver rings and heavy chains around his neck… He looks ravishing, like someone should take him home before other people can perceive him. You remember that first time you saw him, that fifteen year old boy on the news who looked like Peter Pan; you remember how you felt when you read that he was missing, if only you could have told yourself you would have found him one day.
“Jason?” You whisper, “Where did you go?” He’s surprised at the question, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t seem mad, more tired; exhausted by the memory.
“Neverland.” He whispers back, a response that brings a smile to your lips even though it’s not an answer.
“What was it like?”
“Hmm,” he says, thinking about his answer. “Well, it was pretty, there were pirates and mermaids, and little fairy girls like you.” That makes you laugh, a big booming thing that escapes.
“I’m a little fairy girl, now?”
“Oh yeah, I saw you spinning earlier… round and round like you were trying to fly.”
“Well, I’m all out of pixie dust.” You tell him, which brings that goofy smile back to his pretty face.
He doesn’t say anything else, just sits quietly with you, humming songs he knows and snorting at the drunken antics of Dick’s guests. It’s nice, just sitting with him–there is no need to fill the space, just peace and quiet. Finally, when you’re feeling sober enough to be a little worried by his answer, you ask, “Why’d you leave? I mean what made you come home?”
It takes him a moment to answer, but when he does it’s full of secrets and saved up sadness, his voice gruff with the memory of it. “I just had to grow up I guess.”
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
Days later you’re still thinking about that conversation on the stairs, how sad he looked… how vulnerable and young he appeared. When Tim finally showed himself, he was shocked to find you with his brother, thanking him over and over again for keeping you company. You remember how Jason smiled, sweet and sleepy, before he said No problem, Timmy, you just get her home safe. It’s less of a memory and more of a dream, like you went off to Neverland too.
It was difficult to find sleep that night, too shaken and embarrassed by your own behavior… Nerves ate at your brain every time you thought about how natural it was to talk to him, nerves that only got worse when you wake up to a text from an unknown number:
‘Hey, fairy girl, it’s J. just want to make sure you got back alright’
It filled you with heat and parasitic flutters in your belly, but you couldn’t answer… couldn’t get over the guilt you felt when imagining Tim’s reaction, no matter how innocent it all was. So you left it alone, didn’t answer him and went on with your day as normal as you could make it: lunches with Tim and group chat gossip with Duke and Stephanie, anything that could distract you from the fire blazing in your veins.
You were still a little cross with Tim for leaving you all alone, but after making him take you out to breakfast and promise to buy you whatever you wanted for the next week, you thought you’d cut him some slack. He was acting a little weird, he kept making that face that only conjures itself when he’s trying to figure something out, and he repeatedly asked you if Jason said anything interesting to you– a question that has you shaking your head every time.
His words were just for you, you knew that more than you knew anything, so even though it was unfamiliar, you kept it from your best friend.
It’s been a week since that fateful night, a week full of sleeplessness and butterflies when you thought about his bright eyes and warm hands. You’ve always had a bit of a crush, but now it's stifling–incinerating you with the absolute truth of it. Even here at work it suffocates you, presses down in between the dark archives of old newspapers and preserved textiles. It's just another day of paperwork and organization, studying old books on Cherry Hill in hopes to find something that could help stop the impending gentrification.
Tim’s on his way with lunch, something Alfred cooked up to be sure, an exciting but slightly unnerving prospect. You’ve never been afraid of your best friend before, but you’ve also never kept a secret from him… you know it's not a big deal, so what if you and Jason had a sleepy drunken conversation at Dick’s birthday party? It wasn’t like you kissed! Hell, his hands barely even touched your skin except to wake you up, yet the fear of hurting Tim is so massive and encompassing you can’t help but feel like you need to hide it.
You hear him say hello to your coworkers, hear his graceful steps down into the basement, he takes the stairs two at a time. When he finally arrives in front of you, he is jovial–smiling wider than you’ve seen in awhile. He dawdles on, handing you your lunch and telling you about how Alfred made twice the amount so all his kids could have some. It’s nice to hear him speak about his family, you relish in it… how happy he sounds when he speaks of his brothers, Alfred and Stephanie, the smile in his voice when he tells you you’re invited to another Friday Dinner.
“Barbara and Kory are coming too, you’ll be there, yeah?”
“Yeah, Definitely,” You tell him, but your heart isn’t in it. Tim notices it, of course he does, but he doesn’t call it out. You’ve been acting strange lately, but he trusts that you’d come to him if you really needed help. He stays until you both finish your lunch, kissing you on the head before he heads back towards the WE building; the guilt creeps back in when he leaves, roots of shaming entangling you like vipers.
This routine follows you into the week, Tim bringing lunch and stories of Conner and Duke and the mischief they’ve gotten themselves into. Your work kept you busy, working late into the night– the book you found on the Founding of Gotham was interesting, and it was proving to be rather helpful in proving your suspicions that the original City Hall was located in the Cherry Hill suburb of Gotham City. You hoped you’d be able to find all the sources you needed, but it was becoming a bigger and bigger project than you ever realized–a project that was impeding on your life.
It was late into the afternoon when Jason came to see you, bringing with him a smile and something hidden in his book bag.
“Knock-knock, Little fairy, can I come in?” He asks you, halting on the last step. It's dark down here, lit only with lamps and reading lights, still he is beautiful–the white streak in his hair curling down over his eyes. He looks rather comfy, wrapped up in a sweater and a leather jacket, his book bag crossing over his chest and falling around his hip. God, he’s lovely, and he’s here… Why is he here?
“What are you doing here?” You ask, startled by his presence and the life it brings.
“I wanted to bring you some flowers,” He tells you, a secret smile playing on his lips. You look at his empty hands, a confused grin finding its way to your face.
“Where are the flowers, Jason?” You laugh, although it halts when that goofy grin emerges again. Looking at you slyly he takes something out from his bag, pulling out a stack of books and handing them to you. Still confused you shuffle the pile to read each title,
Dandelion Wine, White Oleander, The Chrysanthemums, Daisy Miller, The Secret Garden…
Oh dear, you think, how sweet is this boy? And why? After you’d ignored his message…
“Flowers,” he says, tilting his head towards you, that charming smile still living on his face.
Who is this wonderful, handsome boy? When his brothers speak of him, they describe him as gruff and unlikable–mean and sulky. Yet this Jason is bright and euphoric, sweet and happy and mischievous…
He brought you flowers… flowers that you could keep on your shelf forever; stories of life and sadness and magic.
“Oh my,” you say, “Thank you, Jason.”
“Of course, I wanted to make sure you were okay…” He hesitates for a minute before continuing on, “Y’know, you never answered my text and I thought maybe Dickie gave me the wrong number.”
“Oh, no it was the right number,” you sigh. “I just don’t want Tim to feel weird about the two of us becoming friends…”
“Are we becoming friends then,” he asks you, eyes brighter than before. He looks so young like this, starry eyed and grinning like he won a blue ribbon.
“I don’t know, Jason, are we?”
“I’m inclined to say yes, fairy girl. I don’t steal books from the library for just anyone.”
Shocked, you turn the books over and sure enough, the library's barcode sits against the hardcover.
“Jason! What the hell?! You can’t just steal from the library!” You yell, yet all he does is laugh. It’s such a pretty sound, deep and melodious like a song you can’t forget the words to. You wonder how often he really laughs like this, true and belly-full, like he means it.
“I work at the library, Sugar, don’t worry.” He rasps out, “I’m the person who has to buy the new books anyway… so don’t worry about it.” The pet name rolls off his tongue salaciously, finding its way into your tummy, filling you with warmth and a vision of him at Gotham City Public Library. You’re not sure how you never knew, how you never saw him there in your late night book runs for your work. It fills you with fondness and makes your smile somehow brighter than it already was.
“Well, thank you anyway, J.” You tell him. “Really, no one's ever given me flowers before.”
When his eyes meet yours the floor shakes beneath you, destabilizing you into nervous fidgeting and shy smiles. You can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe your mystery is standing in front you–vulnerable and handsome and smiling. He brought you flowers… God, what are you going to tell Tim?
You see he’s getting ready to leave, so you ask (quicker than you thought possible,) “Do you wanna stay for a while? I’m just reading through some sources, but it might be better with company?” The smile he gives you is serendipitous, magical and dreamlike.
He stays with you long into the night, reading all the left pages as you read the right and sharing his own suspicions. He mentions books at the library that might be useful, and tells you how cool he thinks what you’re doing is, he smiles the whole time. It's late when you finish, yawning and blinking away the strain, he looks more and more like that school picture you once fawned over– young and happy, Peter Pan.
He insists on walking you home, leading you through the still busy Gotham Streets with a hand grazing your back and a watchful eye on the city. Every once in a while he stops to make sure you’re going the right way, and to ask if you’re still alright, a question that brings a smile to your lips and goosebumps on your skin.
When you finally make it home, skin bitten cold and his jacket hanging off your shoulders, he smiles faintly at you, bringing his hand up to push a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.
As he turns to leave he tells you,
“Don’t forget to get those flowers in some water, see you Friday,” And with the way your heart stops, you know you’re doomed.
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
Tim Drake is lots of things, but a fool is not one of them. He sees how different Jason is acting during patrol: stumbling over ledges and pulling out the wrong gun. He’s been weird since Dick’s party, quicker to smile and more interested in you than ever before… he remembers seeing Jason try to covertly listen to the Comm when Dick asked Tim how you were,
“How’s Chicken Little doing, Timmy?”
But before he could answer, Damian swiftly responded:
“She doesn’t like it when you guys call her that, can’t you see her nose scrunch up in disgust? Honestly you’re all a bunch of buffoons.”
Tim, however offended he might be at Damian thinking he knows you better than him, couldn’t help but focus on Jason instead. His face might be covered by his mask, yet his body language is unmistakable–he’s more interested than he should be.
“Might I remind all of you, she is off limits, do not disturb, dead end… I will kill you and send your entrails to Lex Luthor to make some weird clone of you if you even think about it.” This message is for all of them, but you’d have to be stupid to not realize it was really only for Jason–Dick and Kory have been basically engaged since they were 20 and Damian still drinks bug juice for God’s Sake… the only other person it could be is Duke, but if the gagging sounds he’s making over the comm mean anything, he doesn’t need to be worried.
Nobody says anything for a second, laughter from Dick and Duke creeping in through his ear piece, yet it all stops when Jason speaks up for the first time that night.
“You know, you really should let her make her own decisions… She’s not a little girl.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Hood?” Tim asks, getting actually truly angry for the first time. There’s a reason why he tried to keep you to himself in the beginning of your friendship, he knows you think it’s because he didn’t want you to date his brothers, but really he didn’t want to have to share another thing. So much of his life belongs to his family, he just wanted one thing to belong to him.
“Don’t get angry, please, Birdie?” Jason replies, there's no heat in it, just exhaustion.
“What. Do. You. Mean? Hood?” Tim says again, getting more and more frustrated by the minute.
“I just mean she’s a grown up, and she should be allowed to talk to whoever she wants to, even if it weirds you out.”
It strikes Tim as something that wouldn’t bother him if it was about anyone but you, if it was Steph or Bart or Cassie, it wouldn’t have mattered. But it is you, the first friend he’s had that's entirely his own–you’re his best friend in the entire world, the person he loves the most, and he doesn’t need anyone, especially not Jason Todd, telling him how he should act with you.
“Keep your advice to yourself, Red Hood,” Tim barks out to his brother, yet there's a piece of him that's thinking about what he said, a voice in the back of his head that tells him maybe he should listen.
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
When Tim calls you to tell you not to come to family dinner, you can’t help but be confused and a little hurt. Sure, he said he’d just come over to yours instead, but the thought that someone was upset with you, or worse that Tim used his brilliant brain to suss out your crush before you could tell him, and now he’d never let you back around his brothers again, whittled its way into your heart and wouldn’t let go.
You never wanted to do anything that would hurt Tim, he’s the person who you trust most in the world, the only person you could say confidently that you would kill or be killed for. You love him, infallibly and wholly, and thinking that he might be hurt by something you’ve done, even as innocent as a couple moonlit conversations with his brother, consumes you into a hellmouth of anxiety.
He arrives at seven, the time he said he’d pick you up for family night, but instead of meeting you at your door, he barrels in. There’s a wild look in his eyes, a look you’ve only seen once– when your Philosophy 204 professor fell over and began to aspirate through a seizure–it’s painful and worried, and you wonder what's making him so upset now. However, when you ask, all he does is shake his head, almost like he’s trying to shake out the worries, pound them out like water in your ears. He looks beyond you, into your kitchen and his sighs become heavier and more sporadic, did he run here?
“I’m trying to figure something out,” He tells you, his voice kinder than his body language made it seem like it would be, yet you’re not surprised–in the five years of being his friend, he’s never once raised his voice at you.
“Okay, what's up?” You ask, anxious.
“Are you and Jason in love? Are you having some sort of gross affair?”
“What?!” You exclaim, sure you have a crush on Jason, and yes you think it would be quite easy to fall in love with him, but come on… Two conversations and childhood crush don’t suddenly turn into an affair.
“Don’t “what” me, Chicken! I have Jason telling me to treat you like a grown up and now I walk in here and his jacket is hanging from my chair… MY CHAIR!” He says, shocking a laugh out of you, “The chair I sit in, god what has life come to?”
“Timmy, we’re not having an affair, he just walked me home after bringing me something at work.” You approach him like a snake tamer, slow and kind in your steps–the same steps you saw the zoo keeper take the last time you and Tim brought Damian to Gotham Zoo.
“But you like him?” He asks, suspicious and guarded. You can’t tell what’s happening in his head, can’t seem to read his mind like you usually can, so instead you let your hands fall onto his shoulders–fingers splaying out to run through the hair on his neck.
“Yes,” You say, quiet as a mouse. “Is that okay?”
Tim lets his head fall into your tummy, blowing out a big gasp of air into your shirt, which makes you laugh and push him away.
“Of course it’s okay, Chicken… I just want you to be happy.” He sighs, “I just don’t really know if you will be happy with him… my brother he’s,” He hesitates, thinks about how he should say this without ruining anything, before he continues: “Jay’s complicated, what happened fucked him up… really bad. And I love you, more than him, more than anyone–you’re my girl. I don’t want you to feel trapped in a bad situation, and feel like you can’t come to me cause he’s my brother… I’ll always be on your side.”
You smile and let out what feels like all the air in your lungs. How you love your stupid, silly, best friend, as if Jason would ever make you feel trapped and horrible when all he ever wants to do is be free?
“You don’t have to worry about me, Timmy, I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” The nickname makes him smile, brings him back to college when all you guys would do was watch Chicken Little and drink bottled sweet tea, when you’d call him Timmy and beg him to let you prank call his dad. Yet, the sentiment makes him sad, how are you a big girl if you’re both still just kids? He doesn’t feel that grown up yet.
“That’s what he said you know,” He replies. “Just, why didn’t you tell me?” He’s watching you, looking at you in that way that makes you spill all your secrets, so you tell him,
“I didn’t want to upset anyone, and I don’t know if he even likes me back, so..”
“Are you crazy?! Of course he likes you, my brother hates literally every single person he interacts with other than Alfred, yet he’s coming to your work to surprise you? Come on.” He’s laughing though it sounds a little pained. It does little to comfort your swirling thoughts. You’re so happy Tim’s not angry, so happy that he’s not throwing you onto the curb like you expected, but he still seems so sad.
You wish you could swaddle him up and make everything okay, promise that you’d never stop being friends, make sure he knows that you’re not going away–that all of this is a little dramatic for a little crush.
“Are you okay, Timmy? With the chance that something might happen between me and Jason?”
“Yeah, Chickadee, just…” he sighs, “Don’t forget what I said, okay? About him being complicated.” You nod, but before you can say anything, he speaks up again. “And, Chicken? Remember our pact about getting married for taxes… it’s you and me spending our afterlives together, not you and Jason.”
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
You wake the next morning a bundle of limbs and sleepy energy, Tim is barely conscious next to you and the apartment smells faintly of cheetos and ramen; you’d spent the night watching Avatar: The Last Airbender and reminiscing about the good old days. You told him about everything that's happened with Jason, starting from that first sight of his missing poster and ending with the bouquet of books. He was obviously a little grossed out to be talking about his brother in this way, but it felt good to see you so giggly and happy.
He’d felt bad for making you skip out on family night, a feeling of guilt that shook in his bones as his father and eldest brother texted him about skivving out on family bonding. But, he wouldn’t go back to change it, he was so afraid he was going to lose you, that you’d get tired of him and make friends with other people, that having this night with you was well worth all the lectures he was going to have to put up with.
He’s watching you now, anxious and blushing, and he can’t help but feel in awe of you–his pretty best friend, really crushing on someone for the first time. Some part of him is glad that person is Jason, at least then he won’t feel too bad about breaking his nose if he starts any shit with you.
“Everythings gonna be okay,” He says, using your first name in a rare scene of seriousness.
“Yeah, I know.” You tell him. “I just, don’t wanna ruin anything.”
“You know, he’s working today… might wanna bring him some flowers.”
⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄
The library is alive, warm and inviting like a lover’s embrace. It smells like parchment and dust and clorox wipes, a combination that instantly brings you back to school–elementary crushes and schoolyard gossip.
There’s not very many people here, too early on a school day for anyone to really be finding solace between the aisles, but you see him. Jason sits behind the front desk, wiry glasses settled on his nose and a book in his lap. He hasn’t noticed you yet, too absorbed in his work to really be paying attention. For a minute, you just stand and admire him–this mysterious creature who walked into your life and never left. All these feelings are brand new and ancient… romantic and friendly, respect and admiration. It would all be so easy, with him–to lose yourself in love and friendship–you want it so badly.
You can see it so vividly, waking up with him and spending nights intertwined, reading together and researching maniacally. Falling for him is easy, loving him will be hard you know, but seeing him now: pretty and warm in the afternoon light makes the decision rather easy.
“I’d like to return some books,” you say once you’ve reached him, startling him out of his reverie.
He can’t believe it’s you, beautiful and bright–like a protagonist out of an Austen novel. He thought he’d never be allowed near you again, thought he ruined it all by bringing you up to Tim, but here you were–lovely like the morning. You’re carrying books, flowers, and your smile is starlight.
“Well, right this way, Ma’am.” He tells you, once he finds his voice. “I didn’t realize you could replant flowers after you’ve picked them.” He’s teasing you, but really he’s not sure why you’ve brought the books back–is it a way to let him down? Or are you just returning the favor?
He leads you into the back, unprofessional sure, but he needs to be alone with you. You’re so anxious, he can tell… he needs to be able to reach out and feel you.
“I just felt like you deserved flowers too, Jay.” You tell him, sweet and lovely like always.
“Hmm, well I refuse them… they’re all yours, I already replaced them.” His eyes are mischievous again, burning with joy as they stare into yours. You’re reminded of that night on the stairs, when he made you drink water and burned you alive.
“I talked to Tim,” You tell him, watching as his smile drops.
“Let me guess, he told you I’m bad news and doesn’t want you around me, right?” He asks, rough with the hurt of past bruises.
“Actually, he told me you’re bad news but he’s trusting me to be able to handle it.” Jason looks surprised, his summer green eyes wide with shock. He guessed he never really thought Tim would be okay with it…
He remembers seeing you for the first time: soft and gorgeous in the lowlight of the manor, he was sitting with Damian and remembers how the breath shot out of his lungs at the sight of you. Dami’s been teasing him about it for years now, bringing you up to piss Tim off and making plans for you to bring him to the planetarium on days when Jason said he’d pick him up–like a goddam parenttrap. He thinks back to that night on the stairs a few weeks ago, you looked so pretty spinning around with your friends, like Thumbelina. When he found you on the stairs he was panicked: worried about you and worried about Tim who never left your side, but you were still just so pretty.
He can’t believe you here now, bringing him flowers and his brother’s approval. He’s waited for this for so long, for the okay from the one person dearest to you, the one person who could make Jason actually care about listening to him.
“He really said that?” Jason asks you, hesitant and careful like he’s worried you’re playing a joke on him.
“He really said that,” You reply, laughing when Jason pulls you into a hug. He holds you for a few minutes, feels the air in your lungs press into his belly as you breathe in and out, it feels so good to have you here, to know that he’s not making anything worse by wanting you.
“So that means you’ll go out with me then, fairy girl?” he asks you, his rough fingers moving up to grasp your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking into his eyes. He waits for you to nod, then waits for the word, yes, to emerge from your pretty lips, before lowering down to kiss your forehead. He feels you sigh, feels your hands shake from their place on his arms, his kisses move down down down until they meet the corner of your lips. You're smiling slightly, like you’re having a happy dream, and when he kisses you for real that smile becomes a big grin.
It’s all teeth and laughter and the awkwardness of a first kiss, but Jason holds you up and lets you gasp into his mouth and swallows your sighs. He licks into your mouth and clashes his teeth against yours and calls you his fairy, his magic girl come to take him back to Neverland. He holds you tighter and tighter, and feels you shake under his affection, how lovely it is, how badly he wants to make your bones rattle.
“I’ll bring you more flowers on our date, sugar.” He tells you, kissing the underside of your jaw, before pulling away. He’s sad he has to let you go, frustrated that he has to stay at work while you get to go and hang out with Tim and Damian at the Museum all day, but the kiss you press into his hand–innocent and earnest–makes it worth it.
He leads you out of the back room and into the well-lit main entrance, pausing only to grab his book from the front desk. “By the way, I found this while I was stacking shelves, I thought it might be useful for your project.”
In his hands is a book titled Gotham City’s Founding Buildings, and on the cover, miraculously an illustration of Cherry Hill.
It’s too easy to fall in love with him, you think again, smiling as you pull him into another kiss.
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Siento que no necesito internarme de la manera convencional, no puedo estar otra vez haciendo actividades todo el dia, cuando lo que necesito es no distraerme para saber realmente como estoy, y sin medicamentos al principio para conocerme, no se, necesito un retiro
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Yunonoai posted an arranged marriage comic with gojo and when i went to subscribed to her patreon realized 5 dollars in my country's currency it's TWENTY, I ain't got shit😭
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