♡ ₊ ˚ 🐰 ‧ ₊ ✧

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

Lyonel, for his part, probably wasn't thrilled about the marriage either (he strikes me as a truly free spirit). But a Lord’s duty is to marry a lady to continue his line. When he saw his bride for the first time, his gaze darted between her and Maekar, and he was struck by the uncanny resemblance. It was as if Prince Maekar had simply undergone cellular division…splitting in two, with the second half merely being female. Thankfully, the Princess had inherited some of her mother’s features as well. He found it amusing, in a way. And that was when Lyonel’s interest was piqued. He began trying to "get" to his bride, not out of malice, but out of pure curiosity. From the outside, it looked like waves crashing against fortress walls. However, Lyonel must have actually liked that "Maekar-stare" she gave everyone. She looked at the world with such authority it was as if he was the one who should be obeying her and wearing the dress at their wedding.

When they finally set off for Storm’s End, she hadn't expected that another wedding celebration would await them there, and on such a scale, far more wild and unrestrained than in the capital. It was a true ordeal for her, as there was simply too much chaos, especially from her husband. The Princess didn't hate Lyonel, instead, she studied him with her characteristic caution. However, whenever they were together, he would talk to her incessantly, it was impossible to shut him up. At first, his booming laughter seemed to literally shake her, until she eventually began to grow used to it.

I wouldn’t say that our dear Targaryen Princess "thawed" toward her husband, after all, she isn't made of ice. She simply has a reserved nature. Rather, I’d say she eventually allowed her husband into her world, a world where silence is golden, and where observation and command are the keys to survival. We must remember that she is a woman. Even as a Princess, if she had been married off to someone else, her husband would likely have restricted her in many ways. But in a sense, she was lucky with Lyonel. He never tried to limit her or hold her back.

Their bond grew slowly, yet chaotically. Lyonel understood that she had been taken away from her family and that she was essentially alone here. The Lord of Deer found himself admiring how his Dragon Lady performed her duties, the precision of her actions, the way her mind worked…He was a goner, we’ve lost him. He would start with small gestures (setting aside the wedding night): offering his arm, helping her up, or brushing a speck of dirt from her dress, knowing how much she valued an impeccable appearance. In doing so, he was paving a way to her heart, not by trying to change her, but by showing that he accepted her exactly as she was. I believe it was in those moments that he finally learned how to be silent when he was alone with her.

During feasts, he would insist on her presence. He wanted to show her his world, and the Princess would agree. Since he was trying to understand her, she felt she should understand him in return. Every time he did something at a feast whether it was dancing, a mock brawl, or a drinking game, he would constantly look back at her, as if seeking her approval. The moment he caught her slight nod, he would continue with redoubled energy. In those moments, he acted almost like an animal, not in a crude way, but in the sense that he wanted to show his dear wife that he was the best and strongest, and that she should have eyes only for him. He would bring her hunting trophies and dedicate every victory in battle to her. I also think he would have a certain "scent" fixation. He would kiss the Princess’s hands, press his cheek against her hair, or even suggest she use his oils so that she would carry his scent.

Speaking of deer…well, there were a lot of them. Dining chairs with stag motifs. Tapestries featuring deer. Taxidermy stags. Our poor Targaryen Princess felt as if she’d walked into a nightmare and was just waiting to wake up. But gods, when she saw her husband’s private chambers, she was utterly speechless. She had to mentally count to ten while Lyonel proudly showed off his entire collection. Noticing the faint trail of homesickness that followed his lady, he began gifting her dragon-themed trinkets. And that was it…the end. Now, he finds little dragons everywhere (it’s even funnier if you imagine their "stag-dragon" children, like something out of Shrek’s Donkey and Dragon, hiding behind the tapestries and taxidermy). This is their quiet battle, and he is delighted to have drawn his wife into such an unexpected game, especially when he finds a tiny dragon on his desk, and the Princess pretends she has no idea how it got there. But if his dear wife ever wears something with stag symbolism…he literally screams with joy.

As they grew accustomed to one another, their love truly blossomed. The first time Lyonel saw her smile or caught a faint chuckle, even if she was laughing at him, he was utterly smitten. In public, the Princess loved him with restraint, but in private, her affection was quiet and tender. Lyonel, however, was always overjoyed to be with his wife and loved her loudly and with pure adoration. He was especially delighted when her usual sternness began to bleed into their private life. Gods, someone hold this man back the moment his wife gives him that "General's look", he’s practically stripping on the fly, dropping to her feet just to prove how "serious" he is. She merely rolls her eyes, but she’s already reaching out for him.

However, they would face challenges in their relationship concerning alcohol. In the Princess’s mind, alcohol is inextricably linked to her brother Daeron, and Daeron is the embodiment of their father’s disappointment. These associations act as deep-seated triggers for her. Furthermore, given her steadfast and reserved character, our Lady would find it deeply distasteful when her drunk, shouting husband would stumble into the bedroom and simply try to smother her with kisses. There are many ways they could handle this, especially since alcohol was essentially an antiseptic and was often watered down in that era. Perhaps Lyonel would start drinking less or switch his drink of choice? I don’t think a man like him even needs alcohol to have a good time (though, let’s be honest, he’s an alcoholic), but as I mentioned before, there are many ways to solve this. Perhaps, one day, her dear husband simply listened to her words and her fears, and slightly limited himself just so his dear wife could feel more at peace.

Prologue: Before the party

Chapter one: Club classics

Chapter two: Miss world

Chapter three: Sympathy is a knife

Chapter four: Awful

Chapter five: Talk Talk

Chapter six : Petals

Chapter seven: Stay Away

Chapter eight: Heaven Tonight

Chapter nine: I might say something stupid.

Chapter ten: Reasons to be beautiful.

Moodboard: info on reader/ second moodboard

Playlist: Music/ little more info on each chapter / playlist submission 1 / playlist submission 2/ playlist submission 3 / playlist submission 4/ playlist submission 5

Fanart: By MeowingMalleus/ By Princessceebee/ By Princessceebee (2)/ By 77sleepyfeline/ By itzamor/ By Nighttwink/ By Moosilala/ yourfavfae/ By cjshimlyn / By spookess

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

When Damian still has to be born, your mother brings you to meet him. 

You’re a little over eight years old during this time, but the grotesque sight of a fetus being lab-grown doesn’t even make you flinch. Instead, you tap softly on the glass and murmur, “Hi, Damian, I’m your sister. You’ll learn everything you’ll know from me.” 

And so it goes — when he’s finally ready to get out of the tube where they were growing him, unlike the many other failed attempts before him, you’re the first one your mother passes him to. You stare down at him blankly, wondering what exactly the warmth you feel in your chest is and if you should call for the doctor, but every doubt you have is completely forgotten about when he makes an undistinguished noise and wraps his hand around your index finger. 

You stare at his chubby digits, then back at his face, still crumpled with sleep. “You’re so ugly, Damian,” you mutter to him. “I like you.” 

You’re there when he takes his first steps — ready to teach him which traps will ensure his death and which ones are simply a dishonor to fall into. The first syllable of your name is the first actually understandable thing he manages to say, and he does so while tugging a strand of your hair violently against his chest. As it is your duty as an older sister, you smack his hand and tell him you’ll cut it off if he does it again. 

He does so anyway. His hand stays attached to his arm.

Damian grows up to be at least twice as spiteful as you are. While your mother is sure that he’ll be the perfect heir, your grandfather still stands by his resolve to make the eldest bear this role, and makes sure his decision is taken seriously by bringing you to every function where the matter of a successor might be talked about. 

You and your brother still love each other very dearly. It’s you he takes his mannerism from, even if he multiplies it to the max, as well as your predilection for sharp blades and stubbornness regarding everything you want. He learns to be just as spoiled as you, because in Nanda Parbat there’s nothing to ask for, and everything to be demanded — at least from someone your ranking, anyways. 

Damian, convinced by your mother, fights you day and night. The sibling love the two of you share is nothing in comparison to the throne either of you will have to inherit, and Talia knows that well. She constantly turns him against you for the smallest of things, but as he’s still a child and you are older than him, his attacks look like playdates. Unfortunately, you’re well aware that he won’t stay a kid forever. 

Talia’s love is not won by bravery, nor achievements — it’s much more than that. It’s won by resemblance — resemblance towards a man you’ve met once in your whole life, and who has never been involved in raising you. You know everything about Bruce Wayne, about Batman, but no matter how much you study footage about him or listen intently to your grandfather’s stories about ‘The Detective’, you can’t seem to get anything right the way he does. 

During this same period, Ra’s pays Lady Shiva to become your instructor regarding your Year of Blood, which you’ll have to pass in a year. At eleven, the perspective sounds exciting. At thirteen, after surviving the Year of Blood thanks to a dive in the Lazarus Pit, the scary thought of not wanting to kill anymore crosses your mind for the first time. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW.

“Stop, Damian!” 

At ten years old, he’s more of a psychopath than he ever was at six — when you had last seen him — and he doesn’t even hesitate to lunge at you with everything he’s got. When you’re slowed by the rubble behind you, he manages to slice your jacket before Conner lasers both of his katanas into flaming puddles on the ground and gives you time to escape. 

You take a few steps back, hurrying your torn fur coat off your shoulders, your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother stares at the molten swords and the sheathes still in his hands, dropping them down, then at Kon, then back at you. “You’ve gotten yourself an alien dog now?” 

“Asshole,” Tim manages to wheeze. 

Damian lunges again, but this time you’re prepared — and you dodge without a struggle every time. You know those moves he’s making, because your mother taught you those, too; and if the way he’s trying to strike for your pressure points says anything, it’s that he’s positively trying to kill you, and in the best case, he means to only injure you permanently. 

He’s grown for sure; that is clear in your eyes, and in his every movement. You can read your mother’s influence in the way he attacks, in the nerves he targets first and in and in the way he has absolutely no defense mechanism ready — he’s presumptuous, and probably figured a long time ago that people never dared try to strike him unless they were paid for it. Clearly, he has not listened to your grandfather’s lessons about how some people simply don’t care about rank. 

When he tries to strike again, you strike back — just to remind him who’s still in charge — dodging his palm to the side with one hand and slapping him across the face with the back of the other. It’s nothing too harsh — you know for sure you’ve hit him harder in the past — but he looks dumbfounded, nonetheless. Tim, delirious at this point, giggles a bit from the echo of the hit. Damian’s eye twitches, his cheek probably still stinging. “Oh, I’m gonna kill you now.” 

He can try all he wants — you’ve got seven, almost eight years of experience over him, which in the assassin world means a whole lot of a difference. It’s the difference between your mother and Shiva, or the latter and Deathstroke — so to say, it’s a lot. 

He lets out a frustrated yell when you keep on dodging and avoid attacking, “Just let me kill you if you have no intentions of fighting back, coward!” 

A knife emerges from under his sleeve, but before he can try anything Conner is between the two of you — eyes glowing red and ready to fire, Tim slung over his shoulder — and Damian’s knife is slapped out of his hand, his wrist in Superboy’s tight hold. “Calm your hoots, pipsqueak,” he holds him up by his wrist, ignoring his protests, “to get to her, you’ll have to pass through me.” 

The glare your brother sends him could wipe out whole mountains, “Ah, so you’re her whore.” 

Kon gasps dramatically, “If you think that’s an insult, I’ll have you know, kid, I take pride in being her–”

“He’s a friend of mine, Damian,” you interrupt him, “could you please stop insulting him?”

Superboy turns to look at you, a grimace on his face, “Damn, girl, try to avoid friendzoning a guy for once, will ya?” 

You’re as confused as one can be. “Friendwhat?” 

“I think you should just give up,” comes Drake’s very helpful advice, “she’ll never get it anyways– ow!” 

Damian kicks and punches Conner, hitting Timothy in the process. “Let me go, monkey!”

“No,” Kon chastises, “you’re in air jail now. Get used to it.” 

“I am Damian Al Ghul!” Your brother screeches, “I am the son of the Bat and the Heir of the Demon, and I will not tolerate such disrespect from a measly clone–” 

You scoff, “He was made in the same exact way you were, Dami.” maybe not the same exact way, but the concept of merging two DNAs to create a human out of them is still the same. They were both raised in a test tube, anyway. 

He turns purple, “Don’t call me that!” his scream is shrill, “And don’t compare me to this… this specimen!” He says it like a slur, which added to the fact that he’s three apples and a penny tall and is currently being held up in the air like a feral cat just makes him look like a gnome very pressed about who enters his yard. 

“Help,” Tim groans from over Conner’s shoulder. You blink — you totally hadn’t forgotten about him, no, no. He was your priority, sure. Right after fighting Damian. And slapping him just to remind him who the older sibling is. And picking on him just because– “He did something to Alfred.” 

You snap back into attention. “Alfred?” you press — you hadn’t even thought about him, or his absence. You had just guessed he had gone to look for Bruce, or had already gone to sleep. He is getting a bit old, after all. “Where is he?” A look over to your brother, “Damian, what did you do?” The phrase feels awfully familiar, but you don’t have time to worry about that. The glare he sends your way is everything you need to know. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

You don’t remember dying, nor being submerged into the Pit. You don’t remember the week of madness your grandfather talks to you about, and don’t recognize the great honors he says you have accomplished. All you see are your hands, dirty with blood, and what waited for you — what’s still waiting, maybe — beyond the wall between life and death. 

You don’t even recognize your body anymore, nor the way the servants carefully move around you like you’re a twig moments away from snapping. You’ve always had scars, but these just don’t feel like yours — they’re not ugly and protruding anymore; the Pit has transformed them into something kinder on the eyes: thin, pale scratches that decorate your skin like they’re not the result of innumerous atrocities and attacks to your own life. 

But out of all the scars, there’s one you don’t recognise at all — the one over your thigh. It’s the only one that’s still a bit ugly, and considering the fact that it’s right above the femoral vein, you know that nobody could have ever gotten even remotely close to it. It’s a vital spot in the body, and a bullet there could cause you to die due to blood loss in a few minutes; it’s always either covered by armor or by your impenetrable defense. 

The glances of the servants, their hushed whispers, your mother’s blank stare when she looks at you, Damian’s sudden softness  — it soon dawns upon you that the only person who could’ve gotten close to injuring that part of your body was you. And if you did, then maybe there’s a reason why you don’t remember how you died. 

Ra’s knows the look in your eyes too well — it’s the same look he’s seen many times in the mirror over the course of centuries, that of doubt and forlorn. The one saying, am I doing the right thing? Is this really for the best for humanity? Why do I have to do it? Can’t anyone else worry about it?

It’s why he takes you aside one evening after dinner, and holds his hands over your shoulder in that way that doesn’t mean for rebuttals to be heard. “We have a duty,” he tells you, “and we owe it to the world — just think about what you could build.”

He gestures to the dark mountains you can see outside the window, “There’s a whole planet out there that’s just waiting for you to emerge from my shadow. You excelled in the Year of Blood — that little slip up you had on the last day? Midnight had already struck. The Year of Blood was already over when you died; hear my words, and see this as your rebirth, rather than defeat.” 

You stare blankly at the mountains, and then the most dangerous of thoughts escapes your mind. “Grandfather,” you say, your tone flat and lost. “What if I… I don’t want any of this?” 

You’d thought a lot about it. You grew up looking at photos — happy-looking ones — of your father, pictures that your mother had forbidden for you to look at. You’re sure that all those smiles he gives the cameras are fake, but some of those — the ones he shares with Richard Grayson and Jason Todd — look sincere. You can’t help but think that he stares at them with no expectations, and you wonder if he ever compares them to someone he wants them to be so badly. 

(You know your mother always looks for your father in you. Maybe that’s why she could never bring herself to properly love you, like she did for Damian. You’ve always been told you look astonishingly like her; it’s no surprise that when your brother, who had your father’s same exact nose and lineaments, was born, she immediately claimed him as her favourite between her children. 

Theoretically, you shouldn’t know that. Practically, Shiva told you that in the year before the Year of Blood. It is known she has eyes and ears in the whole League, and while you normally wouldn’t believe an assassin and eventual teacher for hire, you’re fully aware that your mother would be able to say something like that.)

Ra’s blinks, like what you just said is simply madness. “But why wouldn’t you?” he presses, “Think of it– the whole world, at your mercy. Doesn’t it sound beautiful?”

You fight back a grimace — how do you tell a man who’s spent the last eight-hundred years building an empire that you don’t want to rule it after his death? “…It does,” you end up replying, “maybe I’m just… just under the weather, grandfather. I’m sure I will be feeling better in a matter of days.” 

You never really start feeling better, and pretty much everyone notices.

Even Damian stops listening to your mother and slows his relentless attacks down — actually, completely forgets them. He turns into your most relentless bodyguard, assuring himself that you’re eating and training properly, making sure to nag you about it continuously if you don’t. This gives you the opportunity to remember the sweet boy you had almost forgotten about — the chronic waddler who always snatched flowers from your mother’s greenhouse for you to press into your books and wrote your name on every piece of paper he could get his hands on as soon as he learned how to write. 

(Before your mother turned you two against each other, sure that coexistence between two heirs couldn’t be possible. Sure that one of you would have had to, inevitably, overturn the other, and that settling for the male heir surely would have meant victory, because that’s how things had worked for her.) 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

Alfred has a bruised wrist and is a bit disoriented, but overall, even Damian must know to treat old people with at least a bit of kindness. He blinks when you slap him on the face repeatedly — not too hard, just to understand if he was still alive or not — and groans when you say, “Alfred– Alfred, can you hear me?”

”My hearing is still in perfect condition, Miss,” he hisses, a hand going to hod his head in utter pain, then gasps, “young master Damian–”

”Is down in the Batcave,” you nod to the broken grandfather clock in your father’s study, and the hacked panel behind it. “I let Conner handle him. Tim’s in bad shape, though– any chance I can fix you up, and then you fix him up?” 

He scoffs a little — clearly, the fact that you hadn’t told him about Damian has ruffled his feathers, to say the least, but he’s still Alfred, so manners come first. “No thank you, Miss,” he waves your hands away, “I tended to your father in far worse conditions than these.” 

He struggles a bit to get up, but stubbornly refuses your help. He goes through the broken entryway and you sigh, putting your hand over your forehead, wondering how the hell you’re going to get through this. 

“Tim’s been hit by the grenade with full force,” Kon tells you when you finally come back down to the Cave, the slow beep coming from the operating table a painful reminder of what your brother did — of what he has become. If Superboy’s offended by the fact that you haven’t told him about Damian, he doesn’t show it. “And let’s not forget, the glass of the display case was thick. He must’ve been thrown around pretty badly.”

You’re listening, but you’re not even looking at him — your eyes are locked in the confinement glass cage on the other side of the Cave, where your brother is sitting, brooding. Kon puts a hand over your bicep, “You don’t have to keep an eye on him,” he whispers, “the cage should be enough, until your dad comes back.”

You shake your head, “You don’t know him like I do — he’d be fully capable of escaping as soon as he gets an opportunity to.” 

He has to fight back a grimace. “Listen, I know you haven’t had a very happy childhood — growing up with assassins and all of that — but don’t you think you’re… exaggerating a little? He’s just a kid.”

”He just tried to murder your best friend.”

A scoff, “Please, who hasn’t tried to kill Tim at least once in their entire life?”

His hand, still over your arm, is warm. You miss when just an hour ago you were at the fair, and you had no problem in holding his hand — your heart squeezes, because you know that with Damian here, you’ll probably never allow yourself to feel that normal anymore. God knows what Talia or Ra’s would be able to do if they found out you actually proved any kind of affection towards Superboy. 

Not unkindly, you try to shake his hold off. “You’ve been really helpful, Conner,” you start, “but maybe it’s best if you go back home now. We can take it from here.” 

You still haven’t looked at him, and he’s clearly troubled by that. “Hey,” he murmurs, gently, “I know we have never talked about what you went through with the League, but you know you can trust me, right?” 

No response — you’re still looking at your brother. “Hey,” he presses, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him, “you know you can tell me anything, yes? C’mon, at least look at me when I talk to you.”

His eyes bore into yours for a blissful moment, but your gaze soon drops down to the floor. “We’ll take things from here on. I’ll make sure to tell Tim to let you know when he wakes up.”

Conner sighs. “You’re never going to tell me anything, are you?” 

The scar over your thigh burns. You start scratching your hand nervously — how is it that you can handle hours of torture, but staring into his eyes feels too difficult? “You wouldn't want to know,” you tell him in the end. “You… you’d never look at me the same way.” 

That dumb, unworried stare he always gives you — like you’re just a teenage girl serving no danger whatsoever, even if you definitely do — would be gone, and you’d spend the rest of your life missing it. And as he looks at you — unable to raise your eyes at him, fiddling with your hands even if it’s usually you who makes others uncomfortable — he understands that right now, nothing he can say will ever make you budge. He could tell you how much he doesn’t care about what you did or what they made you do all he wants; the truth is that you’ll never believe him. Not now, at least.

“Okay,” he relents. You hate the way your face feels cold as soon as he pulls his hands away, and hate that you feel this way — the last thing Conner needs is to be dragged into your family’s madness, both sides of it. 

He hesitates a bit before going home. He tries to press a kiss over your cheek — something that feels appropriate enough for friends and considering that you’re in the freaking Batcave — but abandons the mission when you jump at his closeness, surprised, finally looking at him like you have no idea what he was about to do. Fair, honestly. He isn’t one for self reflection, but he guesses that yeah, this is not the time for a nice kiss, even if it’s just a peck on the cheek. 

(Were you even ever kissed on the cheek? Or kissed at all?)

Defeated, he turns back towards the landing platform — ready to sulk and whine to Ma Kent, who even at this hour of the night will hopefully make one of those blueberry pies he likes so much just to help his morale. God knows how many she has made in the last months, just to try not to have a brooding teenager around the house once again–

“Conner?” 

He stops, his feet coming back down to the floor, turning to look at you — a bit hopeful, but he can’t help that. “Yeah?”

Your arms are crossed over your chest, but it looks like you’re hugging yourself more than anything. All the tough facade you always flaunt seems gone. “Thank you,” you murmur, coming close to him, “for… tonight. I had fun.”

Kon scoffs, amused. “You puked three times and accused a random guy of cooking dogs.” 

You shrug, “You have no idea of what fun entails for me.” 

Your hand comes to the collar of his jacket, tugging him down, and he feels himself pale a bit. He wonders if you’ll be nicer and avoid throwing him against the batarangs stock, or if you’ll be crueler and push him down into the water just below the landing platform, and what exactly did he say this time to make you snap. He was nice, he’s sure of it, even respectful–

A fleeting contact over his cheek — your lips against his face. It’s barely there, something that tells him that if you have ever received kisses then they weren’t enough, and the fact that you let go of your hold over his jacket and straighten it like it’s nothing just makes him even more dumbfounded — barely a peck, and you’ve already got him drunk off you. He’s ruined for life. 

“What?” you say defensively when he keeps staring at you, acting like your cheeks aren’t on fire — they absolutely are, by the way. “Don’t look at me like you didn’t want to do that earlier.” a slap over his shoulder — ah, there she is; good, old, violent you. He was almost getting used to your softer version. “Now, go home, Conner.” 

It’s weird having Damian in the Batcave —by now, you’d figured he enjoyed the Al Ghul ways at least as much as you did at his age, and since he’d never had to experience the Year of Blood, you doubt he’ll ever develop the same questions about your family's methods like you did. 

“Damian.” 

He’s still small for his age, but you bet he’ll have a growth spurt in a few years. Crouching in front of the confinement cage, you tap on the glass and lean your head. “Why did you come here?” 

He crosses his arms and spits over your general direction. “I don’t speak to traitors.” 

Deadpanning, you sigh. “Do you want me to come over there and show you who’s the oldest again? We both know you’re safest in there — I’d beat you to a pulp without Conner around to protect you.” 

A scoff, “He was protecting you. Besides, father wouldn’t allow such treatment of me.” 

You hum, as calm as ever, “Father isn’t like Talia. I highly doubt you’ll get to play favorites around here. Besides, do you see father around here?”

He glares, and you despise how he looks so much like your mother in doing so — it’s not the warning glare you and Bruce by now share; it’s the one full of hatred she had passed down to you before you met your father. What makes you hate it is probably the fact that, as much as Talia likes to deny it, you and Damian look a lot alike, and it’s like seeing you at his age. “Then the same goes for you, sister.” 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

After the Year of Blood, it became established that you’d be the Heir of the Demon — even if the truth is that the deed was already done after you were born. Ra’s never cared for Damian or Talia as much as he did about you, and by now, he’s spent thirteen years making sure you’re cut out for the role he’ll eventually pass down onto you. 

When Talia was born, her mother insisted on raising her with love, and somewhat normally — considering how you and your brother have been raised, anyway. He had expectations of her, but those were quickly broken by your father’s entrance in their lives, and thus her wobbling trust for the League’s cause. 

He began hoping for a child from them — someone he could raise without anyone to meddle into his affairs; someone with the same blood as the Detective’s and his, who would surely prove to be a prodigy. So when he found out that Talia was pregnant following her and your father’s wedding, he was ecstatic. Much less so when he learned that she had already told Bruce the news. 

The League was already in a bad position at the time — he could’ve managed to raise back up their standing, but doing so without both a daughter and an heir would’ve been nearly useless. And as the Detective had already expressed his disinterest over the matter of the Al Ghul family affairs, he had no choice but to convince your mother to first tell Bruce that she had tragically lost the baby, and then leave him. 

She cries and begs him not to do this — she tells him that she’ll convince your father to become the heir he wants so desperately, that the baby that she’ll give birth to will surely be the son he’s always wanted — but she still has to accept that this isn’t a matter about sons. It’s about who’s fit to be heir, and she — always torn between Batman and your father — isn’t. 

In the end, Talia follows his plan, and she never really forgives him for it. 

If you were born a son, maybe she would’ve tried harder to be proud of you — to imagine your father’s features instead of hers over your face. But the hard truth is, you look like her. And she hates how she can see herself in everything you do, because as soon as you’re born, you take the place that should’ve been hers by birthright. 

Ra’s holds you with a care he’d never spared for her. He presents you to the troops as his successor even if you’re nothing more than a newborn that does nothing but eat, shit and cry, and soon, when she looks at you, she can only see what she should’ve had. 

Talia knows Bruce was hoping for a girl — he’d given her Martha’s diamond necklace when she found out she was pregnant because of that. And as much as the nursemaids try to convince her that it’s just the effect the birth has had on her — that sometimes women after pregnancy develop some kind of aversion to the baby — she can’t help but feel like you’re getting the life she deserved to have. 

You don’t know your father, but he would’ve loved you without you ever needing to prove yourself. Even Ra’s — the same man who screwed her life more than once under the pretense of having her best in his mind — has preferred you, a brat, over her, who’s been loyal to him even after he took her happiness away. 

As you grow up, she starts seeing you as a parasite. Sure — there are moments where she suddenly feels some sort of affection towards you, like she should protect you instead of despising you, but you don’t look enough like him for her to find it in herself to fully appreciate you. Your face is the same she sees everyday in the mirror, and thus, she takes it upon herself to bring justice, and let you have the same treatment she did.

(Otherwise, what would it all have been for? All those years of pain, and she just wasn’t enough? It’s much more simple to believe that it’s something she can’t control, like being a woman, and Ra’s getting older and desperate. She thinks that he had wanted her to be a son, and to make things even between the two of you, she will deliver him a son.) 

Having Damian was a decision — one taken without your father knowing, obviously. They had just gotten married — by your traditions’ standards, anyways — when she got pregnant with you, but things had changed since then. Bruce was hesitant to even get too close to her, let alone be happy for a whole baby. 

So she takes the matters into her own hands, and just creates a son — in that unnatural way that no normal mother would ever think of creating one. Damian Al Ghul is carefully crafted in a lab, the product of many other failed attempts that she pretends never existed, nurtured in a test tube like some kind of alchemy-made humunculus — and even after this, Ra’s pretends that nothing’s changed. 

Damian enters your lives when grandfather’s already started training you as his heir, and when his training can finally start, your Year of Blood has already been announced. And it’s known to all that the Year of Blood is a once in a generation occurrence preserved only for the heir. 

Talia starts openly resenting you — she tries to make your life harder, because in her mind, that place isn’t yours; if it is, then it should be hers, and if it isn’t, then it should be Damian’s. And training, even after the Year of Blood, becomes hell. 

You lost count of how many times you ended up on the ground, vomiting or spitting blood from all the hits she made sure you took, and how many of the scars you have have her name on them. As a kid, you took it really bad — you couldn’t understand why mother, who was always so careful with Damian, had started treating you like that. At thirteen, you see her spite for what it is — a temper tantrum because neither her nor her favourite child got the throne she had dreamed about since she could remember. 

You should probably feel worse about it than how you actually feel, but the truth is, she’s not the only one with favourites in the Al Ghul household. And Ra’s, as much as he’s never tried to pit you and your brother against one another, has never hidden his predilection for you. 

It’s always, ‘Granddaughter this, granddaughter that’, and never, ‘Grandson’. And while you suffer for your mother’s favouritism, Damian suffers for your grandfather’s, because Talia has promised him greatness and a leading role in the future of humanity, but no matter how good he is, Ra’s seems to only have eyes for you. 

And while you love your brother — as does he you — love never seems to be enough for anything, or anyone, in Nanda Parbat. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

When your father steps out of the Batmobile, the Batcave starts feeling even more cold than it did before. 

Tim’s stable now — a few scratches, burns and a mild concussion, but he’s had worse. Alfred still refuses to look or talk to you as he carefully sets everything back into place in the med bay, Drake under heavy sedatives on the cot sitting in the middle of the room. The silence starts feeling deafening as Bruce removes his cowl, then looks at Jason’s costume's broken display case, then to Tim lying unconscious in the bed, then to Damian in his cage. 

In the end, his eyes land on you, his face full of anger and something you can’t quite pinpoint. He gestures to a more secluded area of the cave, “A word?” 

You prepare for the worst. You prepare for yelling, screaming, maybe even a slap — God knows what Talia would’ve done in his place — but none of it comes. His voice is eerily quiet and his brows are furrowed when he asks, dully: “Why?”

You realise then that anger’s not the dominant emotion as of now — it’s disappointment. You’ve spent the last four years dedicating your life to his mission, following his stupid rules and compromises, and he’s got the nerve to be disappointed because of one single thing. Maybe it’s just how Wayne brains work, but you feel anger start bubbling in your chest. “Why?” you repeat, voice trembling with restraint. “Why, father? Have you seen him? He tried to kill Tim — with a grenade. He fought Alfred.” You tap your temple, “Talia got into his head in a way she never managed with me. He’s as sick as her.” you don’t really mean it, but you’ve never managed to handle disappointing someone well. 

“Don’t call her Talia,” your father hisses, “she’s your mother, and I won’t stand you disrespecting her.” 

Clearly, his resolution to stay calm isn’t working, because of course the two of you are far too similar for it to work. The smallest raise in his voice and you get riled up, and vice versa. “What do you even know about her?” you ask him, “For all you know, she hid two of your kids from you — and you still defend her?” 

“I don’t trust her,” his index finger points at your chest accusingly, “but I trusted you. I’ve kept you under my wing for the last four years and taught you everything I know — only for you to hide the fact that you had a brother this whole time. Talia told me you knew about him — and I didn’t believe her because I trusted you, but the look you had on your face? It told me everything I needed to know before I could even ask you about it.”

You glare at him, “You don’t know Damian — you have no idea what he’s capable of.” It's not about what he can do — it’s about not having a sprinkle of loyalty in his blood, if not for himself and your mother. Ravi surely knows a lot about it. 

“He’s a kid,” Bruce is trying not to yell, and it’s easy to tell. “He’s a kid — like you were when you came to me — and he’s surely no better than what you were then. You had no right to hide him from me — I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

That’s what makes you snap. “Oh, raised me, daddy dearest?” his eyes flicker — he’s said the wrong thing, and he knows it, but nothing in his stance says he’s going to back down. His glare stays firm. “And tell me, how exactly did you raise me? And when? Because I don’t remember you being there when we were born, or when I was growing, or when I killed for the first time. Where were you when mother beat me to a pulp everyday until I vomited blood, huh, Bruce?”

“I wasn’t even aware of your existence,” he grits out. 

“But you were!” you scream. “Talia made sure of it! You knew of me, and you still decided I wasn’t worth saving until I came to you!” 

“It wasn’t my decision–”

“It was! I’ve watched you find kids in less than thirty minutes after they were declared missing, and you couldn’t find me in more than five years!” you hate the way your voice breaks, and the way your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I tried everything to make you find me! I left clues, signs of my passing and every single fucking thing that came to my mind in every mission of the League I participated in because I knew that once I came back home, you’d be on the scene to investigate and try to dismantle the Shadows’ operations, but you never came!”

Now nothing more than a puddle of anger, you try to shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t even budge — like for everything else. He stands on that untouchable pedestal your mom put him in, immortal, the Detective, unreachable in abilities and everything else, even after all these years away from her. “And I waited, Bruce! I waited five years for you to come and save me — only for you to never show your face to me again!”

“I was looking for you,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before as he tries to intercept, “At first I wasn’t sure if you were mine, but I looked for you. Between cases, every free moment — more than you’ll ever know.”

The chuckle that comes out of your mouth sounds maniacal. “So I wasn’t a priority, huh? Looking for me between cases, ‘cause you weren’t sure I was yours?”

“That’s not true,” 

“Oh, yeah? Judging from how you never let a case go cold, to me it looks like you never even took the time to look at my case properly.” The glare you’re giving him is one he’s never seen — one full of pure, unadulterated hatred. It’s not a thing that builds up in the moment; these are years of resentment, and seeing them in the same eyes that his mother had makes him die a little on the inside. “And what do you want to know about how I was raised, now?” you spit on his feet. “You don’t even know me. How could you know just how I was raised, huh?”

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

“How’s father?” Damian asks you one late night, cleaning his sword on your bedside as you read a book. You hum, “I wouldn’t really be able to tell you anything. Grandfather and mother are the ones you should ask about these things.”

He snorts, “They are biased. You, however, are not.”

You lean your head, pausing. In the end, you opt to say, “When mother told him I was his daughter, he didn’t believe it. Everything in his body said so. But then he understood that she wasn’t lying, and he turned desperate.” 

You had just celebrated your eighth birthday when you met him for the first and only time. A common espionage operation turned into something more, and before you knew it, your mother was ripping your mask away from your face and shoving you into an empty hallway with her, telling you to keep quiet and avoid any kind of confrontation. You had followed her, and eventually, the Bat himself showed up. 

Even years after the fact, you still remember that first encounter as clear as day. He had looked between you and your mother, the movement evident even through the white lenses over his eyes, and then, “I never thought you’d bring a kid into all of this.” 

Your mother had huffed, calling out for you. She had set you in front of her, her hands holding you by the shoulders as you stared at your father so deeply one might think you were looking right into his soul. “You did, didn’t you?” Neither of you misses the way he flinches — Jason Todd is probably in the Batcave right now, waiting for him to come home. “She’s yours, by the way.” 

Bruce stares at her, then at you, then back at her. “I’m not falling for it. What, did you kill this kid’s parents? Just to come here and make this sick joke, hoping to get a reaction out of me?” 

Talia’s hum is one of pure scorn. “No, no,” she chuckles, taking your chin in her hand and raising your face toward the light — making sure he can see every single one of your features and engrave every detail in that mind of his. “See those eyes? Aren’t they familiar? I had hoped for a son that would have looked like you, but I wasn’t so lucky, and all she got from your side of the family were those. A shame — they don’t even look like yours, Beloved.”

As his eyes bore into yours, you can see the exact moment everything snaps into place for him. “No,” he whispers. 

“Yes,” your mother sing-songs. 

“You’re sick,” he hisses, “right into the head.” But his arms open wide, as if inviting you into them, “Give me the kid. I’ll make sure she’s raised right– she’ll be free from your father, I swear it.” The way his voice turns pleading right after is almost pathetic, “Talia, please. I know he’s forcing you to do this. Just– hand me the girl, and I’ll close an eye on this operation. Act like nothing ever happened.”

“Please,” Talia leans her head, “we both know you’ll never do that. Besides, who told you that my father made me do this? She’s here as nothing but a token of our love — the proof that it existed, and it still does. And why would I ever trust her in your hands? You’re always so doubtful about our connection.”

One of her palms comes up to your hair, brushing them in a way that feels almost loving, “Don’t worry, Bruce, I’m already making sure she’s raised right. And trust me, she’ll grow up to be the one who finally kills you.” 

Back to the present, Damian snorts. “Desperate?” The disdain in his voice is as clear as day, “The Batman, desperate? You must’ve gotten it twisted, sister. There’s no other explanation.” 

You shrug, “Believe what you want. I know what I saw.” He had followed you and Talia until his body rendered it impossible for him to, and even then, he kept screaming from behind you about how you didn’t have to do this and he just wanted the best for you. And as you got on the helicopter supposed to bring you home, you were surprised not to find any trace of smugness in your mother’s face. “I thought it would have been funnier,” she muttered, “he got all desperate instead. Such a shame.” 

And even if you don’t know whether he was looking for you or not, leaving behind something from you in every mission you participated in became the norm — knowing that he’d eventually come around to where you were stationed, looking for any kind of clues he might find, and maybe guessed that you’d been there. You made mistakes that even a toddler wouldn’t do — left a strand of your hair on the scene, a number indicating the years since he’d last seen you, or the age you were now. You tried anything to make him find you, and when he didn’t, you understood that you had to take matters into your own hands, because as much as your father loved to spend all his free time saving others, maybe his daughter just wasn’t a priority.

The breaking point comes when Damian has just turned six. 

You know he did not mean to break that vase — and if you were in a normal household, it would probably be a most unremarkable thing, something your parents reprimand you about and proceed to forget in the next week. But in Nanda Parbat, where every step is carefully calculated and every error a mark of shame, a broken vase, as measly as it sounds, could become the difference between life and a fate worse than death. Especially for an original, 600-year-old Ming Dynasty vase. 

Damian knows this — he also knows that his status grants him a far more lenient punishment than the one reserved for servants and common soldiers. He still chooses to blame Ravi — the servant appointed for his care between lessons — for the broken vase. 

You get a word of what’s happening too late — you had seen your brother’s guilty look as he stared down at the ceramic pieces laying on the ground, patted his shoulder while saying, “I’m sure mother will be as understanding as she can be,” and then went your way, figuring that if you were still alive with all the vases you broke at his age, he wouldn’t be punished too harshly. And when you reach the room where this is happening, your mother’s standing as stoic as ever with Damian by her side, watching silently as Ravi lays on the floor, his hands over his eyes, thrashing around he holds back screams of pain.

“Damian,” comes your frantic call, “what did you do?” 

“What did he do?” your mother repeats, “He did nothing but his duty. Ravi knew punishment would have come for his error.” 

“Damian,” you ignore her, looking at your brother, “I asked, what did you do?” he won’t meet your eyes, and that tells you everything you need to know.  

“Your brother chose the punishment he thought to be best,” Talia hisses, pushing you back, “it is not your place to judge whether it is appropriate or not.” 

You look at Ravi — kind, loyal Ravi, who taught you every poem you know and hid sweets for you to eat when you were a kid. The same Ravi who kept being nice to your brother despite his constant insults and rudeness, and made sure his art supplies were always stocked even when your grandfather kept snarling at his paintings. Ravi, who is now lying on the ground, blind. 

You kneel down at his side, taking him by the arms and trying to get him back onto his feet. “Ravi– Ravi, can you hear me?” 

His voice is trembling and broken when he finds the strength to answer, “My lady? Is… is that you?” 

“It’s me, Ravi. Come on — I’m taking you to the infirmary, get up.” 

“Too nice,” he utters, barely coherent, his hands finally leaving his face to get up; the sight of his injured eyes makes you want to throw up. “You’re too nice, m’lady.” You cast one last glance at your brother, staring blankly at you and the servant, before disappearing into the hallway while helping the man on his footing.

It’s when the healer tells you that Ravi will never see again that you understand that you can’t stay in Nanda Parbat anymore. Damian may still be your little brother, but his need to always be better than you is causing harm to not only himself but others, too. And for what? For a throne you didn’t want in the first place? You need to leave, and you need to make sure he doesn’t follow you, because God knows what he would be able to unleash out there in the world if he just had the chance. 

That night, Damian startles awake to find a blade pressed tight against his neck. When his hand goes for the dagger hidden under his pillow, he finds nothing there. “Don’t even try to scream,” you hiss, crouched over him in his bed. He looks at your stance — the same one he’s never managed to overthrow — and knows that if you truly want to kill him, there would be no escape. Slowly, scaredly, he nods. “I will go far away from here,” you whisper, your eyes cold as they stare into his eyes — those same eyes he got from your mother. “You will never look for me. You won’t follow me, because if you do, I will kill you. You will stay here and become the heir our mother wants. Understood?”

His breath catches. “Sister–”

“I said, understood?” 

Frightened, he nods again, but your hold on the blade doesn’t falter — if anything, you just press more against his neck, enough to draw blood. Up until now, he’d never thought you’d be able to kill him — Talia had always told him you were too soft on him. Guess she doesn’t really know to which extents you’d go just to keep your peace. “You stay here,” you hiss at him one last time, your nose crinkling in disdain in that same way mother’s always does, “and don’t you dare try to ever see me again.”

TITANS TOWER — NOW. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” 

By no means are you a member of the Titans — but that doesn’t mean you don’t have access to the Tower. And considering that you really didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to Dick, nor Barbara, it was the only place you could think of going to; your father’s probably raiding all your safehouses, anyway — if he’s not too engrossed over your brother or is even giving two fucks about you going away from the Manor, that is. 

Right after the fight you two had, coming here looked like a smart idea, since none of the Titans stay here during the Christmas holidays. Now, it looks like a death sentence by annoyance. 

“I faid, avh you gonna eaf dat?” Bart Allen, out of all the members of the team, has to be the dumbest one. He’s also the only one who could be found in the communal kitchen at two am in the morning, cooking six packs of Buldak ramen in a far too small pot. 

You grimace as he spits out bits of sauce as he asks again, then look down at your measly sandwich, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He ate six packs of ramen in under twenty seconds, the vacuum. “Have it,” you push your plate towards him, but before it even comes to his reach, the toast is gone, and he’s downed it in two bites. You’re half disgusted and half impressed, but you try to keep a stern face as you look at his stained mouth and the crumbs all over his shirt. “That’s disgusting. How do you even do that?”

“Super speed,” he’s back in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, taking out of the pantry some bread. “That sandwich was great. I think I’ll make a dozen more — I feel like having a snack.” 

Deadpanning, you stare at him as he moves quickly between the bread slices, mayo spoonfuls and six cans of tuna. “And you manage to hold that down into your stomach well enough?”

He’s already scarfing down on the first two sandwiches, “Why, can’t you?”

Well, most people don’t have his metabolism, nor the storage capacity of his stomach. Frustrated, you sigh, “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be asleep?”

He shrugs, his meal already finished, and goes for the fridge for the umpteenth time. “I was hungry, and Max has started locking up the kitchen after dinner after that one time when I ate the whole Thanksgiving menu.” 

You blink. Is this guy well? What exactly is his problem? “‘Sides, I should be asking you why you’re here. It’s two am for everyone.” 

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to know about how I hid my brother from my father for four years?”

For the first time in half an hour, Bart pauses. Then he’s on the seat in front of you, legs crossed and a pack of pre-made popcorns on his lap, sitting like the most undistinguished gentleman ever. “I’m allllll ears, sweetcheeks.” 

You’re not really sure how trash-talking your family with Impulse ended up with the both of you falling asleep on the communal couch with Cars 2 playing on the television, but here you are. 

Bart’s snorting so loudly beside you that you wonder how you managed to sleep throughout the whole night, but he’s not your concern right now. Your concern is who woke you up– 

“You guys had a movie night and didn’t invite me?!” 

Conner sounds more jealous than betrayed, and you look at him, still half-asleep but not surprised by his dramatics at all. “Shut up,” you croak, tugging him down on the couch by his sleeve, “it’s early.” 

Dumbfounded, he sits beside you and tries not to burst into a million particles as you curl up beside him, cheek on his shoulder, warm and almost purring. He surely didn’t think this would happen when he first thought about doing a check-in at the Tower this morning. “So…” he mumbles, trying not to sound too awkward, “how’d things with your father go?” 

The memories of last night dawn on you, and blissful sleepiness turns into the dread of waking up immediately. You grumble, turning on your side and giving him the cold shoulder, muttering something about men not understanding any cue. He blinks, “…Not good?” 

“Bad,” you agree. You don’t care about what Bart thinks about you, but you do care about what Kon thinks, and you really don’t feel like explaining everything to him. Impulse probably already forgot, anyway. 

Conner fiddles with his fingers anxiously, “What about Christmas?”

You perk up — you had completely forgotten that it was in… what, four days? It wasn’t something you were raised celebrating, and even at the Manor, you never really felt what Tim called ‘the Christmas spirit’. You shrug, “Who cares? I’ll spend it here and wait for my mother to get Damian back to Nanda Parbat. She never did well when she knew him to be far away.” 

Talia Al Ghul with separation anxiety was not an image Conner was ready for. He looks over to his side, to Bart still dead asleep, and finds his heart squeezing at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. “You could come with me to Smallville,” he mumbles quietly — Martha Kent has always accepted strays in her house. “Ma wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of someone spending Christmas alone — and besides, Clark’s already coming from Metropolis. The farm’ll be cramped anyways.” 

You think about it for a moment, then turn your head to look at him for a moment. “…You want to bring me home. With your family. For Christmas.” 

His foot is tapping nervously on the ground. “Yeah. Think of it as… I don’t know, a vacation away from all your problems. The farm is really different from the chaos of Gotham City.” 

And the truth is, you couldn’t even imagine how right he was. 

That same evening you park your car — Tim’s, technically, but just because it was the only one available at the Tower, and it was bought with your father’s money anyways —  in front of the Kent’s farm, the little spare clothes you kept at the Tower in the backseat and Conner buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat. You raise an eyebrow at him, “Thank the Founding Fathers or whatever you guys born here believe in that Smallville and Jump City aren’t that far from each other.” You had reached the Tower via Zeta-Tube, but unfortunately, the Kents have vehemently refused to have one in their home — no brainer, if they were to ask you. Having an inter-dimensional door in your house sometimes is a bit scary. 

Snow crunches under your soles as you exit the Mercedes, staring at the dimly lit porch of the farm and all the Christmas ornaments hanging on it. There’s a wonky garland hanging over the door, probably handmade, and multicolored lights over the railing and roof. Conner — hypno-glasses and civilian attire on — swings your bag over his shoulder and pokes your side, “C’mon, Ma’s waiting for us.” 

You blink, “You’re telling me, this is where Superman grew up?” 

The farm is not shabby by any means, but it looks well-lived, and very different from any place you’ve ever stayed at. For a guy who will be remembered in every millennia to come, Clark Kent surely grew up in the most unremarkable place ever. 

Kon doesn’t knock — he just swings the door open (and for a moment, you wonder how could an elderly couple just leave their door open when it’s dark out with such carelessness) and yells, loudly, “Hi Ma, hi Pa,”

You shuffle awkwardly behind him, dragging your feet, wondering if this was a good idea — you literally don’t know these people, and as much as Conner said that they didn’t mind and had already prepared a bed for you to sleep. That is until Ma Kent — a plump, kind-looking woman in her late 60s that smells like pie and nice things — comes to view. 

“There you are!” Conner bows down a little as she engulfs him in a hug, and you stare at her up and down with worry — she doesn’t look like the old people you’re used to. You can’t find similarities between her and Ra’s’ faint wrinkles, her back is slightly more curved than Alfred’s, and the sides of her mouth crinkle in a way Aunt Harriet’s never did. She looks like she actually has her age, and somehow fragile, like getting old didn’t do her no good like it did to Ra’s or just made her more stern like Alfred. This woman looks like it has made her softer. “Pa’s in the living room — you know him, nothing will ever make him miss a freshly baked pie, and I bet that he’s getting his fill now… oh, and there she is!”

Her hug is a surprise, mostly because one, you don’t know this woman, and two, it actually feels nice. She’s soft, and warm, smells like pastries and somehow feels like you’ve always imagined your mother would if she was kinder. “It’s so nice to have you here, dear,” you can feel the barely contained excitement in her voice, “Conner talks about you a lot,” 

“Ma!” the guy scolds, blushing, “Come on!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” she chuckles, her arms still around you, and you find yourself not wanting the hug to end. “It’s just so nice to have one of Connie’s friends here — he never brings anyone home for us to meet.” 

“Connie?” you repeat — this is so going in your blackmail folder. Martha nods, oblivious to your machinations, “Yes, yes– isn’t he such a sweet boy?” she links her arm in yours, “Please, make yourself at home — would you like a slice of pie? I just took it out of the oven. You must be starving, so I’m sure it won’t affect your appetite when dinner’s ready.” 

Pa Kent is a quiet contrast to his wife, and just gives you a grunt of acknowledgment before shaking your hand. Martha scolds him a bit for his rudeness — does she know your father’s the epitome of antisocial behavior when he wants to be? — but you shrug it off, mostly because it’s his home, and he’s right to presume that you know his name. It’s not like you’re the most extrovert person ever, either. 

The Kents’ house is weird. The atmosphere doesn’t feel tense, and the sense of peace in the air doesn’t seem temporary — like it always is at the Manor, where every moment spent in civilian clothes is one robbed from your vigilante identities. Martha Kent doesn’t properly measure ingredients for dinner like Alfred does, but rather considers the quantity of each ingredient by pure instinct and practice. They speak of pleasantries rather than ongoing and cold cases, and you still don’t understand if you like it or not. 

“Clark and Lois’ll come tomorrow after lunch,” she hums while stirring a pot over the stove, “Lois said that they were supposed to come in two days, but Jonno was getting too restless about not seeing his grandpa,” 

Pa Kent puffs his chest with pride. “‘Course he is,” he huffs, “I bet he can’t wait to spend some time with us.”

It feels mundane. Like their first adopted son isn’t an alien from a faraway planet that exploded, and their second adopted son isn’t his clone, or their guest isn’t an ex-assassin with a humongous  kill count. You wonder how they manage. Martha fills your plate with definitely too much food while Jonathan asks you about your studies, and you guess that’s how dinner goes. 

Later that night, as you’re standing in Conner’s room, you look around and think that it feels very much like him. Music posters scattered all over the walls — with some blank spaces suggesting that he definitely had some other things hanging up that he didn’t want you to see — a couple of football trophies from his old school and some photos with the Kents or the Titans here and there. 

“This was Clark’s old room,” he says a bit awkwardly, “um– Ma’s changed the sheets on my bed for you to sleep in, since Clark and Lois will take up the guest room. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” A cheesy grin, “Unless someone doesn’t mind sharing the bed–”

You flick his forehead, making him let out a little ow. “Don’t get weird ideas in your head, habibi,” you yawn, “keep the floor. That bed’s mine.” 

He gasps, “Don’t tell me you’re insulting me — under my own roof! — in a language I can’t even understand!” 

A raised eyebrow, “Why, haven’t I done that before?” God, he’s so stupid you could just eat him up. 

Kon whines, arms going slack over his sides, “You’re mean,” 

“And you’re being unreasonable. Go grab your pillowsack or whatever, scout boy, and make yourself at home on the floor.” 

His shoulders slump. “Yes, ma’–”

The door swings open. Ma Kent stares at the two of you, bewildered, then smiles like nothing happened, patting the handle. “The door stays open,” she says, glancing menacingly at Conner — in a way that says ‘no girls will be deflowered under my roof’. “Just in case. Goodnight!” 

She leaves; amused, you side-eye Kon, whose ears are flaming red. “Just what exactly did you tell her about me?” 

“I’ll quote you on this one,” he grumbles, “‘you don’t want to know’.” 

You don’t have many clothes with you, so shorts and tee it is for sleeping for now. You brush your teeth in the bathroom as Conner stares, gaping, and you gurgle, “What?”

“It’s freezing,” he hisses, “aren’t you cold?” 

Well, it is December, and it is snowing, but you’ve survived worse. After rinsing your mouth, you shrug, “You should see how cold it is in the Himalayas — that’s where Nanda Parbat is, by the way.” 

He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s checking your legs out with a lot of interest. He points at your upper thigh, “How’d you get that scar?” 

“I fell,” you grumble, tugging the hem of your pants down to hide it.

Conner’s bed is soft — a little too much so, even. You stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars over your head — surely one of Clark’s last standing pieces of decor — and hold onto the hem of the blanket a little tighter. “Your parents are nice,” you mutter into the silence. Are they his parents, or does he see them more like grandparents? Caregivers? Trusted adults? You wouldn’t know. 

From his place at the foot of the bed, Kon yawns in agreement. “They’re awesome. I mean, they act a little old sometimes, but I guess that’s fair.” 

You knit your eyebrows, still staring at the plastic stars. “My grandfather isn’t as nice. I would’ve preferred he acted a little old rather than be how he is.” 

A pause. Then, “What about your mom?” 

You sigh. “Talia never really felt like a mom,” you whisper, “she felt more like a jealous sister than anything. She had her moments of softness, but… I think either having me or Damian just broke something in her. It’s like she can’t see anything beside what she wanted for herself and was denied.” 

He doesn’t know the full story, but he still hums in understanding like he does. “Well, that sounds pretty bad. If it helps, my dad had me grow up in a test tube and then tried to use me as his personal one man army.” 

You scoff, “Man, just how do we get in these types of situations?” 

He sighs, a little defeated, “Bad luck and pure spite from the universe. Good thing we ended up meeting each other, huh?” he holds a hand up, making sure you can see it from the bed, “Wanna hold hands?”

You stare at his hand for a moment, and then — a little reluctantly, but only on the outside — you take his palm into yours. The moment is quickly broken by his girlish scream, and it takes every single ounce of self control you have in your system not to snatch your hand back. “…Never do that again.”

“Yes, sorry,”

A moment of silence passes. “Conner?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Is that offer about being able to tell you anything still up?”

Softly, he replies, “Always.” 

You go on by telling him about your brother, and how you were raised — even if you do spare him the more gruesome details, such as the Year of Blood. Even after being told the watered down story, his hand doesn’t leave yours for the entirety of the night.

“Move it, Conner, we still have to find a gift for Lois–”

“I'm trying — can’t you see how these bags slow me down?”

Late Christmas gifts shopping is a terrifying concept. In your four years of living in America, you’ve never had the chance to see it for yourself because in the Wayne household gifts are bought and wrapped a month before Christmas, but now, you’re living the nightmare. 

The mall is packed. There’s a long-ass queue for taking a picture next to Santa, and you’ve already had to distract Kon five times to avoid him seeing it and begging you to take one together. Everywhere you turn, people are arguing — wives to their husbands when they dare to say that their arms are hurting from all the shopping bags, kids screaming at the playground because they don’t want to go home yet, old people complaining about how back in their days, everyone had their gifts ready by Thanksgiving.

This feels like the farthest thing ever from the supposed Christmas Spirit everyone talks about during this time of the year. However, it does feel astonishingly close to Nanda Parbat on a good day, so you’re not that phased. 

By now, you’ve bought a Chanel coat for Martha Kent, new tractor tires for her husband — Conner insists that tractors are his passion; you don’t even know how you found tractor tires in a fucking mall, all the while — and a tailored Armani suit for Clark. You’re missing a gift for Lois and Jon, and trinkets for the multitude of the Kents’ other relatives coming just for Christmas. 

(Technically, you still have to buy Conner a gift, but you need to get him off your tail first — guess Santa and the long-ass queue to take a picture with him will come in handy.)

The guy in question is following you blindly around the mall, shopping bags — he’s lucky the tractor wheels will be sent directly to the farm, because otherwise, he’d have to carry those around, too. And let’s not forget about the real heavy lifting — all the clothes you’ve just bought for yourself, with the excuse that you didn’t have enough spare changes to survive Christmas. How many times you change outfits in one day, Superboy doesn’t want to know.

He also doesn’t want to know just what is your budget for people you don’t know — you don’t even look at the price tags as you shop, you just bother to swipe your black card at the checkout and that’s it. He’s never even seen as many zeroes as he’s done today. If this is what your shopping looks like, then he can only wonder what your father’s shopping must be like. 

All the bags barely even fit inside of your car, and he’s never seen so many designer bags in one place. He’s happy enough with his Santa picture not to think too hard about it, and he snickers at the thought of Jon reacting to all the toys you’ve bought for him. 

The latter, Clark and Lois arrive right after lunch, just like they said they would, and now there’s no way not to feel like an outsider. They’re all Kents, after all, while you’re just the latest addition to the party — one that some of them don’t even know. 

Lois shakes your hand with a small smile while Jon, shy, hides behind her legs. Clark just pats you on your shoulder and whispers, “I’ve talked to your father. He says it’s okay if you stay here for a while.” 

Not that it would’ve changed anything if he wasn’t okay with it — you wouldn’t have come home to the Manor anyways, and his judgement is clouded by the thought of your loyalty to him if he thinks so. 

You’re loyal to your father, but you’re most loyal to your sanity. And if being a little awkward at the Kents’ farm is the price to pay to avoid Damian, then so be it. 

Jon is a shy kid, all bashful smiles and big hugs. The reason behind his timidness towards you is quickly revealed when he comes up to where you and Conner are talking to Lois on the couch, and offers you a flower that was clearly stolen from the vase on his grandma’s kitchen counter. “Why, thank you,” you’re not good with smiles, but you try to offer him one, and he swoons. 

By the time the sky outside becomes dark and card games are taken out of their cupboard, little Jonathan is ù basically sprawled on top of you, cheek smushed to your shoulder as he plays a little with your hair and babbles. “And– and then Lucy tried to take it from me but I told her no, that’s my pen, and– and she called the teacher like I did something wrong. But it was my pen–”

He’s got a bit of a stutter, but honestly, you find it cute. He kinda reminds you of Damian when he was younger — and nicer. He should be about two or three years younger than him, but considering the fact that he was raised normally, he acts like a normal kid. 

Wanna know who else is acting like a kid? Yeah, Conner. 

He’s been visibly sulking ever since Jon climbed beside you on the couch, and now that his — cousin? Nephew? Half-brother?  — is that close to you he doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy anymore. “Manners, Jonno,” he hisses at the literal seven-year-old, “I’m sure she doesn’t like you bugging her — why don’t you go play with Krypto?”

Jon looks at you with his big, big eyes, and you nudge Conner. “He’s not bothering me. It’s pretty cute, actually.” It almost feels like holding Damian in your arms again.

Satisfied, the boy settles back on your shoulder, poking his tongue out at him. Kon crosses his arms, glaring at you, “Why does he get cuddles when I barely get to hold your hand?” 

“He’s seven,” you empathise, patting Jon’s back as the Kents bicker while playing Uno. “And he’s cute. You’re barely decent and stink.”

He sighs, “Still better than that weird insult you threw at me yesterday,”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean habibi?”

“What’s that mean?” Jon asks sleepily. 

Conner nods profusely. “Yeah!”

You deadpan, looking down to Jon. “I almost forgot — he’s also dumb.” 

When it’s time to go to bed, Jon almost throws a tantrum — apparently, he’s used to sharing Clark’s old room with Conner when he visits, but since you’re sleeping there, he’ll have to share the guest room with his parents. That means, sleeping on the same bed as them — like a kid, he says. 

“I’m not a kid!” he insists, “I’m a grown up! I can handle a sleepover!” 

You’re sure that Clark and Lois’ concern is not the sleepover, but rather, that you and Conner will be sharing a room, and knowing the guy, they don’t want their kid traumatised even if by accident. You sigh and pat Jon on the shoulder — nothing’s going to happen with the door open, anyways. “C’mon, Jonno– we can share the bed, but you have to be nice and let me sleep through the night.” 

He lets out a loud yahoo!, already going upstairs to change into his pajamas, while Kon lets out a little gasp. “What?” you ask, unbothered. 

Clark slaps him on the back of the head before he can say anything incriminating. “I’m sure he just didn’t expect it from you,” he improvises, “as you’re, well…”

He trails off, leaving it all in the air. Raised by assassins? A little violent during missions? Evidently emotionally unavailable? Possibly all three and more. You shrug, not really offended. “When we were little, my brother and I used to share a bed all the time. It was fine, I guess. I can handle it. I can always tumble him down to sleep with Conner on the floor.” 

Clark and Lois share a worried look, but eventually agree, just to keep the peace. And as you step up the stairs, Conner continues to mutter, “Incredible, you told no to me but yes to the kid… he literally still eats his boogers…”

You hum, “Ah, so you don’t?”

You can tell he probably still does by the way he immediately gets riled up. “That’s not the point!” In the end, he crosses his arms, looking all offended. “Never ask me to hold your hand ever again!” 

You roll your eyes — is he forgetting he was the one begging for your hand just last night? “Whatever you say, big guy.” 

The coward ends up still asking you to hold your hand as soon as you and Jon are tucked in bed. You comply just because you feel particularly nice while the gremlin you agreed to share the bed with starts yapping again, plushie held tight in his arms like it’s going to escape, going on and on about some comic book guy named Science Dog.

You try not to think about how his presence next to yours feels a lot like Damian’s once did. You fail miserably. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

“Sister.” 

Four year olds are weird. They’re loud, demanding and are in that stage where they’re not fully coherent yet but somehow understand everything better than adults. Unfortunately, this four-year-old is your brother, and he’s since learned how to pick on the lock of your door even if he can’t even reach the handle. At the moment, he’s also the biggest threat to your life, considering how many times your mother has convinced him to try to kill you. 

You muffle a tired groan into your pillow. A glance at the clock on your bedside — three in the morning. Huh — the hour of the witch. Does mother have some curse planned out for me or something? “What is it, Damian?”

He sounds smaller than he usually does when he says, “I had a nightmare.” 

You huff — you love him, you really do, but if this is one of your mother’s schemes to let him get near you voluntarily to then stab you in the back it’s not going to work. “Go whine to mother, Damian. Or just find the nursemaid. That’s what grandfather pays her to do, y’know — to take care of you.”

Quieter than before, “Fatima’s dead.” You perk up. “Mother killed her. Said she was dampening our relationship.” 

Now, it’s not uncommon for servants to be killed in the Al Ghul household, but nannies? You remember Fatima. She’s been alongside Damian ever since he was born, keeping an eye on you when it was your time to play with him — for God’s sake, she’s the one who taught him how to write. And she’s dead. 

Even in the darkness, you look into your brother’s eyes and find nothing. It’s the look of someone too young, forced to do things he doesn’t want to and to see atrocities he can’t stop. He’ll learn to live through it — just like you did — but for now, your brother’s four years old. He barely reaches your waist. He had a nightmare, and he’s scared to tell the woman he has to call mother because she just killed someone he loved. 

Sighing, you hold up the blanket and motion for him to hop on the bed, just hoping he has no knife hidden in his clothes. “Just… come here, Dami.” 

Nobody ever asked you to be a big sister, much less taught you how. The only thing you know is that there’s this kid that’s smaller and weaker than you in an environment that was never meant to be neither particularly happy nor safe, and you feel like you want to protect him. 

So, just for tonight, you wrap your arms around him and let him whisper his nightmare into the dark, hoping that he won’t grow up as messed up as you did with his big sister around. 

SMALLVILLE — NOW.

“So, what is it between you and Conner?”

You’ve never had a Christmas eve quite like this. It’s pure chaos — kids running around the living room, followed by Clark and Kon playing the bad guys as most of the other adults sit comfortably on the couch, laughing and chatting. Apparently, the Kents went all out this year, even inviting some relatives from Midvale; that’s how you and Lois ended up in the kitchen alone after clearing the table, as she washes the dishes and you dry them trying not to break anything. 

(You have never in your entire life helped wash the dishes before. You guess that’s the price to pay to give Ma Kent a little peace after a morning spent cooking.)

You grow a little, “What do you mean?”

She shuffles, maybe a little awkwardly. “I mean… you guys seem close. He surely looks at you in… you know,” she trails off, “that dumb stare men sometimes make.” 

Blinking, you stare at the blue roses painted on Martha’s good ceramic. “Dunno,” you mumble in the end, “he’s great and all, but I don’t think I’d be any good for him.” You sure like to pretend that you are, though. Calling him habibi is a little risky, but he really is dumber than you thought he was, and still hasn’t figured out the real meaning. You don’t even know why you’re telling that to Lois in the first place, considering you had never met her before this trip. 

The smile she gives you is a little sad. “Clark told me about your mother. He didn’t exactly go over the details, but for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.” 

You shrug. “It happened a long time ago.” The scar over your thigh itches. “I’ve gotten over it.” 

She pauses her sponge over a glass, “You know, Clark also told me that you look like her.” 

No reaction from you — must be true, then. “When I first saw you, I thought so, too. You don’t really look like Bruce at first glance, so it’s only fair that you look like your mother. But I think you’re more similar to your dad than any of you realise.” 

You bite your tongue to hold back a very rude retort — just who does she think she is? She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know your mother, and maybe has met your father a few times. You’ve been told your whole life you look like Talia, and now Miss Empathetic comes here to tell you what she thinks you want to hear– “I mean, I don’t know your mother, but by now I think I know Bruce pretty well. And considering what Clark told me about how you grew up, I doubt Talia Al Ghul would bond with a random kid that isn’t hers in the span of ten minutes. But I know Bruce Wayne would.” 

You click your tongue — you’re so used to everyone telling you how much you look like Talia that any similarity between you and Bruce feels crafted. “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

She hums, “Do you know you carry yourself like he does? Guarded, even if you’re trying to soften up a bit?” You blink, “Those dry responses you give Conner sometimes — you look like Bruce stuck in a bad interview. That glare of yours? Totally his. The way you pretend to be though but always relent at Jon’s requests to play? I’ve already seen that — with your father and Jason Todd. I met him right after he adopted him, and trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.”

You never asked your father about him — you already knew everything you needed to know from the League’s files. From the Narrows. Adopted by your father point-blank. Eventually died thanks to the Joker. The only Robin your mother apparently tolerated. Your father never really came back from the grief, and sometimes, you still catch him staring at Jason’s display case with that blank stare he gets when he’s being haunted by the past. 

“And you hid your brother from him,” she murmurs, quiet like she’s afraid to anger you. “And you know what? That’s actually a very Bruce thing to do. He always asks for complete honesty, but never gives it himself. Clark told me he found out about Dick months after your dad took him in.”

“Talia has her secrets, too,” you mutter, eyebrows knotted. “I wouldn’t say that’s specifically a quality of his.” 

Lois passes you another mug, “Can I ask you why you didn’t tell your father about Damian?”

You keep your eyes fixated on the rag you’re using to dry the dishes, quiet. “He could be a nice kid, when he wanted to,” you start — you don’t even know why you’re opening up to her in the first place. “Damian, he… we grew up in similar ways, but not identical. He had our mother constantly sprouting nonsense about his claim over the League, and how I was stealing something that should’ve been his. He knew no loyalty to anyone besides Talia. I figured I was doing the both of us a favor by running away — he could have his throne, and I didn’t have to constantly watch my back. Because I knew that if I had let myself get killed, then he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life torn between his guilt for doing so and Talia telling him he had done what he had to. And if our father knew about him, then he would’ve never let him go on to become the Demon Head.” It now seems futile, because Talia brought him to Bruce, anyways — for no plausible reason aside from stressing you out, probably. 

The woman nudges you softly with her shoulder, “So, you did it because you thought that was the best for him.”

You pause. “I mean… I figured he wouldn’t have had to go through all the things I did, considering Talia’s favouritism and the fact that I had completed most of the tasks the heir usually has to worry about." That being, the Year of Blood. Ra’s had once told you explicitly that either you or Damian had to take a part in it, and you figured that as you already finished it, your brother could go on and become heir without any of the fuss you had to make. 

She smiles. “See? You’ve got your father’s big heart under that tough facade you keep.”

You narrow your eyes at her — she’s known you for what, two, three days? “How did you do this… this psychoanalysis thing? You don’t even know me.”

She sends you a wink, “I’m a journalist. I need to be really good at understanding people at a first glance.” 

Lois’ words sink deep in your chest. When not even five minutes later Jon shows up in the kitchen with a drawing of the two of you, you feel like you could burst. 

You’re not content — because this might just be the closest thing to happiness you’ve ever felt. 

The kids insist on seeing you do a somersault when Conner tells them you’re some kind of acrobat, and you comply — multiple times. They’re lucky your training taught you how not to be dizzy a long time ago. At some point the girls somehow manage to convince you to participate in their princess tea party and paint your nails with glitter pink nail polish — to which you make sure to let them know that the colour choice was exquisite. They tackle you to the ground in response. 

You don’t know how you make it to dinner. You just know that you, Clark and Conner are barely awake, while the other adults are clearly very relaxed, and the kids are unfortunately still very lively. “Where do they even find the energy?” you mutter to Kon, head lolling to the side, “I led war campaigns less exhausting than this afternoon.”

“Thank God they’re going away as soon as dinner ends,” he croaks, head falling over your shoulder. “Another hour of this, and I would’ve melted to a stain on the floor.”

Thankfully, the kids and their not-very-helpful parents go home before midnight — when it’s time to open up the presents, Conner says. You narrow your eyebrows at him, as you’ve always opened presents on the morning of the 25th, but he grins. “You’d really say no to opening the gifts earlier?”

You sigh, “I should’ve known it was just because of your non-existent discipline.” 

The one who has more presents out of everyone is, of course, Jon. Not knowing what he liked, you just bought everything you thought to be appropriate for a kid his age, and he ended up with a dozen presents just from you. Clark insists he didn’t need so many things and begs you to return at least a couple of the presents, but you shrug. “Really, man, it’s nothing. I’ve eaten dishes more expensive than all his gifts combined.” 

Jon Sr. nearly cries at the sight of the new tractor wheels — who up until now were hiding in the barn — saying something about ‘limited edition tires’. You know nothing of the tractors fandom, but if he reacts like this, then he must’ve liked it. 

Your gifts are more for circumstance than anything — you’re not bummed about it, because for people like you, Christmas gifts are mostly useless aside from the thought being put into them. You’ve already got everything you want, and when you don’t, you just buy it; so you thank the Kents for their gifts, put on Martha’s handmade, way-too-big wool sweater even if it has a Superman symbol on the back of it, and — for once in a while — smile. You don’t budge when Ma Kent sees the brand label on her coat and complains about it being too expensive, nor when Conner takes the last one of his gifts with your name on it. 

“I thought the Santa picture was your present,” he jokes, hinting at the 20 bucks you had slipped him that day at the mall to take a photo with the Santa impersonator. You narrow your eyes at him, “When have I ever been stingy, habibi?” 

The present ends up being a new leather jacket — one he has complained for months that was too expensive for him to buy. Considering that the one he has now is kept together by mere shreds and dreams, you thought the splurge worthy — after all, your job has always been the one to buy, never to look at the price tag. 

Kon looks weirdly struck by the gifts. He laughs anxiously, even if you know he’s wanted it for months, then slings an arm around your shoulders and pats your arm nervously. The Kents are still opening their gifts in the background. “It’s beautiful, thank you– it’s just, um… I didn’t get you anything.”

That’s weird — he’s been making hints at your present for weeks. Still, you shrug, “Don’t worry about it, habibi.” you shuffle a little closer to him, curling under his arm as Jon rips open another LEGO set, “I’ve already got pretty much everything.” 

By the time everyone decides to go to bed, it’s past one am. 

Jon’s passed out on the carpet, both Pa Kent and Lois are wine drunk and you and Conner are definitely too sleepy and warm not to pass out any moment now. Uno is long forgotten on the coffee table, and it’s only when Jonathan almost falls down on the way to the bathroom that Ma Kent makes the right decision to call it a night. 

Clark takes Jon in his arms, careful not to wake him up, and pats you and Conner over your shoulders, “This bugger can sleep with me and Lois tonight — the two of you have had enough babysitting for one day.” 

Kon nods appreciatively, but you’re way too tired to even make a sound. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so mushy — you’re completely slumped over his side, legs over his, chin hidden in your jumper. He pats your knee as Ma helps Pa to their room, and Lois starts snoring on the other couch. “C’mon– let’s get you to bed.” 

You let out a non-committal noise, arms slinging around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder. He flushes at the feeling of your hot breath against his ear. “Okay,” he squeaks, “okay.”

He slings an arm under your thighs and hoists you up in his arms, trying not to focus too much on the way you completely melt in his hold. On the way upstairs, he catches Clark as he goes back down to the living room to get Lois, and he sends him a very pointed look. “The door stays open,” he reminds him. 

Conner groans a little, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, dad.”

Clark grins, patting him on the back as he disappears down the hallway. “Nighty night.” 

Somewhere along the stairs, you lightly protest against his neck. “My present,” you murmur, “where is it?”

He freezes. “I told you, I– I don't have one.”

“That’s a lie.” you yawn, “You talked about it for weeks. Said you were makin’ something.” 

Kon stutters, “I– you wouldn’t like it. I’ll just find you something else when the stores open again.” 

“What’s wrong with it?”

With the way you’re talking so low into his ear, and you’re pressed so close to him, he not only has to focus not to tumble down, but also to suppress the actually embarrassing boner he’s no doubt about to pop. “I– um– well– it didn’t really turn out like I wanted it to.” Truthfully, it did, he just didn’t expect you to get him something so expensive, and now feels obligated to look for something you may actually want. 

Your hum is one of pure aversion. “I want it, though,” you’re whining — he’s never heard you whine before; how could he deny you the gift, if you’re talking like this? “I told you, I’ve already got pretty much everything one could buy. I don’t really care about the gifts — I like the thought behind them.” 

He sighs, “Okay,” he relents, “just… try not to look too disappointed when you see it, yeah?” 

You get under the covers and onto the bed as he rummages through his wardrobe, only to take out a box roughly wrapped with bright red paper, with little snowflakes on it. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I don’t really know how to wrap gifts.” 

Honestly, you didn’t even notice it. You unwrap the thing and open the box, and are met with… well, nothing could’ve really prepared you for this. 

In the box, there’s two teddy bears — one is wearing a little black jacket and the Superboy suit, the stitches unsure and a bit uneven, and even has little round sunglasses glued onto his head. The other is wearing what you suppose to be your Batgirl suit, clad of the black cowl and even two inclined stitches in black thread over the forehead to indicate a frown. Given that the teddy has a smile on its face, it looks like an evil smile more than anything. 

The cutest thing? They each have a magnet on the inside of their paws. Meaning? They can hold hands. 

You stare at the plushies, their hands attached, as Conner rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Listen, I– I know they kinda suck– I asked Ma to teach me how to sew, but clearly, not even she knows how to make miracles happen– I just figured that a plushie was probably the only thing you never had growing up and– and I couldn’t find plushies of us that I actually liked, and none of them held hands, and–”

“Conner,” you interrupt him, setting the plushies aside.  

He stutters. “I– um– yes?”

You take him by the collar — by the way, you should really stop doing that — and throw him on the bed. He lands with a soft huff, and immediately blushes when he notices your face above his. “Thank you.”

The kiss you leave on his lips is soft, warm, and absolutely everything he’s ever dreamt about and more. It feels like it lasts hours and at the same time not enough, and when you part to cuddle against his side, he thinks he could die a happy man here and there.

He’s right. You’ve never had a plushie — not as a kid, nor growing up, as Bruce had figured you were already too old for them. His are the first teddy bears you’ve ever owned. He just did the unthinkable — bought you something you didn’t even know you were missing. “Conner?”

He startles — he always plays a big game, but you know that this is probably the first time he’s ever shared a bed with a girl before by the way he went rigid as a tree trunk. “Do you want to know what habibi means?”

His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “Yeah.” 

“My beloved.”

Yes. He could totally die happy just now. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Call me when you have a free moment, I miss you :( met Damian yesterday and I must say, he’s kinda an asshole, but he also kinda reminds me of you. Ugh, I miss when you were so little. Bruce is being Bruce. Tim’s grouchy and Alfred’s barely talking to B. I’m slowly losing my sanity. PLEASE call me!! XOXOXO💋

Dick Grayson is the only guy who could put a kiss emoji after an ‘xoxo’ after spending hours teaching you texting etiquette. He's the only one who talks about your thirteen-year-old self like you were five. He’s also the only one who has reached out from your family after Damian’s arrival and your leave. Cassandra, who’s in the Alps with her girlfriend as of now, probably doesn’t even know about Damian.

Beside you, Conner’s still snoring, sprawled over both his and your side of the bed. He’s holding in an iron grip the plushie of you, who instead looks like she’s plotting his murder, while her Superboy companion sits politely on your bedside table. It’s still early in the morning, around eight am, but no matter how late you go to sleep, the clock that your body has by now assimilated will never let you sleep in. 

You stare at your brother’s message until it’s burned in your retinas, the brightness of your phone screen way too high for the dim darkness of the room, wondering just how they spent Christmas Eve. Last year, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Falcone’s operations; the year before, it was the Court of the Owls, and so on. Something always comes up to keep you entertained during the holidays, and from the way you left your father knee-deep in the Black Glove thing, you’re sure that this year was no better. The only difference was… well, Damian. 

The worst part of the message is that you know that Dick would love the Damian you once knew. The nicer one, who sometimes complained about having to eat vegetables and missed his nanny, and hadn’t hardened under the League’s training. 

Having to leave hurt — because you knew that that side of him would have disappeared in a matter of years, but you had no choice. It was either that, or eventually having him murder you and live the rest of his life in grief and guilt. Unsurprisingly, Dick’s message goes unresponded, but he keeps the texts coming as he notices that you’ve read it. 

Good morning!!  Is it a good moment to talk now? No pressure tho Just wanted to know how things were going over there  I had gotten you a present but I’ll wait for you to come back to give it to you It’s safely stored in my apartment for now!!! No demon gremlin hands can reach it :D

“What time is it?” Kon groans beside you, woken by the sound of the notifications. He yawns, rolling over and lazily draping an arm around your waist, still high off of sleep. “Too early. That’s what time it is.” His hand gently goes over your eyes, and he whispers, conspiring, “Go back to sleep…” 

He falls asleep right after, but you can’t find it in yourself. You pry his hand and arm off of you, phone still in hand, and make way for downstairs. 

It’s freezing outside. You put on Conner’s jacket just because it was the first coat over the hanger, and end up slouching over the beaten up bench that sits in the Kents’ backyard. Dick’s voice is chippy but anxious when he replies, not even letting the first ring go through completely. 

“Hiii!” 

You sigh, “Hi, Dick. Merry Christmas, I guess.” 

He reciprocates with the same glee of before, not letting your tired tone tune out his happiness. “So, how’s it going over to the Kents? Rumor has it that Martha’s cooking might just be better than Alfred’s.”

Conversation flows easily with him — it’s a gift he has, really, to somehow put everyone at ease with a chuckle and the flash of a grin. Sometimes you envy how simple it is for him to make friends, or be appreciated by everyone without having to prove anything. What makes him stand out from you, Tim or Damian, is that Bruce openly chose him. He didn’t just sneak into his life like Drake, and wasn’t with him just because they happened to be biologically related. 

In theory, you should hate him — God knows how much your mother does — just for this ability of his to attract everyone and anything at any given moment. In reality, you’re not spared from the Grayson pull. 

“I met your brother,” he says casually, like he’s trying not to break a really thin line that he sees between the two of you. “He’s… surely something else.”

You hum. “He’s always been like that.” Sure, he had his moments of kindness, but your mother’s influence has always been far too condemning for him. Who knows — maybe your father will be able to do some miracle and at least make him refrain from killing. 

The silence on the other end is deafening. “Um, I… Tim asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. He said he kinda blamed you for Damian’s attack — and he also understands why you wouldn’t tell Bruce about him.” 

“It’s okay.” You're being as honest as possible, “I tried to kill him once or twice too. It’s only fair that he thought I had put Damian up to this.” 

You can hear the nervous taps he’s giving the back of his phone. “Okay. Cool, cool– um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but B kinda gave Damian an ultimatum. He said he won’t be permitted to wear the Robin suit until he learns to calibrate his violent instincts and you come back.” 

Now, that’s surprising. Your father, taking just a step back from his own words? Pigs must’ve learnt how to fly by now. “Did he?” you don’t sound like the usual you — more like a softer, kinder version that just needs some reassurance. Dick asks himself just what is being put into Martha’s food to make you so open to dialogue, and how much she’d want to spill the secret — just to him or Alfred would do. 

“He did,” he muses, “he also said that if you want to come home today — even if just for lunch or dinner — Alfred will be adding a plate.” 

The backdoor opens with a creak. Ma Kent steps out in the snow, bundled up to the notch, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees you. “Oh, dear,” she mutters, “is that your father on the phone?”

She’s got this weird expression on her face, like she wants to beat him up or something. When you tell her it’s actually your brother, her mood brightens up significantly. “Oh, golly, that’s so nice of him. May I have a word with him?” 

A bit weirded out since you don’t know what she could possibly want to say to him, you just pass her the phone, and are surprised to find out that Martha Kent and Dick Grayson actually know each other — at least, from the way they speak like they’re old friends. Thirty minutes and three shared cake recipes later, suddenly the Waynes are invited over for both lunch and dinner, and you have to hold in the biggest scream ever from leaving your mouth. God, she had looked like such a nice old lady — you couldn’t have known that in reality, she was plotting your downfall right in front of your eyes. 

You can’t tell her anything, because Alfred still taught you manners, and guests don’t fight with the people that host them. So you just let out a long sigh and don’t even say goodbye to Dick when the phone’s finally passed back to you and his chirping voice comes out the speaker. Why, Martha, why? You thought she liked you. 

She doesn’t seem to notice your turmoil, because she still smiles sweetly at you in that way she’s done the last few days and says, “I’m going to feed the stray cats down the street — would you like to come with me?” 

Just because she’s an old lady that you thought was nice up until now, and the cat food looks way too heavy for her feeble arms, you say yes. 

You’re still in your pajamas and Conner’s coat, but anyways, who’s going to judge you? The stray cats that live in a chicken house and probably are covered in fleas? 

There’s snow still falling — little flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin — and when you say there’s no one around, you mean nothing. No horns blaring, no police sirens, no scuffles. For all you know, Smallville could be Gotham City’s rural, polite reflection. 

“How are you liking the farm so far?” Martha asks you, her nose red from the cold. You get reminded again of how much different she is from the other old people you know — you’ve got this strange feeling of protectiveness towards her, mainly because she looks like she could break anytime by falling off the stairs. (Which, in total fairness, she probably would.)

“It’s quiet,” you reply, for a loss of a better word. You look around, noticing the lack of houses and buildings, and wonder just how it is possible that this old lady spent God knows how many years walking down his path and still came out of it unscathed. Were this Gotham, she would’ve had her purse snatched as soon as she got out of the house. 

The woman hums, “Sometimes they bring the kids from the town to see the cats that live around here, to see if any of them likes them enough to be taken home. I still haven’t had any luck, but I’m sure that some little fella is going to take a liking to you.” The corners of her mouth crinkle when she smiles, “You’re a really nice young lady, you know? No wonder why my Connie likes you so much. The two of you like to look though, but under all that act are two really big hearts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come with me.” 

The tips of your ears turn red, and it’s not because of the cold. You have decided — you don’t like the way the Kent women see right through you. It makes you feel like a kid who doesn’t know anything about life. 

The cats meow happily when they see her coming, exiting their chicken house to rub against her legs, despite the snow around her boots. “My, my,” Martha laughs, “calm down– she’s got enough food for every single one of you, no reason to be so needy.” 

The cats may be strays, but by no means do they look cold or underfed — quite the opposite, actually; some of them are positively chonky. Martha and the old ladies of the neighborhood — which in Smallville means everyone living in a five-mile-radius — must take great care of them. They rub against your boots as you refill their bowls, purring loudly, immediately attacking the cat food placed there. 

You watch, amused, as they devour their portions, until one little kitten stumbles out from the group, belly full, and tries to climb up your leg. You let her because honestly, she’s so full of food that she’s funny, all wobbly and unsure with her claws. Only when she falls down and meows angrily do you pick her up and scratch the back of her ear, cooing at the way she purrs loudly. 

Martha smiles warmly. “That’s Muffin. We found her on the other side of the road, and the other cats adopted her instantly.” 

You look Muffin in the eye, and think that it’s a stupid name for a cat. She blinks back and tries to lick the tip of your nose. Ma Kent laughs, her gaze going to some place behind you. “You know,” she mumbles quietly, pointing to the open field behind you, “that’s where we first found Clark.” 

You turn to look behind you as Muffin tries to climb up Conner’s coat, and you think that if you try hard enough, you can see a crater covered in snow. Martha’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, he was such a sweet kid. When we found him, he barely reached my knee — he didn’t even know how to properly walk, and didn’t know how to speak our language.”

Oh, God. You know where this is going. If the Kents didn’t have a farm, and Lois didn’t like writing, you think that Martha and her would've gone off to study psychology. “I…” her voice breaks a little, and you think that while you may have thought of her as a fragile being, she had done nothing to prove to you so. She’s done nothing but be up and about these days, and waking up at eight am on Christmas morning just proves your point. This is the first time you hear her sound so unsure. “Parents aren’t necessarily always right. Me and Jon had the luck to raise him almost completely, with all our wrongs and rights. And we have made mistakes, but I like to think that in the end, we raised a good kid.” 

Of course they did — that kid ended up being Superman. “It takes a lot to take in a kid who has already been raised — and in a way that some would consider wrong, at that.” She holds her scarf just a little closer as Muffin falls into the hood of your jacket, “I haven’t known you for long, but in the little time I have, I can say that I think your dad did a wonderful job. Parents… we often make mistakes. And I’m sure that like every one of us, yours did many. But I think that where there’s good will, no harm is ever meant.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I know you’re probably angry at your dad, but Clark told me that he loves you — and a lot, at that. But– would you be willing to give him a chance? If not for yours or his, for the sake of this old lady who hates seeing parents and their own children fighting? If you do, I promise I will give him a long lecture about his treatment of you in your place, so that he doesn’t have any more reasons to get mad at you.” 

Muffin licks the back of your neck. You sigh. “Well, I guess I can’t be mad at him forever, can I?” 

Martha comes up to strangle you in a hug before you can even think it though. “I knew you were a good kid,” she whispers. 

You pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, “I– okay, okay, Martha, careful with the hugging now–” 

Muffin ends up attaching her claws to Conner’s coat when it’s time for you to leave, meowing unhappily at your attempts of pulling her away. Ma Kent just laughs, “Maybe you should take her with us,” she says, “we usually leave the cats here unless they really want to go home with us. Sometimes they go back here, other times they stay. That’s mostly how we find them homes.” she raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Think you can handle a kitty?”

You look at her dead in the eye. “I have an alligator back at home.” 

She pauses, then blinks. “An… alligator?”

You nod. “I found him in the sewers a couple of years ago. Fed him raw chicken until he got too fat and started clogging the water tubes. He now lives in a pond in our backyard and is probably waiting for a moment of distraction from my father to eat him.” You trail off. “Um, his name is Alsimna. It means obese. I just thought it would be funny since, you know… he’s kinda fat. No hate though.” Now that you think of it, you kinda miss him. He started brumating just last month. 

Martha purses her lips. “Muffin is very lucky she already had a name before you came around.”

When Conner wakes up, it’s because of weird cries coming from downstairs. Noticing your absence on the other side of the bed — and feeling like a virgin left alone the night after the deed, even if said deed was just a little peck — he shuffles down the stairs, hair a mess over his head and Batgirl plushie still in his hands, and gapes at the sight of you — elbow-deep in soap water over the sink — and Ma Kent, giving instructions and whatnot. 

The sink meows. Kon sputters, finally catching your attention. “Um– what you got there?” 

You hold up a drenched black kitty, who protests loudly in your hold. “Muffin.” 

“She had a couple of fleas,” Martha explains to him, “we had to wash her.” 

He gasps in utter betrayal. “You never let me keep any of the strays I brought home!” 

“Because they all escaped as soon as you were out of the room. This one followed her all the way here.” 

Muffin snuggles in the warm blanket you wrap her in, purring in your hold. Kon glances at her warily, “You… adopted a cat?”

“Well, she’s cute,” you grumble. 

“Don’t you have an alligator?” 

“I do.” 

He blinks. He stares at the kitten. “Muffin, you’re gonna get eaten really soon.” The latter meows like she has already accepted her fate. 

Your father arrives a few hours later — and in a typical show of Wayne dramatics, he's chosen to use the private helicopter instead of the more reserved Zeta-Tubes. Jon gapes at the sight of the aircraft as Clark deadpans, “Did he really have to take out the company helicopter?” he mutters to you. 

You shrug, “He does it for longer distances. Be happy he didn’t take the private jet.” 

Under Jon’s constant nagging to go see the helicopter from up close, it’s Clark that puts his jacket on to go greet your family, his son bundled in warm clothes just behind him. Muffin stares at you from the kitchen counter like she’s reevaluating all her life’s decisions, and you can’t help but agree with her. Conner pats your arm encouragingly, “C’mon, it can’t be that bad, can it?” he whispers. 

He’s wrong, because your father has taken Dick’s invitation like a family reunion — even Alfred is here. And Damian is standing behind him, glaring at Bruce’s back, dressed like a little lord coming straight from Hell. He doesn’t say anything to anyone — just gives you a pointed look and bites the inside of his cheek, looking downright tired of you. In response, you just stare back until he decides to go bother Alfred instead. 

Tim has a black eye and a cast. You notice after Dick pulls away from hugging you, and you raise a brow at his injuries. “The grenade didn’t hit you that hard, did it?” 

“He tried to kill me two more times,” he grumbles, “I was asleep both times.” 

You pat his shoulder, “Get used to it. He does that a lot.” Tim is undoubtedly his obstacle in achieving your father’s complete and undivided attention. He’s also Robin as of now and, well… you grew up with the myth of Batman. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian wanted to be Robin so badly he was ready to kill Tim for it.

Dick leans his head to the side, looking amusedly at Damian, brooding in weird quietness. You can’t help but think that such silence is not typical of him — normally, he would already have insulted the house three times and the carpet at least six. Instead he’s standing there like a selectively mute kid who has decided that farmers out of all people are not worthy of hearing his voice. 

At your inquiring gaze, Dick coughs into his fist. “Bruce apparently told him he’ll let him have a week as Robin if he doesn’t speak unless he has something nice to say for the whole day,” he whispers, barely containing a laugh. “He bargained two.” 

“Incredible,” you utter, “he bargained with father?” you can’t help the tiniest bit of pride from seeping into your chest. 

“Bruce was at his wit’s end,” Tim grunts, “he didn’t even know which way to turn anymore.” 

Dick grimaces. “Yeah, uh… it’s been a rough few days. First, he had to figure out what to do with Damian, then you fled the Manor, then Tim wouldn’t talk to him, then it was Alfred who didn’t talk to him…”

He blinks at the way you and Drake look at him. “What?” he asks innocently, crossing his arms. 

“Well, you’re the only one who isn’t angry at him, cowboy,” Tim explains, tapping his hip with his good hand. 

“Yeah, what happened to ‘sibling solidarity’ and all that crap you always talk about?” you inquire. 

Grayson chuckles nervously. “Look, guys, I– he looked so sad.” 

Your eye twitches. “You know what else looked sad, Dick? The Discowing outfit.”

At his outraged gasp, Drake nods. This might just be the first thing you two have agreed on since the dawn of time. “Yeah, dude, it was horrendous. I think you don’t wanna pick sides just because you know that fighting with Bruce will get you into that suit again.” 

“I can’t believe you guys are ganging up on me!” Dick shrieks, not getting everybody’s attention on the three of you just because the Kents are particularly sensitive to the awkward tension in the room, even as they speak quietly with Bruce — who still has to say a word to you. He had tried to smile when he got inside the house, but once he saw Dick come hug you, he had preferred to stay in the living room than the kitchen, letting you three have a moment. 

Muffin meows loudly as she falls from the countertop to the padded chair near it, and you hush her by taking her in your arms. Tim gives you a look, “Did you get bored of Alsimna? I’m sure he’ll be so heartbroken he’ll try to eat you for the tenth time.” 

The kitten tries to scratch him as she hisses, and his shoulders slump. “Why do you all want to kill me? I’m a nice dude!”

“Bro.” 

Conner comes from behind him, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, man? You look rough.”

He’s coming from upstairs — where he just changed — and as soon as he sees him, Jon sprints towards him, shy but so eager to meet your other brothers since Damian didn’t look too appeasing. Kon pats his head, “Jonno, um– these are Tim and Dick.” he gestures to you, “They’re her brothers.”

“Adopted,” you and Drake remind him simultaneously. 

Jonathan nods, blushing as Dick excitedly greets him, then decides to just switch one shelter for another and goes to hide behind your legs, holding tightly onto your sweater. Considering you and Conner are the most prone to playing with him, he’s gotten pretty attached to you these past few days, so much so that you’re wondering just where you’ll find the space to hang all the drawings he’s made you. Grayson squeals, “OhmyGod, you got adopted!” he takes his phone out and snaps countless pictures as Jon tries to disappear behind the back of your thighs and holds onto your pinky for safety, “Babs’ never going to believe this–”

You don’t miss the way Damian glares at you from the other side of the room, where Bruce’s still talking to Clark. He continues glaring nonetheless. 

Lunch is awkward at best. Martha and Alfred try their best to attenuate the tension, but considering that Damian still refuses to utter a single word and both Lois and Pa Kent are still nursing a hangover, there’s not much to say. The silence is mostly filled in by your father and Clark discussing League matters, or by Jon blabbering to you and Conner. The only ones who look fully comfortable are, in fact, your butler and Ma Kent, who have been discussing the best recipe for casserole as soon as they saw each other. 

You’re not sure how you ended up sandwiched between the only two kids in the farm, but here you are. If looks could kill, little Jon would probably lie six feet under the ground dismembered and with a stone with THIS WAS DAMIAN AL GHUL’S DOING written over it. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice his staring, as he’s far too immersed in stuffing his face with food to care. 

At some point, Damian mutters, his voice so low that you’re the only one who is able to hear it, “Kan taeam 'umiy 'afdal,” mother’s cooking was better. 

You spare a look at him. “'Ant taelam 'anaha lam tatbakh tilk al'atbaq abdaan, 'alays kadhalika?“ You know she never really cooked those dishes, right? 

It’s true. You’ve seen your grandfather cook a few times during campaigns, mostly dishes from the times of his upbringing, but Talia usually reserved that duty to servants, only to pass the plates full of food as hers. It’s not about thinking you’re above it  — it’s about skills, because your mother truly sucks at cooking. Damian should feel lucky that he’s never had to experience her cuisine. 

Bruce watches the interaction quietly — he’s yet to see Damian speak so softly. He can’t hear what you guys are saying, but as long as no fight breaks out, he’s not going to intervene — he wouldn’t want to shatter the already feeble peace that is in the air. 

Still in Arabic, Damian grumbles, “You left me.” 

“It was either that or having them let you kill me,” you answer earnestly, your mother tongue slipping easily from your lips even after so many years of disuse. “I made sure to leave the road to being heir paved just for you. I would’ve never left you alone in that place without being sure that you wouldn’t have had to suffer what I went through.” He had mother at his beck and call. Surely, she would’ve never let what happened to you happen to him. 

Your brother stays silent at that, his eyes downturned to his untouched plate. It’s only when you’ve finished eating, and the table’s cleared, and everyone’s outside playing with the snow that he approaches you, his ridiculously big coat on. 

You’re going back to the strays’ chicken house, having begged Martha to please rest a bit after promising you would’ve gone to feed them in her place. Muffin is toddling around your feet as you tie your boots and ask, “And where do you think you’re going?” 

“With you,” he grumbles, avoiding your eyes. 

You hum, “I’m sure Jon would be happy to have someone his age to play with.” 

He scoffs the same way you do, you notice. In fact, you’ve noticed he looks like you more than he ever did, like the distance and the resentment did nothing but convince him to take your mannerism and make it his. “I’m not a kid,” 

“Sure you aren’t,” you pat Muffin’s head and take the cans of wet food Ma Kent left out for you. “Come if you want, but don’t try anything.” 

“Father doesn’t even let me use kitchen knives,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “and even if he did, you wouldn’t let me do anything.” He probably already knows that he was able to hurt Tim just because of the surprise factor and the literal grenade he blew up in his face. 

Bruce frowns when he sees you and Damian walking away on a path alone, but he doesn’t say anything nor tries to stop you. You two probably have a lot to talk about, he figures. Maybe even more than what he has to tell you.

Your brother is silent as he follows you down the road, his mouth leaving puffs of warm breath in the air. Then, “You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come with you. You just assumed I wouldn’t have.” 

He hasn’t sounded this small ever since he still cried about Fatima’s death, but you haven’t seen him in years, you think. You might not know this Damian at all. “Mother had great things planned for you,” you tell him. “Considering you never backed down from any of her plans, I just thought you liked the idea of becoming the Head of the Demon.” 

The chicken house isn’t far — a couple of cats have already spotted you, and carefully throttle in the snow to greet the two of you. “After all, you came here just because Talia wanted you to, no?” 

Dumbstruck, Damian blinks, “Is she not our mother anymore?” 

He says our like it’s an absurdity to ever think that the two of you don’t share the same parents, even if figuratively. Like he’s ready to start calling her Talia just because you do. You shake your head, “Call her what you want. You don’t have to stop doing anything. Just give father’s way a chance, will you?” Now that he’s here, you know that Bruce won’t let him go anywhere — and who knows, maybe it’s for the best. 

The cats all get around the bowls as you pour the wet food in, but Damian seems to barely see them. “You tried to kill me.” 

You snort. “I didn’t try to kill you — I threatened you, it’s different. I talked big, Damian, but I would never hurt you.” You relent, “Well, not in a beyond recovery manner. Do you still breathe funny from when I broke your nose?”

He pinches it. “I do.” a dry sniffle, “You have replaced me.” 

At this, you pause — turning to look at him, weirded out. “What do you mean? You’re the only little brother I have.” 

His arms cross, and his eyebrows twitch. “Back there with that dimwit — John or whatever. Even with Grayson and the other guy. You came here to forget about me — you didn’t even tell father I existed.” his voice breaks a little, but he fixes it before you can address it, “I thought you would’ve. I didn’t know I embarrassed you.” 

“Damian,” you breathe out. “You have to understand, you don’t embarrass me. I love you, and nothing changed when I moved to Gotham. Hell– I tried contacting you. I sent you birthday presents even when you didn’t want them.” 

He shuffles his feet. “Mother said it was best not to see you. That you weren’t a good influence, and that you probably were looking for me out of obligation.” 

You purse your lips, rising to your feet and holding a hand over his shoulder. “I wasn’t,” you whisper softly, “Damian, you’re my brother. My name was the first ever thing you said. I… I didn’t want to leave you there, but after what you did to Ravi, I… I just thought that I needed some time for myself, and that you’d do great with the League — it’s what Talia had you for. I believed you wanted it, too.”

“I didn’t want it,” his reply is so little that suddenly you’re eleven again, and he’s four, and he keeps seeing the limp body of his favourite nanny in his sleep. “Not if you weren’t there for me.” 

A silence follows. And just when you start wondering what you should do — hug him? Offer some comfort? You haven’t been a big sister in ages — he speaks again. “I, um… mother convinced grandfather to have me participate in the Year of Blood.” 

Your blood runs cold. “…What?” The ringing in your ears is so loud that you’re barely able to hear your own words. This can’t be an ugly joke, and you know it, because nothing in his body tells you that this is a lie. And not even Damian knows how to hide a lie this good — you don’t even know how to, hell. 

He swallows the knot in his throat. “Yes, mother had suggested not to tell you. Said you… would’ve reacted badly.” 

You don’t know if you kneel because your legs are too trembly to keep staying upright or to look him in the eyes. “The Year of Blood is a once in a generation thing. They… they had no right to– to make you…”

“Mother told grandfather that since you ran away, yours wasn’t valid anymore– that I was heir, and I had to do it to prove that I was at or above your level. Grandfather was sure that you’d be back one day, but told mother to do as she wished — that as soon as you were back home, you’d fight me for your rightful place.” His eyes are teary, and you open your arms so that he can fall into your embrace as you both try not to cry your eyes out. “I… they had me slaughter hundreds, sister. I couldn’t even see clearly when I got to the end of it.” 

You hold him tight by the back of his neck as he smothers his cries in your shoulders — you wonder if the last time he cried openly like this was when you were still with the League. In less than a month he’ll be ten, but he’s almost smaller than Jon, and you are once again reminded of how much Talia and Ra’s have failed the both of you. 

In a nicer world, maybe you would’ve been brought up by your father and a nicer Talia, and instead of constantly trying to fight each other to death you’d have common squabbles about whose turn it was to watch the TV. In this world, he had to suffer through the same thing that had you killed by your own hands. 

The Year of Blood will always be the longest year of your lives — one spent in blood, violence and tyranny, all in the name of Al Ghul. You lost count of how many temples you destroyed, how many armies you ruined, how many profanities for the sake of your place in the family — a place your grandfather had always insisted was given. And Damian — who’s still so short the top of his head barely reaches your bellybutton — had to go through all of that, presumably not long ago. 

The way goes from here. You know it’ll be hard — Damian will still have to learn how to refrain from killing those who deserve it — but you can work with this. You can learn how to be a big sister again. 

When you come back to the farm, both you and Damian’s eyes are swollen and red from all the crying, and even if he tries to hide it, you know Bruce just took a sigh of relief to see that you both still have all your limbs attached. Your brother’s holding onto the hem of your coat like he’s scared you’ll leave him again, and the tension in the air lightens up when Damian starts talking almost normally — that is, avoiding saying insults by biting his tongue when they threaten to slip out. 

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Dick whispers to Tim. The latter facepalms. “Or just communication, bro.” 

It’s just later in the afternoon when Damian’s too busy petting Muffin — purring all over his lap — that your father finally takes you aside to talk. 

He looks a bit embarrassed, and it’s what tells you that Martha’s already had a talk with him. “I didn’t know you resented me for not finding you,” he murmurs quietly. He doesn’t say sorry, and he never does, but you guess that it’s fair, since you never say it either. 

You shrug, crossing your arms. “Well, when your father can find a random kid perfectly fine on a common Tuesday but couldn’t find you for six years, that’s what could happen.” 

“But I looked for you,” he presses, “I really did.” You drum your fingers on the countertop of the kitchen. “You have to believe me.” 

After a moment, you say, “I do,” because maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you just overestimated his abilities with the League and undermined the Shadows’. 

Your father presses his lips into a thin line. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened when you were with the League — I never pressed for that. But when it comes to things like Damian’s existence, you still can't feel like you have to lie to me. I’m your father. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”

He opens his arms, gesturing for a hug much like you did earlier with Damian, and even if a bit reluctantly, you still let him pull you in. He’s as warm as you remembered him to be, and his heart is thrumming underneath your cheek. You should probably tell him everything — about how you and Damian were raised to be against each other, the Year of Blood, Ravi — but you can’t help but think that this is neither the time nor the place. He still loves your mother. After you tell him, he will never see her in the same light again, even after all the times he’s forgiven her. But your father deserves a quiet Christmas like this one.

“We should do this more often,” he hums, kissing the crown of your head. “I don’t even remember the last time we hugged.” 

You do. It was after a particularly rough run-in with the League about a year after you’d moved to Gotham, which had left you with a broken arm. You’d always refused his hugs before, but even now, you think that you really needed one at that moment. 

He brushes your hair carefully, like he’s scared to run over knots and annoy you. “And I know I always tell you how much you look like your mother, but sometimes I forget that for you it might not be a compliment.” he kisses your forehead tenderly, “But I do it because for me, it’s a big compliment, because you’ve always looked like what I had dreamt for her and me — for us. And with you here, it’s like we almost got it.” 

That night as they leave to go back to Gotham, Bruce presses an USB in your hands. “I should’ve given you this a long time ago,” he mutters, “I didn’t because I figured you didn’t need to see your father being emotional. But maybe you do.” 

You spend hours on Kon’s beaten up computer that night, earphones on as the latter begs you to just go to sleep, but you really can’t find it in yourself — because this feels like a chapter closing. Because there’s a file log for every day your father has spent looking for you.

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 01 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce looks uncomfortable in front of the camera — cowl off, but Batman costume still on. He’s got scratches on his face and his eyes are bloodshot; he looks as distraught as possible. “Um,” he starts. “Alfred suggested I start these video logs to show the kid after… if we find her. He says it would be good for… establishing a bond, even if I’m not quite sure.” 

He coughs into his palm, and goes off to explain. “It’s… March 23rd, five am.” you know that date — this was taken the day after you met him for the first time, years ago. “Talia could be lying, but even if she did, there’s a kid out there that possibly thinks I’m her father, and could be wondering why I’m not there to protect her.” 

He sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows. “Alfred agreed that she had my mother’s eyes after looking at the bodycam footage. I can’t tell if he’s biased — it’s been so many years since she’s been gone that I almost forgot how they looked, and neither the portraits nor the photos ever got them right.” 

He tries to straighten his shoulders, maybe trying to look a bit respectable again. “But we’re looking for the kid, that’s it.” His lips purse, and he nods towards the camera. “And that’s all for today.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 16 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“April 7th. A robbery downtown happened this morning — everyone got out safely, but the Mad Hatter seems to be involved.” 

Bruce already looks done with this video log thing and it shows — more than two weeks of nothing, when he usually has these types of cases closed in a matter of days at worst. He’s not even sitting on the chair, too nervous to properly stay put. “The kid’s still nowhere to be seen. The Shadows know how to do their jobs, but we already knew that. We’ll keep looking for her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 45 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“Oooh, you're still doing these things?” 

Robin — Jason — pops into the frame, waving his hands frantically. A board with the few pictures your father had managed to cut out from the body footage are spread out with mostly incoherent clues and traces, now. “Hi, lil’ sis! I think Martha’s a nice name!” 

“Yes, yes,” Bruce, a bit embarrassed, tries to shoo him away. “Um– Jay suggested we give the kid a name, because calling her ‘the kid’ was apparently getting exhausting for him. But…” his eyes drift off to the distance, “naming her Jane Doe felt a little too impersonal, and like we already believed her to be dead.” 

His shrug is one of someone who doesn’t want to admit that he’s still thinking about the past. “And, well, since me and Talia once talked about eventual baby names — I figured, Martha it is.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 105 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce’s slouched on the chair in front of the monitor, looking as rough as they make them. “July 6th. We found nothing — like always.” He moves to shut the camera off. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 273 LOCATION: BATPLANE, MALAYSIA USER ID: B01

“A hair follicle.” 

Bruce is holding up a ziplock bag like it’s his ticket to heaven. “The paternity test came back positive — and considering the cameras that depict Martha as part of the leading group for this operation, it’s a given that it’s hers.”

He sighs in despair, his head dropping in his hands. “…We just have to find her. Like we’ve tried for the last…” a peek at the screen, “273 days.” Jason sticks out his tongue to the camera from behind him. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 365 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“It’s been a year.”

He’s gotten far more desperate as the days go on — because this time, it’s not only his detective abilities that are being put to the test, but also his fatherly ones. He purses his lips, “We’ve got nothing. Sometimes a hideout gets leaked, but when we get to the coordinates, Martha’s never there — they’ve already moved her on to another base, and it keeps on going like this.”

He conjoins his hands. “She’s the living proof that if the League doesn’t want me to know something, then I won’t.” a moment of hesitation, “This also means that Talia made me aware of her existence just to mess with my brain, probably.”

He looks dead into the camera. “But the search goes on, I promise. I won’t have a moment of rest until I find her.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 559 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B04

The video opens with Jason. “Um,” he mutters awkwardly, leaning to look at something out of frame. “Bruce got hit with Fear Gas.” 

A scream echoes in the distance — your father, no doubt. He winces. “Dick and Alfred are holding him down. But I, uh, know how much he cares about these logs, so I’m making today’s entry for him.” he looks over to the date signaled on the computer’s screen, “September 23rd. Still no Martha. Still looking for her.”

He tries to smile at the camera, even if it comes out a bit wobbly. “And if you’re watching this– hi, Martha.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 785 LOCATION: BATPLANE, ETHIOPIA USER ID: B01

“Jason’s dead.” 

You knew this was coming — the short video logs before this one, talking about how he was looking for Jason and the Joker had told you everything you needed to know. Bruce’s eyes can’t be described as anything if not completely empty. A few long minutes of silence pass before he does anything, and when he does, it’s just moving to shut the camera off. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 786 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B00

“Master Bruce is grieving. We all are.” 

Alfred stands poised like he always does, eyes a little red. Behind him, the Batcave looks like a mess. “I’m doing the video log because he’s refusing to take a break from looking for the Joker. I fear I’ll be filling in for him for quite some time.” 

He looks behind him to the broken board with MARTHA written on it with bold, red ink, all the evidence that your father had accumulated in two years scattered all over the ground. “I know how much this matters to him. I’ll clean the mess up later. I wanted to make a new entry first.”

He stares at the calendar. “May 18th. Still looking. No new evidence.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 834 LOCATION: BLUDHAVEN USER ID: B02

Grayson is a nice change of scenery from Alfred, but he looks even more awkward than Jason had. He’s sitting in front of the camera, but the angle is different, like he just sat the computer on his coffee table and called it a day. He’s not even in his Nightwing suit. “A kid just guessed Batman’s identity,” he says, looking completely lost. “Anyways, I’m just filling in for Alfred since he sprained his ankle yesterday and is on bed rest.”

He tries to fix the camera angle, and instead makes it even worse — you now have a perfect visual to his knees, and he has to lean onto them with his elbows to be properly seen. “It’s, uh, July 5th.” he bites the inside of his cheek, “Not sure if B’s got any new evidence, but I know he’s still looking.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 857 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“I’m sorry for disappearing.”

Bruce looks thinner — unhealthier than he is usually, somehow. “I– uh– didn’t stop looking. But no new evidence.” he leans his head to the side, resting it on his knuckles. “I saw Talia the other day. She said her father had forced her to lie to me — to tell me that she had lost the baby ten years ago.” 

His eyes flicker. “I’m not sure I believe her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 976 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B05

“My name’s Tim Drake.” 

Drake looks far too small and scrawny for the Robin suit he’s wearing. He does so with pride anyways. “I’m the new Robin. Bruce got shot and Alfred’s too busy operating him, so I’m doing this. November 24th. Still looking. New evidence: Ra’s said that Lady Shiva’s training her.”

The fact that he’s reading this from his notepad confirms your suspicions — he has written his whole log in like it’s a presentation. “Bruce’s determined to find out what for. I think the answer’s a bit too obvious.” 

There’s 1105 more video logs — one for every day you weren’t there. It takes you days to get to the last one. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 2081 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“This will be the last video log.”

Bruce’s smile is happiness tinged with something like deep, deep shame. “September 4th. We have stopped looking.”

He sighs, hands on his sides. “Her name’s not Martha. It feels a bit weird not to call her that now, but I’m just relieved we found her.” his eye twitches. “Well, she came to me. I didn’t find her. I couldn’t.” 

He bites his lip. “I’ll have to retrain her. Teach her not to kill and tell her not to use long-term damage techniques. But at least we found her.” 

When his eyes look into the camera, they’re shimmering with tears, and his voice is shaky. “I’m just happy she’s safe now.”

GOTHAM CITY — A FEW MONTHS LATER.

Bruce decides to open Wayne Manor’s pool for the first time since Jason’s death in the summer. 

It’s July and Gotham’s sweltering. You can’t even get out of the house without ending up with all your clothes drenched with sweat — hell, even Muffin, who loves the Manor’s gardens more than anything else, is refusing to go outside. Henceforth the decision to have the pool cleaned out and ready for use once again. 

Damian looks at the water gun Bruce has handed to him. “Father, I didn’t expect this from you, of all people. Aren’t we not supposed to kill?”

“It’s not for killing,” you snort from beside him, stretched out on your belly on a sunbed with your new bikini already on. “It’s for throwing water at people.” You point towards the guy carefully putting sunscreen over your back, “Feel free to use Conner as a test drive. He’s not going to get hurt anyways.” 

“Hey!” he protests, pouting, “I thought you liked me!” 

“I do,” you muse, “but Damian’s thirst for murder has to be contained in some way, habibi. Right, Dami?”

His gun’s already loaded with water when he points it straight in your boyfriend’s face and shoots. When he doesn’t even blink at the spray of liquid, your brother tsks and goes back to Bruce. “Father, I’ll need a more appropriate model of this device. The kryptonian isn’t hurt in any way, and we need to fix that.” 

“Why’s he always so intent on murdering me?” Kon grumbles, spreading some more sunscreen over the back of your thighs. “I didn’t do anything to him.” 

“That’s common around here,” Tim calls out from his own sunbed. “You’ll get used to it.”

Beside him, Cassandra nods. “He starts respecting you after the fifth failed attempt, don’t worry.”

“Fifth?” Conner repeats. “He’s tried at least eleven times by now!” 

She shrugs. “Skill issue, if you ask me.” 

Dick swims up to the corner of the pool in his unicorn inflatable donut. “Are you guys sure you don’t want to take a swim? Come onnn. How is it that we’re always whining about the weather and then refuse to take a dip?” 

You all jump on him out of pure spite — his poor unicorn soon emerging from the water, unlike his owner, who’s now being held under the surface by Cassandra. “You really need to learn when to shut up, Dick.” 

Overall, it’s a nice day. It’s your first time at a pool for fun rather than training, and you end up finding it quite relaxing. Bruce lights up the barbecue for lunch, and Alfred — still in his suit and with somehow no trace of sweat on his body — makes sure the lot of you have enough water and drinks for the whole day. 

At some point after eating Alfred’s snacks, you lie beside Conner with a book, resting your head over his chest as you read. Damian — who has spent the entire day trying to find a water gun with a different caliber, not even knowing that they don’t make water guns with calibers — whistles innocently and goes to take a seat on the sunbed beside yours. 

“So, Kent,” he starts, “has my sister told you that the woman’s consent is the only thing needed for marriage in our culture?”

Conner blinks at him, then down at you. “Is that supposed to scare me off?” he whispers, trying not to have Damian hear. You pat his chest, “Don’t worry, I’d never force you into marriage.”

Your brother grumbles, “Well, did she tell you that they carve the man’s eyes out if he looks at another woman?” 

Now a bit worried, your boyfriend looks down to you again. Your hum is a non-committal one. “Oh, yeah, that I’d do. I’ve already got the Kryptonite spoon ready.” you glance up at him — a warning. “Just in case, of course.”

Conner gulps. “Just in case,” he repeats, blanching. 

Dick grimaces at the conversation. He turns to Tim and whispers, “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… help him?” 

He bursts out laughing. “Help him?” he hisses. “Dick, look at him– that guy’s right where he wants to be.” 

Grayson deadpans. “I fear our sister and her mother have the same taste in men.” 

Cassandra nods. “Guys who let them bully them into a relationship. We understood that years ago, Dick. Welcome to the club.”

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You were always brought to her under the cover of night. Stars shimmered overhead against a velvety black backdrop as you remained concealed under your cloak, escorted by a member of the City Watch, before being passed to a Kingsguard who guided you the rest of the way. Plenty of coins passed plenty of hands to ensure silence and a blind eye turned. By now, you were used to the routine, following the well-trodden path quietly until you were secure in the Queen Consort’s private chambers. It was only then that you would disrobe, letting the black velvet cloak puddle around your feet.

Alicent rose from her chair by the crackling fire, lifting two goblets filled with sweet Arbor gold before pressing one into your hand.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you murmured before taking a deep swig.

She nodded, swirling hers, the liquid sloshing in the golden cup before she took a well-measured sip. Her dark eyes raked over your body and appearance before reaching out to glide her fingertips down your silver hair.

“It has gotten mussed on your journey. Come, allow me to brush it for you,” she stated, guiding you over to her vanity.

You sat, cradling the cup in your hands as she glided an ivory brush through your hair until it shone like molten silver.

“Much better,” she smiled, allowing her hands to rest on your shoulders, her thumbs brushing the exposed skin. You did not wear the proper gowns that proper ladies did; instead, you were clad in revealing silks chosen for you by Mysaria, which were paid for by your father, no doubt. Being the bastard of Daemon Targaryen did have its benefits.

“I’m happy to please you, Your Grace,” you smiled, your purple eyes gleaming in the soft firelight of the room.

Her hand slipped under your chin, tilting your gaze as she studied you. Her thumb slipped across your lips, and you obediently parted them to draw in her finger.

“You are most pleasing, sweetling, always,” Alicent breathed, her brown eyes soft and almost pleading. You wondered who else saw her this vulnerable. Perhaps the one she loved long ago and lost, the one she pretended that you were.

“What sort of game would you enjoy tonight, Your Grace?” you whispered around her thumb still in your mouth.

The game was always dependent upon her moods. There were times when she took on the skin of a firm, cruel queen who put the princess at her mercy, and other times she was a submissive, disgraced queen at the mercy of the rightful heir who had taken her crown. Sometimes she preferred the role of a strict stepmother punishing her wild stepdaughter, and on the rare occasion, Alicent enjoyed the part of two lovers sharing a passionate night. And there was that one time you were a stern septa who wielded a cane, striking Alicent whenever she messed up a prayer to the Gods.

She withdrew her thumb from your mouth before walking over to the large chest with the Hightower sigil carved into its dark wood and lifted out the golden chains. Ah. Submissive, disgraced queen, it was.

“I am at your mercy this evening,” she whispered, dropping to her knees before you with the chains cradled in her lap.

You stood, removing the chains from her lap and placing them on the bed. An almost cruel smirk slashed across your face like a sharp dagger.

“You won’t require your clothes then. Stand up,” you ordered.

Her lower lip trembled as she stood on shaking legs. You took your time removing her robe and sliding the demure nightgown that covered her from the neck to her ankles until she stood bare before you. Her body was alluring, slender in the waist, yet her backside had a beautiful curve and fullness to it, as did her breasts. Two dusky nipples stood stiff, and a dusting of red curls covered her sex. You lifted the chains as she instinctively stretched out her arms, allowing you to snap the manacles into place. You secured her ankles as well, tugging on the chains to guide her.

She shuffled, the chains tinkling together, until you bent her over the bed with that beautiful backside on perfect display. Her feet just touched the floor as she shifted on her toes, her thighs parting to reveal her already glistening cunt.

“You think to take my place?” you whispered in her ear, bending across her naked body, your pelvis flush against her bare rump.

“P…please, I was misguided,” she whimpered.

“Excuses! Take responsibility for your actions,” you growled, standing up and slapping your hand against her backside.

Alicent gasped and shifted from foot to foot.

“I was greedy. I craved power,” she sniffled. Your hand cracked down thrice more, a lovely pink blossoming over her unblemished ivory skin.

“And what becomes of greedy girls grasping at power?” you asked, raking your nails down her sensitive skin.

She hissed, her body trembling as her pleasure dripped down her thighs, making them sticky.

“They fall, and are punished for it,” Alicent gasped.

“Indeed,” you hummed in agreement, your palm continually smacking her vulnerable, shaking backside until her skin bloomed red and felt like fire beneath your hands.

By the time you finished her punishment, wet tears clung to her minky lashes and streaked her cheeks. Her rosy mouth was bitten and swollen, and she shook as she tried to measure her breathing.

“There, there,” you soothed, gently stroking her enflamed skin, “I will teach you to be a good little servant for your queen.”

Silk puddled around your feet as you stepped out of your dress before climbing onto the bed, settling against the plush ivory pillows, and spreading your thighs wide. Mysaria took a straight razor to you every two weeks, leaving your cunt smooth and bare. You tugged on the chains, watching Alicent scramble further onto the bed until she was positioned between your thighs. How undignified she looked on all fours with a glowing, red arse as her head lowered between your legs. Her pink tongue darted out, swiping gently against your wet skin.

You sighed softly, pressing your cunt closer against her mouth and her tongue delved inside you for a brief moment. It was a sweet pressure gone all too soon.

“You are being sloppy tonight. If you cannot please me, I will not please you,” you scolded, your violet eyes harsh and narrowed.

“I…I’m sorry,” she sniffled, her fiery red hair clinging to her clammy skin.

You toyed with one of your nipples, rolling the flesh between the soft pads of your fingers as you studied her before reaching down to tangle your hand in her hair. You guided her to your breast, her lips wrapping around your pebbled nipple, and she suckled softly. The gentle bite of her teeth grazed over your sensitive flesh.

“There’s my good girl,” you cooed before pressing her back between your splayed thighs.

Alicent bristled at the praise, her mouth eagerly attached against your cunt as her tongue pleasure you. The brisk movements against your swollen pearl made you moan with delight. Your legs shook as the heat built through your body until you crashed into a heavy wave of pleasure and soaked the Queen’s mouth. When you regained your strength and the dizzy feeling disappeared, you pulled Alicent against your chest, her back pressed against your front.

The chains rattled as you pinched her nipples and made her twist and turn. Your fingertips danced down her belly before your palm slipped over her dripping sex to cup it, letting the wetness seep into your skin. Your thumb teased her slit, making her gasp and moan until finally two of your fingers filled her.

“My good girl,” you purred in her ear while your fingers kept a steady pace until she released over them.

She panted, curling in your embrace as she gently lapped and sucked your fingers clean while trembling against you. She was a demure little creature, well spanked, chained, and blissed out, docile and sweet in your arms. You stayed with her for most of the night until the hour of the wolf arrived, and you were snuck back to the streets of silk still under the cover of darkness. A heavy, burlap bag of golden coins was secured beneath your cloak, and you slept peacefully after a cup of sweet wine, wondering when you would be summoned again.

~~

Her hand was tight around your neck, golden rings glistening in the candlelight. Bruises would be left, no doubt. Purple and blue ones that you would run your fingers over as you rutted against your hand until your eyes rolled in the back of your head. She was no longer Queen Consort, but now the Dowager Queen as Helaena slipped into the previous role. King Viserys rotted in the ground, and all hell threatened to break loose. Alicent was not the docile doe tonight. Instead, she was an angry queen with fire boiling inside her as red as her hair.

“You will head my instructions,” she growled. She donned her golden crown and emerald green gown threaded with gold. Every inch a regal queen.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you gasped, desire leaking down your thighs as you trembled, naked, in her tight grasp.

“You will obey me and remember your place,” she seethed.

“I would not dare disobey the queen,” you whispered.

“Yet you’ve done so at every turn,” she lectured, bending you across the chaise.

“Then I beg for your forgiveness, Your Grace,” you pleaded.

Alicent scoffed, stroking one hand down your bare arse. “Perhaps you shall have it, if I’m feeling merciful.”

“You are most gracious, Your Grace,” you breathed out, your naked breasts pressed tightly against the cushion beneath you.

The tawse stung with a duel sharp bite with each lash she gave to your vulnerable backside. You were no stranger to pain and enjoyed these sorts of sessions with a variety of clients, but preferred them at the queen’s hand. You loved it when this side of her came out, and you bore the consequences. It spurred the desire boiling in your lower belly, and your pearl throbbed with need. By the time she finished, your arse was on fire and beaded with a few welts. Marks you would wear with pride, along with the bruises on your neck. She nudged your thighs further apart.

“Glistening just like a disgusting whore,” she growled, swiping a finger down your dripping cunt.

You heard the rustling of fabric, gasping when her cunt rubbed against your enflamed backside. Her wetness seeped onto your hot skin as she rutted against you. She kept her skirts bunched on one hand while the other gripped your hip as her pelvis slapped against the curve of your arse over and over until she reached her peak, leaving a sticky trail of her release on your skin. 

“I can never stay angry with you,” she whispered, her hand tenderly stroking your abused and sticky skin.

“I am most thankful for that, Your Grace,” you replied, need twisting through your stomach.

She had you remain bent over the chaise, knees digging into the stone beneath them as her fingers toyed with your soaked cunt. She teased your pearl with slow, dragging circles before two fingers suddenly filled you. It did not take long for you to spill over her fingers as the desire had been building inside you all night, and you needed but a simple push to topple over the edge. The rest of the night was a blur as the two of you took turns pleasing each other until exhaustion took over, leaving flesh raw and aching. When you returned to Mysaria’s pleasure house with a leather pouch overflowing with coin, you downed a glass of sweet wine as your fingers plunged between your thighs, stroking your raw, overstimulated flesh. At the same time, your other hand traced the bruises on your neck before toppling into sleep.

~~

You were surprised one afternoon when a hooded woman appeared with a simple green gown for you to wear and escorted you to the Red Keep. In broad daylight? Mysaria resided on Dragonstone now, and you fended for yourself just fine, as your father’s and Queen Alicent’s coin afforded you a good life. You were led through the main entrance and escorted into a solar that resides in The Tower of the Hand. You blinked with surprise as you stood before Queen Alicent, Ser Criston Cole, and who you could only presume was Prince Regent Aemond, judging from the black patch covering his right eye. You lowered yourself in an appropriate curtsey and waited for one of them to speak.

Alicent offered a kind smile. “We have a proposition for you. We require your service.”

Surprise and confusion seemed an understatement as to what you were feeling. “I would be happy to assist the crown in whatever they require of me,” you responded, unsure of what you were getting yourself into.

“The pretender is using sullied blood to lay claim to dragons to grow her army,” Aemond stated bluntly, anger seething through every part of his body.

“I had heard those rumors,” you admitted, keeping the part that you had pondered voyage to Dragonstone to attempt for yourself.

“I informed Aemond that I was aware of a young woman who was the bastard daughter of Daemon Targaryen, that mayhaps might try to claim one of the young dragons that lives in the dragonpit,” Alicent explained when it became clear that Aemond would not. He was not wholly committed to this particular cause, but numbers were not in their favour as of this moment.

Your eyes widened. “I would be willing to try, but I cannot guarantee a bond,” you said, your gaze locking onto Alicent’s and becoming lost in those doe eyes. A soft smile spread across the Dowager Queen’s face.

“That is all we can ask and hope for, the attempt with the promising outcome that you will bond with Azurelean,” Ser Criston Cole chimed in, giving the Prince Regent a pointed look.

“I have not heard that one’s name before,” you smiled.

“A hatchling of Dreamfyre named by Princess Helaena when she was small, who was without a name for five years before. She could not decide if the dragon was the shade of azure or cerulean, thus the hybrid name,” Criston clarified, and you noted the fondness in his voice and the softness in his eyes.

“I look forward to meeting her,” you said, your cheeks turning hot as you pondered why you said such a foolish thing.

Aemond scoffed. “If you’re lucky, she won’t burn you to death,” he said, spinning on the heels of his boots before leaving the solar.

“I apologize for the Prince Regent’s behavior, but we are out of options and we must meet dragon with dragon. The dragonkeepers and I will accompany you to the pit, and if the bond is made, then we will ensure you learn the commands and training for battle,” Criston said.

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” Alicent smiled before the man left.

Once alone, Alicent rushed forward to gather you in her arms.

“I am sorry for the secrecy,” she whispered.

“I understand,” you replied. You had been surrounded by secrecy your whole life.

“Your agreement in this matter means a great deal to me,” she said, running her thumb over your knuckles.

“Who could turn down the possibility of having a dragon?” you teased.

She chuckled softly. “And now I can have you in my presence more often.”

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You never imagined a Queen falling in love with a whore. “Another wonderful prospect.”

Your lips melted against hers in a soft, rosy kiss. You were no longer filling the void of the woman from the past, but embodied the woman of Alicent’s future. It would remain a secret, but you were not a stranger to that and did not require a public declaration of her love. The words passed between the two of you were enough.

You spent your days strengthening your bond with Azurelean and committing the Valyrian commands to memory. You spent your nights warming Alicent’s bed, committing the map of her naked body to memory. There were times Prince Aemond scowled behind you while in the dragonpit, a sharp barb or insult falling with ease from his tongue. They were easy enough to ignore as you reminded yourself that your tongue was buried in his mother’s cunt the night before. Your fingers brushed over the glimmering blue scales of your new dragon as you turned to face him.

“You whine just like your mother,” you smiled, watching the color drain from his face as the confusion took over.

as a last attempt to get out of it, she stopped in her tracks to look back and argue. your sheer glare was enough.

ugh, even being stranded can’t abolish your moral rights.

even stranded in the canadian wilderness you had to be the captain you were. god, you were what jackie thought she was.

in a way, mari admired how the wilderness hadn’t changed you. it was comforting. oddly enough, she liked the comfort.

“and stay out of trouble, for god’s sake, mar. i mean it!”

what she didn’t like was the way you chewed her ass.

the only person who knew how to push buttons better than mari was her mother. in a way, she learnt her unbeatable skills from the best. but there’s still a long way to go, that’s for sure. nobody got on mari ibarra’s nerves the way her mother did.

a figure she wouldn’t mind shedding with what the wilderness took, it irked mari to no end, the talent you so often fostered with the ability to mother her. she was never one to take things as trivial as a soccer strategy or a simple “soccer captain’s” instruction personally, but something about the way you were clouded in an aura of arrogance--of unwavering confidence in yourself and your way of leadership. it was like you thought--nay, you knew--you were better than her.

god, it pissed her off to no end. stupid golden girl, y/n l/n.

“i just don’t know why she always has it out for me, y’know?” mari whined, dragging the spoon in circles around the stew brewing in the pot. “like, that psycho almost chews my hand off, and i have to apologize?”

mari had been complaining for nearly half an hour. and, boy, was her whining getting super old, super fast.

melissa and gen shared a knowing look at the filipina’s apparent frustration with your orders; it was obvious, your affection for the troublemaker--and the only person left in the dark about it seemed to be mari herself. you may have had an odd way of showing you cared, but it was rather transparent.

“and, it’s like, hello? does she not like me or something--?”

“--oh my god, enough with it, mar!” van interrupted. the redhead clutched onto the bucket of water sloshing in her hands. “you’ve been going on and on about y/n, dude. we get it, you want to jump her bones, now shut up!”

the outburst earned a few hushed giggles around camp.

flustered, mari scoffed, the spoon slipping form her hand.

“what?” she laughed, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard, “seriously? i would never! like, i don’t even--!”

“well, sorry if i’m reading your mind wrong, but y’know how boys bully girls they like on a playground? yeah, that’s you.”

that’s a funny joke, like mari ibarra could ever like a girl.

“you’ve gotta admit, mar, you’re like… a little obsessed.”

mari couldn’t muster a scoff loud enough to channel the disbelief she felt for what just got uttered from melissa’s mouth. her? obsessed with y/n l/n, the antler queen?

“obsessed with what?” you emerged from your hut.

mari felt her heart drop to her stomach. her frantic gaze shot up at melissa immediately, watching the blonde’s face contort with the lie she was formulating in her head.

you stared, cocking your head as you waited in question.

“uh--well, mari’s been obsessed with this… new recipe she’s been cooking up.” melissa shot mari a wide-eyed nod, as if wordlessly beckoning her to play along. “right, mar?”

the filipina nodded sceptically. “yeah--yeah! i added some new herbs akilah’s been growing. it’s really good.”

you nodded along, but your eyes narrowed. “okay… well, try not to pull another misty shrooms trip.”

van had to suppress the biggest eye roll threatening to escape her, a harsh elbow from tai thrusted the antic straight back up her body. you were just such an uptight, prudish party pooper when it came to mari. it was jarring, almost.

“well, great,” you added, shooting the raven-haired girl a brief smile. your eyes meeting hers. “good job.”

eugh, you could cut the tension with a knife.

mari’s cheeks involuntarily heated up, she blessed her skin tone for shielding her fluster. she felt stripped under your gaze.

“uh--thanks.” she managed to utter. she sounded so stupid.

as you strolled off to speak to travis sitting in the corner, not without one last smirk flashed at your favourite troublemaker, gen immediately swatted mari’s arm with a hushed squeal.

“oh, come on, mar! you can’t tell me there is absolutely zero sexual tension between you guys after that, i was scared you were about to start stripping right then and there.”

mari clicked her tongue, “shut up. you guys are fucking dumb.”

“hey, you wanted to grab some ass, right? i mean, it’s not coach’s ass, but it’s still a pretty good one.” van snorted. the statement earned her a harsh nail to the stomach by tai’s elbow once again, this time, she doubled over with a groan.

“i mean, what’re you so annoyed for anyway?”

mari paused; what was she so annoyed about exactly?

“yeah, if you’re that upset, maybe stop pissing her off.” tai suggested curtly, shrugging. “stay outta shauna’s pants.”

“or, you guys can…” the redhead made a bed creaking sound, along with making lewd gestures with her hips. tai groaned, the shove knocking into her shoulder came much harsher than the last. still, it didn’t cease the hysteric fit of laughter coming from van. “hey, fuck the bitchiness out of her, y’know what i’m saying? come on, mar, we’re sick of you complaining!”

mari faked a gag. “stop. that’s actually disgusting.”

van let out a theatrical gasp. a hand clasped tightly over her chest. “is--is mari ibarra… homophobic? by chance?”

“what?” she spat, scoffing with a baffled grin. “i’m woke.”

“yeah, we’ve seen the lingerie mags you stash between the man of the month calendars, mar,” gen teased, smirking. “and i know your ass has been checking y/n out since provincials.”

sure, mari has snuck a glance or two towards the sweaty, curved figure standing in front of your cubby through her locker mirror. and yes, she’s caught herself biting her lip to keep a lewd noise from escaping her when you go absolutely ham on an orange, as juices dribble from your plump lips to your chin, during a halftime once. but come on, everybody’s found their soccer team captain hot at least once, right?

surely, that’s a normal occurrence for everyone… right?

“i wasn’t--y’know what? you people are psychopaths.”

grabbing her yellow team hoodie, she began strutting away with faux confidence. her “fight or flight” instinct left a couple smug grins to bask in her afterwords, they could only watch the filipina stutter in her step when she slipped past you and nat chatting. you could only stare at her diminishing back at the odd way she exaggeratedly avoided you with her body.

“oh my god, she’s so gonna cave tonight.” van scoffed.

“meh. mari’s self-esteem is pretty silver-plated. i give her… a week before she cracks.” tai rebutted.

gasping at the objecting raise, the redhead straightened up.

“wanna bet?” she wagered, pressing just the right button.

“oh, you know i’m right, palmer.” like the girl would ever back from a challenge. “what do i get when i win?”

“my god, these two are insufferable,” gen mumbled, strolling off. melissa closely followed suit. over her shoulder, she yelled, “keep the eye-fucking in your hut, fucking horn-dogs!”

honestly, you haven’t the slightest clue why mari ibarra was avoiding you like the fucking plague. you have a guess or two, but none of them justified her walking the other way.

after the odd conversation you stumbled in on yesterday, it was like there was a huge elephant in the room you couldn’t quite make out. it was beginning to bug you, the teasing glances thrown here and cheeky comments mouthed there.

it was driving you fucking mad, being outside this inside joke.

first, it was breakfast. as the others ate, you went around doing checks making sure everybody had their tasks laid out for the day. when you approached mari to inquire about her plans for rationing the material you had for dinner, she wouldn’t even let you get a word in before speeding towards the meat hut.

then, chatting to tai and nat about the shauna situation in your hut, the flow of conversation was harshly interrupted by unmistakable whining from outside. leaving your hut to see how you could help, you volunteered to help out with starting the stale fireplace when mari was cussing it out. you didn’t even manage a step outside before mari quickly yanked robin from her corner by the animal pen to come help.

sure, she was stubborn, she would complain and whine into your ear about how she could handle herself, but she never refused your aid. and that was strike two on your scoreboard.

at dinner, the lot of you discussed the logistics of throwing a festival to celebrate those you’ve lost, and to honour their sacrifices upon fallen victim in return for the greater good of your wellbeing. you absolutely adored the idea.

the next couple days were devoted to preparing the camp for festival de el faltered, as van named it. being the pair of eyes that oversaw every nook, every detail crammed in the crannies of things needed for this event, you barely had time to think about the mari situation. you could only thank all the gods she was keeping herself out of trouble with shauna, it has surely added some years back to your life.

the atmosphere was so positively charged tonight; everybody had taken a break from wearing each other down and focused on dressing the part for the night’s feast.

the fire was low, dancing in sputtering bursts, casting flickering shadows over the girls’ faces. they’d strung together something like a festival--someone carved antlers into a stump. someone else braided dried flowers into crowns, van called it “a doomscoming rerun,” and mari added, “if homecoming was held in hell, and the theme was trauma.”

you didn’t disagree. but you were glad to see some colour returning to the troublemaker’s persona.

you stood by the edge of the clearing, arms folded, cloak heavy on your shoulders, watching the others drink something vaguely alcoholic and wildly questionable from hollowed-out gourds. dinner was nearly ready, and you could feel the aura of frustration radiating off the filipina as she fought misty for cauldron duty. she then stormed off to the side, upon lottie stepping in to take over after an instructive glance from you across camp. she sat by her hut, sulking.

you knew mari had lengthy challenges with authority--from martinez, to scott, to nat, and now to you. something about somebody seizing power over her entire being unsettled her deeply, and it triggered the impish, troublesome reflex you had the great displeasure of putting up with.

but it was your realm of responsibility. you had no choice.

you don’t enjoy mari’s company, per se, but you had never minded it. she, on the other hand, made her irritant known.

"y’know, if you wanna stare any longer, you should take a picture,” nat commented, taking a seat beside you. she rested her elbows on her knees, tilting her head to watch you recollect yourself after being caught staring. “when’s the wedding?”

“knock it off,” you barked, like an order. “she’s acting weird.”

“mari?” the brunette inquired, head snapping to catch a glimpse of said filipina brooding by her hut. she couldn’t resist the scoff that escaped her. “what? did she make six ‘your mom’ jokes instead of seven today?”

“forget it. i’m probably just overthinking it.”

“no,” nat argued, “i’m just messing around. talk to me.”

you recalled every little moment that felt off to you the last two days--yeah, okay. you had been managing her. because mari, left unattended, was a blunt knife--dangerous in the dumbest way possible. and ever since she started clashing with shauna over anything, everything just got tenser. the group needed harmony. and harmony meant mari shutting up, making nice, and not dragging the whole camp into another silent civil war.

because here’s the thing: mari had always been a pain. always looking for something to dig her nails into. but lately, all that fire wasn’t just anger. not exactly. sometimes she’d get in your face about a decision you made like rationing or assigning chores--and her voice would get low and hot, and you’d catch her eyes dropping to your mouth like she hated the way you talked but wanted to taste the words anyway.

sometimes she'd flinch when you touched her arm, like she wasn’t sure whether to slap you or drag you into the woods, a slight detail you never noticed she had around the others.

it was like you physically repelled her, like your fingertips scorned her skin at touch. it was truly disheartening.

so yeah. you were over her attitude. and she was over your everything. which is why it was weird when she hadn’t snapped back at you or made a snarky comment once.

and tonight? it was like she wasn’t even trying to piss you off.

“she hasn’t snapped back at me or shauna the whole day.”

“isn’t that a good thing?” nat snickered, watching your expression closely. “i mean, this is what you’ve been praying for, right? for mari to get off your ass?”

“yeah, but,” you stuttered. it just didn’t feel right. something lacked in the air without your constant bickering, without her stubborn remarks. “i don’t know, something’s off. i feel it.”

“why not just enjoy the peace?” the italian commented, “it’s a good change of pace. and now you’ve got one thing crossed off your list of things to worry about.”

“yeah,” you muttered back, “yeah, you’re right.”

you prayed the way mari’s behaviour was bugging you wasn’t made obvious to the team. you weren’t exactly up to explaining yourself every time you were caught staring.

unluckily, nat wasn’t the last to catch your unsubtle efforts.

"so how’s the wife?" van asked, making her way over from the table set-ups. she grinned as she nudged you with her elbow. she nodded toward mari, who was now dramatically picking dried petals out of her soup. “trouble in paradise, perchance?”

you didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow. seriously?

“she looks mad,” the redhead added. “like you forgot your anniversary or something. i mean, look at that pout.”

it took everything in you not to look. you found it hard to tear your eyes away from the filipina--her lips were pursed in frustration as she watched misty stir the pot, sulking with her arms crossed as she barked at whomever strolled close by her seat. you were almost… jealous? why was she suddenly snapping at and being mean to everybody, but you?

“maybe y/n didn’t tell her she looked pretty in her freaky ass necklace,” nat said, mock serious. “classic mistake.”

you rolled your eyes at their antics. “very funny.”

but that didn’t stop the teasing smirks. and it didn’t stop the tension you’d been trying very hard not to name. especially since mari has yet to let you within ten feet of her being.

“what? is our little old y/n upset ‘cuz her wifey’s mad?” van pouted theatrically. “maybe if mari got a little kiss from little miss antler queen, she’d have less of a stick up her ass!”

van’s taunting words echoed behind you as you propped yourself up to walk away. what has gotten into them today?

“hey! that’s cheating!” tai hissed, taking your place between nat and her girlfriend. “i said no nudging. you’re nudging!”

van held her arms up. “i’m not nudging, i’m just suggesting!”

“you can’t push y/n into it so you win your bet, mari has to be the one who gives in.” the taller explained, crossing her arms with an eyebrow raised. “so it won’t count if y/n does.”

“what? you’re totally making rules up.” van groaned.

“oh my god, you two are both idiots.” nat snickered.

after the odd little back and fourth with your teammates, your thoughts plagued your every waking moment: were they right? did they have a point? was mari acting weird because of something between the two of you? no--nat was right: enjoy the peace while you had it, it was precious.

so, you focused your worries on aiding others around camp.

helping akilah finish her routine tending to the animal pen, you had your ceremonial robe tied tightly around your waist, the sleeves of the shirt you had on under rolled up to your shoulders as you dodged the mud the pesky lambs soiled you with their lively, galloping hooves. it wasn’t ideal, to be painted in dirt right before an important dinner you hoped would bring some colour back on the team’s faces, but akilah needed help, and you weren’t about to let her be swamped alone.

when you finally emerged from the pen’s gates, you were damn near sweating through your shirt. with your hair framing your glistening features, you went to rinse your hand of any clutter before dinner. unluckily for them, a pair of curious eyes found themselves trained directly on your appearance.

god, who gave you the right to look like that all dirty?

“so this is what it is, hm?” her head snapped up. “ogling l/n?”

it was like second nature, the way something in mari instantly switched to atone to the offensive tone. like a cat arching its back, alert, bearing its teeth at the threat coming its way.

“wouldn’t you know, gaywad? we all know you had your tongue so far down jackie’s throat, you tasted jeff’s stds.”

shauna’s smirk fell, her fist clenching as her jaw locked.

“really tryna lose the other hand too, huh?” she sneered, nodding down at the filipina’s bandaged fist.

“why? you tryna get fingered, shipman?” mari pressed.

whatever measure you had ensued to prevent the volcanic eruption of the shipman islands dissolved in mere seconds. already treading the brink of its own fragility, the thread drawn between the two seemed to fade when shauna threw a heavy fist into the younger’s jaw. the crack rung across camp.

“what the f--shauna!” you yelled, pouncing to your feet.

“call me ‘shipman’ one more time, ibarra, i fucking dare you.” shauna growled, thrusting the girl down against the laid table, knocking over dent cups and filled bowls. precious food from gen and rachel’s hunts soaked into the hungry soil.

okay, that was it. they had successfully driven you over.

you knocked the entirety of your weight against shauna, like you once did in soccer, thrusting her away from mari. tai and lottie scrambled to hold the feral woman back by her arms, sneering at the struggle they had keeping her down.

you huffed, standing between a bloodthirsty shauna and a timid mari, whom laid on the floor, stunned.

“seriously?” you scoffed, glancing at the fierce eyes staring back in challenge. “the two of you had to do this today?”

"oh, look," shauna said, loudly, jerking away from the girls’ hold. "here comes the queen saving her fucking princess.”

"hey!" you barked, sharp, warning. “get your shit together.”

but she was already going, and there was no stopping the chain of venom spewing from the brunette’s mouth. "should i bow? or is it just enough if i sit down, shut up, and smile pretty while you tell me how to apologize to your fucking minion?"

the silence was brutal. even van didn’t have a quip ready.

"another fucking word, shipman," you hissed, calm only in volume, stepping closer. “you won’t speak at all.”

"give it up, i’m not your lackey in this fucked little game. and i’m definitely not going to be mothered by someone who thinks wearing antlers makes her better than the rest of us."

you stared at her. she was red-cheeked, breathing hard, hands clenched like she wanted to throw something--or maybe grab you by the collar. and for half a second, the world tilted, because yeah, there was rage, but underneath it: something vulnerable, of fear. after all, she was the one being cornered, stubbornly bearing her fangs at the queen the herd obeyed.

it was your duty to protect your flock, and that included those who strayed--pains in your ass like mari ibarra.

you left shauna’s taunt unanswered, with no response. instead, you huffed, turning away to peer down at a panting mari. you reached for her hand, yanking her up swiftly.

“everybody gas put a lot into tonight. i’m not letting your temper ruin a festive evening.” you announced, dusting the filipina off. you could feel shauna’s eyes burn holes in the back of your head, but quickly cooled by mari’s breath against your skin as you rubbed a speck of dirt from her cheek. you glared at the brunette over your shoulder. “tonight, we feast. but the moment this is over, the two of you are paying for the shit your childish little tantrums have costed us.”

swiftly, knocked-over food were getting cleaned. shauna was quick to storm off and sulk in defeat.

you sighed, hands on your hips as you watched her disappear into her hut. you glanced at mari, who gulped at the weight of your piercing gaze fixing on her solely. “you okay?”

she cleared her throat, “no, yeah. i could’ve taken her.”

you chuckled in amusement, watching her avert her gaze as you held it. “she had you over the table, mar. i don’t think you could’ve taken her with another pair of arms.”

she fixed her hair, the rogue strands of hair framing her face.

“she caught me off guard--! whatever, just forget it.”

“no, you stay right here.” you ordered, gesturing before you.

her feet halted instinctively, a natural reaction to the tone you nestled in the simple instruction. her mind raced, scolding at her own legs for listening so obediently.

“when i told you to stay out of trouble, i meant it, ibarra.”

she rolled her eyes. oh my god, are you really schooling me?

“hey, watch it.” you snapped, the gentle edge to your tone honed to pierce her arrogant facade. “just because i’m trying to keep this night about the friends we’ve lost instead of whatever petty shit you and Shauna’s got going on, doesn’t mean you can give me that nasty attitude, yeah?”

“okay, jesus.” she huffed, tip of her thumb dabbing lightly at the blood trickling from her nose. “i didn’t even do anything, she came over and fucking punched me in the face.”

you watched her fingers pick at the cut, hissing sharply.

“stop touching it, moron.” you scoffed, slapping her hand away lightly. she hated when you called her names; idiot, dumbass, dummy--you never held back when it came to making her lack of wisdom/maturity known. “follow me.”

you grabbed her hand, keeping it as far away from the fresh, gushing cut as you could. your hands were warm from working with akilah all afternoon, the faint tone of your back peaking from under your shirt. she felt greedy for looking, like she was about to slap herself for even thinking such thoughts.

and what thoughts were those exactly? good question.

in all transparency, mari could barely make it out herself. they were all tangled and morphing together like some fucked little fantasy cloud. swallowing her nerves didn’t seem to do much about the butterflies desperately thrashing in her stomach.

shit, the way your arm was flexing? no, it’s the hand hold, the way your fingers were weaving into hers. y’know what, it’s definitely the sweat glistening off your skin right now.

whatever it was, mari was feeling much less annoyed with you and much more annoyed with herself.

did she really think--eugh--y/n l/n was hot right then?

“gen, can you grab me a damp cloth, please?” you called, shooting the nodding girl a tight-lipped smile. you sat her down, hands pushing down her shoulders. “sit.”

“dude, i really don’t need you to--”

“stop talking for once, will you?” the snapback was immediate. you undid the robe tied around your waist, setting the festive piece down. “if that gets infected, you won’t be able to eat, drink or speak. which, i wouldn’t exactly complain about, but i know you’ll find a way to whine about it.”

gen handed you the shred of towel, standing behind you, watching, as you grabbed the filipina by her chin.

caught off guard by the sudden contact, mari jerked away from you grasp, feeling her cheeks flush with a sudden surge of heat. your fingers reached for her chin again, holding her head in place, her skin flushed hot against your fingertips.

“stop moving.” you muttered, dabbing the towel against her lips. over your shoulder, mari caught the teasing smirk gen was flashing her. still, she obliged, stilling her head.

"jesus," gen muttered under her breath. “just kiss already.”

when you snapped your head back, she was already strolling away, you caught the panicked wide-eyed from mari.

“what the fuck was that about?” you questioned, still lighting brushing at the cut on her face. she grimaced, but you could tell she was wracking her brain, finding an explanation.

“nothing--! it’s nothing, ignore her. she’s just drama-deprived.”

“god knows we have enough of it.” you sighed, a subtle jab at mari’s hand in the incident that had just unfolded. “look, i have some things i want to gather for jackie. i want to make tonight about her. will you do me this one favour, mar? please?”

mari always wondered if you and jackie’s relationship were ever purely platonic, but she could never make out if it was a justified suspicion, or her subconscious envy talking.

you were the golden duo, captain and her first mate.

shauna may have been jackie’s day one, but you were writhing in her palm. you had a questionable loyalty to her.

jackie wants you to keep mari in check? done.

jackie wants you to make mari do suicides? say no more.

jackie wants you to bench mari? aye aye, captain.

despite being the kinder of you two, you were somehow stuck with the bad cop title, always the captain kicking people off or telling sophomores off. jackie was the one lining them for her infamous compliment mirror exercise, the one giving the pre-game pep talks and leading the prideful team cheer.

but alas, platonic or not, jackie was obviously an important figure in your life, and her passing undeniably devastated you. arguably, much more, much deeper than the way it wounded shauna. you held no resentment, no twisted malice buried deep at the root of your connection.

you loved jackie. and she loved you. mari wish she could experience the delight of having someone care for her being.

but then, all she cared about was the fact y/n l/n was begging.

she nodded, her lip tucking into her mouth as she gulped.

you smiled, a tight-lipped, polite one, but a smile regardless. “if you were ever gonna get your shit together, this would be a good time.” you cleared your throat, “see you later then.”

mari’s eyes snapped to her, wild, and watched as you turned on your heel, sauntering off to your hut. your back defined and poking through your shirt, the robe swinging around your hips.

“the captain’s down bad,” van said, sipping from her cup. she smirked at the aghast expression from mari. “just saying.”

“more like down right mad,” she muttered, “did we just see the same interaction? ‘cuz i think she wants to strangle me.”

van shrugged, pursing her lips. “same thing.”

“oh, for--are you assholes ever gonna drop that?”

van chuckled, tilting her head to make out the sour expression on mari’s face better. "what? you gonna pretend that didn’t just happen? you did that little lip bite thing.”

the filipina tensed, yanked the rag off her skin and winced.

"what are you talking about?" she muttered.

“the mari move. when you’re really into someone, you bite your lip.” van stepped into view, arms crossed, one brow arched like she already knew the answer. "besides, she bitches at you but then fixes you up like a personal nurse.”

mari rolled her eyes and looked away. "she always acts like that. it’s her antler queen duties or whatever.”

"mhm," van said, like she didn’t believe a word. "she only acts like that with you. i’ve bled so many times around here, but she hasn’t patched me up once. not a single fucking time.”

"cuz tai’s always hounding you like a guard dog, lesbo."

van walked over, crouched beside her. “no. because you drive her insane. because you actually like her attention.”

mari flinched like she'd been slapped. “i don’t--that’s not--i don’t let her do anything. she’s the one with control issues and is always looking for an excuse to yell at me.”

"yeah," van said. "and you live for it. you two can’t go three hours without a showdown. you know what that is?"

mari didn’t answer. didn’t move. she didn’t want the answer.

van raised an eyebrow, cocking her head aside. “oh, come on, mar! don’t play dumb now, just bone the woman!”

"i--i don’t even like her," she stammered, but it sounded weak. curse her stutter, she hated when it’d slip under pressure. "she’s--she’s cold, she’s bossy--she’s always watching me like i’m doing everything wrong. like my fucking mother.”

van smirked, but there was something sad in it. “yeah. and you notice every time, don’t you? when she looks at you?”

mari’s chest ached, burning in her. her mouth opened like she was going to argue again, but nothing came out.

“look, mar.” van stood up, stretching her back. she rested her hands against her hips. “it’s okay. but you have to stop kidding yourself and be honest about what kind of game you’re playing. and who you’re playing it with.”

the redhead patted her shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

the cut on her lip throbbed, but not as much as whatever was turning over in her stomach. she thought about the way your fingers burnt against her skin, the way your eyes hadn’t left her face, even after the cut was cleaned.

the festival bustled with the most energy the camp has seen in a while--you let yourself sink into the chatter, the lively atmosphere engulfing you. the camp square was decorated with paper lanterns and torched sticks that kissed the quad with a gentle glow. a long wooden table was laden with a feast that seemed nearly impossible in your situation: roasted deer meats, fresh fruits, honeyed grapes, wild greens tossed with fragrant herbs. your chest swelled with content.

you settled into your seat at the head of the table, the crown robin had made with a fowl skull hung heavily on your brow.

the weight of the antlers stemming from your head rung familiar. you assumed the role of antler queen casually, as you did every day. a role you honoured it, embraced it so you could learn to embrace your friends too. but the way their eyes all fell on you, expectant, anticipating and waiting for your speech with bated breath, you felt monopolized by their worshipping.

“tonight,” you began, voice steady despite the tremor in your hand as you clutched your makeshift chalice, “is a celebration of life. to remember those who walked beside us.”

like we didn’t choose them, skin them, then consume them.

“to coach, rachel, laura lee, crystal, and javi.” you announced, pausing fir them to marinate in the silence. “and to jackie, who was my best friend. she was my light, my anchor, my family. and every day i get to help this team live a little longer, and live a little better, i carry her with me.”

the table fell silent, glistening eyes fixed on you as your own fell to the swirling fermented berry water in your hand. shauna stared blankly ahead, unable to meet your eye.

“jack, i love you. i hope you’re here with us, in the warmth from the laughter to the quiet moments, and all that in between.”

you held up your chalice. everybody followed suit.

“to our friends, and to this crazy dinner you beautiful suckers managed to pull together.” you chuckled, “cheers.”

glasses clinked, chatter broke out as the first drink broke. you fell back into your seat, smiling. but as the feast carried on, a hollow ache remained lodged in your heart.

around you, the noise only grew as the evening progressed. forks scraped plates, glasses clinking, voices rising in songs and stories. yet your gaze kept slipping away from the food towards the edge of camp, where the fire’s glow met the dark woods. you tried to taste the steaks and the rich stew, but every bite was bittersweet. the occasion just saddened you.

no one seemed to notice your sorrow except mari.

mari sat a few seats down at the near end of the table, her curious eyes never left you. something in her unsettled at the bottom of your stomach, knowing she wanted to reach out and hold you, to remind you that you mattered, that you deserved to be loved the way you loved jackie.

throughout the dinner, as the others immersed themselves into the joyous festivities tai had planned (and van hosted), mari’s fixation on you grew obvious to those around you.

with jackie hung heavy in your mind, you hardly noticed the pair of eyes burning holes into your skull.

as the night stretched on, the feast faded into a blur of voices and laughter, but your sadness stayed sharp and clear, a cold thread running through the warmth around you. you tried to push it down, to be present, but the memory of jackie clung to you like a shadow. you didn’t even yell at travis and lottie when they had started bickering about some tea the maui girl had brewed earlier that day. which was where mari drew the line.

she was being good, like you had instructed her, like you had ordered. she wasn’t feeding shauna’s rage, and it took everything in her to keep herself from spitting every snarky comment that came to mind. it was impressive.

the festival’s lights flickered in the darkening sky. the crown they had made for you grew heavier as the fire died, you were growing tired, your neck sore from bearing its weight. you lifted it, cradled it gently off your head, glaring at the details etched into the fine bone. it was beautifully disturbing.

you lingered long after the fire had started its slow death, amber coals pulsing like a weak heartbeat under blackened logs. the snow came down heavier now, catching in your hair, in the corners of your mouth, but you didn’t move. the cold felt earned. deserved. just like how she had died. you let yourself get lost in the thought of how she’d still be here, sitting beside you, if you had just told shauna to swallow her godforsaken pride and called her back in like you wanted to.

behind you, some huts glowed faintly, light seeping through the tiny cracks of the stick exterior. most were probably fast asleep, with some exceptions giggling or chatting like things were okay. everybody pretended it was, none of you liked looking each other in the eyes too long, especially not with the knowledge of how some of your friends passed.

you heard the crunch of shoes against dead leaves before she had to say anything. the sound of her uneven breath stiffled.

“you’re not, like, writing poetry or some shit out here, right?”

her voice was light, shielding the layers of uncomfortable confrontation she was so unwilling to face head-on.

you scoffed, a pathetic attempt at a chuckle. “not yet, no.”

she shuffled to stand beside you, back of her knees hovering just over the log by the fire pit. she stood close enough for you to hear every small movement, but just far enough to give you space. you don’t glance up at her, staring blankly at the crown in your hands. she finally opted to sit after a moment’s silence.

“good,” she sighed, tugging at the hem of her shorts, “i’m not in the mood to hear some emily dickinson shit right now.”

you don’t even try and laugh this time around, but the corners of your mouth twitched. that was just the thing about mari--she always said the most outlandish shit to get a reaction, especially when she was uncomfortable. and when she was uncomfortable, that meant she cared.

“go back to your hut. it’s getting cold out here.” you said.

“well, van and tai’s hut are right next to me, so i’m not exactly feeling like falling asleep to dry humping.” she glanced around, sucking in a sharp breath, “figured i’d switch it up.”

you loved that lame excuse she was trying to muster, but you’ve heard enough “i can’t come to practice, i have cramps” from mari to know when she was lying.

after a beat, she added, “also, you’ve been doing that whole tragic lone wold thing all night. i figured maybe you got stuck in it or something. like… emotionally.”

a chortle escaped you. “that’s your way of asking if i’m okay?”

she shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm. “what? no, i--shut up! this is why i never ask about anyone’s stupid feelings!”

“no, i appreciate it.” you assured her, fumbling with the crown in your hands. “i just… don’t know how to miss her right.”

mari swallowed thickly, internally debating on whether or not to push further. “what do you mean?”

“i don’t know, i just… i never stop thinking about her.”

she watched your side profile for a moment, taking in how the distant hut lights lighted the softest edges of your features. she blew out a breath, “yeah, well. jackie was kinda the worst.”

that made you huff, more out of surprise than anything.

“i mean, she was pretty and popular and definitely had main character syndrome, but she was also a huge bitch. and you--“ she paused, biting back her pride, “you put up with a lot more shit than the rest of us. co-captain and all.”

you held the crown up, finally sparing her your attention.

“this should’ve been hers.” you let it fall from our hands to the gravel with a soft thud. “she’s the captain. not me.”

“she could barely hold a bucket. you literally built a village.”

“i didn’t do that. you guys did that.” you shook your head, glancing around at the civil hamlet thriving since winter. “all i did was wear a stupid crown to keep nat from dying.”

“no, we built it all because you keep the peace around here.”

she poked the side of your arm, you sway with the push. your eyes fluttered shut, letting out a genuine chuckle.

“did you seriously just tell me i keep the peace? you’re the reason i need to do that.” you nudged her back with your knee. and for a moment, both pairs of eyes wander over each other’s features for a second. when you catch yourself staring at her biting her lip a breath too long, you looked away, clearing your throat. “you’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

she pursed her lips, and in a sulky tone, grumbled, “you should be thanking me. i’m giving you a job to do.”

“no, you’re adding to my already tough job, mar.” you corrected quietly. stubborn as ever, she looked away, letting her gaze drift out towards the edge of camp. she toyed with her hands, picking at her nails as the gnawing at her bottom lip intensified. and you watched her, just like you had the last couple weeks. except this time, you didn’t curse yourself for pouring so much of your attention on her, you took advantage of the opportunity to really take her in.

she doesn’t speak, afraid she’ll say something she can’t take back if she let the venom spill. she knows you’re right, she always has. she hated the feeling of being wrong.

so, like always, you take the high road. you submit to her.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean that.” you muttered, reaching out to grab her hand. “you know i don’t mind you.”

it sounded more… wrong than it should’ve, but it felt so right.

“yeah… god knows i love when you yell at me.” the semi-joke was out before she could rethink her choice of words. when she realized what she had said, you were already blinking; that was the closest she had ever came to sounding sincere. she pulled away from your warmth, crossing her arms. “this is so embarrassing, i’m gonna lose all my street cred.”

you shifted towards her, so the distance closed once again.

“street cred? for being a pain in the ass?” you teased, smirking. your hand fell into her lap, squeezing just above her knee to reassure you were only joking. her leg tensed at the action. “don’t worry, mar, that’s how i know you love me.”

she waited for you to move, for your hand to drop from her thigh so she could let out the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. but it didn’t, it stayed just where you wanted it.

“i--i can’t do this.” she shot up, shoulders shrugged up. “i’m glad you’re okay, but i should probably hit the hay.”

you cocked your head aside, made aware of the sudden change in atmosphere. you grabbed her hand, wanting the moment to stretch just a little longer.

“no, please.” you pleaded, eyes wide and glossy. “stay.”

you waited, her fingers struggled in your palm. she slowly sunk back onto the log, you don’t tear your hand away, instead, you wove your fingers between hers. and it was like you could hear her short circuit at the contact.

you turned towards her, free hand grabbing her chin. frozen, she panicked, just as you leant in.

you didn’t kiss her like it was urgent, like you were two teenagers rotting away in the canadian wilderness. it was simple, quiet, your lips pressed firmly against hers. her lips were cold and a little chapped, but you couldn’t savour that feeling any more when she kissed you back.

when her hand found its way under your hair and cupping the back of your neck, it was like one of lottie’s nature spirits had taken over you; only, they weren’t offering spiritual guidance, but instead some much-needed release of the building tension between the two of you. and thank god for that.

from her straddling you over that log, to you lifting her from your lap with her legs wrapped tightly around your waist, to you practically waking up the entire camp with the way you hustled and bustled towards a nearby table, you were just intoxicated. all you could think about was mari ibarra, and not the petty, selfish little asshole that usually dragged rainy clouds over your sunny day, but a desperate, whiney brat whimpering at just the taste of your lips.

clasped between you and the table, she could only hold onto you, grabbing at your shirt, tugging at the antler queen chain around your neck. you groaned into her jaw, teeth grazing her skin just enough to leave your mark.

you were damn near about to split her in two on that table, before unwelcomed interruptions made themselves known.

“wow--! this is just a new low.” gen snickered.

“come on, man, we eat on that table.” melissa groaned.

“see? no nudging needed.” van smugly remarked, earning herself a harsh elbow in the stomach from her girlfriend.

“so does that make mari our antler… king?”

“shut up, quigley.” shauna huffed, “at least now we all know exactly why the bitch keeps getting off with nothing.”

you sighed, shaking your head, but you couldn’t help but smile at the position you found yourself in. mari, on the other hand, seemed much more transparent with her embarrassment. she yanked at the collar of your shirt, covering her flushed cheeks with it before you waved the gathering crowd off.

“okay, nothing to see here, everybody go to sleep!”

“yeah, you ain’t ‘bout to do much sleeping, huh?” tai snarked.

hm. maybe not.

an; omg this was so fucking long but i had to get it out, yall better love on this one cuz i put my whole dillydallyussy into it.

You woke with a groan, your head pounding as if your septa had taken a rod to it without pause. Worse still was the unfamiliar sensation beneath your fingers—thick furs, not the soft silks of your own bed.

Your eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again against the cruel stab of morning light leaking through canvas.

It had been an unruly night.

You had slipped away from the royal festivities, offering up silent thanks that your father, Maeker and Aerion would not arrive until the morrow. If they had seen even a whisper of what you’d planned, you’d have felt the lash before the night was through.

Your thoughts drifted back to the night before…

Torches guttered in the dark, casting warm light over silk tents and roaring fires. Laughter spilled into the night air, mingling with music and the sharp scent of wine. 

You were meant to arrive with the rest of your family on the morrow, in a proper royal procession, to observe the tourney as a princess of House Targaryen ought.

Instead, you had slipped away days early with your cousins, Daeron and Aegon, chasing the promise of excitement like any common girl with too much curiosity and not enough patience.

The three of you had taken rooms in a shabby inn not far from Ashford. Daeron, as expected, cared more for his drinks than for tourney lists, and Aegon—sweet, earnest Egg—would have fell to his brother in neglect if you had not pressed a pouch of coins into the innkeeper’s hand and made her swear to keep an eye on him.

Only then had you slipped away on your own.

Ashford had been alive with merriment when you finally arrived, far removed from the rigid hush of court. You’d fallen in with a pair of painted whores who had laughed at your careful speech and noble posture before gleefully taking you in hand. They laced you into borrowed silks cut scandalously low, dusted your cheeks with colour, lined your eyes in kohl, and declared you ready for the festivities.

And then there had been the wine.

Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Someone else caught your wrist and spun you in a careless circle as you danced around the fire. The music swelled around you—drums pounding, fiddles shrieking, hands clapping in time—and when you laughed, the sound startled even you, bright and unguarded.

Cup after cup you indulged, until you were past the point of sensible. Feeling gloriously untethered from duty, expectation, and the careful posture drilled into you since girlhood.

Eventually, the night began to blur.

The fires smeared into streaks of molten gold. The tents lost their distinction, one silk wall bleeding into the next. When you stumbled into a tent at the edge of the grounds, you assumed it was your own and sighed in relief at the warmth.

A shout of laughter rang out.

You blinked, frowning faintly as you remembered—you didn’t have a tent at all. Meaning you had just entered a strangers.

The space was enormous, even through the haze of wine, and some distant, sober part of your mind registered that it must belong to a greater house. Thick furs covered the floor. Tankards crowded every surface. Half a dozen men and women were already deep in their cups, dancing and laughing and drinking.

You took a hesitant half step back—but a hand caught your arm and tugged you forward instead. Laughter surrounded you, warm and infectious, and before you could protest, a goblet of wine was once again pressed firmly into your hands.

Your already-drunken mind forgot whatever reason you’d had for leaving. The music swallowed the thought whole, and you let yourself be swept into the crowd, laughing and dancing without a care in the world.

You were drawn deeper and deeper into the press of bodies, into the heat and noise at the heart of the tent.

And there—at the center of it all—danced the handsomest man you had ever seen.

He towered over nearly everyone around him, broad as an ox, dark-haired, clad in fine silks that strained across powerful shoulders. When he laughed, the sound boomed through the tent, rich and unrestrained, as though the world existed solely for his amusement.

It seemed you were not the only one whose attention had been caught.

His gaze found you mid-spin. Hungrily taking in the way you moved, the careless grace the wine had gifted you. Heat crept up your spine under the weight of it.

Purposefully, you looked away and kept dancing, though you had to fight back a smirk. You did not miss the way he began to move through the crowd, nor the subtle way others made room for him.

Moments later, strong hands settled at your waist.

A warm breath brushed the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel his heat seeping through the thin silk at your back.

“Well,” your mystery man drawled, voice rich with amusement, “either I’m drunker than I thought, or someone’s wandered into the wrong den.”

You grinned back at him, fearless in your wine-soaked courage. “Then you must be far drunker than you realized.”

A husky laugh rumbled out of him, low and pleased. With an easy strength, he spun you around until you faced him fully, your skirts flaring with the motion.

“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes bright, a challenge dancing there. “Well then, there’s only one solution for that.”

He plucked the empty goblet from your fingers and replaced it with a brimming one in smooth motion. “We must drink more…and dance!”

He seized another full cup from a passing reveller to take for himself before clinking it against yours, and tipped it back in one long swallow. You followed without hesitation, the wine burning warm all the way down.

Then his hand found yours again, and he drew you into the center of the crowd, spinning you beneath the torchlight as laughter and music crashed around you. The wine thrummed warmly in your veins, loosening every careful thread of restraint until you no longer felt like a princess at all.

You did not dance like someone trained to glide through courtly steps beneath a hundred watchful eyes.

You danced wildly and freely.

You laughed too loud, let him spin you too fast, and let the music pull you wherever it wished. Your hair slipped loose, your cheeks flushed, your breath coming quick with joy you had never allowed yourself to show in gilded halls.

And in that careless happiness, you didn’t notice the way he watched you.

Not like a courtier assessing a match. Not like a knight admiring a lady.

He watched you like a man witnessing a storm roll in over open sea—awed, thrilled, and not entirely certain whether he meant to stand still or chase it headlong.

By the time the fire burned low and the musicians’ hands grew tired, the tent had begun to empty. Laughter faded into murmurs, then into the hush of dying embers.

You were flushed, breathless and still in his arms.

Your eyes widened in horror as more fragments of the night crashed back into you.

The press of his hungry mouth against yours

 His hands wandering along every inch of your body. 

Your own fingers tracing the hard lines of him, the ridges of old scars beneath warm skin.

Breathless moans as the two of you lost yourselves into the pleasure of each other’s body.

You froze—dread pooling in your stomach—you became aware that your cheek was not resting on a pillow.

It was resting on a broad, solid chest, which was warm and very much alive beneath your skin.

You gasped and shot up, clutching the furs to your chest as if it could restore your honor by sheer force of will. 

Your gaze slid—hesitant, disbelieving—to the man beside you. Dark hair fell across his brow. One massive arm was thrown carelessly over his face, as though even the morning sun did not dare disturb him.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered turning away and running a stressed hand through your hair at what you had carelessly done. Then, another louder, more horrified, “Fuck,” came past your lips.

Memories continued to strike in disjointed flashes—your boldness, the way you had met his touch without hesitation. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you buried your face in your hands, mortified at how utterly unabashed and shameless you had been.

From beside you came a lazy chuckle.

“Good morrow to you too,” a voice rough with sleep and amusement said. He peeked at you through his fingers. “I didn’t think you would be up for another round so soon.”

He pushed himself upright, a roguish grin already tugging at his mouth—

—and you slapped him.

The sound cracked through the tent like a whip.

For a heartbeat, he only blinked at you.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a grin as he rubbed his cheek, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement.

“Well,” he drawled, far more entertained than offended, “I think I like you better sober.”

You leapt from the bed, dragging the furs with you as you began to pace the tent like a caged dragon.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you demanded. “I am ruined. Absolutely ruined. I was drunk, I thought this was my tent—”

“If I recall,” he interrupted easily, utterly unbothered by his state of undress as he lounged back against the pillows, watching you with lazy interest, “you were an equally enthusiastic participant in last night’s activities. Hardly looked ruined to me.”

You spun on him, fixing him a scathing glare. “I am betrothed, you oaf!”

He shrugged. “As am I. What of it?” Then he paused in thought, brow furrowing slightly as his gaze swept over you. “Wait… are you not a Lyseni whore?”

“No!” you snapped, colour blazing in your cheeks. “If my lord husband-to-be finds out what we’ve done, we are both dead.”

He rolled his eyes. “And who is this fearsome lord husband-to-be?”

You stalked closer until you stood over him, furs clutched tightly around yourself like armour. “Lyonel Baratheon.”

He blinked and much to your surprise a slow catlike smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “that’s a fortunate turn of events… for he is I.”

It was your turn to blink. “What?”

Then you laughed. Sharp and disbelieving.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Have a look around if you doubt me,” he said lazily, gesturing about the tent. “The sigil of my house is all over this tent.” 

And when you did, your stomach dropped.

The crowned stag was everywhere—stitched into the heavy hangings, tooled into leather, stamped into the brass of discarded goblets. You had not stumbled into just any knight’s tent in your wine-blind wandering…

But into the tent of your lord husband to be.

Lyonel only leaned back against the pillows, looking far too pleased with himself. “At least we got the awkward part out of the way early.” His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment where there was a stain of red before returning to you, a knowing glint in his eyes that only deepened your mortification. 

You stared at him, torn between horror and fury and the undeniable, traitorous spark curling low in your chest.

With a noise of pure outrage, you grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.

He laughed, catching it easily, meeting your glare head-on with a grin that was entirely unapologetic.

“I’d heard Targaryen women were made of fire,” he said. “And you, my lady wife, have certainly proven the tale true.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I’ve always preferred a woman who knows how to throw a slap.”

Despite the disastrous turn your morning had taken, Lyonel proved—much to your surprise—to be a decent enough man.

He sent for garments more befitting your rank, replacing the borrowed silks of the whores with fine fabrics that restored at least the appearance of dignity. He kept his voice low, his men dismissed, and when all was ready, he guided you quietly from the tent at an hour when most of the camp still slept off their cups.

He protected what remained of your ruined honour as carefully as if it were his own.

And though he still infuriated you—still smirked too easily, still carried himself with that infuriating Baratheon swagger—you felt something in you soften.

Because what other man, upon realizing he had bedded not a nameless camp follower but the highborn lady promised to him, would move so swiftly to shield her from shame rather than revel in the scandal. 

Especially after the evidence of your passion had not been entirely one-sided. Because when Lyonel dressed earlier, he’d finally took notice of all marks you had left on him during the night you spent together. His expression shifted into one of unmistakable pride at the sight of them… The absolute rascal.

Ashford was far less charming when viewed through sober eyes, and you had to bite back a grimace as you trudged along the muddied paths between the tents. What had felt lively and inviting the night before now seemed loud, cramped, and distinctly unpleasant beneath your boots.

A swell of excited chatter caught your attention, drawing you toward the edge of the grounds. There, a makeshift tug-of-war had been set up, two teams straining against one another as the crowd roared its encouragement. Laughter and cheers rang out, raw and infectious, and despite yourself, a small smile crept onto your lips at the sheer energy of it all.

Not far from the contest stood a larger tent, its flaps pulled wide. Tables had been dragged out front, crowded with spectators who drank, wagered, and watched the spectacle unfold. Your gaze drifted idly over them—

Then snagged.

A large man sat among them, broad shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. And perched nearby, far too recognizable to be mistaken, was a tiny bald head.

You blinked, brows knitting as you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face.

He mirrored you exactly—same squint, same tilt of the head—and then, at the same moment, both of your eyes widened in recognition.

“Egg?”

The boy gasped and promptly ducked behind the large man beside him.

You were already marching across the churned grass. “Egg!”

The big man looked up at your approach, eyes widening in surprise as he scrambled halfway to his feet. “Milady?”

You barely spared him a glance.

“Egg! I see you hiding!” you snapped.

Slowly, your cousin stepped out from behind the man, a sheepish expression plastered across his face, hands clasped behind his back like a boy caught stealing sweets.

You threw your hands up. “What in the Seven Hells—”

“Milady, I beg your pardon if the boy caused any offence,” the big man blurted, bowing his head quickly. “He’s well-meaning, but I’ll give him a good clout in the ear to make sure he behaves proper.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What—?! You will do no such thing!”

“Please, milady,” the man rushed on, clearly flustered. He failed to realize your indignation had nothing to do with leniency and everything to do with the fact that he had just suggested striking a Targaryen prince. “Punish him not. I will take the blame—he is my squire.”

Your gaze snapped to Egg.

He offered you a nervous, lopsided grin, shoulders hunching as though bracing for impact.

“He’s your what now?” you demanded.

“Squire, my lady,” Egg said quickly, meeting your gaze with a pleading look. “Ser Duncan has taken me in—just for the tourney, you see.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes moved between the two of them, taking in the size of the knight, the earnestness of the boy.

“So it seems I do,” you said at last. “And has the ser been treating you well?”

“He has!” Aegon answered at once, a little too quickly, nodding with fervour.

“Wait—hold on,” Duncan blurted, spinning toward Egg in sudden alarm. “Do you know her?!”

Egg ducked his head for a heartbeat, then looked up at the knight through his lashes, eyes wide and artless. “My lady is a kind woman,” he said solemnly, “who took pity on an orphan child.”

You closed your eyes.

Just for a moment.

Seven save you from dragons with silver tongues.

Your eyes opened just in time to catch Duncan looking to you for confirmation. 

You offered him a tight smile and nodded. “Yes,” you said smoothly, the words slipping through gritted teeth.

Then you turned your gaze to Egg, narrowing your eyes in silent warning. “And I distinctly recall leaving you at the inn—in capable hands.”

Egg winced, the picture of contrition.

“I will return him at once, whence the tourney is over,” Duncan said at once, clearly eager to make amends.

You sighed. “In the meantime—” You reached into your sleeve and produced a small pouch heavy with coin, tossing it into his hand. “Take this. Make sure you take proper care of the boy… or I’ll have your balls.”

“My balls…?” Duncan echoed faintly, confusion knitting his brow—then his eyes widened as he registered the weight of the pouch. “Oh—no, milady, I couldn’t—”

Before he could finish, a familiar, infuriatingly pleased voice rang out behind you.

“Ah—there she is, my bride-to-be!”

You barely had time to turn before Lyonel Baratheon strode up and slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you effortlessly to his side as though he had every right to do so.

Duncan stared.

His gaze flicked from Lyonel to you and back again, his expression caught somewhere between awe and sheer disbelief.

Egg, on the other hand, merely raised an unimpressed brow, his look saying plainly: this is him?

You shot your cousin a sharp glare before rolling your eyes, resisting the urge to sigh.

“Yes,” you said dryly, even as Lyonel grinned like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. “What brings you by?”

He flashed you a bright, unapologetic smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not your beauty this time.” Then he jerked his chin toward Duncan. “I’m here for him. Yes—you, hedge knight.”

He slipped away from you and reached Duncan in two long strides, plucking the man’s cup straight from his hand. Lyonel took one sniff, grimaced, and promptly tossed it aside.

“What is this piss froth?” he muttered.

Without further ceremony, he grabbed Duncan by the back of the neck. “I need muscle.”

“Why?” you shot back, arching a brow. “Are yours not enough? Too small?”

Egg failed to suppress a snicker.

Lyonel only grinned wider, turning his head just enough to wink at you. “Come join me in my tent later and I'll gladly remind you how big they are.”

Your eyes flew wide. You shot him a sharp glare and stepped forward, arm already lifting with clear intent.

He anticipated it.

In one smooth motion, Lyonel shifted, placing Duncan squarely between the two of you. He rested a heavy hand on the startled knight’s shoulder and leaned around him just enough to look back at you, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

Then he turned his attention fully to Duncan.

“Will you heed my call to war?” Lyonel asked solemnly.

Duncan blinked.

That, it seemed was enough to satisfy him.

“Aha! Good!” Lyonel declared, giving Duncan a light, approving slap to the cheek before clapping his hands together. “We march.”

You crossed your arms, scowling, while Egg snorted softly beside you.

Gods help you.

You were to marry a menace.

Unfortunately, he was to be your menace.

And with Aegon insisting on participating in the game as well, you found you lacked the heart to deny him—especially when you saw his gaze brimming with excitement. So you followed after them and stood to watch, a cup of wine in your hand, offering silent support as the noise of the crowd swelled around you.

Duncan was ordered to the back, the thick rope cinched securely around his waist, while Aegon was placed at the front. He was the smallest of all the participants by far, dwarfed by the men beside him, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips at the sight of his fierce little frown and squared shoulders. Determination burned bright in him.

You smiled proudly. He was dragon blood, no matter how small he was. 

“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Lyonel bellowed over the din as he and the others dug in their heels and hauled with all their might. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”

The crowd roared.

Your grip tightened on your cup as you watched the line strain, boots sliding in the mud—then inch, inexorably, forward. Lyonel’s team was winning.

Good.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across your face.

You absolutely refused to marry a loser.

But your smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when you saw your oaf of a future husband abruptly let go of the rope.

“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” Lyonel muttered, ducking beneath it and striding toward you as though abandoning the line mid-pull were perfectly reasonable. “I’ll be back.”

“Lyonel!” Duncan shouted in alarm.

“I’m thirsty!” Lyonel huffed.

“What are you doing, you oaf?” you cried, smacking his shoulder as he reached you. “Go back out there and help them!”

“I’m thirsty,” he repeated stubbornly, swatting your hand away—

—and then, to your utter outrage, he plucked your cup from your fingers and took a long, unapologetic drink.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed contentedly, and grinned at you like a man who had committed no crime at all.

“Much better.”

“I will have our marriage annulled,” you hissed, gripping the collar of his tunic.

He only laughed, brazenly pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before shoving the cup back into your hands. “Quite fortunately, we aren’t married yet—so that’s not possible.”

“Lyonel,” you snapped, warning sharp in your tone. 

He lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Relax. I’m going back.”

And before you could strike him again, he ducked away, already laughing as he sauntered back toward the rope, taking a moment to smack Duncan on the arse as he passed.

“Looking good.”

In the time he’d been gone, the opposing team had gained ground. Little Egg was no longer firmly planted on the earth, but instead clung to the rope with both hands and feet, every scrap of determination in his small body holding him there.

Lyonel slid into place at the rear, seized the rope, and planted his heels.

“Fucking pull!” he roared.

With renewed vigour, his team heaved as one. The rope jerked, the line shifted, and then the opposing side went stumbling forward in a mess of flailing limbs and curses—straight into the mud.

The crowd erupted.

And so did you.

A triumphant roaring cheer tore from your throat before you could stop it, loud and wholly undignified for a princess—but in that moment, you didn’t care in the slightest.

You squealed as strong arms scooped you up and spun you around, laughter bubbling free as you came face to face with Lyonel’s broad, victorious grin. The world blurred for a heartbeat before he finally set you back on your feet.

Almost immediately, a smaller body launched itself into your arms.

Another laugh escaped you as Aegon clutched at you, eyes bright with excitement. “We did it!” he exclaimed. “We won!”

“Of course you did,” you said, smiling as you tapped his nose and leaned in closer. “Targaryens always come out on top.”

The words were soft, meant only for him, and you shared a secret little smile at the truth that passed between you like a hidden spark.

With a wink, you set him down and let Duncan sweep him back into the celebrating crowd.

“Darling…” Lyonel began as he stepped up beside you. He paused, and you braced yourself for whatever nonsense might tumble from his mouth next. “Do we now have a child I’m unaware of?” he asked, gesturing toward Egg.

“What? No!” you sputtered. By the gods, this man—he knew full well you had been a maiden until last night.

A night you had spent with him.

He waved you off. “Bah, it matters not. He’s an entertaining child. We can keep him,” he declared decisively.

“Lyonel—!”

“Anyways!” he cut in loudly. He leaned in until his face was inches from yours, grinning like a fool. “I won.”

You snorted and pushed his face back with your palm. “Barely.”

“A win is a win, my fiery lady wife-to-be,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. “So—what’s my prize?”

You arched a brow. “And what is it you want?”

He leaned back in, his voice dropping low near your ear. “Well, I can think of one rather enjoyable—”

You smacked him instantly.

“Ow!” he yelped, clutching his arm. “You are a violent little creature…” He breathed, his grin only widening. “I love it!”

You rolled your eyes.

He wasn’t done. Tugging you a step closer, he continued, “As I was saying—since that’s clearly off the table—then… a kiss.”

“A kiss?” you repeated, suspicious.

He nodded solemnly. “A kiss.”

You studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright. Fine.”

His eyes lit up with victory—

—but before he realized what you were doing, you pressed a kiss to your own fingertips and promptly smacked it against his mouth.

“There you are, darling,” you said with a sickly sweet smile, already turning on your heel. 

You didn’t look back as you walked away.

Behind you, Lyonel stood stunned for half a heartbeat before turning to find Duncan and Aegon watching him with varying expressions.

“Gods,” Lyonel breathed, awe softening into a grin. “I think I’m in love.”

And then he was hurrying after you.

Egg only shook his head, glancing up at Duncan. “She’s going to eat him alive.”

men seem to gravitate towards you and your magnetic energy. you flirt, hang out, you hook up, sometimes it turns into a few weeks, sometimes it’s a bathroom at a party or a spare room upstairs.

choso keeps talking about finals, he’s clocked the low neckline of your top and the enticing glitter on your eyelids. he loved your look.

you yap on about some dumb all nighter you'd pulled with maki last finals when movement to your left steals all of your attention away.

someone falls onto the couch beside you.

you glance over without thinking and then your brain just… stops.

she’s closer than you’ve ever seen her. she's not across a packed room on some far away couch you can't really see. she's not out the back smoking a cigarette by herself.

she's here, right here, next to you.

shoko.

she’s wearing black, of course, but it’s not gross and try hard. she's got on a wellspring fitting cami with some jeans and nice shoes.

god, pretty isn’t even the right word to describe this woman. up close she's ethereal.

you realise you’ve never actually looked at her so near. she's normally laughing low with yuki or utahime in a different world than you in the background. now she’s close enough you can see her long lashes, her clear skin, that pretty beauty mark below her eye.

jeez, was she a model?

choso follows your line of sight and lifts his hand. “yo, shoko.”

she gives him a small wave without perking up. “hey.”

that’s it. no effort or over the top conversation starters. she was nonchalant from what you could tell.

choso turns back to you like the interaction never happened.

“anyway,” he says, leaning in again. “if i survive finals, you should come over. i’ll cook. i’m actually so goated at cooking.”

right. you nod automatically, but you’re not hearing him. your focus keeps faling sideways. you’re hyper aware of shoko. you were like a puppy in that sense, whenever you saw a pretty girl you had a sort of urge to be her friend.

only this time, the feeling felt.. off? was that the right word? like you wanted so badly to talk to her like you did with everyone else, but the thought of actually doing it was making you queazy.

why is this making you weird?

you try to ground yourself. this is nothing. she’s just a girl. a pretty girl, sure, but that shouldn’t matter. you’ve been around pretty girls your whole life!

choso’s ringed hand finds your plush thigh and squeezes it tightly. it makes you shiver and suddenly? not in a good way.

“hey,” you say desperately trying to deflect, forcing a grin. “you see gojo?”

he squints past you. gojo is strewn out on the frats expensive rug, laughing and gagging while geto tries his best to keep him upright.

“oh shit,” choso sighs. “he’s gonna puke.”

“yeah,” you say. “might wanna save the carpet.”

choso stop, then sighs. “damn it. i’ll be back.”

he’s up and gone in seconds calling gojo’s name.

you sit there with your cup in your hands, and you're suddenly very, very aware of yourself. your posture, your smile, the fact that you don’t know what to do with your face. when did this ever happen?

shoko moves to pull a cigarette from her pocket. she taps it against the pack, then lights it. the flame lights up her cheekbone for a second and your eyes snag on it.

you let out a laugh that comes out a little off. “uh. wow.”

she looks at you with the smokiest, seductive eyes, raising her eyebrow.

“sorry,” you say quickly. “girls don’t usually smoke. well. around me, i mean.” oh no. was that rude?..

you suppose not since she's now giving you a soft, delicate smile.

“yeah,” she says. “i get that.”

okay. she has a nice voice too. great.

you turn toward her fully, pulling out your biggest smile, the one that always charms people. “hey. my name’s [name]. it’s nice to meet you. i’ve seen you around here before, right?” god, i sound like a high schooler!

she looks you very slowly, playing with the cigarette in her hand. your stomach flips and you don’t know why.

“yeah,” she says. “i know who you are.”

... was that a good thing?

“oh!” you laugh. “all good things, i hope.”

“mostly,” she says, lips pulling up.

yikes, so no..

she leans back again with the cigarette balanced between her fingers, and something about all of this feels so unfair. like she’s not trying, like at all, and still winning.

you clear your throat and try to talk to her the way you do with every other girl, ask her some questions!

“so,” you say, tilting your head. “you looking to hookup with any cute guys tonight?”

she actually laughs. right in your face.

“hm,” she says. “definitely not my thing.”

your smile drops for half a second before you recover. “yeah? that's fair. not everyone’s into that.”

“no,” she says, eyes steady on yours. “not everyone.”

you nod like that makes sense. maybe she’s just above it? maybe she’s one of those girls who hates hookup culture, that was fine! you'll talk about something else. you’re already lining up your next question to ask this beautiful women when hands grab your arms from behind.

“there you are.”

before you can react, you’re being lifted up, laughing as well as awkwardly protesting as a group of your friends haul you off the couch.

“wait, what-”

“come on, come on,” one of them says. “we gotta go.”

you twist around with your heels barely touching the floor. “hey, i’ll catch you next time,” you call out to shoko.

she lifts her hand again, cigarette still between her fingers. “sure,” she says.

and you're pulled off for good.

they reel you out to the back porch as you free your arms and whip your head around to scowl at your overly confident friends.

“what the hell was that?”

one of the girls scoffs. “we were saving you.”

“from what,” you say. “a new friend?”

they exchange looks and then burst out laughing.

“from looking like a fucking lesbian,” one of them says.

the word spikes you through your already pumping heart.

“w-what do you mean,” you ask, becoming more and more oblivious.

they roll their eyes. “that’s shoko. she’s like, the token lesbian. always high off her face talking to her other lesbo friends. you really wanna be seen all over her?”

“yeah,” another adds. “people will talk. you’ve got a rep.”

your face feels hot, not with embarrassment but with a rising feeling of anger. “so what? i was just being nice.”

“sure,” she says. “but people don’t read it that way. we didn’t want you embarrassing yourself over some gay loser.”

your mind jumps back to shoko’s smile. 'not my thing.'

oh.

“that’s what she meant,” you mumble.

“what.”

“nothing.”

you open your mouth to spit something back, to say something equally as rude to these insensitive jerks, but the porch door swings open and they’ve already gone back inside, mean laughter following behind them.

you’ve been left standing there with a pounding heart and an extremely confused brain.

not her thing, huh?

~

gojo’s room stunk of dior sauvage and pineapple vape vapour. why anyone would choose pineapple over something like grape or watermelon still baffles you, but whatever. still, it wasn't necessarily a horrible smell, he had the window cracked open, so there's that.

the white haired man pulls out of you with a long groan, then pushes himself up on one elbow and grins down at your naked body, his hairs a mess, his eyes are happy as if he didn’t just wreck the bed. “wow,” he coos. “you're always such a good lay, babe.”

you snort, reaching for your discarded bra. “you’re so welcome.”

he laughs and rolls onto his back, stretching out like a cat. you’ve known him too long for this to be awkward, sleeping with gojo has always been easy. you’re both hot, popular, both bored enough to circle back to each other whenever the timing lines up.

friends first and benefits second. it works out.

he pulls himself up to sit on his elbows again. “seriously though. ten out of ten, would recommend.”

“what a charmer,” you say, smiling.

“what can i say.”

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and grab your underwear.

would now be a good time to pick this guys brain about the girl who's been haunting your dreams ? probly not, but fuck it we ball.

you move around like you need to say something or it'll make your head explode into a bajillion tiny pieces.

gojo notices. “you good?”

you sigh, then pull up your underwear.

“hey,” you say. “can i ask you something?”

he blinks. “uh. sure? kind of late to get shy now.”

you roll your eyes. “not that.”

he waits, still naked, completely oblivious of the brain spiral you’re about to drag him into.

“what do you know about shoko?” you ask.

okay, it's out in the open. nothing you can do now.

gojo’s smile flickers, confusion flashing across his face. “uhm, shoko?”

“yeah,” you nod. "like. what’s she like? and uh. if she has a… partner.”

you almost say girlfriend but that word feels so weird in your gob.

gojo lets out an awkward laugh. “damn, talk about whiplash. you ask that now?”

your cheeks warm up. “urgh, just answer.”

“okay, okay,” he says, hands up. “relax.”

he scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “she’s been friends with me and suguru since highschool. she’s cool. kind of quiet but she’s funny if you like katie b kinda humour. smokes a lot, drinks a lot. yeah, that's pretty much it."

hm, that lines up well with the vision in your mind.

“and,” he adds, “no. she doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

you exhale with your shoulders dropping. relief?

no. not relieved. that’s not the word, you don’t care, obviously. it’s just curiosity.

gojo squints at you. “why do you look like that?”

“like what,” you throw back.

“like you just found out finals got cancelled.”

you scoff. “shut up.”

he studies you for a sec, then shrugs. “whatever. you’re weird.”

he doesn’t pry because why why would he?

the thought of you being anything but the girl you are doesn’t even cross his mind.

you force a smile and stand up. “hmm. this has been fun, but i gotta run.”

“already,” he says, pouting like a baby. “come on. stay! we can talk, or cuddle, or something!"

you grab your jeans, shaking your head. “maybe next time.”

he reaches for you, fingers brushing your wrist. “please?”

you laugh and gently pull away. “you’re so needy.”

“you love it.”

"mm, debatable."

you grab the rest of your shit and head for the door. you did feel bad, but let's be honest, if you stayed and 'talked' you'd just circle the conversation back to shoko, and you didn't particularly want to face the strange feeling in your stomach when it came to her name.

gojo sits up, catching you before you leave. "hey! there’s a party tomorrow night. you should be my plus one.”

you pause at the door. “sorry, satoru. i’m already invited.”

“yeah, but.. still. you should find me.”

you grit your teeth into something that looks like a smile. “if i see you.”

he opens his mouth to say more, but you’re already pulling the door open.

“later, gojo.”

“later,” he calls, mock offended. “text me.”

you don’t answer. you shut the door before he can keep whining.

you step out and oh. you forgot where you were, their frat.

perfect.

you slip your shoes on trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping not to run into anyone else. half the guys here have seen you naked. the other half have tried. the last thing you need right now is a comment or a look.

you turn a corner and nearly crash into toji who's shirtless, a towel resting over his shoulder.

he raises a brow. “leaving so soon?”

“god." you say. “don’t start.”

he smirks. “didn’t plan on it.”

you pass choso in the stairwell, who gives you a small nod like he wasn't tryna get it on last week. you return it.

thank the lord, you're finally out of that maze.

a week. it’s been a whole week and she’s still there poking around in your head. you just had like... a friend crush on her, right? you just wanted to be her friend. that's it. just really, really badly..

after all, finals are coming, functions are becoming few and far between. your brain just needs something else to latch onto.

that’s it.

you head down the porch steps with your bag in your hand, trying not to think about tomorrow night, where you know she'll be.

~

the frat looks... unrecognisably good (?) for once.

tinsel is wrapped from top to bottom around every single railing, pretty fake snow is sprayed all over the windows, inflatable candy canes are shoved into corners to hide the cracking dry wall.

definitely nanamis handy work.

mariah carey is bumping over the jbl's as people sing their hearts out to her music.

is christmas technically over ? maybe. but college kids don't give a fuck, its festive!

you’re sat up on one of those really high tables that overlook the lounge room and makeshift dance floor, with your stocking covers legs crossed over one another, and the heel of your shoe caught on the steel rung.

the fluffy santa dress you're rocking is very fitting, very much mean girls jingle bell rock coded. its short enough to be sexy yet fluffy enough to stay in the... post, christmas spirit. (if you don't celebrate christmas plz scrap all of this and say it's a regular party.)

now, you usually liked this table because it gave you such a good view of everything, but right now both your left, and right peripheral was obstructed by two hunks of meat. toji and sukuna, squished in on either side of you, talking obnoxiously loud about baseball. urgh. when did you ever give a fuck about baseball? go play a real sport.

“i’m telling you,” sukuna says, knocking his knee into the table leg, “my home runs were perfect last semester.”

toji snorts. “nah, you got lucky.”

“jealous ass. skill isn't luck.”

you hum noncommittally, they were talking at you, not with you, after all. occasionally you'd nod at the right moments, with your pretty eyes wondering and unfocused. you don’t care. not even a little.

how could you care about these idiots when your mind was focused on such a perfect thing.

shoko.

she was sitting on a far away couch on the other other side of the room, right infront of you.

you sat there staring straight at her with wide, intuitive eyes. head propped up on your palm like you were being caught day dreaming in class.

shes wearing that same black cami with jean shorts this time, and a very large santa hat sitting atop her beautiful head of hair. a cigarette licks smoke into the air from between her fingers. she'd been smoking every time you'd seen her, that had to be bad for her lungs...

you feel it again, that magnetic pull. that annoying, persistent urge to go talk to her, to finish that dumb conversation you'd wanted to have so bad.

it’s been a week and it hasn’t gone away.

“you listening?” toji asks, elbowing your side.

“yeah,” you lie. “totally.”

sukuna squints at you. “you’re staring.”

“am i not allowed?” you say, not breaking eye contact with the couch.

they follow your gaze.

oh.

toji snorts. “seriously?”

“what?” you ask, innocent.

“you’re looking at shoko,” sukuna says flatly.

“what do you guys know about her?.”

fuck it, if you could pick gojos brain about her then these two were next up.

he rolls his eyes. “dunno. i don’t fuck with those lesbian chicks.”

you blink. “good thing no one asked that.”

toji shrugs. “she’s cool. kind of a shame though.”

“a shame?" you echo.

“yeah,” he says. “she’s pretty. too bad she likes girls.”

your heart blips and you don’t know why. god. did everyone know this girl but you?

“does she have many friends?" you ask next.

sukuna thinks for a second. “not really. yuki and utahime hang around her sometimes."

toji nods. “she keeps to herself.”

“how does she even get invited?" you ask.

“her and shiu go way back, so.” sukuna explains.

you peer back at her as she silently smokes to herself.

“well,” you say, hopping down from the stool. “i’m gonna change that.”

both of them look kinda annoyed you're leaving so soon.

“where are you going?" toji asks.

“to talk,” you say, stepping away.

sukuna scoffs. “have fun.”

you weave through the dance floor, some more drunken people smash into you, hands brush your waist, someone yells your name. buy you ignore it all you're too focused on one thing.

you stop in front of the couch and take a deep breath, you can do this. then slide into the open space beside her.

shoko startles for a second, with her eyes fanning over to you. you want to cry at the was her brows furrow together.

“…oh,” she says. “you.”

“hi,” you say, a little breathless.

she looks you over, then smirks. “i thought your friends would’ve scared you off with all the dike allegations.”

the word hits so, so wrong..

your shoulders go all stiff and tense. “hey, don’t say that.”

she tilts her head. “hm?"

“that word,” you say quickly. "you're not... that. don't say such horrible words about yourself.”

her pretty face somehow get prettier with the way her eyes go all soft on you “yeah. fair.”

you swallow. “they didn’t scare me off. i just wanted to talk to you.”

“why,” she asks bluntly.

you panic. “because i think you’re cool. and i wanted to be… friendly.”

you almost say friends, but that feels like a little too much right now. i mean, you've only talked to her twice now, and the first one was nothing to write home about.

she looks over your fave for a minute then smiles and holds out her hand. “yeah? well, i’m shoko. nice to meet you. for the second time.”

your face ignores as you take her hand, her soft, delicate hand. wow, she felt like fluffy slime.

“i’m [name]. yeah. nice to meet you." you stop. "for the second time.” she laughs and lets go of your hand.

you desperately search for the next conversation starter and gesture at her head. “good effort.” you pause. “oh shit. that sounded rude.”

you slap a hand over your mouth. “i meant it’s cute. it looks cute!" good save.

she laughs again. “relax. its fine. not really a good effort anyways since it’s shiu's. i didn’t even wanna dress up.” yeah, that tracks. she glances down at you, eyes lingering. “your outfit’s cute tho, what is it... like, sexy mrs. claus?” you stutter. “th-thank you! and yeah, i guess that's what i was aiming for.”

she gives you that beautifully bored smirk and you suddenly forget ever social skill you'd ever learnt from being pretty and popular.

she seems to clock that and decides to save you. “so,” she starts soft. “are you here to hook up with any cute guys tonight?” she even tilts her head a little when she says it, clearly quoting you, asshole. affectionate though.

your brain immediately blue screens.

oh god. this is bad. this is really bad. normally, this question would be nothing. you’d laugh, or maybe deflect, or say something flirty and vague, maybe even name drop someone if you were feeling extra spicy. you’re good at this, hell, you’re built for this.

except right now you’re painfully aware of how you’re sitting. how your legs are crossed. how your hands are folded in your lap like you’re waiting for a fucking job interview. what if you say yes and she thinks you’re a slut?. what if you say no and she thinks you’re a boring loser. what if she thinks you’re lying! what if she thinks literally anything at all?!

your silence reeeeally stretches. shoko’s smile turns into empathetic confusion. "…hey,” she says. “are you okay? are you high or something?” oh my god. you choke on a laugh. “what? no. god. do i look high?”

“a little,” she says honestly.

your face feels hotter and hotter. “oh, wow. that’s not good.” she laughs, then reaches out. her fingers wrap around your hand. the contact sends your thoughts scattering even worse.

“seriously,” she says. “you’re acting like you’re about to bolt.” you swallow and then, for some reason, the truth just spills on out. “i’m usually really good at talking to people,” you blurt. “like, really good. and i’ve wanted to talk to you properly since the last time we spoke, but i just can’t seem to say the right thing around you and now i feel insane and weird and probably unlikable and i’m so sorry if this is uncomfortable for you i just-”

“hey,” she cuts in gently. your rambling grinds to a stop. she’s smiling, again. that damn smirk. “everything’s fine,” she says. “you’re not weird. and you’re definitely not unlikable.”

you blink at her. “really?”

“realy,” she echos. “i actually like that you came over.” something starts pumping harder in your chest so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

“i’d love to be friends,” she adds. “and we should totally talk more.”

oh! that heavy, awful pressure you didn’t even realise you were harbouring just disappears. poof. you let out a laugh that sounds like relief than anything. “thank gosh.”

she chuckles. “that bad, huh?”

“you have no idea,” you say, squeezing her hand once before realising you’re doing it and quickly letting go. “nthank you. seriously.” you start to open your mouth again, ready to actually talk this time, when a dumb mop of white hair in your peripheral vision catches your eye.

he's drunkly slurring your name as he stumbles towards you. gojo. he’s clearly off his face. like, aggressively so. sunglasses indoors drunk.

“y/n,” he calls, voice carrying way too far. “there you are!”

shit. you remember telling him you’d talk to him if you saw him. you also remember how badly you don’t want to leave this couch.

so, what more logically sound thing could you possibly do in a situation like this?

you grab shoko’s wrist and stand up. “come on.”

she laughs, surprised. “what? hey-"

you tug her after you, squeezing through the crowd again, your hearts racing but this time it feels exciting. behind you, gojo shouts something that sounds like “rude!” but he’s laughing too hard to understand.

by the time you push through the back door and onto the porch, you’re both giggling.

you collapse onto the outdoor couch, shoulders brushing one anotherw.

“wow,” shoko says, still smiling. “kidnapped.”

“he would not of left me alone,” you say. “i’m so sorry.”

“don’t be,” she says. “that was kind of fun.”

"right?" you smile.

she reaches into her pocket, then sighs. “shit. i lost my cigarette.”

you make a noise of sympathy. “tragic.”

she snorts and pulls out another, lighting it with her long, slender fingers. the flame pirouettes over her face for a second and you find yourself staring once again. big surprise. she catches you this time.

“so, do you smoke?” she asks.

“no,” you say quickly. “never.”

“yeah,” she says, amused. “i figured from last time. looked at me like i'd committed a crime.”

“oh shoosh.”

“hey, i'm just observant.” she takes a puff, then glances at you sideways. “you wanna try?” your heart jumps. “me?”

“yeah.” smirks. you shudder, but nod nonetheless. “o-okay. sure.” she laughs softly, then brings the cigarette to your lips instead of handing it over. her eyes stay on yours as you lean in, lips closing around the filter.

it feels so intimate. way more than it should.

you inhale. and you immediately regret it. you cough, bending forward, wheezing like your lungs are on fire. “oh my god! why- how do people do this-” shoko bursts out laughing and wraps an arm around your shoulders steadying you. “easy, easy.”

you finally catch your breath, face burning, and then you start laughing too. uncontrollable. embarrassed. alive.

“hmm,” she hums. “probably not for beginners.”

"oh wow, that was bad,” you wheeze.

“you're okay. i promise." you lean back against the couch with your shoulders still touching. shoko glances at you in the dark. her face adorns a soft and contemplative look. “you know,” she says, “i think you’re really cool.” you turn toward her, very surprised.

“mhm,” she continues. “i’m glad you still wanted to talk to me. even after whatever your friends probably said.”

your throat constricts a little. “they just don’t get you.” she smiles at that. “you’re probably the coolest person i’ve ever met, by the way. like ever,” you say, very open and earnest. “and i’ve met a lot of people.”

she laughs although it's adorably shy this time. “i’m glad.”

the half assed christmas lights pulse softly around you as the party hums on inside.

right now the moment feels so perfect. you don't think you've ever had this much fun at a party before, just sitting out the back with this mysterious girl you'd only really properly met tonight. it was likely boring to others, but you'd never felt so content than with her, talking all night about absolutely nothing yet everything, all at once.

~

11am, monday.

phone number? secured.

snapchat? pinned.

her instagram? holy shit. she was the nichest most amazing girl probably ever. you wanted to cry.

all her posts had that grainy digi cam look to them, taken in graffitied spots in the city or long abandoned stair ways. she was cool, but like, on an intergalactic level. you were scrolling her page for what felt like the millionth time in your social studies lecture when choso slides into the seat next to you.

"whatcha doing?"

you jump in surprise and slam your phone face down onto the table, causing the rest of the room to stare as you slap a hand over your mouth. "my bad guys..." a few people laugh before turning their attention back to the front.

"what, you got some guys dick pics on there? promise i'm not jealous." he smiles, snaking a hand around your shoulder.

you shiver at the contact. it's so much different to shokos, her arm was delicate and soft. it was warm and comforting in a way no meaty muscular bicep could ever be. you stand up in your seat and grab your lap top.

"sorry, cho. gotta go to the... to the bathroom! yeah, gotta pee. see yah." you wave at him and rush out of the hall down to the bathrooms. when the hell did you think about someone as much as you were shoko... not even your ex could occupy this much space in your running-a-mile-a-minute brain.

you don’t even realise you’ve slowed down until you hit the end of the hallway and nearly walk straight into them.

your friends. a whole cluster of them blocking the path like a poorly coordinated intervention.

“oh my god,” one of them says as soon as she sees you. “there you are.”

another chimes in. “okay but hello? you look hot today.” you laugh the fakest thing you can muster. "you too!" you'd hoped that'd be it. you could go freak out in the bathroom now. but, ofcourse not. "we missed you at the party,” someone else adds. “you disappeared. like, vanished.”

“yeah,” another chimes in. “we didn’t see you all night.” your stomach drops just a little. you already know where this is going.

you try to keep it light. “i was.. around.”

they exchange looks and their smiles turn slightly sour. a quieter girl at the back, someone you barely talk to, clears her throat. “i mean… i saw you.”

your eyes move to her. “yeah?”

she murmurs. “with shoko. out on the back patio.” there it is. the somewhat tame energy flips instantly.

one of them, a blonde girl, scoffs. “are you serious?”

“we literally warned you,” another says. “told you that was bad for you.”

“yeah,” someone laughs. “lowering yourself for some fucking dyke is crazy.”

that word.

“don’t say that,” you snap, way harsher than you mean to. they stare at you surprised. “what,” one says. “it’s true.”

“you’re better than that,” another adds. “we’re just looking out for you, fuck.”

“yeah,” someone else says. “don’t get dragged into that shit.” it’s one of you against ten of them. all you want to do it scream at them for being so insensitive and rude, but you can feel it. the way they close ranks without moving, the way their voices scoff from teasing to patronising.

your hands shake around your laptop strap.

“i’ve gotta go,” you say, forcing your voice. “i’m gonna be late.”

“don’t forget what we said,” someone calls after you. you give them a half hearted nod, wave once like you didn’t just get sucker punched emotionally, then turn and walk fast toward the bathrooms. once you’re inside, you push through the door and lean against the sink, staring at your reflection like it might explain something to you.

what the hell was that? you tell yourself you’re upset because they were rude. because anyone would be, right? because no one likes hearing someone they care about get talked about like that.

that’s it.

this weird tight feeling has nothing to do with shoko herself. obviously.

then, as you're half way through your crisis, the stall door creaks open behind you.

“rough day?”

you look behind you through the mirror.

and who other than yuki tsukumo steps out, washing her hands without a care in the world.

you plaster on your best smile and shake your head, the one that usually worked on anyone. you'd known yuki in passing but never personally, she was sort of just part of another group.

she laughs immediately. “nope. not that one.”

you drop it. “what?”

“you’re like, hardcore crashing out,” she says, drying her hands. “it’s very obvious.”

“yeah? well it’s none of your business.”

she grins. “what? guy trouble?”

you scoff. “no.”

“always no,” she says. “always lying.”

you roll your eyes and turn back to the mirror. “can you not.”

she leans against the counter beside you. “relax. i just said that because shoko said you were a little boy crazy.” you spin around, and like world vomit pouring out of your mouth really loudly, you boarder line scream. “shoko said that!?” you slap a hand over your mouth immediately.

yuki stares at you. “wow.”

“forget i said that,” you rush. “please.” she tilts her head. “why are you so jumpy.”

“i’m not.”

“oh you absolutely are.” you exhale, defeated. “just forget it.” she shrugs. “okay. but you brought her up.” you hesitate. “no, you did." you glare, then sigh like being mad wasn't worth it. "what else did she say about me?.." you ask quietly.

yuki’s brows lift. “oh?”

“just tell me,” you say quickly.

she hums, thinking. “she said you’re her new friend.”

“and that you’re a little ditzy,” yuki adds, quickly. your expression falls to that of a kicked puppy, one so sad even yuki feel a little bad, so she quickly recovers with, "she didn't mean it in a bad way! just that you were charming." you stare at the sink. “oh.”

yuki watches you with a smile. a big, teasing, horrid smile. then, she drops the million dollar question. "what? do you like her or something?”

your mouth counters before you can stop it.

“no,” you bark, stepping closer, getting up in her face. “and if you go around telling anyone that, i’ll fucking ruin you.”

yuki freezes and her eyes go wide. you instantly regret it.

“okay,” she says slowly. “wow.”

you grab your bag, heart racing, and bolt for the door. “forget this conversation.”

you don’t slow down until you’re back in the hallway with your head spinning.

what the hell was that?

you don’t yell at people, especially not people you barely know. you don’t threaten girls in bathrooms over hypothetical questions. this is not you.

all of this over one night. one conversation that turned into a few hours. one girl who sits quietly on couches and smokes too much. you grip the strap of your bag tighter.

friendship is not supposed to feel like this.

~

tuesday, 2pm.

shoko sits on the floor with her back against her couch, knees pulled in, and an ashtray balanced between her feet. her entire apartment smells like old incense and fresh smoke, which is a surprisingly pleasant smell. her windows cracked menough to let the fresh air leak in.

yuki is sunken into the couch behind her with one leg hanging over the arm and a cigarette between her fingers. she’s been quiet for a few minutes, which usually means she’s lining something up. shoko takes a drag and waits.

“so,” yuki says eventually. “you know that chick you were telling me about?”

shoko makes a vague noise, eyes on the smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

“the flashy one,” yuki adds. “your new little friend.” shoko doesn’t turn around but answers. “what about her?"

yuki laughs under her breath. “she went full berserk at me in the bathrooms yesterday.”

that gets shoko to look back. one eyebrow lifts. “berserk how?"

“like,” the blonde says, sitting up a little, “i make one joke and suddenly she’s in my face threatening my life.”

shoko sighs once. “you’re exaggerating.”

“i swear i’m not,” yuki says. “it was very intense.” shoko leans her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “what did you say to her.”

yuki scoffs. “nothing crazy. i asked if she was having guy trouble. she said no. i joked that you said she was boy crazy.”

shoko groans quietly. “yuki?.”

“what,” yuki says. “that’s what you said.”

shoko pinches the bridge of her nose. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“i know,” yuki says. “i thought it was harmless. but the second i mentioned your name she got all weird.”

shoko goes quiet, rolling that over. yuki watches her. “then, i made an off hand joke. asked her if she liked you or something, and she got really defensive. like, scary defensive.” shoko stubs out her cigarette and lights another. “she probably felt threatened .”

“threatened by what?"

“everything,” shoko says. “her whole life is different to ours.”

yuki tilts her head. “explain.”

shoko shrugs. “she lives in a loud world. everything’s about perception. who she’s seen with. what it looks like.”

“and you’re a some big gay display?,” yuki asks.

shoko snorts. “something like that.” yuki studies her more carefully. “so you think she freaked out because she thought i thought she liked you?" shoko nods. “yeah.”

“not because she actually does?”

shoko doesn’t answer immediately. she takes a drag then lets it out slowly. “she’s under a lot of pressure just being around me at all. i get that.”

yuki raises a brow with a smile. “you’re being very generous.”

“i’m being realistic,” shoko says. “still,” yuki says. “people don’t usually threaten me over misunderstandings.”

the brunette smiles faintly. “she’s just dramatic.”

“true,” yuki admits. “but dramatic doesn’t usually come with that much panic.”

shoko shrugs again. “she was probably stressed.”

yuki goes quiet, then asks, softer, “so you don’t think she liked you. not even a little?"

the quieter woman shakes her head. “no.”

“really?"

“really.”

yuki squints. “even if she was gay?"

“she’s not,” shoko says easily. “and even if she was, i’m not her type.”

yuki laughs. “what’s that supposed to mean.”

“look at her,” shoko says. “then look at me.”

“i am looking at you.”

“exactly.”

yuki shakes her head, she's obviously unconvinced. “i don’t know. she was pretty goo goo eyes at that christmas party."

shoko stiffens slightly. “fuck, you saw that?." she sighs. "she doesn’t look at me any way.”

“she does,” yuki says. “like she’s trying to solve a math problem she really hates.” shoko huffs. “that means nothing.”

“sure.” silence settles between them, broken by a car horn outside. shoko flicks ash into the tray, movements slow. yuki shifts on the couch. “can i ask you something.”

shoko already knows. “you’re going to anyway.” yuki smiles. “do you like her?"

hm.

the question sits there as shokos lips stay sealed. she's not silently confessing but it doesn't seem like she's outright ruling it out either. yuki waits. “shoko.”

she stares at the wall. a crack runs from the corner down toward the baseboard, something she’s been meaning to fix.

“that wasn’t the question,” yuki says gently.

shoko closes her eyes for a second, then opens them. “i don’t know.”

yuki lets out a breath. “that’s not a no.”

shoko doesn’t argue. “you said she wasn’t your type,” yuki presses.

shoko shrugs. “no. i said she wouldn’t like someone like me. that’s different.” yuki glances back at her. “is it? you’re in trouble,”

shoko scoffs. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious,” yuki says. “this is how it starts.”

“nothing is starting.”

“sure.” shoko disregards the conversation and pulls her attention back to the window. behind her, yuki lights another cigarette and lets the conversation drop.

for now.

~

from then on, a day or two pass by of you avoiding your friends in the hallways, and dogging them at functions.

you were now snuggled up in your apartment, you’re curled on your side in bed, wrapped in stupidly pretty pajamas that cost too much for something you only wear to sleep. hair fanned out on the pillow. lashes resting against your cheeks.

you look peaceful, you are not.

your subconscious brain fills your mind with a dream that feels like it'll be nice, calm, but that escalates very quickly.

you're sitting on a couch, is it yours? you can't tell. what you can tell is, shoko's sitting right next to you, with one of her legs thrown across your lap and her hand's digging into your hair. her voice is seductive and so, so close to your ear.

"i know you want me, y/n."

her hand slides up your thigh.

"just let me take control."

jesus this feels wrong and right all at the same time. she smiles, then kisses you. so deep it alludes every sense you have.

the dreams blurs and morphs together, one second she's between your thighs making work of your clit with her tongue, flicking back and forth over the bud as she stares you dead in the eye.

next she's got ghat same tongue down your throat as her fingers work you from the inside, pulling the sweetest noises from your mouth.

you're gasping, moaning, whining under her expert touch, everything feels like pure bliss, pure uninterrupted bliss.

she's pinching at your breasts, running her lips over the nipples kissing them softly.

your own hands start to wonder, hesitantly cupping her own, playing with the plush flesh that seemed to up your horny stat by a million. just as you're about to be bold, to finally let yourself go and touch her where you know she wants it, you wake up all at once.

you gasp and sit up straight like you'd been possessed, huffing and puffing as your sweat slick body heaves.

oh my god.

your body is still reacting and you hate that. hate how real it felt. you hate how easily your brain went there.

with her.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand up, pacing once, twice, maybe movement will make it all better. you grab your phone off the nightstand with shaky fingers and don’t even think before you hit maki’s name.

she answers on the third ring, her harsh voice coiled with sleep. “you better be fucking dying.”

“i need you,” you say. there’s a pause. then fabric rustling. “okay. that’s not normal. what happened.” you fall down onto the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees. “i just woke up from the worst dream of my life.”

“worst like scary or worst like you’re being dramatic.”

“worst like i might not be straight anymore.”

that wakes her up.

“…oh,” maki says. “okay. yeah. i’m sitting up.” you laugh weakly. “great.”

maki has always been the one girl you feel like you can turn to. she's your friend who's not like those other girls, she's funny as hell, knows how to read a room, and most importantly, not judgey.

your real best friend.

“start talking,” she says. “slowly, though.”

so you do. you tell her about that first night you met shoko and how badly you wanted to be her friend after that, how much worse it got when you saw her for the second time.

you spew on and on about the hours long conversation you had with her about school, life, friends, all on the patio of that dumb frat.

you tell her about yuki and about the bathroom, about how she mentioned you liking shoko and you losing your temper so bad it made your hair stand on end just thinking about it.

still have to apologise for that...

“that tracks,” maki mutters. “you hate not being in control.” you wince. “okay, just clock me i guess.”

you tell her that you thought you just wanted to be her... best friend? well, you were friends now and you still yearned for more, so that had to be it. right?

“and now,” you say quietly, “i just had a wet dream about this girl. what the fuck?.”

maki laughs then asks, “are we talking full on?” you groan and flop back onto the bed. “sopping wet. i hate myself.”

she laughs again, not mean. “wow. okay.”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m laughing because this is huge for you,” she says. “and also because you sound like you’re about to combust.”

you stare up at the ceiling. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i don’t even think i like girls.”

“mm,” maki hums. “yet you just had your subconscious write a fanfiction on some yuri shit.”

“can you die?.”

she ignores that. “listen. you don’t have to slap a label on this. you don’t have to announce anything. you met one girl who made your brain go a little crazy, that's it."

“that’s not normal.”

“it is if you’re discovering yourself,” she says. “late bloomer kinda thing. very chic.”

you rub your face with both hands. “but i’m not gay.” maki doesn’t miss a beat. “everyone’s a little gay.”

you snort despite yourself. “that’s not helpful.”

“it is actually,” she says. “because it means you’re not some weirdo. you’re just human.”

you roll onto your side, clutching a pillow to your chest. “i’m scared i’m gonna mess this up. i don’t want to make her uncomfortable. or make myself look like a poser trying to covertly bully her, she's told me she gets picked on a lot.”

“you already look like a poser,” maki says. “affectionately. just means you're a pretty fem.” you smile. “what, so girly girls can't be gay?.”

“i thought you weren't gay?,” you're real quiet at that. she continues. “look, from what you’ve told me, she likes you. at least as a person. you’re not imagining that.”

“but what if i am.”

“then nothing happens,” maki says. “and you survive. but if you freak out and overthink and self sabotage, you’re gonna regret that way more.”

you sigh. “so what do i do?"

“don’t be weird,” she says simply.

“…that’s it?"

“be yourself,” maki adds. “the version of you she already likes. let it play out. if it stays friends, cool. if it turns into something else, also cool.”

you stare at your ceiling again, at least your chest felt a lil lighter than it did five minutes ago.

“you’re so annoyingly right,” you say.

“i know,” she replies. “it’s my thing.”

you glance at the clock. too early and too late. “thank you for answering.”

“always,” maki says. “text me if you crash out again.”

“i will.”

you hang up and set your phone back on the nightstand. the room is quiet again. your body is finally calming down. the dream keeps poking through at the edges of your brain, but you sweep them off.

you curl back under the covers, staring at the dark.

don’t be weird.

easy for maki to say.

you close your eyes anyway, shoko’s smile flashing behind them, and let the night settle around you.

~

having that conversation about your feelings had really put things into a somewhat comfortable perspective. you were confused, that's all. very confused.

pretending you didn't have a sex dream about your new friend was surprisingly easy. it was around a week or two later and you'd successfully made sneaking off with shoko upstairs under the excuse of, 'accompanying her while she destroys her lungs.' a very regular thing.

you'd been to around three functions from that very messy crash in the bathrooms and the dream. and to be honest, you'd never been happier just existing with one person at a place meant for mingling with tens or hundreds others.

you'd both sit on either shiu's or geto's bed with the window open as she smoked two or three cigarettes. you'd talk, and she'd listen to everything you had to say, and visa versa. you'd learnt that she's a med student, she loves the smiths and mazzy star, and that her favourite time of day was dusk.

she was hands down the nicest girl you'd ever met, just so calm and down to earth.

although, the topic of sexuality was something the two of you really never touched on. it was like an electric topic you were staying away from. you didn't know if she was doing that so you felt comfortable and shoko didn't know if you were doing that because you felt uncomfortable, either way, the both of you looked silly dancing around it. tonight was no different, you'd both scurried upstairs away from the horny men and judgey women, crashing getos room and slipping onto his bed.

"god, didn't think we'd make it out of there. ino and gojo were really talking your ear off, huh?" shoko teases, leaning back onto the wall with her legs splayed out on the mattress. you laugh, sipping at the vodka cruiser in your hand as you fall back on geto's pillow.

"yeah well, gojos always talky. even in bed."

you watch as her eye brow twitches.

it's almost nothing, but you catch it.

shit.

eyes that were usually fluttering around carelessly were now pin pointed on you. scary.

“always?” she asks, voice even. you swallow around your sip. “i mean. i guess.”

she nods.

“so,” she says, casual again. “do you sleep with him regularly, or was that like.. a one night thing?"

oh.

now you were nervously peeling at the sticker on your bottle like a kid and biting the inside of your cheek. you don’t want her to think badly of you. you’ve never cared what people thought about this before. never once felt the need to explain yourself.

lying feels worse though, lying to her feels so wrong.

“yeah,” you say slowly. “i mean. yeah. sometimes. we hook up from time to time.” you risk a glance at her face. and its it’s subtle. so subtle you almost miss it. it's the way her mouth drops for half a second and her eyes dip down, then away.

something in your chest drops.

fuck.

you rush to fill the silence. “it’s not like. serious or anything. just fun. you know how it is.” you laugh nervous and she nods once. “yeah.”

you hate how flat it sounds. your brain scrambles, desperate to smooth it over, to level the ground between you again. “what about you?” you blurt. “so.. are you involved with anyone ? with any… girls?”

holy fuck. god, strike me down.

you clap a hand over your mouth. “oh my god. i’m so sorry. that came out so wrong. i didn’t mean it like that at all. i just meant like. romantically. or casually. or whatever. i swear i’m not trying to be weird or ignorant or gross. i just don’t always know how to ask things and i panic and then my mouth just keeps going and that sounds so ignorant i-”

“hey.” shoko’s delicate finger presses its pad gently against your lips, hushing you.

“don’t worry,” she says softly. “i know you didn’t mean it like that.”

your shoulders drop. as she lowers her hand and you definitely internally mourn the loss.

she smiles. “last girl i hooked up with was a couple months ago.”

“oh.”

“i’ve been taking a break.”

you nod. “that’s. cool.”

she studies you. “you don’t have to sound relieved."

you laugh nervously. “i’m not. i’m just. glad you told me.”

her pretty eyes soften as she looks you up and down, ever so slowly, and blurts out, "i’d tell you anything.”

the way she said that...

“hmm?,” you mumble. “i might take you up on that.” she sighs a laugh. “i’m serious.” you turn back. “yeah?”

“yeah.” everything's radiating that nice feeling

you get when you're with someone you really admire, every way you look the room seems to fit this vibe perfectly.

just you, and her.

you and this beautiful woman you'd been dreaming of, talking to guys about post hookup, calling maki over for the past week freaking out if you're secretly in some queer coming of age movie reincarnate.

just you, and her.

shoko shifts closer and her thigh brushes yours. not accidental. definitely not accidental.

“can i ask you something?,” she says. you nod way too fast. “yes.”

she tilts her head. “do you like... only swing one way?" your brain shuts off. your mouth opens. closes. opens again.

“i,” you start, then laugh nervously. “i think so. i mean. i’ve always thought so. i’ve only ever been with guys. and i’ve never really questioned it until recently. which is probably normal. or not? i don’t know. college makes everyone question everything. and i still like men. obviously. i’m not saying i don’t. but lately, ever since ive met you, i’ve been feeling weird. not bad weird. just different weird. and i don’t know if that means anything or if i’m just overthinking because i can't figure this out or-"

shoko’s hand cups your cheek and your voice cuts out.

her thumb moves slowly, smoothing down along your jaw like she’s pulling you back down to earth again. her deep brown eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

“you don’t have to explain,” she says. “i get it.”

you swallow. “you do?." she nods. “yeah.” your heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of your chest. you don’t pull away. you don’t lean in either. you’re suspended in this strange, terrifying middle space.

“want me to help you figure it out?" she asks. your breath leaves you in one long huff. “yes... please.”

when did your dreams become reality? (literally)

shoko doesn’t hesitate. she leans in and presses her soft lips to yours.

it’s so delicate you almost assume she's not even kissing you. it's so astronomically different to the rough, deep kisses you're used to from the men you see. she feels so much warmer. your eyes stay open for a moment, stunned. her face is so close. those cute freckles, her long lashes, the smell of smoke and mint.

then you close them, deciding to not look like a freak virgin and actually contribute.

your hand slips gently around her waist, she responds by pulling you closer, her other hand settling at your hip. the kiss deepens, and your head spins. this feels so different! you've thought it a thousand times in a second but it's just so otherworldly. it's not hurried and pushy, no. it's sweet and simple.

your thoughts race. you think about guys like gojo’s hands. the way he grabs. the way everything with men feels like a performance you know by heart, god, this is nothing like that.

this is quiet. this is terrifyingly peaceful.

shoko leans in more, her forehead brushing yours, lips still moving against yours in a lovely serenade. your grip tightens on her shirt, you want more and less at the same time.

you start to overthink.

your mind floods with questions, with fear, with guilt, with excitement.

with panic.

it’s too much.

this is too much.

or is it? you can't think straight! (haha, get it.)

you pull back suddenly, hands pushing against her shoulders.

“stop."

shoko stops instantly. no frustration and no confusion. just concern.

“hey,” she says. “what’s wrong?"

you shake your head, “i can’t. i mean, i want to. i just- i don’t know what this means.”

she nods slowly. “okay.”

you sit there, chest tight, heart racing, staring at her like she might disappear if you look away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. shoko doesn’t look hurt, just thoughtful. “it’s okay,” she says. “we can stop.” you nod, still spinning. “yeah.”

the space that was non existent just a few seconds ago now felt like hundred miles long.

.

before the moment can marinate any longer, geto, like some drunk super hero, comes bashing into the room with a pretty girl you swore gojo was dating just a few months ago when he ghosted you for a while. did he cheat on her? was that the story? wow, geto was a show off.

"get out."

wow, real classy.

you see the girl knock him in the side as to say 'cut it out,' and you and shoko share a fleeting glance before scurrying off.

when you hear the door shut down the hallway, you slow down. shokos infront and she turns to you, the lighting dark and you can barely see her eyes, but you can tell she's got that questioning look.

it was making your stomach flutter and churn with nervous nausea at the same time.

"look, y/n, i just want to let you know that this is normal for a girl like you, okay? you just-"

"i'm not gay." you spit. it's so much colder than you mean, but your brain is in fight mode. you're a little drunk, confused. not a good mix.

"hm?"

"i'm not gay. and you helped me figure that out." you tell her, even though you know that's a lie. you just don’t know how to put your feelings into perspective.

"i see."

"look i just-"

"no, i get it. don't worry, kay?" she cuts you off, with that calm smile. "we can talk more outside, yeah?"

"yes... please."

.

it’s awkward. not necessarily bad awkward. just new. the kind that makes you hyperaware of where your hands are. how loud your breathing sounds. the fact that you said something you can’t take back.

shoko breaks it first.

“hey,” she says gently. “i’m not offended.”

you peer at her with guilt stricken eyes, “you’re not?” you ask.

she shakes her head. “no. not at all.”

you let out a small laugh that doesn’t quite land. “i'm still so sorry... i kind of snapped.”

“you were overwhelmed,” she says. “that happens.”

you rub your thumb along the hem of your top. “the truth is, i don't know what i am. it just felt like everything was happening at once and i didn’t know what to do with it.”

she nods. “that’s normal. especially for girls who haven’t had that kind of intimacy with another girl before.”

you glance at her. “you really think so?"

“yeah,” she says easily. “i’ve seen it before. i’ve felt it before.” that makes you pause, perhaps with either sorrow or jealousy, your brain is too scattered to hone in on which one.

“i’m not trying to freak out,” you say. “my head just feels like a mess right now. i want to talk about it. i just don’t know how.”

shoko turns her body toward you a little.

“you can tell me anything,” she says.

there it is again. that sincerity that makes you feel like you've known her for years.

breathing in deeply, you muster up a response.

“okay,” you say. “so. at first. when i met you. i just really wanted to be your friend.”

she smiles faintly. “that tracks.”

you huff. “yeah. it was like this overwhelming urge to be near you. to talk to you. to understand you. i’ve never had that with someone i hadn't even spoken to yet.”

she listens and doesn’t interrupt.

“and i kept telling myself that was it,” you continue. “that i just admired you. thought you were cool. wanted you in my life. i didn’t question it.” you swallow. “but then,” you say quietly, “that feeling sort of changed. or maybe it didn’t change?. maybe it was always more than i thought and i just didn’t have the language for it.” you sigh “i don’t know when wanting to be your friend turned into wanting to understand you on a deeper level,” you say. “or if it was ever just friendship at all.”

you laugh under your breath. “i’ve never experienced this before. not like this. with guys it’s so easy. this feels like i'm tryna read a book in a language i don’t know.” she nods slowly. “that makes sense.”

“my 'friends' don’t help,” you add. “they made jokes, they'd call you horrible names. they turned me wanting to hang out with you into some ugly thing.”

her mouth tightens for a second. not angry, but protective. "i don't want to be their friend anymore. i don't care about close minded losers like that."

she smiles before replying. “you’re completely valid in thinking all of that,” shoko says. “none of it makes you stupid or naive or wrong.”

your shoulders ease up without you even realising they were tense.

“thank you,” you murmur.

“... i want you to know something too.”

you look at her. your stomach flips but you ignore it.

“i value you,” she says. “as a friend. genuinely. and i’m going to try my best to support you through this. thick and thin. no matter what you decide.” your throat tightens. “even if i decide i can’t handle this?"

“especially then,” she says. “but i also want to be honest with you.” you brace yourself.“i’ve had a abit of a thing for you.. ever since the night we locked eyes at that party,” she admits. “i tried to keep it light. give you space. follow your lead.”

you blink. “you have.”

she smiles softly. “yeah.”

“i’m not asking you for anything,” shoko continues. “if you want to stay friends, we stay friends. if you want space, i get it. if you want to stop talking to me, i’ll respect that too.” your chest hurts.

“and if,” she adds carefully, “you want to try and see where things go, i’d be more than happy to take it slow. guide you through it. at your pace.” you stare at her. this woman who somehow makes room for every version of you without asking you to be anything smaller.

“i don’t deserve how kind you’re being,” you say. she laughs quietly. “i’d do anything to make you feel as comfortable as you’ve made me feel.” the concept of you making her feel comfortable really improved your mood.

you feel like you have to show her how grateful you are for her maturity in all of this, and your appreciation for her ability to take this so well. you move closer and gently wrap your arms around her shoulders, giving her room to pull off if she wanted to.

she gets choked up for a second, but then relaxes into it with her arms coming around you with the same care. her chin rests lightly near your shoulder.

its soft and feminine in the sweetest way.

you pull back after a moment, smiling despite yourself. “thank you.”

she squeezes your hand once before letting go. you feel so much better after this.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “um. would you maybe want to come over to my place this weekend? maybe watch a movie.”

her answer is so quick. “yes,” shoko says, smiling wide and egar.

you grin back. “cool.”

really cool.

~

your apartment looks stupidly nice and you hate that you care this much about this dat- hang out...

the lights are warm but not too warm. the couch cushions are lined up again after you sat on them twice and fluffed them for no reason. the coffee table is clear except for the bowl of chips you definitely did not need to put in an actual bowl. you glance at the clock for the fifth time.

still ten minutes.

your phone is pressed between your shoulder and ear while you tug at a throw blanket until it looks straight, and maki’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“okay so what’s the plan?” she asks. “walk me through it.”

“there is no plan,” you say. “that’s the point. i’m just going to be normal.”

maki snorts. “you? normal?”

“rude,” you mutter. “i mean it. we’re watching a movie, maybe talking, maybe drinking a bit. nothing crazy, just chilling out like friends do.”

“friends who want to kiss,” maki adds.

you roll your eyes. “stop.”

“i’m serious,” she says. “are you gonna ask if she’s std free if you guys fuck?”

you choke. “i’m not doing that!"

“why notttt?” maki says. “it’s good to be safe.”

“we are not fucking,” you hiss, glancing toward the door like it might hear you. “this is just a hangout.”

“everyone says that before they fuck,” maki says. “i’m just saying.”

“please don’t say fuck again,” you say. “i’m already on edge. i don't know how to do it with a chick anyway...”

"i'm sure she could teach you."

"shut up!"

maki's laugh cackles in your ear for a while before she sighs and calms. “you like her.”

you sigh, you know she's right but,

“i’m just going to see how things go,” you say. “i’m not making it weird.”

“you already made it weird,” maki replies gently. “but that’s okay. that’s how figuring things out works.” you smile despite yourself. “you’re annoying.”

“i know,” she says. “text me if she kisses youuu!.”

“i’m hanging up.”

“ask if she's clean!,” maki sings.

you end the call mid word and toss your phone onto the couch, cheeks pink.

you take a breath. steady. you glance at the door again.

a knock sounds.

you jump.

“shit,” you mutter. “she’s early.”

you smooth your top over, pulling at the fabric so your cleavage looks good, then cross the room. your hand is already on the knob when you pull the door open with a pretty smile ready for her.

but it drops immediately.

because it’s not shoko.

gojo stands there instead, leaning in like it's his own place. his hair is messy in that on purposeful way. his eyes are drowsy. his cheeks are pink like he’s been drinking or thinking about you, or both.

definitely both.

“hey,” he says softly. “there you are.”

“gojo,” you say, flat. “what are you doing here?"

he steps inside without waiting, his fingers wrap around your wrist gently. “I needed you,” he says, voice low. “i’ve been thinking about you all day.” he leans in and kisses you before you can stop him. it’s familiar, sure, it's nice and his mouth knows where to go, but you're all but over this.

you pull away.

“stop,” you say. “now is a really, really bad time.”

he stares at you, bewildered from the alcohol. “what?"

“shoko is coming over,” you say. “you can’t be here.” his brows knit together. “then cancel?”

“no,” you say. “gojo. you need to leave.” he laughs like you’re joking. “why would you cancel me for her?.."

“because i made plans,” you say. “with her.”

“yeah,” he says. “and i need you.” you shake your head. “that’s not how this works.”

he steps closer again, confused. “we’ve been doing this for three years. we're friends, good friends."

“I know,” you say. “that doesn’t mean you get to show up whenever you want.”

he looks genuinely lost now. “are you mad at me?."

“oh my god, no,” you say. “i just- i need you to go.”

“why are you picking some girl you just met over me?,” he asks. “over us.”

“there is no us,” you say, sharper than you mean. his mouth gets pouty. “wow.” you exhale. “gojo. please.” he scoffs. “she doesn’t need you like i do.”

“you don’t get to decide that,” you say.

he reaches for you again and you step back.

you're about to drop the bomb, about to tell him that 'i think i have a crush on her and this hangout is going to determine my mood for the rest of the week, so can you fuck off?'

but you're cut of by the door that opens behind him.

shoko, in all her beauty, stands there with a puzzled look on her face.

“oh,” she says. “sorry. i uhm.. i didn’t realise you had another guest.” your heart drops.

“no,” you say quickly. “it’s not like that. he was just leaving.”

in shokos head, she's distraught. why would you have some guy you were sleeping with over at your place when you and her were supposed to be hanging out? especially after she was so excited for it... she felt a little sad.

she tries to push it down and announces, "that’s fine. i can come back another time.”

“no,” you say. “shoko please stay.” but gojo talks over you. “thanks sho, catch up later yeah?.”

shoko hesitates, then gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her deep brown eyes. “text me.”

then she leaves.

the door closes, and the silence is loud. you turn on gojo slowly, heat and anger flooding your face.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap.

he frowns. “what did i do?"

“you just ruined everything!" you worry. “get out.”

“you’re overreacting,” he says. “she’s just some girl.”

“she’s not just some girl! she's all i can think about lately and i was so excited to see her today!” you say. “and you don’t get to decide who matters to me, i think i really like her!" the second the words leave your mouth, the room goes still.

gojo just stares at you, blinking like his brain short circuits halfway through processing it.

“you like,” he repeats, slower. “… her.”

you squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. “i don’t know if it’s love-like. but it feels big. bigger than anything i’ve felt before. and tonight was supposed to be a break from the fuck ups in our track history. we were supposed to just watch a movie and talk and not freak out and now it’s all fucked because you walked in like this was still some open door situation.”

gojo stays quiet because yikes, he messed up.

you keep going because stopping feels so impossible right now.

“everything with you has always been easy,” you say. “easy and fun and predictable. and with her.. i don’t know anything, and that’s scary and exciting and i hate that i care this much but i do.” gojo rubs the back of his neck. “i didn’t know.”

“I know,” you sigh, then soften immediately. “i know you didn’t. but you don’t get to act like she’s nothing just because she’s new.”

he winces. “yeah. that was shitty.”

you drag a hand down your face. “i just wanted tonight to go right."

he rubs his neck bashfully and steps towards you slowly, he pulls you into a hug before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair. “i really am. i don’t know much about… any of this. but i didn’t mean to mess things up for you.”

your throat tightens. “i know.. i know.”

"i'm sorry,” he says quietly. “i won’t again.”

you look up at him and he looks genuinely gutted on your behalf.

“i’ll stop,” he says. “no more showing up. no more trying to get with you, hell, i'll even tell the other guys to lay off if you want. if you think you found something good, i’m not gonna touch it.” your whole face is wiped of the stern expression you wore, replaced with one of appreciation. “thank you.”

he nods, then forces a small smile. “you should go after her.”

you nod, then grab your jacket, shove past him, and bolt out the door.

then, like some really bad angsty romace movie, it starts pouring down with soaking rain.

your hair sticks to your face. your shoes soak through, and your heart feels like it’s trying to outrun you. you scan the street, breath coming fast, panic creeping in.

then you see her down the block with her hood up, standing near the bus stop about to hop on the cory express. she’s halfway up the step when you shout her name.

“shoko!”

she turns just as you reach her, your hand catching her arm before she can get on.

“wait,” you gasp. “please.”

she lets you pull her back down onto the sidewalk. the rain darkens her shirt, and her expression's conflicted, her hurt shining through no matter how hard she tries to hide it.

“you didn’t have to do this,” she says.

“no... i did,” you huff. “i really did.” she looks away. “but it’s fine. i get it.”

“no,” you say, shaking your head. “you don’t. and i don’t want you filling in blanks that aren’t real.”

she watches you carefully now. “okay?.."

“gojo didn’t know,” you say. “about us. about tonight meaning something to me. he thought he could just show up like always, and that’s on me for not shutting it down sooner.”

she sighs. “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“i owe you honesty,” you say. “especially after the other night.”

her shoulders drop a little. “... i was excited to see you.” she admits, hugging her body.

oh wow.. your heart drops. “me too.”

rain dripples down your nose and forehead, you're awe struck at the way droplets fall into her lashes and catch on the ends.

“I didn’t want you thinking i chose him,” you say. “because i didn’t. i would have chosen you. every time.” her eyes soften. “i believe you.” you laugh weakly. “thank god.” she steps closer and wraps her arms around you. you hug her back without thinking, rain soaking both of you.

“shit, it’s freezing,” she laughs with melancholy. you huff a laugh. “come back to my place. please.” she nods. “duh. i just missed my bus cuz of you.”

you laugh, embarrassed, and pull her up the pathway, and by the time you get back, you’re both dripping wet. gojo’s mercedes is gone, and relief floods over you. thank fuck.

you step inside and the chill from the air con made both of you shiver. you smile guide her gently toward the bathroom. “you should have a shower. now. before you freeze and die.” she laughs at you as you wish off to grab her a towel and some clothes.

as you shut the door you try your best to not think about her being naked in your bathroom, occupying yourself with whatever you can. you change into comfy, drier clothes, dry your hair, hands still a little shaky.

just as you finish up she comes out dressed in your clothes, with her hair damn and her cheeks flushed pink.

you both pause, then laugh at the same time.

“you look good,” you say, smiling.

“you too,” she replies.

you point to the couch. “c'mon, pick a movie. i’ll order food.”

she settles in, scrolling, glancing at you from under her lashes. you catch her looking at your short pyjama shorts but you pretend not to notice how her cheeks flush a darker colour, and she pretends you didn’t catch her.

“i can’t choose,” she says eventually.

“that’s fine,” you say, sitting down. “we can just talk.” she smiles and scoots closer, turning to face you fully, you set your phone down.

“hi,” she says.

“hi,” you echo, laughing softly.

you’re both so goo goo eyed it’s embarrassing.

rain taps faintly against the window, but you barely register it. all you can really focus on is how close she is, how her knee keeps brushing your thigh every time she moves around, like she’s checking if you’ll pull away.. you, ofcourse, don’t.

shoko glances down, then back up at you. “i was a little sad earlier,” she admits.

your stomach tightens. “about gojo?”

she nods. “yeah. not because of him, really. just because i didn’t know where i stood.”

you swallow. “i hated that you saw that.”

“i know,” she says. “but i’m glad you ran after me.”

“i needed you to know i wasn’t choosing him.” she takes a once over of your face. “and?”

“and i’m not involved with anyone anymore,” you say. “not him. not anyone. except…” you trail off, then look at her. “except you. if you want.” her lips curve into a slow smile. “i do.”

it’s such a simple answer it almost knocks you flat. “i’m only interested in you too,” she adds, like she’s letting you in on a secret.

something loosens in your chest. you laugh, a quiet little sound. “that makes me feel insane amounts of better.”

“good,” she says. “that was the goal.”

you both smile, and then there’s this weird feeling of change, the way you're looking at her and visa versa is like neither of you is pretending this is just friendly anymore.

your eyes fall, against your will, down to the shirt you gave her, it's low cut and shows off her cleavage on the most beautiful way. you definitely chose that shirt on purpose, consciously or subconsciously was the real question.

your eyes flick down one more and you immediately regret it, already bracing for embarrassment because she notices.

and instead of calling you out, she adjusts the shirt, pulling it down, leaning back just enough to make it worse.

there goes the innocent act you were tryna uphold. she catches your reaction and smiles, amused. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say quickly. “totally. fine.”

she hums. “you’re staring.”

you clear your throat because you were really hoping she wouldn't say anything, then, bashfully you counter with, “you are too.”

she doesn’t deny it. her eyes drop down to your shorts, the way your legs fold under you. “they’re very short.”

“i know,” you say, then wince. “i mean- i didn’t think about it like that, that wasn't like the plan or anything i-”

“mm,” she says. “sure.” she shifts closer. now your knees are touching fully, not just brushing. you take a breath. “can i ask you something?” she nods. “anything.”

oh god what were you doing?

your courage spikes and you spew what had been on your mind for the past twenty minutes. “do you wanna... try that kiss again?” wow, so much for being normal tonight.

her smile turns softer, warmer. “i thought you’d never ask.” she leans in this time without hesitating. your lips meet hers gently, and you’re more present now, less caught in your head. you kiss her slowly, deliberately, like you’re learning her technique. she responds quickly with her hand sliding to your waist, only, as she pulls herself closer to you you can't help the whine that falls from your lips as her tits press firmly against yours, moulding together so she can slip her tongue inside.

they feel so plush, so warm against your chest. like some psychic, she grabs one of your hands and places it against her right boob, letting you explore.

you're breathing heavy at the overwhelming appeal dripping from this exchange, squeezing gently making her gasp into your mouth.

she pulls back for just a second, looking you with lust in her caramel eyes. “can i go a little further?” you nod so fast it’s pathetic. “please.” she smiles and kisses you again, this time with more passion. she's not shy with where she's grabbing, her hands finding your butt and squeezing with a satisfied hum.

hm, so she was an ass girl. good to know.

she then lifts herself up and slips easily into your lap, sitting down on your bare thighs.

"is this okay, baby?" wow you almost moan at the name. from a man's mouth that pet name felt cringe, from hers? you think you cold listen to her say it a million times over.

"this is more than okay." you smile, and she gives you an open mouth kiss in appreciation. she takes your hand and presses it gently against her chest again, your breath stutters and you squeeze lightly. she makes this quiet whine that goes straight to your clit.

you moan softly into the kiss, startled by yourself. her hand mirrors yours, resting over your chest, squeezing just enough to make you melt into her. she’s in control, but she’s watching you closely, checking in without words. it makes you feel safe and secure in a way no man has ever done.

when the kiss finally breaks, you’re both lost for breath and touching foreheads, “wow.”

she smiles against your skin. “yeah.”

just as you're about to go at it after catching your breath, the door bell rings.

"fuck, that's the food..." you mumble. and she laughs as you push off the couch and towards the door. while you're gone, she's trying desperately to fix herself up and hide the mess between her legs, sitting on her knees so you couldn't see the dampness she's sure is there.

she's praying to god she didn't leave anything on your clothes as well..

.

the rest of the night eases into something soft without trying to be. food shows up, it's warm and fragrant, and you eat cross legged on the couch with mean girls playing in the background.

shoko cheekily smiles while stealing your fries and you laugh and take sips of her drink in return. the normalcy of it all feels unreal after how intense everything was an hour ago. you both have a few drinks you'd kept in your fridge, nothing hangover worthy but just enough to slow your brain down.

by now she seems more comfortable as she leans her head against your shoulder and leans into you when she laughs, you grin like a school girl and go with the flow.

halfway through the movie you realise you’re not paying any attention. you’re more focused on the way her fingers are scratching lightly up and down on your thigh, every now and then she glances up at you to gauge your reaction.

you smile and kiss your teeth in reply.

when the credits finally roll, it’s really late. the rain has softened to a quiet patter outside, the city sounding distant and tired.

you clear your throat. “hey.” she hums, looking at you. “yeah?”

“do you wanna… stay the night?” it comes out cautious, like you’re bracing for rejection even though everything in her body language says otherwise. she smiles quickly. “i was hoping you’d ask.”

relief hits you so hard you almost laugh. “okay sweet!” you hop up too fast, nerves kicking back in. “you can take my bed. i’ll grab blankets for the couch.”

she blinks at you. “why?”

“because i invited you over,” you say. “and because i don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” she watches you for a second, then shakes her head. “that won’t be necessary.” you pause. “hmm?”

“just sleep in the bed with me,” she says simply. “if that’s okay.”

your face heats instantly. “oh. i mean. yeah. i just thought-” she steps closer and takes your hand before you can wack out. “we don’t have to do anything. i promise.”

you nod, embarrassed. “i wasn’t assuming.”

she smiles, gentle. “i know. i just want you to feel safe.” that word again. safe, she felt like it's definition at this point.

you take her to your room, showing her around the place abit before sitting on the edge, you watch as she settles beneath your covers and you take it as your sign to copy. your body's stiff and awkward until you lock eyes with her, she for your hand.

“you don’t have to be scared,” she laughs gently. you let your fingers lace with hers. “i’m not.” it’s not entirely true, and you think she could tell by the way she squeezes your hand.

“i don’t want sex tonight,” she adds softly. “i just want to be here with you.”

you didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “thank you.”

she shifts closer, just enough that your arms brush. it feels so intimate without being too overwhelming. you fall asleep like that, hand in hand, breathing in sync.

~

two weeks of that.

two weeks of hanging around eachothers places, making out on occasion, and watching shitty movies while cuddled up on the couch. la pretty sweet deal, if you did say so yourself.

you didn't have to be some performative pos infront of shoko because she was someone you felt comfortable with, you got to spend optimal time with one of the coolest people you knew, and said person had the same feelings for you as you did for her.

perfect.

well, almost.

the only thing wrong with this infatuating arrangement of swapping spit and touching up on each other, was the fact you hadn't put a label on any of this yet. usually, it would go something like this: you'd meet a guy, maybe screw around a bit, have him begging for your time for a date, go on said date, then you'd be asked out. (not that you'd ever said yes.)

obviously, with two chicks it was a different story. you knew you liked her. god, you liked shoko more than you'd ever liked anyone. with each passing day of just living in her presence, you've learnt that maybe you've been missing out your whole life on this whole gay thing. only thing is, how do you take this relationship to the next level?

do you have sex? is that the next thing? she'd been hinting at it lately but you weren't sure. do you ask her out first? maybe both? sex then a date? date then sex? this was all so confusing. your panicked thoughts came to fruition one night at a white lies party gojo's frat was hosting.

a theme that's been over-done to the max but was always a good laugh.

you'd texted shoko earlier that day to ask what she was up to and if she was coming, and she of course had already been invited by shiu. (who you've since found out is her plug, hence why she's always at the functions, she's lining his pockets as well as being his friend.)

smiling to yourself at the thought of retreating upstairs away from everyone else with shoko, you step into the house and smell that disgusting reek of spoiled alcohol.

a few weeks ago you'd be fluttering around greeting people, but as of late all you could muster is a quick wave as your beelined it to your pretty friend.

so, that's what you were doing. in your white shirt that spelt out "i'm coming" in messy handwriting, you're throwing small greetings to the people you recognise while making your way over the the couch shoko's always at.

you’re halfway across the living room when sukuna, this dumb meat head, spots you.

his eyes drag over you, then snag on your shirt. “no way,” he says, grinning. “is that true for me?” you stop because he steps directly into your path. for gods sake, you wished men you'd fucked months ago would stop thinking they were the centre of your universe. you force a very obviously fake smile and grit out, “it’s just a theme, sukuna.” he laughs, loud and annoyingly self assured. “so you’re saying there’s a chance?"

your gaze flicks past him, already searching for the couch. for her. you spot dark hair, her posture, long slender legs tucked up the way she always sits. relief and the sight of her unfathomable beauty almost makes your knees give out. you try to step around him but he moves again, blocking you off from your precious view. “come on. you telling me i can’t make that shirt honest tonight?”

oh you were so sick of this.

you don't know if it's the weeks of finally feeling content with your life without men like him running things or what, but you bark out a harsh, “move,” he raises a brow. “what?”

“i said move.” there’s no flirt in your voice like you'd usually put on, no. you're kind of over putting on such a facade for people you didn't really care about. the only person you wanted to impress with your charm and social skills right now was sitting on a couch you wished you were sitting at as well.

his grin falls. “damn, relax. i’m just talking.”

“god,” you say flatly. “can you just fuck off.”

a few heads turn. that alone is enough to shock him. you step forward and shove past his shoulder. he stares at your gobsmacked at your attitude. well, you're glad that was over. you were expecting some more yelling from him, so that was a plus.

you finish your journey and there she sits, wearing a white shirt with neat lettering that reads i’m not addicted to nic. you laugh under your breath as you drop down beside her. “liar,” you say.

she glances over, eyes lighting up. “takes one to know one.” you almost kiss her cheek infront of all of these people without thinking. the urge hits so fast it makes your head spin but you stop yourself at the last second, settling for leaning in close.

“hi,” you say instead.

“hi,” she replies softer.

wow, she looks good, it’s distracting.

her boobs looked really good in that shirt, you could faintly see the outline of her bra. you have to curl your fingers into your own thigh to keep from doing something reckless. she notices. her eyes dip then come back to your face, amused. “you okay?”

you swallow. “define okay.” her lips twitch into a smile. “you look… restless.” that’s one way to put it. she leans in close to whisper in your ear “we could go upstairs.” your breath leaves you in a slow exhale. “i’ve been waiting for you to say that.” you get the okay from geto beforehand, and he waves you two off. you'd bother assumed he was still under the impression you were strictly using his room for smoking, he said the smell went with his aura and that shoko could hot box it as much as she wanted. such a poser.

but, in reality, he had an ongoing bet with yuki about how long it would take for the two of you to go public. he knew.

the wooden door closes behind you, and it feels like a switch flips. like the noise and the eyes and the expectations all fall away.

shoko turns to you.

“can i kiss you?” she asks. you nod eagerly. “yes.” she doesn’t rush it. she steps into your space, gives you time to pull back if you want to, and you don’t.

your mouths meet, soft at first, then deeper as you relax into it. it’s so familiar now, but the way she's pushing up against you suggests she's feeling a little frisky.

you break the kiss just long enough to laugh. “why are you being so confident tonight?”

she smiles, forehead resting against yours. “i’ve just been thinking about you all day. can't get you out of my head.”

her voice.. holy shit, her voice. you kiss her again, your hands falling around her waist as hers grip your ass.

she really was being bold. and you loved it.

she now presses you back until your thighs hit the edge of suguru's bed. you sit without breaking the kiss, and she follows, sitting down in your lap.

"for the record, i never stop thinking about you, sho." you huff when the kiss breaks.

she smiles, small and mischievous. “i noticed.” her hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin. your shoulders tense up but then relax when you realise you’re not nervous, you’re just keyed in.

she kisses down your neck, like she'd done a few times before, but now she was doing iit not only with passion, but with lust. she pulls at your shirt collar as she kisses down your collar. “shoko,” you whine, gosh, you never whined like that with men.

she hums against your skin, sultry and hungry. “mm?”

“don’t stop.” that’s all it takes. she nudges you further back onto the bed, guiding you until you’re lying down. she takes her time pushing your shirt up slowly, fingers dragging lightly over your stomach, watching your face the whole time. checking. always checking.

“tell me if you want me to stop,” she says.

you shake your head. “i will.”

“perfect.” she leans down again, looking you dead in your eyes as she drags her tounge from your belly button up to your bra, unhooking it at the back then pulling it off with her teeth.

wow, magic mike much? she's still giving you the fuck me eyes as she takes one of your hard nipples into her mouth, sucking gently pulling more pretty sounds from your throat.

you'd always thought this moment would feel wrong when you finally engaged. that maybe you'd freak out and stop her, but with the way she's murmuring praise and compliments into your skin while she sucks at your body paints a completely different picture.

"you're so beautiful, baby. prettiest tits i've ever seen." she smiles.

before you can thank her with an embarrassed flush, she bites down softly on your nipple and you moan ever so prettily, hooking your fingers into getos sheets.

was it bad you were doing this in your friends bed? probably.

didn't stop either if you though. as she continues kissing down your body, her hands slip into your shorts, thumbs hooking on the waistband. you lift your hips in instinct, helping her. the look she gives you at that is sexy and so approving.

“you're so eager,” she murmurs.

“shut up,” you say, embarrassed, but grinning. she slides your shorts down your legs, followed by your underwear, her movements are so fluid and feminine.

when she looks at you fully like this, open and bare under her gaze, your face heats. you almost cover yourself.

she catches your wrist gently before you can. “hey.” you meet her eyes. “you’re ethereal,” she says, like some simple fact.

and yeah, you knew you were pretty, a multitude of guys would line up to spout that in your ear. but having a beautiful girl like shoko say that meant so much more than all the men in the world combined.

she leans down, kisses your inner thigh, then the other. her mouth is warm, never quite where you want it yet. you squirm, letting out a soft sound you don’t recognise as yours. she smiles against your skin. “relax. i’ve got you.”

and she does.

her fingers part you slowly, like she’s learning how you'll react. she doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. just explores, touches, listens to the way your body responds. when she finally slips a finger inside you, it’s so gentle. you gasp, hands flying to her hair, gripping without meaning to.

she doesn’t tell you to let go.

she adds another finger once you relax around her, curling them just enough to make your thoughts scatter. your hips move on their own, chasing the high you so desperately wanted.

“shoko,” you breathe, a little wrecked already. she looks up at you, eyes focused. “yeah?”

“that feels… really good.” she chuckles softly. “i know.” she leans down again, mouth replacing her fingers for a moment, tongue slow and thorough. you go still, then melt, one hand covering your mouth to keep quiet. she pulls back just long enough to say, “you don’t have to be.

that’s permission you didn’t know you needed. her flat tongue spreads against your clit and you feel like fainting. she watches the way your face contorts in pleasure, and slowly licks through your folds with a hum of pleasure that vibrates through you. you've been eaten out before, but not like this.

not by another woman who knows exactly what to do to make you feel good.

she's lapping you up like a dog, her tongue flicking back and forth over your bud with her own pretty moans. the noises that rip from your throat are otherworldly, sounds you've never made.

"fuck, you taste so sweet, love." she smiles, her lips glistening with your own liquid.

you bite your lip at the sight and grind into the air, asking for more. "aww, so cute". and she dives back in. she alternates between her mouth and her fingers, never letting the building coil in your stomach drop, tightening it carefully. every time you get close, she eases off just enough to keep you right there.

“you’re doing so good,” she hums. "so good for me, baby." it’s almost too much. your body tightens, muscles drawing in, breath uneven. “i’m close,” you whine in between gasps.

she smiles and goes all in, her fingers plunge deep inside you as her mouth works and sucks at your clit, drawing more quips from your throat. shoko was intoxicated with you. your taste had her dripping and the way you were grinding into her mouth so desperately was driving her mad.

she could see why you had so much sex appeal, if this was a performance you were a damn good actor. she speeds up, solely focused on you finishing, hooking her fingers inside of you to reach that sponge spot she knew was making you dizzy. "c'mon, my sweet girl, give it to me."

that gets you, because in a mix of whining and gripping the fabric of the sheets, you come undone all over her fingers.

"atta girl."

after, she kisses your stomach, then curls up beside you, pulling you into her chest. your head fits there like it belongs.

you’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling, trying to come back into yourself.

“hey,” she murmurs. you hum in response, too relaxed to form words yet. “you okay?” she asks. you nod. “yeah. more than okay.”

“good,” she says, relief threading through her voice. “stay with me for a sec.”

she pushes off the bed to rummage through geto’s drawer, mumbling something under her breath about him being gross but prepared. when she comes back, she’s holding a packet of wipes she absolutely did not bring herself.

“god,” you laugh. “of course he has those.”

“right?” she says. she sits beside you again and gently helps clean you up, her delicate movements are careful and so, so respectful. she keeps checking your face, your reactions, making sure you’re still comfortable.

“tell me if anything feels weird,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t,” you reply. “it feels… nice.”

she sighs with a smirk that screams 'i'm infatuated with you,' then tosses the wipes aside and pulls you into her arms.

her fingers slide into your hair, combing through it slowly, you didn’t understand just how badly you needed this care until she so graciously gave it to you.

“there you go,” she murmurs. “just breathe.”

she gives your forehead a sweet kiss, then your nose, her hands are still moving against your scalp and you melt into her soft touch. “you did so good,” she says.

your face goes red. “i didn’t really do anything.”

“hmm, you trusted me,” she replies. “that counts.” you move up closer, curling into her.

“i kinda wish,” she adds after a moment, voice thoughtful, “that our first time doing… that… wasn’t in a frat house.”

you laugh softly. “yeah?"

“yeah,” she says. “like. your place. or mine. somewhere quieter. with real blankets. and a locked door.” you tilt your head back to look at her. “are you saying geto’s room isn’t romantic?”

she snorts. “i’m saying his vibes are deeply cursed.”

you laugh and squeeze her arm, "i guess it's kinda romantic since this is where we met,"

she nods and looks down at you with such love in her irises.

“i guess you're right. next time,” she says lightly.

next time. heck yeah, there was a next time.

“hey,” you say. “that was really amazing.” her expression softens. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you nod. “and for the record? you proved my shirt right.” she breaks, laughing, shoulders shaking as she hides her face in your neck. “oh my god.”

“i’m just saying,” you add. “very on theme.”

she lifts her head with her eyes bright. “good to know my reputation remains intact.” you grin, then grow quieter. “thank you. for taking care of me.”

she doesn’t joke this time. she cups your face gently, “always.” the way she looks at you makes your heart feel all gooey and soft, sure, you'd just had your first.. you don’t even know what to call it, with a girl, in a frat house, but it was the most intimacy you'd ever experienced.

she kisses you softly once more then tucks you back against her plush chest. her hand returns to your hair, slow and so soothingly repetitive, like she’s memorising the feel of you. you could fall asleep like this, you think. easily.

alas, “we should probably go back down eventually,” you mumble.

“eventually,” she agrees. “not yet.”

you smile, eyes closing. “okay.”

~

the plan was to go downstairs and go home, but apparently the universe had other plans for you and shoko. you're walking back down the stairs with shoko trailing behind you, when you look over the lounge room and dining area to see gojo.

he’s across the room, leaning against a pillar, his blue eyes already on you. the moment your eyes meet, his face falls. he looks so, so guilty. before you can tilt your head and scrunch your face up at him, he mouths a drunken, 'i'm sorry.' the fuck? sorry for what?

you barely have time to process it before you hear your name.

“oh my god, there she is.”

oh.

you turn, and there they are. the self centred butches you've grown to hate, but ones you’ve also known forever, or at least long enough to know exactly how shallow their look is right now. one of them laughs. “so that’s where you’ve been hiding.”

another tilts her head. “gojo spilled his guts, by the way. about you and this... girl.”

your stomach drops, but your spine stays straight.

“told you what?” you ask. they exchange looks, delighted. “that you’ve been blowing off parties because you’re obsessed with her,” she says, nodding at shoko. “kinda explains a lot.” behind you, you can feel shoko step back slightly, you can see in your peripheral how her shoulders curl into her body as she shys away from these girls nasty glares.

if you weren't pissed the fuck off before, you sure were now. shoko was confident in bed, but not when it came to judgey whores like this. “wow,” you say flatly. “you guys really rushed to conclusions fast.”

“don’t act like it’s not obvious,” one of them says. “you disappear for weeks and suddenly you’re glued to… this fag.”

the word hangs there, ugly even without being said properly. you watch shoko’s jaw tighten. you feel her hand twitch, like she’s deciding whether to leave or stay or disappear entirely.

and that’s it. you're not proud if the way you instantly get up in these girls faces like you were about to knock them in their teeth. “say that again.” you spit. they blink, completely thrown off.

you push the girl who said it back, and she stumbles like a pathetic feather. "don’t call her that." you bark. "insecure hoe's like you really piss me off." by now she's looking at you, then around the room like someone would give her a helping hand. "your life of sucking dick and getting trains ran through you really dumbs down your personality? huh? have to make others feel bad because you're just some pocket pussy?"

the onlookers are pissing themselves laughing and a handful of them are egging you on with the odd cheer. she literally starts crying. you half scoff and half laugh at how pathetic she was being.

maybe that wasn't exactly crystal for your shiny record, but the only thing you can think to care about right now was shoko, and they were making her feel shitty.

one of them scoffs. “you're fucking insane! we're just concerned.”

“no,” you say. “you’re bored.” you step back, placing yourself slightly in front of shoko without even thinking about it. not hiding her. just making it clear where you stand.

geto and yuki, who happened to be nearby, were taking this all in and nodding to themselves, clinking glasses. those two were never a good mix when it came to conspiracy, because their predictions always came to fruition.

“you’re all so wrapped up in your own little worlds that the second someone stops orbiting you, you get nasty,” you say. “and honestly? it’s embarrassing.” more people start looking. “you think you’re better than us now?” one of them snaps.

you shrug. “no. i just think i’m done pretending i like you.” that one stings. you see it hit.

“so what, you’re dating her now?” another says, sneering. “is that it?” you glance at shoko. she’s watching you closely, eyes searching your face, like she’s bracing for impact. you grab her hand.

“yeah,” you say. “maybe i am.”

their faces twist with both disgust and dissatisfaction, the girl you'd clocked was long gone, probably off crying somewhere.

you reach back and take shoko’s hand.

you don’t look away from them as you do it. “if you’ve got a problem with who i like,” you say, “that’s yours to deal with. not mine.”

they look so pathetically small now. mean in a way that isn’t powerful anymore. you turn away from them without another word and start toward the door, tugging shoko gently along with you. people part as you pass, some smiling ear to ear, some indifferent, most already losing interest.

college attention spans are short like that.

you guide her into the night and down the street a few paves. then shoko pulls you into a hug. it’s sudden and oh so tight. her arms wrap around you and her face presses into your shoulder like she needs to make sure you’re still there.

“thank you,” she says quietly. you hold her just as tight. “for what?”

“for that,” she says. “for not letting them talk like that. for… choosing me, i guess.”

you smile into her hair, and squeeze her arm twice. "for you i'd do that a million times over, sho." she pulls back just enough to look at you. her eyes are bright, a little wet, a lot warm.

“you know that was big, right?” she says gently. “for you.”

you nod. “yeah.”

“are you okay?” she asks. you think about it. about the way your chest feels lighter than it has in years. about how scared you were ten minutes ago and how steady you feel now. “yeah,” you say. “more than okay.”

she smiles, then her eyes change from bittersweet to playful.

“so,” she says, tilting her head. “we’re dating now, huh? that’s news to me.”

your face heats up instantly. “what? no, i just- i was proving a point-."

“mm,” she says. “sure.”

“oh gosh,” you blush. “i didn’t mean to, like, announce anything.” she steps closer, getting up in your space. “you don’t want to date me?”

you open your mouth and stumble. “that’s not- i didn’t say-”

she kisses you. her lips mould perfectly with yours. when she pulls back, she smiles. “i’d love to date you.” you stare at her for a good second, then you giggle. “yeah?”

“yeah,” she says. you lean in and kiss her again, grinning into it.

college is messy. people talk. parties get crashed. friendships crack and reform and fall apart.

but right now, with shoko's hand in yours and the night fanning open in front of you, none of that feels so scary anymore.

it feels like a beautiful beginning for you, and this beautiful, allusive girl you'd become infatuated with.

okay, yeah. maybe you were a little gay.

"i haven't seen you smoking lately, what's up with that?"

"i only smoke when i'm stressed. i use your tits as stress toys now, so there's no need."

"love it."

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

“I insist you be obliging, sister. We are merely guests in Lord Ashford’s home; there is no need for your scathing remarks if you find his keep disagreeable.” Your older brother, the heir to Casterly Rock, sighed as you two rode to Ashford. After a moon on the road seeing you had accompanied your brother as he tended business in Dorne, you had expected to be home soon. However, he had ambushed you with his decision to attend a tourney hosted by an inconsequential house somewhere in the Reach. 

After suffering a fortnight in the hazy heat of Dorne, you believed that soon you should be surrounded by the cool and lavish stone walls of your home, Casterly Rock. But your brother was insistent on attending the tournament orchestrated by Lord Ashford, as he was desperate to parade his daughters and beg any young lord or knight to take one of their hands. 

“I do not understand why I must attend as well when they could simply bring you to Ashford and return for you once they had delivered me to Casterly Rock.” You complained to your brother as you grumbled when your wheelhouse jostled as it met the uneven road of the countryside. “I do not think it is safe for you to travel alone, sister. Besides, I’m well certain that your back has grown sore from our journey, and I know how displeased you are with the straw beds at the inns we stayed at. This shall be a nice respite, and we shall be back on our way.” Your brother explained, and you rolled your eyes at his words. The young lord could only sigh. 

His sister had always been fastidious and particular— some even say a cutting type of young lady. You were a spoiled little thing; your father had made you as such, and he expected your brother to continue on with his indulgence for his only daughter. Often, he did. He had always obliged your wishes; he even let you come with him to Dorne, for you had wished to see sunsets in the west, as you had heard tell it was the prettiest sight to behold. But the matter of your journeying to Casterly Rock alone was a matter he could not abide by as there were concerns for your safety. Gods forbid something happens to his father’s beloved daughter. 

“Then why have we employed guards? Are they only there to sit in their arse when danger arises?” You questioned with a sharp raise of your brow, and you were once again met with your brother’s sigh. “No, sister. It's just I will feel more assured if you travel with me; I cannot risk sending you into harm's way. Father would have my head if anything befalls you and I am not there.” Your brother explained, but that did not lessen the annoyance you felt as he made you attend the tourney. 

“So you admit, this is for your benefit, not mine.” The young lord pursed his lips at your words, too tired to keep having to explain himself that he could only nod. “Yes, sister. I ask of you to do me this kindness and attend the tourney with me.” He conceded, and you rested your back upon the plush velvet cushion of your seat. You sighed heavily at your brother’s words. You were feeling rather benevolent that day as you finally accepted the fact that you must subject yourself to the dirt, filth, and small folk you must endure as you attend the tourney. 

When you finally arrive in Ashford, you try to once again rein in the irritation you felt as you caught a whiff of the pungent odor of horse shit and heard the boisterous cheers of attendees. You had half the mind to mount a horse and ride ahead to Casterly Rock, but with the fickle weather and muddied road, you could not even fathom the thought of ruining your fine crimson dress and satin slippers with such grime. 

“Come now, sister. Look on the brighter side. There are plenty of knights, lords, and even princes present. All of them are dying to witness the Golden Beauty of Casterly Rock.” Your brother said, trying to soothe your resentment at having to be in Ashford. “I’ve no care for knights or lords.” You scoffed as you were nearing the castle’s gates. “And what of princes?” He then mused, remembering the moments you would walk along the halls of your home with one of the hundreds of bejewelled tiaras your father gifted you. 

“The princes of the realm are inconsequential. The royal house has fallen on sad days ever since the Blackfyre Rebellion. They cannot even pay their debts to our house.” You scoffed as you flicked away your golden hair to cascade behind you. “Pray you mention naught a word about the King’s debts, sister.” The young lord sighed as he knew one word heard by the wrong ears could earn his sister a great deal of peril. “It is simply the truth, brother. We had lent them our gold, and yet they make no effort to repay us nor offer any expression of gratitude, as they had overlooked Father as Master of Coin.” 

“It matters not, sister. I cannot save you if they come for your tongue for such words. If you cannot be agreeable before them, then I beg you to be indifferent.” Your brother pleaded, but you only brushed him off as your wheelhouse finally halted by the castle gates. You glanced toward the small opening scattered along the walls of the wheelhouse and saw Lord Ashford standing with his house to greet you and your brother. When the doors opened, your brother was quick to disembark and held out his hand to assist you. However, when you met the gray, muddy ground, you halted and gave him an unimpressed look. You bit your tongue as it took a moment before your coachman finally placed down a velvet rug so your slippers would not be rendered muddied. 

“Thank you for hosting us, Lord Ashford.” You hear your brother greet the old lord. You paid no mind to the pleasantries exchanged as you let your eyes roam the drab land and the smoke-filled tents by the field. You examined the men and women present. Drunken lords, blushing whores, guarded knights, and a clueless-looking giant of a man who curiously and shamelessly looked upon your newly arrived party. 

You met his clear blue eyes from a distance, with great interest and caution behind them. You gave him an unimpressed look and raised your brow at him in question. You almost let out a laugh as he suddenly tripped, and looked back at you with fear and embarrassment in his eyes. You removed your gaze from the man as you felt your brother place his hand at the small of your back to follow your hosts inside the walls of the keep. 

However, before you could take another step, the distant sound of a horn and the gallop of horses made everyone cease in their tracks. “My lord, Prince Baelor is nearing.” You heard a squire's call, and you turned to your brother. “Please, my lord, my lady, join me in welcoming the princes. Your house has always been a great ally to House Targaryen,” You heard Lord Ashford practically beg. You rolled your eyes as your brother obliged, the two of you standing by the lord’s left as you waited for royalty to arrive. 

You stood in utter boredom as another round of pleasantries was exchanged once House Targaryen arrived. You watched as Prince Baelor turned to your brother, a shine of recognition in his eyes as his brother, Prince Maekar, held a look of contempt that almost mirrored yours. “My, how the young lion cub had grown,” You hear the eldest prince say as he strode closer to your brother. “My prince.” Your brother bowed, and it took a moment for you to curtsy as your attention was briefly caught when you saw a glimpse of the clueless giant you locked eyes with earlier speak with another pale-haired prince. 

“Your sister, I presume?” You hear Prince Baelor question as you straighten your back, feeling a different set of blue eyes upon you. You glanced behind the eldest prince and saw his princeling son looking in your direction. “My prince,” You said with a bow of your head, turning away your gaze from the mud-haired prince. “A spitting image of your mother in her youth. If not, prettier,” The prince complimented, and you obliged him with a small, albeit forced smile. The moment the prince passed you and your brother, the pleasing smile on your lips quickly disappeared. You feel as your brother turned to follow Lord Ashford, the Targaryen prince, you were to follow suit, but your attempt to take another step was once again disrupted. 

“The Golden Beauty of the realm,” You hear a voice utter the title they had bestowed upon you. You raised your gaze and locked eyes with deep violet orbs. You glanced behind you to see that your brother had already entered the castle walls. You returned your gaze upon the prince, high of cheekbones and of self-worth, too, you wagered. 

“My prince,” You reluctantly curtsied, narrowing your gaze as you watched his violet gaze look upon you assessingly. “Tell me, did your lord father pay for men to call you such titles?” You feel a scoff leave your parted lips at his words. Gods how you wished that your brother had not left for there was no one to hinder you if you said a word beyond bounds.

“Unfortunately, no, my prince. Seeing that many debtors had still not paid my house, my father could not put aside coin to pay men to bestow me such titles.” You boldly said, watching as the teasing look in the prince’s eye turned cold at your words. He was quick, you must admit; already aware of what you were pertaining to. It was your turn to pass your gaze upon his frame, looking almost pitifully as you guards seemed to be more well-dressed than a prince of the realm. His cloak may be velvet, but it looked second-rate when compared to the pure, scarlet velvet your guards wore as capes.

You toyed with the ruby pendant that rested upon your chest as you watched the prince clench his jaw. He parted his lips to speak, but when no sound came out, you smirked and once again curtsied before him. “Good day, my prince.” You said, and quickly turned on your heel and headed inside the castle walls.

“Brother, he had insulted me. What had you expected me to do? Fawn over him?” You questioned your brother as you shared the unpleasant encounter you had with one of the King’s grandsons. “No. I expect you to say nothing! Such insolence would not be tolerated, especially by the crown.” You rolled your eyes at your brother’s fretting. “He is the mere second son of the king’s youngest son; what power does he wield?” 

“It matters not! He is a Targaryen— a dragon. You are lucky that he did not strike you for your words.” You shook your head. “He practically called me grotesque, brother! You dare scold me for defending myself?” You asked incredulously. Your pride still recovering from the blow the prince had inflicted. 

“You are overreacting, sister.” Your brother said more softly, and you raised a brow at him. “Are you taking his side?” You argued, and your brother quickly shook his head. “No! Just— just be more cautious, sister. Avoid the princes, I beg of you. Father is a fortnight’s ride away. I stand alone in defending you if the prince decides to retaliate for your words. A dragon is more ferocious than lions.” He sighed, but you, of course, disagreed once more.

“You forget, there are no more dragons left in this world. We lions are the only great predators left.” 

Gold had always been prized more than silver. The moment the prince saw golden locks that glimmered under the sun and striking scarlet skirts and cloaks against the grey ground, he understood that Lannisters were present. They had always said that Targaryens are closer to gods than men. But the age of dragons had long been over, and with the mountain of gold their house had, the Lannisters were the closest thing to gods men could be.

Prince Aerion had heard tale after tale of Lord Lannister’s daughter; the court often sang her songs, curious and desperate to catch a glimpse of her so-called golden beauty. He detested such chatter. He believed such praises should not be wasted on an ordinary lady but rather be reserved for royalty, for the blood of the dragon. However, he must admit, none of his sisters nor cousins were comely enough to earn such titles. 

When the prince saw the almost displeased expression on your truly comely face and the way you offered fictitious smiles to his uncle, he was amused. But when he heard your sly comment about his house’s physical shortcomings, that amusement was quick to dissipate. “Beware, cousin, the lion has fangs, as well as claws.” Prince Aerion heard his cousin, Prince Valarr, muse as he passed him, following along the tracks of the lady who dared to say such impertinent things to a prince of the realm. 

As the day went on, you accompanied your brother as he toured the grounds where tents were raised, and lords had littered. You two were accompanied by one of your guards, a parasol above your head raised by his left hand, and a sword in his right. You had raised a silk cloth doused in your perfume to your nose, the smell of earth and men unsettling your senses. You ignored the others who gawked at you as you passed, paying no mind as you heard them frown at your obvious discomfort at being present in such a filth-ridden place. 

You and your brother had ceased walking as he spoke to some lord, and you let your eyes wander around when a holler of screams caught your attention. You strayed away from your brother and walked with your guard to where a pulling contest had just been won. The same giant of a man you had seen earlier was present and had won the victory for his side. It made you curious about how a man could be so large; you began to think that perhaps one of his parents was an actual giant. But giants were simply fables, and if they were not, certainly you would have heard tell of one siring a son with a mortal. 

“Who is that?” You hear him ask, your gaze turned from him, but your ears are listening keenly. You could not see who he spoke to, but as you heard the high-pitched voice, you wagered it was the bale child you saw a glimpse of. “Lady Lannister. They call her the Golden Beauty of Casterly Rock.” 

“Well, she is pretty,” You hear the man say, his voice low and slow. “She is. But I hear she’s vain as well.” You pursed your lips at the words, however true it was. They say vanity is a sin, but you had always seen it as a blessing, for vanity is only bestowed upon those who have comely enough faces to have such claims. You walked on, not wanting to hear another comment about you, but as you aimed to return to your brother’s side, you saw two princes present.

You once again locked eyes with Prince Aerion. A calculated look in his violet orbs as you approached. “Sister, there you are.” You hear your brother call, a tone of nervousness in his voice, as you were once again face to face with the prince that you had offended earlier that day. “My lady,” You hear Prince Valarr greet, offering a nod of his head as you quickly curtsied before him, Prince Aerion watching in displeasure as to how your guard dipped lower for your parasole to follow lest you be exposed to the harsh noon sun. 

You had done your best to ignore the other prince as your brother, and Prince Valarr was consumed in the conversation of their own. But even in silence, you could feel that the prince was not ready to let the earlier matter to rest. He looked like a man who would not easily bend when insulted, but he did not know you were all but the same. 

You were ready to stray away from the group again, to find any distraction in such a subdued place, but when the gigantic man made its way to where you stood, aiming to return inside the tent you stood outside of, you paused. “What are you?” You suddenly questioned as you caught his eyes. The boy he spoke to earlier is now gone. 

“P—pardon, m’lady?” He asked, eyes wide and stuttering, which made an amused smirk come to your lips. You feel the eyes of Prince Aerion burning a hole in the side of your face as the large man approaches the two of you. When he did, you raised your perfumed, soaked cloth back to your nose as he smelt of ale, dirt, and damp. “Was your father a giant?” You then asked, voice partly muffled as you covered your nose with the cloth, and Aerion had almost wished he had brought one too, as he was subjected to holding his breath whenever the wind changed or picked up. “No, m’lady.” 

“What’s your name then?” You then asked, watching as the man cautiously glanced towards the prince who stood silently by your right. The same prince who had mistaken him for a stable boy earlier that day. “I… I am Ser Duncan the Tall, m’lady,” He said proudly, but it looked false at the uncertainty of demeanour. 

“Ser Duncan?” You questioned, and he eagerly nodded and straightened his back. “Well, knighthood has fallen on sad days,” You could not help but mutter, unknowing that your exact words were already told to him by the prince by your side. The prince’s brows rose in surprise as you echoed his words from earlier, watching as the knight bowed once more and left. 

“Perhaps it was his mother who was the giant,” You say to your guard, whose gaze followed Ser Duncan. He nodded at your words, and you finally removed the cloth that covered your nose. Prince Aerion was silent, but he was rather intrigued by your words. He had never encountered a lady who was as brash with her words as you. And he had never met someone who was clever enough to utter the same exact insult as him. When his stare was finally met, you gave him a passing look before walking off as well. Leaving him more curious than annoyed. 

When night came, and a round of tournying took place, Prince Aerion found himself seated in the host’s box, his violet eyes keenly on the lady who had dared to speak the last word earlier that morning. You made your way with your brother as you sat behind the princes of the realm, feeling a pair of eyes watching you constantly, even as you took a seat behind the owner of such a gaze. 

You had sworn earlier to your brother that an occurrence that happened in the morning shall never occur again, but the prince’s gaze was persistent. He even glanced behind to catch a further glimpse of you. You pursed your lips as you did not know what more was to come. He cannot seriously be still bitter about your earlier encounter. And if he did, he had no right to, for he had cast the first insult. He did not even have the decency to cast his slight cleverly as you had. 

When a horn was blown, the gallops of horses were loud as the knights readied their stances. But before the joust could take place, you hear the yell of a man atop a horse with a raw fish's head between his teeth. “I see the rivermen are still as barbaric as ever,” You muttered to your brother, who snickered at your words, but you failed to see that a silver prince had a smirk upon his lips. 

When the jousting had ended, you and your brother were invited to dine with the host, along with his other guests. You wished to excuse yourself, to let your brother think of some inane reason as to why you could not attend, but alas, he begged for your attendance, and you were still feeling an ounce of benevolence, so you obliged him. However, you quickly regretted your decision, as they had made you sit next to Prince Aerion. You two were far removed from the conversations made by the others, both too busy stewing in their judgment of the dishes served by Lord Ashford and how weak-tasting the wine was. 

“Forgive me if I have the wrong impression, my lord, but it would seem my cousin and your sister are quite similar,” Prince Valarr whispered to the young Lord Lannister who sat by his side, their eyes upon their kin who sat opposite them. Your brother glanced at you two, the displeased and bored expression upon your comely, striking faces. “They do say that the pretty ones are always temperamental, my prince.” Your brother jested, and when the two of them exchanged boisterous laughter, you and Prince Aerion cast your contempt-filled gazes upon your kin before exchanging a quick glance just to witness how you both mirrored each other’s expressions.

That was rather odd, you thought. You’ve never met another who had displayed their displeasure so openly, especially not a prince of the realm who was expected to be at least amiable when surrounded by others. 

“I could have your tongue for your words,” the prince suddenly spoke, his low voice only meant for you. You let out a breath as it only took him a day to finally think of a reply. “There’s the knife, your highness, take it.” You whispered, leaning ever so slightly for him to hear your words. You met his eyes, expecting a look of anger in the gaze of ancient Valeria, but you raised your brow as you saw intrigue and amusement behind them. 

The prince studied you for a moment, your gaze unyielding. He lowered his eyes as he caught the slight heave of your chest and the way your ruby necklace reflected the candlelight, making it look bright and aflame. “A lion with a cat’s tongue… how typical.” He mused as he momentarily leaned closer to you to snap at a squire to refill his chalice while motioning for yours as well. “Better that than a dragon without wings.” Prince Aerion wished that the reaction brought forth by your words was ire, but as he shifted in his seat when he caught the smug smirk on your lips and felt his trousers tightening, he thought that perhaps your tongue was better suited for another task rather than being cut off. 

He had never met a woman who diperaged him so openly. Perhaps because the others who dared say the wrong word before him were quickly rid of. He could order the same fate for you, but he’d rather not, seeing that Ashford offered no actual entertainment and was severely lacking comely-looking women. The prince was bored and displeased out of his wits that he’d rather hear the scathing remarks that left your lips than the obliging but empty words uttered by the others present.  

“Tell me, my prince. Why do they call you Brightflame?” You then asked, as you pushed around the mush on your plate, that they had served you. You cast your eyes upon the prince once more, him contemplating your question, trying to deduce if it was brought out by sincere curiosity or your intention to cast another sly insult. “It is simple, my lady. I am a dragon in the skin of a human. A god among men.” 

You bit your tongue at his arrogance, wanting to laugh at how sure he was with his words. Instead, you only hummed and raised your cup to your lips, never letting your gaze break even after a droplet of wine dribbled from your cup. “They do say that the brighter the flame, the quicker it is to burn out.” You said after a moment, dabbing the corner of your lips with a cloth. The prince’s gaze lingered a bit too long. He was so distracted by yoru wine stained lips that it took him a moment to comprehend your words. 

You raised your brow in challenge as you saw his expression harden. “Do you still wish for my tongue, my prince? I believe you still have a moment to take it before dessert is served.” You whispered lowly, both of your faces threading closer to each other so no one else could hear your words. “Believe me, my lady, I shall have more than your tongue.” Aerion had expected fear to come as he said his threat, but as you only smirked further and you partly raised your glass to him, he felt the same tightening in his trousers, for how could there be a lady as comely and pretty as well as sadistic and mad as you?

“Has anyone told you that your helmet resembles a rooster’s crown, my prince?” You mused as you exited your given chambers just in time to be met with the prince, who seemingly waited for you in the halls. He had already worn his armor as he was to take part in the first challenge, his oddly shaped helm tucked in his arm. 

“No. And if they were foolish enough to say as such, I’ll make certain to strike them down.” The prince said as he looked upon your face that was aglow with the rising sun. Gold does glimmer in the most catching way. 

“Your helm resembles a rooster’s crown.” You said plainly, watching keenly to see what the prince’s reaction would be. “Do you have a death wish, my lady?” The prince could not help but ask as you two walked side by side towards the gates, people excited by the first day of challenges. “No, my prince. I am simply fond of testing my bounds. And it would seem bounds stretch further with you than most,” You glanced and caught as the prince licked his full lips. 

“Will you be watching me today?” Prince Aerion instead asked. “It would seem I’ve no choice.” You answered and watched as a malicious smirk filled with mischief came to his lips. “Then you shall witness what shall happen when dares provoke a dragon.” The prince paused in his steps to face you fully, “A dragon ought not to lose, my lady. Best be reminded of that.” 

The first challenge ended quickly as it began. You had watched from a distance as the prince had his striking violet eyes before you as he rode out into the tournament grounds. You smirked at him in teasing as he halted his horse before the box you sat upon, your earlier comment regarding his helm proven right, and that only fanned the bright flame that consumed the prince. 

You watched through gritted teeth as the prince drove his lance into the neck of his opponent’s horse, a sadistic laugh from him echoing through the silent field as the other knight yelled in agony when his fallen horse broke his leg. The prince held up his helm’s face plate, revealing his bemused expression at his opponent’s fate, before quickly searching for your eyes. The prince had believed he finally proven to you what kind of beast you had been provoking, but as the screams of the smallfolk came along with the rock thrown and ricocheted off his helm, his smile faltered. 

You laughed quietly in your seat as the prince retreated and was saved by the Kingsguard when the smallfolk began to riot at his unsportsmanlike behaviour. You could only be impatient as to what your next interaction with the prince shall bring. 

“I wasn’t aware that horses are your opponents during these types of tournaments. However, I suppose the country has some rather queer customs,” You mused as you were later joined by the prince inside castle walls, luncheon being served, but not many attended, and it was only you and he seated at the great table. 

Perhaps you should have watched your tongue. You knew better than to think the prince made empty threats, but a part of you greatly believed that he would inflict upon you no harm. You did not know you believed as such, but you were positive with such thoughts. Besides, if the prince truly wished to harm you or have your tongue, he would have done so a day ago. He was erratic in nature, impatient as well. If it were another who offended him time and time again, he would not wait a second before having them flogged the second they finished their words. 

“You shall suffer a worse fate than what had befell that horse if you do not hold your tongue, my lady,” The prince said, and you hummed along the tune a minstrel played near the table. “You say that, but I’m beginning to believe that you are not a man of your word, my prince. At least when it comes to me.” You boldly said, and the moment the words left your lips, the minstrel ceased at his playing. 

The prince followed your gaze as a sudden frown adorned your face. “Did I order you to cease playing?” You snapped, annoyed as your favored part of the tune was cut short because the minstrel was trembling in fear for what you dared utter to the prince. Prince Aerion smirked as he caught the fear in the minstrel’s eyes double at the way he was addressed by you. “A—apoliges, my lady,” He bowed and quickly returned playing his lute, but you only rolled your eyes. “From the beginning,” You ordered and finally returned your gaze back to the prince who had clear amusement in his eyes and dared you say attraction. “You would do well in court,” The prince could not help but muse, completely forgetting the offence you had uttered. “I know,” The smirk on the prince’s lips only grew.  

Night was quick to come again. But instead of another feast in the halls of Lord Ashford’s home, you had decided to roam the camp. You found yourself herded by a band of smallfolk into a large tent, where benches were placed, and a stage was set. “Best take a seat, my lady, the show is about to start.” A stranger implored you to take a seat nearest to the stage. 

You hear cheers as a woman who was too tall appears wearing a knight’s armor. You hate to admit it, but the show meant for mere smallfolk was rather impressive, especially the dragon puppet they had created. The tent was filled with loud, boisterous cheers, but as you feel the burn of a familiar pair of violet eyes, silence was quick to grow. All had grown aware of the presence of a dragon prince, except the puppeteer, who drove her sword into the side of the dragon’s neck, where red petals sprouted out, but no cheers erupted as all were petrified to see the reaction of Prince Aerion. 

You sighed heavily as chaos was quick to commence. You stood by the side as the prince raged at the show. Declaring it was treason to depict dragons and such. You caught his eyes as he was straying towards the performer who drove her sword into the puppet, violet eyes filled with rage, paused before you for a moment. “Now you shall see how a true dragon is, my lady.” He gritted out before he let out his rage once more. 

You rarely felt pity for others, but as you saw the prince place his anger towards the performer, his anger that he could not pour out on you, you felt guilt. You could not even do anything. Could not even call for a guard to make the prince cease because who in their right mind would go against Prince Aerion? Luckily, your question was soon answered when the same man whose mother you suspected was a giant barged into the tent and promptly threw around and punched the prince with no care for his life. 

It took four guards to restrain Ser Duncan the Tall, and you debated if it was even enough. “Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” The prince questioned, as he was confident that the guards had a hold on the simple hedge knight. His face was bloodied, his lips cut with a wound, but he still looked annoyingly handsome, you thought. 

“You’ve loosened one of my teeth,” The prince sniffled as he spat out his blood. He glanced towards the side of the stage where you stood, “So we’ll start by breaking out all of yours,” He added and moved to where you stood. Like a moth to flame, you threaded near him as he sat laxly on the stage, as the guards tried to take a hold of Ser Duncan, who thrashed in their grasp once more. 

“Had you enjoyed that, my lady?” The prince asked quietly as he studied your expression, looking upon his bloody face. “A bit too bloody and bony for my liking, but very well, it’s more exciting to watch than Lord Tully eating another fish’s head.” You replied, and Prince Aerions could not help but let out a laugh at your words, ignoring that the knight was positioned to have his teeth knocked out. Prince Aerion had half the mind to leave the tent without seeing the knight be knocked out toothless as he recognized the mischief in your eyes, for it mirrored his.   

The tapping on your bedroom window came at 10pm, like clockwork.

You could see Steve’s goofy smile through the glass, waving to you from where he was crouched in the bushes outside. You couldn’t help but laugh as you climbed off your bed, making your way over and lifting the window.

Steve climbed inside with a little less grace than he had when he was 16 sneaking into girls’ rooms after their parents had gone to bed. His ass hit the ground with a low thud before he lifted himself, brushing off his jeans and pushing up the sleeves of his pullover.

“Kind of crazy I still have to climb through your window like we’re a couple of teenagers,” Steve said quietly, resting his hands on your hips and pulling you close.

“Yeah, well,” you said, plucking a twig from his hair before brushing your fingers through it. His eyes fell closed at the feeling, smiling contentedly. “My parents still think I’m a child.”

And no one even knew you and Steve were together yet.

After years of being best friends - strictly platonic - no one thought twice about how close you and Steve were. Everyone knew Steve had harbored feelings for Nancy for years, and thought he still did. It got to the point where Steve and Jonathan argued constantly because he thought Steve was trying to win Nancy back.

Truthfully, that was just Steve. He was a bit of a show-off.

When things between you and Steve had turned into more a few months ago, it hadn’t exactly been your intention to keep it a secret. But with the end of the world scenario Hawkins was currently living, no one was paying that much attention to what the two of you were doing.

And it was kind of nice. Like your own little world.

Steve pulled you closer until your body was pressed against his, his large hands sliding around to grip your ass over the tiny shorts you were wearing. He bent down, his breath fanning across your cheek, making you shiver. He pressed his lips to your neck, and without even thinking about it you tilted your head to the side, giving him more access.

“It’s kind of exciting, though,” he mumbled against the skin of your neck. Your breaths came a little harder, your eyes closing. “Sneaking around…” His fingertips danced up the backs of your thighs, pushing up the hem of your shorts until they grazed the curve of your ass, the edge of your panties. “Having to stay quiet when I fuck you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, hands coming up to rest on his chest. You still weren’t used to the way he made you feel now. The way he made your head spin, your lungs ache, the throbbing between your thighs when he spoke to you like this. There was nothing friendly about the things he did to you.

He murmured your name back in return, and it sent a shiver up your spine. His teeth grazed the skin of your neck, and you drew in a gasp, hands tightening into fists in his shirt.

Steve moved, walking you back towards your bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, you fell down onto it, bouncing softly on the plush material. Your room hadn’t changed much since you were younger, despite your 20th birthday having just passed. You still had the same white frilly pillowcases and fluffy pink duvet. You had been embarrassed about it the first time Steve came over, but there was something he liked about taking you apart piece by piece on that stupid bed.

You moved back to lay on the pillows while Steve kicked his sneakers off. He didn’t take his eyes off you, crawling onto the edge of the bed, running his hand slowly from your ankle up to your thigh. He squeezed the plush of your thigh, pushing your legs apart and crawling between them.

The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against the backs of your thighs as he settled there. He leaned over your body, hand moving up to your hip, then beneath your t-shirt, tracing over the skin of your stomach with an unexpected reverence. His calloused fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of your sides next, and you exhaled a shaky breath, the sensation like ice through your veins.

“You’re so pretty,” Steve murmured, and you weren’t sure if he was telling you or just noting it to himself. He pushed your t-shirt up just to the bottom of your breasts, pressing featherlight kisses against your stomach. His lips trailed higher, smirking as he felt how hard you were breathing. He pulled back, looking down at you - how did you look so wrecked already?

Disappointed by the loss of his touch, you opened your eyes. “Why’d you stop?” you asked, the pout on your pretty lips making Steve’s own pull into that cocky smirk you knew all too well.

“You’re needy tonight,” he observed, thumb tracing circles over your hip. You could tell it was boosting his ego, which he really didn’t need. “I’ve barely even touched you yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, although even Steve could see how weak the protest was. Even though Steve was your boyfriend now - you were still getting used to that - you often fell into that playful bickering from years of friendship. “You’re not that good.”

Steve planted a hand by your shoulder, leaning back over your body. Any teasing died on your lips the second his body pressed into yours, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped when you felt his hot tongue against your neck, right over your pulse point. Your hand shot up to grasp at his bicep, clinging to him tightly.

You could feel the smirk against your skin. “I bet you’re already so wet,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to your neck, nuzzling his nose against the curve between your neck and shoulder. “I bet if I touch you right now, I’ll see just how good I am at getting you worked up.”

“Christ, Steve,” you breathed. As much as you wanted to tease him, to make him work for it, you couldn’t hide what he was doing to you. Your body was reacting to every touch, every word, to an almost embarrassing level. 

His free hand slid back down your side until he reached the waistband of your shorts. He relished in the little gasp you let out when he slipped his hand beneath, into the lace panties you had put on specifically for him, his thick fingers gently tracing through your folds.

“Oh,” he groaned, feeling the proof of everything you’d tried to deny. “God, baby, you’re soaked.” He pulled back to look down at you, his hazel eyes burning into yours with an intensity that hadn’t been there minutes before. “Just for me, huh?”

He pressed his fingers against your clit, already swollen and throbbing with need, and there was no way you could have denied it even if you wanted to.

“Uh huh,” you moaned, looking up at him with every ounce of desire written clear across your face. It nearly took Steve’s breath away, how perfect you looked. He was straining against his jeans so hard it was starting to hurt, desperate to free himself and fuck you already. 

“You make me so hard,” he muttered, his hand moving down until his index finger was pressed against your entrance. Your body thrummed with anticipation, craving to be filled by him in some way, any way, and you could see on his face that he was going to give you exactly what you wanted—

The phone rang, shrill and startling in the charged atmosphere of your bedroom.

“Shit,” you cursed, letting out a deep sigh. Steve pulled his hand from your shorts, sitting back on his knees with a huff and the disappointed look of someone who had just dropped his whole ice cream cone on the ground.

You leaned over the bed to your nightstand, lifting the phone from the receiver. You and Steve exchanged a look before you pressed the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

Your name came through the other end of the line in an exasperated breath. “God, it’s been a day.”

You sat up a little, leaning back against the pillows. “Hey, Nance,” you said, meeting Steve’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows, staying silent. “What’s up?”

“I am just so tired of guys, to be honest with you,” Nancy said, letting out what she’d clearly been holding in for a while. “I swear Jonathan just turns into this…this caveman when Steve is around! It’s like the smart, sensitive guy I fell for is just gone, and all he cares about is winning me, like I’m some…object.”

The speaker on the phone was loud, letting Steve hear every word she said. He chuckled quietly, and you rolled your eyes, kicking his thigh lightly. You didn’t understand the rivalry Steve had with Jonathan. It seemed like Steve just thought it was funny to piss him off.

“Yeah, it’s stupid,” you agreed, trying to give Nancy your attention even while Steve was being as annoying as possible, tickling your feet. You kicked at him again, and he laughed, dodging out of the way. He moved in to kiss your cheek, flopping down on the pillows next to you. “Um…” You tried to tune Steve out, because he was being incredibly distracting. “Have you talked to him about it?”

A sigh. “Of course. But you know he won’t admit anything. He won’t admit he’s jealous of Steve.”

Steve looked way too smug for his own good. You ignored him, holding a hand up to block out his face. He snatched your hand, placing a kiss against your palm. “Of course he won’t. He’s a man.” You glanced over at Steve, who looked mock offended at that.

“And don’t even get me started on Steve.”

You froze at that. Steve raised his eyebrows at you, looking even more amused by the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh, yeah,” you said weakly, because you weren’t really sure what else to say.

“I know he’s your best friend,” Nancy said, as if she hadn’t talked to you about Steve countless times before. “But I wish he would just move on. We dated years ago, and it didn’t work out. I just wish he would…I don’t know…get over me.”

You and Steve exchanged amused smiles at that - because she had no idea how much Steve had already moved on. “Maybe he just needs to meet someone,” you said, fighting back the giggle as Steve’s lips began brushing over your neck again, down to your collarbone. You swatted at his arm half-heartedly, although you didn’t really want him to stop.

“I’m starting to worry he never will,” Nancy said. “And I care about Steve, I hate to break his heart, but it’s just not going to happen.”

Your breath hitched as Steve’s lips trailed down your body again. As he reached your stomach, pushing your shirt up again and kissing above the waistband of your shorts, you looked down at him with furrowed brows. The mischief gleaming in those hazel eyes was familiar, but rarely a good thing.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice more breathy than you intended when Steve spread your legs, his lips pressing against your inner thigh. Your jaw dropped when his teeth scraped against the sensitive skin, your head falling back on the pillows. Was he fucking insane?

If Nancy noticed how distracted you were, she didn’t say anything. “I mean, he’s a great guy and all,” she went on, “You know that. I’m sure he’s gonna make some girl very happy one day.”

You looked down, making eye contact with Steve as he smirked up at you, slipping his fingers beneath the top of your shorts and sliding them down your legs. A flush crept onto your skin, the room all of a sudden feeling much hotter. Steve placed another kiss on your thigh before he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your clit through the lace of your panties. Your free hand tightened in the sheets. “Y-Yeah, for sure.”

“He’s handsome, funny, sweet, romantic. He loves his grand gestures.”

Steve looked far too smug as he listened to her praises, but he was focused on his mission. He stuck out his tongue, licking your folds through the already soaked material of your panties. You drew in a sharp breath, fighting back the urge to groan. “Yeah, he’s…he’s great.”

“But he can also just be a total…meathead!”

You looked down at Steve then, holding back a laugh. “Oh, yeah, for sure.” It was his turn to roll his eyes at you, but all thoughts of teasing vanished from your brain as he slipped the lace off your body, leaving you bare for him. The cool air against your wet pussy had you clenching your thighs together, but Steve spread them again, looking down at you like he was starving and ready to absolutely devour you.

“I mean, honestly,” she went on as Steve nuzzled against your core, his nose brushing against your clit in a way that made your whole body jolt. “Everything has to be a competition for my attention. It was so stupid, him and Jonathan racing each other up the radio tower. They could have gotten hurt, but all they cared about was showing off for me, like I’m going to pick the ‘strongest man’, or whatever they think women want.”

Listening to Nancy talk about Steve trying to impress her almost made you giggle. Steve loved to show off, that was for sure, but Nancy was definitely getting the wrong idea. You bit back a grin at the memory of how Steve had fucked you from behind in the WSQK supply closet after, hard and fast with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“So stupid,” you agreed. You had to slap your hand over your mouth when you felt Steve’s tongue finally delving between your folds, greedily tasting every inch of you, how sweet and wet you were. His fingers dug tightly into your thighs, fighting back his own groan of pleasure.

“Like a couple of neanderthals,” Nancy sighed. “And it’s making Jonathan into a total pain. He’s just moody all the time now, and it’s because Steve keeps provoking him. I mean, I know you’re close, but don’t you think Steve can be such a…a total ass?”

“Oh yeah, a total ass,” you said. Steve quickly wiped the playful grin off your face when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, his fingers sliding between your folds again. The whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you bit down on your hand hard enough to leave a mark when he pressed a long finger inside of you.

Your hips lifted off the bed, grinding against his face and hand like you were desperate for more of whatever he’d give you. He groaned so quietly you could barely hear it, but the vibrations against your aching clit had your thighs trembling. He slowly grinded his hips against the bed while he lapped at your cunt, a second finger sliding into you and curling deep inside.

Your hand with the phone dropped out to your side, Nancy’s voice still somehow audible as she continued on with her rant. You grabbed one of your pillows, holding it over your face and burying your moan in the stupid frilly pillowcase, heat coiling low in your belly. God, he was going to make you cum so hard with that stupid mouth of his.

Steve flicked his tongue over your clit again, fucking his fingers in deep until he was hitting that spot over and over again with a level of precision that only came with experience. It almost pissed you off, how quickly and perfectly Steve could make you fall apart.

Your orgasm was building fast. Your back was arching, body writhing on the bed, breaths coming in hot and heavy. Your thighs trembled around his head, and you let go of the phone to tangle your fingers in his messy hair, giving a sharp tug that made him groan even louder this time.

The vibrations from his moaning, his tongue working over your sensitive clit, and his thick fingers fucking you hard and deep were bringing you to the edge faster than you cared to admit, but it was the whimper he let out as he grinded his cock down hard against the bed that was your undoing.

You let go of his hair, both hands gripping the pillow and holding it tight over your face as you let out the most desperate, needy moans, loud enough that the whole house would have heard you. Steve worked you through it, making sure he drew out every last bit of pleasure, every tremor from your body, tongue working slowly now as he brought you back to earth.

The phone call had gone completely forgotten, until you heard Nancy calling your name over the line.

You pushed the pillow away, grabbing the handset and bringing it back to your ear. “Sorry, my mom needed something,” you said quickly, praying Nancy hadn’t heard any of the noises you had just made.

“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get going anyways. But I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You tried to catch your breath as relief flooded your body. “Yeah, of course. Goodnight, Nance.”

“Night!”

The line went dead, and your body visibly relaxed. Thank god she hadn’t noticed anything weird. Steve was still kissing your thighs, his hazel eyes looking up at you from between your legs with an intensity that made your heart thud hard against the wall of your chest.

The second the phone was back on the receiver, Steve crashed his lips to yours like he couldn’t take it for another second. You could taste yourself on his tongue when he licked into your mouth, kissing you in the most filthy, needy way. He bit at your bottom lip and you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps. He rutted his hips against your thigh as he kissed you, and you could feel every inch of him through the tight denim.

He pulled back from your body, lips and chin still wet with your release and his eyes glazed over with lust. He took in the sight of you, so wrecked and beautiful, laying there in nothing but the loose t-shirt you had stolen from his closet at some point.

“God, look at you,” he muttered. His fingertips traced over your skin with the kind of reverence reserved for something holy. “Jesus. You’re unreal.”

You wanted to scold him for the stunt he’d pulled while you were on the phone, wanted to tell him that was risky and stupid and would have been so embarrassing if Nancy had figured it out, but those thoughts quickly disappeared when he grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to your bedroom floor. You almost moaned as your eyes shamelessly raked over his chest, all lean muscle covered by that thick, dark hair you were way more into than you ever expected to be.

“See something you like?” he teased, calloused palm pushing your t-shirt up your body until your tits were exposed. Your nipples hardened in the air and he brushed his fingers over the stiff peaks of them, making you shudder.

“Steve…” you said, breathing his name like a plea. 

“Yeah, baby?” he asked, eyes never leaving your chest. He gripped your breast in his left hand, squeezing it - fit so perfectly in his hand, he thought - his thumb rubbing over your nipple.

“I need you,” you admitted in a whine. You hated letting him see how badly he affected you, because it always went straight to his big head, but you couldn’t help it. You pushed your hips down, grinding against his thigh, desperate for his touch even though he’d just made you cum on his tongue and fingers minutes ago.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back from you as if he’d been burned. His hands moved to his jeans at lightning speed, the clink of his belt buckle loud in the quiet of the bedroom as he undid it as fast as he could. “I can’t- shit, I need to fuck you right now.”

He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one go, groaning as his thick, aching cock was finally freed. He kicked his pants off to the floor, wrapping a hand around himself and giving his cock a few quick strokes as he stared down at your body. He was so worked up from what you’d done, his tip flushed red and a drop of precum beading at his slit that made your mouth water.

Steve leaned over your body, leaning his weight on one strong arm planted above your shoulder while his other dragged the head of his cock through your folds. “I bet you liked that, didn’t you?” he said, his voice a low growl in your ear.

It took you a minute to realize he’d asked you a question, too busy focusing on the feeling of his cock pressing against your entrance, wishing he would just take you already. When he didn’t give you what you wanted, you opened your eyes, looking up at him. “What?”

“I said, I bet you liked that,” Steve murmured, pushing his cock inside just barely, not even a full inch, making you whimper as he pulled back out, “I bet you liked having to stay quiet so Nancy wouldn’t know what I was doing to you.” He dragged himself back up through your wetness, pressing against your clit. You drew in a gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Steve—“ you said, as firmly as you could manage when every nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. “You shouldn’t have done that, it was risky—“

“Your body doesn’t lie,” he hummed, leaning down to kiss along your collarbone, his tongue teasing your skin before sucking a mark onto the delicate flesh. “You were soaking my fingers, baby. I could feel you clenching around me every time you had to stay quiet.”

You shuddered beneath him, like his words sent a chill through you. All you could do was let out a quick exhale as you felt him at your tight hole again, and he gently rubbed his nose against your jawline, breathing in the scent of your body wash combined with the smell of sex.

“No one knows how fuckin’ filthy you are,” he groaned, his low voice rumbling against your skin. “No one knows how much you love getting fucked. No one but me.”

He moved his hips forward in a slow roll, his cock sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. You keened at the feeling, his cock stretching you out — more like splitting you open — and Steve groaned low in his throat, your tight heat enveloping his length like fucking heaven.

“Oh, fuck,” you rasped once he was fully seated inside you. Your thighs were shaking, and Steve gripped the plush skin, hiking your leg around his waist. His forehead dropped against yours, both breathing heavily as he rolled his hips against you, setting a pace that was slow but deep, punching the air from your lungs with each press.

Steve kissed you, only sweet for a moment before it turned hungry, bruising, massaging his tongue against yours and sucking your lower lip into his mouth. You whimpered, and Steve’s hips bucked forward, grunting against your lips as he lost his rhythm already.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling back to admire your body as he fucked into you. He couldn’t hold back anymore, hips rutting hard and fast against yours, watching your tits bounce with every thrust. Your bed creaked beneath the movements, joining the sound of the breathy moans you exchanged, his skin meeting yours. “You’re so fucking tight and hot — the best pussy I’ve ever had, baby, I swear to god—“

Your head dropped back, crying out as you felt that delicious drag of Steve’s thick cock in your velvety walls. Every ridge and vein of him, the way he was so big and curved just right, and he always knew the angle to fuck you at to hit that spot every single time.

“Yeah,” he gasped. “Oh, shit. Fuck, that turned you on, didn’t it baby?” His voice was a low rasp, and he grabbed your wrists with his free hand, pinning them above your head. The way it stretched your body pushed your tits out, and Steve groaned at the sight, momentarily distracted. “I think you like the idea of getting caught with me. I’ve never felt you so fuckin’ wet, Christ.”

As much as you wanted to deny his words, your body reacted on its own, pussy throbbing around his cock, making his pace falter and a choked moan break from his lungs.

“You don’t even have to tell me,” he grunted, wearing his best cocky smirk, although the flush on his cheeks and the way his features kept twisting into pleasure gave away how weak he was for you, too. “You’re— oh, shit—“

He let go of your wrists to grab your thigh and hold you open wider, sinking somehow deeper. You bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, trying not to be loud enough for your parents to come knocking. Steve’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he looked down at you, the sweat shining on your skin, your furrowed brows and parted lips, the tiny little moans he was pulling from you with every movement.

“You are so fucking hot,” he groaned, almost to himself. “So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Made for me.”

“Yours,” you agreed, and the word had barely left your mouth before he was crashing his lips back onto yours, both moaning into the kiss, breathing each other’s air until your head spun.

You raked your nails down his back, long red scratches blooming against his freckled skin. Steve moaned raggedly, hips stuttering as he cursed out a breathy “Fuck,” against your lips.

Steve leaned back on his knees, his hands sliding down your sides before reaching your hips, holding onto you with a bruising grip. He pulled your hips down against his thrusts, using your body to chase his own pleasure, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening as he felt that familiar electricity crackling up his spine.

“Say my name, baby,” He rasped. He was so close. “I wanna know who’s making you feel this good.”

“Steve,” you moaned, reaching up and grabbing onto your pillows, desperate for some kind of leverage as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge. “Oh, god— fuck— Steve!”

Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as it hit you like a wave, pleasure washing over your body like you’d never felt before. You buried your face in the pillow, muffling the scream you let out as your body tightened around him, squeezing his cock tight within your walls.

“Oh, sh- fuck!”

Steve’s body pitched forward with the intensity of his orgasm, catching himself on his right arm, his left hand gripping so tightly onto your thigh you knew there would be bruises. His hips stuttered against you, his cock pulsing inside your tight walls, filling you with every drop of his cum until he had nothing left.

He stayed buried in you, relishing in the feeling, before he finally pulled out, laying on the bed next to you. He was breathing hard as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his sweaty chest.

You looked up at him, carding your hand through his messy hair. He hummed, leaning into your touch. He grabbed your wrist as you went to pull away, pulling you closer and kissing you with a surprising amount of tenderness after what you’d just done.

He pulled back enough to look you in the eyes with that grin that just screamed Steve and emotion clear as day in his hazel eyes. “I love you.”

Your heart raced, the way he was looking at you sending heat through your veins in a whole different way from before. “I love you too, Steve.”

His hand rested on your hip, tracing slow circles on your skin. “Maybe we should tell people. About us.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hand trailing through the hair on his chest. “You want that?”

“I do,” he said, leaning forward to place a kiss against your forehead. “We probably shouldn’t let Nancy keep thinking I’m obsessed with her when I’m doing this with you.”

You laughed, the memory of the phone call with Nancy making your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll tell people.”

The idea of going public with Steve, everyone knowing you were much more than friends after years of insisting and proving otherwise, was a little scary. But more than that, you were excited. You wanted to be able to be affectionate with Steve in front of your friends. To kiss him, to hold his hand, to let everyone know how much you loved him.

“Does that mean you’re finally gonna leave Jonathan alone now that he knows you’re not after Nancy?” you asked with a teasing smile.

He looked down at you, his brows furrowed with the level of sass only Steve Harrington could achieve. “Now, I never said that.”

as always, comments and reblogs are so so appreciated!

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No. It's an insatiable hunger. One that is unfortunately only fulfilled when standing in the throes of unfunny men with body odor and with sex being the only thing in their tiny brains. Her charm works easy against the guards they should have up around a pretty girl. Their eyes following the bounce of her tits and their legs opening with just the lick of her bottom lip. It was easy.

But, also it's messy. Really fucking messy. Shoko hates that the most, sometimes suffering from the hunger pains so that she can skip the whole clean up spiel. The ritual needing a lot more than a paper towel and some household cleaner to wipe away the remnants of the feast. Staining her outfits, the floors, bedsheets, sometimes even under her nails — it's the reason why she only gets red nail polish on her nails now. Streaks of the aftermath decorating once egg shell colored walls in distasteful configurations.

Two things, but really the weight of one, calms this hunger that rips out of her chest and empties the pit of her stomach.

Men's blood. But, especially the blood of a virgin.

So, that's why she's here in Ryomen Sukuna's bedroom. The stench of man whore and his stale cologne that was probably gifted to him in high school isn't strong enough to control her mouth watering. That sharp smell of the sweet liquid wags its finger at her as she inhales through her nose. She could almost cum at the smell alone, watching his pulse beat against his taut neck.

Crimson eyes hungrily take her in, as they always do. Pink hair plastered on his forehead as sweat slowly drips down his temples. His cock still freed, semi hard between his thick legs as he sits on the edge of his bed and watches her, watch him.

She wants to get this over with. Get her fix and run off, forgetting that she ever let him touch her — but what's a predator who doesn't toy with their food?

"Are you just going to stand there?" Sukuna juts his chin towards her, lips curled up in that smug grin and his eyes narrowing on her bare thighs. Next to him, the used condom slithers against his bedsheets, falling quietly on his already stained rug.

His shirt flows on her body, long and spacious — Shoko believes she can hide her true intentions within the threads and he still wouldn't realize what's to become of him. She lets it engulf her, standing an arms length away. Her stomach grumbling loud enough that it drums against her ear, her hands wanting to circle around her waist and offer some quick reprieve.

The posters of half naked women who didn't consent to watch him jerk off at night, send sly smiles and winked eyes her way. As if they know whats to come, rallying behind her and her one-woman eradication initiative. Or more so, her very specific diet plan.

Shoko fixes her grin to match his, enjoying the little battle of wit they so often have — despite Sukuna being vile, she might miss that the most. "I have a question for you," she shrugs, the picture of indifference. Her fingers wanting to claw the skin on his neck away until it's just flesh, bone, and blood for her — but she understands playing the long game.

His eyes shoot open, his grin growing wider. One of his hands comes from behind him, grabbing the base of his cock, squeezing lightly. Shoko forces the eye roll away, of course he would think it's a sexual question — he is a man after all.

She tucks her tongue between her cheek, cocking her head to the side and making sure her eyes don't leave his. "Shoot," he says gruffly.

"Are you a virgin?"

Everything in the dark room stills. A few papers fluttering on his desk from the breeze circling in from his opened window. The posters watching in real time as confusion wraps around Sukuna's broad shoulders.

Shoko bites her lips to stop the laugh itching its way up her throat. Sukuna watching her with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, his hand still wrapped around his cock.

"The fuck are you on about?" His voice comes out steady, confused. But Shoko sees it, that little vein protruding on his neck. Her eyes skipping over the precum dribbling at the head of his cum streaked shaft, skipping over the stiff bed sheets, and zeroing on the blood coursing through his body. She almost jumps on him then, her tongue rolling along her canines. "We literally just fucked."

"So, you’ve done butt stuff?" Shoko's tone drips with faux innocence and it clashes with the the flash of annoyance creeping through his crimson eyes.

He scoffs, Shoko swallows another laugh. Her stare is still following every beat of his pulse against his neck. "I don’t think that's how that fucking works." A breeze whips into the room harshly, as if it's sending him a signal he won't catch on. "Do I look like a man to do ass stuff?"

Her stomach growls loudly, she doubts he heard it but the stains in his rug and the hidden box of condoms sure did. Her feet starts to tap impatiently against the floor, his tshirt brushing against her bare thighs with every movement.

"Aren't big unruly men like you," she points a delicate, manicured finger his way, "into ass play?"

His hand around his still semi hard cock, flies into the air. His other hand coming to rub against his forehead. Shoko commends just how much he's trying to hold on to the irritation that wants to explode out of him, in hopes of wetting his dick again.

Typical man, she almost whispers with disgust. However, she stays looking at him with fake doe eyes and hunger causing her thighs to clench around the thought of finally sinking her teeth into him.

He lets out a long stream of breath, his eyes narrowing with every single second of air expelling out of his huge body. "I fuck asses if that's what you're asking," and his face contorts into a look of recognition, like he just figured out why Shoko asked. "If you'd like to try anal," his shoulders shrug, his cock slowly springing up from its half state, "I won't be against it."

Shoko sends a smile that doesn't meet her eyes, his stupidity and lack of self awareness making this easier than she wanted it to be. "Well, thank God," she starts to walk over to him, the rug punching against the soles of her feet, giving her a little feeling of life before she devours his. "That's exactly why I was asking."

A stupid, toothy smirk stretches along his features as he leans back on his elbows — welcoming Shoko's body in between his. His hardness pressing against her belly as she leans towards his embrace, his hands reaching up to sink into the plushness of her thighs. His head drops back as he looks up at her, not a thought of blood and death behind his eyes.

Her hands come up to run through his hair as she debates whether to straddle him and offer him the confidence of a man dying mid stroke, or just take what she is starving for.

She chooses the latter.

She moves forward, her lips brushing against his tense jaw as she works her way down to his neck. Inhaling the sweet smell of the liquid pumping against her tongue.

Sukuna groans as his hands squeeze a little tighter, it would be painful if Shoko wasn't close to ecstasy. The hunger gnawing at every roll of her tongue against his beating pulse. She pulls back, her lips still close enough to feel the uptick of his pulse. "I hope in the next life you would think about ass play," she shudders, before taking a deep breath. Her canines sinking into the tan skin of the burly man under her.

A surprised croak rushes out of him, his hands flying from the back of her thighs to grab at her waist — but it's no feat. The sweet taste of Sukuna's blood stains Shoko's tongue, and that's enough for her to overpower the much bigger man — pushing him down against the sheets. Her legs coming up to straddle his thighs as she sucks his life away.

Blood gurgling as Sukuna tries to speak, tries to fight the feast happening on his body. His hands beating against the firmness of her hips. The hits feel like butterfly kisses compared to the life rushing on her taste-buds. Blood trickles down Shoko's chin, her chest, staining his grey tshirt, pooling on his bed. Her hands grip his hair tighter, feeling every breath he's trying to take as she draws it away with the ruby colored liquid.

She starts to grind against his still hard cock, the frenzy of finally feeding making everything messier, a little hotter. Shoko's teeth sinking deeper into his cooling flesh, her eyes squeezed shut as she feels herself about to cum from just the taste of his fight to live.

Then, there's a thud downstairs. Shoko immediately pulls herself off. Hands slipping from his hair, shaky and tapping in the puddle of blood under the pink haired man. His hits have ceased, crimson eyes missing that usual light of life behind them. She almost feels bad.

Liquid trickles its way down to where her knees press into either side of him, staining her pale skin in a splotchy crimson color.

Footsteps bang against the staircase leading to the bedroom where she's having her feast. Those posters of the half naked women watching with intense interest as Shoko remembers, Sukuna has a fucking roommate.

"Shit," she mumbles to herself, her eyes narrowing to the door knob that started to jiggle.

Golden halos of light flicker against your walls, little pockets of gold watching the scene unfold. Candles being the only light source in your small room, shining against the porcelain skin of your best friend. Her skin looks warm, soft — like it wants to be touched. Goosebumps trailing up her bare arms and trickling over the top of her chest, the breeze coming from the dark autumn night and the crack in your busted window. Your eyes following the constellation of bumps decorating her pretty skin and dropping down to valley between her breasts — the pink tank top you let her borrow three years ago, the perfect home for her plump tits.

The soft light blinks off the pictures tacked in a disorganized array — snapshots of family, snippets of graduations, portraits at proms, and moments where your eyes hopelessly land on the girl currently in your bed. Some photos show your gazes meeting, your eyes locked on each others, nothing cutting through the connection you've built over the years.

The walls of your dorm room carrying secrets of girlhood and hushed awakenings, as if you used a ballpoint point pen to scribble daily journal entries — detailing everything you'd never say out loud. They've heard the confessions you promised to store in your heart forever, guilt washing away when you know the concrete listened as well.

The room has quietly observed you sit shoulder to shoulder with the person whispering about personality dilemmas, heartbreak, and the new girlfriend that the tool, Gojo Satoru, cheated on.

Her hair brushing against your shoulder, her lips curved around the shell of your ear, her breath hot against your neck — your thighs clenching as you pretend to not notice just how close she is.

No secrets are being spoken into the chilled room tonight.

It's just you and Shoko.

Your backs flat against the softness of your extra small bed — your finger tips brushing against her cold ones. Your arm feeling the bumps peppering her skin, as if it's trying to tell you a secret of hers in morse code. But, you know everything there is to know about Shoko Ieiri. Just as she knows everything there is to know about you.

You like moments like this most. When Shoko's charm isn't for anyone — charisma turned low, her magnetic pull only working on you. No men trailing behind her heels. She's not batting her eyelashes and placing the tip of a pen in between her teeth. No fake laughter at watered down jokes and mansplaining.

No, she's just here. She's herself. Corny inside jokes, ash stained air, and faint kisses on cheeks when old memories resurface. Cigarette haze threading through your hair, filling your nostrils with every inhale — fusing her scent to your senses.

Shoko is just yours.

Which you feel like she hasn't been in awhile. Your friendship and connection still strong, heart still beating the same way, emotions capturing you both in a similar manner. She still embodies a lazy grin that causes you to send one of your own, the same shampoo smell etched into your pillow case — but, her eyes gleam a little darker, skin a little more dull, cold.. despite looking warm enough for an embrace. Her chest missing that normal pitter of the heartbeat you've come to recognize. The air humming along with her disenchanted sighs and with every odd little shift of her body, the room exhaling what she may be against the journal entries on your walls.

Her voice breaks the silence, pulling your eyes from where they been lingering on her cleavage. "You being a virgin," Shoko says, her voice carrying that natural seductive tilt. The one she puts on when she's straddling your thighs to help you put on eyeliner, always complimenting your eye shape. Your heart always one inch away from beating directly into her chest.

She looks over, head tilting, brown eyes sweeping over your face as the candlelight glows between you — flickering whenever she blinks softly. Using the light, and your extensive memorization of her features, you can count every lash, every little beat of mischief in her tone and grin. And that's why you don't miss the way her pupils dilate from the word 'virgin'.

Your shoulders shiver as you blink back at her. Watching as her charm flicks into the air of your shoddy dorm room, flowing with the breeze kicking in. "Just doesn't make sense."

You swallow down the waver itching its way to your throat to be thrown with the words you're going to say. Cheeks warming at her stare, her grin grows wider as if she knows just how much her closeness affects you. "Technically, not really," your voice comes out steady enough that you feel accomplished. Your eyes dropping to where her fingers are wiggling near yours, the cold digits asking to be warmed with yours. "Remember, Sukuna fingered me in freshman year."

From the corner of your eye, you can see the breeze assaulting your pale white window curtain. The curtain thrashing against the panes of your window in a silent battle of mother natures.

With a scoff, your eyes follow the sound and stare back at the brown eyes watching you with all the care in the room. "God, you didn't cum," she chuckles, it's watered down and deep. The sound vibrating from her chest, your eyes dropping to her tits once more. "That doesn't count."

You never truly understood why virginity is such an important conversation to Shoko. Her mind circling back to that little bit about you as if it's dangling in front of her on a fishing rod, just waiting for her to bite and catch it between her teeth.

You don't know what to do with your own virginity. The notion of sex always in the back of your mind as you focus on school, jobs, Shoko. It's always there, hidden deep in your gut, along with emotions you're not sure should be said out loud.

The bed shifts as she scoots a little closer, her thigh cooling the heat emitting from your bare one. "Geto is also a virgin," you mindlessly let out, a shrug following your words. Your mind jumping to the raven haired boy.

You two have been on a couple of dates. Geto always being insightful, kind, detached but still a fingertip away. His hands always caressing and his comments teetering on admirable respect instead of lustful correspondence.

There have been make outs, hands traveling to regions that are usually covered with damp clothing. Your own comfort always the thing he reacts to first. His eyes taking you in to make sure your disheveled appearance is from excitement rather than nerves, as his cock bites the inside of his jeans.

"Virgins can't fuck virgins," her voice has this hardness you can't really place. Rough around the edges, leaving space between the golden light flickering between you two for more questions and unsaid answers.

You roll your head to the side, watching as she leans on her elbows. Her brunette hair cascading down her shoulders as she looks down at you — the hardness that was evident in her voice doesn't match the warmth in her pupils.

Your fingers begins to tap along your thigh, waiting for something you just don't know is about to happen. "I never heard of that," you whisper, watching as goosebumps litter her pale arms once more. The cool air not affecting you the same way.

You feel hot under her gaze. Her eyes wandering from your face, blinking at your lips, trailing down to the tank top where your pebbled nipples peek through, and down to your bare legs — your thighs involuntarily clenching from the heat of the stare. You swallow back a thank you, as your black panties won't give away the pool of arousal dampening the lace.

"I just made it up."

You let out a breathless laugh at this, rolling your eyes as you watch her move her hair behind her ears. Following the slenderness of her neck, watching as she swallows and her fingers loop behind her ear. Every movement precise, every move a call for you to keep up with. Your mind has long forgotten the virginity talk, forgotten Suguru Geto and his soft hands.

You eyes are on her. Your cunt dripping, for her.

"And who exactly am I going to fu-"

Before you can finish your question, figure out the journey of your virginity loss from the eyes of your best friend — unnatural blurs of movement and the scent of cigarette smoke and Shoko's vanilla perfume tickle your nose. Her body shifting against yours as she settles on her side, one of her legs hooking around your waist and pulling you in.

Shoko's head is against her palm as she's propped up by her elbow. Her face mere inches from yours, your eyes failing at looking at anything else but the plumpness of her bottom lip. Your tank top gracing her upper half dipping low enough that one fast movement and her tits would be on full display for you to see.

The air around becomes thick, the space between you two folds in itself. A ball of nervous anticipation ignited in the pit of your stomach as you realize what's happening. Shoko's intoxicating smell wafting over you like a soft quilt before she's close enough that you can't do anything but let her lips capture yours.

It starts sweet, almost like how you'd imagine a middle school kiss in the back of the auditorium would start out. Her hand brushing your jaw, a ghost of contact — your heart beating for more, waiting for her to guide you. And you let her. Her lips finding yours in way that feels both lazy and deliberate. The bounce of the candle shadows telling you this was her plan all along.

You lean into the kiss, the taste of something sweet that you can't quite place your finger on drags along your mouth as her tongue starts to glide against yours. A gentle battle of lips, tongues, and slight nibbles of bottoms lips — the throb between your legs thumping so harshly, you're surprised she doesn't feel it against the length of her leg wrapped around your hip.

Your hands grab at her leg, trying to find some balance while her hand on your jaw grips tightly, pulling you deeper into her mouth.

She pulls back, your heart crashing against your chest. Your cunt clenching as you feel your slick stain the lace of your panties. "Let me help you with that," she whispers against your spit slicked lips. Her slender hand softly trailing along the tenseness of your body, tapping at your hip and you lift them up in anticipation.

Your head feels all hazy. The room blurring into nothingness as you could only pay attention to Shoko and where her hands are groping at. The hand on your jaw still firm, her other hand rolling against the hem of your soaked underwear. "This isn't actually losing my virginity," you huff out as her lips starts to drag down your jaw. Her tongue rolling down your neck as her head swoops in and she starts to suck on your pulse beating erratically on your neck.

She chuckles against you, causing you to shiver. "Oh, shut up," you feel every vibration of her lips still brushing your clammy skin. "You can finally cum using something other than your fingers or that pink dildo hidden under your bed." Your eyes shoot up at the revelation but also at the intrusion of Shoko's fingers finally slipping between your skin and the lace branding your hip.

With ease and the confidence of a girl who knows how to gather everyone in her palm, two of her fingers trails along the puffy folds of your cunt. Your back arches, your eyes squeezing shut as she continues to kiss and suck against the column of your neck. The heat of your slick coating her fingers with each brush of your clit.

Your nails dig into her leg, leaving crescent shaped mementos of pleasure. She doesn't react to the pierce, the kissing on your neck becoming a little more aggressive. Her breathing deep and heavy as she tries to swallow your pulse, basically chewing it out of your body.

Two of her digits following the leak of your arousal, with every flick of her fingers they linger on your throbbing clit, tapping lightly before using your slick to glide to your clenching hole. Your breath hitching as you wait for more. A harsh rub of your bundle of nerves, a push of her fingers grinding against your honeyed walls.

Everything that's been different about Shoko is long forgotten as you start to grind your hips up, meeting her torturously slow massage of your dripping pussy. Her lips are still latched to your hot skin, her mouth molding against every sigh and whimper you let slip out from your chest.

Then, one long drag on her fingers from your pulsating clit to your dripping hole, they slip in easily — your pussy automatically clamping down on her slender fingers. Your pulse quickens, the ache in your thighs from just how much your enjoying begins to hurt, her fingers stilling — allowing you to get comfortable with the feel of them against your gummy walls.

You start to shamelessly jut your hips up, wanting some friction. Wanting her fingers to delicately bring you to the edge you've been wanting to fall over for years now. She chuckles, her fingers slowly pulling out as you let out a strangled moan.

"Bu-but," you trying to catch your breath. She drops the sweet act, the taking it slow — thrusting her fingers back in. Grinding against your syrupy walls as she pumps her fingers in to the hilt, the edge of her palm rubbing against your trembling clit. Sounds of warbled moans slipping from your lips, her sucking of your neck, and your pussy welcoming each movement of her fingers.

"What can I do I in - shit - return?"

Your eyes are shut closed, but you're sure you can make out the toothy smile she's embedding into your body. The coolness of her canines nibbling into your skin causes a rush of heat to your core, the slick gushing around her fingers as she quickens her pace.

Breath hot, body pressing into yours — giving you no room to fight, even if you did want to. Her fingers still grinding against the warmth of your cunt, curling whenever your clenched hole swallows them.

She whispers against you."You're going to let me feed."

The energy of the town is edgy. Well, not for Shoko.

She stands near you, bundled up under a thick fleeced lined jacket that's doing nothing to fight the coldness she just naturally feels. She watches you, the way the wind whips your hair. Watches how there is still some warmth to your cheeks despite you being near her.

Talk about Ryomen Sukuna and his stupid roommate, Toji Fushiguro shreds through the campus like a vine against a withered building. Apparently, they were found in their apartment, pools of blood dried up under them as their throats were cut open. Sukuna was naked, hand wrapped around his flaccid cock. Toji was in between the hallway and his roommate's room, clothes on but socks stained red as if he padded around in his friend's death.

He didn't.

Shoko just thought it was funny to drag his pure white socks in the vibrant color of red. She knows how to make unplanned mistakes a little fun. She had to with what caught her off guard.

"What are we going to do about the curfew now?" Your voice brings Shoko back to the school quad where you are. You're not looking at her, your eyes looking out towards a table where someone is head down in a book.

And as if he knew your eyes were on his slouched frame, Suguru Geto looks up. His raven hair dancing with the wind as a gust of autumn air travels through the quad, bringing along an array of reddish leaves that have long since fallen from their positions on branches.

Shoko tries her hardest to hide the lump she has to swallow as she studies him. His cheeks brushed with a pink hue, a sign of life and blood rushing through his body. His eyes light as he stares back at you, his tongue rolling along his bottom lip.

She watches as you two share a long look, her fingers digging into her jacket pocket. "What about it?" She asks indifferently, ignoring the hunger creeping up just as slowly as Suguru is walking to the little bubble you two have created.

You look towards her again, the same sign of life painted on Suguru's cheeks aren't evident on yours. "I was planning on asking Geto to hang out today," another strong gust of wind whips in between the quad. Newspaper articles with Sukuna and Toji's face pasted on the front dance along the wind storm happening.

"What will we do?"

Both of your heads snap up at the man towering over you. His aura is quiet, calm — if Shoko didn't have such trained eyes and ears, she'd barely be able to pick up the inconsistency of his heartbeat. His hands balled up in his front pockets, as he stands on the balls of his feet.

"You two could finally fuck," Shoko drawls, voice rough as she points her chin out towards Suguru.

"Shoko," you send a sideways glance her way. Shoko almost laughs at how well you're pretending — she does know you after all.

Suguru laughs, it's low and confident. "You make it sound romantic."

"If that's what you have to believe to finally get it over with, sure," Shoko blows a strand of hair out of her face catching the way your hooded eyes trace every movement between Suguru and her. Your teeth sinking into your plump bottom lip.

You're hungry.

"I'm not opposed to the idea," he shrugs his broad shoulders, the movement still smooth despite the nervousness that's bubbling out of him. His cheeks a brighter red, his pupils a little more dilated, fists sinking deeper into his pockets. "Just want to make sure you're comfortable with it." He pays no mind to Shoko.

"She is."

He looks over at Shoko finally, narrowing his eyes as he keeps that easy smug stretched across his lips. "I think she should tell me that," and if Shoko didn't have bigger plans, she should've jumped and took him right here on school grounds. But again, she liked to play with her food and it isn't every day that a virgin of the male species falls into your palms.

"I was going to ask you to hang out tonight," there's a sweet melody to your voice. It's safe, inviting.

He smiles, one that lights his eyes up as he stares down at you. "What if we get our throats cut like those tools?" Someone near them trips over one of those newspapers that got thrashed around a little while before.

She watches the newspaper get imprinted with footprints. "At least you would've finally came before meeting your untimely demise," she shrugs, her brain jumping to just how sweet he would taste. Her mouth starts to water.

"Heavenly way to die, huh?"

Your wide eyes jump between him and her, trailing down each other their bodies as if you're comparing your choices. You end up keeping your eyes locked on Shoko as you start to speak. "I was planning at staying at Shoko's," you shrug, still staring at her. Shoko nods her head before sending you a smug grin. "Since it's bigger and out of town."

"You should come over," Shoko finally looks at Suguru who watches you both with the profound interest of a scientist watching their subjects.

He nods, eyebrows furrowing quickly before he throws on his casual face. The easy grin, the eye glint, as he stares at you, and the quiet hum of his blood pumping through is body.

The room is cold. Suguru is warm, hot almost. The feel of his skin on your fingertips acts as if you're touching an open flame.

Shoko's bedside table lamp is the only light shining into the room. The dim shade following the way his lips crashes against yours. Your tongue lapping along the curve of his as your noses brush and his hair tickles your forehead.

Suguru's flavor blooms on your tastebuds, tasting of something slightly sweet. However, he smells even sweeter. Every inhale of his scent causes you to grind down a little harder, your clothed cunt dragging along the tent in his sweatpants.

His back is flushed against the mahogany headboard, your thighs caging him in as you try to muster up the courage of a girl who did this before. The woes of your virginity watching as your hands paw at his bare chest, feeling his heart skip a couple beats. Your right thumb toying with the bar of his nipple piercing, his chest cavity shuddering under the touch.

Your teeth sink into his bottom lip, making the kiss a little more aggressive, possibly even sacred as his hands grip at your hips. A whine of his rolls into your mouth as you start to pull away from the kiss, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips even after you've moved away. His palms on your hips still carry a certain level of softness to them. They feel the shiver coursing through your body as you almost feel bad for what's to come.

He stares at you, eyes glazed over as they take in your half naked state, pupils dilating at the satin bra covering your chest. Hooded eyes drop along the curve of your soft belly, taking in the plushness of your thighs caged around his slender waist. Tongue tucking into his rose colored cheek as he zeros in on the way you're leaving a damp spot on this erection.

You practice your breathing, inhaling through your nose and exhaling slowly. The raise and drop of your chest creating a beat within in the taut air between your close bodies. "Do you think we will know what to do?" You whisper, leaning forward enough that your tits press against his solid chest. The coolness of his piercing burning your skin.

He lets out a breathless laugh, the laugh cutting short when you accidentally grind down on him. A whine pushing through as his once soft grip on your shivering hips becomes tighter.

There's a heat growing in the pool of your stomach, flashing through your curled toes and throbbing clit against the length of his girth. You want more, and watching him whine and stare at you through nerves and the drape of both of your inexperienced natures — you almost want to devour him. Swallow him whole and learn each others bodies from the inside out.

But, you're sure Shoko won't like the change in her plan.

"Should we invite Shoko?"

His eyes bore into yours, your face close enough that one more inch forward and you'll be able to feel what he's about to say against your lips.

His eyebrows furrow, quickly reverting back to the face of a boy just excited to finally fuck. You don't miss the way his hip involuntary juts upwards, a twitch almost.

"Isn't that a little codependent?"

You smile, it's innocent and sweet. You watch in real time his guard rolling back down, like your hips rolling to meet his.

"Was it codependent when you followed Gojo to the bathroom?" you ask, finally closing the gap between you and capturing his lips with yours.

His hands pull you forward, using the slick leaking between your thighs as a force to glide against his length. Whatever reservations he thought he had are gone, mingling with the soft moans coming from both of you and the sound of the door opening behind you.

"Isn't it a man's dream to fuck two girls?" You mumble against his lips, his tongue prodding into your mouth to taste whatever you're willing to give him.

"He's a virgin," you feel the bed shift behind you. Goosebumps crawling up your shoulder blades as your nipples pebble from the sheer thought of Shoko being anywhere near you. "Anything involving women is a dream come true," you pull away, hands pushing into his chest as you look over your shoulder — ignoring Suguru's palms griping your hip bones and his half lidded eyes trying to find a reason behind his cock seemingly throbbing more than it did before. "We could shit at his feet and he'd cream his pants."

The bedside lamp flickers, a light show of heat flooding into the room. Shoko's stare is tantalizing, following the route of your neck down to where Suguru's waist finds a home between your thighs. Your pussy aching as you try to move against him, his hands keeping you still for the moment.

"Did you guys plan this?" Suguru's voice breaks the stare biting into your skin.

You turn to look at him. The dim golden light making him look younger than he is. His hair a silky mess, plastered to his temples. His cheeks dusted with a blush that hasn't left his features, his eyes almost innocent like. Lost, looking for answers and someone to guide him.

One of your hand pats his jaw, it's soft, almost patronizing. "Is it okay?" You blink your lashes down at him. You can feel the way his heart tries to decide what to answer as it thumps against your palm.

The bed bends as Shoko crawls up behind you. The smell of vanilla and hunger courses up your spine, your cunt squelching around the tease of Suguru's cock.

Nimble fingers dribble their way up your back, stopping at your bra clasp.

"I promise I will just show you guys the way."

You trust her enough to do so. Her hands guiding you in between bodies swarming at frat parties, wiping away tears, thrusting into your cunt and bringing to an ecstasy you weren't sure you could reach.

So, that's what happening now.

Suguru lays flat on the bed, one of his forearms covering his eyes as his other arm lays against the quilt. His fingers gripping at the seams as he lets out quiet melodies of moans.

You're on your knees, ass in the air, your shaky hands placed softly on Suguru's tense bare thighs. The coolness of the room sending shock waves down your clothed pussy, the heat rolling down with the slick staining between your thighs.

Shoko lays on her side, her body pressing into Suguru's leg — a barrier between the coolness of your bodies finally intertwining. She cocks her head, watching your profile as you swallow — your eyes taking in Suguru's length.

A long, girthy, veiny cock lays against his tense stomach. His balls swollen and taut. Laying tall — a slight curve as it bounces whenever you as much as breathe near it. His red mushroom tip already dribbling with precum, your mouth watering at the want to taste that and more.

Your eyes flicker up to the Suguru's face, his chin curled as he tries to get a glimpse of what you're going to do, his forearms still covering the view.

"Touch it," Shoko's calm voice creeps into the space. Heat flooding through your panties as her command runs through your body.

You swallow, your left hand reaching up — fingers trailing along the protruding vein on the underside of his cock. Suguru's hips bucking from the contact.

You peek over towards Shoko, her pose calm but her eyes hungry as they take in every breath and movement you make. She juts her head towards his cock, "You'll have to be gentle," she begins to grin and the nervousness that you pretended wasn't coursing through the air makes your finger swipe at his tip — precum coating your digit as he lets out a quiet curse. "Men with their dicks and egos," she reaches over, her fingers pushing hair behind your ear. "They're quite fragile things."

Suguru whines, his hips thrusting — cock bouncing with the movement. Your finger still underlining his cock, gathering every ridge and feel that you believed you'd have to remember.

Shoko's hand grabs at the back of your neck, pushing you forward just slightly. "Grab it," there's a sense of authority in her voice that makes you almost whine right along with the man under you. "Can't you see that he's waiting?"

Your left hand reaches for his cock, grabbing him at the base as he lets out the longest stream of a sigh you think you've ever heard. Your fingers not fully wrapped around his girth, you feel him gently throb against your palm.

Shoko pushes you forward, just an tad. Your lips a few inches away as your hand still holds his cock — keeping it tall and long in front of your watering mouth. You let out a sigh, his cock once again hurled upwards from the slight contact of your breath — cock smacking against your palm.

You squeeze around him, feeling him lose composure. "You can use your mouth," Shoko whispers, her nails digging into your skin. "Or, your hand." She shrugs, and you feel the movement as her hand pushes you just a little closer. "But, you can really wow him and use both."

Your hips push up, eyes looking at the cock in your hand again. "Please," Suguru's strained voice cause you to grip around him tighter. Your hand slowly dragging up the length of his cock, head being pushed down further as your fingers touch the precum leaking from his tip.

"You heard him," your tits brush the bed sheet as you arch your back. "He's begging."

Your eyes catch the way Suguru's thighs tense, before you open your mouth. Your tongue flickinh along the underside of his throbbing cock, your hand starting to move slowly, up and down — tongue having a guide as it lays flat against his skin. You wet the vein from the bottom of his shaft to the tip of his cock, a salty taste entering your mouth from the collection of precum.

"F-fuck-," he huffs out. His forearm pressing into his eyes, shielding any view of you from him.

Shoko's hand on your neck moves up, pulling your hair into a ponytail — giving her more control on where you'd place your head. "What a pretty view," Shoko leans closer, from the corner of your eye you can make out her chest pressing into the heat of Suguru's leg. "I think you could take more of him, my little virgin."

Your tongue continues to flick against his cock, hand moving a little quicker. Fingers stretched around his length, your palm uses your spit to slide up and down his length with ease. His hips thrusting, his hardness following the glide in your hand as he whines and groans.

With your hair in her hand, Shoko pulls you up — face still close enough to his cock that you can feel the wave of every twitch. Without speaking, she pushes you down — the tip of his cock knocking at your slick stained lips. She grips your hair tighter, pain searing through your skull.

"Open."

And you do. Shoko pushing your head down, your warm mouth enveloping his dick. Your tongue laying flat as your your lips tightly close around his girth. Her hand slowly pressing you further, meeting the thrust of his hips as his cock springs up hitting you in the back of the throat.

You gag around him, eyes shooting open as you watch him finally watch you. His eyes wide, but glazed over. His hips floating off the sheets as he keeps his cock lodged in your throat.

"Jesus, Suguru," Shoko yanks your head back, pulling you up until only his slicked tip is in your mouth. Your tongue starting to move and swirl around the head.

"S-shit," he gruffly says, the hand that was gripping the quilt starts to rub against his thigh. "Sorry."

Shoko scoffs, turning to watch your tongue lapping along the slit of his cock. Your eyes closing as you try your best to coax out those moans that are decorating the room. Your hand pumping his cock, starting at the shaft and quickly jerking him towards your mouth wrapped around his head.

Without warning, Shoko pushes you back down his length. A quiet hum of eagerness rises from you as you stretch your mouth to try to swallow all of him — his hips still, the tip of his cock pressed against the back of your tongue.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," the song of curses spills from his chest as Shoko starts to bob your head up and down his length. It's slow, your hand set on the base of his girth as your wet mouth drags down him.

Your cheeks hallow, slobber dribbling from the corners of your mouth as Shoko starts to pick up pace. Her fist in your hair pulling and pushing hard enough that you can't fight the movements — your drool pooling at his pelvis and wetting your once shaky hand.

Sounds of your mouth wrapped around his cock, your pussy clenching at the moment, and his groans drown out the loud hum of Suguru's sweet blood cursing through his body.

His thighs clenching, his voice picking up an octave as your tongue starts to twirls around his tip. His cock throbbing into your mouth from the sheer force of Shoko pushing you down, your cheeks sucking him as you feel him flutter against the back your throat.

"I-," he can't finish what he's about to say, not when Shoko pushes you down so far that his tip is poking at the back of your throat again. Your mouth engulfing the full length of his shaft.

You watch through teary eyes, his own eyes squeezing shut, teeth biting into his bottom lip. Your tongue licking the bottom of his cock as it doesn't have anywhere to go anymore. Drool pools out of your mouth messily. Everything wet and warm.

"Cummin'," he whines. And before you can react, or prepare for what might happen — the warmth of his cum bursts into your mouth. Coating the insides of your cheeks, your tongue, running down your throat as you gag around him. Dribbles of spit and his white, thick cum spill from your mouth and around his dick.

"Holy fuck," Shoko chuckles, finally pulling you up. Your mouth is full, eyes glazed over and you're exhausted. "Come here."

Suguru's cock slips from your mouth, a gasp racking his chest. Shoko pulling you up with her — both of your knees pushing into the bed as you stand chest to chest. Your chest bare, nipples hard as she stays in her tank top. Your breathing heavy, as if you just ran a marathon. Slick causing your thighs to stick together from just how wrecked you are. Suguru's leg continues to act as a barrier between you two.

"Of course you'd come fast," Shoko isn't looking at him. She watches your tongue rolling around in your mouth, taste the foreigness of man in your mouth. She pulls your head towards her, hair still wrapped in her fist. "How could we forget that you're a virgin," despite talking to Suguru you can't help but feel like she's only referring to you.

She leans towards you, nose brushing yours. Your eyes jump from her to Suguru, who watches you both in quiet interest. His head still flat on the bed, his hand wrapped around his semi hard cock.

"Give it a minute," Shoko whispers, before she pulls your head towards hers, her lips pressing against yours. Her tongue immediately lapping on your bottom lip asking for entrance. You allow it, the pool that is Suguru's cum floating in your mouth swishes between your tongue and hers. Your jaw moving with hers, the kiss feels like it's only you and her in this cold room.

The sound of skin hitting wet skin causes Shoko to pull back. Her head cocking as she looks down — Suguru's hand wrapped around his spit slicked cock, jerking slowly as he watches, eyes half lidded and filled with nothing but unadulterated lust.

Shoko chuckles, her hand finally falling out of your hair. "It's my turn, Geto."

Shoko moves under you, her hands dragging your hips so that her lips can finally press against your fluttering clit.

Your hair falls in front of your face, your eyes watching her pussy glisten under the dimming light of the room. Suguru's shadow standing in front as you look up, his eyes trailing the way your back arches, hips angled enough so that just Shoko can see the slick leaking out of your cunt.

It's just for her.

Suguru stands straight and tall. One of his hands twitching near his bare thigh, the other once again wrapped around the hardness of his shaft. His knuckles white as he just stares.

Before you can send him a grin, a sign of encouragement — Shoko's face moves forward, her tongue flat as she licks a long stripe between your puffy folds. Your head drops on her thigh, your eyes shutting closed and a coil of pleasure combs through your gut.

Your hips scoot back a bit, your pussy dragging along her tongue as she starts to slowly spread you open on her mouth. Your hands squeeze her thighs as you let out a breathless gasp.

"Shit," Suguru shudders into the room. His hand wrapped around the girth of himself confidently. You can hear the jerking of his hand around his stiff cock, your spit still making it wet enough that it glides down with ease.

One of Shoko's hands that was pulling at your waist, dips between her face and your dripping cunt. Her tongue still flatly rolling against your core — her fingers stretching your folds open wider, her tongue rolling up and meeting your pulsating clit.

Your stomach clenches at each roll of her tongue. Your own shaky fingers finally inching off her thighs and slipping between your low hanging head and her soaked cunt. You start to slowly trail your fingers in her heat, index finger flatly rubbing against the warmth of her slick as it drips into the palm of your hand.

The sounds of Shoko's mouth on your sex and Suguru's hand pumping around his cock is louder than the whimpers you're coaxing out. Your mouth finally falling forward, following your slicked index finger, your tongue spreads between her lips, her sweet taste flooding your mouth the way Suguru's cock did.

Shoko's tongue starts to speed up, flicking at your clit. Hand on your hip gripping harder, this strength coming out to help grind you your pussy against the ridge of her nose and her swollen lips. Your walls clenching as your hips start to meet her pulling, your juices flowing from her nose to her chin.

Your own mouth working, tongue probing into her tight hole — her pussy clamping down on you before you roll out. Your mouth dragging up from her hole to her clit, lips grazing teasingly, smiling at the way her hips jerk up.

Shoko pulls away with a pop, her lips still brushing your clit. "Stop watching," you shiver from the tone, your head staying in between her heavenly thighs.

"Fuck her."

You hear the patter of feet on her rug. Heat pooling in your stomach causing you to grind against Shoko's face accidentally. Her hiss entering the soundscape. The bed dips, Suguru's scent mixing with the smell of Shoko's cunt in your face.

You moan, long and low. Your hands gripping Shoko's thighs, your lips are wrapped around her clit, tongue circling around the throbbing bundle of nerves. Your body doesn't have time to react before you feel the push of hardness protruding your clenched cunt.

Your head snaps up, looking over your shoulder — Suguru's knees pushed into the plushness of the bed, his cock thick and hard. His hand wrapped asking the base as he lines himself above Shoko's face. Her face hidden between your thighs, his heavy balls grazing her hair laid under her.

He stares back at you, sweat pebbling down his temples. His shoulders tense, grip stiff enough to look like it might be painful. He scoots even closer, swiping his tip between your folds, mixing your juices with his leaking precum.

"Is this okay?" His voice is hard, eyes dripping from your stare to where his length is begging to be swallowed by your warmth. Shoko sighs under you, the wave of air causing you to involuntarily push your hips back — his tip feeling the stretch of your entrance.

"Suguru," your voice comes out as a whine, watery and high pitched. "Please."

He lines himself, his head stretching your cunt before slowly pushing in. He blows air from his nose, cause his stray away hair to float in the movement. Your walls flutter as his girth fills you, the slight pain of the stretch causing you to drop your head forward. Your forehead pressing into Shoko's knee, your hands falling in front of you and gripping the soaked sheets.

He pushes in slowly, letting you feel each inch grinding against your honeyed walls, your breath hitching as you clench around him — pulling a strained moan from him.

"You're really fuckin' tight," he whispers more to himself, one of his hands coming to lay flatly against your ass. Shoko under you stays still, her breathing slow and shallow as she watches your pussy take every inch of his throbbing cock.

Droplets of your glistening heat spread over Suguru's length, coating him enough that some falls below — granting Shoko with the taste of your slick again. Her hands getting antsy, grabbing at your waist, nails digging into the plushness of the soft skin. You breathe through your nose, taking Suguru's length.

Then, he juts in completely — his pelvis pressed against the fat of your ass. Your walls clamping around him, his cock pushing in deeply. Your glossy pussy fluttering around his length, before he pulls back — your mouth opening wide with no sound coming out.

With half his cock still pressed against your slicked walls, he presses back in slowly — as if he's tying to hold to whatever restraint he may have. The stretch still new, despite his tip hitting your cervix with every light roll of his hips.

Tired of waiting, Shoko's face is back against your heat. The feelings of Suguru's cock buried deep and Shoko's nose rubbing against your folds cause you to push back, harshly.

Suguru's breath getting knocked out as he leans forward, pushing his hips even further into yours — his cock pulsing against your gummy walls. The push back of your ass meeting his pelvis gets him excited enough to start thrusting into you. The movements are sloppy, your sloshing cunt clamping around him every time he exits and pushes back in.

Shoko spits into your folds, your moans loud as the pleasure of two different levels of friction brings you down to a helpless heap in between Shoko's thighs. Her lips latch on your clit, sucking hungrily as you start to wildly thrust back. Your hips grinding as you lean on your elbows, head hanging low. Shoko's glistening pussy clenches in front of you.

You're dragging your cunt against her face, gliding your gummy walls along Suguru's girth. His hips meeting yours, fucking into you as he lets strings of curses spill hot and heavy out his mouth.

"I-," you try to speak, your mouth dry. Hips aching from Suguru's smacking into yours. The sound of skin on skin, tongue lapping at wetness fills the room mixing with your breathless moans and ceaseless asks. Thighs clenching around Shoko's face, clit throbbing against her tongue as she flicks relentlessly against the bud.

Suguru pulls almost completely out, thick head of his cock keeping your cunt clamping around him. The heat in your belly rushing to your pussy, a gush of slick pushes out once his length bucks into you in one, quick movement.

"I think," Suguru's voice is high pitched, warbling. The hand on your ass gripping hard enough that you can feel the bruise growing from under his palm. His hips rutting into yours, his cock grinding against the warmth of your cunt. Shoko's tongue still fiddling between your folds. "I'm going to c-cum aga-,"

Shoko pulls off your clit with a 'pop', your pussy clamping down around Suguru's cock as you try to drag down her face again. "Pull out," she demands, her hand stiff on your thigh. Suguru's hips stilling, his pants loud.

And he does, his cock sliding out of you easily. Your chest heaving from the feeling of him slipping out, you walls throbbing around the ghost of his length.

You're back in the position that started this — Suguru under you, your aching thighs trembling as you stretch across his lap. His eyes on your raising tits with every breath you take, his hands under the plumpness of your ass, guiding you to his cock that's pressing against your cunt, your slick dripping down his shaft and onto his thighs.

You lean forward, forgetting about Shoko's hands rubbing against your bare back. The caress is warm, but also demanding — a reminder of what you're to do, despite the pleasure coursing through every nerve in your body.

Suguru starts to meet you in the middle, his jaw tense, hair tickling your cheek — you move away, dropping your head. Your mouth finds his collarbone, your ass moving back enough that your slick coats his cock in one thick movement. He groans, head thrown back.

Shoko's fingers tangle in your hair, not forcefully, but kind — allowing you time to explore Suguru. Taste the sweat on his dewy body, swallow down the moans he'll float towards your tongue when you kiss him.

Your lips starts to pepper chaste kisses down his chest, your hips pushing further back — dragging easily against his member. Your lips finding his pierced nipple, your tongue coming out to flick against his sensitive nerve. The taste of metal causing you to gush over him, your cunt clenching at the hunger coursing through you at the moment.

Under you, one of of Shoko's hands fishes for his cock — grabbing the base of his shaft, allowing you easy access to sink down. Your lips sucking at the bar, your pussy stretching over him as your hips slowly drop down.

Suguru's hand grips at your waist, a low gruttal moan falling from his lips. Shoko's slicked hand moving from between your bodies, lets you sink down on him until your ass is pressed against the tops of his thighs as he stretches you out.

You start to grind slowly, your hips rolling against the length of his cock. Your walls clamping down as your clit rubs against his pelvis. Your lips trailing up from his nipple piercing and dusting sweet kisses up his neck, your nose brushing against his pulse point.

Shoko's hands roam up and down your body. Tapping at your grinding hips, trailing up your arched spine, coming around and grabbing at your tits. Her nimble fingers rolling your hard nipple between her digits, pulling and flicking as your own hands comb into Suguru's hair.

Suguru's hips starts to jut, his cock thrusting into your pussy as you continue to slowly roll your hips. His length hot, hard, and throbbing. The movement of his hips is slow and deliberate as he tries to match the glide of your gummy walls. His head falling back, staying stuck in that position as your tongue laps at the strong column of his neck, the warmth of your mouth watering from the feeling of his pulse pumping on your tongue.

Everything feels dizzying: Suguru's moans rolling from his slicked lips. The tip of his cock twitching along your cervix with every meet of your hips. The sound of your sloshing cunt swallowing his length is loud, as his skin meets yours and your mouth finds a permanent home on his neck. Shoko's quiet hums of approval, as her face presses against your shoulder blade as she places chaste kisses on the coolness of of skin.

Suguru is close, you can basically taste it on his neck. You feel it from the clumsy buck of his hips, his cock quivering every time it slides out and gets buried back in.

You feel it as well. Your cunt getting wetter, hotter. Your hips rolling a little more frantically as your hands plant themselves on his chest, your slick straining his cock, his thighs and yours. Your lips sucking his neck, leaving little bruises of the virginity you two both loss.

"I'm happy," your mouth is still pressed against his pulse. Shoko's right hand pulling at you nipple little too harshly, causing you to slam down hard on Suguru's cock. His croaked gasp brushing your ear. "It's you who's taking my virginity."

Your mouth attaching itself back to his neck, hips slowly gliding up and down — meeting his erratic thrusts. Cock pistoning into your cunt, it's gushing around him as for the second time this night — Suguru cums.

Your walls flutter around him as his hands paw at your waist. Your panting mixing with his breathless goodbye, eyes wheezed shut, balls pressed against that fat of your ass. His pulse quickening even more under your tongue. The warmth of his thick, white cum shooting into you, your pussy still gliding over him.

"Now."

You sink your teeth in.

Your hips still rolling as his length still stands thick and long in your cunt. Your canines breaking the pretty, warm, pale skin of his throat, giving you the first taste of what your body has been wanting since that night Shoko fingered you.

Thick, ruby red blood filling your mouth as Suguru begins to gurgle under you. His grip on your waist loosening, but his legs thrash and kick — as if he's trying to run away with your cunt still holding him beneath you. Your hands on his chest keep him in position, against the headboard, his head lulling to the side as you see the signs of life start to rush out of him.

"Baby's first feed," Shoko purrs. Her hands still griping at your tits, her lips brushing against your tense shoulders as you feed.

The taste of Suguru's blood is way too good for you to respond. Hunger evading your body as the feelings of guilt and relief rush your senses.

Suguru's cock becomes soft in your heat. His cum and your slick leaking in between your bodies, moving with the ruby colored liquid flooding your mouth at the moment.

you try to avoid the flowers nancy’s mother has planted, but with your vision blurry and the alcohol still running through your system, it’s a lot harder than expected. you laugh stupidly when your bare leg get caught in the thorns of the roses and try to rip it free before you reach the spot right underneath what you think is nancy’s bedroom window.

more drunken laughter slips from your lips when you imagine the face mr. wheeler would make if you accidentally climbed into his room instead, waking him and his wife from their sleep at the crack of dawn.

you manage the climb more or less solid, blissfully unaware of the height.

“nance” you call out, whisper-yelling her name against the closed window. “wakey wakey”

you knock your fingers against the glass as well, probably harder than necessary. it does the trick: someone flicks the light on and, mere seconds later, the brunette is pulling open her window to glare down at you.

“what are you doing?” nancy hisses, her palms against the windowsill.

“let me in?” you mouth, trying to quiet down. “my leg hurts”

“your-“ she leans forward a little and you lift your leg up for her to see the red lines the thorns have left on your shin. you do lose your balance like this, slowly sliding backwards. luckily nancy is quick to grab your wrists and pull you back against the wall.

“come in” she says, defeated at your drunken state. “and be quiet”

your attempt to climb through her window turns out poorly as you get stuck halfway: your upper body is dangling into the room whilst your legs are still outside, kicking.

“nance” you chuckle. “nance, i’m stuck!”

the girl groans but returns to help you all the way in, sending you stumbling onto the carpet with a more or less loud thud.

her room smells like vanilla and the sweet scent of the floral perfume she wears.

you’re laughing by the time your body collides with the hard ground and watch her from where you’re laying, tilting your head from left to right to inspect her features from this angle.

“you look funny” you conclude.

“you’re drunk” nancy says, her arms crossed over her chest. she’s in a pretty, pink set of pyjamas, lacy and slightly see through in the most perfect places. you can see the outline of her hardened nipples and it makes your mouth water at the mere thought of- no, you remind yourself, this is not the time to thirst over nancy wheeler.

“what are you even doing here at-“ she glances at the clock on her bedside table. “04:00 am?!”

“alright so-“ you throw yourself onto your belly. “i was at this party right? and i got a liiittle drunk”

you try to get to your feet but don’t manage without the other girl’s help, body stumbling and shifting from left to right.

“anyway, your house was closer than robin’s and she always gets so worried” you lower your voice near the end of the sentence, as though robin is around to hear. “didn’t want her to worry about me and- and my shin! my shin!”

you dramatically point out, pointing downwards to the small cuts on your legs.

nancy sighs, already looking through her stuff.

“you could’ve gotten hurt” she scolds, finding her first aid kit underneath her bed. “you did get hurt. what were you thinking?”

“your mom’s roses did that” you whine weakly.

nancy tsks and gets back to you, her brown curls moving as she shakes her head.

“you shouldn’t have went to that party all by yourself!” she points out. “next time, you’re gonna go with a friend, you hear me?”

she grabs your leg and sets your foot down on the floor so it’s bent and she can inspect the cuts.

her brows furrow and she reaches for the a small bottle.

“is that gonna hurt?”

“a little” she says, then softer: “you’ll live”

you take a deep breath in when she taps the alcohol onto your skin. it does burn and you instinctively reach for her hand. to your own surprise, nancy doesn’t pull away. she just squeezes your hand in hers as the other makes sure to disinfect the small wounds.

you hum, watching the other girl work. always taking such good care of you, that nancy wheeler.

“somebody has to” nancy points out. it’s then that you realize you actually said that out loud.

“you have to take better care of yourself y/n” she goes on. her brows are still drawn together. “you could’ve gotten hurt! or worse-“

“mhm” you hum. hardly even listening to any of the words she’s saying. “you know” you slur and lean forward a little bit. “it’s so hot when you act like that. like a mom”

nancy raises her brows in surprise, her fingers sliding away from yours as her hand goes slack.

“you’re such a mommy nance” you go on, your mind foggy as you admit to those things you’ve been imagining. “can i call you mommy?”

a muscle in her sharp jaw twitches.

“y/n” she hisses. “you’re drunk”

“you’re hot!” you say in return, crawling a little closer to her.

“that’s not-“ nancy shakes her head, more energetically this time. perhaps it’s your drunk brain that’s playing tricks on you but her eyes do seem to darken a little bit.

“please?” you try again, batting your lashes at her pleadingly. “pretty please nance. you’re so pretty and so hot when you look after me and-“

nancy presses a finger against your lips to keep you from talking.

“y/n” she warningly murmurs.

it’s not enough. and the finger pressing against your lips seems too tempting for you not to open them and flick your tongue against it.

nancy doesn’t pull back. just turns her head to face you, a look of surprise flashing over her features.

you hold her gaze and part your lips further, until you’ve got the tip of her finger resting between your lipstick smeared lips.

“please” you whisper once more, suddenly (at the new sensation and taste of nancy wheeler’s finger in your mouth) thinking clearer than you have all night.

nancy, who’s staring right back at you, pushes forward at the same time as you suck, so her index sinks into your mouth. you hum when you feel the soft pressure of it pressing down on your tongue.

her lashes flutter and she inhales sharply as she watches the scene unfold.

eventually, she snaps out of her frozen state. her free hand curls up in your hair slowly, until you’re yanked back suddenly. you gasp when you find nancy glaring down at you, holding you by the back of your head.

“is that right?” she whispers, a second finger toying along your bottom lip.

all you can do is whine and open your mouth further so she can push it into you.

your drool is dripping from the side of your mouth when nancy lets you suck on her manicured fingers.

“mhm” she breathes when you let out a strangled moan. “that’s right sweetheart, gag on mommy’s fingers”

her words send a jolt of arousal straight to your center. you hollow out your cheeks around her and nancy hums, pleased.

“so pretty” she coos, spurred on by all the pretty moans and gasps. nancy’s fingers comb through your hair as her fingers pump into your throat. you want her to feel, you absentmindedly think, how good you suck her.

perhaps she’ll let you suck on her breasts next, hidden by nothing but the thin lace she’s wearing. or her strap, with you between her strong legs, bobbing your head along her length. you can feel your cunt throb between your legs at the mere thought.

“nancy” you choke out, voice thick with want. it’s all you do: you want. you want to please her, want to sink to your knees for her and eat her out. you want to let her have her way with you until the only thing you know is her name.

but nancy pulls back, a string of saliva connecting her fingers to your mouth.

“come on baby” she whispers. “you know better than that”

“mommy” you finally gasp because you do know better. especially for her. always for her.

“good girl” nancy praises, her fingers running through your hair appreciatively.

“want mommy to take care of you baby? want me to fuck you properly?”

“yeah” you nod in agreement. “yeah please”

“bed” nancy commands. “now”

the two of you scramble to your feet, nancy hot on your heels. you practically throw yourself onto the pink, fluffy sheets. the mattress beneath you bounces under your weight but the other girl is quick to lie down on top of you and press you into it.

her soft lips press against yours, hungry and hot. it’s the first time kissing her. different from how you’d imagined it, exactly how you’d fantasized.

her tongue licks into your mouth, coaxing a moan from the back of your throat.

“mhm that’s it” she smiles against your lips. “let me hear you baby. be loud for me”

and then she’s kissing down your torso, dragging her nose through the fabric of the shirt. your skin is burning, wanting to feel her lips against it without the additional layer of clothing in the way, but nancy is frantic. she’s kissing her way down like she’s got no time to waste at all.

before you know it, she’s between your legs, pushing your thighs up to your chest to have you nice and open for her.

nancy quickly fumbles with your skirt, works it out of the way and stuffs it into its hemline.

“can i eat you out?” nancy husks, her breath ghosting over your clothed cunt. she’s got her eyes on you, admiring the wet slick patch on the fabric.

“mhm” you whine. “please”

“please what?” nancy asks, her nails digging into the skin of your inner thighs.

you lean your head back against the pillows, humiliation and arousal running hot through your veins.

“please, mommy”

nancy runs her nose over your center, kissing your opening through your underwear.

“that’s it” she praises, fingers reaching for the hemline of your panties.

you bite your lip and lift your hips so the other girl can peel them off and throw them over her shoulder.

“there you go” nancy coos, admiring the sweet slick of your pussy. “such a pretty girl. such a pretty pussy too hm?”

you’re blushing furiously then, as you watch her take in the sight of it.

she grabs the flesh of your ass and pulls you right against her mouth.

the moan you let out at the first contact of her tongue is loud and ragged. you arch your back and nancy reaches for your waist to hold you in place.

her mouth wraps around your clit, sucking harshly, and you’re gone.

her pink, plump lips vibrate around you when nancy hums her approval.

you don’t know if she has ever done anything like this before. she certainly hasn’t gone down on you yet, but she seems to study your body with every precise flick of her tongue and learns with every reaction she coaxes from you.

and you’re responsive, twitching and trembling on the mattress every time she moves.

you can feel yourself gushing more slick each time nancy flicks her tongue side to side, rolling it over your clit perfectly.

“that- that’s good nance” you gasp. “right there!”

“yeah?” nancy breathes, her chin covered in your arousal.

you whine, managing a weak nod on her pillow. your cheeks are rosy, no longer from the alcohol but from the sheer heat of the moment.

“that’s my good girl” she hums, licking her lips. “now lay back and let me take care of you”

and with that, her mouth is back on you and she’s licking broad strokes through your cunt, actually fucking it into you this time.

she eats you out like this for a while, minutes spent drowning between your thighs and in your wetness. nancy wheeler, sweet, kind nancy, eats you out like her life depends on it, like a woman starved: fucks her tongue deep between your folds, wraps her lips around your clit, and licks every drop of your slick up happily.

“taste so good” she praises. “so so good for mommy, hm sweetheart?”

at this point, you’re no longer able to string together a verbal response. instead, you grab her by the hair and guide her where you want -need- her mouth.

“nancy” you cry. “nancy, nancy, nancy”

breathy, high pitched moans continue to go fall from your lips as you feel your orgasm building up in your core. you roll your hips against her lips, a weak attempt to match the pace of nancy’s tongue.

“so- so close” you manage.

“it’s okay baby” nancy assures you. “it’s okay, cum for me”

“fuck, nancy, mommy, i-“

you’re cut off by both; the orgasm that crashes over you and nancy, who puts her mouth on you again. she swallows all the slick that drips from you, dwells in the way your body goes rigid for her mouth.

nancy is relentless, fucks you through the height of your pleasure with her skilled tongue.

she doesn’t stop, not until you weakly pull her back by the brown curls, signalizing her that it’s becoming too much.

she’s covered in you: your cum glistening on her chin in the dim light of her room.

“holy shit” you pant.

“you did so good” nancy whispers, crawling up your body. “so pretty when you cum”

once she’s lingering above you, you wrap your arms around her and pull her in, tasting yourself on her tongue.

“thank you” you mumble against her mouth before turning your head away into the softness of her pillow. it’s warm there, comfortable, and the pillow case smells like her. it coaxes you into a comforting post-orgasmic blissful state.

“sleepy?” nancy asks bemused.

“yeah” you tell her, adjusting your position.

You’re four years old when your mum comes back to your apartment on Coruscant with the happy news. 

She nears your room, where you're trying to screw back together a toy lightsaber that you somehow managed to dissect — tongue sticking out of your mouth, a concentrated pout prominent on your face. You’re really your father’s daughter, she ponders sometimes, thinking back to that blonde boy on the sand planet that managed to build a whole robot with scraps. The nurse droid, RO-N4, is dutifully watching your work, assuring that you don’t hurt yourself in the process and hinting at the pieces that should go back together; she raises her head when she sees that Padmé has returned. 

You jump up when you notice her, running to give her a big hug, almost making her lose her balance; but she’s used to it, and wastes no time in hoisting you on her hip. The robot stands up, ready to gently reprimand you, but your mother gingerly shoos her away with a smile. “Why don’t you go out with Threepio on a walk? I’ll stay here with her. We have something to discuss.” she winks at you, “Some serious girl talk to do, am I right?”

You giggle — that childish, innocent laugh that makes hours of relentless debates in the Senate worth going through — rubbing your cheek against hers. “Yeah! I have shoooo many things to tell you, mama!” 

The robots follow the senator’s suggestion, stumbling their way out of the door, and you soon go back to the area dedicated to your toys to show her your hard work. “Look, mama!” you’re basically jumping up and down in joy, holding up the pieces of the once toy lightsaber. “This is the cyber crystal–”

“Kyber crystal, sweetie.” 

“Ky-ber crystal. And then this is the one part of the handle with the switch–”

You could go on and ramble for hours, she thinks. She’d happily listen to all and any of your thoughts and wonders and never get tired from it. Soon enough, Padmé’s lying down on the soft sponge puzzle pieces of the playmat that serve to prevent any possible injury from falling over. We’ll need to change those soon, she thinks absentmindedly, she’s already grown out of the always-falling-over phase. 

She isn’t sure of how much time passes; at some point your ramblings slow and you scoot closer to her, sniggling in her lap. “Mama,” you mumble, yawning. “‘m so happy that you’re here. I missed you a lot today.”

Her heart breaks. A hand carding through your locks, she smiles sadly, “I know, sweetie, I’m sorry that mama has to work so much. But I promise it’s just so that once you grow up you will be able to live in a peaceful Galaxy, without ever worrying about learning how to fight like your papa.”

You perk up. “But I wanna be like papa when I grow up.”

She shakes her head, feigning her best scandalized expression. “How dare you? What am I, chopped liver?” she takes you in her arms and blows raspberries in your cheeks, making you squeal and thrash around. “Nooo! Don’t, mama, it’s ticklish!” 

“What about being a senator, mh?” she offers, not unkindly. “We can fight too, you know.” She puts on her best imitation of Palpatine and presses a matter of utmost importance, “Senator Skywalker, what do you think we should have for dinner as of today?” 

Your chuckle makes your little chest rumble against her belly. Your surname is not Skywalker — it is Amidala, often Naberrie when on Naboo, but never have your parents referred to you as that; they mostly leave it out when asked, avoiding the question but never stating either the truth or the cover-up. There’s still hope to change the Order, Anakin always says, that one day she can wear my surname without it causing a scandal. And Padmé believes him: and she believes that when the time comes, you’ll be rightly known as Senator Skywalker. 

Suddenly, you go quiet. “I want papa,” you whisper it like it’s forbidden — it kind of is, but you shouldn’t know that. Padmé’s heart breaks a little again. Anakin was sent out on a mission two weeks ago and hasn’t even been able to keep in touch ever since, making you miss him terribly. 

She laughs as softly as she can — she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. “No can do, sweetie. Papa isn’t due to be home in at least another three days, but I’m sure that once he’s here he’ll be elated to spend some time with you. Besides, you can’t eat papa for dinner.” she rests her cheek on her hand, patting the free space next to her. “Until he comes back, it’s just you and me. What would you like to do tomorrow? I have no Senate meetings.”