#reader x dragon

You stare at it, and it stares back, eyes twin flames so golden, they nearly glow in the barely illuminated shed.

The piece of meat sits half chewed near its front right claw, abandoned in favour of something more appetizing. But it doesn't look at you like it wants to swallow you whole. At least not in the literal sense. It is not reassuring at all.

"I won't hurt you," you say, voice small as a mouse.

The dragon huffs in amusement, tendrils of smoke curling out of its nostrils. As if you could hurt it. As if you could do anything to it.

"I've been taking care of you."

From the corner of its eye, the dragon glances at the bandages wrapped around its leg. Your heart stutters and hiccups in your chest. Surely that's evidence that it can understand you.

"Did you not like the meat?" You ask, still standing by the shed door. You don't want to risk moving and scaring it. If the occasional smoke emitting from its nose is anything to go by, it's capable of burning this whole shed down. And you won't put it past it to do anything and everything in its power to protect itself from a human, a dragon's number one enemy for centuries, the cause of their extinction. Or supposed extinction.

"I wish you'd eat it. I had to smell like meat throughout dinner just so you won't be hungry."

The dragon glances at it and lowers its head, jaw parting and long tongue rolling out to wrap around the meat. You're too busy staring at its sharp, white teeth.

Scary, scary things. At least they're not around your throat. It is a bit reassuring that it didn't attack you, or show any sign of hostility towards you. Even better, it understands that you only want to nurse it back to health so that it may return to wherever it came from.

"Are you going to eat me?"

The dragon huffs again. You understand it now as a sign of amusement, though you fail to understand what's so amusing about your question.

"I have to make sure," you add, crossing your arms. "I hope you know I mean you no harm. I only wish to help you."

Sensing no real danger from you, the dragon rests its head on the pile of leaves you left near it as a makeshift pillow and closes its eyes.

Sensing no danger from it, you approach.

Your hands work carefully over the scars, wiping the old balm residue and applying new mixture before covering them with fresh bandages. You could feel the warmth of a fireplace sitting this close to it, a warmth that's so bone deep it has you touching its scales, then leaning into them, then cuddling into its side.

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, in that space where everything is hazy and feels more like a memory than reality, you feel the dragon wrap its tale around your body and pull you closer to him.

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The moment you wake up, you know you're late. Dread trickles down to your chest like a cold stream. The sun pouring in from the window is warm but feels frigid. You push the dragon tail off your stomach and stumble up to your feet, rushing out the door and back to the castle in a flurry of robes and panic.

You rush down the hall towards the dinning room, sweat drops sliding down the length of your spine. You're aware you smell like grass and something else, something unfamiliar, but you'd rather receive weird looks than the prince's tantrum.

You slip into your seat just as the prince walks in.

His eyes immediately find you. "You're late."

You're earlier than he is, but you don't say that. "I stopped by to check on Lillian," you say instead, breathless.

"Is that so?" He takes his seat at the head of the table. "And how is she doing?"

Seeing that she's not currently present in what is a mandatory duty, you feel safe to lie. "She's still not feeling well."

"I didn't have the time to check on her this morning," Mia says, cutting into her toast. You envy the ease she operates with around Lysander, but you know it comes at a price.

Lysander sighs, like Lillian being sick inconveniences him more than it inconveniences her. "How long is she going to be sick for?"

You all glance at each other.

"I had the physician visit her last night," Mia says, putting her fork down. "She's exhausted, feverish, sometimes delusional. He thinks it's a high fever that will eventually break. The maids are taking care of her and keeping her comfortable."

The idea of Lillian being comfortable doesn't seem to please Lysander, if the press of his lips is anything to go by. Perhaps he wanted her to be in his chambers these last few days but, alas, the sickness is turning him off. His selfishness disgusts you to immeasurable amounts.

"I suppose it can't be helped," he says.

You snort.

A cold hush descends on the table.

Your head snaps up. Everyone is staring at you, for good reason. How did you slip up so carelessly? To be fair, what Lysander said is hilarious. It can't be helped. Poor him. But that's not what you should be focusing on right now, not with Lysander staring at you with a look so sharp, you can feel it at your throat.

"Forgive me, my prince, I swallowed too quickly," you say. Then you cough and take a sip of your water, just to sell your lie a bit better.

Lysander stares at you for a long moment. You try your best not to squirm in your seat. "It has always been one of your flaws," he finally says.

Mia shoots you a horrified look. You duck your head, cheeks aflame. Better humiliation than wrath. You prefer your head attached to your body still. Besides, you have a dragon to take care of now. Its temporary dependence on you is enough motivation to tolerate Lysander's attitude and shameless quips.

The subject shifts away from you to the topic of the upcoming ball. The end of dragons age celebration. Just like that, Lillian's existence, or lack of, is forgotten about. Mia and the rest engage in an exciting conversation about fabrics and colours and ribbons that you would have joined in on if it weren't for the dread settling like a black, bottomless pond in your stomach.

Lysander leans back in his throne-like chair, goblet of red wine in hand, and overlooks the scene with a pleased look. Not a smile. Nothing ever pleases him enough to smile. He likes having his concubines all in one room the same way he likes to hang the heads of his huntings. The same way he likes to collect the symbol of every army he defeated. It's not about affection. It never was. It's about power, and his thirst for it. That's from where your disgust is born.

After dinner, you try not to sprint out of the room. The last thing you want is one of the girls--or worse, Lysander-- to grow suspicious enough to ask.

But you still catch his eye, despite your best efforts to blend in with the maids rushing to clear the table.

Lysander's fingers wrap around your upper arm, stopping you in your tracks. "You smell like ash," he remarks, eyebrows knitted into a deep frown.

"I was working in the garden, your highness."

"That doesn't explain the smell."

You grip your sleeves. "I was burning some essence for good fortune."

"And you couldn't change before dinner?"

"I'm sorry, your highness, I got caught up."

He hums. "That seems to be the case lately. Go change and come to my chamber."

That feeling of dread seeps back into your guts, curdling your stomach. You bow your head. "Right away, my prince."

You make your way to the large kitchen, blending in with the chaos of the post dinner cleaning, and snatch a piece of meat from the coffers in the back. Big pieces of wood attached to each other to form a circle spin constantly in this section, keeping the meat cool and fresh. It's not the dragon's first choice of food, if his reaction to the previous piece is anything to go by, but unless it starts speaking, you have no idea what else to feed it.

The moon is full and bright as you travel the garden to the tool shed.

The dragon is asleep. At least it appears to be.

You leave the meat next to it and rush to your bedroom to freshen up.

The castle is built to be divided by purpose. Every group of rooms that serve the same purpose forms a section, each door leading to a common room with couches that no one sits on and books no one reads. As such, the prince's chambers are grouped with his concubines' rooms.

It's not a surprise that you run into him.

"Your highness," you say with a gasp, slamming into him.

He catches you, hands gripping your arms. Then his nose wrinkles in pure disgust. "Why do you smell like raw meat?"

Your eyes dart towards your bedroom door and then back to him. "I was on my way to freshen up, my prince, before I join you."

"That doesn't answer my question."

A lump the size of a fist forms in your throat. "I was in the kitchen and one of the maids ran into me."

He regards you with suspicion. "What were you doing in the kitchen? Did I not ask you to come to me immediately?" His grip on your arms tighten.

You wince, but know better to lend a voice to the pain. "Yes, my prince. I just thought I'd take Lillian something to eat first."

"Don't concern yourself with her when I'm cross with you."

"Of course, my prince. My first priority is to please you."

"Forget about it." He shoves you away. "The smell turned me off."

You watch him march up the stairs towards his room. Just before the darkness swallows him whole, he turns to you, eyes colder than a winter breeze, and says, "your blatant lies are starting to contradict each other."

Dinner turns in your stomach like a pit of snakes. You've never been a good liar. Where you were before, you never had reasons to lie. You had to learn under the watchful gaze of Lysander. He noted every tell you developed, amused by the way you stumble and sweat through a swamp made up of your own lies. To him, it's more a game than a survival tactic, but it seems it's starting to get on his nerves. Perhaps what annoys him the most is the lack of effort, as if you underestimate his intelligence. It's not that at all. You simply cannot lie to save your life.

You're far too restless to sleep in your own bedroom. Lysander never hesitates to express his displeasure, but he's enough of an unpleasant person to not say how he'll deal with it. He knows it'll keep you up at night, twisting and turning and living through worst case scenarios. You refuse to give him that pleasure, and decide to sleep next to the dragon.

It's a chilly, quiet spring night, the sky clear and the stars bright. And your dragon is as warm as a fireplace, its eyes burning like embers as it glances at you when you come in.

The dragon tilts its head, then it lowers it to the ground, eyes locked with yours.

You go completely still, heart fluttering like a trapped bird in your chest. If your memory doesn't fail you, and if the extensive reading you did is anything close to the truth on dragons behaviour, then the dragon just willingly submitted to you.

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