Ousmane Sembène, Senegalese Director And Father Of African Cinema

Ousmane Sembène, Senegalese director and father of African cinema

"It is good to be at Cannes, but I wish Africa would create something of its own. We should not be eternal guests. It is up to us to create our own values. To recognize them and to carry them throughout the world." —Sembene! (2015)

Clips from Caméra d'Afrique + Sembene! (2015)

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.

“yeah. okay. thanks.”

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.”

“you too, mister cody.”

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.”

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”

“when did you get up?”

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.

“yeah. i had one.”

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh.

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

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akotafi

3 weeks ago

Ride or Die (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem!reader): Series Masterlist & Warnings

Posting schedule and Series Masterlist

This is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are queued.

Chapter One: POSTED

Chapter Two: POSTED

Chapter Three: POSTED

Chapter Four: POSTED

Chapter Five: POSTED

Chapter Six: POSTED

Chapter Seven: POSTED

Chapter Eight: POSTED

Chapter Nine: POSTED

Chapter Ten: POSTED

Chapter Eleven: POSTED

BONUS content: PLAYLIST (TBC)

Series Warnings (below the cut):

To avoid chapter by chapter spoilers, this time I'm providing general, series-level warnings of the main themes covered throughout. This may also mean the list is non-exhaustive. If you need more information in order to safely avoid a trigger/topic, or to enhance your reading experience, you are welcome to DM me / send in an ask. Also, if you spot something I missed that you think should be included here to aid other readers, hmu!

Please note, the whole series is NSFW, MDNI (18+). Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Smut: EXPLICIT, CORE THEME e.g. fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, casual sex with other non-pairing partners implied off-screen.

Angst: A CORE THEME. Relationship angst. A lot of arguing / yelling (not trying to romanticise this at all!). Some toxic jealousy. Conflicts with friends. Abandonment fears. As well as this central relationship conflict, side characters are dealing with individual issues, such as those referenced in canon (divorce, prior violence, drug misuse etc.).

Drugs / alcohol mentions: reader participates in casual social drinking throughout, some heavier drinking in one chapter (party context). Smoking (one chapter). Brief mentions of drug use (cocaine).

Food mentions: casual, frequent.

Mentions typical of canon / e.g. wartime, US army, bullet wounds, car crash, injury, fear of mortality, violence (no graphic descriptions).

Mental health: implied past trauma typical of canon. Brief mentions of nightmares, possible PTSD.

Reader descriptions: fem!AFAB reader. Uses she/her pronouns. Reader’s hair is described a couple of times as being e.g. “pulled”. No hair texture / colour / style / other details specified or implied. Reader has a family who appear in a couple of chapters (sister and nephews). No physical descriptions of them are supplied. Mentioned that reader grew up with her sister, though not specified whether biological / adoptive / found family.

Spanish language: reader understands / speaks Spanish, though not specified what her first language is (or isn’t). I have avoided lengthy Spanish translations / text as I am not a native speaker. Some Spanish language is included, limited to terms of endearment and the like. I am always happy to be corrected. I research, but some mistakes are likely.

Sexual health / pregnancy: mentions of reader using birth control, including mentions of emergency contraceptives / slip-ups. Not a core theme.

Religion: mentions of Catholicism.

Other: contains significant Tom. It’s pre-canon, I’m so sorry.

Tags

tbr pile

372 notes View Post

akotafi

5 months ago

🔥sex/smut |🌟 new |♾️ gn!reader |🌸 Author favorite

all fics f!reader unless otherwise specified

::My Dear Birdie::

-You meet Anselm Vogelweide, your true love and partner in crime. Note: Treat yourself and look at this beautiful art of Anselm done by @faretheeoscar :: this jaw-droppingly gorgeous Anselm by @silvernight-m

1- My Dear Birdie (~2.8k) 🔥🌸 2- Leave It On (~2.9k) 🔥 3- My Eternal Love, Anselm (an exchange of letters) 🔥 4- A Game of Words (~3.4k) 🔥 5- Gunshot Wedding (~5.6k) 🔥 🌸 6- Godzilla & The New Power Structure (~1k) 7- The Next Chapter (~7.1k) 🔥 8- Lucien & Claire, Anselm & Birdie (~4.4k) 🔥 9- Anselm's Balls (an exchange of letters) 🔥 10- Die Altstadt (~3k) 🔥 11- The Fight (~4.7k) 🔥

Dear Anselm (<500) Birdie's Gray Hair (<1k) Pillow Talk (<1k) 🔥 Anselm & Birdie on the run (<1k) Friends & Family (~3.6k) -Anselm & Birdie meet other Oscar characters Moonlight and hands (<500) Whining, Begging, Shooting 🔥 (<1k) -Edging Anselm with an accidental audience Short hc about Anselm's asthma Business Dinner 🔥 (~2k) -A private dinner, and private glass of wine Wine Drunk (~2k) -You're stuck in a wine cellar Harmless Flirting (~1.5k) -The creepy guy at the lingerie shop gets put in his place by Anselm That's It. Period (~1.1k) -Anselm comforts you during your period. Drabble- Dinner Party -One guy at your dinner party won't shut the F up. HC-Meeting the Parents -Anselm meets your parents Come (an exchange of letters) (~750)🔥 -You're both working from home, and exchange letters back and forth One-shot- It's Personal (~1.3k) -Sometimes, it's not business for Anselm. It's personal. Blurb- The Hunt -Does he hunt people? -Why is Birdie called Birdie? -*brief note about music -*brief note about nicknames -*brief note about food -*brief note about periods

🎅 A Christmas Tale (~1.1k) 🔥 and a bit about Christmas cards 🎅 🔥

One Weekend (part 1) 🔥 One Weekend (part 2) 🔥 Anselm Vogelweide x reader x Nathan Bateman

::Other Anselm Writings::

🌟 Strange Hungers (~1.7k) 🔥 -Krampus!Anselm punishes you (CNC) 🌟 Anselm w/ shy or awkward reader ♾️ 🎃 My Girlfriend is a Ghost (~2k)🔥 Little fic about Anselm getting his nails done Sympathy for the Devil (1.5k)🔥 -not-so-anonymous sex Anselm w/ asexual!reader HC- Medical Attention -Anselm w/ a Paramedic s/o (request) HC- Shooting w/ the Safety Off -when you tell Anselm you're pregnant Are You Scared of a Virgin? (~1k) -You're a virgin. Can Anselm handle it? Roman Empire (~1.3k) -Anselm appreciates your baking skills and makes sure others do too. NSFW Anselm Alphabet 🔥 In the Middle (Anselm x reader x Santiago Garcia, ~3k) Nothing Less Than This ( Anselm x reader x Santiago Garcia, ~2.2k) -Two men in competition for you, until you all discover you're better off together Blurb- Shady Ex -That one, horrible ex is back in your life. Anselm takes care of it. One Shot- My Greatest Asset♾️ -Anselm demands you are respected. One Shot- Romance & Death♾️ -You teach Anselm that he's been goth his entire life

Anselm gets high Anselm w/ so who has chronic pain Anselm w/ so feeling his scars Idea about Anselm & MK w/ Layla Meeting

This is, I think, my very first post about Anselm.

Tags

tbr pile

197 notes View Post

akotafi

1 month ago

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

167K notes View Post

akotafi

6 months ago

CDrama Rant

i am watching <<Love Game in Eastern Fantasy>> and in episode 11 theres a guy who was lazy, had no self awareness and had as a result of this got his sect killed and is still hanging around the area to keep up a ruse that his sect unknowingly died protecting.

I'm not all the way through with the episode so theres still potential for him to grow and change after this but I find it so frustrating how he's just blathering on about how lazy, coniving and idiotic he's been in his pursuit of greatness and the person he's talking to not once calls him an idiot, nor has he by himself learnt anything from the decades(!!) he's spent in this rural village.

He's still scamming people for fuck's sake, but he's acting like hes doing this ultimate good and that out main cast is over-estimaiting themselves just like he did and they're going to cause trouble.

NEWSFLASH

You stupid bitch, no one else on earht could fuck up as badly as you've done.

HE'S SO FUCKING FRUSTRATING OMG

Tags

rant rant post spoilers chinese drama cdrama love game in eastern fantasy

5 notes View Post

akotafi

1 year ago

It's been so long since I've posted on here so, much has changed. Yet I'm still lost.

I still have no idea what I'm going to do. I have the big things worked out, but I've always struggled filling in the details.

I know I could have it worse after all people are dying but,

it doesn't make life any easier to live, knowing others have it worse.

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akotafi

1 month ago

they made it a family affair

A Bathroom Crash Out Is Mandatory At This Job

a bathroom crash out is mandatory at this job

4K notes View Post

akotafi

2 months ago

The Golden Oath (to decide)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to take a chance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @howtodisappearcompletely3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial @jsprien213

The road narrowed as the procession climbed the last hill, the sun now high above them, its light muted beneath a veil of thin cloud. Dust rose from the hooves of their horses, and beyond the crest of the hill, the ruins of Summerhall slowly came into view—a broken crown of stone and ash, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the passage of time.

Jaime had heard the tales, of course—whispers passed between pages and knights of the court, stories of fire and madness and the fall of a dream long dead. But no telling had prepared him for the solemn quiet that blanketed the ruins like a shroud. Even the birds had stilled their songs, and the air held a heaviness that pressed into the lungs, as if it remembered everything that had happened here.

He rode close to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy as they descended the last slope, the guard fanning out behind them. Crumbled columns reached skyward like fingers of a dead god, scorched stone blackened from old flames. What had once been a great hall now lay in splintered ruin—arches collapsed, hearths hollow and cold, no roof to shelter what remained.

Jaime said nothing as they dismounted, the leather reins firm in his grip. His gaze swept over the shattered remnants of the palace, noting where the fire had burned deepest—walls half-fallen in on themselves, the marble tiles cracked and blackened beneath moss and decay.

Ahead of them, Rhaegar and Y/N walked side by side, the prince’s hand light on her back as they passed through what had once been the grand entrance. There was no ceremony in the way they moved, no announcement of their intention to separate from the group. They simply passed beyond the threshold of the ruins, the pale folds of her cloak disappearing behind the stone arch with graceful finality.

Jaime’s brows drew together as he watched them go. He remained where he stood for a long moment, eyes lingering on the dark space where they had vanished.

He shifted slightly, then turned to Ser Barristan, who was tightening the strap of his vambrace, his expression unbothered as if this had been expected.

"Shouldn’t someone follow them?" Jaime asked, his voice low but firm. "It’s not safe. These ruins—"

"They will be fine on their own," Barristan said, cutting him off gently but with the steady weight of authority. He didn’t look at Jaime as he spoke, merely adjusting the leather binding with practiced ease. "They’ve come here before, and they come for their own reasons. We are here only to ensure they return."

Jaime frowned, glancing toward Ser Arthur, who stood beside a jagged pillar with one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawn. The Sword of the Morning gave Jaime a glance, then nodded faintly.

"Summerhall is sacred to the prince," Arthur said. "And to her."

Jaime’s jaw clenched. "And what is it to you?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "A ruin. A reminder. Nothing more."

But Barristan, older and less inclined to philosophical detachment, gave Jaime a longer look, his eyes unreadable beneath the line of his brow.

"You care for her," he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jaime’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before he set his jaw and looked away. "I respect her," he said simply.

Barristan’s mouth twitched, just faintly, before he turned his attention back to the guards dispersing among the trees.

"You’re not the first."

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. "What?"

The older knight’s tone remained neutral. "To see her. To want her. To wonder if what you see in her eyes is meant for you."

Jaime stared at him, something unsettled curling low in his chest.

"But you must understand something," Barristan continued. "She is the king’s daughter, yes. But more than that—she is his."

He didn’t say the prince’s name. He didn’t have to.

Jaime looked once more toward the ruins, now silent and still beneath the rising sun. He could almost imagine their voices echoing within the blackened halls—hers low and warm, his soft and distant like a harp played in an empty chamber.

And suddenly, Jaime felt as though he were standing outside something he had never truly been invited into.

He said nothing more, only stood there beside the stones, waiting for a glimpse of silver and violet to return from the ruin of dreams.

The light dimmed as you stepped beneath what remained of the old stone arch, the world outside muffled the moment you and Rhaegar entered the hollow shell of what had once been a palace built for joy. Vines crept along the broken walls, their green fingers winding through cracks left by fire and time, and shattered marble tiles crunched under your boots as you moved further inward. The air here smelled of ash and earth, of something old and buried, something that clung to the bones of Summerhall like a final breath that refused to leave.

Rhaegar walked just ahead, his footsteps slow and careful, not out of fear, but reverence. He did not speak at first, and neither did you. This place had always demanded silence when you came together, silence not out of respect, but of understanding. It was as though the stones themselves remembered the cries that had risen here the night it burned—Aegon’s last dream, kindled in fire and ended in smoke.

You followed him through the collapsed doorway that once led to the hall of the fountain, or what remained of it. The basin was cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by moss, and the marble dragons that once spiraled around its rim had lost their heads to time and heat. You stepped beside him, your cloak brushing the crumbling stone, and you looked not at the ruin, but at Rhaegar.

His expression was distant, his eyes tracing the outlines of what had once been. His hands, usually so steady, hung at his sides, his fingers twitching now and again like a man playing invisible strings. The silence had stretched too long, so you broke it first, your voice soft.

“You’ve grown quieter here.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “It’s quieter here,” he answered, though it wasn’t truly an explanation.

You glanced around, the ruins swallowing you both in shadow and memory. “You used to say this was where you felt closest to what came before.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I still do.”

You watched him for a long moment. His face looked older today. Not from time, but from weight. From thought. You could see it in the lines that hadn’t been there last year, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had already lived through the prophecy he was meant to fulfill.

He finally looked at you. His eyes were strange in this light—flickering between indigo and stormcloud. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked you, quietly, as though afraid the ruins might answer for you.

You drew in a breath, letting it settle before answering. “I believe we shape it,” you said. “Even when it’s written.”

He turned from you again, his jaw tight, the tension spreading through his shoulders. “Mine is already written. In scrolls, in books, in flames.” He shook his head slowly. “And every step I take, I feel it binding tighter around me.”

You moved closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “But not alone.”

Rhaegar went still, and for a moment you thought he might close off again like he always did when the subject crept too close to his heart. But instead, he turned toward you fully, his eyes burning now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Fear.

“I’m afraid,” he said. “Not of what I must do. Not of what I will become. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk it without you.”

His words hung there, suspended between ruin and memory. You had heard his fears before, but never so plainly. Never so bare.

You reached for him, your hand settling gently against his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed like the soft rhythm of a distant drum. “You won’t.”

He swallowed, and for the first time, his posture seemed to break. “The future takes things,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when they’re not ready to be taken.”

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Then we will make the future yield.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms coming around you slowly, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. He held you against him, and you could feel it now—the quiet tremble beneath his stillness. Rhaegar, the silver prince, the one who carried songs and sorrow alike, was simply a man here. A brother. Yours.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“I never have,” you answered.

And in the stillness of Summerhall, surrounded by what had burned, you held onto one another like the last unbroken thing.

The sun had crept higher into the sky, tracing shadows across the broken stone and brittle grass of Summerhall. The ruins lay still, undisturbed save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the hollowed walls and stirred the remnants of a palace long dead. Jaime stood near the edge of the old courtyard, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the scorched archway where the prince and princess had disappeared nearly an hour ago.

He was growing restless.

His horse had long since cooled beneath the shade of a tree. The guards lounged or kept idle watch. Ser Arthur, patient as ever, sat with his back to a blackened pillar, his head tipped downward as he thumbed through a small leather-bound book, utterly unbothered by the passage of time. But Jaime… Jaime was coiled tight.

He didn’t realize he was scowling until a voice beside him stirred him from his brooding.

“Patience is a virtue for knights,” Ser Barristan said lightly, walking toward him with his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was tousled slightly from removing it, but his eyes were focused and clear beneath the weight of years. “Though I find fewer and fewer of the young possess it.”

Jaime didn’t look at him at first. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “It’s been too long,” he said flatly.

“They’ve been here before,” Barristan replied, as if that answered anything. “And they’ve always returned.”

Jaime shifted his stance, fingers drumming against his arm. “She’s not just some wandering lady from the Reach,” he said. “She’s the king’s daughter.”

Barristan raised a brow. “And you think the prince would let harm come to her?”

Jaime glanced at him then, just briefly. “I don’t think anything. That’s the problem.”

For a time, they stood in silence, the breeze rustling the scorched grass around them. Then Barristan spoke again, this time more carefully.

“You train like a knight. You fight like one. But your thoughts, Jaime…” He paused. “They’ve drifted elsewhere, haven’t they?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

“You asked me once,” Barristan continued, “what it felt like to wear the white. To take the vows. You were only twelve, and you looked at me as though I’d been made of stories.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But now you hardly speak of it at all.”

Jaime turned to him, slowly. His jaw was tight. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“But not the same way,” Barristan said quietly.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, staring at the blackened stones beneath his boots. “I never wanted Casterly Rock. That was meant for Kevan’s son. Even when I was a boy, I knew my father would see me as a sword first and heir second.” He glanced up at the sky, his voice lower now. “But I never imagined I’d want anything else.” He looked toward the archway again, his gaze distant. “Now I do.”

Barristan regarded him, his expression unreadable. “You would give up the Kingsguard. Give up your name. Your legacy. For her?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “For her, I’d try.”

The old knight was quiet for a long time. Then, he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“I have seen many men fall in love with dragons,” he said. “Some from afar. Some from within. It rarely ends well for any of them—especially the ones without wings.”

Jaime turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Barristan sighed, the weight of experience settling in his shoulders. “Then pray, for both your sakes, that this fire does not burn you alive.”

Jaime said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the ruins.

And still, you did not return.

The solar in Maegor’s Holdfast was stifling despite the breeze that whispered through the high windows. The red and black tapestries, embroidered with dragons in flight and fire, hung heavy on the walls, absorbing the heat and amplifying the sense of confinement within the chamber. The air smelled of warmed parchment and perfumed oils, a rich, cloying mixture that clung to the skin. But it was not the heat or the scent that unsettled Tywin Lannister—it was the man seated on the carved wooden chair beneath the Targaryen crest, idly turning a jeweled ring around his finger, his violet eyes glittering with something between amusement and disdain.

Aerys Targaryen had not yet descended fully into the madness that would one day consume him, but the change had begun. It was there in the long silences between his words, the sudden flickers of suspicion behind his gaze, the way his mouth twisted when he smiled, as if the act required effort. And yet, he was still shrewd. Still cunning. Still dangerous.

“My king,” Tywin began again, his voice measured, every word deliberate. “You’ve made your views clear regarding my daughter. If you will not entertain the match between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei, then I ask you to consider—”

“You ask,” Aerys interrupted abruptly, his tone light but edged like a blade. “You, Tywin Lannister, who once served as Hand of the King, who now returns with gifts and golden children in tow, asking for my blood to be mixed with yours.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. “It would strengthen both houses.”

Aerys’s laugh was brittle, too loud for the small room. “Ah, yes, strength. That is always your language, isn’t it? Not honor, not duty—strength. Power. Gold.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Jaime is a capable boy. More than capable. And he is your daughter’s equal in birth, if not in name. I merely ask that you consider the benefit of promising her to him.”

The king’s fingers stilled against the ring. His gaze narrowed, lips curling slightly. “Your son is a squire, not a prince. And she is not yours to have.”

“She is the daughter of the dragon,” Tywin reminded him calmly. “And Westeros is watching. It would do your House good to remind the realm that alliances can be made outside the bloodline.”

“Outside?” Aerys repeated, his tone suddenly biting. “You would dilute the blood of the dragon with lion’s blood. Do you think me a fool?”

Tywin met his gaze without blinking. “I think you a king who must preserve more than his name. Isolation breeds weakness. The other Great Houses grow in power with each generation. Your own family grows thinner.”

Aerys stood then, his movements sudden, graceful despite the long folds of his black and red robes. He moved to the window, his back turned, his posture tense.

“They speak of me in whispers,” he said, voice low, almost musing. “They say I’ve grown strange. That I fear shadows and keep to myself. That I hoard wildfire between the walls.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe these things, Tywin?”

“I believe your enemies want others to believe them.”

The king turned slowly, his expression twisting into something smug. “Let them believe what they will. Let them fear. They have always feared Targaryen fire. That is how we keep the throne. Not with Lannister gold.”

Tywin remained silent, letting the pause settle between them before stepping forward.

“And what of your children?” he asked softly. “What of the girl? Will you have her remain unwed while the world speculates? Or will you—” he stopped short, letting the weight of his next words hang unspoken.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

“You mean to wed them,” Tywin said. “Your son and daughter. That is why you refuse all other matches. You’ve planned this.”

The king’s silence was answer enough.

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “You would close the Targaryen circle again.”

“As it has always been,” Aerys said, chin lifting. “As it must be.”

“You will isolate your House,” Tywin warned, voice low. “Already the smallfolk whisper that your line is touched by madness. You think to silence them by marrying your children? You will only make it worse.”

Aerys smiled slowly. “Let them whisper. So long as they kneel.”

Tywin’s eyes hardened, but he said no more. The game had been revealed. The king had made his choice—years ago, it seemed—and now he merely waited for others to fall into place, like pieces on a board whose moves only he could see.

But Tywin Lannister had not come this far to play someone else’s game.

He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And with that, he turned and left the solar, his steps echoing through the stone hall, the cold realization settling in his chest like a knife: he had brought his son here hoping for a crown.

And found a dragon’s den instead.

The sun had long since set below the hills, and the pale orange glow that had lingered in the sky gave way to the violet hush of evening. Summerhall, in twilight, seemed quieter still—its broken walls softened by the dark, its jagged lines blurred into silhouette. The stars stretched wide above the ruin, scattered like shards of glass across a velvet dome, and the moon had begun to rise, thin like the edge of a blade.

You lay beside Rhaegar in what remained of the old courtyard, your cloak spread beneath you to keep the cold of the earth at bay. The moss beneath your fingers was damp and fragrant, tinged with the scent of ash that never seemed to leave this place. Beside you, Rhaegar lay silent, one hand behind his head, the other resting lightly between you both. His silver hair spilled across the ground like a halo of light, his profile illuminated by moonlight that caught the delicate line of his jaw, the quiet slope of his brow.

You watched the stars in silence for some time. Here, without the press of court or the ever-watching eyes of nobles and lords, the world felt still. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through crumbling stone and the occasional call of a nightbird far off in the trees. It reminded you of your childhood—of stolen moments in the city when your brother played his harp and you sat cross-legged at his side, dreaming of nothing but the sound of his music and the warmth of his voice.

Now his voice came again, softer than the breeze. “They’ve been speaking of Dorne again,” Rhaegar said.

You turned your head toward him. “The council?”

He nodded slowly. “I heard Lord Mooton speaking with Grand Maester Pycelle before we departed. They believe Elia Martell would be a suitable match. That Dorne’s alliance could stabilize the southern houses.”

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you said nothing, listening to the distant sigh of the wind moving through the hollow halls. Then you reached over, gently brushing your fingertips against his sleeve.

“They speak,” you said quietly, “but they do not decide. Father does.”

Rhaegar did not look at you. His eyes were fixed upward, toward the stars. “And what if they begin to turn Father against himself? You’ve seen it too. The way they whisper about his temper, about his judgments. They speak as though his mind is already slipping.” A pause. “They will try to take the choice from him.”

You sat up slightly, leaning your weight on your elbow as you looked at him fully. “Rhaegar. He will never allow them to dictate your match.” You touched his hand. “And he will never give me to another. He’s made that much clear.”

He turned to face you now, his indigo eyes shining faintly in the starlight. “Sometimes I fear that Father’s devotion to us is the very thing they resent most.”

You didn’t deny it. You knew well how the lords of the realm watched you both—how they saw your father’s favoritism not as love, but as danger. But you also knew that no one could pull the reins from Aerys Targaryen’s hands—not yet, not while fire still clung to his voice and his will remained unbroken.

“He may be many things,” you said, gently, “but no one tells him what to do. No lord in Westeros, no whispering maester, no cautious courtier. Not even Tywin Lannister.” You smiled faintly. “Especially not him.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, something like amusement breaking the tension in his brow. “Tywin would flay himself before bending to Father’s whims. And yet he still came to court with two golden offerings.”

You laid back down, folding your hands over your stomach, your voice thoughtful. “He must be desperate, to think you’d marry Cersei.”

“She speaks with all the charm of her father,” Rhaegar muttered.

You laughed softly, your breath a cloud in the air above you. “And Jaime?”

He was quiet for a moment. “He watches you too closely.”

You said nothing, though your smile lingered. Then you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, the pressure light but warm.

“Let them speak,” you said. “Let them scheme and guess. At the end of it all, it is you and me. And it has always been.”

He turned to you again, his gaze softening. “And you’ll stay with me, even when the road darkens?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

A moment passed. Then Rhaegar sat up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We should return,” he said. “They’ll be wondering.”

You rose with him, adjusting your cloak against the chill. “Barristan will pretend not to be concerned. Arthur will say nothing at all. But Jaime…” You looked to him sidelong. “Jaime might have been counting every minute.”

Rhaegar offered no response, but his eyes narrowed faintly in the dark.

Together, you turned from the courtyard, walking side by side through the broken halls of Summerhall, leaving the ashes of dreams behind you.

Night had fully claimed Summerhall by the time you and Rhaegar returned to the camp. The ruins behind you seemed to sink deeper into shadow, their scorched stones swallowed by darkness, leaving behind only the cold scent of ash and old earth on the air. The clearing where the retinue had made their camp was quiet, lit by low-burning fires ringed with coals, their flickering light casting soft amber hues across the edges of the tents and the faint glint of polished armor.

You walked beside your brother in silence, your cloak drawn close around you, the night wind tugging softly at your pale hair. The firelight caught in his profile as you stepped into camp—the quiet set of his mouth, the unfocused distance in his eyes. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet centering that had not been there when you arrived. Whatever had weighed upon him earlier in the day had eased, if only slightly.

The guards took notice of your return without fanfare. They moved as soldiers often did—observing everything, commenting on nothing. But as you approached the central fire where Ser Barristan stood speaking quietly with Ser Arthur Dayne, the old knight lifted his head, and the conversation stilled.

“My prince,” Barristan said with a slight bow of the head. “Shall we begin preparations to ride at first light?”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, pulling his gloves tighter. “Yes. We return to the capital tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Barristan replied, his gaze flickering toward you for the briefest moment, his eyes unreadable. “The men will be ready.”

You inclined your head to them both and turned to step toward your own tent, the warmth of the fire briefly brushing against your skin as you passed it. But you could feel it—a gaze lingering—not from Rhaegar or the knights, but from the edge of the firelight.

Jaime.

He was crouched beside his tent, working a leather strap between his gloved fingers, pretending to busy himself with tying down the flaps, though they had long since been secured. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes that suggested concentration, but his posture betrayed him—too still, too tense, his head lifting slightly with every soft step you took.

You paused by the water basin outside your tent, letting your fingers brush the cool metal rim, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the shift of his gaze—the flicker of green eyes that never strayed far from where you stood.

He had barely spoken since you and Rhaegar left, but the weight of his silence was louder than words.

Behind you, the camp settled further into quiet. The guards rotated shifts, and Ser Arthur began checking over the horses tethered nearby. You heard soft conversation in Dorne-accented Low Valyrian between two of Rhaegar’s retainers, muffled by distance and night.

You turned slightly toward your tent’s entrance, then paused and glanced back—Jaime was still watching.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in that careful, cautious way of a young man who wasn’t sure if what he felt was allowed to become anything at all.

And you—you were no stranger to being watched.

But something about the way he looked at you was different. Not hungry, not proud, not with the entitlement so many lords’ sons carried when they gazed upon a princess.

His gaze held wonder.

And perhaps, quietly, a question.

You turned your head and disappeared into the dark canvas folds of your tent, saying nothing.

But even then, behind your closed eyes and the rustle of your cloak as you unfastened it, you could still feel him watching.

The canvas walls of Jaime’s tent creaked softly in the night wind, the faint rustle of fabric barely louder than the rhythm of his breath. He lay flat on the modest cot, boots pulled off but the rest of his clothes still clinging to him, his cloak bundled beneath his head in place of a proper pillow. The air was cold against his skin, and despite the small brazier burning low in the corner, the warmth did little to reach him. He stared at the sloped ceiling, its folds of cloth illuminated faintly by the dying glow of the coals. Outside, the camp was quiet—sleep had claimed most of the men, the guards walked their rounds in silence, and the sounds of the forest beyond Summerhall’s broken stones whispered with night creatures.

But Jaime could not sleep.

Not for the cold. Not for the discomfort. But because of you.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you standing in the starlight—your hair pale and soft, trailing like light down your back as you passed beneath the old archway with Rhaegar. He saw the way you looked when you returned: calm, but distant, as if your mind had not yet followed you back from the place the two of you had gone. You hadn’t spoken a word to him. You hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done more than any conversation might have.

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of you standing near the water basin, pausing just long enough to let him see that you knew. That you had always known.

He shifted onto his side, drawing the cloak closer to his neck, staring at the shadowed flap of the tent’s entrance. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear keeping his thoughts caged. Rhaegar had claimed your time, your attention, your closeness, but Jaime couldn’t allow himself to be silent forever. He didn’t know if what he felt was foolish. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. All he knew was that it was real.

And that he wanted more.

Tomorrow, they would leave Summerhall. Return to King’s Landing, return to the games of court and whispered alliances, and you would vanish back into the castle’s halls, where you moved like a ghost no one dared reach for. If he didn’t speak now—if he didn’t try—then he would lose whatever slender chance he had to be near you.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The fire in the brazier cracked softly, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. He breathed in, the scent of smoke and dust heavy in his lungs, and exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll speak with her,” he said aloud, his voice low and certain in the darkness. “Before we ride.”

Even if it led nowhere. Even if it only confirmed that her thoughts lay with Rhaegar, as he feared. He had to know. He had to offer more than stolen glances and half-smiles over firelight. You were not a dream he could afford to let drift further away.

The wind picked up outside, tugging gently at the corner of the tent. Jaime lay back once more, closing his eyes not in sleep, but in resolve.

Tomorrow. Before the sun rose high and they turned their horses north. He would find you.

And he would speak.

The first whispers of dawn spilled pale across the landscape, turning the edges of Summerhall's ruined stones from charcoal to ashen gray. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling between the hooves of restless horses and coiling around the boots of squires hurrying to break down camp. The metallic clatter of buckles, the flapping of canvas, and the murmured commands of men folding their tents into neat piles filled the air with the quiet energy of morning.

You stood near your tent, your cloak drawn close against the chill that came before the sun. The ruins behind you were dark and still, but the sky above had begun to shift—faint streaks of rose and amber blossoming at the horizon. The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only a cold ring of stones and scattered embers, but you hadn’t moved far from it. There was something peaceful in these last quiet moments before the ride began. Something final, too, as if Summerhall, in its silence, was saying farewell.

And then you heard footsteps behind you—deliberate, hesitant.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Jaime Lannister approached with his cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, his golden hair slightly tousled, his sword strapped at his hip. He wasn’t in armor yet—just the traveling leathers, scuffed and dusted with the ash and soil of yesterday’s ride—but somehow he still looked the part of a lord's son, every inch the lion trying not to stalk too loudly.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. Hesitant, but not unsure. “Did you sleep well?”

You offered him a faint smile. “As well as one can in a ruined palace.”

That drew a small chuckle from him, and he took a slow step closer, as if gauging how close he was permitted to stand. He looked out toward the morning haze with you, his eyes catching the first hints of yellow that filtered over the hills.

“This place,” he said after a moment, “it reminds me of somewhere else. Somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.” He glanced at you. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak out of Casterly Rock with Cersei. There was an old watchtower at the edge of the cliffs. Crumbling and forgotten, like this. We’d pretend we were dragonlords there—two brave warriors building a kingdom out of sea stone and wind.”

You looked at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Did you take turns being the dragon?”

He smiled, sheepish. “No. Cersei was always the dragon. I was whatever she told me to be.” He laughed to himself, then rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was quiet there. And for once, no one expected anything of us. No father, no maesters, no banners. Just salt and air and... her laughter.”

He seemed to catch himself then, the softness in his tone drawing back slightly. His gaze returned to you, and something shifted behind his eyes—a vulnerability poorly hidden behind his usual ease.

“I never thought I’d come to like a place like this again,” he admitted. “But I do.”

You tilted your head gently. “Because it reminds you of home?”

Jaime hesitated, then shook his head. “Because of you.”

You felt the breath in your lungs pause, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, not looking at you now. “Forgive me, I’m… not particularly good at this sort of thing. I’ve never had to… speak this way. Not to anyone.” He glanced at you again, briefly, and then away. “I never had to try.”

Your brow arched faintly, amusement glimmering behind your eyes. “That sounds like something someone says when they’re used to being adored.”

He smiled, a little crooked now. “That’s just it. I’ve been flattered before. Admired. Not… seen.” He gestured vaguely toward the ruins, toward the day beginning around you. “Not like this. Not like here.”

You studied him, the way he stood half in shadow, half in light, fighting the urge to retreat into something easier. Something more familiar. But his voice was honest. His words clumsy, yes—but sincere.

“You don’t need to charm me, Ser Jaime,” you said gently. “You only need to be yourself.”

He met your eyes then, and for the first time since you’d known him, there was no trace of performance.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You nodded, then turned your gaze back to the horizon. “Then try walking with me. The day waits for no one.”

Jaime stepped beside you, falling into stride as you moved toward the others, the low light stretching long across the earth ahead.

And for the first time, you let him walk beside you.

The soft crunch of grass and soil beneath your boots was the only sound between you and Jaime as you walked back toward the center of the camp. The sky had begun to blossom with the full colors of morning—rose, amber, the faintest tinge of lilac streaked across the eastern horizon. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but there was movement all around now. Squires moved briskly with saddles and gear, guards were tightening straps, checking bridles, and shifting into the formation that would carry the procession back to the Red Keep. Horses stamped the earth impatiently, their breath curling in the morning light, and the scent of fresh leather mixed with the familiar tang of steel.

Your mare, Moonveil, was already saddled and waiting, her dappled coat gleaming with dew. She nickered softly at your approach, ears flicking toward you, and you reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along her neck. Jaime’s stallion was tethered nearby, his chestnut coat well-brushed and gleaming, already restless under the weight of his light armor.

Rhaegar stood just ahead with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan, his back partially turned as he spoke quietly with the two Kingsguard. His hair caught the rising light and glimmered like frost, his profile calm as ever—still, poised, as if he belonged not to the world around him but to some dream yet unfolding.

As you and Jaime approached, his voice paused mid-sentence, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the young lion walking a step behind you.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled on Jaime for only the briefest of moments.

Not a glare. Not a challenge. Just a look—cool, unreadable, assessing.

And then he looked away, disinterested.

If Jaime noticed the dismissal, he didn’t show it. He stepped ahead and moved to his horse, checking the girth himself even though the stablehands had already seen to it, clearly needing something for his hands to do. His jaw tightened for only a moment, just enough for you to notice, before he composed himself and turned to mount.

Rhaegar’s voice drifted toward you a moment later, soft but audible.

“We’ll take the south road through Bramblebend,” he said to Ser Arthur, mounting with effortless grace. “It’s quieter. And I would not have my sister ride through the capital’s filth upon our return.”

Barristan nodded. “It will add time, but not much.”

You moved to mount Moonveil, and as you swung into the saddle, you felt Jaime’s eyes on you again—brief, searching. He said nothing as he settled onto his stallion beside you, but the silence that hung between you now was different than it had been days ago. It was not the quiet of uncertainty, but of something beginning to take shape, fragile and unnamed.

Rhaegar rode at the front of the procession as always, Ser Arthur flanking him at one side, Ser Barristan falling into position near the rear. You remained near the center, Jaime keeping close, though now with a careful distance—never too near, never too far.

The ruins of Summerhall receded behind you, swallowed slowly by the trees and the mist.

None of you looked back.

But you felt the shift beneath your ribs—that this ride home would not be the same as the ride here.

And the lion at your side was no longer watching you as an outsider might.

He rode with the intent of a man who had made a decision.

And was waiting for you to see it.

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