✦ Ba da da ba da da ba da da ˖

Daeron takes a swig of his beer as he approaches the railing to look over for one disinterested moment, before he returns to his lounge chair on the terrace. He pulls his sunglasses over his eyes and heaves a sigh, not of relief, but somehow of burden.

Seriously, day drinking whilst his brother fights for a title?

Despite the far view, you lean against the railing, drinking from your own beer (low concentration, you just want to partake in your boyfriend's hobbies) whilst "engrossed" in the race.

"Baratheon is winning anyway."

"What? Look at the facts, baby. Valarr's got the better chance of winning." You're just spitting out what you heard the statistics lady say earlier before the race started, but you believe her because you prefer statistics over biased predictions.

All he returns, ever a gut-feeling guy, is an, "Uh-huh."

When you look back down to the far-away track, your eyes widen. Did a Beesbury overtake a Tully, or are you just seeing things? From the TV, you hear the announcers say, "And Aerion Targaryen takes P4 from Raymun Fossoway!"

Oh. Totally wrong.

"It's a lot easier to watch the whole thing from the broadcast, darling." Daerion calls, his voice slurred and lazy. He's not looking at the broadcast either.

"I know, Daeron." You reply with an unmasked sigh.

To be fair, you would've also been watching from a screen at the Paddock if Daeron hadn't rejected his father's offer. The atmosphere would be different, though you don't think you'd care for it.

You're not sulking at the railing because you want to be at the Paddock, nor because, outrageously, you might despise your drunkard of a boyfriend. You're sulking at the railing because your father practically burst your eardrum when you told him you wouldn't be broadcasted on TV for all to see.

You know where that outburst came from. Your father is a greedy man, apparently all in the name of climbing the wealth ladder. He's not big enough to claim the abandoned Hightower space on the grid yet, and for some reason, he thinks that your relationship with Daeron might just give him wealth enough to purchase the seats.

It's not like your relationship isn't public. Some drone cameras have probably snapped a picture of the two of you up here already. Your relationship just lacks grandeur, your father's words too.

Being at the Paddock would've been grandeur.

If your father wants grandeur, and the drones want news, you'll give it to them.

You stalk over to Daeron and take his beer from him, setting both your bottles on the floor. He doesn't have time to complain aside from an offended look, as you climb onto his lap without a word and kiss him.

For the first time today, Daeron finds interest in something.

And by the way, Baratheon did win.

"Good morning." You whisper, pressing your nose against Daeron's temple to wake him gently.

Daeron wakes with a start anyway, though he quickly eases into your embrace as he realizes his dreams for the night weren't real. It takes him longer to say it, but eventually he mutters out a "Good morning."

His hands find your shoulder, then run down your side, to caress his currently favorite person in the world. However, as your lips find his and your morning breaths mingle, innocent hands turn into groping hands.

Thank the Gods you have the indecency to go to sleep in your underwear.

It's never felt wrong to open out the day like this, just a bit greedy, sometimes; but because he wants you too, it feels right.

You like it rougher than this most times, but morning sex comes not from lust or the need to relax for the day, but from loving the man that sleeps beside you and needing to have him the first moment you see him in the day.

"Do you want to go the Dorne GP this time?" Daeron asks casually afterwards as he pulls on a shirt backwards.

"Baby, that's backwards."

"Oh."

"Is your dad offering again?" You ask just as casually, pulling on your own pants. If it were up to the two of you, you'd be lounging in bed all day ordering room service, but it's not up to you and Summerhall family lunch is in ten minutes.

"No." Daeron's smile is wide while he laughs, and it makes you snap your eyes over to him. Between his charming smile and his current half-nakedness, you can't say you're mad at him for taking away your invitation one week and returning it the next. "What? The Team Principal is my dad and the primary driver is my brother; I can show up uninvited, darling."

Your father would urge you to say yes, but, "Fuck that." You crawl over to him on the bed and bring him into a quick, lazy kiss. "You know I rather fuck you than watch that boring shit."

"The lesser of two evils?" Daeron pokes fun at your words, looking rather pleased regardless when you pull away from him.

You roll your eyes, "You know what? Yeah."

You stopped being the eldest son once your father found out you wouldn't willingly grant him full-blooded heirs, which was, in his boisterous opinion, worse than if you were infertile instead. He cut you from the will, too, and cut you off from your own trust fund.

Oh, boo hoo, anyone might say. You've been raised to take over the family company, what do you know of other businesses or industries? How can you integrate into the professional world after being denied the one thing you've trained for?

When you started dating Daeron Targaryen out of love, your father dug his claws into the relationship and turned it towards the media. Your first kiss was interrupted by a paparazzi flash and your dates must always go on social media. Finally, he could get some money out of his useless son.

He even promised to give you back everything—minus the chance to be independent and run the family company—if you got Daeron to marry you.

So Daeron gets nothing from you, and you get everything from him: his Targaryen name, his Targaryen money, and your allowance—should you marry, and never earlier.

Sometimes, you are reminded of it randomly: grocery shopping, holding his hand at the park, during sex. Other times, you remember it at times like this.

After much pestering from your dad, you finally asked Daeron to attend the Vale GP, and he said yes.

Now you remember why you found relief when first Daeron took away the offer and when second you rejected it. Your relationship is televized for all to see, and it's not just a picture taken outside of the restaurant after a date or a walk down the hallway before the gala.

It's constant: a camera drifting between Daeron's hand around your shoulder and yours around his waist, Daeron's free hand holding a beer and yours nervously fidgeting, the reflection off Daeron's sunglasses and your face as you focus on the screens.

Daeron's used to it. He's relaxed against you, you can feel him and the warmth he radiates.

You're a fucking mess. All your media training is out the window. You can play it off as being nervous about the race, for rooting for your boyfriend's brother, but then, this isn't the sort of image your father wants. He wants calm and collected, as if he raised you better than he actually did.

And outside of making your family name look bad, you're making Daeron look a fool for having a nervous wreck of a significant other.

The camera zooms in as you whisper something in your boyfriend's ear, kiss his cheek, and head off into the untelevised hallways of the rest of the paddock.

It's twenty minutes later that Daeron finds you smoking, rather unethically, by a windowsill. He smiles anyway, strides over to provide comfort with affection, contact. Where for the cameras it was light, for you it's full: both arms wrapped around your body, head buried into the crook of your neck.

"I told you to quit those."

"I told you to quit day drinking."

"Touché." Daeron laughs. He presses the tip of his nose to your skin like a kiss, then drags it up your neck until he's pressing an actual kiss to your cheek.

It's soft, he's soft, so soft. You snuff your cigarette out on the windowsill with a sigh, and he lets out something of a triumphant-sounding hum.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You shake your head, turn in his arms to face him head on, then cup his cheeks to caress the softness of his apples and the prick of blonde stubble. His smile softens, his eyes narrow, and it almost distracts you. "It's just too loud out there."

"Mm, I get you." Daeron's smile seems all too knowing.

You continue to speak before he can call you out, "Too loud, and too boring. All the important men out there and all cameras are on us. Foam microphone above our head, even. I mean, seriously–?"

"They make Netflix documentaries every year, love." He manages to cut through, and once he's done that, you have to accept your fate. "Something's wrong, though. What is it?"

"I don't like our relationship being publicized."

"You post every date on Instagram."

Not because you want to, but he doesn't know that. He hasn't met your parents yet. You don't bring it up and he doesn't ask. His dad does ask to meet your parents sometimes, and oft, Daeron says no for you. You've never told your own father about it.

"Instagram is different. It's hand-picked stills. Anyone around us can take a video or a photo, Netflix will make a docu. It's different when they pick for you, Daeron."

Your boyfriend nods his head with great understanding, because he's gone through this before. "Well, you tried it, right? Now you know you don't ever want to do it again. It's like that one time I attended a gala without a chaperone, made a fool of myself."

Oh, you don't deserve him. "Yeah."

You don't actually mind, in truth. Or at least, you wouldn't mind, if you didn't have to mediate your own actions before you took them. You never cared for media attention until Daeron came and your father delivered meticulous instructions.

Give an inch, and your father will take a mile. He deemed the Vale GP to be a great occurence, for it gave some free publicity to the family company. Even though you walked out half-way through, it made things better that Daeron followed after you like a lovesick man. After the Vale GP, your father demanded you attend the rest... which, despite your anxieties and Daeron's confusion, you did.

You have more public dates, thereafter. Your father has your location. He sends his own paparazzi—non-invasive, he says. He couldn't be more of a liar.

Keeping up a wide smile for the paparazzi and charming facade leaves you so exhausted, that when you come back to whatever Targaryen vacation home you're occupying for the week, you can barely hold a conversation, let alone fuck him.

When finally Daeron's prodded at you enough for answers, you cave and tell him about your father... but not everything; and thereafter, you become a pity case.

At home, you get his pity and his empathy and his care. Out on dates, you get his name and his fame—and the horrible thing is, you've started liking reading the gossip articles and seeing pictures of you two together!

You don't deserve him, now you can say it strongly.

"What are you saying?" Daeron immediately covers the distance between you and takes your hands in his, but you yelp away at his touch like it's scaldingly hot.

"I said I don't deserve you." You say, standing your ground. "I–I'm using you, Daeron. Look at the facts."

Daeron scoffs. He doesn't look at facts, you know this best about him. He follows his heart, his dreams, what feels right. You feel and are right for him. "There's nothing to look at, my–" He cuts himself off, says your name for what feels like the first time in forever, just so you'll listen to him. "You're not using me. Your father–"

He won't look at the facts, so you'll give them to him. "I'm using you. I'm using your name, I'm using your money, I live off your dime and I won't even fuck you for it."

"Darling–fuck, sorry, listen." Daeron scrambles for something to say, anything. Without the ability to touch you, without the ability to call you nice names, he can't even calm himself down. "I don't want you because I like the way you fuck me, I want you because I like your company and I like you and—I love you."

You've shared those words before. In bed, after dates, during sex. You've spoken them so many times in exhaustion, the words don't even feel real to you anymore.

You don't think you mean them anymore when you whisper them to him as you both drift off to sleep. You think you only say them so he'll stay with you, so that you'll finally get back into your father's good graces and you'll get your money again. No son wants to be disowned by his father.

"I know, Daeron." It feels like his penthouse back in King's Landing, but now you're the one not really paying attention and he cares all too much.

"Please."

"My father was going to give me back my allowance and my trust fund and my part in his fucking will if I managed to get you to marry me." You pause, look him deep in the eye, "I don't think I was dating you for you, anymore, but for the goddamn money."

The words break him. They make his eyes widen and his mouth close. You don't know what emotion is on his face—you can't read it—only that he chases after you as far as the front door and doesn't follow, doesn't protest anymore.

You don't think it was a selfish break up. You consider it quite selfless, really. You're sparing him from having your father as a shitty in-law, and you're sparing him from having a wreck of a partner for the rest of your now impossible lives together. You're not using him to get back to your trust fund anymore.

Life gets harder—of course it does—mostly because it's uncharted territory, but you're ready for it.

You get a room at a motel in the city that surrounds Casterly Rock. You search for an apartment and a job, whatever you can get your hands on. You look at the grocery store price tags for the first time and leave Organic Farm for the Wall Market.

The morning of the day that Daeron found you again, you'd just signed an apartment lease. He never did like staying too far.

The first words that come out of his mouth when he sees you are "Marry me!"

"What?"

Daeron has never been one for passion and big, meaningful words. That day you fucked him on his penthouse terrace, he was so ready to let you watch the whole race in your lonesome by the railing; that day at the Paddock, he preferred to sit there with his drink and his sunglasses, just existing beside you.

Beyond "I love you"s and sex, Daeron was completely content in spending his days with you in an embrace and nothing more. Planned dates were your thing.

And now he's screaming marry me?

"Are you fucking crazy?"

The people around you are already pulling out their phones, filming the endearing, spontaneous proposal in front of them. Soon enough they'll realize who you were and who he is.

"Marry me." Daeron repeats, getting onto one knee. He takes your hands in his. There's no ring box, just reverence. "I mean it."

"Daeron–"

"Fuck your dad." He says plainly. "Fuck the paparazzi. Who cares if he'll give you back your trust fund only if you marry me? I'd marry you even if he didn’t."

"You get nothing from me." You argue, "Not even my name. My name means nothing yet."

"Why would I want your name? Why would I even want the Targaryen name? I'm not marrying you for money. I'm not marrying you for reputation. I would marry you even if my own father disapproved. I'm marrying you because you love me too." Those words make you try to pull back your arms, but he only holds on tighter. "You help me go back to sleep when I have bad dreams, you talk me into lowering my alcohol percentages, you accept my touch at any moment because you know it's one of my favorite love languages. You love me too!"

"I–"

"Marry me." Daeron says, one final time, voice on the brink of defeat.

A pause, you blink rapidly as you take in his words. "...you looked at the facts."

"I did."

"I do." wasn't hard to say on your wedding day, at the altar. "I love you", however, was hard to say through the teardrops sliding into your mouth and the snot blocking up your throat as you said your second speech of the night, after ceremoniously and confidently clinging the bottom of your glass.

You made a fool of yourself, except this time you don't care for it, because you've just accepted that sometimes, Daeron Targaryen makes you a lovesick fool.

It helps also that you eloped before the public wedding, away from your father's and the paparazzi's prying eyes.

Your father hired the photography company, of course, but tonight you're quite content with smeering frosting on each other's faces and tripping over each other on the dance floor—for the fun dance, because slow dancing is just holding, and Daeron is plenty good at that.

Silly pictures will do just as good as professional, calm ones for the family company's "lovesick" publicity, but you performer the former just so the world knows who you really are: a date at the burger joint with a beer, not a date at the Michelin Star restaurant with a mocktail.

Daeron's father, Maekar, finally met your father... and his disgust for him was rather evident throughout their whole conversation, whilst your father's grin was rather wide. Your father will be pestering him from now on, schmoozing up to him and the like, which will alleviate some pressure on you. You might feel inclined to feel bad for Maekar, but your father-in-law has no filter. His no's are absolute and confident, so you have a sense that he'll deal with your father just fine.

Finally, you return to the apartment that started all your dilemmas: the penthouse at King's Landing, now yours too.

"Want to pop a champagne bottle?"

The sun's way past lowered under the horizon and there is absolute cause for celebration. Daeron is not asking because he wants to get drunk, he's asking because he wants to celebrate your union with his favorite hobby.

You agree because you want to partake in your husband's hobbies, and it's tradition. "Sure."

You walk out onto the terrace for it, drones be damned. Daeron holds the bottle and you pop the cork. The both of you scream well for the cameras, but that's not your purpose when you scream.

You yelp in surprise as the champagne sprays out wildly, showering only your shoes and the terrace tiles. If Daeron were truly evil, he would–

"Fuck off, Daeron!"

He's the lesser of two evils, but an evil nonetheless as he begins chasing you around the terrace with the chortling bottle. You're still in your stupid, heeled shoes!

"Oh, come on, it's just a little champagne!"

He gets you with a nasty spray onto your chest, of course. You're handicapped by your shoes.

As payback, however, while he's busy laughing it off, you push him into the pool, with the champagne bottle still in hand.

When Daeron emerges at the water's surface, despite the loss of the bottle, he spits out a mouthful of water and laughs, "It's okay, I didn't want any of it anyway!"

"You sure?" You ask, crouching down the pool to offer him a hand up. It's a miracle he takes your hand instead of pulling you into the pool with him.

Once out of the pool, though still soaking wet, he confirms with a simple "yeah", because now his thoughts are elsewhere.

"We don't really need a change of clothes, right?" He asks with a dopey grin, "Wedding's over and we've already done pleeenty of outfit changs today."

It's your turn to say "yeah".

The floor-to-ceiling windows blur with a blind swipe at the control pad, obscuring your passion from the world to see. This part of Daeron, you want privately, although the swipe is blind because you started kissing before you even made it inside.

Soaked clothes too are quickly tossed aside, definitely in the name of not wetting the floor. The rest of your blind walk leads you to the bedroom, where you push Daeron onto the bed. He quickly scrambles, on his elbows, towards the headboard; and his eyes remain on you as you follow him, crawling on the bed towards him.

Daeron whoops with a wide grin, then wolf-whistles. "You look like a dragon come after a sheep."

"What the fuck did you just say?" You laugh at that, pulling him by the knees towards you. "You Targs and your dragon talk."

"Hey, you're a Targ now, husband. Start practicing." Daeron reminds you, wrapping his legs around you willingly after you so much as make a hint that you want them there.

As you begin to lean down over him, you run your hands up his body, up his thighs, his hips, then his sides, until you've caged him against the bed. "This dragon wants his sheep."

Daeron cringes, despite how eager his hands are to hold onto your face. "You're right, that is disgusting."

"Oh, fuck off."

You kiss him, cutting off all the talk. You have kissed a million times before, but it never gets boring—neither does the grinding. Daeron uses his legs around you to grind his ass up against your cock. It makes you groan, to Daeron's design.

"How badly do you want me?" He asks in a whisper.

"Like dragonfire." You reply, mindlessly.

"What does that even mean?" He muses in a laugh, pushing your hand down. He's lucky it doesn't make you topple over him, luckier still that you understand what he wants.

"I want you bad, like a breath so hot it needs to be let out, and when it does, it comes out as a fire." Maybe that's too complicated for his delirious mind. "You got that?"

You push a lubed finger into a him, and Daeron hums out a "mhm" of both content pleasure and understanding. "A breath so hot it can't be cooled?"

"Yeah, that."

"That's good." Daeron says breathlessly, grinding against your finger to urge you to give him another. "Have you been practicing in the mirror?"

He wants his cheeky comment to last, so he kisses you before you can say anything about it. You get payback in the form of grinding down on him. His cock rubs against the hardness of your abs, netting you an embarrassingly loud moan.

Though you're sure that he doesn't find it embarrassing, especially because you are the cause. You suppose it's not payback, but your consolation price.

The second finger goes in quick, then the third. You fold his knee and squeeze it between your bodies so that you can grind your cock against his skin, since his hole is otherwise preoccupied—a desperate but definitely not embarrassing move, because you want him, again, like dragonfire.

You press your nose against his knee, even, to heave your hot breaths somewhere. Daeron could moan at the sight of it, if his moans from your fingers weren't indistinguishable.

And then you kiss his knee, and even bite it, and it actually does make him moan. He'll describe the sight now, though his delirium may not be the best describer: you look like a dragon toying with its prey, toying with him, because you get a taste of him with that bite yet you don't allow yourself to ravage him the way he wants, and you don't forgo the fourth finger to allow yourself the instinct of devouring him and fucking him if a bit earlier.

Good enough description?

He's too caught up in looking and admiring you that he the fourth finger surprises him and causes him to yelp, "Ah, fuck!"

You still, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck yeah. C'mon." Daeron says immediately, moving his hips erratically to get you to fuck him with your fingers again.

He gets what he wishes immediately, and then eventually, gets even more.

You push your cock into him, not slow. Definitely not slow, but he can handle it. You don't even give him downtime before you start fucking him, and he can handle that too. He's hungry for it.

You're so eager to fuck into him because he looked absolutely amazing at the wedding—and yeah, maybe you should've been thinking, instead, about how much you love him. Certainly, you did. You thought about how much you appreciate him for running after you and convincing you to marry him, you thought about how the rest of your lives will be filled with your love...

...but you also thought about how his white suit hugged his waist, and how when he made his outfit change, the Targaryen look suited him well. His father wore sharp shoulder blades; his brother, the driver, wore metal rivets in his suit that complimented the piercings on his face; his uncle wore the powerful and iconic Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil—but Daeron simply wore the colors. He wore ribbons and a long scarf that flew in the wind and that he tripped on, and you feel that the softness of the outfit suited him like no other.

You were thinking, kind of hoping, that he'd use that scarf to wrap it around your neck and pull you in for a kiss, or that he'd keep you on a leash with it so you'd never run away again.

You were hoping, also, that the ribbons could untie, but they proved themselves decorative when you tried.

Daeron's cries remind you that you have him now, anyway, under your body and under the influence of your cock. Always, and you must say beforehand, positively, your husband gets a little delirious, if he's not already drunk, when you fuck him.

Today, he seems to be trying to resist it. His hands grab at your back mindlessly to hold you, already surrendered to instinct, but every time his eyes roll back or close for a little too long, Daeron brings them back open.

"What is it, my love?"

Daeron's whimper is from the name, you're sure, but his eyes rolling back once more is from the next thrust you give him. You bury yourself deep in his hole, then, to let him answer.

"Want to keep my eyes on you." He explains with a shaky laugh and a shitty but still charming wink.

"I'm afraid you'd have to clamp them open to truly achieve it." You tease, hooking your hands beneath his knees and pushing forward until your own hands are planted on the mattress... and his feet are in the air.

He has absolutely nowhere to go except your cock, and he gladly does it, grinding up against you. He's done that a lot tonight, and on the dance floor. "I'm afraid you might be right, darling!"

He surrenders then, to his instincts, quite fully, because you bury your head into his neck and there's nothing to see anymore. There's just a million things to feel.

A million nerves seem to light on fire every time you fuck into him. Like dragonfire, they don't cool off when you pull away. Instead, the feeling intensifies, turns electric, and only ever builds and builds the coil in his stomach. At this rate, he doesn't think he's going to last much longer.

But there's more to feel, truly, even though his favorite feeling is that of your cock stretching his cock open. There's the feeling of having your torso in between his legs, his toes clenching in the air too; his hand in your hair, tugging dramatically every time you bite his neck, and the drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth.

Nevermind, let him focus on that one feeling, for it is the only thing that brings raw, carnal pleasure from him.

Somehow you shift in a way that makes his cock press against your abs with more feeling, and each time you thrust, his cock rubs itself raw on your torso. "Good?"

He can't think anymore about what to say, he's too cockdrunk for it. "Utterly magnificent."

Daeron ignores your laughs, focuses on the oncoming feeling of his orgasm instead. It only takes a little attention to his cock and it's spurting pathetically, still trapped between the two of you and your sweat.

Metaphorically, it gets to breathe when you finish too and pull away—but not out, he won't let you—a little. His hamstrings are sore when he lowers them to lay languidly around your hips, but it's as good a trade as any. Better, even.

"Fuck, I love you." Daeron is still breathless when he says it, but he needs to say it.

He lifts you up when you're down, consoles and helps you through your struggles, takes you out on dates when he's more of a homebody.

You're breathless too, and the kiss you give him is not about to help, but you absolutely fucking need it. You just have to say first, "I love you too."

You were teammates, once, rookie year. You used to know him well. You did F2 and F3 together, karting before that. Your initial contract with Targaryen was two years long—but F1 got to your head and made it butt with Valarr's. Your friendship was over by the Crownlands GP, and by the end of the year Valarr had begged his daddy to kick you off, and that he did.

You always thought Baelor to be just and fair, but it seems nepotism matters to him most.

You're with Lannister now. When Targaryen announced they'd be dropping you mid-season, you received offers from half the grid... but Targaryen has always been the best, historically.

It hurt to be dropped.

That was years ago. With you now as the primary driver for Lannister, things have changed. Targaryen's got the legacy, but Lannister has the money to invest in research: how to make the car better, how to make the driver more skilled.

You'd like to say it's innate, but some of it you owe to the Lannister training regimen.

Nevermind all that. There's a Targaryen in your mirrors.

"Valarr, 2 sec–"

"I know."

Lannister is a big fan of nepotism too. You've got a Lannister race engineer yapping into your ear, telling you the most obvious shit. Your body, you owe to Lannister; but your strategy is entirely yours.

"How'd he get past the Fossoway?"

"You know the Fossoways have been falling off for years."

Humor, you can at least give your race engineer. He's not good at cooling you off from the deep end, but he's certainly good for the build up.

"Keep talkin' to me, Lannister." You say, keeping an eye on Valarr. A turn's coming, and you of all people know best that that's when it's best to strike. "And don't try to tell me something like he's activated MOM."

"What do you want me to say to you?"

"What the fuck do they pay you for? Nevermind."

Valarr's got your full attention, then; though it's not a rare occurence these days.

When you were rookies, they called one of your battles the "Dance of the Dragons", since you were both Targaryen then. Now, they call your battles the "Fight of the Apex Predators", or something like that.

Valarr tries to overtake on the turn, as you expected. You defend just fine, but he got as close to 1 second. He's got MOM now, which he manages to use to overtake you on the straight.

"Down to P2."

"Shut the fuck up."

Hunting is as much aggression as it is endurance. Valarr may have gotten you there, but now it's your turn to be aggressive.

You overtake him on the next turn, and he overtakes you on the next. It's not a fight now, it's a dance that takes you back to your Targaryen days. The Dance of the Dragons, reprise. The fans are going to love this.

To top it all off, it's the Crownlands, the Targaryen and Valarr's home race.

The roads are tight in the Crownlands. You're wheel-to-wheel, practically parallel. One mistake now, one oversteer, and you'll crash into each other and the wall.

"He's giving me no space."

The turn's coming, and he's got you too close to the inside. The turn's got no walls, just track boundaries, but you'll eat a penalty if you don't make it.

"You've got space until you're at the turn."

"I fucking know that, dickhead." Thank the Aspects that Lannister always fronts your cursing fines.

You could argue with the FIA, but that's a losing game.

The turn's in sight, your first sight of openness in this lap and in this wretched track—but you can't take the straight. You have to turn with the track guidelines.

He's still giving you no space.

Until there it is, last second: Valarr going wide, a bit of space for you, reprieve and a chance to overtake, so of course you take it. What kind of a fool would you be if you didn't?

You've taken greater risks and have come out unscathed from them, but not this time.

You oversteer, crash right into him.

Red flag goes out.

You don't go very far. You've just knicked the side of him, pushed him into the wall. He's worse than you, until your combined speeds turn the combined mass of your cars and push you into the wall.

"Fuck!" Adrenaline keeps you awake and cognizant enough to climb out of your car without hinderment. Soon as he's out of his car, you're screaming at him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" To Valarr, it looks like you crashed into him.

You make him realize it's his mistake when you take him by the collar. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" You butt your heads together. If it weren't for the helmets, you would've done real damage. You yearn to look him in the dry eyes and spit in his face. "You were giving me no space!"

You want to punch him.

Valarr pushes you away himself, stumbling back. He points his finger at you. "I gave you enough space, man! Fuck off. It's not my fault you're not skilled enough to take it."

He didn't just say that. Your hands ball into fists, until your race engineer makes your ears ring: "It's a 40000 fine for fighting!"

"You can front it."

You swing.

It would be a second offense if you hit him now. That would mean a one-month ban and a fine twice as large as the one you've already earned today.

You tap your foot impatiently against the floor, keeping eye-contact with him. You're on opposite sides of the room, but still in the same room, which you haven't been—outside of press conferences and podium cooldown rooms—for years now.

It's a mediation meeting between the teams and drivers. Lannister on your side, Targaryen on his, stewards are here too. The FIA's always been stupid: they made you do this post-race, while adrenaline's still high and your blood's still boiling.

You get an earful from Targaryen and the FIA, you're sure you'll get another one from Lannister later, all while Valarr sits pretty on his side. The accident is still being investigated. The crash isn't what they're telling you off for, it's the punch.

The punch was strong, forceful. After an hour in a heat machine and after tumbling because of the crash, you'd caught Valarr delirious. You knocked him onto his feet. You didn't lunge at him while he was down—you had more restraint than that, but fuck, you wanted to. The helmet comes off and you spit on him instead.

Back to reality, the stewards have left the room, which means you can fuck off now. You don't listen to whatever your Team Principal has to say, you're already pushing past men—Lannister and Targaryen alike—towards the door.

Though, before you're there, you bump purposefully against Valarr. "Hightower Paddock, in ten."

Ever since the original Dance of the Dragons, back when the Summerhall team was the Black team under Rhaenyra Targaryen, Hightower had been disgraced for teaming behind the scenes with Targaryen. Targaryen being the team of legacy, simply yad to go through a change of leadership; but Hightower being the relatively newer, lesser team, was kicked off the grid by the FIA. Since then, every GP track has been left with an extra paddock space: the former Hightower Paddock.

It would be empty. As Valarr watched you walked off, he though about it: abandoned and unwatched, where you could both fight without FIA fine or punishment... where you could fight like real men.

Empty and dusty. No furniture, of course, but still the same walls with the same paint. Emerald Hightower green is disgusting, less precious than Targaryen silver or Lannister gold.

It's the perfect place, then, to fight Valarr; the perfect place to let out your ugly, disgusting desires.

You'll give Valarr one thing for getting his dad to kick you out of Targaryen: you won't be playing mind games with your teammate, within your own team, for a chance to win, not like the old Aemond and Aegon duo.

You'll instead be playing real, physical games, games you know how to play.

There he is. Just like you, he didn't wait to cool down. No ice vest, he's not even out of his race suit, and he's still got a fire in his eye.

When you were kids (or teens, you suppose), you spent a lot of time in each others' hotel rooms. It must be why you're so comfortable with this kind of contact.

You've got him pressed against the wall with your forearm at his neck, not enough pressure to hurt but just enough pressure keep him pinned.

Valarr struggles for a couple moments first, but then your eyes meet. Between predators, eye contact is as dangerous as a smile. It's a lack of respect. It's challenging statures.

But you're a human, not dragon nor lion; and between humans, eye contact means passion and the toothier the smile, the happier the person.

Though, you're not smiling now. You're not happy.

Valarr groans against your mouth, then against your teeth as you bite his tongue sharply, enough to bleed, and that he does.

The taste of him brings you satisfaction—at drawing blood? At having him? You don't know.

What you do know is that you're frustrated with him. One mistake and you've both gone without points.

A mistake that is his.

Valarr takes your tongue between his lips and sucks down enough to distract you, and then he pushes. You stumble backwards and slide along the dusty floor, but you don't fall, which Valarr is clearly not happy about.

"It was your fault." The first words spoken in this room, from your mouth, shaped in the same way as they often are. You argued for a mistake in the Iron Isles last time.

"Like hells it was." Valarr strides closer towards you, despite having thrown you away. You let it happen because his hands find your collar, then your zipper, and then it goes down.

You've still the undergarments, besides, but usually heat and pressure are lifted off your shoulders when the race suit comes off—but not this time, and never at the hands of Valarr. Heat remains, as your reciprocated lust incites it in you. Pressure remains, too, as Valarr's other hand presses against your body the more is exposed.

It's like a ritual, and you always go first.

"It was your fault." Valarr grabs you by the bulge before you can retaliate. Anyone would be cheeky at shutting you up like this, but he's frustrated too. "You had a choice, and that was to slow down. Safety first."

"Safety first." You scoff, grabbing hold of his wrist to crudely grind into his palm. You'll be inside him sooner or later, but right now you want the grace of words. "The name of the game is speeding up. Faster, faster, faster. I wasn't about to hit the brakes."

This argument is about to go nowhere. Arguments never go anywhere with you two, but situations—heat, anger, adrenaline, frustration—never go unresolved.

You're not fresh enough from the track for the helmet lines to still be pressed onto the skin of his face, nor for the sweat to remain. That sort of sex is the best sex, the kind where you're still high from the race, where one of you is celebrating a victory; and the other, letting out their frustrations.

It doesn't feel refreshing and it doesn't feel like a relief when you finally have his asshole around your cock, but it does feel like some twisted power.

Your head finds his neck; your hand, the back of his leg; and your other hand, his knee. Where's he got to go but against your thrusts?

You piston your cock into him, feed him, no mercy. All your frustrations go into it, and so does all the energy you would've spent for the forty laps he made you miss.

You've every right to be mad at him. It's why you press his cheek into the wall; why, when he moans at the feeling of you, you push your thumb into his mouth—but it doesn't explain why your lips at his neck are tender.

It doesn't explain why you keep coming back to him and the heat of his body during the off-season. It doesn't explain your texts: 1410, 1221, Hightower Paddock.

There is mercy in your thrusts, it's in the way you fuck him how he likes it.

What are you?

"Fuck you."

Valarr bites your tongue and spits it out of his mouth. In contrast, his hole sucks you right back in. "Fuck you." He reciprocates. His hand, where it rested on the wall, now takes you gruffly by the chin and pulls you up for a kiss.

You're nothing. Once you were teammates, now you're fuckmates.

You're content with the conclusion, even more content with how tight his hole is for you—but then, are you the only one?

"Do you fuck anyone else?"

"What?" Furrowed eyebrows, a snarl, he doesn't receive the question well.

You repeat again for him, right into his ear, more force in your tone. You want—no, need to know. "Do you fuck anyone else? A girlfriend, a boyfriend, some fuckbuddy."

Valarr swallows, pushes his forehead against the wall. He whimpers—which normally would satisfy you, but a whimper is not the noise you want—when you pull his head off of it. "No." He says finally, with a shuddering breath. "No one else."

Fuck. That does something to you. Valarr sucks in a breath when he feels you twitch inside of him. His breaths eventually grow even heavier when you reward him for the answer.

The name of the game is speeding up. Faster, faster, faster. Valarr grips the wall for any kind of purchase to help his knee keep him up against your thrusts.

"Do you?" He gasps suddenly.

No, I'm too busy. No, I don't have too high a libido. No, they're not you. You could give him a whole slew of answers, but in the end, no hole sucks you in like this. "No."

Valarr breathes out something like relief, but you've no time to ponder it because his whimpers soon bless your ears. He's close.

Adrenaline still pumps through you, the sex has prolonged it. You're not tired, not yet. The feeling of him pushes you on. You're close too.

You peel back his undershirt like a second skin, press your hand over the sticky, sweaty heat of his flesh and the beginning of his happy trail. Valarr's breath is caught when you follow it down, then nearly yelps when you wrap around his length. He practically keels over.

"Stay the fuck up, Targ." You grip his knee tight, spread his leg further up and apart, open for you.

"Gods... fuck off." Valarr wraps a hand around yours and wills you to jerk him off. Where's he got to go but against your hand and your thrusts? Doesn't matter. He wants this.

Former best friends. Former teammates. Current monogamous fuckbuddies. Current rivals. He's yours, you're his, you're each others.

What a stupid notion.

You're frustrated. This is an angry fuck, not passion sex. You're making him stupid on your cock because he made you look stupid out there.

Where your hips should grow sloppy with instinct, rushing towards your oncoming orgasm, they move with purpose instead: harder, faster. Discipline. This is how you finish Valarr Targaryen.

Inside of him. His gummy walls clenching around your cock, riding your high for you, tell you that he's coming too—if the release on your hand is not enough evidence.

You wipe your hand off on his underwear, then do him the gracious mercy of tucking him unclean into his race suit. It's almost aftercare.

You're angry with him, remember?

You're leaving him burning with embarrassment at the knowledge that your seed has his hole full; not because you like the thought of it, a secretive possession, being inside him while he takes his post-race interviews.

He leaves you with a kiss. He's angry with you too, he remembers that half-way through, because tender, soft lips turn into teeth and a bite at your lip. Returning the favor, it draws blood.

"We'll see what the stewards have to say about our accident." Valarr swipes his thumb over your lip, collecting the blood he just drew. It draws your own attention towards him, and for once, you think, uninterrupted, that he's beautiful. In this post-nut bliss, you look at the heterochromia of his eyes and the white streak in his hair.

...the moment is ruined when he flicks the blood onto your face, one last act of spite.

"Fuck off." He does just that, but fuck it. You can't just let him go. "Wait! What's your hotel number?"

Now, this would take place some point after Bobby and Kat have died, but before Mary enters the backrooms. Let's say time passes weirdly back there, so it feels much longer there, than the outside. 

I like to think Clark has no idea you exist at first. He's too busy trying to just survive in the backrooms, but also dealing with captain Clark, his Still Life. But as he starts to settle in, Clark will notice how the backrooms seem to be... changing. 

They're always changing, but this is different. It's like its bending and warping just for him. Suddenly he’ll find his favorite meal, his beloved sofa that he hasn’t seen since the divorce, his old architecture books from his college days, so on and so forth. 

He swears he can hear the walls breathing, or the carpet moving under his feet. There is sometimes a rumbling, something that sounds like an old washing machine in another room, but it feels more like purring. 

At this point, Clark is so far out few things surprise him. Or maybe he’s just so worn out that he doesn’t have the energy to freak out. So, when the carpet starts gripping at his ankles, or the walls reach out and touch him, well, what can a man do? 

Theres a reason Async never finds him, no matter how much they look. It's as if the very backrooms itself, the walls, the floor, the air, denies them access to Clark.  

It's almost as if very space becomes hostile towards Async and it’s researchers.in the past the researchers could leave things behind or wander around, but now they find themselves getting lost, seeing things that aren’t there, or dying in strange ways. Like a wall suddenly collapsing, or clipping through the floor and being sliced in half, or someone choking on cloth suddenly spawned in their throat. 

As this is happening, Clark is just lead deeper and deeper into this place, and the further he goes, the stranger it becomes. Before, the walls and floor around him made some kind of sense, but it all becomes a strange melting pot of half-forgotten memories repeated over and over again until it makes no sense. 

Any normal person would have lost their mind, gone insane, or something, but whatever is coaxing him deeper is holding his mind together, somewhat anyways. 

At some point Clark comes to expect the walls being so alive, it’s normal to see the walls rise and fall like lungs, or to feel the carpet grow long fibers so they can coil around his ankles.  

Clark will always find what he needs, when he needs it. Sometimes it can be found in uncomfortable and weird places, but if he asks, the backrooms, you, answer. 

It's impossible to tell if you’re an extremely powerful entity, or if you’re the backrooms itself, but Clark doesn’t care to question it. Poor Async are falling over themselves trying to find rhyme or reason in it all though. 

I like to think Captain Clark is given attention too. He's not technically Clark, but he’s some part of him, a memory of sorts, meaning the walls and reality itself seems to twist and bend for the Still Life. 

I don’t think this would end like the movie, Mary might arrive, and she might find Clark, but Clark wouldn’t die to Captain Clark. If the Still Live even tried to kill Clark, the humans would get to see something the human mind won’t be able to comprehend. 

Mary may start crying blood and throwing up at whatever appears, twisting, turning, ripping and repairing at the same time, never one form, always changing, constantly and forever. But Clark, who’s been drenching in the power of whatever you are, can only look upon you with wonder. 

Clark feels... loved, embraced. As one, two, four, ten, a hundred, a thousand, back to two, or more? Or less? Arms wrap around him, as skin that feels like fabric bellowing in the wind presses against his forehead. 

Sleep, it says, in his mind, or out loud, or both. And Clark who’s been relying on you, whatever you are, for weeks, months, years, centuries? Can do nothing but listen.  

Here with you he can be himself, he can do what he always wanted to do, nobody to judge him, nobody to stop him, only you, who seems to chitter, pulse and purr at the architecture under his skin. 

And maybe Clark stops being human, maybe he did a long time ago when he accepted your attention, your call, the threads you dig under his skin and flush out what made him weak and mortal. But does it matter? 

There's never really a thought of going back, why would there be? Clark likes it here, with you, you two could create a reality of your own here if you wanted, but for now Clark likes to bask in your being and presence. 

Perhaps you are nice enough to drag the seizing and choking Mary back to where she might be found by Async, not that she’d ever be able to speak or think again, but they can at least bury her, or study her and then burn her. You do not possess the ability to care about anyone but your Clark. 

You’d only been to yuji’s apartment once, but that single evening had carved itself into choso’s mind.

It was a random tuesday night, the kind where the air outside still carried the chill of early spring and the streetlights buzzed faintly overhead. yuji had texted you after a brutal study session at the campus library: “Dude come over, my place is like 10 mins away and my older brother always stocks snacks. You’ll like choso, he’s super chill even if he looks kinda scary lol.” You’d laughed at the message, shoulders aching from hours hunched over notes, and replied with a quick “bet” before shoving your laptop into your bag.

Choso had been in the kitchen when the two of you walked through the door. He was rinsing a mug, black hair loose and messy around his shoulders, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed his frame. The moment he heard your voice—low, easy, laced with that tired laugh—he froze. water ran over his hands, forgotten.

yuji kicked off his shoes. “Yo, bro! This is my friend I was telling you about. We’ve got that group project together.”

You stepped into the light of the living room, offering a casual wave and a smile that reached your eyes. “Hey, man. Nice to meet you. yuji talks about you like you’re some kind of plug or something.”

Choso’s throat tightened. He managed a nod, awkward and stiff, the way he always did around people who weren’t yuji. “…Hello.” His voice came out quieter than intended, almost hoarse. He couldn’t stop staring. The way your jacket hung open over a plain black t-shirt. The faint scent of rain and cheap cologne that clung to you. The easy slope of your shoulders, the way your hair fell when you ran a hand through it. Everything about you was too much for him right now.

You didn’t notice. Why would you? You were just yuji’s friend. Good friends. the kind who made snack runs at 2 a.m. and bitched about professors over cheap ramen. You dropped onto the couch like you belonged there, legs spread comfortably, and started arguing with yuji about which horror movie to put on while choso retreated to the kitchen to “grab snacks.”

He didn’t grab snacks right away. He stood behind the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white, listening to your laugh echo through the thin walls. His heart hammered in a rhythm that felt foreign and addictive. When he finally brought over the bowl of chips and a couple of sodas, his fingers brushed yours as he handed you one. The contact lasted half a second. It burned.

That night was the spark. The obsession didn’t bloom slowly. it ignited in choso.

he’d always been the quiet older brother. The one who faded into the background, calm and reserved, content to watch over yuji with a fierce, protective loyalty that ran deeper than blood. Family was everything to him. But you… you weren’t family. Not yet.

He started with watching. It was easy enough. Your apartment was only three blocks away in that rundown off-campus complex with the flickering hallway bulb that never got fixed. yuji mentioned your schedule in passing once or twice—“My buddy’s got library nights on tuesdays and thursdays, dude always crashes hard after.” choso memorized it.

The first time he followed you home, he told himself it was nothing. Just making sure yuji’s friend got back safe. He kept his hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets, blending into the shadows between the dumpsters and the chain-link fence across the street. Your window glowed on the second floor. He stood there for hours, unmoving, eyes fixed on the silhouette behind the cheap blinds. When your light finally clicked off around 1 a.m., he didn’t leave right away. He stayed until the sky started to pale, breathing in the cold air that still somehow carried traces of you.

Night after night, it became ritual. He learned the creak of the stairs in your building by listening from the alley. He learned the exact time you usually killed the lights. Sometimes he’d see your shadow pass the window—pacing while on a call, or slumped over your desk. Each glimpse fed the static in his veins until it felt like his whole body was vibrating with it.

He told himself it was protective. yuji cared about you. That made you important. Family-adjacent. The lie tasted sweet on his tongue.

But lies only hold for so long.

The stealing started a week later, on your second visit to their shared apartment.

You’d slung your backpack onto the couch without a second thought while you and yuji raided the fridge, arguing loudly over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Choso lingered in the doorway, pretending to scroll on his phone. His eyes flicked to the bag. The front pocket was half-open. Careless. Trusting.

His fingers moved before his brain caught up. He slipped them inside and closed around cool metal—a spare key on a plain ring. Not your main one, just the backup you kept for emergencies. He palmed it smoothly and retreated to his room before either of you noticed.

You blamed yourself later when you couldn’t find it. “Shit, I must’ve dropped it somewhere. Whatever, I’ll get a new one.”

Choso used it the very next afternoon while you were in class.

The key turned silently in the lock. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stepped inside your apartment for the first time. It smelled like you—faint sweat from gym clothes, that same cheap cologne, leftover takeout in the trash. The air felt thicker, warmer, alive with your absence.

He didn’t touch anything obvious at first. He wandered like a ghost through the small space. the tiny kitchen with dishes still in the sink, the living room with your gaming controller tossed on the couch, the bathroom where your towel hung damp from the morning shower.

Then he reached the bedroom.

Your bed was unmade, sheets rumpled from where you’d rolled out of them. Choso stood in the doorway for a long minute, just breathing it in. He crossed to the laundry basket in the corner. A black hoodie lay on top, the one you’d been wearing the night you first met. He picked it up with trembling hands and pressed the collar to his face. Your scent flooded his lungs. salt, fabric softener, something uniquely you. His cock twitched hard in his sweats, almost instantly.

He didn’t fight it.

Choso sat on the edge of your bed, knees weak, and shoved the hoodie against his nose with one hand while the other palmed himself through his clothes. The fantasy hit him full force for the first time, vivid and merciless.

In his head, you didn’t come home to an empty apartment. You came home early. You caught him there, standing guilty in your bedroom with your stolen hoodie in his hands. But instead of yelling or calling the cops, your expression shifted. Your eyes darkened with something raw and dangerous. You said his name—“Choso”—low and rough, the way you said it when you were tired but still smiling at yuji’s dumb jokes.

Then you stepped closer. No hesitation. You pushed him back onto the bed with one firm hand on his chest. Your body was heavier than his, solid muscle from whatever sports or training you did. You pinned his wrists above his head with one of your warm hands, leaning down until your breath ghosted his ear.

“You’re sick,” you’d growl, voice thick with mock disgust and real hunger. “Breaking into my place like a desperate little freak. You think I haven’t noticed you watching my window every night? You think I don’t know you took my key?”

Choso whimpered into the hoodie, hips jerking up into his own palm as the fantasy sharpened. In his mind, you didn’t stop at words. You shoved his sweats down roughly, freeing his aching cock. You stroked him once, twice—mean and dry at first—before spitting into your hand and doing it again, faster. “Look at you. Already leaking for me. Pathetic.”

He’d bite back a moan, but you’d force his mouth open with your thumb. “No hiding. Not anymore. You’re mine now. Every time yuji drags me over to your place, you’re gonna sit there acting normal while my cum is still dripping out of your ass from the night before.”

The fantasy crested hard. Choso came with a choked gasp, biting down on the sleeve of your hoodie to muffle the sound. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto your sheets. He kept the fabric pressed to his face through the aftershocks, inhaling you like oxygen while his body trembled.

Afterward, shame flickered—but only faintly. He cleaned up meticulously, folding the hoodie exactly as he’d found it and tucking it back into the basket. He even smoothed your sheets, though the wet spot he’d left made his stomach twist with dark satisfaction. He took one more thing before leaving: a single black sock from the basket. The left one. You’d notice the pair being incomplete less than if both vanished.

He went back every few days after that.

The key became his lifeline. He’d slip in during your afternoon classes, heart racing every time the lock clicked. He learned the layout intimately. which floorboard creaked near the bed, how the shower curtain rings sounded when he tested them, the exact drawer where you kept your boxers. He started taking more. A half-used bottle of your body wash from the shower shelf—he’d pour a little into a small container he kept at home so he could smell like you when he showered. The sticky note you’d left on yujis fridge once that said “thanks for the answere, dude” in your messy handwriting. He kept that in a small box under his bed, running his thumb over the ink until the edges frayed.

Some days he’d crawl fully into your bed. He’d lie on his stomach, face buried in your pillow, and hump the mattress slowly while whispering your name like a broken prayer. “Please… just once… let me feel you…” His hips would grind down harder, imagining your weight pinning him, your cock stretching him open while you called him every filthy name he deserved. He’d come untouched sometimes, just from the scent and the fantasy, then lick the mess off your sheets with trembling shame and arousal twisting together.

The fantasies evolved, growing darker and more detailed with each visit.

Sometimes in his head you were angry—furious at the invasion. You’d slam him against the wall the second the door closed behind you, hand around his throat just tight enough to make stars burst behind his eyes. “You’ve been stalking me, haven’t you? Jerking off in my bed like a fucking animal.” You’d force him to his knees and make him suck you off right there in the entryway, tears streaming down his face while you fucked his throat and told him how disgusting he was. How he didn’t deserve it but you’d give it to him anyway because he was too pathetic to stop.

Other times the fantasy was slower, crueler in its tenderness. You’d catch him, but instead of rage you’d smirk like you’d known all along and had been waiting for him to slip up. You’d pull him into your lap on the couch, hands roaming under his hoodie while you whispered, “Been waiting for you to break, choso. always so quiet and proper. But you’re just a desperate slut for me, aren’t you?” You’d edge him for hours, stroking him slow and stopping every time he got close, until he was crying and begging. Only then would you finally fuck him deep, relentless thrusts that had him clawing at your back, moaning your name like it was the only word he knew.

He always came hardest to the versions where you claimed him completely. Where you bit his neck hard enough to bruise while pounding into him from behind, growling that he belonged to you now. That he couldn’t hide anymore. That every family dinner at his apartment would be torture because he’d be sitting there across from you, hole still sore and leaking, trying to act normal while you smiled innocently and asked him to pass the salt.

Back in reality, Choso remained the awkward older brother.

yuji still brought you over every couple of weeks. You’d show up with that same easy smile, bumping knees with Choso on the couch during movie nights, completely oblivious. “You good, man? You seem kinda zoned out tonight.” Your voice was casual, concerned in that friendly way that made Choso’s stomach flip.

He’d nod, forcing a small, tight smile. “Yeah. Just tired.” Under the table, his nails dug crescents into his own thigh to keep from shaking. The fantasy played on loop behind his eyes the entire time, you dragging him into the bathroom the second yuji stepped out for more drinks, bending him over the sink and covering his mouth while you fucked him quick and dirty. “Shut up. Don’t want your little brother hearing what a whore his big bro is for me.”

After you left, Choso would excuse himself to his room and jerk off again, sometimes twice, biting his own forearm so yuji wouldn’t hear the broken whimpers. He’d stare at the collection hidden in his drawer: your spare key, the sock, the empty body wash bottle now refilled with his own cum mixed with traces of yours, the sticky note. He’d press the fabric or paper to his lips and whisper, “Soon.”

He still hadn’t touched you. Not really. Not skin to skin beyond that accidental brush of fingers weeks ago.

But the obsession had gotten worse.

He knew your class schedule better than his own. He knew the friends you texted late at night from the glimpses he caught when you left your phone on the table at yuji’s . He even started following you on rare nights when you went out with the group. still keeping distance, always in the shadows, making sure no one got too close to what was his.

yuji remained cheerfully unaware. “Choso’s been acting weirder than usual lately,” he’d joke to you once while Choso pretended not to listen from the kitchen. “But he’s harmless. Just a little.. uhrm.. protective, y’know?”

Protective. The word made Choso smile faintly to himself, small and fractured. If only yuji knew how deep that protection had twisted.

Choso waited in the dark now, more patient than ever. He had the key. He had the fantasies. He had pieces of you scattered through his life like talismans.

One day soon, the waiting would end. You’d come home to find him there. not hiding, not running. Maybe you’d finally see the hunger in his eyes that he’d buried under awkward silences and quiet nods. Maybe you’d push him down. Maybe you’d hate him for it. Maybe you’d want him just as badly.

Either way, Choso was ready.

He’d drop to his knees on your shitty apartment carpet without hesitation. He’d let you do whatever you wanted—use him, break him, claim him. Because in the quiet, obsessive corners of his mind, you already owned every piece of him.

You just didn’t know it yet.