extras:

҉　- main story canon compliant piece.

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort. Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have. Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ rib time. Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB. Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression. Ꮺ୧ twins au. / bb & bobby. Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ entity discourse. Ꮺ୧ tolerance.

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

“Always,” Victoria’s cheerful voice chirps through the speaker. “But tonight, you’re actually the one who’s going to be saving me.”

Max takes a sip of his drink. It’s not actually beer; it’s sparkling water with a slice of lime. “I doubt that. What do you need? Did Luka hide the car keys again?”

“Worse. Much, much worse. Chantal is sick. Like, horribly sick. Food poisoning, I think.”

“Okay? So … you need me to bring you soup?” He’s already mentally calculating the fastest route to her house.

“No, you idiot,” she laughs, and he can picture her rolling her eyes. “I have a concert ticket. A non-refundable, very expensive, very good concert ticket that is now going to waste. Tom’s stuck in a meeting that will probably go until midnight, and I absolutely cannot go alone.”

Max’s brief moment of hope evaporates. “Vic, no.”

“Vic, yes. You’re in Amsterdam. I’m in Amsterdam. It’s perfect.”

“I’m working,” he argues, gesturing vaguely at the curated industrial-chic chaos around him. “I’m at the Heineken thing.”

“That ends in an hour. The concert doesn’t start until nine. Please, Max? I’ve been looking forward to this for months. She never tours in Europe.”

He frowns, the name on the tip of his tongue but not quite there. “She who?”

“Y/N Y/L/N!” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s just asked who the current prime minister is. The name rings a bell, but only in the vague way a song he’s heard in a supermarket does. Pop star. American. That’s all he has.

“Never heard of her,” he lies, just to be difficult.

A dramatic sigh crackles down the line. “Max Emilian. Do not do this to me. She’s everywhere. She’s brilliant. You’ll love her.”

“I will not love her,” he says flatly. “I love quiet. I love my sim rig. I love going to bed before ten when I don’t have a race. I do not love … screaming teenagers.”

“It’s not all teenagers!” She protests, a little too quickly. “It’s a very diverse crowd. And you’re not even that old. Stop being such a grandad. It’s one night. For me. Your favorite sister.”

“My only sister.”

“Exactly! So by default, I’m your favorite. Please? I’ll buy you dinner first. Whatever you want.”

Max closes his eyes for a second, the thumping bass of the DJ’s set vibrating through the concrete floor. He pictures his quiet hotel room. The blissfully empty evening he had planned. A movie, maybe some room service. Silence. Then he pictures Victoria’s disappointed face. He’s always been a sucker for that face.

“Fine,” he groans, the word pulled from him like a bad tooth. “Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”

“Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She squeals, and he has to pull the phone away from his ear. “I’ll send you the address for the restaurant. Meet me there at seven-thirty. Wear something … less corporate.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He asks, looking down at his crisp, dark shirt and trousers.

“Nothing, if you’re trying to sell me a mortgage. See you soon! You won’t regret this!”

The line goes dead.

Max stares at his phone, a deep, weary sigh escaping his lips. He absolutely, one hundred percent, will regret this.

***

Two hours later, he regrets it even more.

The air outside the Ziggo Dome is electric and humid, thick with the scent of perfume, street food, and youthful exuberance. It’s a sea of glitter, denim, and brightly colored crop tops. Max, in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, feels like a mountain that has accidentally wandered into a fairy garden. He towers over almost everyone, a grim statue in a tide of giddy excitement.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Victoria shouts over the din, her eyes sparkling. She’s practically vibrating with energy, clutching a ridiculous light-up-something-or-other she bought from a vendor.

“It’s … loud,” Max replies, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He feels a dozen pairs of eyes on him and knows it’s not because he’s Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion. It’s because he’s a twenty-something-year-old man who looks profoundly miserable at what is clearly the Best Night of Everyone Else’s Life.

“Oh, stop it. You’re just grumpy,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the entrance. “Once the music starts, you’ll get into it.”

They find their spots, which are alarmingly close to the stage. It’s a standing area, and they’re penned in, the press of bodies around them immediate and overwhelming. Max feels a familiar, low-level anxiety prickle at the back of his neck — the kind he gets when he’s in a crowd and not in control. In his world, crowds are behind barriers. He’s the one on the other side. This is different. He’s in it.

“You said good seats,” he mutters to Victoria, who is happily chatting with a girl next to her about your best album.

“They are! We can see everything!” She beams.

The lights suddenly go down.

A roar erupts from the crowd, a physical force that presses in on Max from all sides. It’s deafening. A deep, pulsing bass note vibrates up through the soles of his shoes, shaking his entire skeleton. On the massive screen behind the stage, a pair of cherry-red lips appears. They part, and a voice, your voice, slick and sweet as honey, echoes through the arena.

“Oh, I leave quite an impression …”

And then, you’re there.

You explode onto the stage in a flash of pink light and pure, unadulterated confidence. You’re tiny, a firecracker of a person, all sparkling boots and blonde hair and legs that seem to go on for an impossible length. The crowd loses its collective mind.

Max just … watches.

“Five feet to be exact,” you sing, strutting across the stage, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re wonderin’ why half his clothes went missin’ … my body’s where they’re at.”

The lyrics hit him like a splash of cold water. They’re brazen, unapologetic. He glances at Victoria, who is screaming the words right back at you, a look of pure adoration on her face. He looks back at the stage. You have the entire arena, thousands of people, cradled in the palm of your hand.

“I heard you’re back together and if that’s true,” you coo, leaning into the microphone stand, one hand on your hip. “You’ll just have to taste me when he’s kissin’ you.”

A guy next to Max yells, “I love you, Y/N!”

Max feels an involuntary twitch in his jaw. The performance is … impressive. He can’t deny it. The choreography is tight, your vocals are flawless, and your stage presence is magnetic. He’s a professional athlete, he recognizes elite-level performance when he sees it. This is your grand prix, your qualifying lap, and you are absolutely nailing it.

But it’s the sheer, unblinking audacity of it all that catches him off guard. The way you sing about sexuality not as some hidden, whispered secret, but as a weapon, a tool, a source of power. It’s so foreign to his world of carefully managed PR and corporate-friendly soundbites.

He spends the next half-hour in a state of detached observation. You move through a handful of songs, each one a different flavour of pop perfection. You’re funny, charming the crowd with little anecdotes between songs. You’re vulnerable, sitting on a stool with just a guitar for a heartbreaking ballad that silences the entire arena. You’re a powerhouse, belting out a high note that seems to shake the building.

Max finds himself leaning forward, his arms crossed over his chest, his earlier grumpiness replaced by a grudging respect. Then, that respect deepens into genuine fascination. He’s not just watching a pop star anymore. He’s watching you. He’s watching the way you wink at the camera, the bead of sweat that trickles down your temple, the genuine, breathtaking smile you give your guitarist after a solo.

“Having fun yet?” Victoria shouts in his ear during a transition, a smug grin on her face.

He just grunts in response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of admitting that yes, actually, he’s not entirely miserable anymore.

The stage is bathed in a soft, dreamy pink light. A new, slinky synth beat starts to pulse through the speakers. The mood shifts. It’s slower, more intimate, more suggestive.

“Oh my god, it’s ‘Juno’,” Victoria whispers, her voice filled with reverence. “This is my favorite.”

You begin to sing, your voice a playful, seductive purr.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing … oh yeah, you just get it.”

You prowl the stage, your movements fluid and feline. The song is a flirtation, a proposition set to music.

“Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs?” You sing, and a ripple of laughter and screams goes through the crowd. “Oh, I hear you knockin’, baby … come on up.”

Max feels a strange heat creep up his neck. The lyrics are direct, and you deliver them while looking straight into the camera, a look in your eyes that’s both innocent and wildly mischievous. It feels like you’re singing to one person, and one person only. It feels, impossibly, like you’re singing to him.

Victoria nudges him hard in the ribs. “She’s incredible, right?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s completely, utterly transfixed.

The song builds, the beat getting heavier. You’re dancing with a kind of joyful, sensual freedom that is mesmerizing.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love,” you belt out, and the crowd sings it back to you, a unified chorus of devotion.

Then comes the bridge. The music softens, becoming a spare, pulsing beat. The lights dim until there’s only a single, stark white spotlight on you. You walk to the very front of the stage, right to the edge, your sparkling boots just inches from the precipice.

You look out over the crowd, a sly, knowing smile on your face. You hold the microphone delicately in one hand.

“Wanna try out some freaky positions?” You ask, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries to every corner of the arena.

The crowd holds its breath.

You pause, letting the tension hang in the air for one, two, three beats.

Then you ask, your voice dripping with suggestion, “Have you ever tried … this one?”

And you drop to your knees.

Right there, in front of seventeen thousand people.

You bring the microphone to your lips, tilt your head back, and close your eyes. Your movements are slow, deliberate, and utterly unmistakable. It’s a pantomime of obvious fellatio. It’s shocking. It’s hilarious. It’s the most brazenly confident thing Max has ever seen in his life.

And it completely, unequivocally, resets his brain.

Every thought in his head — the upcoming race weekend, the sponsor obligations, the feeling of being out of place, the simmering annoyance at his sister — vanishes. It’s all gone. Wiped clean. The intricate wiring of his meticulously controlled mind short-circuits, throwing sparks into the darkness. There is only the image of you, on your knees, bathed in a single spotlight.

The arena explodes. It’s a tidal wave of screams, laughter, and whistles. Victoria beside him is shrieking, clutching his arm so hard he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.

Max doesn’t make a sound. He can’t. His jaw is slack. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm. He feels a primal, electric shock jolt through his entire system, a feeling so potent it almost makes his knees weak.

It’s not just desire. It’s … awe.

You hold the pose for a few seconds longer before pulling the microphone away with a wink, jumping back to your feet as the beat drops back in, and finishing the song as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t just detonate a small bomb in the chest of every person watching.

For the rest of the song, Max is on another planet. He’s disconnected from the noise, the crowd, from his own body. He is just a pair of eyes, locked on you.

After the song finishes, you’re breathing heavily, a triumphant grin on your face. You take a bottle of water from the side of the stage, take a long drink, and then address the crowd.

“Amsterdam!” You yell, and they yell back. “You guys are incredible tonight. So much energy. So much love.” You pause, scanning the faces in the front rows. “But … I’m afraid I have to be the bearer of bad news. There’s a criminal in our midst tonight.”

The crowd plays along with a chorus of dramatic boos and gasps.

“I know, I know,” you say, shaking your head sadly. “It’s a serious offense. This person has committed a crime of the highest order. The crime … of being illegally hot in a public place.”

The audience cheers, everyone hoping they’re about to be chosen.

You place a hand on your hip, your eyes sweeping across the crowd with theatrical seriousness. Your gaze travels over the screaming girls, the couples, the guys trying to look cool. Your eyes move, section by section. Max watches, his heart still beating a little too fast, a strange sense of dread and something else pooling in his stomach.

Then, your eyes stop.

They stop on him.

For a moment, he thinks it must be a mistake. You must be looking at the person behind him, or next to him. But no. Your eyes lock directly onto his. A slow, predatory smile spreads across your face. You lift a finger, pointing right at him.

“You,” you say, your voice ringing through the arena. The spotlight that was just on you swings over, blinding him as it finds its new target. “Yes, you, sir. In the plain black t-shirt. The one who looks like he’d rather be at a dentist appointment.”

The entire crowd around him turns to stare. Victoria lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a cackle.

Max freezes. The world narrows to the blinding white light and your smiling face on the giant screens. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. This is his worst nightmare. No, his worst nightmare is a DNF due to engine failure. This is a close second.

“Don’t look so scared,” you tease, your voice echoing around him. “Although, you should be. That level of handsome is a public disturbance. It’s distracting me from my job.” You motion to a burly security guard at the side of the stage. “Bring him to me. He needs to be apprehended.”

“Go!” Victoria hisses, pushing him forward. “Oh my god, Max, go!”

He feels like he’s walking through cement. The security guard, a man the size of a small car, gently but firmly guides him towards the barrier. A gap is opened, and he’s being led through the backstage wings and then up a small set of stairs. His ears are ringing.

He steps out onto the stage, and the roar of the crowd is a physical blow. The heat of the lights is intense. He squints, trying to see past the glare.

And then you’re in front of him.

Up close, you’re even smaller than he thought. And infinitely more terrifying. You’re radiating energy, your skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat, your eyes sparkling with mischief. You’re holding a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.

“Hello, criminal,” you say, your voice now soft enough that only he can hear it over the music that has started to play softly in the background. Your microphone is still live, though, broadcasting your words to the entire arena.

“Hi,” Max manages to croak out. His own voice sounds foreign to him.

“What’s your name, handsome?” You ask, circling him like a shark.

“Max.”

“Max,” you repeat, tasting the name. “Well, Max, tonight you’ve been a very, very bad boy. You thought you could just show up here, looking like that, and get away with it? Not on my watch.”

You take his wrist. Your touch is light, but it sends another jolt straight through him. Your fingers are cool against his skin. He watches, mesmerized, as you fasten one of the fuzzy pink cuffs around his wrist. The crowd is going insane.

“I sentence you,” you declare, your voice booming again, “to one song, served right here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

You attach the other cuff to the base of the microphone stand, effectively tying him to the center of the stage. You step back to admire your handiwork, a satisfied smirk on your face.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you say, tapping him lightly on the chest before turning your back to him and facing the crowd.

The opening chords of another upbeat, ridiculously catchy song fill the air. And you start to sing.

Max is trapped. He’s standing on stage, handcuffed to a microphone stand, at a pop concert he didn’t want to be at, in front of seventeen thousand people. And all he can do is watch you.

From this vantage point, it’s a completely different universe. He can see the intricate details of your costume, the concentration in your eyes as you hit a complex dance move, the way you connect with individual people in the front row, making each one feel like you’re singing only to them. He sees the consummate professional, the master of your craft, the artist in her element.

You keep glancing back at him, a playful wink here, a little shimmy in his direction there. He knows it’s part of the show, a performance for the crowd, but it feels intensely personal. He feels his blush deepen with every look. He’s acutely aware of how stiff he’s standing, how out of place he must look. He’s Max Verstappen. He’s used to being looked at. But not like this. Never, ever like this.

The song seems to last an eternity and also be over in a flash. As the final note rings out, you spin around and walk back to him, your chest rising and falling with exertion.

“Well?” You say, leaning in close again, your voice a low murmur just for him. “Have you learned your lesson?”

He finds his voice, a little rough. “I think so.”

“Good.” You produce a tiny key from a hidden pocket and unlock the handcuff on his wrist. As you free him, your fingers brush against his again. This time, the touch lingers for a fraction of a second too long. “You’re free to go, Max. For now.”

You give him a final, dazzling smile before turning to the audience. “Let’s hear it for our good sport, Max!”

The crowd cheers as the same security guard leads him back down the stairs and to his spot. He feels like he’s just run a full race distance. His adrenaline is pumping, his palms are sweaty, his mind is a complete blur.

He stumbles back into his spot next to Victoria, who immediately grabs him.

“Oh. My. God,” she says, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and glee. “That just happened. You were handcuffed by Y/N Y/L/N. On stage. I cannot believe that just happened!”

Max just shakes his head, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks back towards the stage. You’re already launching into your next song, a global smash hit that everyone knows the words to.

But he doesn’t hear the music anymore. He doesn’t feel the press of the crowd. He can only see you. He can still feel the ghost of your touch on his wrist, can still hear your whispered “for now” ringing in his ears.

The grumpy, reluctant man who walked into this arena a few hours ago is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone who just had his entire world tilted on its axis by a five-foot pop star in sparkling boots.

He watches the rest of the show in a daze, a strange, small smile he can’t control playing on his lips.

Victoria was right. He didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

***

The ringing in Max’s ears finally subsides somewhere in the taxi back to the hotel, replaced by the relentless, high-pitched ringing of Victoria’s voice.

“I just can’t get over it. The look on your face! It was like a computer that had just been unplugged. Just … blank. Blue screen of death, Max, honestly.”

Max stares out the window, the blurred lights of Amsterdam streaking across the glass. The city is alive, humming with a nocturnal energy he usually appreciates. Tonight, he barely registers it. His mind is a looped video file, playing one specific scene over and over. The spotlight. The smirk. The fuzzy pink handcuffs.

“Are you even listening to me?” Victoria asks, nudging him.

“I’m listening,” he says, his voice quiet. “You’re enjoying my public humiliation. Loud and clear.”

“Oh, it was not humiliation! It was an honor!” She insists. “Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? She chose you. Out of everyone. She thought you were the hottest person there.”

“She thought I was the most miserable-looking person there,” he corrects, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “She said so.”

“Details, details. The point is, you were on stage with Y/N Y/L/N. My very boring, very serious brother who only cares about tire degradation and understeer was just handcuffed by one of the world’s biggest pop stars. This is the best night of my life.”

“Glad I could provide the entertainment,” he says, the sarcasm lacking any real bite. He can’t even summon the energy to be properly annoyed with her. Something else is occupying that space, a low-level hum of … something. He can’t put a name to it. It’s not excitement, not exactly. It’s more like the feeling he gets on the grid just before the five red lights go out. A deep, thrumming anticipation of the unknown.

When they pull up to his hotel, Victoria leans over and gives him a quick, tight hug. “Seriously, though. Thanks for coming with me tonight, Max. I know it wasn't your thing.”

“It was …” he starts, searching for the right word. He settles for, “… not as bad as I thought it would be.”

Victoria pulls back, her eyes shining with laughter. “That’s the most glowing review I’ve ever heard you give anything that doesn’t have four wheels and an engine. I’ll take it. Now go get some sleep. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He hasn’t seen a ghost. He’s seen a goddess, maybe. Or a succubus. He’s not quite sure which.

The hotel room is just as he left it: sterile, quiet, and blessedly empty. The silence is a physical presence after the overwhelming noise of the concert. He toes off his shoes, drops his keys on the console table, and walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of the city is panoramic, a glittering tapestry of light and darkness.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, intending to put it on the charger and forget about the world. But the screen is lit up with a relentless barrage of notifications.

Dozens of them.

Lando: mate what the FUCK is this??????

Lando: [Link to Twitter video]

Lando: VERSTAPPEN YOU DOG

Daniel: I leave you alone for five minutes and you get arrested by a pop star? Proud of you.

Charles: Are you okay? I saw a video.

Even a message from his dad: Wat is dit? Bel me.

Max’s thumb hovers over the link Lando sent. He feels a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He presses it.

The Twitter video player opens. It’s shaky, clearly filmed on a phone from somewhere in the crowd, but the audio is surprisingly clear. He watches the whole scene unfold from an outsider’s perspective. He sees you scan the crowd. He sees you point. He sees the spotlight hit him, sees his own deer-in-the-headlights expression magnified on the giant screens. He watches himself walk stiffly to the stage, looking like a man being led to the gallows.

And he watches you. The way you moved, the confidence radiating from you, the playful but utterly dominant energy you exuded. Then he sees the moment you handcuffed him, leaning in to whisper in his ear. From this angle, it looks intimate. Conspiratorial.

He scrolls down. The video has over a million views. It was posted less than an hour ago.

The comments are a chaotic whirlwind.

WHO IS THIS MAN??? HE’S GORGEOUS

Wait … no … that CAN’T be Max Verstappen.

THE F1 AND Y/N Y/L/N CROSSOVER I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED IN MY LIFE

THE WAY SHE LOOKS AT HIM OMG SHIP SHIP SHIP

he looks so flustered i can’t breathe

my man’s brain left the chat during Juno and never came back lmao

His cheeks burn. He clicks off the app, but it’s no use. He opens Instagram. He’s been tagged in hundreds of photos. His follower count is climbing at an alarming rate. He’s trending. #MaxVerstappen, #YNYLN, and #FuzzyPinkHandcuffs are the top three trends in the Netherlands.

He throws the phone onto the bed and runs a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room. This is a PR nightmare. Or a PR dream, depending on who you ask. His media team is probably having a collective aneurysm. He’s supposed to be in Amsterdam for Heineken, projecting a mature, corporate-friendly image. Not … this. Not being the flustered boy toy in a pop star’s stage show.

But as he paces, another feeling starts to bubble up through the mortification. A slow, undeniable thrill. No one ever saw him like that. He was always in control, always the champion, the ‘Mad Max’ in the car, the cool professional out of it. Tonight, the world saw him completely disarmed. Vulnerable. And it was all because of you.

He stops in front of the window again, staring at his faint reflection in the glass. The corner of his own mouth quirks up into a smile.

“What the hell,” he whispers to the empty room.

***

“I cannot believe you arrested Max Verstappen.”

You’re sitting on a plush couch in your dressing room, a bottle of water in one hand, while your makeup artist gently removes the layers of glitter and eyeliner from your face. The post-show adrenaline is still singing in your veins, a pleasant, fizzy sensation that makes the whole world feel bright and conquerable.

“I arrested a hot guy in a black t-shirt,” you correct, taking a long sip of water. “I didn’t ask for his resume.”

Your tour manager, a perpetually stressed but fiercely loyal woman named Brit, is pacing in front of you, phone pressed to her ear. Your best friend and personal assistant, Laila, is the one who broke the news, and she’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone with a look of manic glee.

“It doesn’t matter! The internet has decided he’s Max Verstappen,” Laila says, not looking up. “And, I mean, they’re not wrong. I’ve cross-referenced. It’s him. Official accounts are posting about it. Sports journalists are posting about it. It’s a thing.”

“Okay, so he’s … a sports guy?” You ask, feigning nonchalance as your makeup artist dabs at your eyelids with a cotton pad.

Laila finally looks up, her expression aghast. “A sports guy? Y/N, he’s a Formula 1 driver. He’s like … the Michael Jordan of driving in circles really, really fast. He’s a four-time world champion. He’s a Dutch national hero. We are in his country. You basically arrested the king.”

The information settles over you. It clicks into place, explaining a few things. The way he held himself, even when he was clearly uncomfortable — there was a coiled, athletic stillness to him. The look in his eyes wasn’t just surprise, it was the analytical gaze of someone constantly processing data, assessing a situation. And it explained the crowd’s slightly more frenzied reaction when the spotlight hit him. You’d assumed it was just for the gag.

“Huh,” is all you say. A slow smile begins to form on your newly cleaned face. “So the king is a fan?”

“I don’t think he was a fan,” Laila snorts. “From the videos of him before you pulled him up, he looked like he was being held at gunpoint. I think he was dragged there.”

This is even better. You didn’t just fluster a fan. You broke through the shell of a world champion who didn’t even want to be there. You got under his skin. The thought is ridiculously satisfying.

“Well, he’s a fan now,” you declare with a wink.

Brit hangs up her phone with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. So, I just spoke with your publicist. Her official take is: this is fantastic. It’s unexpected, it’s organic, it’s getting you in front of a completely new demographic. The sports blogs are eating it up. She says to just lean into it. Be playful. Don’t make it weird.”

You take the final cotton pad from Sarah and wipe the last of the lipstick from your mouth. “When have I ever made things weird?”

Laila and Brit share a look.

“Okay, fine,” you concede. “But this is different. This is … fun.”

You take Laila’s phone and start scrolling. You see the same videos Max saw, but from your perspective. You watch his face, magnified on the giant screens. The initial shock. The slow creep of a blush up his neck. The way his eyes darted around before inevitably locking back onto you. Laila was right. His brain had completely stalled. And you were the one who’d done it.

You click on his Instagram profile. It’s exactly what you’d expect. Polished, professional photos. Him in his race suit, him celebrating on a podium, him in a tailored suit at some gala. Intense. Focused. Untouchable.

Then you scroll to the tagged photos. The most recent ones are all from tonight. A sea of pictures of him on your stage, looking boyish and overwhelmed, a stark contrast to his own curated feed.

You feel a little flutter in your stomach, a spark of something potent and exciting. It’s the thrill of the chase, but with the roles reversed. You’re not used to being the pursuer, but then again, you’re not used to a man who looks at you with such a baffling mixture of terror and utter fascination.

“What are you doing?” Laila asks, noticing the dangerous glint in your eye.

“Conducting some market research,” you say sweetly.

You follow him.

Then you switch back to your own account, navigate to your direct messages, and type his name into the search bar. His profile pops up. The little blue checkmark sits next to his name, a silent confirmation.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar.

What do you say to the king you’ve just publicly dethroned?

Brit’s advice rings in your ears. Be playful. Don’t make it weird. But ‘not weird’ is boring. ‘Not weird’ is for other pop stars. Your entire brand is built on being a little weird, a lot bold. On singing the things most people only dare to think.

You think back to the show. The moment the energy shifted. The moment his carefully constructed composure finally cracked.

You smile. You know exactly what to say.

You type it out quickly, your heart giving a little thud of exhilaration. You read it back once. It’s perfect. It’s audacious. It’s you.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

***

Max is lying on his back in the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is a distant country he has no visa for. His mind is a racetrack, and the memory of you is doing endless hot laps.

He’s analysed it from every angle, the way he would with telemetry data after a qualifying session. The initial moment of eye contact. The walk to the stage. The feel of the fuzzy cuff on his wrist. The sound of your voice up close, stripped of the arena’s reverb. It was lower, huskier than he expected.

He rolls over, punching his pillow into a new shape, as if that will somehow rearrange his thoughts. It doesn’t work. He’s restless, agitated. He feels like he’s full of unspent energy, the phantom limb of an adrenaline crash that never came.

His phone, lying face down on the nightstand, buzzes against the wood.

He groans. It’s probably Lando again, with a newly created meme photoshopped from a picture of the concert. He resolves to ignore it. He needs to shut his brain off.

The phone buzzes again. A persistent, insistent little vibration.

With a sigh of resignation, he reaches over and grabs it. Maybe if he just looks at it, the itch of curiosity will be scratched and he can finally sleep.

He squints at the lock screen, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. There are two new notifications. Both from Instagram.

His breath catches in his throat.

It’s not a tag. It’s not a comment. It’s a message request.

@yourusername wants to send you a message.

Max sits bolt upright in bed. The sheet pools around his waist. He stares at the notification, his heart starting a frantic, staccato rhythm against his ribs. This can’t be real. It has to be a fake account, a prank. One of the millions of fan accounts.

But the profile picture is the same one from her official page. And his mind, ever the pragmatist, supplies the logical next step: check.

His thumb, feeling strangely clumsy, slides to open the notification. It takes him to the message request folder. There it is, at the top of the list. Your name, your picture, and the little blue checkmark that means everything in this strange, online world.

It’s real.

He taps on it, his pulse thundering in his ears. The chat opens. There’s only one message from you, sitting there, glowing in the darkness of his hotel room.

He reads it.

Y/N Y/L/N: So. That was fun. But the stage lighting doesn’t really do it justice. Ever wonder what a real demonstration of the Juno position looks like?

Time stops.

The air leaves Max’s lungs in a silent whoosh. He reads the message again. And a third time, just to be sure his sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating.

It’s still there. Bold. Unapologetic. A direct challenge wrapped in a deeply provocative question. It’s the verbal equivalent of you dropping to your knees in that spotlight. It’s designed to shock, to disarm, to get a reaction.

And it works.

A slow, wide grin spreads across Max’s face. The last vestiges of his embarrassment evaporate, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline that’s more potent than winning a race. The mortified man-boy from the concert stage is gone. The champion is back.

You’re playing his game. Or rather, you’re inviting him to play yours. High stakes, high risk, high reward. This, he understands. This is a language he speaks fluently.

His mind races, cycling through a dozen possible replies.

A simple ‘yes’ is too eager, too predictable. He’d be handing her all the power.

‘I might be interested’ is too weak, too corporate.

Ignoring it is an admission of defeat. And Max Verstappen does not lose.

He needs something that matches her energy. Something that acknowledges her move and raises the stakes. He needs a response that is as concise, confident, and just as cocky as her message.

He thinks about the terse, coded language of the racetrack. The call and response between driver and race engineer. Information received. Action required.

He knows what to write.

His thumbs fly across the screen. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess.

Max Verstappen: Copy. Send location.

He hits send.

The single grey tick turns to two. Then, instantly, they turn blue. She’s seen it.

He holds his breath. The ball is back in her court. For a full ten seconds, there is nothing. He wonders if he’s been too bold, if he’s misread the entire situation.

Then, the little bubble with the three dots appears.

She is typing.

***

You stare at his reply, a genuine, delighted laugh bubbling up from your chest.

It’s perfect. It’s not the fawning, overly enthusiastic response you get from most guys, nor is it an attempt to play it cool that just comes off as insecure. It’s direct. It’s efficient. It’s a challenge met with equal force. It’s the most Formula 1-sounding text you could possibly imagine, and you find it ridiculously charming.

He’s not intimidated. He’s ready.

Laila is asleep in the bunk across from you on the tour bus, which is now hurtling down a dark highway toward your next stop. The only light is the glow of your phone. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud and waking her.

Okay, champion. You want to play? Let’s play.

You could send him your hotel address. You could tell him to meet you tomorrow. That would be the easy way. The boring way. You want to draw this out, just a little. You want to see what he’s made of.

Y/N Y/L/N: Not so fast, champion. A proper demonstration requires a proper setting. And I’m not sure you’ve earned it yet.

You hit send. The response comes back almost immediately.

Max Verstappen: What’s the objective?

You grin. Objective. He’s treating this like a race strategy. You can practically hear his engineer in his ear.

Y/N Y/L/N: The objective is for you to convince me you can handle it.

Max Verstappen: I handle 200 mph corners for a living. I think I can handle a pop star.

Oh, he’s cocky. You love it.

Y/N Y/L/N: Driving is easy. You’re just sitting down. This requires stamina. Finesse. An appreciation for the craft.

Max Verstappen: You have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m a fast learner.

Y/N Y/L/N: I’m sure you are. But I have a very busy schedule. My European tour is tightly packed. You might have missed your window of opportunity.

You’re testing him. Seeing if he’ll back down. Seeing if he’ll push.

There’s a longer pause this time. You watch the screen, your heart doing a little tap dance against your ribs. Maybe you pushed too far. Maybe he’s decided it’s not worth the effort.

Then, the three dots appear again.

Max Verstappen: I’m looking at your tour schedule. And my race calendar. You have a day off in two days, after your show in Cologne. I have a simulator session I can move.

You blink at the message. He’s … planning. He’s looking at logistics. This isn’t just a flirtatious game to him anymore, it’s a puzzle to be solved. The seriousness of it, the methodical way he’s approaching this, is the hottest thing you’ve ever encountered.

Y/N Y/L/N: Stalking my tour schedule now? A little desperate, don’t you think?

Max Verstappen: It’s called preparation. You should try it. So. Cologne. You’re at the Hyatt. I can get a room there. We can have dinner. You can … convince me of your craft.

He’s flipped it back on you. Now you’re the one who has to perform. It’s brilliant.

Y/N Y/L/N: Dinner? How charmingly old-fashioned.

Max Verstappen: I am an old man, remember? That’s what you told 17,000 people tonight.

You laugh softly. He’s got a sense of humor buried under all that intensity. This is getting better and better.

Y/N Y/L/N: Fine, Verstappen. Dinner. Two days. Cologne. If you can keep up with the conversation, maybe I’ll consider giving you a private demonstration.

Max Verstappen: I’ll be the one deciding if you get a second date.

The sheer audacity. You have to put the phone down for a second, a wide, incredulous smile on your face. He’s not just playing the game; he’s trying to rewrite the rules.

Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just because you have a world title doesn’t mean you’re getting past the first round with me.

Max Verstappen: Good. I like a challenge.

Max Verstappen: Good night, Y/N.

He used your name. Your actual name. It feels surprisingly intimate after the verbal sparring. And he ended the conversation. He won the last word. He’s in control.

You stare at his final message, a giddy, unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your chest. You have a feeling that Max Verstappen is unlike anyone you have ever met before. And you cannot wait to see him again.

You type back one last message.

Y/N Y/L/N: Good night, Max. Don’t get your hopes up.

You turn your phone off and slide it under your pillow. You lie back in the darkness of your bunk, the gentle rocking of the bus a soothing lullaby. But you know you won’t be sleeping for a while. Your mind is already in Cologne, in a hotel restaurant, sitting across from a man who looks at you like you’re the most terrifying and fascinating puzzle he’s ever seen.

And you think, with a thrill of pure, delicious anticipation, that the show is only just getting started.

***

The two days that follow are a strange, suspended reality. A low-frequency hum of anticipation lives just under your skin, a constant companion through your soundcheck in Cologne, the press interviews, the meet-and-greet with fans. You are physically present for all of it, smiling, charming, hitting your notes. But a part of your mind is elsewhere, replaying a text exchange, dissecting the subtext of every concise, infuriatingly confident message from Max.

He doesn’t text often, but when he does, it’s with purpose.

The morning after your initial conversation, a message appears.

Max Verstappen: Good morning. My travel is booked. I will see you tomorrow.

It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation of a logistic. It’s the least romantic text you’ve ever received, and yet it sends a ridiculous thrill through you. There are no emojis, no playful banter. Just the cold, hard fact that he is coming. He is committed to the objective.

You, on the other hand, play your part.

Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get lost on the way. Big cities can be scary for country boys 😉

His reply takes an hour.

Max Verstappen: I navigate Monaco at 300 kph. I can find the hotel.

You laugh out loud when you read it, earning a strange look from your choreographer.

The day of the date feels like the slow, torturous climb of a rollercoaster. The show that night is electric. You feel alive, every nerve ending tingling with a mixture of performance adrenaline and the knowledge that he is somewhere in the same city, waiting. You pour all of that crackling energy into your set, giving the Cologne audience a performance that feels even more charged, more brazen than the one in Amsterdam. When you get to the Juno position, you hold his imagined gaze, a silent promise hanging in the air of the arena.

Back in your hotel suite, you dismiss your team with breezy assurances that you just want to decompress alone.

“Are you sure?” Laila asks, lingering by the door, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You usually want to order a mountain of fries and dissect the show for at least an hour.”

“I’m sure,” you say, already pulling off your stage-dusted boots. “Just tired tonight. Long day.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced. “Well, text me if you need anything. Or if a certain Dutch national hero happens to get lost and wander into your room.”

You throw a pillow at her, and she ducks out of the room, cackling.

Alone, the silence of the suite buzzes around you. You stand under the spray of the shower, the hot water sluicing away the sweat and glitter of the show, but it can’t wash away the thrumming anticipation. This is different from the usual pre-date jitters. This isn’t about impressing someone. This is a game. A high-stakes match against an opponent who is, in his own way, as much of a champion as you are.

You choose your outfit with the care of a general planning a campaign. Nothing too overt. That would be too easy. You settle on a black silk slip dress. It’s simple, elegant, and whispers rather than shouts. It skims your body, hinting at every curve without clinging. It says, I didn’t try too hard, but you’re going to have a very hard time not thinking about what’s underneath this.

You leave your hair slightly damp, letting it wave naturally. Your makeup is minimal — a touch of mascara, a sheer gloss on your lips. This is not the Y/N from the stage. This is the you he hasn’t seen. The you behind the performance. That, you decide, is the most strategic move of all.

At exactly nine o’clock, your phone buzzes.

Max Verstappen: I’m in the lobby bar. In the corner.

No ‘are you ready?’, no ‘let me know when you’re coming down’. Just a statement of his position. He’s in place. He’s waiting.

Your heart gives a single, hard thump.

Showtime.

***

The hotel bar is the kind of place that specializes in expensive brown liquor and hushed conversations. It’s all dark wood, low lighting, and the quiet clinking of heavy glassware. You spot him immediately.

He’s exactly where he said he’d be, in a discreet booth in the far corner, nursing a glass of what looks like sparkling water. He’s not on his phone. He’s just watching the room with a calm, unnerving stillness. He’s wearing a dark grey jumper that makes his shoulders look even broader than they do in a race suit, and his hair is soft and unstyled. The sight of him, so different from the intense, helmeted athlete or the flustered boy on your stage, sends a fresh jolt of electricity through you.

He sees you the moment you step into the room. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, the rest of the bar melts away. He doesn't smile, but you see a flicker of something in his gaze — appreciation, surprise, something else you can’t quite name. He stands up as you approach, a simple, almost formal gesture of courtesy that feels surprisingly charming.

“Hi,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended.

“Hi,” he replies. His voice is a low rumble that seems to vibrate in the space between you. He gestures to the seat opposite him. “You look … different.”

You slide into the booth, the leather cool against your bare legs. “Different good, or different like I’ve just escaped a glitter factory?”

A small smile finally touches his lips. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp, intense lines. “Different good. Very good.”

A waiter materializes at your elbow. You order a glass of champagne, and Max orders another water.

“No celebration drink?” You ask, arching an eyebrow after the waiter has gone. “I thought you Heineken guys were always on the clock.”

“I’m working tomorrow,” he says simply. “Simulator. Can’t be slow.”

“Ah, yes. The discipline,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table. “Tell me, Max, are you ever not working? Do you ever just … turn it off?”

“Do you?” He counters, his blue eyes sharp and intelligent. He’s not just making conversation; he’s probing, gathering data.

You have to give him a small, impressed smile. “Touché. No, I guess not. Even when I’m ‘off,’ I’m thinking about lyrics, melodies, the next tour …”

“It’s the same,” he nods, seeming to understand completely. “There is always the next race. The next corner. You can’t leave it behind. It’s who you are.”

In that single moment, a bridge forms between your two vastly different worlds. The pop star and the racing driver. On the surface, nothing alike. But underneath, you are both predators, obsessive perfectionists, addicted to the roar of the crowd and the taste of victory. You both live your lives in the unforgiving glare of the public spotlight.

“So,” you say, changing the subject, a playful glint returning to your eyes. “Will you enjoy the show tonight? Or did you need a chaperone to drag you here, too?”

He takes a slow sip of his water, his gaze never leaving yours. “I came on my own this time.” He pauses. “It was good. You are … very good at what you do.”

Coming from him, the simple, unadorned compliment lands with more weight than a thousand gushing reviews. It’s a professional assessment. Champion to champion.

“And you’re very good at what you do,” you reply. “Though I still think it’s mostly just sitting down and turning a wheel.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “You wouldn’t last ten laps.”

“You wouldn’t last one song in my heels.”

“Deal,” he says, his smile widening. “But you have to wear the race suit.”

The waiter arrives with your champagne. You lift the glass, the tiny bubbles catching the light. “To unlikely deals,” you say.

He lifts his water glass. “To keeping up.”

The clink of your glasses hangs in the air. The overture is over. The real match is beginning.

You talk for over an hour. The conversation flows with a surprising ease. He asks you about your songwriting process with a genuine, technical curiosity. You ask him about the psychology of racing, of pushing a machine and your own body to the absolute edge of their limits. You find you are both fluent in the language of pressure.

He’s not what you expected. He’s not arrogant, but he has a deep, unshakable core of self-belief that is more potent than any boast. He’s funny, in a dry, deadpan way. And he’s an intensely focused listener. When you speak, he watches you with an unnerving concentration, as if he’s trying to memorize the very cadence of your voice.

You feel the familiar pull of attraction deepening into something more dangerous. A genuine fascination. You’re enjoying this too much. You’re letting your guard down. Time to retake the offensive.

As he’s explaining the physics of downforce, you stretch your legs out under the table. You let your bare foot brush against his ankle.

He stops talking. Mid-sentence.

It’s just for a second. A tiny, fractional pause. But you see it. A flicker in his eyes. A subtle tightening of his jaw. You’ve breached his defenses.

You pretend it was an accident, pulling your foot back slightly before letting it find his leg again, this time with a little more purpose. You slowly, deliberately, trace the line of his calf with your toes, the silk of your dress whispering against the leather of the booth.

He resumes his explanation of downforce, but his voice is a fraction deeper. He doesn't acknowledge what you're doing. He just keeps talking, his eyes locked on yours, as if he’s daring you to push it further.

Challenge accepted.

You slide your foot higher, your toes finding the rough denim of his jeans at his knee. You press, gently. He continues to speak, his composure on the surface absolute. But you can feel the rigid tension in his leg muscles under your foot. You’re getting to him. The untouchable champion is not so untouchable after all.

You get bolder. You hook your ankle around his, pulling his leg slightly closer to yours. You’re playing a secret, silent game in the middle of a respectable hotel bar, and the illicit thrill of it is intoxicating.

He finishes his point about tyre degradation and then falls silent. He just looks at you, his gaze intense, unreadable. The air between you is thick with unspoken things. Your foot is still hooked around his ankle.

“Are you finished?” He asks, his voice low and steady.

For a second, you think he means with your drink. But the look in his eyes tells you he means something else entirely.

“I’m just getting started,” you whisper.

He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, he puts his napkin on the table, a gesture of finality.

“I have a suite,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. An instruction. “We should go.”

He’s taking back control. Calling the play. And every cell in your body sings in agreement.

“Lead the way, champion,” you say, your voice a purr.

***

The walk from the bar to the elevator is the longest walk of your life. He doesn’t touch you, but you can feel the heat radiating from him. He walks a half-step ahead of you, a silent, dominant presence clearing a path through the lobby. You feel like a satellite caught in his gravitational pull.

Inside the elevator, the silence is deafening. The mirrored walls reflect the two of you, standing a foot apart, not looking at each other but acutely aware of every tiny movement, every breath. The air is so charged you feel like a spark could set it all on fire. You watch his reflection. His jaw is set, his hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. He is a picture of forced composure, a volcano putting a lid on itself.

The soft ding of the elevator arriving at his floor makes you both jump.

He leads you down the hallway to his room, his key card beeping softly as he unlocks the door. He pushes it open and stands back, letting you enter first.

The suite is huge and impersonal, the way all expensive hotel rooms are. A sprawling living area, a minibar, and a wall of windows showing the glittering lights of Cologne. But you don’t see any of it. All you see is him as he closes the door behind you, the solid click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.

The sound seals you in. The public game is over. The private one is about to begin.

He walks past you towards the minibar. “Do you want a drink?” He asks, his back to you. It’s a last, desperate grasp at normalcy. At control.

You’re not going to let him have it.

You walk up behind him, stopping so close you can feel the warmth of his body. You can smell his cologne, a clean, sharp scent of citrus and something woody.

“I don’t want a drink, Max,” you say, your voice low and husky.

He turns around slowly. You’re so close you have to tilt your head back to look up at him. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. The cool, collected man from the bar is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone raw and unguarded.

“Then what do you want?” He asks, his voice rough.

You reach up and place a hand flat on his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against your palm, a frantic, wild rhythm that matches your own.

“I want to know if you can still talk a big game up close,” you whisper, letting your fingers trail up his chest to the collar of his jumper. “Still think you can handle me, champion?”

That’s it. That’s the word. The spark.

He snaps.

His control shatters into a million pieces. In one swift, fluid movement, he has you backed against the solid wood of the door, his body caging yours. One of his hands comes up to brace the door next to your head, the other finds your waist, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard, undeniable proof of his arousal pressed against your stomach.

His face is inches from yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath.

“Handle you?” He growls, his voice a low, guttural sound that vibrates through you. “I have thought about nothing else for two days. Since the moment you put those ridiculous handcuffs on my wrist. I’ve thought about your mouth. I’ve thought about this dress. And I’ve thought about every single word of that fucking song.”

Your mind goes blank. All the witty comebacks, the playful teasing, it all evaporates in the face of this raw, overwhelming honesty. This is what was hiding beneath all that discipline. A ferocious, tightly leashed desire. And you are the one who just snapped the leash.

“Max …” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Don’t talk. Not yet.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s desperate and hungry and furious. It’s two days of tension and a lifetime of control being obliterated in a single, devastating moment. His mouth is hot and demanding, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising force that makes you see stars. He tastes of mint and bottled water and pure, unadulterated need.

You kiss him back with equal ferocity, your hands coming up to tangle in his soft hair, pulling him closer, deeper. You open your mouth to him, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming you with a possessive, masterful confidence. It’s a battle, a fight for dominance, and you are both losing, both winning, both surrendering completely.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, along your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. You arch your back, a low sound of pleasure escaping your lips. His hand at your waist slides lower, cupping your ass, lifting you up and grinding you against him.

“Is this … handling it?” He murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

“You’re getting warmer,” you pant, your brain struggling to form coherent thoughts.

He lifts his head, his eyes blazing, and kisses you again, hard and deep. He walks you backwards, away from the door, his mouth never leaving yours. You stumble over something, but he holds you steady, his arms like steel bands around you. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushes you down gently, following you, his body covering yours, caging you on the mattress.

He breaks the kiss, his chest heaving, and props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. Your dress is rucked up around your thighs, your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen from his. You probably look like a storm just passed through you.

“Okay,” he says, his voice still rough with passion. “Okay.” It’s like he’s trying to reboot his own brain, to find the control again.

But you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t fulfilled your promise.

You reach up and place your hands on his chest, pushing him gently. “My turn,” you say, your voice breathy.

He looks at you, confused, but allows you to push him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He watches you, his eyes full of questions, as you slide off the bed and onto your knees in front of him. You look up at him from the floor, and you see the exact moment recognition dawns in his eyes. It’s the same look he had at the concert. Shock. Awe. Utter, brain-melting disbelief.

“The stage lighting really doesn’t do it justice,” you whisper, repeating your words from the DM. You give him a slow, wicked smile. “Time for your private demonstration.”

You reach out and unbuckle his belt, the metallic click loud in the silent room. You pull the zipper of his jeans down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. His breath hitches. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, clench into tight fists.

You take him into your hand. He’s hot and hard and heavy, and a fresh wave of desire, of power, washes over you. You lean in, your lips brushing against the tip of him, a teasing, feather-light touch. He lets out a low, strangled groan and his head falls back against the headboard.

“Look at me,” you command softly.

His eyes snap open, locking with yours. They are dark, hazy with lust.

“Do you want to try,” you whisper, “this one?”

And you take him into your mouth.

You put every ounce of your skill, your confidence, your audacity into it. This is a performance, but it’s the most intimate one you’ve ever given. It’s slow and deep and decadent. You use your tongue, your lips, your hands, orchestrating his pleasure with the precision of a conductor. You watch his face the entire time, watch the way his jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck cord, the way his eyes squeeze shut as you push him closer to the edge. You’re in complete control, and the power is a heady, intoxicating drug.

He lasts longer than you expect, his famous discipline fighting a losing battle against the pure, overwhelming sensation. His hands come down to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding on, anchoring himself in the storm you’ve created. His breathing is harsh, ragged.

“Y/N …” he chokes out your name, a plea and a prayer.

You know he’s close, on the brink. And just as he’s about to shatter, you pull away.

He lets out a frustrated growl, his eyes snapping open. They are wild, furious, and filled with a desperate need that makes you weak at the knees.

“What are you doing?” He rasps.

You get to your feet, a triumphant smirk on your lips. “Demonstration over,” you say, your voice a little shaky.

For a second, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, in a movement so fast you don't have time to react, he’s on his feet. He grabs your arm, spins you around, and pushes you face down onto the bed.

“My turn,” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, predatory rumble.

He pushes the silk of your dress up to your waist, his hot breath on the back of your neck. His hands explore your body, not with gentleness, but with a hungry, desperate curiosity. He spans your waist, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back.

“You have no idea what you just started,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe.

He parts you with his fingers, and you gasp as his thumb finds your clit, pressing down with a firm, knowing pressure. You moan into the pillow, your carefully constructed control completely gone. You are pure sensation, pure need.

Then, his mouth replaces his hand.

And your world ends.

If your performance was a work of art, his is an act of sheer, focused demolition. There is no finesse, no teasing. It is a direct, relentless, overwhelming assault on your senses. His tongue is masterful, merciless. He finds your rhythm instantly and pushes you, harder, faster, deeper. He’s not performing, he’s claiming. He’s not asking, he’s taking. He’s a champion, and he is determined to win.

You lose all sense of time and space. There is only the bedspread clutched in your fists, the sound of your own helpless moans, and the exquisite, unbearable pleasure he is inflicting on you. Your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the feeling, chasing the release.

“Max, please,” you cry out, not even sure what you’re asking for.

He doesn’t stop. He just holds your hips tighter, his mouth becoming even more insistent. He is pushing you over an edge you didn't even know was there. The pleasure builds and builds, a tight, coiling knot in your stomach, until it becomes unbearable.

And then, it snaps.

Your climax rips through you, a violent, soul-shattering wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the pillow as your body convulses, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling and breathless, completely undone.

He doesn't stop until the last aftershock has faded. He stays there for a moment longer before moving up, collapsing onto the bed beside you, his body slick with sweat. He pulls you against his side, his arm wrapping around you, holding you tight.

You lie there in silence for a long time, the only sound the ragged rhythm of your breathing slowly returning to normal. Your body feels boneless, your mind blissfully blank.

He broke through all your defenses. He met your challenge and raised the stakes to a level you never could have imagined. He didn't just handle you. He conquered you.

You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes are closed, but a small, satisfied smile plays on his lips.

“So,” you say, your voice a wrecked, husky whisper. “Second date?”

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you, his eyes clear and bright, and the smile widens into a genuine, breathtaking grin.

“Copy,” he says. “Send location.”

***

The morning light in Cologne is grey and unforgiving, slicing through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains. You wake slowly, your body a warm, heavy tangle of limbs and satisfaction. For a moment, you don't know where you are. Then you feel it — the solid weight of an arm draped possessively over your waist, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your back.

It all comes rushing back in a dizzying, cinematic flash. The bar. The elevator. The devastating, all-consuming kiss against the door. The demonstration. And his … rebuttal.

A slow smile spreads across your face. You lie still, listening to the sound of his breathing, the quiet hum of the city outside. This is usually the part you hate. The awkward morning-after shuffle, the polite but pointed small talk, the unspoken question of who leaves first. You’re an expert at the clean getaway.

But as you lie there, pinned by the arm of a sleeping world champion, you feel a distinct lack of any desire to escape. You feel … comfortable. Calm. It’s a dangerously unfamiliar sensation.

You carefully, quietly, try to slide out from under his arm. You fail. The arm tightens, and a low, sleepy groan rumbles from his chest. He pulls you back against him, his face nuzzling into the curve of your neck.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” you whisper, your heart giving a little flutter at the casual intimacy of the gesture.

“Bathroom can wait,” he says, his lips brushing against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You surrender, letting your body relax back into his. The five minutes stretch into fifteen, a peaceful, silent bubble in the heart of a bustling hotel. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. You just lie there, existing in the same space, and it feels more natural than it has any right to.

Eventually, the silence is broken by the insistent buzz of a phone on the nightstand. Max groans again, a sound of pure protest this time. He reluctantly untangles himself from you, the loss of his warmth immediate, and leans over to grab the offending device.

He squints at the screen, running a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s my race engineer,” he says, his voice still gravelly. He clears his throat. “I have to … I have a session.”

“The famous simulator,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows, the sheet pooling around your waist.

He looks at you, and for the first time in the clear morning light, you see him without the mask of intensity or the haze of lust. He just looks like a guy who’s been woken up too early. A handsome guy, yes, but a normal one. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. It’s ridiculously endearing.

“Yeah,” he says, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He seems suddenly, uncharacteristically awkward. “I, uh, I have to go.”

Here it is. The pivot. The moment the magic of the night gives way to the harsh reality of the morning.

“Okay,” you say, keeping your voice light and breezy. You start to get out of bed, ready to gather your dress from the floor and perform your signature vanishing act.

“Wait,” he says, and his voice is sharp enough to make you pause.

You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone in one hand, looking at you with that intense, analytical gaze you’re coming to recognize. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a focused seriousness.

“What?” You ask.

He seems to be weighing his words carefully. “This wasn’t … I don’t do this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do what? Have spectacularly hot, mutually satisfying sex with international pop stars? I’m sure it’s a rare occurrence.”

A small smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes remain serious. “No. This. A … one-night thing. It’s not my style.”

“Relax, champion,” you say, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s my demanding career’ speech. I get it. I wrote the platinum-selling album on the subject. No strings, no expectations. It was a great demonstration. End of story.”

You’re protecting yourself, throwing up your usual walls of wit and nonchalance. But the words feel hollow even as you say them.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he says, his gaze unwavering. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping just in front of you. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, and you have to actively force your brain to focus on his face. “I’m saying this isn’t the end of the story. For me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What are you saying, Max?”

“I’m saying I want to see you again,” he says, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Not for a game. Not for a challenge. I just … want to see you.”

The raw, unvarnished honesty of it knocks the air out of your lungs. There are no clever lines, no carefully constructed moves. Just a simple, direct statement of intent. It’s terrifying. And it’s thrilling.

“My schedule is insane,” you hear yourself say, the old excuses coming automatically. “I’m in a different city every other day. And you’re …”

“I know what my schedule is,” he cuts in. “I know what yours is. I looked it up again this morning.” Of course he did. “It’s difficult. It’s not impossible.” He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I want to try.”

You look into his eyes, and you see no games, no pretense. You see the same focus and determination he probably has when he’s hunting down a rival on the last lap of a race. And it’s all directed at you.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across your face. “Okay, Verstappen,” you say softly. “Let’s try.”

***

Trying, it turns out, is a logistical nightmare that feels like the easiest thing in the world.

Your life becomes a chaotic puzzle of time zones, flight paths, and encrypted text messages. It’s a relationship built in the stolen moments between soundchecks and simulator sessions, in quiet hotel rooms in cities you barely have time to see.

It’s a study in contradictions.

You are loud, he is quiet. Your life is a curated performance of joyful chaos, his is a monastic devotion to the millimeter, the microsecond. You thrive on the energy of thousands of screaming fans, he finds his peace in the solitary focus of the cockpit.

And somehow, it works. He becomes your anchor in the whirlwind of your life. You become his escape from the crushing pressure of his.

The first time you go to a race, it’s Monaco. Of course it’s Monaco. You step into the paddock, and it’s like entering another planet. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and expensive perfume, the sound a constant, high-strung symphony of screaming engines and a dozen different languages. It’s the only place on earth where your sequined jumpsuit doesn't even warrant a second glance.

Max meets you by the Red Bull hospitality suite, a rare, genuine smile on his face as he watches you take it all in.

“A bit much, isn’t it?” He says, his hand finding the small of your back.

“Honey, ‘a bit much’ is my brand,” you reply, grinning up at him. “I feel right at home.”

He gets a jealous look from another driver and Max’s hand on your back becomes just a little more possessive. He introduces you to his race engineer, GP, a man with a perpetually amused glint in his eye.

“So you’re the one,” GP says, shaking your hand. “The one who finally managed to knock him off his focus.”

“Oh, I think his focus is perfectly intact,” you say, giving Max a sly wink. “I’m just … recalibrating his suspension.”

GP lets out a bark of laughter. “I like her, Max. Don’t mess this one up.”

You spend the race in the garage, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over your ears. You don’t understand ninety percent of what’s happening, but you understand the tension. You watch the data on the screens, the focused ballet of the pit crew, the raw, primal emotion when Max makes a daring overtake. You see him in his element, a modern-day gladiator in a carbon fibre chariot, and your fascination with him deepens into a profound respect.

He starts showing up to your shows whenever his calendar has a twenty-four-hour gap. He’ll fly from Spa to London, from Monza to Paris, just to stand at the side of the stage and watch you. He never says much. He just stands there, his arms crossed, a small, proud smile on his face as you command the adoration of thousands. He’s your quiet island in the middle of the screaming ocean of your life.

One night, after a show in New York, you’re back in the hotel, exhausted and high on adrenaline. He’s sitting on the couch, watching you pace around the room as you dissect the performance.

“The bridge in ‘Tornado Warning’ was a little pitchy, and I missed my mark on the final chorus choreography …”

He just watches you, his expression calm and steady. “It was amazing,” he says when you finally pause for breath.

“You always say that,” you say, flopping down onto the couch next to him.

“Because it’s always true,” he replies simply. He reaches over and pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. You sigh, your body melting into his, the frantic energy of the show finally draining away.

“How do you do it?” You whisper into his neck. “How do you stay so … calm?”

“It’s easy,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re loud enough for both of us.”

***

For his birthday, you decide to give him a gift only you can.

“I’m writing a song for you,” you announce one evening over a crackly FaceTime call. He’s in Singapore, you’re in L.A.

He groans, but he’s smiling. “Please don’t. My team already gives me enough shit for dating you. And Lando will be insufferable.”

“Oh, it’s too late,” you say sweetly. “The hook is already written. It’s very … aerodynamic.”

The song, titled ‘Pole Position’, drops two weeks later. It’s a pulsing, synth-heavy, ridiculously sexy track. It’s also the most explicit thing you’ve ever written. It’s filled with barely-veiled metaphors about G-forces, chicanes, and finishing first. The bridge is a breathy, spoken-word masterpiece that contains the line, “They say you’re the master of the late-breaking … I can attest to your stamina.”

It’s an instant, scandalous, global smash hit.

Max texts you the day it’s released.

Maxie ❤️: You are going to be the death of me.

You text back: You love it.

There’s a long pause.

Maxie ❤️: The car is on its way to your video shoot.

You had somehow, through a combination of dazzling charm, irrefutable brand synergy logic, and possibly a little light blackmail, convinced the Red Bull marketing team to let you use one of their F1 cars for the music video.

The video is a masterpiece of high-gloss camp. You, writhing on the chassis of an RB19 in a leather catsuit. You, licking champagne off a winner’s trophy. You, sitting in the cockpit, running your hands over the steering wheel with a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face.

The video breaks the internet. Red Bull’s social media engagement goes up by 500 percent. Red Bull sends you a case of champagne with a note that says, “Well played.”

Max’s response is more succinct.

He wins the next race in Austin in a dominant, lights-to-flag victory. As he crosses the finish line, GP’s voice crackles over the radio.

“Okay, Max, that is P1. A brilliant, brilliant drive, mate. Absolutely flawless.”

There’s a pause, filled only with the sound of Max’s heavy breathing and the whine of the downshifting engine.

Then, his voice comes over the global broadcast, clear and steady.

“Yeah, that was a good one,” he says. “That one was for you, Y/N.”

You’re watching from the green room of a talk show in New York, and you burst into tears. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.

***

Time blurs, the way it does when you’re happy. Seasons pass in a flurry of checkered flags and sold-out stadiums. Your love story becomes a strange, accepted part of the cultural landscape. The scandalous pop star and the stoic racing champion. The odd couple who, against all odds, make perfect sense.

You are there in the suffocating humidity of Singapore, the glamour of Las Vegas, the historic grandeur of Silverstone. He is there in the wings of Madison Square Garden, the front row of the O2 Arena, the chaotic backstage of Glastonbury.

Then comes the race in Abu Dhabi.

It’s the culmination of a long, brutal season. He’s been fighting tooth and nail, a relentless battle for every point. It all comes down to this one race, under the desert lights. If he wins, he secures his fifth World Championship.

You’re in the garage, a nervous wreck. You’re twisting the strap of your paddock pass, your heart hammering in time with the screaming engines. You watch the race unfold on the monitors, your stomach in knots. It’s a tense, strategic affair. He doesn’t put a wheel wrong. He is a machine, a perfect fusion of man and carbon fiber.

He crosses the line. He wins.

The garage explodes. A tidal wave of joy and relief washes over everyone. Engineers are hugging, mechanics are crying. You are just standing there, tears streaming down your face, a sob of pure pride caught in your throat.

Later, after the podium, the interviews, the whirlwind of celebration, you find him in his driver’s room. He’s sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, the emotion of the day finally catching up to him.

You walk over and sit next to him, placing a hand on his back.

He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. He gives you a watery, exhausted smile. “We did it.”

“You did it,” you say softly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “You’re incredible.”

He leans in and rests his forehead against yours. “Couldn’t do it without you,” he whispers. “My lucky charm.”

A few days later, you’re on stage in London. It’s the first show of your new world tour, a bigger, more ambitious production than ever before. The “arrest” segment with the fuzzy handcuffs has long been retired, replaced by new, even more elaborate gags.

Halfway through the set, as you’re catching your breath between songs, you scan the crowd. And you see him.

He’s not at the side of the stage. He’s in the audience, standing in the middle of the crowd with Victoria and some of his friends. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, but you’d recognize him anywhere. He looks happy, relaxed, the weight of the championship finally lifted. He’s just a guy at a concert, watching his girlfriend.

He catches your eye. He smiles and gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod.

And an idea, a crazy, perfect, full-circle idea, sparks in your mind.

You grin at your band, a silent, mischievous signal that you’re going off-script. They look confused but nod along, ever the professionals.

You turn back to the microphone, a dramatic, serious expression on your face.

“London,” you say, and the arena quiets down, sensing a shift in the show. “I’m afraid I have to interrupt this evening’s proceedings for a very serious matter.”

A confused murmur ripples through the crowd.

“It has come to my attention,” you continue, your voice ringing with theatrical gravity, “that there is a criminal in our midst. A repeat offender.”

The crowd starts to buzz, a mixture of confusion and excitement.

“This man is guilty of multiple offenses,” you declare, starting to pace the stage. “Disturbing the peace. Driving too fast. Stealing way, way too many trophies. And, most egregiously … he stole my heart.”

A collective “aww” rises from the audience as they start to understand.

You look directly at Max, a spotlight operator catching your cue and swinging a beam of light onto him. The crowd around him erupts as they realize who it is. He buries his face in his hands for a second, a mixture of embarrassment and laughter, before looking back up at you, his eyes shining.

“Yeah, you,” you say, pointing at him, your voice softening. “In the stupid baseball cap. The five-time World Champion who looks like he just won the lottery.”

You motion to your stage manager in the wings. He whispers into his headset. A moment later, your prop master runs out and hands you something.

Fuzzy. Pink.

The arena explodes. The sound is deafening. It’s a roar of recognition, of joy, of love for the public, ridiculous story that has become yours.

“Security,” you say into the microphone, your voice thick with emotion but a wide, triumphant grin on your face. “Bring him to me. He’s got a life sentence to serve.”

They part the crowd for him, and he makes his way to the stage, a look of pure love on his face. He’s not the flustered, overwhelmed man he was all those years ago. He’s a king, walking onto a stage that is as much his as it is yours.

He bounds up the stairs, and you meet him in the center of the stage. The roar of the crowd fades into a distant hum.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice for your ears only.

“You started it,” you whisper back, your eyes sparkling with happy tears.

You take his wrist, the familiar fuzzy cuff soft against his skin. “Max Emilian Verstappen,” you declare to the cheering arena, “for the crime of being illegally handsome, impossibly talented, and for loving a chaotic pop star with your whole heart …”

You click the other cuff onto your own wrist, linking you together.

“… I sentence you to a lifetime with me.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just leans in, cups your face in his free hand, and kisses you. It’s a kiss filled with years of history, of stolen moments and public declarations, of quiet mornings and screaming crowds. It’s a kiss that says home.

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

summary: due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.

a/n: I can't say enough how blown away I am that y'all loved the offer so much. it was just meant to be a slutty lil one off for kinktober, a way for me to play around with an idea that had been lingering in the back of my head for awhile, and a chance for me to try my hand at writing for dex. your excitement made me so excited, and i've been having so much fun with this. thank you thank you thank you again. 🖤

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»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

session one: the offer

session two: the rules

session three: the complication

session four: the final session

termination: the escape

Baelor Breakspear Targaryen

It was not uncommon for the princes of the realm to participate in tourneys still, particularly when they occurred in King's Landing or Summerhall or wherever they may have been currently residing.

A tourney was thrown in honour of the King's nameday, and Prince Baelor announced that he would participate!

"You are entering the lists, Father?" You asked over dinner, eyes wide as you watched him. Other members of the family surrounded you, your husband to your left and Baelor at the head, and he nodded, smiling gently.

"Yes, dear girl, I intend to," he answered simply, refocusing on cutting his bit of chicken.

"Is it not dangerous?" You asked, lower lip pouting a little as you reached for your cup of wine. He smiled at that, chewing his bite before responding.

"All sport is dangerous, but that should not deter us." And he did that smile of his again, the sage, all-knowing one, and the two of you looked into each other's eyes for a long moment. You were always the first to look away. You believed he enjoyed that power over you immensely.

"Well, you must fight gallantly then," you huffed, then settled back into your seat and refocused on your plate. Valarr just snorted, mumbling something about his father being unable to be anything but honourable, and you smirked into your wine.

+++

Though it was not against all odds (him being the Crown Prince and all), many a seasoned warrior still fought with all their might, and Baelor managed to prove his remaining mettle and defeat all opponents to win the tourney.

You sat right in the front row beside the King and Valarr, hands clenched into tight fists. You had watched each match with rapt attention, eyes wide and a little wild, praying rapidly in your mind that not only would nothing happen, but Baelor would come out victorious.

When he unhorsed his final opponent, and raised his lance in victory, you were on your feet, clapping like anything. The cheers were loud, growing louder when he whipped his helm off and smiled triumphantly. He turned to look at the Royal box, to look at you, and you felt a shiver go down your spine.

He was shiny with sweat, a little cut and bruised, a spattering of blood on one cheek, but he was smiling and looking at you with those eyes and you felt faint and too hot and alive all at once. You beamed in return, clasping your hands together at your chest as you waited to walk down to the tourney ground.

As Baelor dismounted and his squire brought him some water and a cloth, all of you in the Royal box made your way down to the tourney ground to present the trophies and prizes. A little platform had been made up for you all to stand on, and you practically vibrated as Baelor stepped up and smiled at his father.

"My boy," King Daeron said warmly, reaching out to gently press a hand to the top of his son's head. "You have been declared victorious in this tournament, given your prize, and now you must crown someone else." The herald reached forward and handed Baelor a circlet made of a myriad of pretty pink and purple flowers.

"My Prince," the herald began loudly, "who do you wish to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty?" The crowd cheered loudly, whoops and shouts and claps echoing all around.

Baelor held the crown like a precious thing on his palm, then he turned and walked in your direction, meeting your eyes. As he stopped right in front of you, an "awww" raised from the crowd, the clapping beginning again.

"I wish to crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty, dear girl," he said, reaching up and gently placing the crown of flowers on your head, taking a moment to ensure it was on securely.

Everyone clapped, even King Daeron and your husband, smiling as they watched Baelor caress your hair a little before stepping back. Baelor was widowed and you were the highest ranking young lady in attendance, not to mention his own daughter-in-law. It would only be right for him to give it to you. Not to mention that he wished to give it to you regardless.

You beamed, your eyes bright and your skin hot, your smile so wide it was almost painful. You blinked rapidly up at him, unable to say anything as you stared into his eyes as he placed the crown on your head and stepped back.

You touched his hand quickly, just one press on top of his gauntlet as everyone made to leave, a barely there movement no one would register. But his smile stretched and he glanced in your direction for a moment before walking forward to be at his father's side as everyone headed back to the Keep.

+++

Baelor arrived a little late to the feast, entering once everyone had already been seated at the Royal table. He had spent a little too long nursing his aches and pains and had not realised that he was needed already.

On his way up to the table, lords stopped him to congratulate him, commending his fighting and valour, saying that he had proven the name "Breakspear" true again. He shook hands, smiled politely, and by the time he made it to the head table, the musicians were already stepping up and beginning to play, lords and ladies moving to the empty space to begin dancing.

He sat down with a huff, smiling first at his father and then his son, attempting to ignore the aches pulsing all over his body. Valarr did not stay long after that, disappearing into the crowd to find his friends and make merry with them, which left one empty seat, and then you.

You were quick to slip into Valarr's vacant seat, barely waiting for him to have stepped off the dais before sliding into it and turning to face Baelor. Your eyes were still bright, as if the spark had not diminished in the time you spent dressing for the feast.

"How do you fare, dear girl?" He asked softly as you placed your hands on the arm of his seat, smiling down at you.

You were wearing a beautiful dress, melding the red and black of House Targaryen, your shoulders exposed to the air, the dress tight and form-fitting at your torso. You always wore such dresses when you wished him to lose sense, when you wished him to ravish you.

"I am extremely well, Father," you sang, leaning so close into his space that you toed the line of propriety. He raised an eyebrow at you in warning but you just giggled a little. "Though you should call me 'your grace', for it was you who crowned me queen!"

Baelor smirked at that, shaking his head as a chuckle left him. Carefully, he dragged his pinky finger along your hand, the gentlest of grazes, but you still shivered as if he had done something far more drastic.

"Will you dance with me, Father?" You asked quickly, bright smile on your face as you looked up at him innocently. Baelor thought of all the bruises along his body, thought of the aches still coursing through him, and he wished so badly to refuse. But you could see the deliberation in his eyes and you pulled out your best look of pleasing. "Please, Father? Valarr has disappeared already and I wish to have one dance this evening?"

Baelor sighed, long and low and shook his head for a moment before nodding. He should have known he could never say no to you, not when you looked at him with that pout and those eyes.

"Alright, my girl, come then," and he stood with a muffled groan, gripping the back of the chair a little as he held his hand out to you. You bounced on your feet as he led you to the dance floor, smiling so broadly one would think it was your husband taking you.

He attempted a sense of propriety, tried to keep a bit of distance between you as the music played and you moved (him rather stiff), but you pressed yourself close, looked into his eyes, held his hand tightly and danced without fear. How could you not?

"You do so enjoy playing with fire," he sighed, glancing at you from beneath hooded eyes. You burned inside, your core suddenly hot and your skin ablaze. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with promise, and your breath turned impossibly light, your insides tingling.

"Father..." you whispered, something akin to a moan but too low for anyone to hear.

"If you wish to retire, do so," he told you firmly, "for I will not be long at the feast."

Though his words were simple, the message hidden under it was nothing of the sort. You nodded, licking your lips and staring at him a moment longer before you moved back and curtsied to him.

"Your grace, I fear I am far more tired than I expected after the excitement of the day. I shall take my leave," you spoke loudly, obviously, curtseying again as you looked at Baelor with a glint in your eye and turned and swiftly left.

+++

You went to Baelor's chambers rather than your own, and once inside the door you were quick to rid yourself of your gown. You ripped at the laces, shoved it off your shoulders and kicked it into the corner, breathing quickly as the cool air brushed your flushed skin. You wore only a thin shift, the straps sitting gently on your shoulders, and the crown of flowers he had bestowed on you earlier was balanced precariously on your head. You straightened it then sat on the bed and waited.

Baelor was not long. He walked quickly despite the pain in his limbs, and when he burst through the door, you were on him in seconds, hands grasping his doublet tight as you squealed and kissed him harshly on the mouth.

"Father!" You yelped happily, giggling as he wrapped you up in his arms and hoisted you into the air, your legs wrapping around his waist.

"Mmh!" He kissed you again, mouth heavy and hot on yours, licking between your lips. "You insolent, irresistible, little thing," he grumbled, moving down to press kisses to your neck. You tightened your legs around him, your hands pressing to his shoulders when he suddenly paused with a wince. "Ah!"

You pulled back, brows furrowing with concern as you moved your hand away swiftly.

"Father?" You asked, voice heavy with concern but he just shook his head, setting you down and groaning a little as he undid his doublet and shirt and looked down at the dark bruise blooming over his shoulder. You gasped, coming forward to gently touch the edges of it, careful not to put any pressure on it.

"Consequence of the joust," he sighed, groaning a little as he shrugged off the rest of his shirt.

"Oh Father, why did you not tell me?" You asked, face pinched in concern. "You neither had to dance nor come here, surely you require rest instead..."

He huffed, shaking his head and grasping your waist to yank you against him again.

"I am alright," he told you, leaning down and kissing you on the mouth again. "Nothing I have not handled before. I am not so old that I cannot handle a battle and a woman in the same day."

You giggled at that, biting your lip and looking up at him as he bent down to kiss you again. Instead of allowing it, you brushed his lips with yours then pulled away, grasping his hand and bringing him to the bed, getting him to lie in it before slowly clambering on to straddle his waist.

His breaths came out as shaky little puffs, his hands instantly on your waist, grasping you tightly there as you bent down and began pressing soft kisses to the edges of his bruise.

"Let me take care of you tonight Father," you whispered, "you have done enough for the day." He groaned, licking his lips and holding you tighter.

The crown on your head tilted down and fell onto your forehead a little. You reached up to take it off but Baelor's hand shot up and held on.

"Leave it on," he ordered, "I wish to fuck my queen of love and beauty." And you practically melted into a puddle as you set it right and hurriedly leaned down to kiss him hungrily on the mouth...

Maekar Targaryen

You smirked as you watched Maekar on his horse, armour on, helm in one arm as he readied to head for the tourney ground. The way he moved on the horse was far too enticing, rigid and battle ready, his hips smooth and moving with the wild beast. Because of course his horse would be a temperamental thing too.

"Good luck, Father," you called, twisting back and forth at the hips innocently, hands clasped together as you looked up at him.

He looked down at you from the horse and grunted. But his eyes were alive, ablaze, and you wished to climb up there and kiss him for all to see. You had already given him your favour, pressed a kiss to his mouth in the privacy of his chambers. Now you simply waited to see him return victorious.

You went up to the Royal box and sat beside Aerion, chattering his ear off about his father until he grunted and told you to cease your nattering or he would throw you onto the tourney field himself. You knew he was not serious but you felt annoyed and petulant so you decided to go quiet anyway.

And then your anger was forgotten as you watched Maekar fight in the lists. He was... relentless. You understood why they called him the Anvil, for he never flinched, never broke. However much strength, however much pressure, a knight used to attack him, he did not waver. He grunted and groaned like a wild animal, and you were rapt, obsessed, on the edge of your seat, biting your lip, rubbing your thighs together. Oh how you could not wait for the evening...

When he eventually emerged victorious, you were the first to jump up and clap, watching him proudly. He raised his shattered lance triumphantly, a roar leaving him, and the crowd cheered with it, a cacophony of sound as his horse reared up and neighed.

You were impatient to get down there, to see him again, and bounced on your feet as you slowly followed the King and Aerion down to the tourney field for the prize giving. Maekar dismounted his horse swiftly, tossing his helm at his squire carelessly and grabbing for a cup from an attendant. He chugged it quickly, panting relentlessly, and wiped at his face with the clean cloth the boy handed him, cleaning away the sweat on his forehead and cheeks.

You all went and stood on the platform, waiting for Maekar to join you. He kneeled in front of his father as King Daeron pronounced him the winner, smirking a little to himself. There were still smudges of dirt and blood on him, turning his beard brown and grey in places, and you could not help but be charmed by that as well. When he stood, the herald announced that he must now choose a Queen of Love and Beauty and handed him the coronet of flowers.

You assumed he would toss them over his shoulder and walk off, claiming he did not need to waste his time with such frivolity. He rolled his eyes at the notion, and the crowd was quite sure he would not bother either, but rather than doing either of those things, he clenched it a little in his hand and walked straight up to you. He did not say anything, just dumped it on your head, patting it down a little harshly and making you wince as the leaves caught in your hair.

Your lips parted and you stared up at him, eyes shining as the crowd whooped and hollered in the background. He was watching you with careful eyes, something akin to care and vulnerability shining there, and you smiled shyly, pressing one hand to your cheek a little. He grunted with satisfaction, chucking you under the chin distractedly, then swiftly turned and walked away, ordering for a bath and a ‘fucking good jug of wine or else’. 

You skipped your way back into the castle, holding your head high and humming to yourself. You were his queen of love and beauty! That was all you cared about now and for the rest of time. For all his gruffness and grumpiness, for all his anger and punishments, he loved you. Not only that, but he loved you enough to perform such a proclamation. Oh how you wanted to jump on him right at that moment. 

There was still far too much time left before you would begin readying for the feast, and though you tried not to make it obvious, you meandered your way around to Maekar’s chambers. You knocked politely on the door, rocking back and forth on your heels as you waited. There was an annoyed grunt on the inside, something along the lines of ‘tell them to fuck off’ and an attendant opened the door. 

“My Lady, the Prince is about to bathe, could I pass along a message?” The man was young, around your own age, and you smiled sweetly at him. 

“Who is it?” Came a voice from behind him, and your smile widened. 

“‘Tis me!” You called in a sing-song, listening to him grunt before there was some more shuffling and he appeared at the attendant’s shoulder. 

“Allow her in and dismiss yourself,” he told him in a gruff voice, brooking no space for a response. The man’s eyes widened, most likely wondering how much this toed the line of impropriety, but luckily did not voice any such concern. He nodded and slipped out of the room, disappearing quickly down the hall as you slammed the door shut behind him and skipped into Maekar’s chambers. 

The bath was ready, steaming in its place on the rug by the hearth. Maekar was now devoid of armour and shirt, standing by a little table with a goblet of wine and jug, pouring himself a cup. He wore a pair of loose black linen trousers and he was still slick with sweat, shining in the dim light from the window and fire. 

You licked your lips as you stared at him, tracing your eyes over the lines of his body, over the thick muscle and pale skin, over the scars and marks that littered him and the new cuts and bruises that were blooming all over. His hair was dishevelled, and a little dribble of wine ran down into his beard when he pulled the cup away from his lips. 

Finally, he glanced over to you, raising an eyebrow when he saw the way you bit your lip and gazed at him with hungry eyes. He smirked, slowly putting the cup down and licking his own lips. He was confident from his win, still high on the battle, and in a teasing mood. You were the only one who should bear the brunt of that. 

He moved closer to you, and it was only then that you noticed he had something clenched in his hand. He unfurled his fingers and gripped the little piece of fabric between his thumb and pointer finger, holding it out for you to see. You smiled brightly, clenching your thighs together and looking from your smallclothes to his face. 

“You wished for me to put it back on you, did you not?” He asked smugly, watching you swallow harshly and nod. You took a small step closer to him, blinking slowly as you looked up at him. 

“Yes, but now I would rather keep them off,” you teased, lunging to grab for them. But he pulled his hand back just in time, smirking at the little huff you let out as you began to pout. 

“Hm, tempting, but no.” He clicked his tongue and reached over, wrapping an arm around your waist and hoisting you against him. You gasped, hands pressing to his shoulders as you stumbled, your entire weight falling against his torso. He stayed steady, the exact same way he had done during the tourney, and you gripped him a little tighter. “You must be obedient this evening, little vixen,” he spoke in a low voice, the rough gravel in it making you shiver and pant like a pup in its first heat. “I will not tolerate your teasing this night. I will put these back on you, I will kiss you fiercely, then you will go and sit on my bed obediently as I bathe. Once I have finished, perhaps I will feel in a more giving mood.” 

You were frozen in shock, staring at him as your pulse thrummed. This was a different dynamic altogether. Usually it was you teasing him until his breaking point, you poking and prodding until he lost patience and gave you what you truly wanted. This? This new control he was demonstrating, not even allowing you the chance to attempt annoyance? Oh this was new and delicious. 

He bent down to his knees then, lifting one of your feet and threading them through the smallclothes. He did the same with the other, then rose up as he pulled them up your legs. He sat them snugly on your hips, and patted you between the thighs, smirking when you clenched and shivered. 

“Good girl,” he mumbled, then walked past you and toward the bath, shoving his own trousers down and stepping into the water, completely ignoring your presence. 

You huffed, staring at him in disbelief. In an act of indignation, you began undoing the laces of your dress, reaching behind you to hurriedly untie them and loosen your gown before slipping it off and standing there in just your shift. Maekar turned his head back, glanced at you, then refocused on washing himself. 

You clenched your jaw and threw yourself on his bed, climbing onto it and crawling your way to the head. At least you would have a nice view of him from there. 

“Leave the crown on,” he called then, running the washcloth up his arms. “I want to see how hard I must fuck you to make it fall off.” 

You and Frank are bickering as fucking usual, and honestly, Robby’s just about had enough of it.

Some days it’s amusing, other days it borders on cute, ‘cause Robby knows what it is. Like two siblings competing for daddy’s attention (Jack’s words, not his). It’s healthy—you and Frank push each other to be better, and so far the only time it’s gotten in the way of things is when one or both of you start getting a little too heated in front of patients.

Because Frank and Yolanda go back and forth all the time, throwing barbs and riffing off each other, and then they move on. It’s a little more real between you and Frank, though, a little meaner, a little more genuine, and it has, on more than one occasion, resulted in someone storming off once whatever job that needs doing is done.

Still, no one has suffered, no mistakes have been made. It just gets a little tense sometimes.

Right now is one of those times. Robby already has a headache. He hasn’t been sleeping well and he hasn’t had anything to eat in over six hours. The three of you are with a patient who’s been nothing but un-fucking-pleasant since being brought back, bitching about anything and everything.

Robby is trying to explain to the man why it’s taking so long to get him to CT, that they can’t just roll him back there. And, then he’s trying to explain why it’s important to get the scan in the first place.

The whole time he can hear you and Frank muttering where you’re both propped against the wall, leaning side by side, and to the untrained eye, it might look like you’re friends—heads turned, standing close, both smiling.

But, Robby knows better. He recognizes those smiles, the sharp edge to them. Smiles that read ‘I can and will fuck you up’, and he has no doubt about it.

“If you would’ve just followed my lead, we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me for prioritizing a bleeding head lac over the possibility of a fucking tumor we wouldn’t be able to do anything about.”

“Head lacs bleed. It’s what they do. It’s superficial.”

“You couldn’t even fucking see anything, Francis.”

“Oh, fuck off—”

Robby massages his forehead, drags his hand down his face, then forces a close-lipped smile at Mr. Porter.

“We’ll get you up there as soon as we can, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone’s been saying for the last two hours,” the man huffs, frowning only to relax his face when it tugs on his fresh stitches. “You’d think the big boss around here would be able to get shit done, but you’re just as fucking useless as everyone else.”

Robby is perceptive enough to notice that the bickering to his left has stopped.

“We’re all just trying to do the best we can with what we’ve got, Mr. Porter,” Robby says mildly, “I may be in charge, but I’m no better than anyone else.”

“No, you’re fucking worse.”

“Mr. Porter—” you try to cut in, but Robby holds a hand up to stop you, which gives the patient more space to spew his bullshit.

“None of you people know what you’re doing! All these fucking 12-year-old nurses stabbing me, little bitch over there playing Dr. fucking Frankenstein with my face,” he gestures toward the wall, referring to you.

Robby opens his mouth to call him out, but before he can—

“Hey, watch it,” Frank bites, any of that cocky amusement he usually wears gone from his face as he stares at Mr. Porter. “You’d be down a couple pints of blood if Dr. Frankenstein hadn’t stitched that up.”

Something warm sparks in Robby’s chest. Frank standing up for you when he had just been going in on you for those stitches.

“I’ll gladly rip them out if you’d like,” you say, eyes bright with irritation.

“You fucking see this?” Mr. Porter looks to Robby. “What kinda hospital you runnin’ where your doctors can just act like this? You let them walk all over you like a little bitch?”

Robby doesn’t care. He really, truly doesn’t. This little tantrum is nothing compared to some of the verbal lashings he’s received over the years.

“Do not talk to him like that.” Frank.

“You need to watch your fucking tone.” You.

“It’s fine,” Robby calls, that warmth spreading inside of him a little more.

“Looks like your fuckin’ dogs are better trained to take care of you than your patients,” Mr. Porter snaps. He’s getting red in the face, and Robby glances at the vitals monitor to see his heart-rate starting to climb little by little. “How’d you manage to do that, huh? You got ‘em clicker trained, or you use something else?”

The implication isn’t lost on anyone in the room. Robby feels blood start to rise to his cheeks, skin flushing, actually a little speechless because he hasn’t been accused of that before.

At the same time, both you and Langdon take a step forward, and it’s like watching a fucking dance routine. The two of you are usually in sync during traumas, something that irks both of you, but this… this is something else. You fall into it so easily.

“Oh, Mr. Porter, your vitals are fluctuating. How are you feeling?”

“We’ve got increased respirations and heart-rate, starting to get tachycardic. Mr. Porter—hey, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can fucking hear you, I’m fine!”

“Agitation post head injury. AMS?”

Robby shouldn’t let you play this game, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t entertaining. Mr. Porter is fine. The two of you are just riling him up.

“That pulse just keeps rising. Mr. Porter, if we can’t regulate that heartbeat, we’re gonna have to do something called cardioversion, okay? It’s when we shock your heart to—”

“What? No, get the fuck away from me!”

“Mr. Porter, please try to calm down.”

“He’s getting combative. Get some Haldol drawn up.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Robby holds both hands up, unable to hide his chuckle. “Back off, you two.”

You turn to look at him, put on an expression of fake concern, “but, Dr. Robby, if we can’t calm him down, however will we intubate him for his procedure?”

“You are not shoving a fucking tube down my throat!”

“Go,” Robby urges, staring at both you and Frank, the latter fisting a hand in your jacket and tugging you out of the room with him.

Robby watches you two walk away, Frank letting go of you after a while as you keep heading in the same direction.

“Alright then, Mr. Porter, as I’ve said before, we’ll get you up to CT as soon as possible. If you need anything, there’s the nurse call button.”

“Fuck you,” the man spits.

Robby cringes like he’s sorry, “we offer many services here, but unfortunately that is not one of them. We’ll check back in later.”

He leaves after that, eyes searching for his most problematic residents, but when he can’t find them he looks to Dana who nods toward the little hallway that leads from the pitt into the greater hospital.

After rubbing some sanitizer into his hands, Robby makes his way out, looks both ways when he reaches the stairwell to find you and Frank on the halfway platform in your usual bickering stance. Frank’s leaning forward, bent at the waist to get in your face, and you’ve got a hip cocked out as you argue with your hands.

It never stops.

“Hey, brats,” Robby calls for both of you, could laugh at how you turn at the same time with wide eyes, “with me. Now.”

The way that you and Frank follow him without any question makes Robby think about the clicker training comment. Honestly, sometimes it might be better if he kept the two of you on leashes.

Privacy is necessary for this conversation, mostly because it will likely turn into a screaming match, so Robby leads everyone to the elevators, and the three of you make it all the way to the top floor to the sleep department. It being the middle of the day, there are no studies running, so it’s essentially vacant.

He ushers you into one of the rooms, shuts the door, then looks between both of you and commands, “sort it out.”

“What?”

Robby glares at you then clarifies, “whatever the fuck you two have going on needs to be taken care of, so take care of it.”

“Robby, dude, we’re—we’re cool, right?” Frank looks over at you expectantly, “we’re cool. We were both just pissed ‘cause that dickhead—”

“That’s the fucking point. That was the first time I’ve seen you work together as a real team, and it was, what, just to upset a patient?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Okay, so firstly, fuck that guy. Secondly, the reason we… me and Langdon—”

“Langdon and I,” Frank corrects quietly, and you’ve make a helpless little noise while waving at him as if to say ‘you see what I have to deal with’.

“Anyway, we just didn’t—that guy just—”

“Fuck, just say it,” Frank groans only to say it for you, “we jumped in ‘cause he was being an asshole to you, Robby. I’ll take his bullshit, and she will too, but you will not. We won’t let you.”

Robby blinks. He has his arms crossed over his chest, head dipped a little to aid in his angry mentor glower, but now he raises his eyebrows in interest.

“You felt protective over me,” Robby states more than asks. “You two do realize I’m a grown fucking man. I’ve been dealing with shit like that since the two of you were in diapers.”

Frank’s face takes on a pink tint, and at the same time, Robby clocks the movement of you tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

And, while you’re on the subject of his role in this dynamic—

“I’ve let the whole ‘who can be daddy’s favorite’ thing go on for too long. I thought it was working to push both of you to be better doctors, but it’s clearly fuckin’ not if this is the only way the two of you will actually work together as a team.”

A strangled noise gets trapped in Frank’s throat, something like a chuckle that he’s trying to stifle. Robby squints at him, then over at you, the way you keep twisting your mouth from side to side to keep from smiling.

“What?”

Neither of you reply. Instead, you end up staring at one another, and Robby is floored at the fucking telepathic communication the two of you seem to have. Little eyebrow twitches, subtle nods, and when did that start happening?

“What the actual fuck are you two doing?”

Two pairs of eyes are on Robby, and they look—you both look—calm. Too calm.

“You think that’s the only way we can work as a team?” Frank asks, voice lower than Robby is used to hearing it.

Both of you start taking slow strides toward him, careful, languid steps that look a little predatory in a not entirely unpleasant way.

“It’s the only time I’ve seen you work that well together,” Robby’s all rasp, his skin prickling as he tries to suss out where this is going.

“And, do you like it when Langdon and I work as a team?” you prompt. The way you’re looking at him, both of you, all slow blinks and something hopeful.

Are you—is this— yeah, so that’s what this has been about.

Robby blinks, looks from one set of hungry eyes to the other, then laughs through his nose. Okay, then. If this is the game, he can play it. In fact, Robby is more than happy to.

He answers the question, “I do,” then goes on, “seeing the two of you work with each other instead of against is really something.” And, because he knows what it is you both so desperately wanna fucking hear from him, Robby tacks on the ever sought after, “makes me proud.”

Frank’s eyes go wide while yours grow hooded, his lips parting in slight surprise while you wet yours with the tip of your tongue.

Robby doesn’t bother hiding his smug smile. He’s finally unlocked the secret.

“You want to keep making me proud?”

It’s kind of incredible how in sync the two of you really are. You even nod the same way, the same pace, murmur, “yeah,” in the same breathless tone.

Robby uncrosses his arms, opening his posture more, unzips his hoodie but doesn’t take it off. He watches the two of you watch him, bobbing throats and flitting gazes.

He’s taught residents who’ve harbored feelings for him in the past, but this is different. Robby’s been teaching both of you for four years now. You’re obviously much younger than him, but it’s not like you and Langdon are fresh out of med school. You’re grown adults who Robby has always gotten along with even if you drive him fucking crazy sometimes.

And, he knows it’s not just some fleeting little crush for either of you. He sees and feels the respect and admiration that you and Langdon have for him. Have always had. Even when you don’t agree with a call that Robby makes, you still yield to him, remember that he’s the one in charge.

Just like now.

Arms hanging loosely at his sides, Robby looks from Langdon then to you, then takes a long breath and relaxes against the door.