Rafe's slut

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

Though he did not allow his irritation to be as obvious as she thought it would be. Strangely enough, Katelle saw this as a challenge and seemed to grow braver with each moment that passed.

Aerion stood up quickly, though he ensured to keep his eyes on her, in the hopes to anticipate her next movements. She circled him slowly, her heart thundering out of her chest. She seemed to be taken over by adrenaline which caused her body to make choices that her mind had not yet agreed to.

She ran at him, but this time he had readied himself fully, learning not to underestimate her again. She made contact with him, but instead of falling the same as before, he moved his body out of the way and used his free hand to combat her body, causing her to flip over. Katelle groaned as her body connected with the floor below- the seemingly soft grass betraying its description and feeling like a pile of bricks.

Aerion sucked air through his teeth as he watched the impact, an unfamiliar emotion entering his chest- perhaps guilt? He did not know, he had never felt such an emotion before.

The quickness of his movement meant that he was now a few paces from her, and he watched as she now lay on the floor, her arm covering her eyes.

"Kat?" He called curiously, not allowing his growing panic to be known.

She did not answer.

"Katelle?" He called once again. Still nothing.

He tutted in frustration before walking closer to her, and stopped so that he stood over her. He could not see her face, yet he could, however, see her chest move upwards and downwards as she breathed heavily.

"Are you quite-"

Katelle took advantage of his positioning and used a firm hand to grip his ankle, and then tugged downwards as harshly as she could. This caused Aerion to wobble and fall downwards towards her, and in turn meant that Katelle was able to flip him over so that she lay on top of him.

It was now the Prince's turn to experience the harshness of the floor below, the beautiful whiteness of his hair now overshadowed by the boldness of the green grass.

They stared at one another for a moment, wide eyed and heavy breathed. Both parties felt a surge of shock for what had happened, both for differing reasons, yet shock all the same.

Katelle's hair had moved from its perfect state, and now slithered across her face, some strands being stuck in place by the moisture of her sweat. Aerion used his index finger to untangle the parts that covered her eyes. He wanted to see them clearly at all times.

Impressed by her own actions, Katelle beamed a smile down at him, which very quickly turned into laughter- one that bellowed from deep within her stomach. Aerion, initially displeased, surprisingly allowed his own, more subdued laugh to escape him. Something about her own amusement paralysed him, and regardless of his own feelings, hers seemed to control him entirely.

Although, his laugh died down when he saw a flash of crimson in the corner of his eye. He squinted in an attempt to drown out the brightness of the sun and focus his gaze on the side of Katelle's face. She kept moving, and so he used both hands to hold her head and move it.

She wished that he would stop doing that- reducing her movements as though she were a doll.

Aerion saw that his eyes had not deceived him, and the side of Katelle's face was in fact pouring with blood. He winced at the sight of liquid barrelling down her skin.

"Stay still." He commanded, his voice low as his concentration remained on finding the crux of the wound.

Katelle need not reply, instead huffing and allowing Aerion to inspect her. She tilted her head more to the left so that he had better access to the right side of her face. A cool breeze attacked her exposed neck which caused her to suck air through her teeth, displeased at the sensitivity.

Aerion's eyes squinted further as he found the gash- it was quite a large one, larger than he had expected. A feeling of guilt flashed through him once again, though, this time he was certain that it was guilt. Certain.

"You are injured." He stated.

Katelle stayed straddled over him, her two hands now pressed on his chest. She studied his face; he looked different. He looked sad. He had not had such a depth of sorrow in his eyes thus far. She had suspected him unable to feel such an emotion, yet, she seemed to be wrong.

Katelle should have felt the sting on the side of her face, but she did not- she very rarely felt pain. She did, however, see the crimson liquid that now covered both herself and the Prince beneath her. She shrugged.

"A small cut." She raised her own hand to the area and dabbed at it with the tips of her fingers. "I have had much worse."

Aerion shook his head, he wondered what type of pain would make Katelle complain. He did not want her to be in pain, of course, but part of him could not help wonder what would make her crack and break- even a fire was no match for her. He knew enough of Katelle now to know that she had some... abnormalities. Not that they were bad, not by any means, but they were in fact quite odd, and unheard of.

"You mean to tell me that you regard that as a small incision? You are bleeding quite profusely."

Aerion allowed his grip to loosen so that the blood would have the freedom to fall once again, wanting to check if it had subsided at all. It had not. In fact, the cut seemed to have grown larger since his first inspection. His fingers, although firm, were not firm enough to stop the flow. With a quick thought, he pulled his sleeve downwards, and held it to Katelle's face.

Her eyes widened.

"Wow, it must be bad if Prince Aerion Targaryen is willing to use his own precious clothing." Her words, despite being teasing, held much truth.

Aerion shifted uncomfortably. "I did cause the injury, after all."

"You did." Katelle nodded. "Yet, I did not think of you as someone whom would ruin your own clothing for the sake of another."

His eyes darkened ever so slightly. "Usually, I would not."

"Usually?"

"Usually."

Katelle, still straddling the lap of the Prince beneath her, suddenly felt awkwardly uncomfortable. Aerion, of course, did not mind. He actually felt quite at home in their positioning.

"If it is as bad as you say, then I should clean it up." Katelle voiced after a few moments of looking into Aerion's eyes. She made an unspoken vow to not allow herself to look into them for too long; they were too captivating, and she had a habit of losing herself everytime she got locked into them.

She shifted in the process of removing herself, yet let out a small, surprised gasp when Aerion placed both of his hands on either of her hips and slammed her back down onto him.

"Or, perhaps, we could stay here until it subsides."

Playfully, Katelle rolled her eyes before looking down at him once again. "Then we may be here for a while."

"I have time."

Katelle told herself in that moment that she should no longer be surprised in the reaction of Aerion's boldness; the longer they spent together, the more bold he became. She decided that she would no longer back away from such comments, and or movements.

She looked at him, and the smug smirk on his face. The bright red blood that had fallen from her face had landed in pools on his jawline and under his neck, causing his pale skin to almost shimmer in the sunlight.

With the tip of her index finger, she dabbed some of the blood, and then rubbed it against her thumb. Peering back up at him again, she noticed the curiosity in his eyes. With her heart in control, she placed her hand back down, this time on his face, and leant her face closer to his. She felt his breath tighten as she inched closer, his hips also tightening underneath her own. With her right hand glued to his cheek, and her left buried in the fluorescent grass to steady herself, Katelle closed the gap and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. One, simple, meaningful, lingering kiss. One that when she pulled away, Aerion found himself puckering for more. His head left the ground below, despite the painful strain that he felt in his neck, in the attempts to find her own lips once again. Katelle did not allow that though, that would have been too easy. Instead, she pinned both of his arms downwards so that he could not use them, which caused his head to thump back down onto the ground.

With his hands pinned, she dared to move closer once again, though this time his eyes had fluttered shut. Katelle knew that Aerion held a greater strength than she did, and in turn knew that if he wished to get up, he could easily remove her.

But he did not.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Katelle decided to take advantage of his closed eyes, and the voice in her head told her to stop being so scared of it all. If she were to be in the company of a daring Prince, then she too must be daring herself on occasion.

She hesitantly licked her lips, realising how awfully dry they had become with her nerves, before moving closer once again. Though, this time, she did not kiss his lips. This time, she attached her mouth to his exposed neck. His skin was cold- so much so that the initial touch surprised her. Katelle allowed her mouth to explore his neck, using her tongue to lick gently and her teeth to nibble. Her confidence was accelerated when Aerion let out a small groan, one that she could only assume was the reaction of pleasure.

Aerion, frustrated that he could not use his hands, began to wriggle beneath Katelle's touch. He could have easily broken his arms free from hers, but that would not be as enjoyable. Additionally, the Prince was curious to see how far Katelle would go.

Though, as the moments passed, painfully slowly in Aerion's opinion, he began to realise that the teasing and torment were perhaps a test of her own, to see his reaction.

Aerion very quickly took this as a game- a challenge.

Mustering his strength with ease, Aerion broke his hands free from Katelle's now less firm grip. The movement caused both parties to jerk slightly, and Katelle to lose her balance momentarily as a consequence. Although, Aerion found no struggle in steadying her. Somehow, he flipped her perfectly and she now found herself under his body.

Much less gently than she had choreographed her actions, Aerion hungrily attached his lips to hers, holding her neck tightly as he did so. He noticed that whenever he held the sensitive skin firmly, she squirmed in pleasure; something that he began to crave whenever their bodies parted.

As their tongues battled, and he listened to the small, sweet moans that escaped her, he tasted something peculiar, something metallic, and slightly salty: blood. A reminder of what he had done to her.

Begrudgingly, he forced himself away from her.

"We need to clean it." Aerion spoke softly, and quietly. Almost as though he was speaking to himself rather than her, his eyes fixated on the blood that still cascaded down her face.

Awkwardly, Katelle nodded in agreement. Aerion climbed off of her, and offered a hand. Katelle took it immediately, although decided to avoid eye contact, embarrassed from the moments before. She did not know why she felt such a violent surge of embarrassment everytime she had an intimate moment, and neither did he. He believed, however, that it was one of the reasons why she endeared him so.

"Wait there, I'll be back in a moment." She told him, still refusing to meet his eye. Aerion wanted to protest, but before he could, she had disappeared between a hedge. He briefly contemplated going after her, but decided against it, wanting to take a moment to himself to gather his thoughts, and more so his feelings.

Now alone, he was able to take the sights of the forest in wholly. It truly was beautiful, and this was the opinion of a man whom rarely saw the beauty in anything. The man whom was used to a life of drab colours in drab castles with drab people, now surrounded by vibrancy, nature and light.

Aerion was not suited to this way of life, he knew that definitely. His personality was not one that should be situated in a physical place of positivity. But, wherever Katelle went, he did now too.

Even a pessimistic soul like Aerion had the ability to find himself captivated by the beauty of things here. Although Lys in general was beautiful, this forest seemed to be even more so. The leaves seemed to dance, the colours seemed to be more pigmented, and the small animals seemed to be more aware than usual. He did not know the meaning of such a thing, and felt stupid for even thinking it, and so, he shook that thought away as quickly as it had entered his mind.

Aerion looked down at the patch of grass that he had just been laid in, the strands were solidified downwards, showing that someone had been there. He found himself smiling down at it, and saw the two of them there, an out of body experience, a memory. His mind wondered, what would have happened if he hadn't stopped it? Would he truly have bedded her for the first time on a patch of grass? She deserved more than that.

"These should do." Katelle's voice brought him back from his runaway thoughts, and he moved his gaze from the grass to the hedge that she appeared back through.

She held a bunch of plants in her hand, all in which differed in colour. One was a dark shade of pink, one a light shade. One longer, and more thorny held the colour of a deep purple, and the third shorter stem was a dark red- Aerion's favourite.

"What are they?" He questioned, curious.

Katelle peered from him, to the plants, and back to him. "Would you like the botanical explanation?"

Aerion pursed his lips. "Not necessarily."

Katelle let out a laugh in reaction. "They are to stop the bleeding and cleanse the wound. I do not feel like ruining my face even more with an infected cut."

"What do you mean ruin it more?"

Katelle could have cursed, she had learned by this point that Aerion was not one for a runaway comment and or jest.

"A joke."

Aerion's brows furrowed. "How is it a joke if it is unfunny?"

Katelle shook her head at his impossible ways, and began to walk towards the large oak tree, mumbling a quick, "nevermind, come on," as she walked.

He shrugged before following closely behind her.

In a practised, and natural move, Katelle moved with haste up the ladder. Aerion, having never climbed it before, had to dig deep within his skillset in order to hide his nervousness. The climb was not as bad as he had thought it would be, and the ladder was much steadier than it appeared.

Due to her hands being full, Aerion expected Katelle to ask him to aid her in opening the door, forgetting that she was a woman whom often refused to be helped. He was quickly reminded of that, however, when she raised one of her long legs and hooked her foot over the handle, in turn forcing it downwards and the oak door to open. Slightly impressed, but equally offended that she hadn't needed his help, he shook his head as he watched her scurry through the door.

The room was simple; a bed, a dresser, a stove, all made of wood. It seemed to be all a lone person would need. There were candles lined up around the small room in its entirety- not one inch of windowsill sat without a candle atop it.

"Katelle." Aerion said firmly, causing her to take her attentions away from the plants, and onto him instead. When she looked at him, he continued.

"If this has been here the entire time then why did you spend so long in that place? With those people?"

Katelle let air out through her nose in a small, amused huff.

"Things sound so simple when you say them simply, don't they?"

"They do." He agreed. "Tell me."

Katelle sighed. "I cannot stay here for too long at a time. I am unsure as to why, I just know that I cannot."

The truth was that Katelle could have lived her life here, since finding it of course. The way that she found the forest was peculiar in itself, and the way that it brought her an immense feeling of comfort felt even more peculiar. Strangely, Katelle felt a discomfort in that. The longer that Katelle stayed in the forest, the more strange things became: it felt alive, and unexplainable things seemed to happen as time ticked. So, in true Katelle fashion, the only reasonable thing to do would be to avoid and ignore.

Aerion opened his mouth to speak once more, but she spoke before he had the chance. "Could you crush these into this bowl, please?"

Aerion had not a moment to think before the harsh plants and a marbled bowl were thrust into his hands.

"Yes, my Princess." Sarcasm dripped from his quiet words.

Katelle cocked a brow as she inspected the cut, which turned out to be quite a large gash, in a reflective window. "You wish."

"I do not, actually."

"No?" Katelle took the bowl of now crushed plants from Aerion's hands. "You don't miss being waited on by pretty ladies? Or spending time with lovely princesses?"

Aerion thought of Summerhall, and all of the materialistic women whom he had been surrounded by. The women that had begged for his attention. He did not miss it at all.

"No." He repeated. "Not at all."

He watched as she added a liquid to the bowl. Katelle hummed a noise in response.

Aerion scrunched his face up. "You do not believe me?"

"Of course not." Katelle laughed. "Men lie, it isn't your fault, it is in your blood."

Aerion took great offence to that comment, for a reason unbeknownst to even himself. He slammed a hand down onto the hollow, wooden dresser, consequently causing Katelle's head to turn towards him.

"I do not lie." He said coldly, the sudden change of tone meant that Katelle felt a slight unease. Noticing the scared look in the pupils of her eyes, he took a breath before continuing. "I do not miss the attentions of those women at all, regardless of thinking that I may."

Katelle nodded, knowing that he spoke the truth. She could not be bothered to tell him that she had been jesting with him, she knew it would be an impossible conversation.

"The women in Westeros are different."

"Different, how?"

Aerion shrugged, trying to find the words to describe what he meant.

"They are proper, and materialistic, and similar to each other in each and every sense."

Katelle cocked her head slightly and laughed. "They cannot all of been like that." She leant closer to her reflection once more, now focusing as she applied the mixture to her cut, the blood now gone and a fleshy, pink wound in its place. "Perhaps those were just the women whom you surrounded yourself with."

Aerion thought about that deeply as he watched her heal herself. "Perhaps."

Katelle looked away from her reflection then, and smiled at him. A genuine smile. One that made Aerion's heart skip a small beat, not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

Her kind gaze lingered on Aerion for a moment, before she then turned her attentions back to the task at hand.

"We could stay here for a while. Could we not?"

Katelle sucked in a breath as she poked thread through a needle. "I suppose we could, for a few nights." She eyed him. A huge part of her still wondered why he decided to stay in her company despite his freedom.

"Not for too long though, long enough to figure out where we go from here."

Aerion could not decide her meaning; whether she was referring to where they will go physically, or where their fondness for each other would lead them. She did not know either, perhaps she meant both.

Aerion winced as he watched Katelle prick the threaded needle through her skin. She however did not wince. In fact, she showed no reaction at all.

"Does that not hurt?"

Katelle shrugged, and her leather squeaked slightly as she did so. "A little bit." She lied.

"I am sorry that I did that."

Katelle turned dramatically and dropped the needle so that it hung loosely from her skin. Holding a hand to her heart, she gasped. "An apology? Are you feeling quite alright."

Aerion glared at her, though could not stop himself from thinking about how that possibly may have been his first genuine apology, ever.

"It's alright." She picked the needle up, not very carefully, and continued feeding it through her skin.

"Do you ever miss your brothers and sisters?"

Aerion tutted. He began to become quite irritated at her sudden inquisition into his upbringing.

"My relationship with my brothers is somewhat." He paused, looking away from her. Even though she remained concentrated on other things, he still felt the need to look elsewhere. "Complicated."

"Complicated how?"

Katelle noticed the sudden switch in Aerion, he had gone from comfortable to uneasy and uptight in the blink of an eye. That was just his way of dealing with situations that he did not want to, she could not blame him for that. She too had avoided many of his own questions about her, and her life. That did not mean that she intended to make it easier for him, though.

"I do not miss them at all." He admitted. "In all sincerity. I hated them, and so it made them hate me. Families can be very complicated."

Katelle could not find a way to resonate with that. It may have been a good thing, after all; you cannot feel the pain a family causes if you do not have one.

"Why do you hate them?"

"I hate many people."

"You do not hate them." She had finished threading the needle now, and tied the end tightly. She moved towards the bed and sat on the side, next to where Aerion stood.

"When you hate someone, it is for a reason. An actual reason, whether they have done something horrific or whatever it may be."

Aerion shifted uncomfortably, he did not want to answer her. He hated the fact that he would be forced to.

"I have over stepped." Katelle said suddenly, realising whom she was speaking to. She had found herself so wound up in whatever was happening between the two of them that she had forgotten who he truly was. A man who seemed to get very erratic, very quickly.

"It is alright." Aerion reassured her, placing a hand atop her head and smoothing her hair downwards.

You bit nervously at your nails, watching all the others gear up as though they were going to play laser tag and not be exposed to real bloodthirsty curses. You hadn't thought this far when you signed up for the Special Force Against Curses. All you knew was your old neighbour who had retired from SFAC now stayed at home all day eating snacks and yelling at his television. That was all you wanted from life.

The brutal 9-5 for decades would wear you out too fast. You couldn't spend the majority of your life waiting desperately for the weekend. It would be easier to enlist, tough it out until you found a way to be discharged with pension.

You hadn't really considered all the danger you'd be exposed to. Suddenly that fat pension made sense. They could afford to dangle it over your heads knowing most of you would not make it to the finish line.

The others began retreating from the weaponry breaking you out of your thoughts and making you wonder if you had taken too long dallying. Now only the stuff no one wanted would be left but then you saw the tall figure make their way through the parted crowd. Not only taller than all the other men but that shock of white hair made him stand out all the more. The one everyone called the mad dog. Though to you he looked more like an extraterrestrial being with those freakish blue eyes of his.

You had heard the rumours. He was as strong as ten men, so fast he could take out a whole gang of curses before they even realized they were under attack. Thought of strategy and planned attacks out in ways others couldn't even perceive of. It sounded like the winning recipe for a soldier but apparently, and according to the more envious men, he was barking mad. You thought it was just jealousy of his skill.

You weren't the jealous type. No, you were the type to recognize that there were others in this world who had advantages and skills you didn't possess but just because you didn't have them, didn't mean you couldn't make use of them. The mad dog, or Gojo Satoru as you would respectfully address him, was exactly the kind of friend you needed to make it out of here alive and get to use the pension you had signed up for.

That day as you cowered behind a wall while the others attacked, you kept an eye out for that shock of white hair. Watching as the man disappeared from your line of sight and reappeared at intervals almost always brutally finishing off a curse and it became quite clear as you watched why he was called the mad dog. He had a smile on his face more frightening than the creatures as he disemboweled them, those freakish eyes of his glowing in the darkness like that of a predator.

That was a man you could hide behind and one clearly capable of protecting you from any and all threats. That evening at dinner when you had gotten your tray of food you marched it over right to Gojo Satoru’s table.

"Can I sit?" You asked before you could think better of it.

Those blue eyes gazing out the window slowly trailed over to you. Not even the slightest shift in his expression as he stared at you as blankly as he had been looking at the scenery out the window beside the table he always sat at, alone.

"No." He said, making your stomach drop. You had been planning how to approach him but you hadn't really considered the possibility he might turn you down.

"I'll give you my dessert." You bartered, his eyes flicked down to your tray.

"Blech, I don't like raspberry pudding." He said making you glance down to your tray too.

"I asked for chocolate." You exclaimed.

You had asked for the chocolate pudding but clearly the blind bat serving had given you the raspberry instead.

"That blind bat." You muttered lowly under your breath, glaring back over your shoulder at the old lady serving. Nearly jumping out of your skin in fright when a bark like laugh erupted from the man sitting before you. Eyes now sparkling when just before he had been looking at you like he wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped dead.

"That's my great aunt." He said, making your heart drop. You had really ruined all chances of friendship.

"She lost her eye sight in one eye while serving and then majority of her sight in the other in a curse attack." He continued. Not only had you ruined chances of friendship you'd gone and made an enemy of the strongest man in the troop, not to mention that he was your superior.

"I'm so-" You started but were cutoff by him speaking again.

"She's got a nose like a hound though so she definitely gave you the raspberry on purpose. Nasty old bat." Gojo said and you nearly went boneless in relief.

"I knew it couldn't always be a mistake." You said swinging one leg over the bench but a tutting sound made you freeze.

"I didn't say you could sit." Gojo said and you blinked at him like a deer in headlights before awkwardly pulling your leg back.

"Find another table, this one's mine." He said, glancing away from you in clear dismissal.

You joined one of the many other tables where the soldiers, clearly still sour that you had hid during the attack, gave you dirty looks which you ignored. Too busy trying to figure out what had happened because there had been a moment when you thought you'd found your in with Gojo Satoru.

You retreated that day but that didn't mean you stopped trying. From then on where Gojo Satoru went, you followed. If he was heading to meals then you were right behind him, tray in hand and getting the exact same foods he chose. You woke when he did and retired to sleep when he did. At first it was just to align your routine but the madman was an early riser so soon you needed to go to bed early if you were going to survive waking at dawn like him.

The only time you weren't dutifully following him around was when you all ran laps. He outpaced you several times and would eventually make it back into your blurred line of sight as you gasped and panted for air while being heckled by your commander for being a disgrace.

He mostly acted like you didn't exist. He would respond when spoken to but still made it abundantly clear you weren't welcome in his space. He had yet to allow you to sit at his table. The only time he had any sort of positive reaction to you was when he would hear something you muttered to yourself and would let out that bark-like laughter that nearly pierced your eardrums.

It was one of those mornings where you were dragging yourself to the training room. Knowing Gojo was already there and cursing him for being such an early riser when you finally saw what made the others avoid the man and speak of him as though he were the legend of a spooky ghost story and not their fellow comrade in arms.

You opened the door to the gym, still a bit bleary eyed but the fog of exhaustion disappeared the moment you took in the scene in front of you. Gojo Satoru was straddling a man on the ground beneath him, pummeling fist after fist into his face. The man's face, now a swollen, bloody mess, was completely unrecognizable even though you had been spending every waking moment surrounded by your fellow soldiers.

You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when the next punch resulted in a spray of blood splattering up from the man's nose that had been reduced to a mangled mess of bloodied cartilage. Drops of crimson spraying out onto Gojo's pristine, marble-like pale skin. The sight made more unsettling by how other than that splatter of blood across his jaw and neck, there was not even so much as a scratch on him. Not even his hair was mussed.

At the sound, Gojo glanced up making you freeze in place. Those manic blue eyes now on you, glowing just the way they did when he was hunting curses.

"Good morning." Gojo huffed, sitting back on the man as though it were not the body of a person he'd beaten into unconsciousness but a bench.

"Good morning." You breathed, whirling around when you heard footsteps coming down the hall. Your heart nearly fell through your stomach as you made eye contact with the beady pair of your commander.

Violence against fellow soldiers was strictly prohibited. If the commander saw Gojo now he would expel him and all your efforts in fraying him down would have been for naught. The others didn't particularly like you for being weak and hiding during attacks. You had spent all your time following around Gojo and the others had already formed their little cliques. There was no hope of finding another protector.

"Commander, sir, Lieutenant Hiroshi was looking for you in the weaponry. Something about needing help with a holster." You said, making the man pause. It was common knowledge the commander had the biggest crush on Hiroshi.

"A holster?"

"Yes sir, his thigh holster has come loose I believe." You said and the man didn't even bother responding. Turning right back around the way he had come.

"Lieutenant Hiroshi wasn't in the weaponry." A voice said from behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whirling back around to see Gojo stood behind you with an amused glint in his eyes and more concerningly the blood still splattered across his face.

"I know that but I had to get the commander out of here. If he saw this you would have been discharged from the military and that too disgracefully. You know you don't get pension if you get discharged disgracefully right?" You asked, unthinkingly licking your thumb and swiping at the blood on his jaw.

He flinched back, catching your wrist but you wriggled your hand out. Pushing against his chest so he was forced back into the gym and out of anyone who may be passing's line of sight. You leaned out, scanning the hall before turning back to look at the man whose large chest muscles you only now noticed your hands were still on considering he was looking down at them like he didn't understand what they were.

"Okay, now listen, you head back to your room and if anyone asks you were feeling sick so you didn't come to work out today. If you weren't at the scene of the crime, then you couldn't have committed it. I'll say I found him here like this. Just help me drag him over to the showers so I can say I only saw him after my workout."

Gojo was still watching you in complete silence as though you were speaking another language he didn't speak.

"Come on, get moving. If anyone sees you we're done for." You said.

"We?" He asked, reassuring you that he had in fact not forgotten his mother tongue out of shock. Though he didn't look the least bit flustered or shocked, only slightly perplexed but not at the situation, at you.

"Yes, we. If I get caught covering for your ass then I'll also be discharged dishonorably, completely defeating the purpose of why I enlisted in the first place so you better start putting that brain and those muscles to use." You said, walking over to the man and grimacing at the mess Gojo Satoru had made of his face. You had been about to grab his shoulders but that was too close to the mangled face so instead you moved to grab his legs which were more in tact.

"Why would you cover for me?" Gojo asked suspiciously and you huffed at seeing he still wasn't making any effort to help you. While he'd been enthusiastic about causing the mess, he was quite reluctant to join in on the necessary clean up.

His question registered and you were glad that you had been stooped down to try to lift the unconscious man's legs so Gojo couldn't see the momentary panic on your face. It probably wouldn't do to tell him that it was because you wanted to be brought under his wing until you found a way to be discharged early.

"Because we're friends." You responded, sounding a little unsure even to yourself but a quick glance up at Gojo told you he hadn't quite noticed.

His otherwordly eyes had a far off look and you wondered if he had now gone into shock before he met your eye and you watched as his gaze narrowed in on you reminding you eerily of a hawk zeroing in on their prey, sending a shiver down your spine. You really should have paid more attention to that uneasy sense of foreboding.

Instead of responding, Gojo stooped down to lift the man up by the shoulders and carried the heft of him over to the showers without taking his eyes off you but you were a bit too busy struggling to carry the man's legs to notice.

After you had both dropped the man in the showers you again told Gojo to go back to his room. Catching his wrist just as he was about to leave. He glanced back, looking at your little hand on his wrist and then up to you. Brows creased in worry for him.

"Did anyone see you on your way here?" You asked and when he took a moment too long to answer rushed to clarify.

"Besides the unconscious man."

He shook his head in negative, something about that worried expression rendering him speechless when so many horrors and wonders he'd faced hadn't been able to.

"Good, go." You said releasing his wrist and turning to fret over the unconscious man again.

Gojo walked back to his room in a daze. You didn't know who he was. He had assumed you had been following him around like a shadow because you wanted to be affiliated with the Gojo heir. Set to inherit all the wealth, influence and glory of all the Gojo clan before him but your actions today made it clear you had no idea about his family background.

It wasn't often that people tried to get close to him. Not since what used to be rumours had become so undeniably backed by proof he had provided at nearly every turn in his life that even his parents couldn't refute them without risking looking like fools. And no member of the Gojo clan would ever risk being made a fool.

He had never had a friend. At first it was because his parents simply didn't think anyone worthy of standing beside him as an equal when he so clearly surpassed all the children his age in every conceivable way. That made him used to being alone and not at all used to sharing.

Gojo knew what the others called him - the mad dog for his territorial ways. Gojo didn't take kindly to anyone trying to take what was his. He didn't go around attacking people for no reason but when they tried to use or take his things that set him off. Admittedly he had a tendency to go a bit overboard when set off.

Like this morning when he'd gotten to the gym and seen one of the others using the weight machine he woke up so damn early to be able to use without others pawing all over it. He had asked politely for the man to find another machine because that one was his but the man hadn't listened and Gojo only asked politely once.

When he'd first enlisted these sort of misunderstandings happened fairly often. People mistook living in a shared space to mean Gojo would be sharing what was his. After that misunderstanding had been clarified with some of his fellow comrades in arms, word spread and they learned to stay away from Gojo's things.

He had broken limbs and beat people to unconsciousness in front of their commander and no one had ever dared to so much as write him up. It was real cute though to see you fretting and scheming for him. No one had ever worried over him like this. People had worried because of him. Worried over the damage he could do to them, their reputations in his parent's case or other such nonsensical things.

He found he quite liked your worrying. If this was what being your friend meant then he was quite ready to have you as his first and only friend.

After that morning incident it was like a flip had switched. Suddenly you didn't need to follow Gojo around anymore because he always managed to find you first.

In the morning he was at your door, knocking to be let in and dragging you along to the gym barely awake. If you got to meals later than he did then he'd have a tray of food waiting for you identical to his and if you went together then there was no question you'd be sitting right next to him.

Somehow no one had bothered to question what you had said about finding the man Gojo had beaten into an actual coma on the shower floors. You had been terrified a full investigation would be done and in your nerves suggested that maybe he had just tripped in the showers when your commander had been questioning you about the incident.

At the time he had made it seem like he would be digging into the matter and you were going to be in a lot of trouble if caught lying but then he'd never brought it up again. Perhaps you were a better liar than you thought.

What you couldn't deceive anyone about though was your lack of physical prowess and were currently feeling the full weight of your commander's disdain as everyone running laps circled you for a fourth time while you struggled to complete your second. Gojo had ran past you six times already. Giving you an encouraging thump on the back the first time that nearly laid you out on the ground had he not caught you, and then with an encouraging cheer and laugh as though he were having the time of his life every time since.

"Having to watch you run is the only time I regret enlisting." Your commander was saying when you felt someone run up next to you. You glanced over, seeing double from exhaustion before your sight settled somewhat and you realized it was just one very pissed off Gojo glaring at the commander.

"Would you like me to give you a couple other reasons?" He asked and the commander seemed to turn as green as you probably were with how nauseous you were feeling.

"I-uh have to go check on the others." The commander said, breaking out into a full sprint across the field. Apparently not even the commander was above being intimidated by Gojo.

To not have to hear the commander's disparaging while you endured having to do the activity you hated more than anything felt like a blessing and out of happiness you flung yourself at Gojo. Clinging to your saviour with all your might.

Had it been anyone else you both would have gone sprawling onto the field with the way you practically tackled him into a hug but Gojo had just gone very still, staring down at you in shock. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him.

You were so soft and warm against him. So much smaller than him you barely reached his chest. Burying your face into him like he was your only hope.

Before he could think of how to react you were glancing up at him beaming. Your face pink from the exertion, the afternoon sun making it glow and bringing out the flecks of gold in your eyes. He hadn't so much as broken a sweat while running those laps but now all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his heart thudding against his ribcage.

Never before had he so desired for something to be his. And you were his, weren't you? It had been your idea all along to become his friend. You were the one to force yourself into his orbit and now that you had he had no intention of ever letting you out.

He allowed his arms to wrap around you, chest clenching at how right that felt. This was where you belonged, within his grasp.

You released him as abruptly as you had embraced him leaving him feeling cold and bereft. But there was still the lingering warmth of your touch and the heat that bloomed within his chest as you smiled at him in that way. Challenging him to a race you both knew there was no way you would win.

The effort however of trying to out run the Gojo Satoru had you so belligerent with thirst you couldn't be bothered to try to find your own water bottle amongst the many at the finish line. Swiping his from his hand and holding it up above your mouth so you could gulp it down.

A hush fell over the others, silence so pronounced that it made it through your haze of exhaustion. Every one of the others was looking at you, or actually upon closer inspection, not at you but behind you at Gojo.

Gojo waited for the familiar rage to rise up within his chest as he watched you gulp down his water from his water bottle. That feeling of wrongness and outrage but there was nothing. No rage, just that weird tightness he'd gotten in his chest earlier while looking at you.

It had been amusing to see you trying to beat him with your much shorter legs and how incredibly out of shape you were compared to him. He probably could have run that lap faster if he were carrying you than you had managed to on your own.

He had always liked running. It cleared his head and let out some of that pent up energy always buzzing in his veins but running with you panting next to him, gasping for air and asking if he was even human was the first time he had found running fun.

You made everything fun, life had been so dull before you. He couldn't imagine going back to that. He found everything you did entertaining. Your little habit of muttering to yourself. It was always rude or bitter comments said under your breath but he found them hilarious.

The way you made no attempt to hide that you had no interest in defending people by eradicating curses but were just here for the pension. Hiding away every time you were all sent out on a mission. Your honesty was a breath of fresh air amongst all the false bravado and nobility he had grown up surrounded by.

He threw an arm around your shoulders, feeling a strange urge to have you close that he'd never felt for anyone before.

"Let's get you out of the sun. You look like a tomato." He said and you scoffed through your panting.

"Sorry we're not all godly beings that can run laps in the sun and still look like we're filming an athletic wear commercial. Did you even sweat, you freak?" You asked, hearing a gasp from amongst the others but not paying any attention as you got up on the very tips of your toes to try to prove your point.

Gojo froze as he felt you nose into his neck and take a quick inhale. Feeling the blood rushing down south as your body pressed against his side, letting him feel the shape of you and the heat emanating off your skin. Your warm breath against his throat and the scent of you, clean sweat and soap filling his senses and making his head spin.

Suddenly he was the one that was breathless.

"How do you still smell good?" You muttered against his neck.

He couldn't help himself and pushed you away, only remembering at the last minute to not use his full force but still sending you stumbling back a couple steps.

"Oh can you not sweat? Are you like those animals that don't have sweat glands?"

You took his silence for affirmation and grimaced sympathetically.

"My bad, that's probably a touchy topic for you. It must be tough being unable to control your temperature and just overheating like a reptile in the desert. I won't bring it up again." You said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you passed him.

Letting you think he was missing sweat glands was better than trying to explain that he was actually sporting a raging boner because you had sniffed him. He let you walk away with his water bottle still held in your hand, turning to watch the commander a moment. That sight had his hard-on dying down fast enough and he scooped up your water bottle and chased after you just as you made it to the doors leading inside.

"Should we hit the showers?" He asked as he made it to your side.

It was strange that after a training session like that you and Gojo somehow had the showers all to yourselves. Usually this place was packed to the brim after a brutal training session with sweaty men all wanting to quickly shower so they could get to the dining hall as fast as possible.

"Can I borrow your shampoo? I'm all out." Gojo said and you quickly squirted some into your hand before turning to pass the bottle to him but froze at the sight that awaited you.

It wasn't unexpected. At that height and stature and with hands that were more like giant paws you couldn't have expected anything else, but this was nearly inhuman. It twitched as you continued to stare and you couldn't help the startled scream that escaped you at the sight of a monstrosity like that having any life in it.

You flung the shampoo at the man next to you and quickly turned to face forward again, hearing him chuckle.

"What, are you really acting like you've never seen a naked man before?"

"I've seen naked men but I haven't seen a weapon of mass destruction swinging between their legs before." You muttered furiously, chancing a glance at the man when you didn't get a response to see his face had gone completely blank.

"Which man have you seen naked? Was it one of those bastards?" He asked advancing on you completely ignoring the rules of the communal shower. You had assumed everyone knew that in the showers you always kept your eyes focused straight on the tiles in front of you and you never got too close to anyone else while your privates were swinging about.

"Woah, woah you stay over there and keep that thing away from me." You said, holding your hands out ahead of you in defense.

"Tell. Me. Who." He demanded.

"I've been sharing a shower with all those duds for months, of course I've seen them naked though none of them have been as shameless as you." You said, finishing up your shower and hurriedly wrapping your towel around yourself.

He grabbed your arm as you made your way past him.

"I've got clean clothes in my bag, wear those. Don't go out there like that." He ordered, eyes roaming down your body.

"Do you have a problem with the way I wrap my towel?" You asked.

Back when you were in school the other kids had given you shit for that though you never quite understood what you were doing so differently than the others.

"No, I have a problem with how small it is and how little it covers."

"It's the standard size they give everyone. Are you body shaming me right now? I'm sorry I don't have a six pack like you." You huffed.

"8." He said, a smirk twisting up his lips making you furrow your brows in confusion.

"Here, see -" He said having grabbed your hand, forcing your fingers to trail down what really was an 8 pack and counting out each row.

As he got to the bottom row and your palm brushed against the trail of hair that led to the image you were afraid was seared into your brain forever, you couldn't help but let out a yelp and snatch back your hand. Instinctively slapping him before your brain could catch up with what you had done.

Your eyes went wide as you saw his head turn. The pale skin of his cheek sporting a faintly pink handprint that perfectly aligned with the hand you would probably be losing in just a moment.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Gojo, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did-"

He turned his head back to look at you making your mouth clamp shut. He took a step forward and you mirrored it by taking a step back. He took another and you did the same, both of you playing this game until your back hit the shower wall.

He placed his palm next to your head making you jump as he leaned in. Bringing his face level to yours as you cringed back into the wall, feeling like your heart was caught in your throat. All the rumours you had heard about his temper returning to you now.

"Kiss it better." He muttered.

"W-what?" You asked hesitantly, almost entirely sure you had misheard him. Perhaps he had said something about his intentions to kill and you had heard kiss.

"Kiss it better." He repeated, turning his pinkened cheek towards you and tapping his finger against it pointedly.

"Oh, uh okay." You said, you didn't quite want to kiss your naked comrade in arms on the cheek but it was better than being disemboweled in the communal showers so you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He grinned as though you had done something particularly pleasing and his nickname began to make more sense than ever. The man really was barking mad.

"Now grab something from my bag to wear. I'll rip out the eyes of anyone who sees you like this." Gojo said, turning to saunter back to his shower.

You watched him go, wondering what sort of lunatic you had gotten yourself acquainted with. In the coming days you'd have that thought more often than anticipated.

Gojo Satoru wasn't just a powerful man, but an odd one too and for some reason everyone else just made allowances for it. Now that you were under his wing, that meant they made the same allowances for you.

The taunting by the others and dirty looks they had given you since your first mission when you hid instead of fighting had stopped. So had the very vocal disapproval of your superiors for your lack of strength and endurance.

Hanging out with Gojo also meant getting the gym to yourself, which was a great place to take a nap while the lunatic spent hours on various weight machines building muscles in places you didn't know people had them. It also meant never having to share the showers with anyone but Gojo though you didn't know if that was an upgrade considering he seemed to have no idea how to act in communal showers.

He was always chatting away and staring right at you as he did. The others may have hogged the hot water and been more unsightly in their nude form but at least they didn't stare. That was a small price to pay for all the perks though.

Being his friend wasn't hard. When you had first approached him you'd expected to be something of a lackey, imagining fetching his meal trays and egging him on when he got into a fight with someone. Truth was he did more for you than you did for him.

He got your meals for you because his great aunt actually gave him what he asked for and he would refill your water and even buy you snacks. It was unfortunate he didn't use his power to excuse you from training entirely but you tried not to get too greedy.

Eccentric as he was, beneath the aristocratic features and muscled physique that would imply an empty mind, he was actually quite smart. Seemed to be well-educated too so why he was so intrigued by you was genuinely a bit confusing. You didn't know what it was about you that made him seem to hang onto every word.

Those intense eyes of his bore into you while you spoke, though you were starting to get used to the other-worldly blue of them. He would burst into laughter at the oddest of times, particularly when you weren't intending to be funny. Though he'd always crack at least a smile at even your bad jokes. Grabbing you by the scruff and hauling you in when you truly made him laugh, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture you'd normally think too affectionate for friends but perhaps that's how comrades were.

The sound of the pulldown machine he was currently using was faintly registering as your mind began to wake but you refused to let yourself fully rouse to consciousness. When the sound of the machine struggling against the maniac who had had dragged you here this early finally seized, you had just begun to sink back into sleep when you heard the murmur of your name.

You groaned, turning over and clenching your eyes shut. Trying to escape into dreamland so you wouldn't have to face another day of arduous training and the resulting cloud of body odor that lingered in every room of the building because of it.

"Come on, wake up." Gojo said, poking your cheek but you batted at his hand.

“You’ve been napping for two hours. Do you not sleep at night?” He asked, which were long sentences and if you were understanding them then that meant the fall back asleep ship had sailed without you on board.

“No Gojo, I don’t sleep at night.” You sighed, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes.

“Why?” He asked, passing you his water bottle and smoothing your mussed hair as you took a long drink from it. Making you choke on the water as you dodged his hand irritably.

“Because the rats I’m roomed with stay up till ungodly hours playing games and drinking.” You said, once you’d finally managed to clear the water in your airways, helped by Gojo’s thumping of your back.

“Do they make you play with them?” He asked, returning to his patting of your hair.

“No, as if I’d ever do something so childish.” You scoffed, batting at his hand.

Truth was they didn’t let you play nor did they share their booze. Apparently rewards were for “soldiers not cowards” according to those jerks.

“Then why can’t you sleep?”

“Because they’re loud and stop touching my hair or I swear to god.” You growled, slapping at his hand.

“Swear to god to what?” He asked, though his gaze was a bit far away. Staring at the wall across from you both as though lost in thought about something. Probably trying to mentally tally the reps he had done, the meathead.

“I’ll - I’ll bite you.” You said, floundering for a threat when the man was double your size.

He smirked, amused. Holding up his giant claw of a hand before you like an offering.

“Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson I'll let it pass this time.” You said, going to get up but that offending appendage forced you down by your shoulder. One of his claws keeping you seated and the other mussing up your hair until you really were livid enough to risk it all.

You caught his hand, bringing it to your mouth not paying any attention to how deceptively easy that was to do. Sinking your teeth into the soft flesh between his pointer finger and thumb like a feral pest.

Missing entirely the way those blue eyes darkened as he watched you, pupils blown wide. The hand forcing you down now cupping your shoulder and guiding you closer.

You pulled away, worried if you continued you might actually draw blood.

“My turn.” He said and you only had enough time to feel your stomach drop as he leaned in and then his teeth were sinking down into the conjecture between your neck and shoulder and you were screaming.

Pain wasn't familiar to you and to feel the teeth of a brute sinking into your sensitive flesh wasn’t something you could withstand with the grace of a soldier.

You slapped and batted at him but your hands were caught in his and easily restrained. Finally after what felt like an eternity of agony, he pulled back. Staring down at the mark he’d left in your soft flesh with a satisfied gleam in those freakish eyes of his.

He leant back in making you scream again but it broke off into an exclamation of “ew what the fuck man” as you felt something warm and wet drag over the bite mark.

You pushed vindictively at his chest when he pulled back and released your hands. Running over to the closest mirror to inspect the wound.

“You’re a fucking freak.” You called over your shoulder as you looked at the clear indents of his goddamn molars in your flesh.

“Be glad I didn’t break skin.” He said, making you yelp as he seemed to materialize right behind you like some sort of fucking ghost. Staring at your reflection with his mark on your soft skin with so much satisfaction and intrigue it turned your stomach.

You moved back intending to stomp his foot but froze as you felt something hard and large poking into your lower back.

“Please tell me that’s your water bottle in your pants.” You muttered.

“Nope.” He whispered back, popping the p in a way that had you jumping away.

“You’re a real freak. You better stay at least 6 feet away from me from now on.” You warmed.

He grabbed your wrist, hauling you in to his chest. You screamed again as the monstrosity in his gym shorts pressed into your stomach. Pushing against his chest but he kept you pinned with an arm around your waist.

“Nothing can make me stay away from you. You’re mine, I do what I want with you.” He said as easily as one tells the time and you scoffed.

“Like hell you do. Bit me like I’m a goddamn prime cut steak and then popped a boner. What a- oh my god are you a cannibal?” You asked, eyes wide in terror as you looked up at him. Mind jumping to the only conclusion you could think of in which a fellow soldier would be turned on by biting you.

“I wasn’t before but I might just become one because of you.” He muttered lowly, leaning down towards your neck as he spoke and snapping his teeth at you making you yelp again.

“6 feet, you rat.” You warned, somehow getting lucky and managing to shove him off as you accidentally brushed the beast pressing against your stomach in a way that had him going a little weak in the knees.

You watched him warily, a hand held out before you which you pulled back to your chest when his gaze dropped to it. He took a step forward and you took one back to maintain the distance.

“I-I’m warning you.” You said shakily which he ignored completely. Stalking forward until you were pressed up against the mirror with him hovering over you. That offending snake between his legs pressing against your stomach again.

“Warning me of what? Are you gonna bite me again?” He asked, tone light with amusement but those freaky blues still darkened in a devious way that didn’t sit well with you.

“I might if you force my hand.” You said, sounding uncertain even to your own ears.

The last bite had resulted in you nearly getting a chunk torn out of your neck and then getting harassed by a thing that should only exist in those bad romance novels you sometimes liked to read. You weren't really itching to repeat that episode.

“Do it here, please.” He breathed, and just for a second you could see why all the other soldiers complained he had it all.

So mesmerizingly pretty as he titled his head up, exposing the long column of his strong neck to you. Long lashes that nearly touched the apples of his cheeks when he blinked, pointed little nose and lush pink lips but then the words they uttered registered and the trance was broken.

“You’re completely fucking nuts” You mumbled, almost to yourself but he heard anyway.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me.” He said, backing off and finally you could breathe without the oppressive hulk of him looming over you. The monstrosity between his legs and the fangs in his mouth a safe distance away from you.

“We’ll see about that.” You mumbled, missing the way his eyes narrowed at your comment. No longer amused or playful.

You had known Gojo was weird but not threatening cannibalism or popping boners at his fellow comrades weird. It was making you reevaluate your chosen survival strategy.

Unfortunately while you were pondering whether it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from him, he was thinking the exact opposite. Planning how to get you more securely into his clutches.

He hated the thought of others around you. Not to mention others sharing a room with you. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner. People other than him around you while you were at your most vulnerable, asleep or changing.

That had to change immediately.

He wiped at your mouth with his thumb, swiping off the bit of sauce on the edge of your mouth. Bringing it to his own and licking it off. You hadn’t reacted to him wiping your face since he did it so often but your eyes went wide as saucers as you saw him lick the sauce off his thumb.

“You really have got to stop doing shit like that.” You said when you got your bearings back after staring at him blankly for another minute.

“Here you can have my karaage too.” He said, pushing his tray forward which was enough to distract you.

“Your roommates really bother you, don’t they?” He asked, watching you stuff your face with the karaage from his tray.

“Yeah, they’re complete assholes. Childish too, did I tell you they play games all night? Like talk about lack of maturity.”

“You should change rooms.”

“I tried, not allowed. Apparently we need to man up and learn to deal with each other’s shit.” You said, quoting the Commander.

“You can if there’s a vacancy in one of the other rooms.”

“Is there? Oh yeah the guy you put in the- I mean the guy who took a bad fall’s bed is probably empty but he’s roommates with that guy who smells like blue cheese. I’d rather not.” You said.

“My room has a vacancy.” He said.

“I thought lieutenants got their own rooms.” You said suspiciously.

“Yeah exactly, there’s an empty spot for you to take.”

You blinked at him, trying to mentally calculate if lack of sleep or risking being eaten by the snake swinging potential-cannibal was worse.

“The Commander doesn’t do his morning wake-up calls in the lieutenant’s rooms.” He said and you were sold. To not be forcefully woken to the unfortunate sight of your Commander screaming in your face that you were a waste of space and would regret not waking up sounded like a dream.

“Rooming together would be cool.” You said, already fantasizing about getting to sleep-in.

“Great, finish eating. Then we’ll go pack your stuff.” Gojo said, only then picking up his own chopsticks and beginning to eat his food.

Packing was quick when you had superhuman strength on your side. Your roommates cleared out in a matter of seconds when they saw Gojo follow you in, not that they would have tried to stop you either way.

You walked alongside Gojo who was carrying both your bags in one hand swung over his shoulder, following him to the lieutenants’ quarters where his room was.

You waited behind as he unlocked his door and then stepped in after him. Scanning the room that was surprisingly neat. You’d only ever gotten glimpses over his shoulder as he locked the door after himself.

The detail that stood out to you most though was the count of beds in the room which stood at a steady and alarming one.

“Where’s the empty bed?” You asked. Watching as Gojo set down your stuff and then sat down on the bed.

“I said empty spot, and here it is.” He said, to your utter horror patting the spot next to him on the solitary bed in the room.

“Oh no. That's not gonna work. Thanks but hard pass.” You said stepping forward and grabbing your bags. The larger one of which you were quite unsuccessful in lifting and resolved to drag towards the door instead.

Before you could even make it more than a step away while dragging the bag that probably weighed more than you considering you were never a light packer, Gojo was in front of the door. Blocking the only exit.

“The change is processed. You can’t go back now.” He said.

“Processed where?” You cried. You had this discussion less than an hour ago and certainly hadn’t put in any requests.

“In the system. Your bed’s being given to the new arrival and you’re rooming with me.”

“I didn’t submit anything, how’s that possible?”

“I did it for you.”

“The office closes at 4.”

“I processed it this morning.” He said making your jaw drop at the sheer audacity of the extraterrestrial being before you.

“What do you mean you did it this morning? I didn’t even know this was happening till an hour ago.”

“I knew you’d agree.” He shrugged.

“Well I don’t, so kindly please go tell them they can’t give away my bed and help me carry this back. I know it's mine but I don't understand what I put in here to make it weigh a ton.”

“Not happening, darling. I told you you’re stuck with me, so you might as well settle in. Feel free to shower first.” He said and it was all too much for your brain to process but one particular detail stuck out.

“Wait, you’re telling me you have a shower in your room?

“Yeah, convenient isn’t it?”

“So why the fuck have you been using the communal showers?” You asked.

“Because that’s where you shower.” He answered as though that was a completely reasonable thing to say.

“Yeah like I said, hard pass on this whole situation. I’ll drag that newbie out by his toe hair if I have to. That bed’s mine.” You said, starting for the door, intending to somehow push past him while you dragged your overly large bag.

Perhaps you could somehow use the weight of it to your advantage. You remembered them teaching you all something about throwing off your opponent using their weight so this had to be similar. Not that you ever mastered that maneuver either.

"Darling, you have two options. Be good and listen to me, start unpacking your stuff, take a shower and then come to bed or I tie you to the bed. I unpack your stuff and then shower you myself. Either way you're staying in this room." He said making you pause in your very unsuccessful dragging of the bag sent from hell.

You stared at him, trying to discern if he was quite serious and would really follow through on his threat. Nothing about those blue eyes of his was giving you any confidence that he had a single rational or normal bone in his oversized body and so you gave up.

"I'm building a pillow wall between us." You huffed.

Your pillow wall lasted about 0.3 seconds before being quite unceremoniously, and unnecessarily violently, tossed to the floor. Then you were pulled back into the chest of the lunatic who had tricked you into his den and were used like a teddy bear.

There was no dignity in any of this. That pension could not begin to cover the damages that you had incurred here in this hellhole.

It was warm though, and his bed was softer and blankets fuzzier than your own. The weight of his long limbs on you was making you drowsy even through the haze of anger that nearly blinded you.

"You're a bad man." Was all you could manage before sleep overcame you.

Gojo didn't sleep though. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have you in his arms. So soft, so warm against him. If he wanted, and god how he wanted, he could completely envelope you in his arms so none of you was left exposed to the rest of the world. Take all of you for himself.

You moaned in your sleep, arching up slightly and he loosened his hold just enough to let you turn once he realized that was what you wanted and then on top of being sleepless, he was also rendered breathless. You turned, resting your head on his shoulder easily as though even in your sleep you could tell you two fit like puzzle pieces.

His heart clenched as he stared down at you. Watched your parted lips, still not knowing what they tasted like. Gojo wasn't ignorant to the effect he had on people and yet somehow the only one he had ever wanted was entirely immune.

He pulled you in closer, lowering his head to press his lips to your forehead. Feeling a warmth bloom in the core of his being that he had never felt before. This had to be what others called being at peace. So fulfilled, like there was nothing else he wanted, nowhere else he would rather be. This was addicting.

You woke enveloped in warmth, arching up and stretching in the little space you had between the awfully heavy covers pinning you to the bed. Finally opening your eyes and then screaming in horror when you were met with two blue lightbulb like objects floating in a blurry pale shape mere inches from your face.

"What is it?" The shape asked and as your vision focused you rest your hand over your racing heart. Trying to catch your breath from the insane jolt of adrenaline seeing something so unnatural that early had caused you.

"Don't do that. Why are you staring at me with your 500 megawatt bulbs at - god 7 in the morning." You said, turning to check the clock by his bedside.

"Wait isn't this actually late for you?" You asked, remembering he normally rose at 5.

"I didn't want to risk waking sleeping beauty." He said with a smirk.

"You could be doing laps around the bed with a lawn mower and I wouldn't wake up once I'm asleep. I just can't fall asleep in noise." You clarified.

"Lucky I'm quiet as a mouse at night." He said.

"It takes a big man to admit he's a rat." You said, going to scooch off the bed but Gojo tightened his arm around you.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"To get changed for training, we're already late." You answered.

"They would understand if we skipped a day." He said.

"No, I want to see the thief that stole my bed."

You could never have anticipated that in that thief you would find a kindred spirit. A soldier who flinched when anyone came near them in combat practice or looked out at the field with utter dread painted on their face. Perhaps that bed was simply fated only to have rational heads rest on it, or cowards as the rest of the troop would put it.

It was inevitable that you two would begin to get close when you were always the last ones to finish a lap, dragging your feet and cursing having ever laid eyes on this place. Standing with your backs against the wall as the others went hand to hand as though fighting for their lives when it was just practice.

Of course there was someone who highly disproved of this camaraderie. Gojo hated the new guy. Would glare daggers into him whenever he saw you both together and was the only reason you weren't braiding each other's eyebrow hair and exchanging pension fantasies.

"Oh man if that weight had fallen on my foot I'd be lined up at admin with my direct deposit form in hand faster than Commander could call me an idiot." The new guy - Kaido said making you guffaw and nod in agreement.

"What a fucking dumbass, telling the Commander he's just fine. That was a golden ticket to pension land." You agreed.

"You're too young to be thinking about pension." A voice said from right behind you making you yelp and turn to see Gojo looming above you and Kaido.

"I think you just shaved ten years off my life. We really need to put a bell on you." You said, taking the offered water bottle from Gojo and letting him pull you back so you were stood by his side.

"Lieutenant Gojo, sir." Kaido greeted awkwardly making you laugh and elbow Gojo, glancing up expecting him to laugh too but rather seeing him looking down his nose at Kaido as though he were dirt on his shoe.

The Commander called you all in before you could say anything but it stayed on your mind the rest of the morning anyway.

"Do you not like Kaido?" You asked as you sat on the bed that day while Gojo was folding both your laundry making him pause.

"No, I don't." He said, looking up at you, taking you by surprise. You had at least expected him to deny it.

"Why?"

"Because he sticks too close to you."

"No, you stick too close to me. Kaido understands the concept of personal space." You said.

"He better. I don't like seeing you with him, stay away from him." He said making you frown.

"I like Kaido, Kaido's my friend." You defended, not noticing the way the way Gojo froze at your words.

"He's your friend?" He asked, voice deceptively level and calm.

"Yeah, unlike the rest of you try-hards he understands the appeal of the easy life. We get each other." You answered not even getting a moment to try to back away before Gojo had tossed aside the towel he was holding and was rounding the bed.

Grabbing you by the jaw, he pushed you down flat onto the bed. Knocking the wind out of you with the unexpectedness of the movement. He sat down straddling your hips, keeping you pinned in place.

"Tell me again who’s your friend." He said.

"What the fuck dude? What's wrong with y-" You asked, being cut off by your own gasp of pain as he tightened his hold around your jaw to the point where the bones creaked in protest.

"Who is your friend?" He asked again.

"K-Kaido." You answered, not quite understanding what his problem was.

His eyes darkened and grip got even tighter making you grab at his hand, afraid he really might break your jaw.

"G-Gojo please it hurts." You mumbled, words barely intelligible with the way he was holding your face.

"I'm your only friend. You don't need anyone else. Just me." He said, leaning down closer so your noses nearly brushed against each other. Enouncing each word clearly and calmly as though he weren't actively trying to crush your face between his hand.

"Fine, fine just you. Please let go, it hurts." You pleaded. Willing to say anything to make him release you in that moment.

He let go of your face, seemingly satisfied but didn't get off of you. Watching in silence as you rubbed at the clear imprints of his fingers on your face. The bruises darkening into your soft skin.

He felt a pang in his chest, he hadn't meant to hurt you. He had just lost his mind a little hearing you so casually give someone else the place he held in your life.

"Let me see." He said, reaching for your face but you slapped at his hands. Pushing him away and when he saw the way your eyes were watering with pain he backed off readily, heart sinking as he realized he had hurt you to the point of inducing tears.

"I'll get you some ice." He said.

"No need." You scoffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Scooching off the bed and heading for the door.

He let you go, knowing you needed some time to cool off. He'd always gone too far when it came to protecting his things and keeping the paws of others off of them. He'd never meant to hurt you though.

You slammed the door behind you. Immediately headed to the admin office. In the past few weeks you had often wondered if choosing to befriend Gojo had been a mistake but today had proven it. He was a far bigger lunatic than you had initially known. Volatile in his unpredictability. You were better off without someone like him by your side, either he'd get you in trouble or he'd end up hurting you seriously in one of his fits.

"I'd like to change rooms." You said as soon as you made it to the admin office, approaching the man sitting behind the desk who you'd never bothered learning the name of.

"Why?" The man asked, looking like he'd rather be doing anything but his job.

"I'm rooming with Lieutenant Gojo right now-" You paused as you saw the man's eyes widen and him sit up straighter.

"But there's only one bed so I'd like to request to be switched into any room with a vacant bed." You continued, wondering why he looked so alarmed.

"There's no vacant beds." The man said making you scoff.

"I know there has to be at least one considering Tomoya is still in a coma and will probably be in no condition to continue in the force when he wakes." You said.

"His bed was sent to headquarters." The man answered and you stared at him blankly, making his ears turn red at how stupid of a lie he had just uttered.

"Okay, well I don't have a bed so can you request headquarters to send it back so I have a place to sleep?" You asked.

"I'll put in the request." The man said.

"And how long is that going to take?" You asked.

"I don't know but I'll let you know when it's processed." He said making your eye twitch.

"Fine, thanks." You relented, getting the feeling there was no reasoning with this soulless slave to bureaucracy.

You would check Tomoya's dorm yourself. If you found the empty bed then you'd come here and demand this lying rat to process the transfer right then.

You lurked in the corridor outside Tomoya's room, icing your bruised jaw until one of his roommates finally emerged. The door opened and the pungent smell of blue cheese wafted out, singing your nose hair but you still forced yourself forward to take a peek. Letting out a triumphant "ha" which had your future roommate flinching out of surprise.

"I knew that man was a liar." You said to the soldier currently staring at you like you had two heads before marching back to the admin office. Swearing out loud when you saw the door was now closed. It probably wasn't even 4 yet.

You would be back first thing tomorrow morning. Waiting outside before the office opened to force that stinking liar to process your transfer request. That meant you just needed to figure something out for tonight. Tomorrow by this time you would have roommates who weren't actively a threat to everyone around them.

You didn’t want to see Gojo but the clinic doctor saw right through your lies about being sick and wouldn't let you into the infirmary. Upon arriving to the base you had feigned being sick quite often to get out of missions and more arduous training sessions so by now the doctor was more likely to believe Pinocchio with an actively elongating nose than you.

You couldn't avoid seeing Gojo but that didn't mean you couldn't ignore him. You walked right past him at shooting practice. Joining Lieutenant Hiroshi's group instead and avoided his gaze at dinner, choosing to sit next to Kaido instead. Feeling the full force of those otherworldly blues on you all throughout the rest of the day but refusing to look back at him.

Kaido however was having more trouble ignoring Gojo than you.

"He looks like he wants to kill us. Wait - actually he was only looking at me like that. He looks like he wants to kill me and looks like he's going to eat you as usual." Kaido said.

"Ignore him." You responded, angrily shoving another piece of broccoli in your mouth.

"Easy for you to say, he doesn't look like he wants to kill you. What happened between the two of you anyway?"

"Nothing." You barked, the word muffled and unintelligible due to the very undercooked broccoli still filling your mouth.

"Muppet?" Kaido asked in confusion making you huff in annoyance.

"I said nothing and I'm sleeping in your dorm tonight." You said after forcefully swallowing the unchewable broccoli down.

"What, why? There's no space in our dorm." Kaido whined.

"Because you stole my bed."

"I didn't steal shit, you transferred to Lieutenant Gojo's room so they gave me yours."

"I didn't transfer. That rat filled out the paperwork himself. You know what - it doesn't matter. Here, I'll give you my chocolate pudding if you let me stay." You said, pushing your tray towards Kaido.

"I don't like choc- oh it's blueberry. Fine, you can stay." Kaido said and you swore out loud when you looked down at the pudding. Being a pain in the ass clearly ran in the family.

You heard a bang across the dining hall and glanced up only to see a fuming Gojo up on his feet. His tray of food now spread all over the ground next to his table. He glared at you and Kaido as he made his way across the dining hall. Grabbing your tray from in front of Kaido and throwing it to the floor with a loud clattering sound that made you flinch.

"Stop testing my patience unless you want to see what happens when it runs out." Gojo warned, but you were too stunned by the commotion to think of anything to say. He turned to stalk out of the dining hall when you didn't respond.

"What a fucking nutter." You muttered under your breath once you were quite sure Gojo was out of earshot, glancing over at Kaido to see he was still frozen.

"Hey, you okay?" You asked, nudging him with your elbow.

"I don't know if that's spilt juice or if I pissed my pants." Kaido said making you grimace in disgust as you looked down at his pants to see that they were indeed soaked.

"Looks a little orange so unless you're very sick it's got to be the juice." You said, hoping you were right.

After clearing up the tray and giving Kaido the chance to shower and change out of the juice/sickly urine-soaked pants you two made your way back to your old dorm to retire for the night.

"What are you doing back here?" One of your old roommates asked the moment you walked in.

"I'm sleeping here tonight."

"Did Gojo get sick of his little lapdog?"

"Should we go ask him that together?" You asked, making the smirk fall right off the ugly mug of your most obnoxious old roommate.

"Whatever." He responded, going back to the stupid card game he had been playing with the others.

You and Kaido stood staring at the twin bed that looked even smaller than you remembered it. It really wasn't built for two adults to share.

"We can just lay in opposite directions." You suggested.

"Gross, I'm not laying with your feet in my face." Kaido said.

"Okay then orange-piss boy, what do you suggest?" You asked, earning yourself a dirty look from Kaido and confused glances from the others.

"Why don't you just take the floor?"

"Because the floor is hard and cold and there's creepy crawlies everywhere."

"Fine, we'll just share the bed. It's really no different than standing side by side." Kaido said.

It was very different. The bed was so cramped you couldn't even build a pillow wall without compromising the little space you had and of course Kaido had the pointiest elbows known to mankind. He wouldn't stop shuffling around to get comfortable and one of his elbows from hell would dig into your vulnerable midsection.

After the fourth time you elbowed him back which started a war you were bound to lose with your regular human elbows. You both eventually fell asleep bruised and cramped.

You were woken far too soon for it to be morning by a hand desperately slapping at you and then gripping into your pajama shirt as though about to tear it off. You slapped at the hand, trying to get back to sleep but were forced awake when you heard an odd, muffled gurgling sound followed by the voice of the last person you expected to hear.

"Keep your fucking hands to yourself." You heard Gojo say making your eyes fly open, struggling to adjust in the dark room only to see him forcing Kaido's hand backwards until you heard a sharp snapping sound as his wrist broke.

Your scrambled upwards on the bed, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Gojo sat straddling Kaido's chest, chocking him with one hand. The other still holding the wrist he had broken. Kaido let out a muffled scream, turning to look at you and reaching out towards you with his other hand making you flinch back but Gojo caught that hand before it could reach you.

"What did I just fucking say? Why can't people just listen while I'm asking nicely. Everyone's always trying to get their paws on what's mine." Gojo said, tossing Kaido's hand back down to his side. Increasing the force with which he was choking Kaido, pushing his head further down into the bed.

"G-Gojo what the fuck?" You asked, shakily reaching for the hand that was choking Kaido but seeing that manic blue gaze turn on you in the darkness had your blood freezing in your veins.

The predatory look he had while hunting curses back on his face but this time there was no joy accompanying it. Just a single-minded determination to take out what he saw as a rival for his chosen prey.

"Oh darling, did we wake you? I'm sorry, I was just teaching this fucker what happens when he puts his hands on what's mine. Why don't you go sleep in our room? I'll be there in a minute."

Kaido let out a muffled whimper, his flailing growing weak as he began turning purple with the blood rushing to his head. His teary eyes met yours, forcing you into action. As much as you wanted it to be, this wasn't a nightmare. Gojo had really somehow found you here and was about to kill Kaido if you didn't do something.

"Get off of him Gojo." You cried, shoving at his chest with all your might but it wasn't enough to move him.

You glanced back, about to yell to wake the others. Only to see them already awake, sitting up in their beds. Watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes.

"Fucking help me." You yelled at them, pushing and clawing at Gojo who didn't even bother to swat at you. Instead wrapping his free arm around your waist and pinning you to his side.

You thrashed against him, pulling and scratching at his arm as Kaido's eyes bulged.

"You're gonna kill him." You screamed, near feral now in your attempts to get Gojo off but it was like trying to move a rock.

"This is what happens when you befriend someone else. Look closely darling." Gojo mumbled, resting his forehead against your head. Completely relaxed as though he weren't actively choking the life out of someone.

"You fucking cowards." You screamed at the others, looking around desperately for something to help you get Gojo off. Your gaze landed on Kaido's alarm clock and you grasped at it desperately, turning in Gojo's hold and slamming it down into his temple with all your strength.

He reared back, finally releasing Kaido and you shoved him back off of him. Watching, with your hands hovering helplessly as Kaido coughed weakly, tears still streaming down his eyes and broken wrist held against his chest as tremors shook through him.

You heard that bark-like laughter and turned to see Gojo clutching his bleeding head. Streaks of blood running down the left side of his face, over his eye making the mania of his unnaturally blue gaze all the more terrifying to witness. Blood seeping through the hand he held to his head yet he was laughing.

"Only you, darling, would dare to do such a thing. Only you could get away with it." He said, pulling you in by the wrist back towards him.

"Let go, you fucking psycho." You yelled, hitting your fists against his chest but he swept both your wrists up in his hand. Palm sticky with blood that rubbed off onto your skin as he brought your conjoined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to them.

"Never, I'm never going to let you go." He muttered, lips still against your hands. Darting his head back with a laugh as you tried to swipe at his face.

"You're not going to have a choice. When everyone finds out what you've done you're going to end up rotting in prison."

"Whose gonna put me there?" He asked, smiling indulgently as though speaking to a child.

"Me, I'm going to report you for what you've done to Kaido and I'll tell them about Tomoya too." You threatened.

"But you covered for me, you're my little accomplice. Won't that get you in trouble too?" Gojo asked, voice still light and teasing but his words made you blanche.

He let out another one of his bark-like laughs at the look on your face, darting forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek as though unable to help himself. You flinched back in disgust.

"Oh darling, I'm just teasing. I'd never let you get in any trouble and neither will I. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over things like that when you're with me. I take care of what's mine."

"There's four witnesses to you attacking Kaido. There's no way you'll get away with this." You said.

"What witnesses? Did you guys see me here tonight?" Gojo asked the others without even bothering to take his eyes off of you. He always thought you looked so cute while angry, turning as red as a tomato and glaring as though you could ever hope to intimidate anyone.

"No, sir." Came three responses making your eyes widen and you turned to look at your old roommates.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You all called me a coward but really you're the cowards." You spat, and not one of them could meet your gaze.

"It doesn't matter. I witnessed it, I'll help Kaido report you." You said, turning back to Gojo.

"My poor darling, you really don't know who I am, do you? I could kill Kaido at breakfast and no one would even dare complain about the mess."

"What do you mean? Who cares if you're a lieutenant, you can't go attacking soldiers."

"Poor, sweet thing, you don't even know who you decided to befriend. You don't even know who it is you belong to." Gojo tsked as though truly sympathetic at your naivety.

"I'm Gojo Satoru, darling. This place is only running because my family wants it to, because I want it to. I can do whatever I want here, but lucky for you, so can you. So long as you have my approval of course. Sleepovers with other soldiers are not allowed." Gojo said and suddenly everything he got away with doing began to make sense.

How he had gotten away with nearly killing a fellow soldier with as poor an alibi as yourself. Why he had a room nicer than the Commander and wasn't questioned for any of his insane antics. Where he got all that audacity from.

"I get you were upset with me so I'll let this one slide, but if you ever do something like this again, I'll have no choice but to punish you. You're mine, don't ever let anyone else get so close, let alone touch you." Gojo said, reaching for your face. Face dropping and eyes growing cold as you flinched back from his touch.

"Enough. I told you not to test my patience. Don't push me so far that I have to get strict with you. Now come on, let's go to our room." Gojo said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you.

"You're fucking insane if you think I'm going anywhere with you." You said, turning back to Kaido and ignoring his hand but it was a mistake to turn your back to Gojo.

You were yanked back around by your arm making you cry out, Gojo ducking down and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing before turning to stalk out of the room.

"I warned you." He said, swatting at your ass with one of those giant hands making you yelp.

"Put me down." You demanded, squirming and flailing to try to get out of his hold. A kick to his stomach only earned you another smack on your ass.

Your yelling must have attracted attention for you heard a door opening down the hall and the Commander's voice demanding which moron was up causing a commotion this early before he came into view wearing a sleep robe tied over pajamas.

"Help me." You called out, reaching out towards the Commander when he stood there staring as though frozen in shock. Heart sinking as Gojo got closer and the man merely stepped out of his way.

"Excuse us from training for the rest of the week, we've got a couple things to work through." Gojo said as he passed the Commander.

"Yes, of course. Let me know if you need to leave the base, I'll have a car arranged."

"That won't be necessary." Gojo responded, turning the corner so you could no longer see the man who you had expected to help you but had only stood with his head bowed down to the monster carrying you off.

Gojo didn't so much as slow down until he had made it back to his room. Opening the door with you still hanging over his shoulder with ease and dropping you down onto the bed. You immediately got to your feet, eyeing him warily where he stood before you.

He raised his hand and you flinched back making him frown as he brought his hand to the still-bleeding wound on his head.

"Fuck, you got me good." He winced, prodding at the wound tenderly and going over to the mirror hung up on the wall to get a better look.

"I didn't think you were capable of that but it's good to see you're not completely defenseless. Though, next time, maybe try hitting someone else and not your friend." He said, wiping at the blood with his t-shirt gingerly.

"You're not my friend." You said, seeing him pause in the reflection of the mirror. Eyes flashing before he closed them and took a deep breath as though trying to restrain himself.

"You're angry." He sighed, turning back to face you.

"No, I'm not angry. I'm disgusted. I can't believe I ever called you a friend." You spat.

His jaw clenched but he shook his head as though the movement would help him shake off what you had said.

"I lost control and I hurt you. I get that you're mad and I'm sorry for hurting you, I really am, but don't go saying things you don't mean." He said.

"Oh I mean it. You mean nothing to me, I don't ever want to see your face again. In fact, I'm leaving. Fuck this whole force. That pension isn't worth this shit." You said, moving towards the closet intending to pack but before you could even round the bed Gojo had crossed the room and was turning you to face him by the arm.

Your protests died on your lips as you caught sight of his face. Blue eyes alight with rage, the veins running up his neck and into his jaw standing out grotesquely from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He looked inhuman, like something animalistic and feral. For the first time you felt truly afraid of Gojo.

"Didn't I say not to push me too far?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"Didn't I?" He demanded loudly, gripping you by your upper arms and giving you a sound shake.

"Y-you did." You responded, arching up in his hold to try to get out of the painful grip he had on your arms.

"Who are you leaving?" He asked, bringing you in closer by the hold he had on you.

"Who said you could fucking leave me? Who even allowed you to think it?" He barked, giving you another shake.

"You're mine, you don't ever get to walk away from me. You're the one who barged into my life, you think you can just up and leave whenever you want?" He demanded, his grip growing steadily tighter on your arms.

"Gojo, please, you're hurting me." You said, eyes watering from the pain but you didn't dare try to pull away.

"And what about how much you're hurting me?" He asked.

"Does my pain mean fucking nothing to you? Saying shit like I mean nothing to you, that I'm not your friend. You know what, you're right. I'm not your friend. I'm so much fucking more than that. Friend doesn't begin to cover what we are to each other."

"W-what?" You asked. You knew he was weirdly possessive of you but you hadn't anticipated that he thought of you in that way.

"I'm your fucking everything. Your friend, your lover, your husband. It's all me, there is no space for anyone else. I won't let there be anyone else. I'll make you mine in every conceivable way. Put a ring on your finger, brand my name over your fucking heart and mark your pretty little neck with my teeth every damn day." He growled, and before you had a chance to react was leaning down and sinking his teeth into your neck making you scream as he tore through the flesh.

You flailed in his grasp, pushing and shoving at his chest but it was like trying to move stone. After what seemed like an eternity of agony he finally pulled away, teeth lined with your blood and lips crimson with it.

"All fucking mine." He declared, licking over his lips making your breath catch as the reality of your situation dawned on you.

You had walked right into the den of a monster, awakening the beast and now you were trapped in its grasp. You should never have befriended Gojo Satoru. Not when there was all those rumours about him. Shouldn't have thought yourself more clever than the rest, able to tame the infamous mad dog.

"Gojo I don't think of you that way." You said shakily, hoping you could at least get him to go back to wanting to be your friend, not whatever the hell this was.

"That's okay, you'll start. It's my fault, I should have been more clear. I know how oblivious you can be so I wanted to take things slow but clearly that was a mistake on my part."

"Y-you can't force someone to be with you. I don't want to be with you and I won't." You said, trying to sound firm.

"I know you're a little slow and normally I find that to be fucking adorable but I need you to get it through your head that you are mine. You belong to me." He repeated slowly as though trying to drill the words into you.

"You're the one who forced your way into my life so really this is all on you. I would have left you alone had you not started following me around and then tried to cover for me, getting all worried about me getting into trouble." He said, going from enraged to getting a far-off look in his eye as though reminiscing. He was fucking insane, his moods changed faster than you could keep up with.

"I only approached you because I needed someone who'd have my back during missions. I didn't mean for any of this to go so far." You said.

"I'll always protect you, I'll always have your back. There's no curse, institution or person that can get to you while I'm around." He cooed, not seeming mad at all to find out about your ulterior motive for approaching him.

"I don't need that from you. I'm leaving the force, I never should have joined." You mumbled, filled with regret over your greed that had brought you into the predicament.

"You're not going anywhere. I'll tie you to the bed if that's what it takes. You'll stay where I am. If you don't want to be part of missions, good, I'd rather you not be but you're staying here."

"You can't watch over me every second of every day. I'd find a way to get away so why don't you just make this easy for both of us and let me go?" You asked, making his eyes darken and that bravado that had overcome your senses drained just as fast leaving only a hollow, cold sense of fear behind.

"I told you I'm never letting you go. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. I don't want to tie you up but I'll do it if you make me and if you somehow manage to get out then I'll hunt you down and I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run." He growled making you flinch back.

"Now what's it going to be? Are you going to choose the easy route where you stay with me in our room and get to move about as you please or should I tie you up?" He asked.

"Better yet should I move right to breaking your legs so you don't get any funny ideas about running away? They'll even discharge you with pension if I break your legs, you'll still stay with me of course but it is what you always wanted." He said, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to look up at him.

His eyes softening when he saw the tears in yours.

"Fuck, I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." He sighed, pulling you in to his chest and wrapping his arms around you.

Terrified as you were of him you couldn't help but sob into his chest. The dread of the horrible predicament you had gotten yourself into making you seek comfort from anywhere you could get it, even if it was the source of your misery. He hushed you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. Pressing apologetic kisses into your head.

"I told you not to push me. I fucking lose it when I even so much as think of you not being with me. Just promise me you'll stay with me. That you won't ever leave and we can forget all of this."

"I-I won't." You hiccuped, finally giving in to what had been inevitable since the moment you first approached Gojo.

You had awoken with a sharp gasp, one hand pressed against your chest as you struggled to steady your breathing. After that, sleep never returned.

By the time the sun had barely peeked over the horizon, the door of your chamber burst open and what felt like an entire army of maids descended upon the room.

Curtains were thrown wide. Windows opened. Someone began carrying buckets of steaming water toward the bath. Before you could properly gather your senses, three women had already reached the bed and were insisting you rise.

The hours that followed passed in a blur of preparations.

You were bathed once, then informed it had not been sufficient and bathed again. By the end of it, you were fairly certain there could not possibly be a single remaining layer of skin left to scrub.

Oils were worked into your skin. Your hair was washed, brushed, braided, unbraided, and brushed once more. Wrapped in a thin robe, you were seated before a mirror while servants hurried around you carrying dresses, ribbons, jewelry, and enough pins to arm a small battalion.

The room buzzed with excitement, but you felt none of it.

Your stomach had been tight all morning, though whether the cause of it were the nerves surrounding the wedding or anticipation of the night's escape, you could not have said.

Perhaps both. Though, the plan occupied your thoughts constantly now. Every detail repeated itself over and over in your mind, as though rehearsing it enough times might somehow prevent disaster.

A soft knock sounded against the open door.

Your mother entered a moment later, and the chatter among the servants immediately quieted.

The woman's gaze swept over the room before settling upon you. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across her face.

"It seems the day has arrived after all," she said softly.

You managed a small smile. "So it would appear."

She stepped closer, dismissing servants with a wave of her hand before reaching out to adjust a loose strand of hair near your temple. The gesture was surprisingly gentle.

"You look beautiful."

The words should have comforted you. Instead, they only made something twist painfully in your chest. After all, your mother had scarcely spoken to you since she offered you up to Maekar. Every brief conversation since than has been nothing but talk of the wedding, or appearances, or obligations.

"There will be many eyes upon you today," she said, voice calm. "Remember that. Carry yourself with dignity. Whatever happens, you are representing our house."

You lowered your gaze. "Yes, Mother."

A faint nod followed. She seemed as though she might say something more.

Instead, she set a small bundle down before the mirror, its contents catching the morning light, and simply gave your shoulder a brief squeeze.

Then she was gone.

Curious, you reached for the bundle and carefully unfolded the cloth.

The dragon pin lay nestled within.

For a long moment, you simply stared at it. The goldsmith had done remarkable work. Every scale had been carved with great detail, and tiny rubies had been set into the dragon's eyes, catching flashes of crimson whenever the light touched them.

You traced your thumb over the metal, following the outline of the creature's wings, before wrapping the pin once more and slipping it carefully into the hidden pocket sewn inside your skirts.

You had yet to decide when to give it to him. Perhaps the opportunity would present itself.

---

The journey to the Sept passed in a blur or rattling wheels and sickening nerves. Though every mile carried you closer to the ceremony, you tried to see matters in a better light - as each step closer to the wedding ceremony also meant one step closer to your eventual freedom.

By this time tomorrow, if everything went smoothly, you'd be far away from this place. The realization should have conforted you. Instead, it only seemed to make your stomach twist harder.

The second the wheelhouse finally slowed, your heart immediately began hammering against your ribs.

A servant opened the door, and sunlight flooded inside. Your mother got down first before extending a hand toward you.

The great doors of the Sept stood ahead, tall and white beneath the midday sun. Nobles and common folk alike crowded the steps that lead to the entrance, barely being held back by the guards.

Your throat suddenly felt dry. The dress seemed heavier than it had been moments ago. You became painfully aware of every breath that left you.

Your mother must have notice your struggle, as she slipped her hand through your arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Steady yourself, dear." She murmured. "They're only people."

You wanted to laugh. 'Only people'. Yeah, only several hundred of them, and even more awaited behind those doors.

Once the two of you reached the last step, with cheers erupting from behind you, the doors began to open slowly. The sound that greeted you beyong the doors felt worse than any cheering would.

The hush that swept through the Sept felt deafening, as a thousand souls held their breath at once. Rows and rows of nobles stretched before you, and every face turned toward you.

If it was up to you, you never would have moved forward. Your mother, on the other hand, began gently guiding you forward, and so the walk began. The long aisle stretched between the gathered guests, leading toward the raised altar at the far end of the Sept.

Toward the High Septon.

Toward Aerion.

You fixed your gaze onto him as you moved forward.

At first, he seemed almost disinterested. Standing beside the High Septon in black and red, Aerion looked every bit the prince he was born to be. The dark colors suited him far too well, drawing attention to the pale gold of his hair and the sharp lines of his face. He was, without any shadow of doubt, undeniably handome.

His hands were clasped behind his back. His posture, however, lacked the rigid formality one might expect. If anything, he looked faintly bored.

Then his eyes lifted and immediately found yours.

The change was immediate. Even from the opposite end of the Sept, you felt it.

The rest of the room seemed to fade into the background, and the sunlight seemed to vanish as well.

There was only him, his gaze. Cold. Unwavering. Intent.

For several long steps, you found yourself trapped beneath his attention, feeling oddly exposed despite the hundreds of people surrounding you.

Your pulse stumbled, but neither of you looked away. His eyes remained every bit as focused on you, as though he was measuring your every movement, or judging every flicker of uncertainty.

The memory of the previous day surfaced uninvited.

'Tomorrow, half the realm will be watching us. I thought it worth seeing how you handle yourself under scrutiny.'

You knew him well enough by now to recognize exactly what he was doing.

He wanted you uncomfortable. Wanted to see if you would falter. Wanted to watch you squirm beneath the weight of every eye in the kingdom.

A slow, unpleasant curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. The sight irritated you enough to finally break the spell.

You dragged your gaze away. Anything was preferable to giving him satisfaction.

Your attention shifted toward the royal family gathered near the front rows of the Sept. Prince Maekar stood nearest the altar, looking tall, rigid, and imposing as ever.

Beside him stood Daeron—and the sight of him sent a wave of unease surging through you. The prince looked somewhat rough around the edges, his posture staggered, his expression carrying the remains of a night spent drinking.

When his eyes met yours, he offered the faintest nod. The gesture was meant to reassured you, but intead it left you wondering exactly how much wine he had consumed. A very inconvenient amount, if his appearance was anything to judge by.

You sincerely hoped he intended to remain conscious long enough to flee the castle.

Aegon stood beside him, looking entirely miserable. The younger prince's face was tense, his hands clasped tightly before him. You suspected his thoughts were occupied by the same troubles as yours, judging by the displeased looks he kept throwing at Daeron.

Beyond them stood Prince Baelor, composed and solemn as ever. And beside him—a face you did not recognize. The resemblance, though, made the answer obvious. Brown hair and mismatched eyes, one violet and one brown. Baelor's son.

The young man stood quietly among the royal family, watching the ceremony unfold with a seriousness that seemed unusual for someone so young. For a brief moment, his gaze met yours, and the softness behind his eyes caught you off guard.

There was no calculation in it. No judgment. Only something that felt oddly sympathetic. Your gaze lingered on him only briefly before shifting away once more.

To the left of the altar stood your own family. Valeriane and Ysoria looked as though they had stepped from a painting. Both stood tall and composed, their gowns immaculate, their expressions carefully arranged for the watching court. Neither betrayed much emotion, though you thought you caught the slightest furrow of Valeriane's brows as she watched you approach.

Lyessa, meanwhile, seemed entirely distracted by the sea of nobles surrounding her. Her head turned in every direction, wide-eyed as she took in the crowd, as though forgetting the gravity of the occasion entirely.

The sight of them sent a strange ache through your chest.

Then the altar was suddenly before you. There was no longer anywhere else to look, so you lifted your eyes. Aerion's gaze met yours immediately, as though it had never left.

Your mother's arm slipped from yours. She gave your hand one final squeeze before finally stepping away—a silent encouragement, or perhaps a farewell. Carefully, you climbed the remaining steps and took your place beside the prince.

Aerion looked down at you, both literally and otherwise. You lifted your chin and clasped your hands neatly before you, refusing to give him even a hint of the nervousness threatening to betray you.

The black and red of House Targaryen settled sharply against his broad shoulders, the dragon embroidered across his cloak gleaming faintly beneath the colored sunlight filtering through the stained glass overhead.

His expression was one of practiced ease. Calm. Superior. Entirely in control. Yet standing this close, you found the illusion less convincing than before. There was a stiffness to his shoulders that you hadn't seen before. A faint tension lingered around his mouth. Even the line between his brows seemed a touch sharper than usual. At that moment, it occurred to you that Aerion was not entirely untouched by the weight of hundreds of eyes fixed upon him.

He simply hid it better than most.

The High Septon's voice echoed through the vast hall as he spoke of duty, faith, and the bonds forged before gods and men. You listened only in fragments. The words seemed distant, washed away beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Soon enough, attendants stepped forward. The cloak bearing your family's sigil was carefully unfastened from your shoulders. The moment the weight left you, an unexpected ache settled in your chest. It was only cloth, yet as the attendants carried it away, it felt weirdly final.

For the first time since you had stepped into the Sept, Aerion moved.

Without a word, he reached for the black-and-red cloak draped across his own shoulders, the fabric bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stitched in crimson thread.

You stood very still as Aerion moved behind you.

The weight of hundreds of eyes upon your back was nothing compared to the awareness of his presence only inches away. You felt restless, slightly shifting you weight from one leg to the other. Then, as he settled the cloak carefully over your shoulders, he leaned forward ever so slightly.

"Stay still."

Only two words, spoken so close to your ear that the warmth of his breath brushed against your skin. A shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.

The cloak settled around your shoulders, replacing the colors of your birth house with those of his own. A visible symbol that, before the eyes of gods and men, you now belonged to House Targaryen.

Aerion's hands came around your shoulders to secure the fastening at the front.

Your breath caught. His fingers brushed the bare skin near your collarbone as he worked the clasp into place. It was the briefest touch imaginable, almost certainly accidental.

Yet another shiver betrayed you.

This time, when you lifted your eyes, you found him already watching. The corner of his mouth had shifted ever so slightly, suggesting that he had noticed, and he enjoyed it.

The High Septon's voice rang out once more.

"She leaves her father's protection and enters her husband's house. Let all gathered here bear witness to their vows."

A murmur swept softly through the Sept before fading once more into silence.

The High Septon spoke first, reciting the ancient words before motioning to Aerion.

You expected stiffness. Perhaps even mockery. Instead, Aerion lifted his head and spoke without any trace of hesitation.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."

His voice carried effortlessly through the Sept.

Strong. Steady. Certain.

"I am hers and she is mine." The words settled heavily between you. "From this day until the end of my days."

For one unsettling moment, you found yourself staring back at him. There was no trace of amusement on his face. Nothing to suggest he viewed the ceremony as some elaborate joke. And because of that, of the certainty in his voice and the steadiness of his gaze, part of you almost believed him.

Almost.

The High Septon then turned toward you. You repeated the vows as instructed, though your own voice sounded strangely distant to your ears. The vial in your right pocket hung heavier than ever.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." your hands tightened slightly beneath the folds of the cloak.

"I am his and he is mine."

You wondered if the Seven frowned upon lies. "From this day until the end of my days."

The High Septon smiled. Then came the final declaration.

"With the blessing of the Seven, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss."

Your eyes widened slightly at the High Septon's words. Before you had time to prepare yourself, Aerion stepped forward.

One hand rose to the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair at the back of your head. To anyone watching, it likely appeared almost gentle. Only you felt the slight tug he gave, subtle enough to go unnoticed by the crowd and yet impossible to mistake.

Your held your breath. Aerion leaned down.

The Sept, the nobles, the hundreds of eyes fixed upon the two of you—all of it seemed to blur at the edges as his mouth finally met yours.

You had expected coldness, braced for it even. Expected something distant and unpleasant, fitting of the man standing before you.

Instead, the warmth of his lips startled you so completely that your thoughts scattered for a moment. The sensation was unfamiliar enough to leave you momentarily stunned, caught off guard by the simple fact that he felt nothing like you had imagined.

Then his hand tightened slightly in your hair, and his lips closed around your lower lip. The realization barely had time to settle before a sharp sting followed.

You inhaled sharply as Aerion bit down.

Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to make your eyes widen. You could feel his mouth twist into a grin. As he pulled away, he dragged your lower lip with him for the briefest moment before finally releasing it.

The movement was so quick, so subtle, that no one watching from below could possibly have noticed. But you felt it. You tasted the blood in your mouth, the faintest trace of it.

Your eyes snapped at his face as he took a step back. Aerion was already looking down at you, the corner of his mouth curved upwards.

Almost lazily, the tip of his tongue swept across his lower lip, catching the tiny droplet of blood left there before it disappeared.

Your brows furrowed in frustration, and the smirk that answered you only deepened.

---

The ride back to the Red Keep passed beneath a constant roar of voices.

The carriage windows had been left open, and every so often you found yourself lifting a hand toward the crowds gathered along the streets. People cheered as you passed, waving banners and scraps of cloth in Targaryen colors.

Across from you, Aerion appeared far less interested in the spectacle. He sat stretched comfortably against the cushions, one arm draped across the back of the seat, watching the city drift by with an expression that bordered on boredom.

At one point, a particularly enthusiastic group began shouting blessings after the carriage. You offered them a hesitant smile and a wave.

Aerion let out a quiet scoff. You ignored him.

Eventually, the effort of smiling at strangers became exhausting. You settled back into your own seat, grateful for the distance separating the two of you.

Silence lingered between you.

Without realizing it, your tongue brushed once more against the small cut inside your lower lip. The sting remained.

"Enjoying the attention?" Aerion asked suddenly.

You glanced toward him. "I am enduring it."

Aerion's gaze remained fixed on the passing crowds outside. "You hide it well."

Your brows furrowed. "Hide what?"

"Your misery." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Half the city would swear you're having the finest day of your life."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. Only then did you realize your teeth had caught your injured lip again.

His eyes dropped briefly to the movement, and something unreadable flickered across his face. Then he shifted against the cushions, looked away toward the window, and leaned his head back.

"Gods," he muttered, closing his eyes. "This day isn't even halfway finished."

---

By the time you had returned to the Red Keep, your nerves had become almost unbearable.

Thankfully, you were granted a brief respite before the feast, just enough time to retire to your chambers and compose yourself before joining the feast in the Great Hall.

You paced the length of your room, skirts gathered carefully in one hand while the other toyed endlessly with the small vial hidden within your sleeve. Again and again, you walked through the plan in your head.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when the door suddenly opened. Startled, you nearly hurled the vial across the room, heart lurching painfully before your eyes settled upon the familiar figure stepping inside.

Daeron.

Relief flooded through you so quickly that your shoulders visibly dropped. Daeron glanced once over his shoulder, eyeing the guard posted at your chambers, before finally closing it.

Once his eyes landed on you, a grin immediately spread across his face.

"You look...." His gaze travelled over the elaborate and overzealous gown you wore "...exquisite."

His tone carried enough amusement to make his statement an outright insult.

You frowned "Are you already drunk?"

Daeron rolled his eyes dramatically, then waved a dismissive hand.

"It was one cup." He clarified before he crossed the room, making his way towards the balcony doors.

His eyes dropped suddenly to your hand, and the grin disappeared.

"You may wish to stop waving that thing around."

You quickly obeyed, shoving the small vial back into the folds of your dress. Daeron seemed to relax once again. You crossed your arms.

"If you've come here solely to criticize my gown, you could have very well waited for me to reach the feast."

His expression shifted, and he shifted slightly "No, that's not it."

Immediately, your stomach tightened. "What happened?"

Daeron sighed. "It appears there are certain... complications."

You stared at him, waiting for him to fill you in.

"Egg is worried."

You blinked. "Only now?"

That earned the faintest snort from him. "Believe it or not, he only started questioning the outcome after agreeing to commit treason. He thinks we're going to get caught."

Silence settled briefly. Then his expression hardened.

"That is not the real problem."

Immediately, your attention sharpened. "What is it, then?"

Daeron leaned against the balcony railing. "Aerion."

The name alone made your stomach sink. "What about him?"

"He hasn't had nearly enough wine."

You frowned. "What?"

"Since this morning. I've been watching him. Between the ceremony, the carriage ride, and the meal afterward, he has barely touched a cup."

Your grip tightened unconsciously around your skirts. "Perhaps he'll drink more at the feast."

"Perhaps." The way he said it suggested he did not share your confidence. "Aerion drinks when Aerion feels like drinking."

You let out a slow breath.

Daeron shrugged. "So."

You looked up. His expression had returned to something closer to its usual confidence.

"We simply ensure he drinks."

You stared at him, unconvinced. "Simply?"

"Yes."

"There is nothing simple about convincing Aerion Targaryen to do anything." You argued.

"Then I suggest you become very persuasive."

You shook your head in disbelief, as the task at hand seemed nearly impossible to overcome. 'Gods help us all'

---

The wedding feast stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You sat beside Aerion at the center of the high table, painfully aware that every eye in the hall drifted toward the two of you sooner or later. Lords raised cups in your honor. Ladies offered smiles and congratulations. Musicians played without pause.

You made an effort to appear engaged in the celebration. Aerion did not.

One hand rested against the arm of his chair while the other toyed idly with the stem of his goblet. The cup before him remained filled nearly to the brim, yet he scarcely touched it. His posture had gradually deteriorated throughout the evening until he looked less like a prince celebrating his wedding and more like a man enduring a particularly tedious council meeting.

At one point your eyes found Daeron across the hall. He caught your look immediately. You glanced pointedly toward Aerion's untouched wine. Daeron followed your gaze before offering a helpless shrug.

You nearly groaned. By the time another hour crawled past, even you had begun to fear the plan was doomed.

Then, just as you felt ready to succumb to desperation, Daeron appeared, cup in hand and wearing an exaggerated grin. "There they are," he announced. "The fortunate couple."

Aerion's eyes narrowed immediately. "Go away."

Daeron ignored him. "I merely wish to offer my heartfelt congratulations." He lifted his cup dramatically. "Surely we can have a drink together in order to celebrate."

You were already reaching for your goblet. Before Aerion could refuse, you lifted yours expectantly.

For a brief moment, he looked between the two of you with open suspicion. Then, with obvious reluctance, Aerion picked up his own cup.

"To surviving the evening," Daeron declared.

"An inspiring sentiment," Aerion muttered.

"Bottoms up."

The three of you drank. Not much changed at first. The feast continued, more food appeared, and, most importantly, wine flowed freely.

Guests grew louder as the evening wore on. Laughter echoed through the hall. Somewhere near the lower tables, two minor lords nearly began fighting eachother before being separated by their wives. The sky beyond the windows had long since turned black.

At some point, Daeron settled himself beside Aerion and began talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Whatever topic he had chosen seemed specifically designed to test the limits of human endurance. You watched Aerion's patience deteriorate by the minute. Eventually, he began drinking simply to survive the conversation.

Each time his goblet emptied, Daeron eagerly refilled it.

When Aerion rose briefly from his seat to reluctantly acknowledge some visiting lord, Daeron seized the opportunity. The small vial passed from your hand to his beneath the shelter of the tablecloth. Three drops. Exactly as planned. The liquid vanished into the dark wine without a trace.

When Aerion returned, Daeron resumed speaking before the prince could suspect a thing. By now, there was a slight lack of sharpness to Aerion's replies. Not enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps, but enough for you. Hope flickered inside your chest as you watched them both.

At last, Daeron pushed the prepared cup toward him. "There."

Aerion eyed him suspiciously. "If this is another toast—"

It was as far as he got, as a shadow fell across the table, and every trace of amusement vanished from Daeron's face.

You looked up.

Maekar stood over the three of you. The prince's expression suggested he was beyond distressed. His gaze settled onto Daeron first.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Daeron straightened. "Celebrating?"

"You're getting your brother drunk." The words were spoken quietly enough not to carry beyond the high table, but the displeasure behind them was unmistakable.

Aerion snorted. "I'm perfectly capable of getting drunk without assistance."

Maekar ignored him entirely. "Have you forgotten what night this is?"

"Hard to forget, Father." came Daeron's simple reply.

The king's eyes narrowed. Then, before anyone could react, he caught Aerion by the sleeve and hauled him upright. Aerion looked thoroughly unimpressed by this treatment. Thankfully, the goblet remained in his hand.

'One sip' you thought . One sip was all you needed.

But Maekar was already speaking again. "You've indulged him enough."

His gaze shifted toward Daeron. "You will see both of them safely to their chambers." The order left little room for argument. Then his eyes hardened further.

"And afterward, you will retire to your own rooms before you manage to embarrass yourself and this family any further."

Daeron opened his mouth, thought better of it, then closed it again. With no other choice, he obeyed.

---

The cheers that followed you out of the Great Hall echoed through the corridors long after the doors had closed behind you. Your face had grown uncomfortably warm. It did not help that you knew precisely what many of those prople expected to happen next.

Beside you, Aerion walked in unusual silence. The prince was not stumbling, but the wine had undoubtedly softened some of his sharper edges. His replies had become slower throughout the evening, his gaze heavier. Even now, he carried his goblet loosely in one hand, though he had yet to finish it.

Daeron accompanied the two of you as instructed, hands tucked casually behind his back. As your destination drew nearer, your anxiety only worsened. Aerion still had not taken a sip.

When at last the three of you stopped before the doors to the newly shared chambers, you shot Daeron a brief look. A desperate one.

He merely offered an almost imperceptible nod.

"Well," he said brightly, lifting his own cup, "do enjoy yourselves."

The grin that accompanied the words was entirely too pleased with itself. You pressed your lips together. Aerion responded with nothing more than a dismissive hum before stepping through the doorway. With no other choice, you followed.

The heavy doors swung shut behind you, sealing the room in immediate silence.

When you turned, Aerion had already crossed part of the chamber. Rather than approaching the bed, he settled himself against the edge of a nearby desk, resting lazily against the carved wood. The goblet remained in his hand.

His eyes settled on you. Even dulled by wine, there was something deeply unsettling about being the sole focus of Aerion's attention. You found yourself rooted near the door, suddenly uncertain of what was expected of you now that the performance of the feast was over.

Aerion's gaze lingered, and one pale brow lifted. "You're planning on standing there all night?"

His voice carried the slight heaviness of drink, slower than usual, though no less sharp.

You shook your head. "No."

"Hm." His eyes travelled over you in an unhurried sweep. "Then come closer."

You hesitated. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I don't bite."

The look you gave him was immediate. A slow grin appeared. Apparently, he remembered the Sept just as clearly as you did.

With considerable reluctance, you crossed the room. The distance between you closed until you stopped several paces away from him. Close enough to satisfy his demand. Far enough to preserve some small measure of dignity. Aerion regarded you for a long moment without speaking.

The silence stretched. You found yourself shifting beneath it. Finally, unable to endure it any longer, you spoke.

"Well?"

One silver brow rose slightly higher.

"Well, what?"

Your patience immediately began to fray. "You were the one who told me to come closer."

"And you did." His gaze drifted lazily over you before returning to your face. "Now I'm deciding what to do with you."

His gaze then dropped briefly to your hands, noting the way your fingers kept twisting into the fabric of your skirts, before returning to your face once more.

"You're fidgeting."

Your hand instantly stilled against your skirts. "I am not."

"You are." His eyes remained fixed on you. "Have I made you nervous, wife?"

The title sounded strange coming from him. Even stranger was the faint satisfaction you thought you detected in his voice.

"Not particularly."

"Hm." It was clear he did not believe you.

Across from you, Aerion looked entirely too satisfied with himself.

You stared at him, but your attention drifted despite yourself. To the goblet still in his hand, still nearly full. The sight of it made your stomach tighten. At this rate, the entire plan would collapse before it ever began.

Your eyes lingered a fraction too long. Aerion noticed immediately. Of course he did.

Perhaps sensing your growing frustration, Aerion released a slow breath through his nose. The goblet shifted slightly in his hand. "If you're waiting for me to disappear into a drunken stupor," he said suddenly, "you'll be disappointed."

Your stomach dropped. For one terrible second, panic took over.

Then his mouth curved. Not knowingly, not suspiciously. "I've had far less wine than everyone seems determined to believe."

Relief rushed through you so quickly it nearly left you lightheaded. He was guessing. Nothing more.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. "I shall keep that in mind."

Aerion answered with a quiet hum. Then, at last, as though the matter held no importance whatsoever, he lifted the goblet to his lips. Your breath caught as the rim touched his mouth.

One swallow. Then another. Not much, but enough.

The relief that followed was almost overwhelming. You lowered your eyes immediately, afraid he might somehow read it on your face. And for the first time all evening, you felt as though the plan might actually succeed.

Aerion set the goblet aside with a quiet clink of metal against wood. For a few moments, nothing happened.

You found yourself watching him despite every effort not to. The silence in the chamber seemed to stretch, filled only by the distant sounds of celebration drifting through the castle walls. Somewhere below, music was still playing. Laughter echoed faintly through the corridors. Yet here, in the privacy of the bedchamber, the atmosphere felt strangely still.

Then Aerion's brow furrowed slightly. His fingers drifted to the collar of his doublet, loosening it with visible irritation before dragging a hand across his face. A curse slipped under his breath.

You remained where you stood. "Are you feeling well, Your Grace?"

Aerion dismissed the question immediately. "I've had stronger wine than this."

The answer sounded less convincing than he probably intended. A few moments later, he pushed himself away from the desk and crossed the room, dropping onto the edge of the bed with considerably less grace than usual. The mattress shifted beneath his weight.

You approached carefully and sat down beside him, leaving what you hoped was a respectable distance between you. Aerion sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor as though willing whatever plagued him to simply disappear. The effort seemed to irritate him more with each passing second.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Gods."

His voice carried genuine frustration now. You glanced toward him. The prince rubbed at his eyes once more before lifting his head.

"You look concerned." The faint mockery remained, but it felt weaker somehow.

"I wonder why." You retorted.

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he stood. Or at least attempted to. The movement was abrupt enough that it caught your attention immediately. For a moment, he made it upright.

Then his balance shifted. You saw it happen almost instantly. His shoulders tensed, and one hand shot out. You reached for him at the exact moment he reached for you. Your fingers closed around his forearm while his hand settled against your shoulder.

Suddenly, the distance between you vanished. The breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Aerion was close enough now that you could make out every detail of his face. The faint crease between his brows. The sharp line of his jaw. The slight flush the wine had left beneath his pale skin. For a moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes found yours. Held. Something shifted behind them before his gaze drifted lower.

You felt your pulse stumble. His eyes moved lower still—to your lips.

The realization sent a strange warmth rushing through your chest. The room seemed to narrow around the two of you. You became acutely aware of everything at once—the hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his body, the way his breath brushed faintly across your skin.

For one suspended heartbeat, you genuinely thought—

Then his expression changed. The focus vanished from his eyes as quickly as it had appeared. His grip loosened, and a flicker of confusion crossed his face.

"Aerion?"

He didn't answer. The prince swayed once, twice.

And then the fight simply left him. His weight sagged forward before you could prepare for it. You barely managed a startled gasp as he collapsed against you, his forehead striking your shoulder before the rest of him followed. The force of it sent you tumbling backwards onto the bed.

For a moment, you sat perfectly still, frozen beneath the unexpected weight. Then, cautiously, you looked down. Aerion's eyes were closed, and his breathing had already begun to settle into the steady rhythm of deep sleep.

The nightshade had finally done its work.

---

You waited a moment longer, watching Aerion carefully as though he might still stir if you moved too soon. Only when his breathing remained steady did you finally shift, carefully working yourself out from beneath him. It was far less graceful than you would have liked. It took a few awkward, silent efforts before you managed to free yourself entirely.

For a moment, you simply stood there, catching your breath. Then, smoothing your skirts as best you could, you crossed the room and reached the door.

Daeron was just down the corridor, waiting. His expression shifted the instant he saw you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at how quickly everything had gone.

“That was… fast,” he muttered, already stepping inside before you could answer.

His gaze went past you at once, and settled to where Aerion lay unmoving on the bed.

Daeron gave a short, satisfied nod, though the tension in his shoulders did not ease. For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then his attention shifted to the room itself, scanning it quickly.

“It needs to look wrong,” he said quietly.

Daeron then began shifting a few objects just slightly out of place—enough to imply haste, to make the scene feel unsettled. Nothing obvious had been staged. It was the kind of disorder that would force questions to rise. The cup had also been washed, just in case.

“It’s done,” he said quietly, though his eyes were already moving across the room again, as if searching for anything they might have missed. “Now we change.”

You blinked at him, suddenly aware you were still in your wedding gown. "Ah, right."

He glanced at you then, then tossed a small bundle towards you. "For you."

You caught it swiftly, eyeing the clothes suspiciously. You hesitated. “Where did you get this?”

“From someone who no longer needs it,” he replied simply, already turning away. “Hurry.”

Daeron had already begun loosening his own outer layers, stripping away anything that would mark him as royal. What replaced it was simple, washed out clothing that made him look strangely...ordinary.

“I’ll wait outside,” he added, not looking at you. “Knock when you’re done.”

He paused at the door. Then, quieter: “And be quick. Servants will start searching soon, and I would prefer not to explain why the newly married prince is unconscious in his bedchamber.”

With that, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Left alone, you changed quickly, packing the gown as tightly as you could beneath your arm.

Just before you left the chamber for good, your gaze drifted back to Aerion.

He had not moved at all—still where he had fallen on the bed.

The sight made something in your chest pull tight, sharp and unfamiliar.

You moved closer before you fully decided to.

You reached into your pocket and drew out the small pin your mother had given you that morning. The dragon caught faint torchlight as you held it for a brief moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, you leaned down and slid it into the fold of Aerion’s clothing—tucked safely where it would not fall.

A quiet, final gesture.

--

You and Daeron left the room in a haste afterwards, making sure the door latch hung ajar in a way that suggested someone had left in a hurry.

It was not long before you turned a corner and found Aegon waiting in the corridor, pale-faced and restless, as if he had been holding his breath this entire time.

“We don’t have much time,” Daeron murmured, not slowing as he passed his brother "Servants will come soon."

You followed as he led you through a series of turns that grew less familiar with every corridor. The torchlight began to thin as you went, shadows stretching longer along the stone walls.

Eventually, the three of you stopped in front of a narrow section of a wall.

The stone looked no different from any other, yet when Daeron pressed his palm against a pattern only he seemed to recognize, something shifted. With a low, reluctant groan, a seam opened in the wall, just wide enough for a person to slip through.

Daeron glanced back at the two of you once.

“Stay close,” he said simply. Then he disappeared inside.

The passage beyond was narrow and damp, the air within was heavy. You could hear the faint drip of water coming from somewhere deeper within, barely audible over the shuffle of your hurried footsteps. No one spoke for a long while.

Eventually, the tunnel began to slope. A faint gush of air swept over you as you neared the exit. Daeron reached the end first, pushing against a heavy wooden door until it creaked open.

One by one, you slipped through the opening, only to find yourselves standing right outside the thick walls of the Red Keep. The massive silhouette of the castle hovered behind you.

The air was colder than you expected. It did not feel welcoming.

Behind you stood the Red Keep, along with every obligation, every expectation, every responsibility you had just stepped out of.

Ahead of you, the night awaited.

**************************************

Jungkook was in his study, looking at the busy city below him through his floor to ceiling windows penthouse. He leaned back in his leather chair, eyes drifting to the rows of crystal vases with lilies, roses and chrysanthemums. He was enjoying his silence after reviewing some project his father had sent him.

But the silence didn’t last long, Jungkook’s phone vibrated, a message from his father’s secretary:

Jinyoung: your presence is requested by the chairman for dinner.

He exhaled through his nose, shutting the screen off.

Dinner with the Jeons was never chaotic.

The long dining table is placed under two big chandeliers lined with crystal glasses and cutleries polished to perfection. The staff moves quietly in the background, refilling water when the glass is a, and replacing dishes.

His mother is as elegant as ever, her posture straight, and her hands resting lightly on the table. His father is sitting at the head of the table dominating the space without raising his voice, a trait Jungkook learned from him.

Jungkook sits with a neutral expression looking like the perfect, attentive, respectful, and effortlessly handsome heir in a tailored suit.

“Jungkook,” his father’s voice broke through the silence, “the investment committee will be present tomorrow, I want you to join me.”

“Yes,” Jungkook replied simply, one word was all that was needed.

His father nodded in approval and his mother smiled softly.

This is just how Jungkook operates, he never overexplains, a single precise answer was enough.

He doesn’t need to dominate the conversation, his restraint was dominance in itself. When Jungkook speaks, people leaned in. When he is silent, they second guess themselves. He knows how to control a room with nothing but presence.

“Some of the directors are hesitant about the expansion to Hong Kong,” his father added, watching him carefully, “If they question the move, how should we respond?”

Jungkook set down his glass, “I wouldn’t argue,” he said calmly, “I would give them space to voice concerns, then I would ask what alternatives they are offering. They won’t have one and they will realize it themselves.”

A flicker of pride can be seen on his father’s eyes and is mother chuckled lightly, “You truly are your father’s son.”

But as his father started talking about a story on the Hong Kong property market, Jungkook’s phone buzzed silently in his pocket. He tilted the device slightly under the table, a message from Taehwan.

Taehwan: She just finished her shift and is now walking home.

Jungkook’s thumb hovered over the screen and Taehwan sent him another message.

Taehwan: Stopped by the convenience store, eating instant noodles and drinking bottled water, nothing else.

He stared at the words a second longer than necessary, ignoring the staff pouring wine into his glass. All he could think about is how you are not eating properly again.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened for a second as he slipped the phone face down on his thigh, but his expressions remained unchanged.

To his parents, he is the image of calm composure, listening as his father spoke about prices, but his mind was elsewhere, on a girl eating in a convenience store.

“Jungkook, what do you think?” his mother asked suddenly.

He looked up from his plate, eyes sharp, “About?”

“The merger prospects,” she smiled at him.

Jungkook leaned back slightly, letting a second silence fill the room, everyone at this table knew his silence meant calculation.

“Risky,” he finally said. “And your solution?” “Wait,” his voice was firm, “two years and let them bleed on someone else’s dime, then buy them at half the price.”

The room went quiet before his father laughed, satisfied at his golden son’s answer. “That,” he said, raising his glass, “is the Jeon bloodline.”

They drank to it, and Jungkook did too. But when his phone buzzed again, his attention shifted immediately to his phone.

Taehwan: She’s home safe. Lights on, and curtains drawn.

Jungkook exhaled quietly, setting the wine glass down. His parents saw a perfect heir and a future CEO. The world would see the cold prince of the Jeon empire.

But in reality?

Jungkook is just a boy who couldn’t rest until he knows you are safe.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

For five years, Taehwan have been working for Jeon Jungkook.

Not in the usual bodyguard sense, because the Jeon heir knows how to protect himself, though that was slightly part of it. When the Jeon family first assigned him, the instructions were simple: watch the heir, keep him safe, and report back if he gets into trouble.

After all, Jeon Jungkook is a notoriously private son.

At first, Taehwan thought it would be an easy job, protect a boy who hardly leaves the library or the gym? It’s babysitting, really.

But then he realized something.

Jeon Jungkook is not normal. Not in the way conglomerate sons usually are, he is far from entitled, arrogant, or spoiled.

No, Jungkook was entirely something else.

He is smart, scary smart, genius even. Taehwan has shadowed plenty of rich brats in his career and none of them has the instinct this kid does. Jungkook could walk into a room and point out who was lying, who was nervous, and who was plotting. He rarely speaks but when he does, people scrambled to keep up.

Even his father, the Jeon group CEO, the chairman himself, listens to him. Taehwan respected him for that. Genius isn’t a word Taehwan throw around lightly, but Jungkook has it.

Still, there is just one thing about his boss that Taehwan could never quite wrap his head around.

Love.

Or whatever it was Jungkook feels for that girl.

Five years. Since Jungkook was eighteen until he is now twenty-three. That’s how long Taehwan has been tracking your movements, quietly and always from a distance, on Jungkook’s orders.

And for what?

For girl who works at a flower shop, studies on scholarship, and lives in a tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper, yes both Taehwan and his boss have been inside of your apartment. You aren’t like the women who usually circled chaebol heirs, dressed in designer labels, and trained to smile at the right time. You are just ordinary.

Yet Jungkook, the boy who has everything, spend his nights reading financial reports in one hand and your schedule in the other.

Weird, right?

His boss is brilliant, calculated, disciplined, and ruthless when it came to business, but when it comes to you, he is strange.

Sometimes, Jungkook would ask simple questions, Did she eat? Did she make it home safe? Did she smile today?

And Taehwan would answer each of it.

Because Jeon Jungkook, the man who could silence executives with a glance, seems to unravel in your presence. You do not even know he has been following you for years.

Taehwan has kept guarded Jungkook’s secrets for years and he would keep guarding them for twenty more if that was what the job required. But deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder;

When the day comes that Jungkook finally steps out of the shadows and step into your life, would you even recognize him?

Would you even want him?

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

For most students, university is a stepping stone to a better career. For Jeon Jungkook, it is camouflage.

He doesn’t need the degree.

He already sits and leads in board meetings, already understands investments and market dynamics better than most professors lecturing them. His father often said Jungkook can graduate tomorrow and step into the company as a director seamlessly, but he always mentioned how the degree can make him look more terrifying.

But Jungkook isn’t in a hurry to graduate or earn a degree.

That was the difference between him and the others. Others rushed while Jungkook waited.

He is waiting for you.

When he overheard, no, when he arranged to overhear, that you would be taking Business Investment and Strategy this semester, he knows it was time.

It isn’t difficult to gain information. Taehwan followed you to campus, trailing a few steps behind as you conversed with a fellow scholarship student about course loads. You sighed, tired but determined, saying you would enroll in the investment and strategy course despite warnings about how grueling it was. And even if Taehwan couldn’t find out about the courses you were taking, Jungkook can easily access the University’s portal. After all, he’s the biggest donator in the university.

That was when he made his decision.

He has one elective left before earning his degree. He could have taken it last year, but he didn’t. He waited, purposefully leaving that final class for you. His parents never asked him why he’s getting his degree a year late, after all Jungkook is also working alongside his father.

To the world, it seems pretty normal, Jeon Jungkook, heir to a business empire, of course he would finish with a strategy course, it might be so predictable that no one would question it.

But to Jungkook, this class is anything but ordinary.

It is something inevitable.

His phone vibrated against the desk, dragging him out of his thoughts as he sees new message from Taehwan.

Taehwan: She’s home, studying late again, lights still on.

Jungkook’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. He set the phone down and returned his gaze to the neat stack of books on his desk.

He could have finished this life chapter months ago, could have walked across the stage with a  diploma in hand. But what was the point of finishing early, if it means leaving you behind?

No way in hell would Jungkook do that.

He would graduate when you do.

And when the semester begins, he would finally take his seat beside you.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The lecture hall is too bright for his liking.

White lights shining from the ceiling, bouncing off the walls and the polished wood desks. The room is already half full when Jungkook stepped inside, and students shuffled to their seats. He paused at near the doorway, his eyes sweeping across the rows to search for you.

Jungkook spotted you almost immediately. You sit near the middle, your body hunched slightly over your notebook as if you were trying to block the noise around you. Your hair was tied back, strands falling across your cheek as you scribbled something on the corner of a page.

Jungkook felt something shift in his chest.

Years of waiting, orchestrating schedules, and letting one last elective sit unfinished, it was all for this moment.

People noticed when Jeon Jungkook enters a room. They always do, some straightened their postures, others went quiet, and eyes flickering toward him before darting away. It wasn’t just his name, it was the way he carried himself.

But Jungkook does not give a single fuck about them.

He cares about the girl in the middle row who still hasn’t looked up.

He walked past empty seats, past murmured greetings from classmates who tried to catch his attention, and he gave nothing in return.

When he reached your row, he stopped. There was an empty chair beside you.

Perfect.

Jungkook slid into it without a word, he set his notebook down, clicked his pen once, then leaned back slightly in his chair. From the corner of his eye, he caught you stiffen. You must have noticed him now.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice was low and calm. You blinked, startled by the sudden question and your eyes finally lifted, meeting his for the briefest second before you looked away.

“No,” you murmured.

Jungkook nodded once, as if that was all he needed. He didn’t smile, he barely does.

The professor entered a moment later, shuffling papers as the room quieted. Jungkook kept his gaze forward with a pen on his hand, and the perfect sitting posture. To the students looking at him, he is the model student, attentive and composed. But his mind isn’t on the lecture.

It is on you.

Every small movement from you drew his attention, the way you tapped you pen against your notebook when you are thinking, the way you pressed your lips together when writing quickly, and the focus face you pull when you tried to keep up with the professor’s pace.

He noticed everything.

When you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers twitched faintly against his pen. When your sleeve slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a wrist bruised faintly purple, probably from carrying heavy boxes at the shop, his jaw tightened.

He forced himself to look forward again. He couldn’t give himself away. Not yet.

The lecture continued, numbers and models scrawled across the projector screen. Jungkook took notes, but his handwriting was neater than usual and his pace was slower. He wasn’t here for the lesson, he was here for proximity.

At one point, the professor posed a question to the class after presenting a case study. Silence followed, students shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Jungkook felt the professor’s gaze flick toward him.

He didn’t want to speak, not yet. He wanted to give you a chance.

“I think the three main investment characteristics of this investment are,” you answered, hesitant at first, but gaining confidence as you continued, “growth, emphasis on liquidity, and discretion to fund managers on what they could buy.”

The professor smiled, nodding in approval, “Exactly, very well said.”

Jungkook turned his head slightly, watching you as you ducked your head in embarrassment. No one else seemed to notice, but Jungkook did, the flush creeping up your neck, the way you gripped your pen tighter as if you were afraid of being noticed.

He knew you were smart, even smarter than half the room combined. He felt something stir again, sharp and possessiveness.

When the lecture ended, students began packing up their bags, but Jungkook remained seated, he wasn’t in a rush. Beside him, you gathered your things quickly, as if eager to leave before anyone could start a conversation with you. You slipped your notebook into your bag, stood up, and turned to leave.

Jungkook let you go.

For now.

Years of watching in silence and now he was here. Beside you, breathing the same air.

It is only the beginning.

Jungkook stood up, straightening his shirt as he walked out, phone vibrating faintly in his pocket, he already knew the message would be from Taehwan.

Taehwan: Do you want me to follow her?

Jungkook typed in his reply within seconds.

Jungkook: Yes.

And with that, he stepped into the hallway, blending seamlessly into the world that expected him to be Jeon Jungkook, the heir.

But inside, all he could think was:

You are finally within reach.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The second week, Jungkook arrived to class earlier than usual.

The lecture hall half empty, students scattered across the rows, laptops already opened, and he didn’t need to scan the room this time; he knew where you would be sitting.

Middle row, same spot.

Sure enough, you were there, notebook open, hair falling forward as you flipped through your notes. Jungkook noticed it in the way he noticed everything.

He slid into the seat beside you, exactly as he had last week. You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before looking down again. You didn’t say anything and neither did he.

The professor began the lecture, talking about portfolio diversification. Jungkook listened halfheartedly, his pen moving across the page writing down what he doesn’t even need to write. But the moment he has been anticipating for, something he might have arranged with the unit coordinators, is finally happening.

“Pair up with the person next to you,” the professor instructed, “and discuss the risk-return tradeoff in last week’s case study, I’ll give you ten minutes.”

The room was filled with noise of students’ movement and voices as they turned to one another. Beside him, you hesitated as your fingers tightened on your pen. Jungkook could feel you weighing the options; Should you ask him? Should you pretend to work alone?

He decided to answer for you.

“Explain your answer first,” His tone was low, sounding like a command rather than a request. You blinked, startled, and turned to face him fully for the first time.

“I, uh, well, I think the company chose the lower risk investment because their debt is already too high,” you explained slowly, “If they chose the other project, it could have jeopardized them, sometimes stability matters more than maximizing profit.”

Jungkook studied you as you speak, the way you look far ahead when trying to concentrate, the way your fingers tapped lightly against your thigh. You weren’t reciting something you memorized; you were thinking it through.

“Not bad,” he responded.

Your lips parted slightly, as if you weren’t sure whether to take it as praise or dismissal, “What about you?”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over his chest, “I would’ve taken the other project, the other option.”

“Why?” “Because the company’s brand equity is strong enough to secure additional financing if the project failed.” You looked at him surprised, then, slowly you nodded, “That makes sense.”

The corner of his mouth almost twitched, almost.

For a few minutes, the both of you went back and forth. You challenged some of his points, hesitant at first, then with confidence. Jungkook responded evenly, never raising his voice, and he didn’t give you the satisfaction of a smile or encouragement, but inside, every second of it thrilled him.

This was the first real conversation he has had with you.

When the professor called for attention again, you quickly turned back to your notes, scribbling something down. Jungkook picked up his pen, but his focus was elsewhere, on the faint pink rising in your cheeks, the way your shoulders relaxed just slightly after the discussion.

He wanted to ask you more. About what you’re thinking, your classes, your work, why you aren’t getting enough sleep, but he stayed silent.

Patience.

The lecture ended not long after. Students packed their bags, voices filling the room again.

You stood up quickly, ready to leave, but this time Jungkook stopped you.

“You argued well,” he said.

You froze, glancing at him, your eyes searched his face, as if trying to figure out whether he was serious, “Oh, thanks.”

He gave a small nod, then turned away, slipping his notebook into his bag, as he knew he didn’t need to say more.

As you walked up the steps, Jungkook leaned back in his chair, watching you go.

Years of silence, distance, and of watching from the shadows.

Now, piece by piece, he was stepping closer.

For the first time in years, your voice lingered in his mind not as a memory from a long time ago, but as something fresh.

You even challenged his ideas, listened to him, and looked him in the eye.

And this was only the beginning.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Business Investment and Strategy wasn’t a class you wanted.

But here you were, notebook open, pen in hand, pretending not to be intimidated by words like equity leverage and risk-return tradeoff.

You are used to feeling out of place, especially ever since your father’s scandal. You’ve been feeling like you don’t belong everywhere, on campus, in stores, and even among people you once called friends. But this class wasn’t just filled with normal students; it was filled with rich kids. Kids who would inherit companies and kids who could afford to fail.

And sitting beside you was one of them.

Jeon Jungkook.

You didn’t know he would be in this class, to be frank you thought he already graduated, but not until he slid into the seat beside you.

Everyone knew the Jeon family, they are old money, and have helped built the country with their business. But he is different from the other rich kids. He doesn’t laugh loudly, doesn’t try to show off, doesn’t fidget with expensive watches or whisper about cars.

He is quiet.

And quiet made you nervous.

The second week, when the professor told the class to pair up, your stomach dropped. Everyone else turned to their friends but you didn’t have that luxury because none of your friends wanted to pick this ruthless class. So, your only option was him.

You hesitated, unsure if you should say something first. But before you could, his voice cut through the noise. You discussed the case study, he demanded for you to answer first, and you asked him to explain his answer afterwards. The difference between you and him during the discussion was that he demanded while you asked.

But his answer wasn’t the kind of shallow answer you expected from someone like him. It was sharp, logical, and maybe even right.

The both of you went back and forth for a few more minutes, your nerves easing slightly as the discussion goes on. Jungkook never interrupted you, he listened and responded in precise sentences like he didn’t like to waste words and every word felt deliberate.

It was unnerving to say the least.

Jeon Jungkook is strange and intimidating.

You told yourself it doesn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t sit beside you again. Probably had dozens of other friends he could pair with or probably didn’t even care who he sat next to.

And yet, for the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop hearing his voice in your head.

Not bad. You argued well.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The third week of the Business Investment and Strategy class began like any other, but the moment you stepped into the lecture hall, you felt the shift in the air.

Jeon Jungkook is already there.

Sitting in the exact same seat as last week, your seat partner.

You swallowed hard, sliding into the chair beside him because, well, where else were you supposed to go? It wasn’t like you could casually sit somewhere else without making it obvious that you were avoiding him. And besides, it wasn’t like he cares.

He doesn’t look at you when you sat down, he didn’t greet you, the only thing he did was flip open his notebook.

If you didn’t speak to him last week, you would’ve thought he was mute.

The lecture started. For the first twenty minutes, the professor was going through the theories and students typing and writing furiously. Next to you, Jungkook was calm, he never slouched, never fidgeted, and never checked his phone even once.

And then it happened.

“Alright, listen up,” the professor said, clapping his hands once, “we are going to start our semester projects and for the first one you will be working in pairs.”

Groans rippled through the class, group projects are the pain of every student’s existence.

“You’ll stay with the person you partnered with last week,” the professor continued. “The discussion last week was a test run to see how you both work with each other.”

Your stomach dropped. Beside you, Jungkook finally lifted his gaze from his notes and for a brief second his eyes met yours. Unreadable as though he knew this would happen all along.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

You just realized you are going to have to work with Jeon Jungkook. For weeks.

The professor began distributing the assignment briefs, pairing names with companies and projects. Then he reached your table, “Jungkook and y/n. You will be analyzing Hyundai’s overseas expansion into Europe, the presentation is due in six weeks and don’t forget the written report, of minimum ten pages.”

You almost groaned out loud.

When the class broke into pairs, you glanced sideways, but Jungkook was already turning to you. “We’ll meet tomorrow,” he said. Not a suggestion, a statement.

You blinked, “Tomorrow?” “Yes,” his tone left no room for argument, “library at 5 PM.”

You opened your mouth then closed it again. There were a dozen reasons you could have said no but something in his voice stopped you in place, “Fine.”

He gave a single nod, before turning back to his notes as if the matter was settled.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next day, you find yourself arriving at the library at 5:05 PM, clutching your laptop against your chest. You weren’t sure what to expect, maybe he would be late, maybe he would blow you off entirely, but of course, he was already there.

Sitting at a table in the corner.

You froze as you stare at him from afar. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom not a library. Buttoned white shirt with his sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins and tattoes in his forearms, and his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he skimmed through the case study.

He didn’t even look up when you approached, just gestured to the seat across from him with a flick of his fingers, “Sit.”

You sat.

For a moment, the only sound you could hear is the faint sound of the air conditioning and the scratch of his pen across paper, then Jungkook broke the silence, “You’ll handle the financial analysis.”

You frowned at how he just decided without discussing it with you first, “Excuse me?”

“You explained it well in class,” his eyes flicked up to yours, “I’ll cover the strategic expansion models.”

You blinked, he concluded your strength from a ten minute discussion? “Okay,” you replied, “but we’ll need to coordinate, it has to flow.”

“Obviously.”

Your jaw tightened. He wasn’t exactly rude, but he wasn’t friendly either.

He speaks like everything is a conclusion, like he already has the whole project mapped in his head.

For the next hour, the both of you divided sections, cross checked the deadlines, and created an outline. Jungkook barely looked at you, his focus was on the assignment but when he did glance up, his gaze was so intense it made you shift in your seat.

It was exhausting.

But it’s also efficient because by the end of the hour, the both of you have made more progress than most groups would in a week.

Across from you, Jungkook was flipping through reports with the same precision he seems to do everything with. His posture is perfect, his handwriting is neater than yours, and everything he does is just unnerving.

He looks like he belongs at an expensive woodened desk in some corporate tower not into a university library with you.

You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible not to notice him. The rolled sleeves exposed his tattoos, the dark hair falling across his forehead, and the way his eyes flicked over each page like he was memorizing it in seconds.

He didn’t fidget, he just kept on working, finally, he sets down his pen as his eyes lifted, landing on you, “Give me your number.”

Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”

His expression didn’t change, “Your number for coordination.”

“Oh,” heat crawled up your neck. Right. The project. Of course, you were being ridiculous, “Sure.”

You typed down your number on his phone and a seconds later your phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Save this.

You blinked down at your phone screen. His message was short and commanding, just like him. You hesitated before typing back:

You: Okay. Jungkook: Good.

That was it, then he returned to his notes as if he didn’t just completely thrown you off balance.

You stared at your phone, lips pressing together, who even asked for someone’s number like that? No please or explanation, just “give me your number”.

And the strangest part was, you weren’t sure if you were annoyed or curious. Across from you, Jungkook’s pen resumed moving, after he asked for your number, the air between you feels heavier somehow. But he didn’t fidget or sigh the way most people do when studying, Jungkook is perfectly composed.

After nearly twenty minutes of silence, he finally looked up, his eyes met yours, “You’re distracted.”

“What?” you replied.

“You’re not paying attention to what you’re writing,” he tapped your notebook with his pen, “you wrote the ratio wrong, twice.”

Heat crept up your face, you checked what was written on your book and he was right, “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”

You froze for a second, his tone wasn’t cruel but it was so blunt in a way that made you feel exposed. When you corrected the numbers, he glanced at your book once before giving a small nod, “Better.”

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, “Do you always talk like that?”

His brows lifted slightly, “Like what?”

“Like you are grading people.”

Something changed in his expression, like an amusement, then he replied, “Only when they need it.”

You scoffed under your breath but didn’t push it further.

You’ve lingered at court for years, brought from the confines of your noble house when you were just a girl, standing at the same height as him then. A lady in waiting for Lady Jena Dondarrion, his own aunt, and you were exactly what he viewed you as, what you should be.

Forbidden fruit.

You were taken under her wing, shielded and protected by the elder ladies just as you were by your father’s title. And it still leaves him with a scowl at just the thought, because he shouldn’t even give you one.

You’re careful, always present, a sparkling eyesore in royal jewels and silken dresses that remains standing in his way in corridors and blinds his view as you cheer for his cousin in the royal box at tourneys. You’re simply there, and yet still, you find a way to take over, laughing in jest, sitting so close, so comfortably with his family, his blood. The very people he only orbits, you bond and live beside. So pleasant and proper and.. captivating.

The same woman who stands dutifully among ladies and Kingsguard, the very one that charms his uncle and cousins with a smile and quip, the same who has his own younger brother chasing after you with laughter so loud it makes his head ache.

So achingly beautiful it grates at him. Chips away at everything he’s laid so properly before everyone like a vice. That now it’s seemingly driven him to the point of madness.

He shouldn’t have to do it, any other maiden or lady would be falling at his feet, no matter how nervous or scared. And he should have that, you should be doing so, but you won’t pay any mind to him, nor even give the chance. Kind and polite, tight lipped smiles from across the long table or a simple nod in shared company, that’s all. He doesn’t return them, but he watches, he waits.

In fact you bide more time into his cousin Valarr. The Young Prince, the one they speak of such a dutiful husband he will make, a great man like this father, that betrothals are soon to flood in with time. The man you reserve the softest smiles for, your arm in his as you walk amongst court.

And it makes him seethe.

Because he knows who it should be. And it should be him.

—

The ride back to the keep was a deadly silence, eerie with only the distant thunder of Ser Donnel’s stallion behind his own. Rain washed down in torrents, chasing them into the gatehouse as he slid from the saddle.

Ser Donnel had not questioned his Prince on the whereabouts, or why he called on him at such a late hour to journey into the streets of Flea Bottom, but they had done so. A small cabin the place was, down the back of a dingy, cobbled alleyway, lit only by torchlight in which the man stood vigilant underneath. Many would go to such a place for their ailments, whatever troubled them, their head, their aches, but no such place for a royal.

They had maesters for that. Though Aerion insisted, shoving past the older knight with a frown.

Whispers carried just as fast through King’s Landing, more so than their Ravens did. And the ailment the Prince had ordered for would not be cured by some lowly maester’s balm. This was urgent. And Aerion listened, far more than people cared to notice, and those whispers led him there.

“Should you need anything else, your Grace?”

Aerion fumbled with the belt of his cloak, tugging it from himself as the dirt caught from the streets and rain fell to the ground, leaving only his shirt and trousers clinging to him. His eyes flickered only for a moment, before shaking his head, shoving a small bundle into his pocket.

“No. Leave me.” He called back, straightening the tunic at its collar.

And the man took his leave, standing straight backed as Aerion passed him from the stables and walked in heavy strides through the pouring rain and into the lower stairwell of the Keep.

The damp still drips from him now, the warmth of the chambers doing little to settle the aching anticipation in his bones. The backs of his calves press sharp into the wood of the bed frame beneath him, boots planted harsh into the floor. His finger flicks back and forth along the clasp that encases the bundle.

A sphere, much like a perfume or pomander lord’s carry on their belt, something unsuspecting. Its patterns cover in gold and silver, wrapped in black twine all along its outside. A witch’s knot. One he’d heard through the woman’s rambling inside of the rickety, old store. Supposed that it was to ward evils away from its user, if used correctly.

He lets out a huff, sharp and drawn, eyes drifting along every intricate detail before cracking it open.

A singular diamond shaped vial lies inside of it.

He wasn’t certain what to expect, the witch left that much of it out. But its results are the only thing he’s after, no matter how queer the insides might seem. The liquid near enough matches his eyes, a deep velvety purple, swirling with a dark shimmer silting at the bottom.

Thunder rumbles low in the distance, rain now lashing onto the windows with a ferocity that would make some tremble. Would leave others to think on their decisions, to take their time to weather the storm around them, to think of such outcomes.

But he doesn’t, because Aerion never has, and he doesn’t care to any longer.

The instructions come back to him in parts, staring solely into the palm of his hand where he reaches for it with jerked fingers. But it doesn’t come simply, nor without price. He goes to take it, reaching in before he can stop himself from embarrassing himself any more. Though his movement acts otherwise, just as he plucks it, he jerks back, raising his finger to his lips where a searing pain pricks at him, the sphere tumbling to the floor.

A thorny branch from the twine sticks into his finger, catching along the skin and pouring blood from down until it drips onto his wrist. He bring it between his lips, sucking it into his mouth and licking it once before snatching it away, the sting of it dripping into his palm, his brow pulling tigh.

Remove the binding, break open the seal, speak your truth.

And drink.

That was all he was told. He can’t help but think how pathetic it sounds.

But he does it regardless, uncorking the vial with a sharp pop and bringing it to his lips before he can think against it. Aerion pauses in a single breath, eyes fluttering closed and open halfway.

“Make her be mine.” He rasps.

And he drinks, tipping the substance down his throat without another second that passes. It catches in the back of his throat, the taste tangy and bitter, a sickly bitterness that coats his tongue, slapping it against the roof of his mouth.

And it’s done.

—

The morning welcomes the way it does most often. With a chambermaid and gentle greetings, and a pitcher of water at your bedside. News of an upcoming tournament held in the near Stormlands is on everyone’s lips, carrying from room to room before a knock wraps at your door.

Your maid eyes you, following carefully as you nod, “Please.” She bows with a simple smile, settling the tray of cloths and linens in her hand onto the table before stepping towards the door.

Lady Ellyn steps in with a peek of her head around the heavy wood, near enough making your maid jump as she steps back, sliding the door open further. Your closest confidant, one your own age unlike many of the other ladies. Her hair cascades in a braid that weaves her golden hair down her back, as fair her complexion. A wide smile breaks on her rosy face when she sees you, thanking the young girl gratefully before jumping at the end of your bed.

The very image of her cousin, Lady Aelinor Penrose, married to the Prince Aerys. You only hope, silently, a similar sorrow won’t fall on her also. A girl far too giddy and joyful, even at this time in the morning.

“Come we must break our fast.” Her hand taps the plush furs, tugging them slyly as they slide from your legs, the cotton your your nightgown going with it. You snatch it with a warning glare, stopping her from pulling it completely.

“If you’ll allow me to be ready first.” You huff, raising your arms above your head with a yawn. She nods, rolling her eyes as she stands from the end of the bed to round to your side. The mattress dips as she sits herself onto it, kicking her legs off of the edge as she waits. And waits, expectant eyes blinking at you.

“Fine, fine I’m coming.” She claps her hands at that, rising as you do with her, sliding, less wistfully out of the comforting warmth of your bed.

Lady Ellyn stays with you as you are dressed, chatting away about the travelling market passing through King’s Landing. You listen, but her voice drifts, eyes following out of the window, watching the birds that circle the street. Hands lace your bodice carefully, a deep pale gold with trimmings of crimson and silver jewel.

“Oh.. you look ethereal.”

Your feet step from the stool carefully, taking a deep breath from the boning breaking into your spine and chest. Your maid curtsies, both women looking at you in a profound awe, and though she doesn’t speak, her face tells that she agrees.

“Careful, wearing such a dress, the Prince Valarr will be all over you.” Lady Ellyn takes your arm with a snicker, and you swat her with the other, a grin finding its way to your face.

“Well suppose I’d have some competition with you, my lady.”

The pair of you find your way through every winding hall until you settle in the great hall. You break your fast with the ladies. Lady Jena, Lady Dyanna greet you with a nod and a smile, seated already beside their good sisters Lady Aelinor and Lady Alys. All seem to be in good spirits, you and Lady Ellyn seated opposite one another as another elder lady sits at your right.

Talk picks up as it usually does, fresh fruit picked from gardens and far away orchards, toasted bread and jams are decorated and layered china bowls and plates. You take your helping as the rest of them do, chatter echoing the hall, heard only by yourselves and the Kingsguard that stand tall by each large door.

It only depletes to a silence when they open once more, all heads turning in a wondrous gaze. Prince Valarr steps across the hall, greeting the older ladies first and his mother with a kiss to the cheek.

They remain in their seats while you and the lower ladies rise at his arrival, chair scraping out behind your knees as you hold your skirts.

His aunt Dyanna teases him, remarking with a sip of her summer wine that he’s avoiding council again. Valarr only laughs, light and courteous, completely princely.

And then from across the table, his eyes land on you. It’s natural, just as he’d expecting you to be there, and the smile softens on his face, meeting his eyes as he steps closer. Only then does he excuse himself from his mother, leaving them to resort to their whispering just behind.

“My lady.” His voice is gentle, more tender than it should be for such a meeting and you feel another pair of eyes on you. Lady Ellyn. Staring obviously from across the wooden table as she sits down quietly.

You curtsy, inclining your head before your eyes meet again. Golden brown and violet, the very image of his father’s, except they aren’t as hardened, boyish still beneath the young manish demeanour.

“My prince.” Your skirts sweep the stoney floor as you stand upright, mere inches between you, blinking up at him.

“I’ve been hoping I’d catch you.” He speaks hushed enough it’s for you, but loud enough it doesn’t inspire scandal.

That alone makes Lady Jena exchange a knowing smile with Lady Dyanna. One only mothers seem to be aware of. And his glaring advance to orbit your side.

A short laugh escapes you, tucking your arms in front of you, “I wasn’t aware I was difficult to find.”

“No,” Valarr smiles. “I’ve simply been elsewhere.” He states it as though disappointed, as if elsewhere were not where he wanted to be at all.

“I’d hoped…” He clears his throat, a rumble under his breath, inclining his head, feeling the burn of eyes at his back, before they swiftly look away. “Though it may not be proper, that if you attend the tourney…”

He looks almost embarrassed, a blush creeping his pale cheeks as he shakes it from himself. You offer him a nod of encouragement.

“…you might consider lending me your favour.”

A thumping appears fast and palpating in your chest and you blink, once, twice and hard. The pair of you have known each other since you were children, surrounded by propriety and politeness in close encounters, and you had always been close. But a favour was something else entirely. A favour was a promise.

Surprise wracks your features, and somehow everyone around the table is far more interested than they were before. Lady Aelinor covers her mouth to hide the grin that appears, though you cannot say the same.

Yours widens, more than you can stop yourself, stumbling out your words, “I’d be honoured.”

It is simple, courtly. Nothing improper that would leave gossip for either of you, but he takes your hand in his, a warm palm curling gently around your own.

“Then I will not disappoint you.”

He bows his head, releasing you from his grip carefully before returning to the hall, bidding the rest and his mother a farewell. And nothing more. However as the door closes, the table erupts. Laughter and chatter, swooning and fawning over you as you make an attempt to sit down again. A reddened blush covers your cheeks as you listen to them.

A favour..

Perhaps you’ll be crowed his Queen at the tourney.

Lady Jena hushes them, finding you from across the raucous, and she simply nods, lending an understanding motherly gaze, settling you the way it always had. She doesn’t speak it aloud, but talk for far longer than known have you and Valarr been considered for a match.

She had only hoped it had happened this way.

Valarr had chosen of his own accord, and he had chosen you.

However, shadows encase the halls of the Red Keep, tracing the very perimeters of tapestries and stone that you can’t quite see. Another pair of eyes, beyond Ellyn’s excitement and the ladies’ awe, watches on.

Aerion sees it all.

He hadn’t planned to stay as long as he did, merely passing through on his way to his own duties. To things much more important. But then he saw it, witnessed with his own eyes how his cousin stood himself before you, cohorting and smiling.

Only his eyes were not on Valarr, they were on you.

His fingers tighten around the twisted pommel of his sword, shoulder resting onto the thick, marble pillar beside him. It’s tight enough his knuckles are turning white, skin near splitting with how he hard he curls his hand around it. But he doesn’t notice, not even as a voice addresses measly and careful behind him.

Aerion doesn’t just pretend to not to hear it, he can’t. All he can hear is the rush of blood thrumming in his ears. All he can see is Valarr’s smile, proud and affectionate, and you smiling back. And he twists his hands tighter.

The bell tolls and breakfast comes to an end, clattering plates and pattering footsteps that don’t even notice him standing in the distance. Not his mother, or his aunt, or you. Instead you’re taking Lady Ellyn’s arm, whispering happily as you leave.

“The roses must finally be blooming.” She speaks to you as a jest, nudging your arm as you follow everyone toward the outsides. Though it sparks something in you, softly joking back as you loosen your arm.

“I believe I’ll see for myself.” You purse your lips as you move from each other, turning your backs with a promise to find the other later.

Aerion doesn’t move for another minute. Or maybe two. He isn’t counting, only turning his head without his eyes following to the voice insisting at his side.

A squire. A skinny young man dressed in washed colours. He says something about his father and uncle, that he has been called upon.

Aerion only tells him that he’ll be there shortly, waving him off. The boy scurries away, ducking into a bow before leaving once more to deliver the news. Even though he has no intention of following just yet.

And it is not questioned, because it’s completely him, even if more detached. Callous and careless, perfect in the fractured way of a Prince not bothering to concern himself. And only when the hall has emptied, does he rise from the pillar.

He adjusts his hand, tearing it away from his sword without urgency, straightening the drape of his cloak as he turns for the other doorway. He’s attempting not to explode on the spot seeing you disappear into the gardens. But he doesn't follow openly, he lets you leave first, down the steps of the Keep and out onto the balustrade that overlooks the hedgerows and flowerbeds. It’s rare for you not to have an escort, it's improper, wrong even for you.

And so Aerion takes another path, stepping with a practiced ease across the other side of the balcony, circling it so that by the time you reach the rose garden, he’s already standing around the altar of flowers, rocking on his heel. If you did not have an escort, you will. His hands clasp behind his back, one lazily on the pommel of his sword, staring out over the hedges, as though he’d been admiring the flowers.

It’s something you’d always done when time would allow it, escaping endless company and lessons to be with your thoughts. You were looking forward to it, on your lonesome, time to think over what had just happened at breakfast. But the head of mussed silver hair made you slow where you walked. You pause for a moment, the crunch of gravel turning his head at the sound, and for a moment you go to walk the other way but violet eyes catch you. You curtsy just as fast, the way you’d been taught.

“My Prince.” You speak gently, wavering in confusion. It doesn't feel as familiar as it did before, as it did with Valarr, but you do it out of politeness.

He doesn’t answer straight away, only turning to face you with his body, face still fixed on the roses.

“You favour this garden.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. And you smile, rising to straighten your knees.

“I do.”

You always have, stalking away from court just as enamoured with the ocean of greenery in the midst of the stone and hardened rock, as you have since you were a girl. He was right. Though how he one was a mystery.

“I’ve noticed.” It’s simple, nothing but a mere observation, one that perhaps had been made by many over time.

But he changes the subject before you can ask.

“The white roses are dying.”

You glance beside him, toward the bed of them.

“They bloom again in spring.” You counter softly, tutting silently at Lady Ellyn’s comment from earlier.

“I know.”

You squint your eyes at him, tempting a foot forwards, skirts hanging in between your fingers. You hadn’t many conversations with the Prince, with orders to keep your distance always whispered into your ear, you’d listened, but you hadn’t realised he’d been so odd. Cocky and dismissive, yes.

But the tension was almost one sided. The grit of his teeth evident as if he were in deep thought.

“You usually come earlier.”

“I beg your pardon?” A muffled laugh escapes your throat and you blink.

“You’ve been late this week.”

“I.. have?”

“You’ve been attending to my aunt, have you not?”

It’s as if discussing the weather, once again, only an observation, and a crystal one at that. One anyone could work out easily enough.

“Well she has a great need for me, for all of us. I didn't realise anyone had noticed.”

“I notice many things.” Aerion falls casually, the natural hint of arrogance clear in his tone.

Like my cousin Valarr taking a liking to you.

He looks at you then, finally. And you feel yourself shrink, not shyly, but under the complete intensity of it. And so you busy yourself, standing on the opposing side to him as you reach for the dying roses, plucking the heads from them.

“Do you enjoy court?” His eyes follow you, burning into your back as you tempt a smile back up at him.

“Very much.”

“Four years you've been here.” He tastes it on his tongue like he's contemplating it, settling in his stance to take you in fully.

You go to pluck another rotten bloom, grasping it in between your fingertips when a thorn catches the pad of your finger. A sharp hiss escapes you, a dark bead of blood welling across your skin. It’s small, simple, only enough to burn, you could have wiped it away on your skirts and been done with it.

Only a figure appears at your back, a hand enclosing around your wrist. Quicker than either of you had expected. Your eyes flicker between him and your hand, his grip turning it in his hold. His thumb steadies your palm, studying the crimson beading across your hand like something catastrophic.

“It’s only a thorn, my Prince.”

He doesn’t answer, his thumb hovering closer, just beneath the cut. A touch almost reverent as he punched it by the slightest to stop the blood.

You laugh again, sharper this time, attempting to ease the strangeness.

“I’ve survived worse. Suppose we both have in this court.”

It’s still silent, but his face contorts. Agreement in a sense you wager. And then you realise, he’s still holding your hand. The skin is warm, warmer than you’d expected, calloused from swords and rough at the edges even though it’s pallor is almost entirely without blemish. Save from the risen line across the side of his palm.

“You have hurt yourself.”

He blinks for the first time, slowly, flickering his eyes to your own. As though he’d forgotten.

“What?” His eyes snap up, still holding his fingers around your own.

“Your hand.”

You turn it gently before he can pull away and stop you.

”This.”

The scar where the twine bit into him.

His skin shudders under yours, and for a heartbeat he simply stares at it, and the memory comes rushing back.

The linen, the black twine, the vial.

Her to be mine.

His fingers tighten, not simply to hurt but enough that you notice, snaking your hand from his carefully, but it stays there.

“It’s nothing,” His voice comes too quickly, brow pulling tight and tone distant, “A scratch.”

“It looks painful.”

“It isn’t.”

"I suppose we both enjoy injuring ourselves." The words cut deeply, your smile more cutting. Almost innocent just as you try to ease the awkwardness.

But Aerion cannot tear his eyes away from the two hands. Yours and his. The tiny drop of blood from your finger and his faded scar, resting against one another.

A sign. And for the first time it settles wholly in his chest, there isn't doubt, not just arrogance, but something is telling him.

Divine.

He doesn’t speak of it, he releases your hand instead, a beat too late. Your own fingers enclose around your wrist absentmindedly, swiping away at the last drop of blood from your finger, the wound closing already.

“It has been five.”

He looks up again.

“Five years in court.” You correct him, smoothing your sleeve over your arm.

“I know.” He takes a step back, eyes growing distant as he nods, flexing the length of his fingers to curl them into his scarred palm.

“I forget you’ve probably read everyone’s histories.”

Aerion doesn’t answer. Because he didn’t learn any of that from record, he had learned it by remembering. Something that now, is all he seems to know.

You go to speak, to dismiss yourself and apologise for the predicament you’d found yourselves in, that somehow that would cure the pained confusion from his face. But another voice calls out and does it for you. You cannot quite make it out, but you turn your head, Aerion’s ears pricking, barely acknowledging it.

“I ought to go.” You call out to him, inclining your head to attempt a better look. Out of pure politeness.

He nods, “Of course.”

And you go, leaving with a scoop of your skirts and taking off the way you came. He doesn’t follow, he doesn’t even move, simply rests back onto the wooden beam beside the roses, fingers resting out along their stems. Across the thorns and petals and the drops of blood you’d left onto the whites of them.

He exhales sharply, violets fluttering closed as he watches on from the opening of the gardens. Because he doesn’t have to move to know where you’ll go, what will happen next. It’s already mapping over and over in his head.

You’ll take Lady Ellyn’s arm, and journey your way to the Lady Jena’s compartments, making your way across the east gallery of Maegor’s Holdfast to join the rest of them.

And through the bay windows of the lower quarters, he can see it all, just as he predicted. The first crack of satisfaction breaking its way onto his features, because now he doesn’t have to want for anything, it’s coming to him.

Or so he thinks.

—

The corridors bustle far too early for the hour, alive with movement and the sounds of footsteps and talk echoing the halls of the Keep longer. Ladies hurry between apartments, while squires carry polished helms. Servants step hurriedly aside as members of the royal family pass.

The tourney is only days away, and everything feels louder. An inescapable chaos that for once is more joyous than it is uncontrollable.

You walk beside Lady Jena and Lady Ellyn. Conversation drifting from gowns to the coming lists, Jena wonders aloud who might be crowned, eyeing the pair of you at her side

“Perhaps Prince Valarr has already chosen.” Lady Ellyn teases and your cheeks warm.

“Do stop."

More footsteps resound from the opposite end, steel plated heavy ones, already armoured from morning drills and practice, cutting you off from where you’re about to further scold Ellyn.

Aerion's breastplate catches the light filtering through the window, one gauntlet hanging loosely in his hand. You catch sight of him in a rush as you turn the corner, and the corridor narrows.

There is no avoiding one another.

All of the ladies curtsey.

“My prince.”

You offer the same polite smile as always without saying a word.

And for just a heartbeat too long, his gaze travels over you with quiet familiarity

Lady Dyanna notices, “Aerion.”

At last he turns, his mother’s voice reaches him.

“You’ve been on the practice field since dawn.” She mentions gently, looking him over and the scratches and dents that litter the armour.

“I have.”

"You’ll wear yourself out before the tourney.”

A faint corner of his mouth lifts, self assured and arrogant.

"I doubt it.”

Yet while he answers her, his attention drifts.

Back to you, with just his eyes. Like a compass stubbornly finding north.

You shift your weight, suddenly and strangely aware of yourself. Lady Ellyn begins speaking again, incoherent and hushed into your ear as the congregation begin to dismiss themselves.

“Aerion.”

Prince Maekar’s voice cuts cleanly through the corridor, as commanding as you'd expect. Aerion straightens instinctively, his father approaching with measured strides. He is dressed for the yard himself, a stern coldness set onto his features as he reaches him.

“You’re late.” The older man speaks with a measured annoyance.

“I arrived before sunrise.” Aerion bites back coolly, not enough to push, but enough.

“And yet Ser Donnel has been left waiting.” Maekar stands at his side, starting to shoulder him out of the way, “You’ve kept him.”

Aerion glances toward the training yard, then back to you. For one final time. And it is enough that even Maekar notices the delay.

“What is it?”

The question is simple, heads turning to face them both as Dyanna shakes her head, Jena on her arm huffing amusedly.

Aerion answers almost immediately, “Nothing.”

Maekar follows the direction of his son’s gaze for an instant only. He sees, a cluster of ladies and his son’s disobedience. Nothing else. And the sight annoys him further.

“Come.”

This time Aerion obeys.

But not before inclining his head toward you. A gesture no different from any other prince might offer. Only when he’s disappeared around the corner does Lady Jena murmur, almost teasing,

“The prince seems unusually attentive of late.”

“The tourney must have everyone restless.” Lady Ellyn laughs, the group of you stepping through the stoney corridors and out into the halls.

You smile because it’s the easiest response. Because what else could it be? And yet find yourself looking towards the empty corridor where he’d vanished.

You try to shun the thought, the idea of it. But it had felt, for one impossible moment, as though none of them had held his attention quite as completely as you had.

—

The chambers are thrown into darkness by the time he gets to them, ordering every servant out of his way as he enters. Every one of them scurries with trays and pitchers in hand, doors closing swiftly behind them.

Aerion had taken up all day in the training yard, fighting whatever prickling itch had settled itself inside of his bones. And no amount of driving his sword had aided it, it only made it worse.

It was supposed to work out in his favour. To do exactly what he had asked it to do. For you to be his more than anyone else in the realm. And he had been plagued for so long, too long, made to live a life so troubled and pathetic.

But it was going to be different, because he found a cure. It was meant to be what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.

The witch must have cursed him, tricked him into another means in his desperation, because it twisted itself into something far different.

It will enhance what is there, leaving only the truth. Her words still ring loudly in his head, pulsing in his temples with every moment that passes. Love shall grow deeper, desire will burn, and obsession.

Well, it overflows.

And denial is a cruel mistress. One that comes back to bite those that aren’t careful, and he denied it even now, but Aerion had fallen into its trap. Because you did not feel what he had, desire and lust and want wasn’t your emotion. You were simply oblivious, trying to figure out every advance he had been making.

It was his.

The idea angers him. That you would have been anything else but his the way he wanted you to be. It makes him tick to imagine you elsewhere but at his side, a rage so raw it pumps tight in his veins along with whatever else has planted itself inside.

His hand collides with the marbled basin, hard and fast, stone cracking under force. A pained groan leaves his throat, eyes flickering to catch his face in the reflection from the dimly lit candles behind. The expression he finds undoes him, wide eyes and crazed, deep violets blown a deep black, rimmed a bloodshot crimson at the edges from lack of sleep, rendering him almost lifeless.

“What the fuck is this.” Aerion isn’t certain who he’s talking to, but it comes out a lowly whisper, the pain pricking hard up his fingers. He attempts to flex them but they only freeze his grip, stiffening like the aching in his back. The muscles of his chest stretch in the glow as he straightens, watching his hand intently. He doesn’t go to aid it, nor bathe it in the warm water below, he just stares. Allows himself to feel the tingling sensation run up his arm.

And that’s when it replaces itself. Like a sudden snap of a tree branch underfoot.

A new feeling washes over him all at once, one that takes the pain away and the angst with it. His eyes squint at his skin, focusing on the broken skin of his knuckle. And suddenly it breaks him open much like the wound, the confusion fading, like the first drop of wine onto a pure tongue.

Why was he questioning it? Why not just let it happen? The questions differ from the old ones. He no longer asks why it’s happening, or what is. This is purpose, this is what he had asked for, and pride would not let him falter.

No, he wouldn’t let it.

If the potion was strong enough to come to fruition, to bring him closer to you, he’d give into it. It wasn’t doing harm, it was the divine, the way it should be. And so he’d let it take over, allow it to do its work, he’d continue his advances like he had planned to all along, this time harder.

Perhaps that way, you would come around.

—

Muddled. That’s the only way you can describe it.

The days before the tourney pass in a blur of banners, arriving lords and restless anticipation. And they pass with excitement not only of the celebration itself, but of you, and the two princes who are circling you.

Aerion begins appearing where you’d least expect him, not often enough to call it coincidence and yet it’s too often to ignore.

The library one afternoon, though he’d never struck you as a man fond of books. The castle walls at dusk, overlooking the training fields where you’d only stopped to escape the heat. The sept of all places. One other place you’d found that grants you freedoms and peace away from court, and yet a shadow lingers behind the entrance, beyond where the candles burn low at the altar.

Aerion treats it like chance, hardly speaking, still looking down his nose at everything that passes him by. He is still what exactly what you’ve come to view him as, cutting, controlled. A deviant in the eyes of many. The Prince you’d been warned about hasn’t changed, he’s only embedded himself.

And you told yourself it was. Chance.

You had to.

Yet something had shifted. And not even in him, in you.

You’d begun looking first. Before entering a room and before stepping into a corridor, some foolish part of you wondering whether violet eyes might already be there. And more often than not, they were.

At supper, he no longer sat with the detached indifference you’d heard whispered about since first arriving at court. He still spoke little, carried himself with that same cold composure, yet whenever laughter drifted from your end of the table, his gaze followed it. Fleeting glances had turned into things you’d feel, long enough that the burn of a cold stare was almost always on you.

When the eve of the tourney came, the Great Hall filled with music and anticipation. The feast was brighter than usual, draped in crimson linens and the dragon’s banger. Knights boasted with their cups in hand, ladies quietly wagering amongst themselves.

You were situated in the very center, taken with the conversations of Lady Jena and Lady Dyanna, attending to their husbands who they sat beside, no doubt in private jest of other lords. Your plate was empty, wine steadily sinking to the bottom of your cup as you glanced around the room.

Prince Valarr accepted endless well wishes with an easy smile, turning about the hall gaining many a favour from the crowd. Though Aerion remained almost entirely silent, not rising from where he shoved himself into his chair at the far end of the table.

The only time he seemed truly attentive, was when another lord leaned a little too close to hear what you’d said over the music. A meagre thing. Elder Lord Beesbury sharing his excitement for the tournament to come, as he had done in his drunkenness to near everyone else in the room.

But Aerion saw what he wanted to, his goblet paused halfway to his lips, watching over the golden, jewelled rim before taking a sip. Lord Beesbury had departed with a gentle hand to your shoulder, fatherly, encouraging, and nothing more.

And Aerion had already turned away, sinking the last of his Arbor Gold with a sharp clatter to the table.

It became difficult to remember the Prince people had warned you about. Though not for the reasons as before. Before it was duty, responsibility to bow to those higher than yourself, it was recognition.

But now, he seemed sharper than ever. It felt as though the rest of the court occupied his attention by obligation, while yours held it by instinct.

And what was one to do when he has suddenly deemed that you are worthy of his attentions.

Aerion had never proved them to you as his cousin Valarr did. He did not leave tender written letters in the hands of your maids, nor did he have flowers brought to your chambers, in fact you’d had more conversation with squires in the years you’d been living beside him than ones with him.

But he stood closer, vigilant like he claimed it his as his birthright, across every space that had you found yourself in, in places that were hard to ignore.

And it was enough to leave you wondering.

Why, you?

—

Aerion had always resorted to some sort of violence. It was custom, to be expected. He was a knight, a Prince, he had some reason to make people fear him.

It was how he first gained the name, Brightflame.

But something flickered deeper beneath it all, something more fierce than the anticipation sitting amongst the lists. This was a drive unpredictable, a thirst for blood that couldn’t be quenched. He'd splashed his face in cold water many times before leaving the pavilion, adorned from helm to toe in the agile, scaled steel.

It wasn’t nerves that consumed him.

He had ridden in too many lists for that, and the young lord opposite him was hardly a challenge. One look had been enough. His seat sat too high, his grip too eager on his reins.

He would not last, that much was certain.

The thought made something warm and terrible course beneath the steel on his shoulders. It had begun the moment his eyes found you amongst the royal boxes.

Bathed in Targaryen crimson and black, sunlight catching the embroidery upon your sleeves as you leaned forward beside the other ladies. Unaware and smiling politely at those around you. He committed that to memory, tightening the reins of his stallion as he swung himself atop it.

Before more of the scene caught his sight, unconsciously following to where you sat beneath the sun.

A young lord lowered his visor only halfway, flashing that broad, youthful grin at you as he stops right before the box.

“For you, my lady.” His lance tips toward your stand, blinking up at you hopefully. A ripple of laughter and knowing murmurs traveled through the galleries surrounding the lists.

Whispers had already begun these past days. The courteous letters from Prince Valarr, the lingering conversations. Now another young knight had found courage enough to dedicate a tilt in your honour.

You smile because court demanded it. Nothing more, and instead your mind began drifting to who would be his challenger. Valarr came across your mind.. and you’d hoped in silence it would be. That the tourney would be as grand as people were speaking of and you had reason for your favour to be given. Truly.

But it had already been decided, hooves thundering in a burst through wooden gates before anyone could catch him.

The herald’s voice carried across the field and all heads snapped up.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

The roar that answered swallows the rest.

His horse shifts beneath him, stamping impatiently against the earth. Aerion settled the lance beneath his arm with practised ease, violet eyes never once leaving the man opposite.

Few seconds passed as squires rushed to each of their sides, checking the lasts of their armour and swiftly running back as the first horn sounds.

They charge, steadfast with a few yards between them until they narrow. Wood shatters, the impact echoing across the lists as both lances splinter into flying shards. Neither rider yielded an inch.

A respectable pass, an unassuming one. The crowd applauds loudly, Lady Ellyn gripping your hand with the same harsh tension squeezing in your chest.

The young lord laughs as squires hurried forward with fresh lances, Aerion rounding his stallion from the other side as he snatches the one from his hand.

“Well struck, my prince.”

The second tilt comes harder, the laughter from the lord ringing in his head beneath the helm, the sight of a smile through his visor. The young lord aimed for glory now, lowering his lance sooner, riding faster.

And so Aerion waited.. and waited. He did not bite. Not until the final heartbeat, where he shifted barely an inch in the saddle.

The opposing lance skims harmlessly across his shield. But his own strikes true, a sharp angle upward to the shining bottom of his breastplate.

The crack rings across the grounds, breaths held tight in throats as both men waver from the strength of the collision. The young lord lurches violently, nearly torn from the saddle and every face leans in, clutching fans and wooden beams. A breath passes and coin is slyly passed in the lower crowds, predictions already being made. But he rights himself to cheers from the crowd, swivelling his helm properly back onto his head.

A close thing, too close.

Aerion watches him recover, slamming down his visor with a growing satisfaction.

All eyes watch on with an intrigued intensity. Prince Baelor with his hand wrapped around his wife’s own, face unreadable as he studies his nephews movement. And his expression cracks, the familiar recognition of something dreadful to come. Prince Maekar sits near enough the same from the other end, only with less interest and with his back slumped in the chair, knowing just as much as a father would.

Something is wrong.

You manage to stomach what you can, gaze flitting between both men as they prepare themselves for another round. A hush falls over the stands, and by the third pass, the laughter disappears. completely.

The young lord no longer smiles. And all of the joy seems to fade. He adjusts his shoulder where the last blow had landed, wincing before taking another lance. And from across the field, Aerion is an unnerving still, his horse breathing steadily hoof kicking up the mud, where his chest heaves, unable to.

You find yourself gripping the edge of the splintered wooden beam below you. Though you aren’t certain why, only that something about the Prince was more unsettling than usual.

Not his skill. But his focus. Far too narrow for what could be considered normal, as though the rest of the tournament had fallen away, a deadly calm.

And it leaves only one obstacle before him.

The final horn.

The horses spring forward once more as it sounds, dust exploding in the mud beneath pounding hooves.

The distance vanishes almost instantly, because this time Aerion does not merely seek victory. He seeks blood. And he drives through the impact, lance sticking squarely against the young lord’s groin with a sickening force that sent him flying clean from the saddle.

He hit the ground shoulder first rolling to his side and then landing on his head. The sound silences the cheering, every one jolting backward at the side of his horse continuing riderless down the lists.

The young lord does not rise, his groans turn guttural and wheezed, breathless with the dented armour shoving into his cracked rib.

And for a lingering moment, no one moves, only squires rushing to his side with maester’s following. Voices erupt from every side of the field, your head turning to follow and chase every sound.

“A healer, we need one.”

“Clear the lists.”

Aerion slows his stallion at the far end of the barrier, glancing back only once with his head held high. His face stays unreadable, hidden beneath the dragon scale helm without so much as a scratch. As though he, too, were merely watching another unfortunate accident.

Yet from your place amongst the royal boxes, something cold settles in your bones, a shiver wracking your body. You remember the way the young lord had raised his lance towards you, the way Aerion was watching, or must have been the way he entered himself upon the tilt. And though the applause had died, the feeling that this had not been simple misfortune refused to leave you.

Because it was not.

The herald concludes Prince Aerion the victor for the morning despite the scene. Though he does not smile, in fact his face doesn't change at all as he raises the visor for a final time. The man’s blood drips down his cheeks, splattered across his nose and forehead, silver hair dirtied with mud and sweat, and the faint curve of his lip.

One that can only be seen as, pride.

Most eyes remain fixed upon the injured knight as he is lifted carefully from the churned earth, one arm hanging limp, blood soaking steadily through the padding beneath his breastplate. Servants hurry around him as the lists descend into organised chaos and the royal box remains seated, lords with faces in their hands, ladies shuffling readily to exit, quiet in the tense understanding you all are aware of.

Tradition demands its ending. The victor must name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Moments pass before his horse turns, midnight black under armoured bone and ivory. But he doesn't ride to the pavillion of noble ladies, nor does he stop before the Prince's to bow, he turns to you.

Your stomach knots in one impossible heartbeat, and you wonder, hope, that he might pass. Maybe he will choose another, forget the weeks that have passed and the confusion he had led you both into.

But he doesn’t

He continues guiding the stallion to the royal boxes, lance still tucked beneath one arm. Its splintered tip is dark with mud, a smear of blood stains the ash wood lower down where it had been gathered after the final tilt.

The crowd falls strangely quiet, even the murmurs seem to wait and you rise because every lady chosen before you has risen. Because there is no graceful way not to.

But he doesn’t stop for them, Aerion stops beneath you.

Violet eyes meet yours, and for once they look whole. Bright in a sinister sense, like you are the very thing he can see. And only him.

Without speaking, he lowers the broken lance, the use of a weapon now tranformed asan offering.

Upon its jagged end rests the circlet of winter roses. White petals, much like the ones you recall from the gardens, already beginning to bruise beneath flecks of drying earth.

“My lady.”

His voice carries only far enough for those nearest to hear. There is no flourish or perormance, not even for the sake of his victory, but there is confidence, out of want. Because everyone’s eyes are on you both, you can feel it, everyone can see. His father, his mother, the crown Prince, even Valarr from the distant saddle of his own stallion, seated tilting his head in intrigue.

And a jealous silence.

The circlet trembles ever so slightly as you reach for it. And so he takes it himself, rising as you lean clutching the balcony, to place it upon your head.

His fingers brush your temple as he does, deliberate with a singular touch of a strand of your hair, before pulling back. He shifts back into the saddle as you rise straight in front of him, forcing a smile and the bend of your knees into curtsy. His head turns, taking the reins in hand as he faces Prince Baelor and the hosting lord.

“Your Queen of Love and Beauty.” Aerion announces.

Only then do the cheers begin, scattered and uncertain, excitement growing louder as tradition overtakes unease. You shove yourself back into the wooden chair, glancing at Lady Ellyn as her she eyes you back, mouth agape and in shock. Everything that is expected of you, you have done, posture straight and graceful.

Yet beneath the roses, your skin has gone cold.

—

By sunset, the remaining tilts are abandoned. Officially, it is out of respect for the injured knight. Unofficially, no one much wishes to continue after what they’ve witnessed. The boxes empty early, the crowd sifted back into their respected pavilions where music plays quieter, more tranquil, and wine flows heavily.

Every conversation somehow finds its way back to the lists, and you have long left the bustle behind, choosing to be farthest from it. The roses have begun to wilt against your hair, sticking thorny into the corner of your head as you remove them before reaching your pavilion, carrying them loosely in one hand.

The petals leave damp marks across your fingers, the broken ones falling onto the carpeted trail beneath you.

Aerion sees you before you see him, though you don’t notice him at all. He has been walking without destination. Or so he tells himself. The maze of tents stretches ahead, canvas walls shifting gently in the evening breeze.

He rounds one corner with a roll of his shoulders, the weight of his armour discarded.

And he stops, not because of you. He lets you walk on, the dark hues of dusk creeping in over the shadows of the trees. The flap of a healer’s pavilion hangs open, and inside something more curious. The young lord laid beneath candles and incandescent, his breathing shallow as the maester binds cracked ribs while another mixes milk of the poppy nearby.

The knight’s eyes are closed. But he is alive, broken, but alive.

Aerion watches for only a moment, the maester’s do not notice him, no one does.

You step quietly between the rows of pavilions, clutching the circlet of roses he’d placed upon your head. You never glance toward the healer’s tent, never see the knight within, disappearing into your own, canvas falling shut behind you.

Aerion remains where he is, gaze lingering first on your tent until he shifts back to the injured lord.

The maester speaks to another as he shakes from the bed, “If the night is kind, he shall recover.”

Aerion’s jaw tightens in certainty, looking once more toward the closed flap of your pavilion, toward the place where you are beyond sight.

The decision settles over him with terrifying calm, an inevitability.

He turns away before anyone notices he’d ever been there. And long after the camp has fallen into silence, hours passed when the last torches burn low and even the horses have stilled, Prince Aerion returns to his own bed.

Alone.

—

You’d been none the wiser, in fact no one had been. Wine flowed delicately in your system and sleep succumbed you in the early evening. Though your mind lingered occasionally.

The Prince.

You hadn’t thought much of him before. Only what you had been told. Callous, cruel, a bully to many, even his brothers. Much like his father in a darker sense someone had mentioned. Though Prince Maekar was cold, he bore the love in his children and for his elder brother Prince Baelor quite clearly.

Aerion was something different.

There was a glint in his eye that often unnerved many people, many young maidens falling into hushed whispers from his presence alone. There was a darkness there, one you had witnessed today with your own eyes, as much as you wanted to deny it.

He shouldn’t have paid attention to you at all. As a lady in waiting to his own aunt, it was hardly a need for you to cross paths at all, but somewhere along the lines, he had began appearing inside every part of your life, forming his own web that had you tangling and restless even in dreams.

Existing where he never had before.

The morning comes damp and cold, due prickling the morning grass where drunkards still sway and grumble their chants past the tents. The stoked fire has burned low, the furs from the bed gifting you the last covers of warmth. You toss and turn for a while, shifting under the sheets so harshly your hair musses around you. You sit up at last, abandoning the idea of sleep altogether.

Myrish carpet finds your feet as you press them into the ground and into your slippers, tugging the large, silken coat from its stand and around your shoulders, your chemise hidden dignified underneath. Maids sleep in their beds around you, snoring softly where rest has not yet escaped them, but you don’t go to wake them. Instead you let them rest, crouching and tiptoeing out of the pavilion and into the morning air.

There are few still moments before it comes tumbling down. First it is a scream, shrill and piercing from metres away, and then running, the first breath of fresh air you take stolen as your eyes snap fully awake.

You follow the sound, and it seems others from every direction have the same idea, men and women rushing down the road, to find something that makes you stumble.

“The knight..”

You don’t hear the rest, the crowd picks up before you're drawn from it, sliding through the sea of heads until you find your place at the front, coat cloaked tight around your middle.

The knight had succumbed to his wounds, crumpled in a heap in the middle of the stoney pathway, and in a pool of his own blood. How unfortunate, voices counter. It happens.. a tragic tilt, an injury too great.

“Shame..” Another voice you hear.

But something doesn’t feel quite right, it doesn’t make any sense. He was taken away by the maesters and that was the last anyone had seen of him. A stab wound opened from his back, ripped around a hole in his thin cotton shirt. This was no injury, it’s fresh and still leaking..

It’s murder.

The commotion grows wild, biting colder than the chill of the morning as you glance around, stepping back from it as the thought punches you in the chest. Perhaps it’s a lie, perhaps it’s just another fool making scandal for the sake of it.

Perhaps—

A familiar face makes its way out of the crowd, one that stirs you more than it should.

Aerion.

Standing on the outskirts of the townsfolk jeering and yelling, far from the royal pavilions you’d both been assigned to.And he’s looking, already. Not at the knight’s crumpled body, not at the crowd.

At you.

As though your opinion and the shock on your face matters more than the dead man lying fifty yards away.

That should be the first thing to properly make your stomach turn, and then the memories come. They rearrange themselves cruelly.

The gardens, the roses and the way he knew you’d be there.

The thorn and the scar on his hand, the way he finished sentences before you were able to even speak. The fact his pride was not just about bitterness, it was knowing, it was stating facts only you were aware of.

The way he’d watched the knight all afternoon and the prolonged silence when the man spoke. The crown he placed in your lap and the burn of his eyes bearing into yours.

It’s all there, it just wasn’t in the right order before.

—

You don’t accuse him, you can’t. Doing so would be high treason, and stating it would be against what you want to believe.

But you cannot breathe in this air, swarmed with people and stuck between the entrance of the paviliona, and him. So you leave, you take off behind where anyone can see.

The woods. The only place you can think of, and you nod to Lady Ellyn as you pass who only gives you a short nod, peeking from the tent beside you own, her face a pale through the mist.

The woods.

And not because you're running, but because it’s quiet, it’s the closest place you can put distance between all of this. You walk further than you mean to, your lungs burning leaving an ache in your throat. Past the horses, past the pavilions, until the shouts are only nearby echoes through the trees.

You come to a stop along the root of a large oak, hand bracing against its rough bark as you catch your breath. The leaves shake and shudder with the breeze, shades of green shading you all around.

“A curious place to hide, dove.”

The name punches your chest, knocking whatever air was left in your lungs from them. You don’t jump, but the hairs on your skin stand on end, your eyes closing tight. Because somehow, you had already known he was going to come.

“Did you follow me here?” You breathe out, pressing your hand tighter to the tree, standing straighter.

“No,” Twigs crunch under his boots, his tone nothing short of calm and collected, the dangerous kind, “I though you’d come here.”

You turn on your heel, and the sight nearly makes you laugh. His hands are clasped in front of him, sunlight filtering on the striking silver of his features, red tunic clasped perfectly.

“Why were you there?” You don’t know what to make of you own words, it comes out so fast in a burst as you rise to stand opposing him.

He raises an eyebrow without looking away.

“At the gardens you were there..”

“The roses..” You continue without cowering, stepping forth on the uneven earth.

“You knew that I would be there.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t falter not once, and your eyes dart past him, right toward where knights and Kings guard rush past over the bushes.

“The knight.”

It’s the first time he looks away, not in guilt or remorse but recognition. The lines of his face draw tight, striking in the dappled light.

And you notice, shuffling in place, slippers sinking into the dirt.

“Did you do it?”

A long silence comes, and so you ask again, clearing your throat as if scratches.

“Did you kill him?”

There it is. His jaw tightens, muscle flexing from the bone.

“He wasn’t worthy. He presumed himself.”

Your nails bite into your fingers as you clutch them at your sides, he dares a look once before looking away, to your hands, to your face. Like it doesn’t phase him.

That’s all he can say. The knight thought himself worthy. Of you. Your blood runs cold, there’s no denial in it, and he doesn’t even begin to give it.

You blink, gaze catching the faintest flicker of blood on his sleeve, darker than the crimson tunic, running a dark brown along the hem.

“You’re frightening me.” You state it loudly, shakily on your breath as twigs crunch underfoot.

That breaks something him, it cuts him deep. Because he didn't intend to frighten you, he wanted you closer, to be near you, to make you see what he sees.

To make you his.

He steps closer, a foot disappearing between you.

“A Prince wouldn’t—” You start, raising your head to meet his height.

“Wouldn’t what?” He takes another step, head tilting at you and your mouth snaps shut. And he answers for you, he’s already forgotten duty, no care left for it.

“I’ve done everything I know.” Another step. “I’ve buried everything else, fought it, ignored it. It refuses to leave.. you refuse to leave.”

“All it’s about is you. Where you are, and why you’re not by my side.” He sounds almost annoyed, like the admission angers him.

He steps forward again, and you're frozen on the spot, rocking back on your heel.

“I have no reason to be at your side.” You speak plainly.

His hand wraps around your arm, looking down as you attempt to yank it back, but you can’t, he has it firmly gripped, shoved between your bodies as he stands right before you.

“Do you think I enjoy this?” He whispers lowly, violets turned a dark purple, so deep you can see your reflection in them, startled.

“Then let it go..”

He chuckles then, low and dark and broken. And the look in his eyes is something you’ve never seen before. It’s chipped away at the edges, so undone and unhinged as if you’ve asked him to stop breathing.

“If I could..” He leans in closer, breath hitting your jaw as you turn your head away, the sickly woody scent of him reaching your nostrils . “I would have weeks ago, but you keep— you’re still here.”

“Why me, all of this.. you don't love me, it’s simply the idea.” You stumble out, biting the words around your tongue as you bare your teeth back in warning.

“Don’t.” His fingers grip tighter, clamping at your wrist.

“Don’t what?” You counter.

“Reduce this.”

You stare at him instead of speaking, and his brows furrow, because you don’t give him anything, a blank space that he’s created, “You’ll see.” He assures and he releases you from his grip, your arm wrenching free as you step backward.

And he lets you, he doesn't chase, left in the hollow of the woodland, nostrils flaring as he hands his head.

—

The walk you take is slow, unnerved with your fist clutched tight to your chest.

The grounds are dismantling piece by piece with servants packing their wagons, pavilions taken apart, and squires rushing by. Everything moving on just as it usually does. And some part of you imagines you’d dreamt it, how wrong and odd it is to think of such a thing.

That perhaps the grief over the knight has made everything seem stranger than it is.

The canvas shifts gently in the breeze as you reach it, stepping inside amongst the maids, now awake and folding your clothes and dresses. Some hand long over the bed, others draped over chests, but you pay no mind to any of it. It is the table that catches your eye first.

More so what’s on it. Beneath the flowered vase, the one Valarr had gifted you in china blue. There it sits.

An envelope. Yellowed parchment pressed in a dark, crimson stamp, pressed with the three headed dragon along its lining. Your eyes stare longer than your fingers are tempted to move, tracing over the seal before you finally break it.

It tears with a pop, the envelope opening to reveal the letter inside. All of it perfectly placed. So calculated it could only be one of two.

All eyes in the room fall to you hushed with their heads low, parchment crackling softly beneath your fingers

It’s not a love letter, or a simple request, it’s formal.

The sort of letter a noble would send. A Prince. It speaks of honour, of houses, of futures and seeking permissions to court.

To take care of you and properly.

Nothing inside of it would be deemed improper, yet every word your eyes flutter over carry the weight of what you’d heard between the trees. Not because of what you have dreamt, or the teases that have came your way.

Not because they are from Valarr, they’re not. But because cause they are his words.

Written in that same dark, unwavering hand.

“By your side, it would be an honour to take my place.”

The words are rearranged, and so clearly not his, at least not the way he’d word it.

Because the words jumble before your eyes as you blink, and the only thing you see, hear, is his voice ringing in your ears and your stomach turns sharp, bile rising in your throat.

What Aerion had been truly meaning to say.

Be mine.

Leaving out the final part, the one that lingers in his head.

You already are.

There was a bluebird on the sill of your window.

You had been in the middle of your embriodery, the shiny needle coming to stop between the fabric as you came to stare at the creature in awe. Its fidgeting body had hopped and fluttered on the stone ledge, chirping away as it observed you from across the room. Excitement pulsed through you as you gently settled your embroidery hoop onto the table as delicately as you could before you began approaching the bird.

Its song filled the silence, each chirp sending a little echo throught the vast room as you dragged yourself to the creature in a crouch. Your skirts crumpled beneath your body as you approached. Your heart came to swell in your throat as you pushed down memories of your mother and sister, tears coming to collect at the edges of your eyes as you admire the delicate hues of blue on the birds wings. 

You had been so captured by the bird of your family's history you didn't hear the door to your room open or shut behind you until the bird suddenly let out a hard cry and fled through the open window. You remained in a low crouch until your name being called behind you made your body instinctively straighten as you rose and turned around to face the only other person who was allowed into the room. Your fear left you with no choice but to stand still as heavy boots trudged into the room while your eyes found the floor.

"It seems my lady wife has forgotten how to greet her husband," although his tone came as a tease, Aerion's hardened gaze bore into the side of your face— your months of marriage letting you know well enough that he was not in a joking mood.

You bowed before the Prince as you spoke, "I did not expect you today, my prince". Your words coming out airy and rushed as you continued to avoid his gaze. 

You knew what he had come for, its the only reason he had ever deigned to visit your secluded chambers in the Keep. 

When he didn't respond, your eyes reluctantly left the stone floor and found his body a few feet from you though his gaze was now on the window behind you. You watch his eyes flicker between the stone ledge and your crumpled skirts, your hands coming to smooth your appearance despite futile attempts. 

"Ah," he tutted, a smile slowly spreading to show his bright teeth that matched the color of his hair. "Let me guess. Was that your mother? Maybe it was your father?" his smile had turned wicked before he let out a chuckle as he approched until he was a step away from connecting your chests. "Or, perhaps it was your sister?" 

Despite the amount of mockery or bullying he had done to you, you could still feel pure disbelief bubble beneath your skin.

Aerion knew that your family had the stories of old just as his ancestry did—how his family had dragons while your family had bluebirds that the departed would use to visit you during tough times and yet he still mocked your traditions and family legacy.

You swallow a sob as you steel yourself before the man you married. 

Guilt fills you when—for a split second—you curse your sister for dying. It had originally been your sister that had been selected as the prince's intended, the waves of hapiness that had overflowed from her at the mention of becoming a princess had left your family scrambling to depart from your home and only leaving your eldest brother and yourself to stay back. 

Then news came of an upturned carriage. You could still remember the moment the scout had arrived, ears coming to ring and muffle the words of how he found the bodies of your beloved mother and father with their throats slit while your sister was found not a few feet away face down in the river.

You were only allowed a few days of mourning until a raven came with a message of acceptance of you being a suitable stand in. Your brother had come to explain how your father had owed a debt and the debt would need to be paid one way or another. The last time you had seen your brother was months ago when he put you into a carriage that arrived from Kings Landing, multiple guards attached to escort you to your new husband. 

Aerion's fingers brushing your fallen tears brought you back to the present. His body had come to crouch down to look straight into your eyes that had dropped to stare at the floor. His iris' filled with unbridled lust as he shushed you, wiping away tears with false-sympathies. 

"You should not cry for that old family," he whispered, the tone soundng so sweet you almost consider leaning into the falsehood for comfort. "I am your family now, the only one you should consider."

His words only make your body jolt in despair. He allows two more tears to slip before he lets out a loud sigh of annoyance and pulled himself away to sprawl onto the furs of your bed. His hands undo the strings of his shirt until his chest is exposed. Aerion adjusts his position before he looks at you and jerks his head at you. "Come."

Flashes from your wedding night peppered into your mind at the sight of him, saying the same words he did when the time came to consumate the marriage. The knot in your throat was just like the one you had then, blocking all words as you forced yourself into his lap. The fabric of your skirts seperated your body from his as he gazed up at you with boredom before he pulled a blade from the scabbard on his hip. He had done the same thing that night, the only difference was that you now knew what to expect of Aerion Targaryen when he came to your chambers. 

Bringing the edge of the blade to your corset, he gives no warning as he slowly drags the metal down and tears the front of your dress. The tip of his blade skimms the surface of your chest and between the valley of your breasts while the sound of fabric tearing fills the room. You are forced to watch as the gown you had worn had now been reduced to scraps at the princes' sick attempt at seduction. His eyes found yours in bliss as he removed the top layer of your dress and left you bare. 

"This is how you should be greeting me"

Your skin pebbled with the exposure to the cold air, the crackling fire in the hearth doing nothing but adding to the ambience within your chamber walls. Your chest rises and falls with each breath as Aerion comes close and brings your breats to his mouth, the sudden warmth making honey of your bones despite the distate you felt in your heart for the man. His mouth latched on as his tongue circled, pebbling your nipple until the brush of his tongue made a small whimper rip from your throat. He repeated the action on the other as his hands traveled to the strings of your skirts and pulled at the knot until the fabric loosened, he pulled away and dragged the skirts over your head. 

Aerion brought the blade back to your flesh, briging the dagger to drag against your waist as he spoke. "You want to make your husband happy, yes?" You can only nod as you fix your gaze on the cherished knife of the prince. He seemed pleased with your response as he tossed the blade to the empty space beside him on the bed.

Your body felt three times heavier as he brought his hand up and grasped at your neck and forced you closer to look into his eyes. Irritation bloomed beneath his iris' as he squeezed the flesh of your throat, not hard enough to cut off your airway but enought to make your eyes widen as you looked down at him. You’re forced still as he works his stare over your face until he finally lets go and smacks your thigh hard enought to earn a small hiss from you. He comes to smile once more before he tells you to stand.

You knew better than to hope for his departure.  He had done the jest too many times.

You roll off of his body and stand to the side as he rose from the furs and raised his hands in wait. Your body moved mindlessly as you brought your hands to pull at the strings quickly, earning a chuckle from Aerion who joked about your impatience for him. 

You only wanted to get this over with.

You fiddle with the string of his trousers, eyes fixed on the fabric so as to still your shaking fingers when his hands stop yours with a swat and instructions to lay on the bed. You follow instructions as your fate was sealed the second you repeated the vows back to him in the Great Sept of Baelor, so you lie down and watch as Aerion removed his pants.

As you drag your gaze up his body, you hold the speckle of attraction you felt as the target of your resentment. You hated the way your body instinctively shifted and preened at the sight of his toned body, his figure shaped from his time training in the castle courtyard, his smooth flesh making one think he was untrained. It was when you look upon his hands that you can see the years of training etched into the creases of his palms, taut skin scarred with niks and cuts. Your eyes land on his toned back that gleamed with the reflection of the flame in the center of the room.

His body turns to face you fully and you're quick to force your eyes to his face, avoiding the hardened part of his body that brought you both to pleasure and pain. His eyebrow raise at the sight of your reddened face, a low chuckle coming from his chest that came flush against yours as he brings his body over you with his entire weight. His eyes find yours as his brings his head to the side of your neck and bites down, his teeth grinding your skin in between each ridge so hard you cry. 

He pulls away and you give your best smile, ignoring the tears pooling out of your eyes. He leans down again, licking at your tears as his hands come to fondle your chest. His thighs have now come up to straddle your hips, his hard cock resting against your lower belly. You can't ignore the heat he radiates or the weight of what laid between the two of you. He gives you one last glance before he pulls back off of your body and spits directly on your center, missing by a few inches but it didn't matter as his spit dripped down, his fingers come down and glide the glob of saliva up and down your lips before he pressed into you with his fingers.

The sudden intrusion makes a gasp whisper past your lips, his groan sounding over your noise. "You're so wet," he mumbled, pushing his fingers in deeper before gliding them back out. "'And you said you weren't expecting me? Was this for someone else?" his fingers come to curl inside you, your slick making a squelch sound as he curled his fingers over and over like a scratch. You shake your head at him, maybe as an answer or in protest but the response seemed to satisfy him enough to lean down and kiss your lips gently. His thumb comes to flick your clit, making your mouth open in shock before he plunges his tongue into your mouth. Simulatneously kissing and rubbing, you've no way to choose how to respond and he ends up biting you when you don't kiss back. 

He hums at the sight of you, wet and undone by his fingers. He pulls his fingers from you, cutting you from reaching completion and flicks his hands of your slick before bringing his fingers into his mouth of the remnants. "My sweet girl, my wife" his breathless words mix with the lulling vibrations of your body and you can only watch as he rubs the head of his cock against you. His body rocks against you, bumping over and under your pearl all while he held himself up to hover over you and come up right to your eyeline. It overwhelmed you, the intensity of his stare. All that you bubbled down to survive in his presense had started to come up. Your gaze travels up to the decorated canopy bed, focusing on the linen sheets that resembled your family house colors, the ones that matched the sky and the wings of the birds you wished you could become.

Aerion's eyebrows furrow at your expression, not looking at him but through him. It angered him to the point of stopping to reach up and pinch your face between his fingers, your eyes zoning back in and masking once more into a loving gaze. 

But he could tell it was fake, the shining eyes he had caught a glimpse of when he entered your seperate chambers, eyes on a stupid filthy bird that twittered and scraped its talons on stone—that got a look of devotion while he got antipathy. He couldn't help the snarl that came from him as he released his grip, kissing his teeth as he rose from the bed. He turned his back to dress, leaving you confused and listless as you watched his back muscles move.

You do your best to hide your relief from your face.  He would most likely return to the streets of silk.

You sit up as he pulls on his white linen shirt, your hands coming to wrap your body with the sheets when a loud chirp sounds through the room. You both still, the sound not believed to be heard until it comes again more than once. 

Not a bluebird, please don't be a bluebird.

Your eyes remain on Aerion as he drops the pants he intended to put on, letting out a chuckle as he turns toward the windowsill. You follow his gaze after you see his joyous expression, seeing a bluebird fidget on the stone as it looked about the room as if invited to comment on the decor. You feel the gasp before you hear it, finding its eyes look at you often.

Aerion walked over until he came up beside you and pulled the sheets from your chest to display you to the small audience the two of you gained. Your hands fly up to cover yourself but Aerion was always faster, his hands curling around your wrist before pushing them onto the bed and coming to hover over you once more.

"I think daddy dearest wanted to check on his little girl," he jeered, not caring that your gaze remained on the bird. You protest, your eyes filling with tears as your pleas go unheard. Aerion's free hand came down between you two and lined his pulsing cock to your core and slowly inched forward. His moan filled the room as he sheathed himself in you before he let go of your hands and brought both of his to frame your face and turn your gaze to him. "Let's show him, yeah? Show him that you are all mine"

Aerion's violet eyes fix on yours as he pumps into you, each rock making the head of his cock kiss your insides. He watched you fight the pleasure he knew you felt, your lips coming to form an 'o' like it had countless times before. He let go one side of your face to grip the underside of your thigh, brining it up to angle you so he could reach deeper. His panting breaths mixed with your shallow breathing, he licked his lips before he kissed you. His hand caressed your face once before he pulled out to turn you over. 

You're face down in the matress before you process what happened, the furs and sheets now rumpled beneath your two bodies coming together once more. His hands came down onto your head, fingers weaving into your hair and pulling to make you turn away from the sheets and toward the room, specifically toward the window. 

"Aerion please—"

He shushes you sweetly, now petting your head as he continued his thrusts. "Your little birds gets to see what I get to do with mine"

His thrusts deepen as he holds you for balance by your head. His moans mix with the echoing slapping of skin coming together over and over. The fire continues to pop in its hearth and the bird continues to watch as your brought to completion despite your best efforts against it. He continues to thrust until he reached his rapture, filling you to the brim before removing himself from you and watched as his seed slowly glided down your leg and onto the floor.

His eyes travel to the side of your face before to the window that was now vacant. He dressed himself, relishing in his satisfaction of the start of his early morning. He watched you until you rose from the bed. You take a moment to collect your expression before you turn to gaze at Aerion, ensuring your eyes meet his. He stays quiet a moment, looking over your face a few times before he reaches out and grasps your chin in between his fingers ever so gently.

“You slipped away for a little bird,” he stated, his grip cradling your chin a little. He skimmed the edge of your jaw with his rough fingers, a mock pout stretched across his face while he forced his deep violet eyes onto yours. His face is close enough to show off his unblemished skin and sharp cheekbones. He looked princely, but you knew better. 

A hiss escapes you when his fingers come and tighten on your jaw hard enough for you to know that it would leave a mark.

“Ensure it doesn’t happen again”

Giving you a pointed look, he released your face with a push and made his way out of the room without a glance back. At the sound of the door clicking to a close, your gaze lingers on the door for a moment before you feel your body jolt forward and you hear yourself let out a quiet sob.

It was hours later when a knock came at your door. 

You knew it wasn't Aerion as he would've walked in without so much as a 'hello', so you stand and walk to the door. You take cautious steps toward the door, opening it a crack until you see it is a knight that usually follows your husband. His face holding a kind smile as he present you with a box wrapped in a singular red string bow.

"A gift from Prince Aerion, your grace" 

Your face comes into a frown before you could stop yourself, the door creaking as you open it wider. You look behind the man expecting to see Aerion right beside him, smirking as he usually was—only, it was the lone knight and he looked confused as to why you had not responded. The question slips out before you could think of a more proper way of asking, your fear coming out a soft whisper.

"Is he on the way?"

The knight gives you a a frown of remorse, probably thinking the princess had missed her husband terribly in the few hours they spent apart. He shakes your head and relays the instructions he was given. 

"I was told to present this on behalf of His Highness, the prince. He is in the courtyard just outside your window and says he wishes to see your face as you open your gift"

Aerion, in all your time wed, had never sent you a gift.

The knight entered the room and walked to the sill, placing the small box down before bowing to you once then leaving. The door closed with a groan and a click but you could only stare at the box that lay a few feet away, a deep forboding feeling filling you from your toes to the crown of your head. 

A loud whistle just beyond the castle walls called out, the familiar tune letting you know that what the knight said was true. Your feet move before you realize and you are standing at the window looking down at Aerion, who was waiting for you just below on horseback. His familair steed dressed in it's riding leathers made to look like scales of a dragon that no longer ruled the great skies.

"Open it," he called out, shrugging his shoulders with nonchalance as he stared up the stone wall. "I saw this while out this morning and knew you had to have it"

Your heart thumped right on the bone of your ribcage as you dragged your gaze from the smiling Targaryen prince to the box. Your shaky hands returned as you pulled the string and fumbled with box until it opened and you let out a cry before you fell to the floor.

There, in a box on the windowsill, laid the small body of a bluebird with broken wings and a note.

A bluebird for my bluebird —A.

The scream you let out as laughter traveled up the wall and through the window made your heart bleed just as deeply as you hurt. You don't know how long you stay there, screaming out your pain when just beyond the door, you hear the guards stand to attention and the door opens to reveal your husband. 

Your eyes had swollen and your face was smeared with your tears and despair when you come to look up at the unfeeling prince. In all your time being married, this was the cruelest thing he had done. You'd forgiven him when he had your family colors removed from all your wardrobe, coming to understand that you were now under his protection in the eyes of the seven. You even forgave him when he had all your belongings removed and replaced with ones to his liking. 

This was beyond forgiveness. 

Aerion goes to lay on the fresh sheets that were replaced mere moments after he departed from your chambers, his eyes on you as you come to stand. He raised his eyebrow at you, the look of entitlement painted clear on his face. He adjusts himself on the bed before he jerks his head at you. "Come my little blue bird"

The wind is knocked out of you at his sadistic smile, beaming bright at the sight of your fresh tears. You are out of the room before you realized that you moved, the sight of the knight in the corridor making your feet carry you out of there faster as your name is called from behind you. You reach the flight of stairs, the long winding steps stretching out the longer you stared.

You couldn't do it anymore. It would never stop. He will never stop.

Your body had racked forward with each sob you couldn't keep at bay, your tears burning the already raw skin on your face. Your hand had come up to grasp the rail when Aerion's voice called out to you from behind. 

You don't turn as you shake your head. You wouldn't go back, you'd rather—

You let out a breath and turn to face Aerion whose usual bored stance had come to attention as he gazed at you a few steps away, his brows scrunching together while he assessed your next move. It must've been written on your face because he was taking a few step forward until he was only an arms distance away.

"Step away," he muttered annoyed, keeping his eyes on yours. "If you wish to weep, you can do so in your chambers"

You shake your head and step back, stumbling until you catch yourself on the railing. He remained the bored princeling as you finally spoke. "Why do you do this?"

Aerion says nothing as he looks at you. A sob rocks your body as you ask again, your voice coming to yell loud enough to echo down the stair hall. Your hands are in your hair, pulling as if the answer will fall out along with your hair. He says something but you've come to ignore it as you cy out, hysterics taking over and making you pace until you stop and look at him.

As Aerion stands there was a dumb expression on his face, you decide then and there that the life you had dreamed of as a child would never come to pass. The image of a loving husband, who would come to kiss you the moment his eyes laid on you, would never come to pass. The laughter that echoed in your dreams of your partner and you sharing a look of love as your children say something funny or outlandish burned away along with any hope of anything getting better. 

You call his name once, your voice coming out a whisper as he looks up to your vacant face. He knew it was going to happen, he could see it within your eyes that stared back void of any emotion or light. It was like you were looking at him but more like you were staring directly into his soul. 

"I don't want to be your wife anymore"

Before he could say a word, you threw yourself back. The last thing you see is Aerion reaching out to you before the world goes black.

You could feel the cold fingertips on your forehead before you felt the world of pain that followed right after. You try to sit up in your bed only to be pushed down and instructed to remain still. You hear a voice whisper instructions to fetch a maester before you hear footsteps rush out of the room. Your hand flies up to your head when darkness greets you, panic of the possibility of blindness making your hands begin to shake.

A womans sweet voice reassured you that you were only bandaged for your head. "Maester Robynn will see to your bandages once he arrives but you must remain calm"

You settle yourself at the womans instruction, coming to trust her by the mere sound of her voice. 

The peace only lasted so long before the sound of shouts and boots against pavement filled the halls. You had no choice but to lay there as the sounds approached until they were in the room with you. You listen as the boots come to stop at the threshold before the soft voice cuts the silence. 

"Your Grace, we await the maester but the princess is awake"

You fidget before your hands grip the sheets that covered you and go to sit up once more. You hear movement before you feel a hand on your shoulder pushing you back down. "Don't move, wait for a maester" the voice that speaks sounds strained, tight with emotion as if the words were forced out.

You settle down again but notice the hand on your shoulder had not moved from its point of contact, the warmth seeping through your clothes and burning your skin. You shrug away the hand just as another set of footsteps arrive and enter the room.

You're patient when the disembodied voice explains that your stitches would heal nicely, understanding when you're told you'd be on bed rest for a while and demure when the maester tells you to rely on your ladies in waiting for any and every need as to not strain yourself.

The consultation is cut short when an irritated voice vocalized what you had been wanting to ask for since you woke. "Remove the linen before I have you replaced"

A body approached you before you felt the wrappings around your head begin to fall loose, light coming in with each wrap removed. The maester informed you that bright lights should be avoided just as the last linen cloth is removed. You blink a bit as you try to focus, seeing blobs that slowly shifted to focus to see a nurse, a maester and a few knights in the room.

All begin to welcome you back with a smile you have no choice but to return until your eyes find the only person in the room that had yet to say a word. You look around the room to see everyone giving the man with white hair a look of relief. The man lets out a low sigh as he comes to look into your eyes before a small smile spreads onto his face. 

His hand comes to hold the one closest to him before he begins to speak. "You've been out for a few days now. They told me you might not make it but I knew," his voice faded into a breathy whisper as he continued. "I knew you'd wake. I knew it."

His fingers squeeze yours before he comes in close enough that you could smell the scent of wine and sharp smoke seeping off of his black and red clothes. He gave you another smile before he turned and began commanding everyone in the room to prepare a bath when you finally speak.

"I'm sorry, but who are you to me?"

“We’re having a girls night!” Wheezie protested, “Get out!” 

You blinked, glancing between the two siblings, trying to gauge whether this was actual tension or just their usual back-and-forth. Navigating the Cameron family dynamic was a constant puzzle, and you hated feeling caught in the middle of it. You genuinely liked all of them in different ways.

Well, almost all of them.

You weren’t sure what it was that you felt for Rafe. He seemed to force all the feelings out of you, prying his way into your brain and into your heart. 

“You can’t hold her hostage, Wheeze,” Her brother raised his voice back, “I need to talk to her, you know, about adult things. Shit you wouldn’t get.”

“Adult things, gross,” You could practically hear Wheezie’s smirk, “I’m sure Y/N would rather hang out with me than do adult things with you.” 

The meaning initially passed over your head. You looked at Rafe innocently, “Y/N?” His shift in focus to you made you panic for a moment. 

“Oh, well … we were going to do some meditation before bed too.” 

Rafe’s lips quirked into a smile that couldn’t possibly be genuine, “Fine, just come get me when you’re done.” 

The way he slammed Wheezie’s door shut also gave you the impression that he wasn’t happy. 

“Ignore him,” Wheezie said quickly. You admired her defiance sometimes. Rafe didn’t ever to seem to really rattle her the way he did to you. 

Over the past few weeks, she had become your guide to surviving life in this house. Out of everyone, she understood Rafe best. Sarah barely came around, and when she did, the way she looked at you—pitying, almost regretful—made you uncomfortable. You hated it. You’d rather spend time with Rose, who had taken you wedding dress shopping just the day before, only to scold you for picking something too “revealing.” She’d given you a long-winded speech about modesty and the importance of upholding the Cameron image. You were marrying into an exceptionally wealthy family, after all. You had to act like it.

But Wheezie? Wheezie was simply happy to have you there, to welcome you into her world. And slowly, you were beginning to imagine this as your new life. The thought didn’t seem so terrible when you pictured Wheezie as your sister.

It all came crashing down on you a few days after the incident with Rafe in the barn. You weren’t allowed to sleep in the same bed until you were officially married, Rose’s rule, but that didn’t keep Rafe from your bedroom in the middle of the night.

And when you woke, sore and spent, the weight of something unfamiliar pressed against your left hand.

A diamond.

Wheezie was fast asleep when you finally slipped out of her bedroom. In pink, fuzzy socks, you padded across the hallway towards Rafe’s room. You only knocked once before the door was opened and you were stepping inside. 

In contrast to yours, Rafe’s room was dark and brooding with darker woods and deep navy walls. A sturdy mahogony desk perched in the corner next to a leather armchair. There were no dainty florals or soft touches. His bed, much larger than yours, had the sheets strewn about, a possible indication of sleepless nights or …other activities. A few forgotten whiskey glasses sat on in nightstand. The only source of light in the room was from the soft, yellow glow of his desk lamp. 

It always felt intimate being in Rafe’s room, like you were completely in his world. Your gaze lifted, drawn to him as if by instinct. Shirtless, his toned chest and broad shoulders were carved in the dim light, his presence overwhelming in a way that sent a shiver through you.

“Turn around, darlin’.” 

Innocently, you obeyed his command. You were only confused for a moment. You yelped, feeling the cool air against the back of your legs as Rafe slipped down your long, silk pajamas. 

You should’ve known Rafe didn’t actually need to talk to you. 

Lifting you by your waist, Rafe carried you over to the bed swiftly, leaving your bottoms behind. He always laid you down gently but the firmness of his grip left no room for discussion. He knew exactly where he wanted your body, what position he desired to have you in. You were starting to get used to his routine. He undressed you, placed you where he wanted, and it wasn’t long before he was inside of you. 

Tonight, he wanted you on your stomach, your head resting at the edge of the bed. You didn’t dare look back at him, it always unsettled you more when you caught a glimpse of just how imposing he was. Instead, you kept your gaze forward, fixated on the shadows and darkness in the window. You felt the weight of his legs straddling yours, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your bottom before delivering a few sharp, deliberate slaps. A shiver ran through you as his fingers hooked into your panties, dragging them aside with ease, exposing you to him entirely.

He spit into his hand and you jumped again when you felt his fingers teasing your warm center. For an excruciatinly long time, he placed a strong hand on your upper back, keeping you pinned as he sunk his fingers inside of you. He had called it 'warming you up' the last time. His pace was slow, deliberate. You were biting down onto the comforter by the time his third digit pushed inside. Now, you could happily take two of his fingers. You’d like sex with Rafe much more if it simply involved two of his fingers pushing in an out of you. When he added that circling motion on your sensitive bud, you could reach that beautiful peak quickly. But the third finger was the closest thing he could use to prepare you for his size. 

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice smooth yet firm, a response to your soft whimpers, “Relax. You make it worse when you’re so tense.”

“Sorry,” You rushed out before you bit down on your lip hard, “Rafe, um, can you…” 

He pushed deeper and you reached out to grab the wooden bed frame in front of you, “Can I what, darlin’?”

“T-Touch me?” You asked, unsure, wincing as the feeling of being stretched, “Please.” 

In response, he adjusted your hips, pulling them up from the bed, still three fingers deep inside of you, before he started to circle your clit with the thumb of his other hand. You took in rapid breaths as you adjusted to the sensation, the pleasure now beginning to mix in with the discomfort. 

“Think you can come like this, baby?” 

“Uh,” You pressed your face into the mattress, your words failing you, and soon all that was left were sobs. 

“Try, baby,” You heard him say, “Squeeze my fingers.”

You had never considered that "down there" was a muscle—until Rafe. Obeying his command, you imagined yourself squeezing his fingers, and the response was immediate. Your body reacted instinctively, heightening your pleasure and pushing you toward release. It was overwhelming. Almost painful. But an orgasm nonetheless. Your first one with Rafe had taken you so much by surprise that Rafe had to cover your face with a pillow to keep you from waking up the entire house. 

Tonight, you muffled your own screaming, pressing your face further into the blankets. He left you no time to recover. As soon as your body was more … accepting, he started to push himself inside of you. Panicked, you reached back to push at his hip, an attempt at requesting for him to slow his pace. He felt even larger in this position, and it didn’t take long to realize he was pressing against a barrier deep inside you.

You had to accommodate him. He was your future husband and you had be able to lie with him. He deserved pleasure too and how else would you be able to have kids one day? You wanted a family again, right? 

One day, it would get easier. Rafe would make sure of it. He would help you, guide you, until your body learned to take him without resistance.

By the time Rafe reached his climax, you were a sweaty, tear-streaked mess. He had promised it would get easier, yet once again, you were left aching and sore. When he finally lifted his weight off you, your body remained frozen in place.

“Fuck,” he muttered, shifting to the other end of the bed. You heard the rustle of sheets as he settled in, his head hitting the pillow.

“Y/N?”

“Y-Yes?” you replied, your voice shaky.

“Go pee,” he ordered, his tone firm yet drowsy.

“Why?”

“Just go,” he repeated, exhaling sharply. “I’m fucking tired.”

It took every ounce of strength, but you pushed yourself up from the bed. You felt his eyes on you as you waddled to his bathroom door, still able to feel him inside of you, white stuff dripping down your thighs. 

Inside, you flipped on the bathroom light, squinting as your eyes attempted to adjust. Your legs trembled as you lowered yourself onto the toilet. You heard Rafe shifting in bed, the sheets rustling as he got comfortable. He was already drifting off, unbothered, while you sat there, trying to collect yourself. 

After a moment, you reached for some toilet paper, dabbing at the mess between your thighs. Your body still felt raw, stretched beyond what you thought possible. Flushing the toilet, you moved to the sink, cupping cold water in your hands and splashing it on your face. 

You turned off the light and stepped back into the bedroom. Still glistening with a layer of sweat, he laid down with an arm over his face as he breathed steadily and quietly. You found your pajama bottoms sitting by the door and carefully put them back over your legs. 

“Y/N?” You were reaching for the handle of his bedroom door and paused. 

“Yeah?”

“Stay in here with me.”

“We’re not supposed to–”

“I’m a grown man and you’re my fucking fiance.”

He always spoke so sharply and in a way that left no room for arguing. Sometimes, that anger and frustration wasn’t directed at you but that didn’t make you immune from feeling it. The last thing you wanted was to cause any problem’s with his parents. They’d made it very clear that they expected the two of you to sleep separately until the wedding. 

Slowly, you turned to face him. He was still sprawled across the bed, the sheets tangled around his waist, his bare chest rising and falling. 

“Stay,” he repeated, softer this time, the demand still there.

Silently, you padded over to his bed again. He lifted the sheets and carefully, you climbed into the bed, beside him. 

“There you go, darlin’” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple as he tucked you beneath him, his weight pinning you into place. “Right where you belong.”

Seeing how much happier Juliet was at the Cameron ranch made you question why you didn’t feel the same as her. 

Late afternoon sun bathed the Cameron state in warm gold as you rode beside Sarah Cameron. Juliet moved beneath you with ease, but every step sent a dull ache through your thighs. You winced, shifting slightly in the saddle in an attempt to ease the soreness.

Sarah, riding beside you on her white mare, caught it immediately, “You good?” She asked, concern on her face. 

You nodded quickly, “Oh, I’m fine. I just haven’t rode in awhile.” 

It hurt to even slide on your tight jeans that morning thanks to the bruising on your inner thighs and the soreness in your middle. You turned your head, watching as the barn got farther from your view. You and Sarah had left John B. and Rafe hunched over a work bench, repairing worn bridles and saddles. 

Rafe had let you tag along for the day, surprising you both when you found Sarah already there with John B., leaning against a stall with her arms crossed. The moment she saw you, she swung effortlessly onto her horse, flashing you a grin. “Come on. Juliet is yours, right?,” she urged, nudging her mare forward. “Let’s leave the boys to their busy work."

You looked to Rafe for permission, of course, and took his rolled eyes and quick dismissal as a yes. 

Now, she caught your quick glances back towards the barn, “My brother isn’t hurting you, is he?” 

Her words took you by complete surprise. Your fingers tensed on Juliet’s reins, pulling too sharply, and for a moment, the mare tossed her head in protest, “Sorry, Julie,” You said, “Uhm, what? N-no. Why … why would you think that?” 

She gave you a look that was hard to read and your horses continued alongside each other, “I’m sure you’ve gotten to know what he’s like,” She said, “Do you … think he’s a nice guy?”

“He’s…” You rushed to answer, wanting to reassure her, but the words got tangled in your head. “He’s nice to me,” you finally said, nodding like that would make it more true. “Sometimes he, like, talks really directly? In a way that… I don’t know, kinda hurts my feelings? But I know he doesn’t mean to be mean.”

“Huh,” Sarah took in your words, and you smiled, trying to ease the tension in the conversation, “He’s a lot for most people. To be honest, I don’t know if you’re what I pictured for the girl he’d finally settle down with.”

“Oh,” You said, trying to not to let the way your heart panged with hurt show on your face, “Yeah, maybe. I guess I’m not very strong… or the smartest person.” 

Sarah’s eyes softened, her expression shifting from the guarded look she’d worn before. “Hey, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly, pulling her horse a little closer to yours. “I just... I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I know how confusing and lonely it is. And it might make you feel better to get wrapped up with Rafe but it’s also good to have your own life. Maybe your own friends?”

She searched your gaze and you felt your throat tighten and tears threatening to escape, “Wheezie’s my friend, at least.”

“Wheezie’s great,” Sarah said which made you smile sadly, “I have some friends. John B and I do. They live on the otherside of Kildare but I always try to meet up with them. They’re cool and they’re actually our age. I’d love to introduce you to them.”

Your heart gave a small, hesitant flutter. “That would be fun,” you said quietly, and for the first time in a while, you entertained the thought of something else, something new. 

“Do you drink?” She asked after a moment of just enjoying the breeze and watching the tall, swaying grass. 

“I have before,” You said feeling a little sheepish, “Just not enough to say I like it, I guess. Why?”

“When I go over there, we usually drink, watch a movie, play games, that kind of thing. It’s really fun. You don’t have to drink but I think you’ll like it.” 

“Does Rafe know your friends?”

Sarah snorted, “Uh, yeah. He wouldn’t want to come with us. Don’t mention it to him yet, though, okay?”

“Oh, okay,” You agreed, “Sarah, do you think you could come next time I go dress shopping? Rose is a little…”

“Uptight,” She finished, “Yeah, sure. That would be fun.”

Your opinion of Sarah Cameron had shifted quickly and for the better. 

“Like I said before, you’re moving too fast with her, Rafe.” 

Rafe should’ve known that his father didn’t invite him to breakfast at the diner in town for father-son bonding time. Nor was it a business meeting. He would’ve preferred either over a lecture. He was stuck, unable to really raise his voice, due to the public setting which Ward knew undoubtedly. The diner was a small place, the kind of spot where everyone knew each other’s names and half the town seemed to gather before heading off to the fields or pastures. 

It was when they got back into Ward’s SUV that Rafe could finally say what he felt. “This is micromanagement. You’re fucking micromanaging me, Dad! I did what you wanted and you’re upset because I’m not doing it exactly the way you want.”

Ward’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tight Rafe thought it might break. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that you don’t know everything, Rafe.”

“This is just Rose and her bullshit–”

“It’s disrespectful and you know that. We’re being woken up at all times of the night. Not to mention the girl is walking around with hickies and bruising. What’s that gonna look like to people in town? We took in that girl! People will think we’re using her. It’s not a good look.” 

Ward started up the car and pulled away quickly, the tires kicking up dust as they left the quiet, small-town streets behind. Kildare was a ranching community, where everyone’s business was their business. Rafe couldn’t do anything without people noticing. 

“None of this will matter after the wedding. I don’t know, Dad, I guess I just don’t give a shit anymore what other people think.”

“You won’t take over the business if that’s how you see things.”

“Dad–”

“And you won’t get the Ironwood house. We’ve talked about this endlessly,” Rafe’s fist hit the paneling of the car door and he squeezed his eyes tightly as the anger passed through him, radiating through him, warming his skin, “You get the house under the conditions that Rose and I set.” 

“That house is mine. You know that Mom wanted it that way,” Rafe argued with clenched fists, “You don’t get to control that, Dad.” Rafe’s voice was sharp, raw, but there was a tremor beneath the surface. The Ironwood house had been promised to him, but Ward had always been the one to hold the strings, dangling that future in front of him like a carrot on a stick. “I earned that house. I’ve worked for it. You can’t just take it away.”

About twenty miles from the Cameron estate, nestled along a winding dirt road that cut through the sprawling countryside, sat the Ironwood house. The house wasn’t as grand as the Cameron estate it had a quiet but rugged charm. It had once belonged to a competitor before the Cameron family had purchased the land after his passing.

Ward’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles pale in the dim light. “I’m not taking anything from you, Rafe. But if you want to go off and make mistakes, you know, like getting that girl pregnant just a few weeks after you met her or embarrassing our family, then there will be consequences.”

Rafe nodded his head though inside he was seething, “I got it, Dad,” Rafe rubbed his face in his hands, his jaw clenched tightly, “You win.” 

You fucking win, Rafe thought, for now. 

Oh, you were perfect for him. Rafe kept quiet throughout dinner that night but that was because he was intently watching you. The way you confidently wore that pink, gingham dress that was cut way too low, to the point that your breasts were practically spilling from it. When you caught Rafe glancing at you, you’d flash him a shy smile. Lips shining with gloss and sparkles, Rafe imagined smudging all your makeup. 

He’d been working on training your hole to take him, he hadn’t considered training your mouth yet. You seemed more comfortable, making conversation with both Wheezie and Sarah. The way you carried yourself, effortlessly making them laugh, was different, more natural.

It would be good if you liked this family but Rafe couldn’t help that his mind wandered to the family he would make. His father's attempts to control him, especially in the bedroom, only made things worse. It triggered something deep within him. It was his god-given right as a man to fuck you in all the ways he wanted, with or without protection. You were his. That had been true ever since he put a ring on your left hand. 

After dinner, Rafe pulled you upstairs into Ward’s office. It was reckless, he knew that, but he was clinging onto that sense of control. 

“What are we doing in here?”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Rafe replied, his eyes tracking the shift in your expression as the realization hit. The fear in your face made him harder than he already was, and he had to undo his belt. “Go sit on the desk,” he instructed, gesturing to the large mahogany desk in the center of the room.

“But that’s your dad’s desk,” you hesitated, a frown tugging at your lips. “Isn’t that, like, weird?”

Rafe shot you a warning look, and without another word, you scrambled across the room toward his desk. He followed closely, closing the distance between you. “It’s your fault,” he muttered, his voice rough as he crossed the room too. “Look at what you're wearing. You’re practically begging to get fucked.”

“I wasn’t—” you started to protest.

“You were,” Rafe cut you off, his tone final. “You wore that dress for me, didn’t you? Or were you looking for attention from someone else?”

“I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Rafe loved the panic he saw in your eyes, the way the few thoughts you could hold in your head seemed to swirl, struggling to make sense of what was happening.

“I …I didn’t wear it for anyone else.”

“You wore it for me, then.”

“It was for you,” You spoke in a hesitant whisper. Your head tilted, and Rafe could see the uncertainty in your eyes. Still, the words sent a rush of heat through him. Rafe lifted you up by your hips, placing you on the desk, right on top of manila folders and Ward’s important paperwork. 

"Good girl, baby," he murmured, his hand finding the hem of your dress, lifting it. "Now, don’t act like you don’t want this." 

“Rafe, I’m still sore,” You said as Rafe slid your panties down your thigh.

“I’ll be quick,” Rafe assured you, “I’ve been halfway there since you walked in the dining room earlier.”

It wasn’t that Rafe didn’t understand the toll that he took on your body. He cared, he certainly didn’t want to break you, but he also knew that you could handle more than you could wrap your mind around. Maybe, he was a bit selfish and enjoyed the sight of him slowly fucking you, his huge girth sliding in and out of you, stretching you to the point of sobbing. 

He wanted you to feel empty without him. He wanted you to become so used to him that another man or even your own tiny fingers couldn’t satisfy your needs. 

“Relax,” Rafe said, watching the ways your eyes darted between his blue ones and then back down to his length, “You’re okay, darlin’.”

Rafe pushed your shoulders down until your elbows were propped up against the desk before he grabbed your legs, tilting your hips up. He spit directly against your hole before spitting into his palm, coating his hard length with his own saliva. 

He watched the way your face scrunched in pain as he started to push inside of you. Like he taught you before, you started to take deep breaths in and out, “Good girl, just like I taught you. You’re okay,” Rafe cooed as you squeezed him tight. 

Those deep breaths quickly became shallow ones as he stretched you. “I can’t, I can’t, it’s too big–” You spoke suddenly, shaking your head, “I’m sorry, please. Please, Rafe.” 

“Baby, it’s okay-”

“Please, please, please. Please. Please. Not okay. Not okay. I can’t, I can’t.”

Rafe surprised even himself when he paused. The look on your face reminded him of the time in the car, the first day you met. It was hard to watch. He’d pushed you too far, you were starting to have a panic attack. His chest tightened as he pulled back, his mind scrambling. He tucked himself back into his briefs. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Slowly, he reached for your shoulder, lifting it carefully to help you sit up. 

“Shit, we can stop, okay?” Rafe said in a voice he didn’t recognize, “Fuck, you need to breathe, Y/N.” 

He pulled you closer, letting your head rest on his chest, as you tried to control your hiccups and heavy breathing. Listening to it made his own breath feel tight in his lungs. Stroking your back, he tried to quell the storm inside of you. Rafe’s heart pounded in his chest as he held you close, the guilt gnawing at him, “Jesus …I’m sorry, baby.”

The words linger between the two of you for a moment.

Frozen in place, your face to his chest, his hands on your skin, you stay as still as you can, as if your lack of movement could somehow lull him into loosening his grip for long enough that you can escape him.

But you can't.

Because he won't.

The longer you remain still, the tighter Rafe's arms wrap around you, as if, in an attempt to create a taylor-made torture for you, some creature of hell worked up a way to subvert the principle of quicksand. As if some higher power decided this was your punishment: All your life you did what was expected of you. You treated people how they should be treated. You only protested when things could not possibly go on the way they were. So, as retribution for following the rules, you've had them flipped on you.

You hoped for love. 

You wanted attention.

Now you have obsession, wrapped around you like a coiled viper that hisses praise before biting into your neck.

You can feel his breath against you —Restless, despite how you've bent over backwards to calm him down— and before your eyes can flick, you hear him whisper: – You don't know how long I've been dreaming about this, baby. – His voice is low, but not hoarse. Not gravely. Not inebriated. It's as intentional as it would've been if he was fully sober. As steady as someone who hadn't just brushed against death. You raise your head. His eyes are blown out, the radioactive blue barely a sliver around his pupils. Come to think of it, you don't think you've ever seen his eyes any other way. – That's why I don't want you running away from me. If I'd just been proactive, like you taught me, then we'd be at my place, and we'd be together, and we'd be fine.

Your breath hitches for a second.

– Taught you? – The question is stupid. You don't know why, amidst the thousand other unhinged, psychiatrically concerning things he's said today this one in particular stands out. But the words slip from your lips before your mind catches up to it.

You're still looking at him.

At the blue of his smile-lined eyes and the glaze of his red-bitten lips. At the way his face lights up when you ask him. At the way his chest rises with a deep breath and empties as he shifts you on your side and lays before you, broken arm swung over your shoulders like a tether. It's like you can't look away. – You really don't remember, baby? – He chuckles, thumb brushing softly over your arm, back and forth within the cast, as if he can't help it. – At Barry's party. When you saved my life. You really don't remember any of it? 

You stare at him blankly.

You don't know if you can tell him the truth —that the only thing you remember about Barry's eighteenth is stumbling off the couch drunk off your mind, and bumping into Barry, who promptly brought you back into his room— no overdose. No saving lives. No nothing.

Rafe laughs again, his casted arm drifting up your arm until he can touch his fingers to your hair. – You were the one that taught me that. The being proactive thing. – He brings a lock of your hair to his face, brushing the ends against his skin as if it’s velvet. – After you saved my life—

The repetition grinds at your nerves. – Rafe.

He raises a brow. – Don't be humble. – He says it softly, but the tone is scolding. – You don't remember it. Even if you did, you always sell yourself short. But you saved my life. – He's staring now, fully serious, all the lightness in his voice suddenly gone. – I asked you why you did it. Because you didn't even know me. I asked you why you cared, and that's what you told me: ‘I'm just a proactive type of person’. – He mimics the cadence of your voice and laughs, shifting to lay on his back and turning his body again, to look at you. – That's what you said.

It lands hard.

Sarah always used to mock him for saying it.

After every mistake, the same justification. After every horrible thing he inflicted upon John and his friends, the same excuse: ‘I'm just a proactive type of person.’ 

It became a joke amongst them.

Even Barry would scoff at it from time to time —It came so clearly to you then. Three years ago, only a couple weeks after his birthday, you had a fight with your dad and ran over to Barry's. You'd been laying on the couch, smoking his cigarettes and listening to him try to string up some old Simon and Garfunkel song on the guitar when someone banged at the door. Rafe.

Barry stood up, already impatient, mumbling about not having a second of peace, and they argued at the door for a moment before Rafe pulled something from his backpocket: a stack of cash, thick as a brick. You remember Bee doing a double take, laughing without humor, asking Rafe where the money came from, since the previous week he was whining and whinging about not having anything to pay what he owed.

Rafe's eyes met you right then.

It was summer. You were wearing one of John's old shirts over your swimsuit, the fabric still damp against your body. You remember the way his eyes moved across you before looking back at Barry. ‘I'm just a proactive kind of guy, I guess.’ —The memory makes you shiver.

You shift to your back, staring up at Barry's ceiling, and Rafe shifts alongside you, resting his chin on your shoulder and nuzzling into you like a newly bonded puppy. – I should've listened sooner. – He whispers, almost mournful. – If I did, then you wouldn't have wasted your time on him, and we'd be together by now. – Rafe's hands brush against your tattoo, JJ's tattoo. – We could've gotten this together, instead of… You know. It being with him. – He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. – Inveniam Viam. – He doesn't read it, just trails the tips of his fingers over what can be seen of it from over the hem of the blue top. – I looked it up after you told me about it. The I shall either find a way or make one thing. – He chuckles, lips brushing your shoulder. – It's all you, baby: It's smart. – He kisses you. – Stubborn. – He kisses you again. – Proactive. – Again. – You don't need to get it lasered off or anything. It's much more our motto than it ever was that pogue's.

The inflection on “pogue” gives you a pause you can't hide.

But Rafe doesn't bother with it.

When you turn your face to look at him again, he just kisses you, the double standard completely unchecked.

Rafe’s hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward his even further. His eyes gleam, blown-out pupils accented with that hint of madness you've spent all this time trying to pass as nothing but neediness, as clinging to the one solid thing he has regardless of how flimsy. – We could leave right now. – His voice is low, urgent. – My bike's in the driveway. Just you and me. You don’t even have to pack— You hear the hum of the fridge in Barry’s kitchen down the hall, muffled by walls, and you realize how far away that sound feels. – Say yes. – He begs, his thumb pressing lightly against your cheekbone. – Just say it and we’ll go.

You're the one staring now. Rafe searches your eyes intensely, looking for the smallest twinge of openness, the smallest hint that he can convince you to do it.

You don't know what he'll do if you say no.

You can still feel the ghost of his hands around your neck.

The warmth of his breath against your face as he pressed you to the couch, laughing as you struggled, twisting it into some grand act of love.

But you have a life.

You have goals and dreams.

You have more to live for than just Rafe, or your brother, or Barry, surely.

You swallow your fear, hands drifting across his face softly.

Rafe's eyes flutter closed, and he hums, content, leaning in. But you don't kiss him. – You need to rest, right now, Rafe. – You whisper, as sweetly as you can. You're your mother's daughter, despite how much you've fought against it. And if Peterkin's right, the fact Rafe is Ward's son might do you some good for once. – After the thing with John, after the pills… – You whisper, soft enough that it could pass for indulgence, for care. The way you’d talk to a dog with its hackles raised. – You almost died today. – Your fingers brush his hairline, letting the movement linger just long enough to keep him leaning into you. – Twice. We can’t be doing anything crazy right now.

For a moment, you think the words might settle him. 

His eyes stay shut, lashes trembling faintly, like he's falling asleep, like you might have some respite. His breath shudders. His lips curl into a smile. His head leans heavier against your shoulder, almost melting into you.

But he makes a point to draw his lips against your skin, and it stirs something in him, something that has his grip tightening around you. – That's gonna be hard, baby… – His good hand burrows under you, tugging you closer in a motion so sudden you can't even hide the gasp. – everything you do drives me crazy. – He chuckles, and you feel the ghost of his teeth against the skin of your neck as he climbs onto you. – I've waited so long…

Your stomach drops.

You lodge your hands between the two of you, pressing against his chest, but he only holds on tighter. – Rafe, stop it.

He groans, but it's light-hearted, almost childish, like he thinks you're just playing around. – You smell so good…

– I'm serious! – You affirm, but he doesn’t seem to hear it, too busy nosing along your jaw, his breath as ragged as the rest of him. – Rafe!

He bites you. 

Soft, but close enough to your windpipe that you freeze without thinking, muscles locking up.

Your hands are still pressed to his chest, but Rafe just tilts into the touch, chasing it. – You can’t expect me to sleep now. – He whines, hands sliding lower, tighter, closer. – Not when you’re here like this. Right where I need you.

You’re slotted between his legs, stuck under him. He moves deliberately, slowly, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans in.

– You— You almost died Rafe. – The excuse is quicker than your mind is, but just as weak as your hands. You push him to no avail. Even hurt, even drugged, he’s still stronger than you. – Half this shit isn't even out of your system, I can't take advantage of you like this.

He scoffs, raising his head to look at you. – Take advantage of me… – He chuckles. – Every guy's dream is that a girl like you ‘takes advantage’ of him.

You feel the need to retch. – Don’t ever say that. This isn't funny, Rafe. 

– You're right, baby. It's not funny. – He slides his body up against yours, eyes fluttering closed, smiling like this is the most natural thing in the world. – You know what it is, though? It's hot. Like really, really hot.

You push him, you try to move away, but he won't let you. – I’m not playing, Rafe! Look at you, you're sweating, you're shaking. Your heart rate is all over the place! You just almost died!

– God, I hope that I can die while I'm fucking you.

His words are so absurd that for a solid minute you don’t even know how to react to it. You stare at him, mouth agape, in complete bewilderment. – What the fuck?! 

He's laughing, loudly. – I'm deadass right now, baby. I mean it. That'd be like—the dream. – He laughs, pressing his lips against your skin. – Like, I don't mean now, I don’t wanna die before I’m done with you, but— He sighs, hissing between his teeth as his hands slide under your top. You try to move, and again, he grabs you. – it really is the dream.

Your heart rate is the one spiking, now.

Your heart thunders against your ribcage in a panic, and you shake your head, involuntarily, as if your body is in denial of what you just heard. – It isn't the first time you almost died near me, Rafe! D—Do you think this shit is funny?! Do you think I enjoyed sitting there, watching the life fade out of you, wondering what the fuck I was gonna do, because you can't get a grip on your drug habit?! – Your voice rises, you shove him now, and your hands are shaking, your vision is blurred, the panic washing over you in waves.

– Baby…

– No! No, Rafe! This isn't fucking funny, okay?! This isn't cute! – His hands burn against you. His breath overwhelming on your skin. You want him off you, you want him gone. You can't even breathe. – Let go of me! Please, just get off of me!

He doesn't.

He keeps shushing you, hands brushing your hair despite how much you struggle to avoid his touch. Like you're some stray cat, lashing out from fear. – Don't cry. Baby, I'm sorry. I was just kidding. Don't cry.

You scoff, the sound scratching against your throat. – I'm not crying! Let go of me!

He sighs, a borderline chuckle, and sits back as you slide away from him, brushing your face.

It’s wet.

Your hands stutter up to your cheeks and slide against your skin, slippery from the tear trails — You are crying.

You hadn’t realized it.

Why are you crying?!

– Just breathe in, okay? – He hums, voice soft, eyes pitiful. – It’s okay.

– What the fuck are you talking about?! I’m— I’m fine, Rafe! Stop it!

But you’re the one that can’t stop it.

The hiccups punch up your throat like they’re trying to split you in two. Your chest is heavy, your breaths coming in jagged, ugly bursts. You fold down onto your ankles like a child, palms to your face, trying to catch yourself, to find a corner of your own mind you can stand on, but there’s nothing there.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t think.

You can’t get a grip on yourself, because you can’t get a grip on anything.

Everything you’ve ever held onto —always, always— slips through your fingers before you can do anything about it.

First it was your dad.

Then your job.

Then your brother.

And now this psychopath who’s apparently spent three years orbiting your life like a satellite has wormed himself in so deep you can’t even peel him away. You can’t even want to, not at this moment. Because you’re tired. And you're useless. And you can't even stand, let alone stand up for yourself.

It should repulse you —the way he’s here, holding you like that's where you belong. The self-satisfied way he holds you, and strokes your back, like you're a child that just got caught in the storm after being told not to play outside. But instead, it makes you ache.

Because you should have had this before.

You shouldn’t be leaning on Rafe, relieved that at least for once, someone is holding you —not out of guilt or crisis-aversion, but because they want to— even if it's him. You should've been held before.

Before everything went to shit.

Before you went from being a neglected child to a self-sabbotaging adult.

Before you were an adult at all.

But it didn't happen.

So now you can’t even tear yourself away from Rafe.

You hate yourself for it, but your mind drifts to your father. He was cold, and he was cruel. And he saw you more as a burden than as a daughter.

But he took care of things.

He scoffed at you and he cursed you out, but when he was here, you didn’t have to think about bills, or where you’d sleep, or how to keep someone else from killing themselves when you were already way too close to doing it yourself. 

You only had to worry about school, and your job, and the bullies, and surviving him. He was the wall between you and the weight of the world, even if he bricked you in with it.

Now it’s all in your hands —Rafe’s life, Barry’s life, your life— and you don’t know what the hell to do with any of it.

You're not even old enough to legally drink yet.

You can't get into a club without a fake id.

You shouldn’t be the one dealing with these things. But if you don't, no one will. And then you're back at having nothing again.

Rafe’s hands settle on your shoulders, whispering something soft and shapeless. You push at him weakly. He doesn’t move.

Eventually, you’re folded under his arm, your face pressed to the place where his pulse beats strong, even if erratic. Your tears soaking into him. You don’t know why you let it happen. You didn’t want to have this talk. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t even know what you do want.

You just want to be over.

You just want to be seventeen for a minute before it gets ripped from you like the rest of the things in your life.

You just want a minute of peace.

– It’s okay, baby. Just breathe. It's okay.

– It’s not! – The words rip out of you, raw and humiliating. – It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. Everything is falling apart!

Rafe chuckles softly, like this is cute. Like this is nothing. But his grip on you tightens, like he can keep your words from spilling out if he just holds you hard enough, and you can't bring yourself to let go. – Not everything, – He says, and it’s so gentle it almost makes you want to believe him. – You have your job. You have your place. You still have me.

You almost laugh. Almost. And for a moment you're glad that you're crying because the sound gets caught in your throat, breaking apart into something closer to a gasp.

You have me. Like that’s a good thing. Like that’s what you want.

You don’t want him.

You don’t want this.

You just want something to hold on to. Something that won't run away. Something that won't resent you for it.

– I’m not going anywhere, baby. – His voice is low, steady, the kind of promise you wish you could trust. – I'll take care of you.

Your pulse kicks against your ribs. You don’t know if it’s from panic or relief. Maybe both.

He tilts his head, pressing his lips to your hair. His thumb drags over your arm, slow, coaxing. – Just let me take care of it, okay? Let me take care of you.

You should shove him away.

But your muscles don’t move.

It's unfair. How easy it is to give in. 

To close your eyes and close your ears and pretend it's not Rafe that's holding you, but someone who actually can take care of you. Someone who won't drive your life off the edge of a cliff at the slightest inconvenience. Someone you can trust.

But you close your eyes, and you imagine your dad, and you hate yourself for it.

John was right for a change. 

You really are pathetic.

Still, your body stays curled into him. Because you can’t think past the exhaustion. Because you want to be held. Because you’re terrified that if you let go, you’ll never find anything else to hold on to.

Rafe feels your breathing slow against him, and he smiles into your hair, like he’s won something. – See? – he murmurs. – You and me. We’re fine. It's gonna be fine.

You shake your head slightly, but you don’t make another move as he lays you down onto him.

You let it be.

And you hear his voice in your head. —We're fine. It's gonna be fine— But it's not Rafe's voice you're hearing. It's his.

You don't know how little or how long a time has passed when you wake up to a sudden noise outside, but you look out the window to see pitch black skies. 

The air in Barry's room is stale, thick. For a second you wonder if you didn't accidentally fall into some sort of twilight zone, and slept through a hundred years. It would explain the splitting headache you have, and the hollowing hunger that makes you feel as if your stomach's forcefully glueing itself to your back.

How long has it been since you've eaten?

Your eyes drift towards the nightstand, searching for the cheap alarm clock with the jagged red numbers that might indicate to you the time you might have lost while unconscious, but you nearly jump back as you come face to face with someone that, for a second, you don't recognize.

Rafe's draped over you like a shipwrecked sailor hanging onto a liferaft, his broken arm laid out on top of yours, fingers twitching thoughtlessly, as if he's trying to hold your hand.

The memories flood back.

John. The station. Peterkin. Your house. Rafe. Barry. The argument. The words. The overdose.

Your eyes screw closed almost on instinct, but when you try to move, you can't—Rafe's arms close in tighter around you. His brows furrow as he mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath, nuzzling his face deeper into your chest.

You can't breathe. You shift the slightest bit and his body chases yours, restless, unconscious, but almost punitive, as if he's doing this to teach you a lesson. To remind you that you can't leave him now.

For a second as you're frozen under him, you think you imagined the noise. That whatever sharp thud that dragged you out of whatever sleep you'd been having was just the echo of some dream bleeding over.

But then it happens again.

You flinch and hold still, eyes closed, heartbeat thundering in your chest. But this time, Rafe's movements don't follow yours. His breathing stays steady, shallow.

Carefully—painstakingly—you peel yourself from his hold. Every shift makes him twitch, grunt, tighten his arm as if even unconscious he knows you’re trying to slip away. It takes minutes that feel like hours, each motion a negotiation between freedom and waking him up. By the time you’re able to slide out from under him, your shirt is damp where his cheek had been pressed, your skin still buzzing with the phantom weight of him.

You swing your legs off the mattress, bare feet hitting the carpet, and your head pounds like there's a steamhammer in your skull. It takes another minute before you trust yourself to stand.

The noise again.

Closer this time. Outside.

You glance back once—at Rafe, sprawled, brows furrowed, clutching at your pillow. His mouth is parted, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. 

You avert your eyes before he wakes up and stops you from stepping out.

The only light on outside is the kitchen's. You left it on before going into the room.

Barry is still dead asleep on the couch. The plate you’d made him sits untouched on the coffee table, the food cold. There's blanket is bunched up at the end of the couch, and Barry's curled up, back pressed against the cushions, his arms folded around himself as he frowns.

You step forward on instinct, tugging the blanket over him. But the noise cuts through the silence again, sharp, hollow, carrying from beyond the trailer walls.

You freeze, blanket in hand.

It’s too deliberate to be wind. 

Too heavy to be an animal.

You don’t move at first. 

Just stand there, blanket in hand, staring at the door like if you breathe too loud the whole trailer might collapse around you. The noise echoes again, rattling through the thin walls, and your skin prickles like it’s crawling right under your flesh.

You lower the blanket. 

Your hand slides under the couch until your fingers brush the cool wood. Barry’s bat. You pull it from the ground, gripping it so tight your knuckles ache.

One breath in.

One breath out.

You tell yourself to move.

For a second you can't. Your heart's thundering inside your chest. Your head's still pounding. Your hands are still shaking. But the noise comes again, followed by a whine, or a cry. Something half animalistic.

Maybe it is an animal.

You did get your fair share of raccoons and wild dogs by the Chateau.

You just have to be sure.

You just have to know.

And maybe if you can die from an animal mauling while you're at it, you wouldn't complain.

The trailer door whines louder than you remember when you ease it open. The air outside is colder, sharper, cutting through the stale heaviness that’s been suffocating you inside. 

The yard is drowned in shadows, the outline of the kitchen light bleeding through the door your only guidance. No moon. No porch light. Just the glint of glass bottles scattered in the dirt and glaze of Barry's bike —Rafe's bike, whoever's— standing under the tree, beside another, bigger, scratched up, familiar.

You freeze for a second, a crack ringing out around you. You nearly swing before your brain catches up with your eyes.

Blonde hair. Ragged clothes. The smell of beer.

JJ.

He stumbles into the wash of weak light spilling from the half-open trailer door, and for a second, you don’t even recognize him. His face is split, bruises blooming dark over his cheek and jaw. There’s blood drying down the side of his neck, a fresh stream slicking down his arm. He sways like the wind could topple him, leaning weakly against the railing, and when his eyes find yours, they’re glassy, desperate.

The bat nearly falls from your hand.

– What—? What the— JJ, what the fuck?! – You breathe no easier, just as unsettled by him as you'd been by the prospect of a rabid animal or a violent intruder. – What are you doing here?!

He doesn’t answer right away.

His head hangs low for a second, almost as if he's embarrassed. As if he's ashamed.

– JJ.

– My dad— He starts, but he doesn’t finish. His eyes flicker up to yours, then shift towards the ground again.

Your heart sinks.

Your arm does too, the end of the bat touching the ground with a small sound JJ just as suddenly flinches away from.

– What are you doing here? – You swallow thickly. You wanna be harsher. You wanna turn around and walk away. You want this to be over. There's enough on your plate as it is. But you can't. Your eyes are fixed on the blood dripping down his neck. – JJ, what do you want?

His lip quivers. His eyes water. His hands stutter up to his face, dragging his hair out of his eyes. 

Vulnerable. Pitiful.

– I didn’t know where else to go. – He cries, the tears watering down the blood, staining the collar of his shirt. – John B's at Sarah's. He— I can't— I don't want him to know about this.

It takes you a moment to say anything.

– He's gonna see it eventually. – You whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be.

– I know—I, I know— He shakes his head, the denial being made physical, tangible. – It’s happened before, and—He's bought whatever lie I told him. I just— I just need help. I just— His breath hitches, more tears falling down his face. – I really need you right now.

This whole conversation would have probably gone down better if he'd been a raccoon.

– You should go to Kie's, JJ. – You turn to close the door but he rushes for you. His hands digging into the fabric of your clothes.

– Please. – He takes a step forward, unsteady, left hand half-raised like he’s scared you’ll swing that bat at him anyway. – Please, baby. Please. I just— I don't know where else to go.

His fingers clutch at you like he’s drowning, like you’re the last piece of driftwood on the ocean. They tremble, slick with sweat, blood, maybe tears, and you freeze under the weight of them.

The bat clatters down against the porch with a hollow sound.

He tries to reach for your hand.

You pull it away.

– No—don’t. – You warn, sharper than you mean it to. Your body remembers too much —his hand clamped around your wrist, dragging you around, his shouting, his curses, the times he didn’t care if it hurt you, even if he could have killed you, even if it could have ruined you. The way he’s always done what he wanted, no matter what it did to you. 

You should shove him off. 

You should slam the door.

But he’s sobbing. And he's holding onto you. And he's bleeding, shaking, the bruises his dad left on him clear as day across his skin.

– Please, – He begs again, voice shaking so hard it barely sounds like him. His knees almost buckle as he stumbles closer, his forehead dips toward your shoulder, and even when you step away, he looks at you like the world is ending. – I know you hate me right now baby, I know—And— And I deserve it, – His breath gets caught in his throat, his shoulders shake, his hands drifting up towards your shoulder. – I deserve it. – He sobs, averts his eyes, his hands shaking. – I'm sorry—I’m sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I was— I don't deserve your— I know— I know I don't. I know. But I need you. I can’t— I can't go to anyone else. You're the only one that cares about me like this.

It's ridiculous.

You want to scream at him.

You want to remind him of every bruise he’s left on you. You want to slam the door so hard the whole trailer rattles, let him crumple in the dirt alone.

But you think of all the times you stumbled into JJ after being beaten up at school. All the times you sat outside of Barry's house after your dad threw you out, wondering whether or not you should tell him about what happened. All the times you hid your bruises, patched up your cuts, swallowed the blood in your mouth until you made yourself sick. All the people you resented for looking away, closing their eyes, ignoring the signs, or just straight up looking you right in the eye and acting as if nothing was wrong with you up until the second your back was turned.

You can't do the same.

Even if he deserves it.

Even if you hate yourself for it.

– Please, baby. Please— His fingers twitch, hovering at your shoulder, too scared to touch you now. – I’ll— I’ll sleep outside if you want, I’ll stay on the porch. I’ll— I’ll crawl if you want me to. – He’s almost choking on the words, so pitiful you actually cringe at it. – Just don’t—don’t leave me out here alone.

Your throat burns.

You hate him.

You pity him.

You hate that you pity him.

For one dizzy second you imagine what Rafe or Barry would do if either of them woke up and saw this—JJ’s hands reaching, JJ’s tears dripping hot down his face, JJ calling you baby like he still had any right to the word. Just JJ, being near you, in general. The thought alone makes your stomach turn.

But he's trembling in front of you, shoulders caved, face ruined, and the sound of him breaking is so raw it makes your own eyes sting.

You tell yourself you can’t do this. You can’t save him. You can’t even save yourself.

And yet your fingers twitch as you open your hand, like your body’s already decided before your head can catch up. You sigh, resigned, already regretting your soft nature. – Give me the keys. I'll drive you to Kiara's. That's all.

JJ's eyes widen. 

His head shakes. – I— No. Baby, please. I just— I don't wanna see Kie right now. I can’t.

– I'm not letting you in, JJ. This is not my house.

He shakes his head, stutters, cries. – Please.

– I can't. I wouldn’t if I wanted to, and believe me. I don't. 

He swallows, breathes in, looks at you like it's nothing. Like he has any right. – You're just being cruel because you're mad at me. – He cries, wipes his face, flinches. His whole left eye is swollen, black and blue, you barely see his irises in the dim light bleeding in from behind you.

– I thought you said you deserved it.

A beat of silence lingers between you.

JJ hangs his head:

– I do. – The words are defeated. Deflated. Like a dog that comes back with its tail tucked after ruining something valuable. More tears fall down his face. His voice is steadier for a second, but his breath rattles loudly, as if there’s a stone in his chest, where his lungs used to be. – I do— I do, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry— He leans in closer, puts his head on your shoulder. He's been coming closer and you've been walking back for so long you didn't even realize your back is against the screen door. 

You can feel his blood, his tears, his sweat against your skin. You can feel him heaving. Breaking apart. 

Your palms hover, caught between the instinct to shove him off and the part of you that aches at how he feels like a pile of broken glass pressed against you.

He’s sobbing now, shoulders hitching, his weight sagging into you like he’s run out of strength. – I don’t have anybody else, – He whispers, raw and guttural, like the words are tearing out pieces of him. – You’re all I have right now. You’re all I ever had.

Your stomach twists. You look away on instinct, scoffing.

He’s lying.

You know he's lying.

He knows he's lying.

But he believes it right now. He believes it so hard it seeps into your own chest, into the cracks of your exhaustion, and for a second you almost feel yourself folding.

Your fingers curl tighter at his shoulders, and you almost push. But his breath is hot against your neck, shaky, broken, and the pathetic way he clings to you—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the Earth—makes your arms tighten around him for a moment.

You hate yourself for it.

But you push through, just for that second,telling yourself it's just so he calms down. – JJ. – It comes out small. Too small.

– I’ll do better, – He begs, and it’s not loud, not dramatic. Just whispered like a prayer he’ll never live up to, unfulfilled, like all the other promises he made. – I’ll be better. Please. Just don’t send me away.

Something cracks sharp in your chest.

Your father’s voice echoes, cruel and clipped: You're pathetic. What are you doing?! What is wrong with you?! What do you expect?!

You blink hard, fighting the burn in your eyes. You can’t even decide which would be worse: letting him in, or letting him fall back into the dark alone.

– Just give me the keys, okay?

He shakes his head against you, holding tighter. – I don't— I don't wanna see Kie—I—

– Just give me the keys.

A sob is lodged in his throat, harsh, as if he's shattering. – I can't have someone else pity me. I— I can't stand it— He begs. – Please. Please.

Your heartbeat stutters.

You know that feeling. You hate that feeling. Your arms instinctively bring him closer, and he relaxes into it, just long enough that you come to your senses and drop them at your side. – I'll leave you at John's. Or at your place. But you can't be here, okay? Let me drive you.

His grip tightens, panicked, like you just told him you're gonna let him go and watch him drown. – No, no. I don't— I don't wanna go there, I don't wanna be alone. And I can't go back to my place. I can't walk back into that house, baby. I'll— I'll die there. I swear I will.

You're not that lucky.

Your head drops back against the door. Your head throbs, whether from the impact or from the predicament you're in, is unclear, but it does either way. – JJ… – It comes out as a sigh, already defeated. – I don't know what you want me to do, okay? I can't let you in, I can't drive you to John's, and I can't drive you to Kie's. I'm not even gonna offer to take you to Pope's because God knows he's got enough to deal with as it is. I can't do much more, JJ. I can't fix this.

– I don't— I don't want you to fix it. – His words tumble out, frantic. – I just— I just want you. Please, please, just for tonight. I just want you to stay with me. Please.

The silence stretches around you for a moment. You shake your head, your eyes stinging. God, what is wrong with you? Why are you even considering this? It's stupid. JJ's come to you beaten up before, but never like this, never this desperate. And you can't tell whether this genuinely was the worst of the episodes he's let you witness or if he's milking it because he can't think of another way to drag you back into his orbit.

You wanna walk away.

You want to be the person that can deal with weeding people out of their lives when they start draining at them, even when those people are not doing well. 

But you can't.

Because you know that even if the slightest possibility of JJ actually having just gone through the worst moment of his life exists, you could never walk away without feeling guilty for a lifetime.

– Okay. Listen to me. – You press your hands against his shoulders, trying to push, but he only backs up enough that you see the wreckage of his face, the sadness in his eyes. – We'll go to a drugstore, okay? I'll clean you up, we'll eat something, put ice on that bruise. But that's it. As soon as the sun comes up, I'm taking you to John's and that's where you're gonna stay.

He swallows hard, trembling. – I can't— I don't want John B to—

You cut him off before he can start tugging at your heartstrings again. – JJ, I don't give a damn what you want. Now, I can leave you at the drugstore or I can walk back into this trailer and let Barry deal with you when he wakes up. Now, what's it gonna be?

His lip wobbles. His eyes squeeze shut, and for a second he just stands there, breathing hard, shaking against your hands.

You expect him to argue again. To fight you. Maybe even to yell. But all he does is nod once, jerky and pitiful, like it costs him something. – Just… just don’t leave me alone, okay? Please.

You don't promise anything. You don't know if you can, and you don't want to have any promises tying you up to JJ,of all people. So you hold out your palm, and you take the keys, already regretting the mere idea of it as you head towards his bike.

JJ settles behind you, bashful, soft-spoken.  His heart beating against your back as he slides his leg over. – Don't try your luck. – You warn him. – Sit back.

He hesitates, but he does as he’s told, shifting back just enough that his hands land gingerly at your sides instead of around your waist. Still, the warmth of his chest radiates through your shirt, his breaths uneven against your shoulder blades.

Your stomach twists.

You grip the handlebars tighter, teeth grinding as you kick the bike into gear.

The engine roars, too loud for this hour, rattling your already frayed nerves. You don’t look back at the trailer—at Barry curled on the couch, at Rafe knocked out in the bed you crawled out of—because you can’t. If you do, you’ll turn it off, slam the keys into JJ’s chest, and shove him into the dirt where he belongs.

But you don’t.

Because you’re you.

And you're an idiot.

JJ doesn’t say much at first, only exhales in sharp, shallow bursts like every bump in the road cracks another rib. Like he's the one that almost died because of your driving, and not the other way around. His hands twitch against your sides, hesitant, like he’s trying to decide whether to grip tighter or to shift closer. Finally, his forehead drops to your back, the weight of it heavy, almost childlike.

– Thank you. – It’s muffled, but you hear it. You wish you didn’t.

Your jaw tightens. – Don’t talk.

But he does anyway. – I mean it. Nobody else would do this for me after the things I said—After— After the things I did to you. No one. Not Kie, not Pope, not even John B. They’d all— They’d all hate me. They'd never look at me again. – His voice breaks, and his fingers curl tighter against your shirt like he’s hanging onto the words as much as he’s hanging onto you. – But you… you always take care of me. Even when I don't deserve it.

You're starting to think he never deserved it. You blink hard against the sting in your eyes. But you're not crying from guilt anymore, you're crying from anger.

At him.

At the situation.

But mostly at yourself.

He's right. Nobody else would do it after what he'd done. Nobody else would willingly go on the same vehicle he almost killed them on in a fit of anger and drive them to safety so they could patch him up. 

Because nobody else has as little self-respect as you do.

The road blurs for a second, headlights flashing across the asphalt, and you almost wish you could let go of the handlebars and crash this bike into the first thing you see.

But you don't. 

And you won't.

Because despite how much you hate JJ right now, you're glad he's not dead.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste copper. Because you can’t blame him for feeling like this. Not when he’s bleeding onto your back. Not when you’re the one who agreed to this.

You speed up, the wind biting sharp at your eyes, drowning out the sound of his apologies as the drugstore neon sign finally flickers into view at the end of the road.

You pull up slowly, despite how much you rushed to get there. But when you kill the engine, he doesn't let go of you. 

You don't know how you're gonna do this.

A/n: hey guys, I just got back from out of the country so this took me a little longer than I wanted it to but hope u enjoy and pls leave feedback and lmk how u like it whether it’s an anonymous ask, reblog or comment I do read all feedback and try to incorporate what you guys suggest!

Part: III

…….

The beach was alive with noise and chaos. Voices carried across the sand, blending with the pounding of the waves and the crackle of the bonfire. The night should have felt carefree and fun even, but as soon as you saw Rafe leaning against a log near the fire, his easy laugh cutting through the hum of the crowd, it was like every muscle in your body locked up.

You froze, but Mia nudged you forward, oblivious—or maybe just willfully blind. “Come on,” she said with a grin, already scanning the crowd for Topper. “He’s not going to do anything. Just stick with me.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes stayed locked on Rafe as he glanced up and noticed you. His reaction was immediate—his laugh froze mid-sound, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly before he recovered. He raised his beer in a lazy toast, smirking in your direction.

Mia didn’t notice. “See? He’s being chill. You’re fine,” she said breezily, dragging you toward the fire.

But you didn’t feel fine.

At first, you stayed on the outskirts, keeping your distance and nursing the drink someone shoved into your hand. You told yourself you were just being paranoid, that Rafe wasn’t paying any attention to you. But it was impossible to shake the feeling of his eyes brushing over you whenever you moved too close to the firelight.

It wasn’t long before he was beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual, almost soft.

You didn’t look at him. “What do you want?”

“I’m not trying to bother you,” he said quickly, hands raised as if to show he meant no harm. “I just—look, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

You stiffened. “What?”

“I mean it,” Rafe said, his voice dropping. “I know I messed up. I’ve been… I don’t know. Trying to figure my shit out.” He took a step closer, his gaze steady. “I just want us to be cool. That’s all.”

“Cool,” you repeated flatly. “Right. Sure.”

You wanted to walk away, to shut him down and make it clear he wasn’t welcome. But something in his tone—his softness, his willingness to admit fault made you hesitate. It wasn’t like him.

“I mean it,” he said again, holding your gaze. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I don’t want things to be like this. It doesn’t have to be so… heavy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t trust him. He’d proven that over and over. But he didn’t press. He just lingered, staying close but not too close, offering you drinks every time your cup got low.

You didn’t realize how much you’d had to drink until you were laughing at something—God knows what—with a girl you barely knew. The firelight blurred, the edges of the world softening as the alcohol worked its way through your system.

Rafe wasn’t far, leaning against a log a few feet away, his eyes on you.

“You’re finally relaxing,” he said, his voice light as he moved closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

He smirked, holding his hands up in surrender. “Not trying to. Just saying it’s nice to see you like this. You’re always so tense around me.”

“Damn, I wonder why,” you shot back, though your words were starting to slur.

He laughed, low and warm. “Fair point.”

Before you could respond, he tilted his head toward the darker stretch of beach beyond the fire. “Let’s go for a walk. Too loud here.”

“No thanks,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“Come on,” he pressed, his tone light but insistent. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to talk. No bullshit, I promise.”

You hesitated. Part of you screamed to stay by the fire, to not let him pull you away from the safety of the crowd. But the alcohol muffled your thoughts, loosening your grip on the fear that always kept you guarded around him.

Against your better judgment, you nodded.

The sound of the party faded as you walked, the waves swallowing the noise until it was just the two of you under the moonlight. You stumbled slightly, the uneven sand throwing you off balance, but Rafe’s hand steadied you.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice closer than you realized.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, shrugging off his hand.

He didn’t let go immediately, his fingers lingering on your arm for a moment too long before he finally stepped back.

When you stopped walking, he turned to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I miss you,” he said softly.

You blinked, the words not quite registering at first. “What?”

“I miss us,” he said, his voice low and almost vulnerable. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt you. But I want to fix it.”

You stared at him, the alcohol dulling your initial burst of anger. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not asking you to forget everything,” he said quickly. “I just—I want another chance. I can be better. I know I can.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “Another chance? Are you insane?”

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve been working on myself. I’ve been trying—”

“You’re fucking delusional,” you snapped, cutting him off. The alcohol loosened the words, pulling them out of you before you could stop. “You cheated on me. You hit me. You made me feel like I was nothing. And now you want me to just… what? Forget all of that and give you another chance?”

Rafe flinched, the softness in his expression hardening into something sharper. “I was messed up back then. I didn’t know how to—”

“No,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You always knew. And you loved it.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t have a part in it,” he said, his voice rising. “You knew how to push my buttons. You knew how to make me lose my shit.”

You took a step back, your body trembling. “You’re disgusting.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he’d grab your arm or raise his voice. But instead, he smiled—cold and sharp, the boyish charm replaced by something cruel.

“You’re drunk,” he said simply, stepping closer. “I’ll give you a pass. But you’re not over me. You never will be.”

You turned and walked away, the sound of his laughter following you as you stumbled back toward the fire. You didn’t care if you looked unsteady or ridiculous; all you cared about was putting as much distance between you and him as possible.

When you reached the edge of the crowd, Mia was nowhere to be seen. Your stomach twisted, a fresh wave of anger rising as you realized she’d probably disappeared with Topper again, leaving you to fend for yourself.

Your hands shook as you grabbed your bag, your breaths coming in uneven gasps. You didn’t look back toward the dark stretch of beach where Rafe still stood, watching you.

~~~~~~

You slammed the door of your dorm shut, the sound echoing through the small space. Your clothes still smelled faintly of bonfire smoke, your hair damp from the salt air, but none of that mattered. The only thing you could focus on was the lingering sensation of Rafe’s smirk, his words still ringing in your ears.

“You’re not over me. You never will be.”

The audacity made your stomach churn, and as you tossed your bag onto your bed, you couldn’t stop your hands from trembling. You needed to talk to someone to make sense of everything that had happened at the beach. But when Mia walked through the door minutes later, her laughter bubbling over as she scrolled through her phone, something inside you snapped.

She looked up, startled. “Whoa. What’s with the death glare?”

“Where the hell were you?” you snapped, unable to hold it anymore.

The smile on her face faded instantly. “What?”

“At the beach,” you said, your voice shaking. “You said we’d stick together, that you wouldn’t leave me alone, and then you disappeared with Topper like it was nothing.”

Mia’s brow furrowed, her confusion quickly morphing into defensiveness. “Hold on, what happened? Did Rafe—”

“What do you think happened?” you snapped, cutting her off. “He cornered me, got me drunk, and then tried to tell me he wants me back. And you weren’t there, Mia. You left me alone with him.”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Okay, but nothing actually happened, right? I mean, you’re here, you’re fine—”

“Fine?” The word came out sharp, almost bitter. “Are you kidding me? You know what he’s like, Mia. You know how much he’s put me through, and you still dragged me there like it didn’t matter. You’re literally fucking his best friend.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, like she wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s not like that,” she said finally. “Topper’s not Rafe, and I thought—”

“You thought what?” you interrupted, your voice rising. “That I’d just magically be okay? That I’d be fine hanging out with my abusive ex at a party while you played house with his best friend?”

“Abusive?” she repeated, her eyes widening slightly.

You froze, realizing the word had slipped out before you could stop it. But there was no taking it back now. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quieter now. “He was abusive, Mia. And you still keep putting me in situations where I have to see him. Do you even care how that feels for me?”

Her expression shifted, guilt flickering across her face before she crossed her arms defensively. “Of course, I care,” she said. “But it’s not like I’m dragging you into this on purpose. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ghost Topper because you and Rafe had a shitty relationship?”

The words hit you like a slap, your anger twisting into something deeper—something closer to hurt. “I’m not asking you to break things off with him,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’m asking you to have some fucking empathy. You’re supposed to be my friend, Mia.”

“I am your friend,” she shot back. “But maybe you need to stop blaming me for everything. I didn’t make you date him, and I didn’t make you stay with him when things got bad. That was your choice.”

You flinched, the accusation cutting deeper than you expected. For a second, you thought about yelling, about telling her to leave and never come back. But instead, you turned away, your chest tight with something between anger and sadness.

“Just… go, Mia,” you said quietly. “I can’t do this right now.”

She hesitated, her arms still crossed. “Fine,” she said after a moment, her voice tight. “But don’t expect me to keep putting up with this shit forever.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the silence of the room.

~~~~~

You were sitting on your bed, the faint glow of your desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air felt heavy, the silence broken only by the sound of Rafe pacing in front of you.

“Let me see your phone,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

You froze, clutching the device tighter. “Why?”

“Because,” he snapped, facing you with a sharp glare. “I saw Bella texting you earlier. What did she say?”

“Nothing important,” you said quickly, your stomach twisting.

He didn’t believe you. “Show me.”

You hesitated, your fingers trembling as you unlocked your phone and handed it over. He snatched it from your grasp, scrolling through your messages with a storm brewing in his eyes.

His jaw clenched as he stopped on Bella’s most recent text:

“r u ok? im rlly worried about u and rafe. u don’t have to stay with him yk. u deserve sm better. <3”

“Worried about us?” Rafe said, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s she so worried about, huh? Did you tell her we had a fight? That’s cute.”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” you said quickly, your chest tightening. “She’s just… she’s just being a good friend.”

“She’s not your friend,” he said sharply, tossing the phone onto the bed. “She’s trying to break us up. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see what’s going on?”

“She’s not trying to break us up,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “She’s just—”

“Shut up,” he interrupted, his tone cold and final. “You’re done talking to her. Do you hear me? You’re going to block her, and you’re not going to say another word to her. She’s gone.”

“No,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible. “You’ve already made me cut off everyone else. Bella’s the only friend I have left.”

“You still have me... you have Mia,” Rafe said, stepping closer, his shadow looming over you. “That should be enough for you. You don’t need anyone else.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “This isn’t protection, Rafe. This is fucking control-”

The words barely left your mouth before his hand slammed against the wall beside your head, making you flinch.

“What did you just say?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low.

You didn’t answer.

~~~~~~~~

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding as you sat up in bed. The room was dark, the faint glow of your phone the only source of light. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, the weight of the dream pressing down on your chest.

Even now, after everything, he still had a hold on you.

~~~~~~~~

It was late when you found yourself outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin. You hadn’t meant to leave the dorm, but sitting in that room, surrounded by memories and silence, felt unbearable.

You ended up at the campus library steps, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. It was quiet and peaceful in a way that almost felt foreign.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You turned, startled, to see Cam leaning against the railing, a book in one hand and a thermos in the other. His smile was easy, and his presence grounding, making you feel like you could finally take a breath.

“Something like that,” you admitted, sitting down beside him.

He didn’t press or ask why your eyes were rimmed with exhaustion or why you were out so late. Instead, he offered you the thermos, the warmth of it seeping into your palms as you held it.

“I saw you at the beach,” he said after a moment, his tone careful.

You stiffened but didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “You okay?”

You thought about lying, about brushing it off like you always did. But the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“No.”

He nodded like he’d expected that, his gaze steady as he looked at you. “If you ever want to talk…”

“I don’t,” you said quickly, cutting him off. Then, softer: “Not yet.”

“That’s fine,” he said easily, leaning back against the steps. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t respond, but for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Enjoyed my fic? Leave feedback! Comment/reblog!

"Tch. Quit lookin' at me like that. I ain't starin', you're just standin' there weird. Put a damn jacket on or somethin', damn.”

It starts with the showers. You're walking toward the communal baths like you always do and his hand is on your chest, shoving you back.

"You look like a woman right now," he scoffs, redirecting you toward the women's showers. "I ain't showerin' with some chick who isn't my wife. Just deal with it until you're fixed."

You try to argue that it's still you, that you're his best buddy, remember? The curse will wear off. He doesn't care. He'll physically block the entrance to the men's side if he has to.

"I don't give a shit, alright? My eyes see tits, my ears hear a woman yapping off. Move it before I throw you in there myself.”

You both used to go on jobs together, fighting side by side, but now he doesn't want you there anymore. Your technique is strong, sure, but your body is going to weigh you down. You just naturally don't fight as well anymore he tells you. If you do go on a job, he'd make sure to go with you. Before, when you were still a man, sure he'd act like an asshole and insult you the entire time, but most of it was his version of friendly jabs. Now it's just full on insulting.

"You're movin' too slow, why'd you even agree to do this?"

"You're utterly useless on the field. How about you leave and I'll handle it from here."

"You don't belong in a fight. Go home and make me somethin' for dinner."

That last one has you looking at him sideways but he just shrugs and tells you it was

"Just a joke. Don't get your panties in a twist. What? Why're you lookin' at me like I kicked your dog? I said it was a joke. Damn, the tits come in and the sense of humor goes right out, huh?”

Usually after a job you'd both relax at the Zenin Estate's outdoor hot springs, but since you look like a woman he won't let you. Yeah, the other Zenins know it's you, but for now you're a woman, and a woman doesn't soak with a bunch of men. He'd be offended on your behalf, he says. The other Zenins would be offended too. He's looking out for you.

"I'm doin' you a favor, dumbass. You wanna sit naked in front of my cousins? Half those bastards ain't got an ounce of honor. I'd have to kill one of 'em, then I'd be in trouble with my old man, and it'd be your fault.”

Also one of your technique abilities burns your top off. Naoya had gotten used to it back when you were a man he'd even laugh and call it your stripper move but now that you're a woman he loses it. He completely loses his temper and throws his haori over you so aggressively it nearly knocks you off balance. His hands shake a little as he wraps it tight around your shoulders. You've never seen him this furious before.

"Never use that again in front of anyone." He hisses.

What if another man saw you? Oh, you don't care? Whatever, whore.

You're angry he'd call you that. Doesn't he remember you're his best "male" friend? He used to vent to you all the time about how it's only women who can be slutty it's different if a man sleeps around or barely has clothes on.

"Keep actin' like a slut and I'll keep treating you like one. Real men don't want to see their 'bros' stripped naked like that."

He starts acting way more possessive of you. Whenever you two are hanging out he'll interrupt any man that talks to you. If they ask you out he'll say "she's not interested" before you can even open your mouth. It feels weird being referred to by she/her pronouns. In public it makes sense, but in private it's seemingly all he calls you now.

"She's busy.”

“She's with me.”

“Walk away before I make ya."

"What? I'm just sayin' what's true. You're a 'she' now, ain'tcha? Don't get all sensitive on me.”

He also starts trying to dictate how you dress. He now refuses to hang out with you if you wear any of your old clothes you have to wear more feminine clothes. You never had a sense of fashion so he goes out and buys them for you. As you're trying on clothes you can hear him talking to one of the staff. They make a comment that this skirt would look great on his girlfriend, and to your surprise Naoya doesn't even correct them. You confront him when he gets back.

"I'm just keepin' up appearances. You want people talkin' about us? Everyone knows men and women can't just be friends. Besides, we both know the truth. Who cares what they think?"

"Try the pink one next. And the white stockings. C'mon, hurry up, I ain't got all day and quit makin' that face.”

He also starts staring at your boobs now. Not even subtly. You start wearing compression bras which you can tell visibly annoy him, but he doesn't say anything. He just clicks his tongue every time he looks at your chest and finds it flatter than he expected. One time he reaches out and snaps your bra strap as a joke. Telling you it's too tight and you should wear something more loose. If you wear bras like that people might think you’re a dude.

“But I am a dude haha. I'm like the cool brother you never had :)”

He stops referring to you less and less as "the brother he's never had." Whenever you call yourself his bro he says you're not really his brother anymore. He's just being honest. Sure, on the inside you're still you, but on the outside you're a woman. When you change back, then you'll be his brother again. For now, you're his girl.

Those words slip out more and more. His girl.

"My girl's hungry, get her somethin' to eat."

"Don't talk to my girl like that."

"Oi, that's my girl you're starin' at, eyes off."

"…What? It's a figure of speech. Shut up before I make you.”

He also gets weirder whenever you refer to yourself as a man or try to do anything he considers masculine. You mention having to help your uncle cut firewood. He comes with you and does it all for you. He works up a sweat and takes his shirt off and tells you not to leave. He wants to make sure his "best bro" is watching how a real man cuts firewood. You think it's another one of his jokes but he gets mad when you're not looking.

You mention wanting to go hunting and he's absolutely against it. Women can't drive, and now you want to be out there aiming a gun? He'll sabotage any attempt at getting you a hunting license. He'll call the instructor himself if he has to. The only masculine hobby you have left is bodybuilding. You were somewhat interested in it before you turned into a woman, but you may as well continue so you can learn the fundamentals. Naoya tells you it's a horrible idea. Stuck in some room with a bunch of sweaty hormonal dudes from all the gear they're on? They'd be all over you. Is that what you want? To get analbanged by a bunch of gym bros? Instead you should do pilates or yoga. He'll even help you.

"I'm tellin' ya, those gym guys are a buncha neanderthals. They see a sexy chick in leggings and it's over for you. Do yoga with me, it's better for your figure anyway.”

He'll help you do poses like knees to chest, downward dog, and the Jack-O pose. He'll even take pictures so you can look at how far you've gotten. Why is he taking them using his phone? Also why does he have you do those poses in tight yoga pants?

"It's to track your progress, idiot. Now take off your pants, I need to see how your ass is developing."

One of the ways you used to hang out was watching rated R movies in his bedroom. Naoya would always complain that a woman's tits looked too fake whenever there was a sex scene. You're both watching a movie together and he throws a pillow at his TV when the actress has "the worst pair of tits he's ever seen." Then he glances sideways at you, at your chest, and mutters that yours look better.

You weren't wearing your compression bra today, so he's blatantly staring at them. He wrestles with you on his bed, just like old times, but when he wins and pins you down he asks if he can see your tits.

"Come on, you're still my bro on the inside, right? Let me see 'em. It ain't weird between us."

You relent and take your top and bra off. His eyes go wide at how nice they look and he'll tease you when your nipples get hard from the cool air. He doesn't touch them, but you catch his hand twitching at his side like he's actively holding himself back. He stays sitting on you too long before he gets up.

“Cold in here, huh? Look at you. Pfft don't cover up, I already saw 'em. It's whatever. We're cool. We're bros.”

After that, something seems to change in your relationship. He treats you much more coldly. He doesn't want to walk side by side with you anymore and instead he's only comfortable if you walk behind him. He'll leave if you refuse to wear the hyper feminine clothes he bought you, and you'll also have to shave from now on. He's such a nice friend that he even pays for laser hair removal. Don't be a bitch about it he's positive it'll grow back when you turn back to normal.

"Walk behind me. That's where you belong right now. And quit poutin', it's just the natural order.”

One day he steals a hard job from you and shows up at your house high off all the money he made. He'll demand you make him something to eat and makes a crass joke that you should do it naked in an apron. You were in the middle of cooking anyways so you give him a plate. Before he goes home, he gropes your ass, telling you it's softer than he expected. Don't give him that look "bro," you're the one who decided to walk around in those sheer leggings. You know how he gets. It's your fault you should've changed into that qipao he bought you. Said qipao you could barely sit in considering how short it was.

"What? You knew I was comin' over. You dressed like that on purpose. Don't act all shocked now, you wanted me to grab your ass.”

Finally you get lucky and find a way to reverse what the curse did to you. You tell Naoya and he doesn't act happy. Says you've been a woman for so long you won't be able to operate as a man anymore. Says you've gotten soft. Says he's gotten used to having you around like this and now you're just gonna turn back? Whatever.

Still, before you change back, he wants to see what your pussy looks like. He's already seen your tits, so you may as well let him see your pussy and asshole too, since it's so close. You agree, and later on you're laying naked in his bed as he kneels in front of your closed legs. He tells you to stop being so shy as he spreads your legs, finally able to look at the prize he's earned. He'll tell you he's earned this because he's put up with you being a female, so shut up. Your whining is killing the mood.

"Open. Open. There ya go. See? That wasn't so hard. Now shut up and let me look I earned this, dammit.”

He lays down so he can get a close look and you shiver from how you can feel his breath on you. Despite only agreeing to letting him look, he'll spread your pussy apart and question why you haven't shaved down here. He'll bite your inner thigh as punishment.

"The hell is this? I paid for the laser and you're growin' a damn forest down here? Hold still…that's what you get.”

He'll tell you that you always kinda smelled like a chick, but down here it's even more prominent. He'll get too close and accidentally bump his nose against your clit. He'll just tell you to stop whining and that you're acting oversensitive. He won't be nice as he spreads your pussy lips and bullies you for how it looks. Why isn't everything symmetrical like the women in porn? Why doesn't one of your inner pussy lips look just like the other? Why is your clit hood covering your clit like that? Why isn't where you piss from perfectly centered? Yeah, you smell like a woman down here, but why don't you smell better, like roses and cherry blossoms? The only thing he compliments you for is that you have a hymen, but even that is still weird looking to him.

"This is uneven. One side's bigger. Imagine bein' a woman and your one job is to have a cute cunt and yours is ugly. And the smell I mean, it ain't bad, but c'mon. Shouldn't it be flowery. At least you're a virgin. Small mercies.”

He tells you he wants to feel what your insides are like, and you're so oversensitive that you nod in response. It feels weird as he pushes a finger inside you, moving it curiously, feeling if anything's different at your expense. He'll push another finger in and then start scissoring and stretching you out, telling you to stop shaking. Before long he curves his fingers up, wanting to see if you have a g-spot, and to your surprise you definitely do. He doesn't really care though as he pulls his fingers out and licks at your juices. He'll tell you taste weird even as he continues to suck his fingers clean.

"Huh. So that's your g-spot.”

“Taste's weird. Not bad-weird, just weird. I said stop shakin', what's wrong with you?”

You assume he's done and try to sit up, but he stops you. He's never ever gone down on a woman, and now is his only chance because he could never trust a woman to not go around running her mouth about having a man eating her out. But he knows you'll never say anything because you're his best girl.

"Lay back down. I ain't done. And if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll deny it 'til the day I die. But you won't 'cause you're my best girl.”

You laugh and say you're his best bro. Because you'll turn back into his bro tomorrow. Right, best bro?

He just ignores you and leans in, immediately pushing his tongue in your pussy. He's right in that he's never eaten pussy before because he's licking and sucking in all the wrong places. At one point he's giving long, tender licks at the crevice between your inner and outer pussy labia. He truly has no idea what he's doing. He even starts licking your urethra, blaming you for it being placed weirdly. He'll eventually get the hang of it at your expense. His eyes flutter closed as he enjoys his meal while you writhe above him.

You start to feel really strange, but he ignores you as he tries sticking his tongue out more. You surprise him as your thighs clench around his head and you ride your orgasm out. He could've easily broken out of your hold, but he stays there wanting to lick up your juices. You think he's done because he's sitting up, but the sound of him unzipping his pants sobers you up.

“Aw, what you came already? That fast? Pfft, pathetic.”

“Don't move, I ain't finished with you.”

Don't you want to feel what it's like to be fucked? You'll never get this opportunity again, and it should be with him. Who else deserves to take your virginity? You know how many girlfriends he's had (he's even fucked some of your girlfriends) so he knows he's good in bed. He doesn't let you ruminate on that as his tip rubs against your folds. Just give him your pussy, yeah?

"C'mon. Turn back into a guy and you'll never know what it feels like to have your pussy fucked. Don't be stupid. It's me. Best person you could pick. Now relax and let a man do what men do.”

You nod and he'll slowly push in. Usually he's a lot faster, but since you're a virgin and all that he'll go slow for you, so you'd better appreciate it. He'll even tease you when he inevitably breaks your hymen, "joking" that you're a stupid slut for letting a man you're not married to take your virginity. When he bottoms out, you'll keen as he bumps against your cervix. He'll tell you he won't go all the way in when he fucks you, but when he's about to cum he really sinks in, so you're going to have to get used to it and not complain. You're a woman you're literally built to take his cock.

"Look at that gave it up just like that. I didn't know you were such a slut. And to a guy who ain't even your husband. Tsk tsk. Quit whinin’, I'm bein' nice. You feel how slow and short I'm going? That's me bein' nice.”

He'll keep his promise and leave about an inch of his dick out while he fucks you. You tug at him to slow down though, that this is your first time, but he'll respond by rubbing your clit. Telling you that since it's your first time, this is how it's supposed to feel. Don't you feel good? Isn't he making you feel good? So stop complaining if a thrust is a little too rough and deep here or there. Besides, the way your pussy is slowly stretching and twitching, he can tell you like it.

"Yeah? Right there huh? That's your g-spot I'm fuckin’ into. Don't lie to me. You love it. Say it.”

Also I should add that he's fully clothed and you're naked, so you feel extra vulnerable. Anyways, you can tell he's about to cum from how hard he's fucking you and you ask him to pull out. What if you get pregnant? I'd imagine he'd make up a shitty lie that virgins can't get pregnant, or women can't get pregnant if they aren't compatible with their man, or if you take a hot shower afterward the heat will kill the sperm, or some bullshit. When he cums inside of you he'll lean down to make out with you as he pushes his cum in deeper.

"Relax, dumbass virgins can't get pregnant the first time, everyone knows that.”

Then something happens where you can't meet up with the person who's supposed to change you back, and you're stuck with Naoya for like a month in the mountains or something. He's fucking you the entire time btw, and making you roleplay for like "male bonding." The roleplaying is you as a maid because there’s nothing more masculine than cleaning up after another man. He'll even let you call him bro while you're riding him.

"That's it. Bounce for your bro. Good girl I mean, good bro. Keep fucking goin'.”

Finally when you meet up with the genderswapping person, they tell you they can't because you're pregnant.

I'd also make him even more of an extreme misogynist. When you were a man, Naoya would punch you whenever you two got into a fight, but now that you're a woman he'd backhand you. He'd justify it too. A closed fist is for men. A backhand is for women. He's being respectful, actually.

Also I'd have an "angst" scene where he's on the verge of tears as he makes you swear you don't believe in feminism. I'd make you kinda have no friends in this, which is why you're going along with it because you want Naoya to stay your friend.

"Just say it. Say you don't believe in any of that bullshit. Say women weren't meant to vote, weren't meant to own a credit card, weren't meant for anythin' but makin' babies and pleasing their man. Say it. I gotta hear it. From you…please.”

Last also, but I'd imply he used to practice kissing with you, but he'd turn off the lights so he could pretend you were a girl. So this scenario is actually subconsciously a dream come true for him.

I lied also he'd sleep with your girlfriends so they'd break up with you.

You'd be super pissed your girlfriend cheated and broke up with you to be with Naoya again and he's like.

”oof sowwy~𖹭. Anyways its five o-clock and I have a date by eight. We have to practice again. Maybe your next girlfriend won't spread her legs when you're away.”

sighs. “Ok Naoya but no biting my lip like last time :(”