Lover Girl

You pasted on a smile, trying to fight your way through this long, endless night. But that last question caught your attention it’s a way out, a way to a small escape of freedom, even if it is for five minutes.

“He must be greeting the other guests,” you said smoothly. “I’d love to go find him for you.”

Before anyone could stop you, you slipped from the ballroom. Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floors, the sound echoing through the empty corridor behind you.

Your head spun violently. Your body felt as if it wasn’t as your lungs burned. At this point you were gasping for air.

Every breath came shorter than the last.

By the time you heard footsteps somewhere down the hall, panic had already clawed its way into your chest. You shoved open the nearest door and hurried inside, slamming it shut behind you.

The room was dark but you could make out little bit by bit as your eyes adjusted, it’s a library.

Moonlight spilled through towering balcony doors, casting silver across rows of bookshelves. You stumbled toward the light with one hand pressed against your ribs.

Perfect, you needed air.

You burst onto the balcony with a broken gasp, inhaling deeply, but no matter how much air you pulled in, it still wasn’t enough. You felt trapped inside your own body.

Your vision blurred as tears pricked your eyes, you gripped the stone railing needing stability. The lights below smeared together while your trembling fingers searched frantically around your chest and waist wondering why nothing was helping—the corset!

It was too tight, far too tight...but it was too late.

A choked sound escaped your throat as you collapsed to your knees, clawing desperately at the jeweled fabric digging into your ribs. You silently prayed begging for a divine intervention, someone or something to help you out of this.

Panic consumed every coherent thought in your mind. Four maids had dressed you tonight. There was no way to remove it yourself, without assistance you were doomed. Your vision darkened at the edges as you felt your body sway. You were prepared to hit the ground but it never came…

Your fading mind barely registered movement as someone lifted you effortlessly and laid you against something soft, likely one of the library couches. You felt your body being tossed and heard fabric tearing. Cool air finally touched reached your skin through your loose undergarments. The crushing pressure around your waist loosened.

Your lungs expanded sharply.

You felt a hand steadied against your shoulder.

“Breathe.”

That voice…it was low and vaguely familiar. You dragged in a shaky breath, then another, your body jolting violently as air finally filled your lungs properly again.

When your vision cleared, a face emerged from the moonlight above you.

His features focused and you realized it was your finance…

• Damian’s pov •

Damian was trained to be observant. To be a leader you had to be quick on your feet. You had notice things faster than the average citizen. He had detected your discomfort long before anyone else did, he just believed you were being dramatic.

While the nobles drowned themselves in music and expensive wine, he watched from the edge of the ballroom with narrowed eyes. You smiled when spoken to. You laughed when expected. You curtsied gracefully beneath the weight of diamonds and expectations alike.

Damian found the entire event insufferable. The music was too loud, the conversations meaningless, and the people orbiting the two of you like vultures made his skin crawl. Half the women in attendance stared at him like he was some kind of prize to be won, while the other half stared at you with poorly concealed envy.

Down right pathetic. Still, he tolerated it only because he had no choice. His father threatened him if he didn’t behave himself.

His eyes swept the room but he kept an eye on you the entire time. That’s when he noticed a change.

Your shoulders stiffened, your fingers twitched against your gown, your breathing became uneven as your chest rose and fell in an unnatural way.

At first, Damian assumed you were simply overwhelmed by the attention. Most royals were weak-minded when it came to pressure. He expected you to excuse yourself eventually and compose yourself like everyone else did.

Instead, you looked terrified. Your face was flustered and your skin had a soft sheen of sweat. The realization made his brows furrow.

He watched another noblewoman corner you near the center of the ballroom, speaking endlessly while you nodded absently. Your eyes darted around the room as if searching for an exit.

Then suddenly before he could blink again you fled. Damian’s gaze followed your retreating figure as you disappeared through the ballroom doors.

Nobody else seemed to notice, but of course they didn’t they were too busy talking about themselves. Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation prickling beneath his skin. He should have ignored it if you wanted a moment alone, it was none of his concern.

Yet his feet moved before his mind fully caught up. He downed the rest of his drink sitting the empty glass on a servants tray.

The distant sound of your heels echoed through the halls, uneven and rushed. By the time Damian turned the corner, he caught sight of you stumbling into one of the west wing rooms before slamming the door shut behind you.

He speculated before but now he knew something was wrong. He approached quietly, gloved hand resting near the dagger concealed beneath his coat.

Then he heard it. Gasping followed by wheezing, it sounded like someone drowning.

The breaths were sharp broken and desperate.

Damian’s expression darkened instantly without hesitation, he shoved the door open.

The library was dimly lit, silver moonlight pouring through the balcony doors left slightly ajar. For a brief moment, he couldn’t find you. Then he saw your silhouette crumpled near the balcony railing. Your body shook violently as you clawed at your waist, struggling for air.

Damian froze. He took a split second analyzing your body, his eyes landed on your waist. Your hands clawed at your waist. He thought for moment—your corset.

It was restricting your breathing.

“fool,” he muttered under his breath, though the insult lacked any real bite.

You didn’t even seem aware he was there. Your vision had already begun to unfocus, Damian noticed your body began to waver.

Damian crossed the room in seconds. Just as your body tipped sideways, unconscious, he caught you effortlessly against his chest.

You weighed almost nothing. Carefully, he lowered you onto one of the library couches. Your breaths came shallow and weak, each one worse than the last he was running out of time. Damian pulled the dagger from beneath his coat. With precise movements, he sliced through the front of your dress reaching down to your corset, careful not to cut you. He cut through the expensive fabric without hesitation. The moment the pressure loosened, your body jerked sharply beneath his hands.

“Breathe,” he ordered firmly, supporting your shoulders. “Slowly.”

But you barely hear him. Your eyes had rolled shut completely, for the first time that evening, genuine alarm struck him.

“Y/N!” No response.

Damian gritted his teeth and tilted your chin upward, forcing your airway open. One hand remained steady against your back while the other loosened the remaining fabric around your ribs. Then finally a sharp inhale tore through your lungs. Your body jolted violently as air rushed back into your chest.

“There you are,” Damian murmured quietly.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly. You look disoriented and dazed, but he can see you slowly coming back. Then your big glossy eyes landed on him, moonlight illuminated the sharp angles of his face.

“…Damian?” Your voice came out so weak it stirred something in his chest.

“You nearly suffocated.”

His voice was harsher now, irritation masking something deeper. His hands remained on you anyway, steadying you when another shaky breath rattled through your chest.

You stared at him in stunned silence.

Because Prince Damian Wayne—the rude, arrogant man who could barely tolerate anyone was now looking at you like you had just scared years off his life and that scared you.

©hon3y0logy 2026— any reposts or translations of my works are strictly prohibited unless granted permission. Do not feed my work into any AI programs.

Two strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you backward until your spine was flushed against Klaus’s broad, solid chest. The sheer, grounding warmth of him hit you instantly. He didn't ask what happened; he didn't demand names or threats to execute. He just held you, his chin resting gently on top of your head, anchoring you to reality.

"Breathe, love," he whispered, his thumbs tracing soothing circles into your hips. "Just breathe. You're safe. I'm right here."

You gripped his forearms, your knuckles turning white. "It felt so real, Klaus. It won't stop."

"Then we won't let it," he said softly.

Recognizing that sleep was a lost cause for now, Klaus shifted, pulling you back with him until he was propped up against the headboard. He guided your head to rest right over his heart, forcing you to focus on its steady, rhythmic thumping—a stark contrast to the chaotic franticness of your own.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead.

"No," you croaked, burying your face in his neck. "I just... I need a distraction. Anything. Just talk to me? Turn my brain off."

A small, tender smile tugged at Klaus’s lips in the dark. The Hybrid, the Great Evil of New Orleans, the man feared by thousands, was being asked to yap. And for you, he would gladly talk a hole in the wall.

"Alright," he murmured, his fingers threading through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. "Let’s see. Did I ever tell you about the absolute disaster that was Marcel’s attempt to learn the cello in the late 1920s?"

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, the tension in your shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "No."

"Oh, it was an offense to the ears, love. Truly," Klaus began, his voice dropping into that rich, theatrical storytelling cadence that never failed to mesmerize you. "He was convinced that if he mastered it, he could woo a particular songstress from the local jazz club. Elijah, bless his rigid soul, tried to tutor him. But Marcel had the grace of a dying ox with that bow. It sounded like a symphony of strangling cats. I actually had to compel an entire block of neighbors to believe they were suffering from collective auditory hallucinations just to keep the peace."

You closed your eyes, letting the vibration of his chest rumble against your cheek. Klaus kept going, seamlessly transitioning from Marcel's musical failures to a scathing, hilarious critique of 18th-century French poetry, and then to a passionate, highly opinionated rant about a modern art gallery opening he had visited a few weeks ago.

"They called it 'Avant-Garde minimalism,' Y/N," he scoffed, his fingers never stopping their gentle rhythm in your hair. "It was a canvas painted entirely white with a single, tragic red dot in the lower corner. The curator wept. Wept! I told him I’d seen better composition on a butcher's apron, and Elijah had to drag me out by my collar before I ripped the man's throat out purely on principle of aesthetic offense."

You giggled, a genuine, warm sound that finally chased the last remnants of the nightmare from your mind.

Hearing you laugh, Klaus slowed his speech, his tone softening into something incredibly sweet. He shifted down into the pillows, pulling you with him so you were face-to-face, your noses almost touching. His blue-green eyes searched yours in the dim moonlight.

"Better?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away the faint tear tracks on your cheek.

"Much better," you whispered, the exhaustion finally hitting you, but this time, it was a heavy, peaceful kind of tired. "Thank you."

"Always," Klaus murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking you securely against his side. "Sleep now, my sweet girl. I'll be right here, watching the dark. Nothing is getting past me."

Breathing in his familiar scent of expensive bourbon, paint paint oil, and old parchment, you finally let your eyes close. With Klaus guarding your mind, the nightmares didn't stand a chance.

When you found out you were pregnant with yours and Steve’s first child, he was away on a mission. You got creative and made him a t-shirt with his shield on it that says “Captain Dad”. You gave it to him when he got home and showed the positive pregnancy test. He was over the moon happy that he’s having a baby with the love of his life.

Now, you’re almost 7 months pregnant. You and Steve are almost done setting up the nursery. You guys had some help from Bucky, Sam, and the Avengers. You did the little things like organizing yours and Steve’s baby boy’s clothes. That’s what you’re doing right now. You’re sitting on the floor in the middle of your son’s nursery looking at baby clothes you just bought. You may have went overboard, but you don’t care. You’re just excited.

“Sweetheart, I’m home!” Steve announces as he walks in the house. “Are you home?” He asks.

“Nursery!” You replied loudly.

Steve made his way to the nursery to see you sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with more baby clothes in front of you.

“Did you buy more baby clothes?” Steve asks.

“No… maybe… yes.” You say.

“Darling, our son will have more than enough clothes.” He says.

“I know, but I couldn’t resist.” You say.

Steve sat down on the floor next to you, looking at the baby clothes you bought earlier.

“I like this one.” Steve says, picking up a red, white, and blue striped onesie.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” You rummaged through the plastic bag next to you. “It has a matching hat!” You exclaimed excitedly. “Isn’t that the more adorable thing you’ve ever seen?” You say.

“Is it adorable.” He agrees.

Steve helped you organize the baby clothes and put them in the baby’s dresser.

“I’m too fat to stand up by myself.” You say, pouting up at your husband.

“You’re not fat, honey. You’re just pregnant.” Steve helps you up from the floor with ease. “And you’re beautiful.” He adds.

“You really think so?” You asked.

“Yes.” He smiles.

You smiled and kissed him softly. The kiss was cut short when you felt the baby kick.

“Oh-” You put a hand on your stomach where your son kicked. “He kicked.” You say with a smile.

Steve put his hand on your stomach where your hand is. He smiles widely when he feels the baby kick.

“He’s got a strong kick, don’t you, son?” He coos.

The baby kicked again. The smile remained on his face.

“I think Steve Jr recognizes your voice.” You say softly.

Steve smiles widely when you said that. You two then went to the living room so he can continue talking to his son some more. Steve was telling him stories from the 1940s. Even though, Steve has told you stories from the 1940s, it makes you smile when you hear them. You don’t mind hearing them again.

“This one time, me and your uncle Bucky spent the day at Coney Island and we had so much fun.” Steve tells your son.

“Bucky told me that you threw up on one of the rides.” You point out.

Steve looked at you and playfully narrowed his eyes at you, making you giggle.

“That was one time.” He said. “In my defense, I probably shouldn’t have eaten before me and Bucky got on that ride.” He adds.

“That would’ve been a good idea.” You say.

“Can I get back to my story please?” He asks.

“Yes you can.” You replied.

Steve leans up and pecks your lips before picking up where he left off on his story. You don’t know how long Steve has been telling stories to yours and his son. You woke up when he gently laid you down on yours and his bed.

“What’s going on?” You asked, your mind foggy from the nap you just woke up from.

“You fell asleep when I was talking to our son.” Steve tells you.

“Oh.” You say. “Will you stay with me please?” You asked softly.

“Of course, sweetheart.” He replies softly.

Steve got in bed next to you and covered the two of you up with a blanket. He protectively wrapped his arms around you, putting one of his hands on your pregnant belly. He smiles when he felt the baby kick where his hand is.

“I’ll talk more to you later, bud. Mommy and I are going to relax for a little bit.” Steve tells yours and his son.

Your son kicked again, making both of you smile.

“I love you, Stevie.” You almost whispered.

“I love you too, honey.” He whispers back.

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Dean would like to refute that accusation, but his indignance only deepens his frown. His gloved hands rest on his belt, his armor clinking with the movement. He stands at an appropriate distance, but also close enough to maintain a watchful eye, ever at your service. His sword is a familiar weight resting against his left hip.

Margaret, your Lady-in-Waiting, is also at your service; she lies dozing on the bench. The old maid never lasts long there, or in a comfortable chair, or even in an uncomfortable one.

You even gave her your shawl as a blanket, then went back to trimming and watering various plants that needed your attention, especially the roses. They’re white and blushing pink in the winter. In the spring, they will mature to a deeper red, glittering like rubies in the sunlight. And in the summer, they dim to reflect the warmer sunset, as if painted orange-gold.

Dean has never understood how they change their colors in each season. Your mother planted them years ago with seeds she brought from her homeland, a smaller rural country from the east that benefits from this country’s trade, as well as its protection.

You now raise the roses as your own. He watches you dote on them, gently examining the healthy bunches while avoiding thorns. Then you harvest a few stems for your chambers.

Your occasional humming turns into song, a sweet melody that laces your path between the more barren trees in the orchard.

“You do know they can’t hear you,” Dean says.

“Yule is almost here,” you say, touching the weathered trunk of an apple tree. “We have to wake the trees and lift their spirits from the cold. That way the harvest will be plentiful in the spring. Haven’t I told you this every year?”

His mouth twitches, his brows easing. “It’s possible I’ve forgotten. You say many things at once, often without stopping to breathe. It’s impressive.”

Your eyes flick dryly in his direction, but there’s no true ire in it. You rarely hold his impertinence against him. He imagines it’s difficult for you to take him seriously at times. When he first met you, Dean could barely hold a sword, let alone bear the weight of his armor. Meanwhile, you were a girl who would rather climb these trees than practice embroidery or penmanship.

“At least I am not a living statue, one who somehow always appears at my back,” you toss over your shoulder. You aim to move a ladder over to the tree so that you can pick a few apples—the last ones clinging to vestiges of autumn. Soon the cold will consume them.

Dean moves to your side and takes the ladder from you, giving you a somewhat chiding look. He maneuvers it himself where you would have it positioned.

“Here. Some help from the living statue,” he remarks, offering his hand.

A small smile plays on your lips. You graciously slip your hand into his, and he helps you up the ladder. He holds it steady when a strong, chilly wind courses through the garden. It stirs your hair and the skirts of your dress, along with what’s left of the trees.

“It’s getting cold,” he says, and you aren’t dressed for it. “We should head inside, Princess.”

“A simple chill won’t kill me,” you tease. You’re focused on the task of filling your basket with apples. Another lies on the ground with your roses.

Dean restrains a sigh.

“I swear, stubbornness must be a womanly virtue,” he mutters.

You pause, your ear perked. “What was that?”

He’s soon saved from answering. Gabriel, one of your father’s messengers, enters the garden.

“Princess,” he greets you with a nod, though he casts a sideways glance at the dozing Margaret. “We are soon to receive a lord of Hallstein. News has traveled ahead of his ship that the crown prince is now a widower, in search of a new bride.”

Dean’s mood dims. Hallstein is a neighboring country to the north—remote, but powerful.

In that moment, your countenance changes as well. Your true emotions bury themselves under a grim understanding of what’s to come.

Your heart is like this garden, with high, impenetrable hedges, embedded with hidden thorns. But with those thorns, the roses bloom. 

Dean thinks of you like that, even on gray winter days such as these. 

That afternoon, your father, King Damian, informs you of your fate over supper. You will wed Alastair, the prince of Hallstein.

The match brings the aid of their legendary ships, and the added strength of their armada, led by Alastair himself, will help secure trade routes for your country in the vast sea to the southwest, down to the warmer islands where certain spices, wine, fruits, and vegetables are more plentiful. Consequently, their richness also makes them attractive to pirates, an added obstacle to reliable trade.

You understand all of this, and yet, words have turned to ash in your mouth. You barely taste the Cornish hen sitting on your plate, or the roasted vegetables, fresh bread, aged cheeses, fruits, candied dates, and other luxuries spread across the dining table.

“Has Prince Alastair won many wars with this armada?” you ask.

Your father pauses from carving the meat on his plate to glance up at you. He quirks a brow.

“Hallstein has not needed to go to war since before King Reinard took the throne,” he says.

Reinard III, Prince Alastair’s father, you mentally note.

“Is King Reinard young or old then?” you ask.

Damian shakes his head. “Frankly, I don’t remember him well. By now I suppose his beard would be gray, a man in his sixties.”

You nod. “That likely means his son is older than I. Perhaps a great deal older. We may struggle to find common interests. Do you think it would be a suitable match, in that case?”

You sip a glass of wine and meet your father’s gaze. His lips twitch, but his expression remains wry.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you that you are now twenty years old, well over marrying age,” he says. “If not for the prince’s recent loss, this arrangement could not have been so easily made.”

You nod slowly. “How then did his wife die?”

Damian pauses with his own wine at his lips. “In childbirth.”

You frown. “And the child?”

“A tragedy for all,” the king replied, indulging in his drink.

You remain quiet then. Your mother also died young.

“The fault is mine,” Damian says, rousing you from your thoughts. He seems to be weighed by memories of his own. His dark eyes are lost to them, even when they raise to meet you again. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to make another arrangement for you.”

There comes the reminder that you had been promised once before, since you were six years old. Your first betrothed was a young prince from the south. He died on a sailing expedition eight years ago. You never met him, nor have you ever met the Prince of Hallstein.

You unconsciously glance over, finding Dean standing guard at the door with one of your father’s men. His eyes briefly meet yours.

“Well, once all the legalities are signed and the dowry agreed upon, Prince Alastair will come for you himself,” Damian says, reclaiming your attention. “Travel by sea from his country will take a month, at least. If all goes as planned, he should arrive by early spring.”

Come to claim me, you think. Your fork pushes at a cold pile of herb roasted potatoes. 

“And with a stroke of your pen, so dictates my life,” you say.

Damian shakes his head, an incredulous huff shaking his chest. 

“This is news to you, Princess?” he says wryly. “You have been tutored in every subject befitting a young woman of your station, all for one purpose—”

“To marry,” you interrupt. “To be agreeable company, and to produce an heir for a man I will not meet until I wed him. I wonder if a merchant’s wife serves so fine a purpose.”

At least she shares in her husband’s business, you muse.

Your father sighs. “Do you disdain to become a queen one day? Or I suppose you would rather become a merchant’s wife. You would rather struggle for every godforsaken meal of your life, for the very roof above your head?” 

You sigh and set down your cutlery. You understand his point, but he is also missing yours. 

“Perhaps there is nobility in struggle,” you say. “More so than in reciting poetry.”

Damian almost laughs this time, somehow both fond of you, and exasperated.

“Oh, I have indulged you too much, haven’t I? I should have listened to your tutor when she said you should only be allowed to read religious texts.”

You smile, only slightly.

He knows that look on your face, better than you realize. His amusement fades.

“I admit that I’ve been selfish,” he says. “I suppose after your mother’s death, it was…difficult to part with you.”

You understand that as well.  

Your mother had suffered from a wasting sickness that took her slowly, over the course of a year. It robbed her of energy and appetite, and turned the white of her eyes yellow and bleary. In the end, her body seemed to be merely a shallow vessel. It was a mercy that death took her in her sleep.

As a nine-year-old child, that picture had sunk deeply into your mind. It was difficult to remember her as the woman she had been before, her eyes and her voice so full of life when she told you stories from her homeland. When her hands guided yours in planting apple seeds. When she sang with you in the garden, stepping on the mossy ground with bare feet.

“You look so much like her now,” Damian remarks. He looks upon you with pride, and the love that is, at times, difficult for him to show. “You are a woman grown. So it is time to do your duty for this house.”

Your smile fades, along with your softness.

“I understand, Father.”

You manage to hold in your tears until leaving the dining room. You can’t help that Dean will see them. Knights of the royal order are bid to follow their charge; you are his. 

In times like these, you wish your mother were alive to guide you. 

“There is still daylight left,” you say, wiping at your cheeks. You don’t turn to him until you believe your face is dry. “I would like to go to the stables.”

Dean’s expression is stoic as ever, but it doesn’t seem so to you. You see warmth, the note of caring in his eyes.

“As you wish,” he says. 

That day long ago is still vivid in his memory.

Dean is fourteen years old, still apprenticing with his father for his knighthood.

His brother Sam is ten, old enough to join them for a riding lesson. He only fell off once, but Dean still had to help him out of the mud and back onto the horse, an old reliable named Rusty.

They return to the stables together, dirty and shoving each other for the closest stall to lead their horses to.

“Boys.” 

Their father’s censuring voice stops their horseplay. Dean straightens first, properly chastened. He pets his black mare’s snout when she noses at his shoulder.

“Remember that animals feed off your temperament,” John says. “If you’re excitable, they’re liable to become so as well. The stable isn’t a place to excite a horse.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys say, almost in unison. Sam stands straighter to try and match his older brother’s height, but his mess of brown hair only comes up to Dean’s shoulder.

A slight smile tugs at John’s lips. “All right. See that your horses are fed and groomed. And make sure your saddles are clean and put away.”

With another chorus of yes, sir, the boys take to their tasks. John will do the same for his own horse. He means to show his sons that no matter your age or rank, there are certain things a man should care for himself: his armor, his horse, and his family.

Maybe not in that order, he thinks.

But he’s forced to hand the reins of his horse to a stable hand when Lady Margaret approaches him with urgency.

“Good day, my lady,” John nods, though he frowns at the harried look on the woman’s face.

“Sir John, I apologize. I know today is your day of rest, but we have a problem,” she says, in a lowered voice.

“What’s the matter?”

“The princess is missing.”

John’s brows draw together in surprise. “What?”

“She escaped Sir Charles’ watch this morning—”

He huffs. “Why is that not surprising?”

The king may have a fondness for Charles’s poetry, but John thinks the man too easily distracted by his own daydreaming.  

“And no one has seen her since,” Margaret says, in thinly veiled worry.  

John accompanies her at once to speak with the Knight Commander. Before he leaves, he tells Dean to bring his brother home after they’ve finished their chores in the stables. Ever the responsible young man, Dean nods in assurance, but he still watches his father leave curiously.

“Were they talking about the princess?” Sam asks.

“They’re looking for her,” Dean says, but he goes back to brushing his horse. He doesn’t know why they’re all worked up about a girl who probably couldn’t manage to leave the castle, even if she tried. There are knights posted at every door and gate.

“I’ve never seen the princess,” Sam says. He comes around to Dean’s side of the stall and busies himself with a stick he finds on the dusty floor. “What do you think she’s like?”

Dean shrugs. He’s never seen her either, and he doesn’t really care to. In his experience, limited though it’s been, girls tend to be quiet and shy, and don’t seem to know much beyond their embroidery. They’re pretty to look at, like a dainty pastry, except you don’t find anything nice like chocolate or cream inside. Just shy giggles and strange glances.

“I heard she likes horses too,” Sam says. He points to a white mare dappled with gray over in the corner stall. “I think that one’s hers.”

“Why don’t you hop on,” Dean teases. “If you ride side-saddle, you can be princess for day.”

Sam’s lips purse, and he whacks his brother’s shin with a thin branch he finds on the dusty stable floor. Dean hisses in pain, retaliating with a shove of Sam’s shoulder and an attempt to take the offending weapon from his hand.

It all devolves into a brotherly brawl that has Dean chasing Sam out of the stable and tackling him into the dirt. Sam puts up a good fight, nearly gaining the upper hand when one of his clumsy fists manages to connect with Dean’s nose, but he’s older, bigger, and still strong enough to pin Sam down.

“Easy, little brother,” Dean laughs. “Do you yield?”

Sam struggles like a salmon in a bear’s mouth.

“Never!”   

“Okay. Just remember, you brought this on yourself,” Dean says. He lets a big wad of spit percolate in his mouth, positioning it to fall right on his little brother’s face—

Until a rock hits him right on the back of his head.

“Ow!”

Except it isn’t a rock at all, just an unripe apple that tumbles into the dirt beside them.

“What in hell?” Dean says. But his words are cut off by another fruit projectile hitting him in the cheek, making him clutch his face with a pained cry.

Sam erupts into cackles of laughter. He stops when he hears a lighter giggle echoing him.

Both he and Dean look up in bewilderment to find you, a girl, sitting on the branch of an apple tree. You can’t be much older than Sam, but you wear a fine violet gown laced with gold. Your stocking-covered feet swing beneath you. Dean notices your shoes on the ground. They match your dress, violet and gold. He’s never seen you before, but you must be the daughter of some noble lord.

“Who are you?” he asks, getting off his brother so he can protect his head again if need be. Sam joins him in standing after dusting himself off, looking up at you curiously.

“Someone who doesn’t like bullies,” you retort.

Sam smiles triumphantly at Dean, who just rolls his eyes and rubs at the back of his sore head.

“How’d you get up there, anyway?” Dean asks.

“Oh, I flew, of course! With my invisible wings,” you say. Your voice drips with sarcasm, but your giggle betrays you. You’re laughing at him again.

Dean’s face begins to warm in a blush, even with his left cheek still stinging.

“How long have you been up there?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know. A while, I suppose,” you say. “My legs are starting to hurt.”

You slowly get up, using the tree trunk as an anchor. But Dean hears the branch beginning to creak. He quickly draws closer to the tree.

“Be careful, I think it’s—”

You try to climb up higher to the next branch, but you gasp as your foot doesn’t quite find purchase. Your nails scrape the bark as you lose your balance and wind up falling into a shaky seat on the branch. The impact, however, is just enough to crack the wood. The fear of it has you swinging your arms to try and grab onto something, but finding nothing, you slip backward out of the tree with a shrill screech.

Dean manages to reach you before you hit the ground. He means to catch you, but what actually transpires is a tangle of limbs on the ground, and a suspect crack that has you gasping for a different reason—not for your own pain, but for Dean’s broken rib.

Not that he understands what that agony means. All he knows is that it’s almost impossible to breathe as he cringes in pain.

You fret over him with reflexive tears and gentle hands on his chest.

“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” you cry.

“Obviously he’s not!” Sam says. There’s panic in his voice too, but he soon runs for help while you stay with Dean.

All he registers beyond the pain is your hands holding his so carefully, your tearful apologies, over and over. Apparently you could lob an apple at his head, but you drew the line at maiming him. His vision blurs between the shade of your hair and what the sun looks like filtering between the tree’s spring-white blossoms.

His father comes eventually, along with a score of knights and Lady Margaret. She drags you away from him and reprimands you all the while for your behavior, so unbecoming of a lady.

Dean realizes it then. Those soft hands holding his had been those of a princess.

The next time Dean sees you is in the Halls of Healing.

Several times, he’s been told by both his mother and the healer to lie very still. There isn’t much they can do for him, but because he doesn’t seem to be bleeding internally, he should be all right after a few weeks. He can’t ride a horse, however, so he won’t be allowed to go home for a while either.

Sam has come to visit him every day. They play simple card games to pass the time. Twice, Sam has managed to sneak an apple tart from the kitchen for him.

Their father visits in the afternoon, after his watch is done. He brings supper, and they mostly sit in a companionable silence while they eat.

When his mother Mary visits, she stays with him all day, fussing over him. Dean pretends to be annoyed by it, but secretly he craves the comforting touch on his cheek, and her warm voice never fails to soothe him.

She reads to him in the evening before he goes to sleep. She indulges him with his favorite stories—of how Sir Gawain was tested in his courage by the Green Knight; of King Arthur and his quests; of Beowulf who slayed the monster, Grendel, and the king’s final battle with the dragon, who wrathfully defended his hoard of gold.

You come with Dean’s father to visit on the third day, accompanied by Lady Margaret.

“The princess would like to offer blessings to the infirm,” Margaret tells the healer. Though privately she says to you, “Do not touch, or get too close.”

Dean spots you out of the corner of his eye. You have a bottle of holy oil in your hand, and you go to each person in the hall and offer them a kind word.

While John and Margaret speak with the healer about those who should be better quarantined, you finally approach Dean’s cot. You offer him a small smile, still tinged with apology.

“Does it hurt terribly?” you ask.

He gives you a smile in return. “Not really.”

He tries to sit up higher in bed, stifling a cringe of pain when it jostles his tender ribs. He hides his pain from you the best he can.

Your gaze falls. “Even so, I’m very sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dean says, ducking his head to find your eyes. “Really. You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

You chance looking up at him again, perhaps with some nervousness. You take some of your holy oil and paint a simple cross on the back of his hand, where it rests on his chest. You speak a blessing over him, as is tradition.

He doesn’t dare try to hold your hand, but he holds your gaze instead. 

“Thank you, Princess,” he says.

You smile at him, the kind that makes his face warm inexplicably. Then you turn to rejoin your Lady. 

Dean wonders if he imagined the brief, warm touch on his arm.

Now, ten years later, Dean watches you stare out across a field blanketed by an emerald sea. Its blades of grass are gently tossed by the wind, along with your hair. 

Your skin is numb. That wind dries your tears, but you’re still reluctant to turn back to him. It is a cruel thing that he should be the one who always sees you at your worst, you think.

“Am I selfish for not wanting to leave my home?” you ask. “It is a fate my mother survived, so why not I?”

“It may not be forever,” Dean says, after a moment. “You can come back and visit your father.”

“The distance from Hallstein is over a month away by ship,” you remind him. “I would be lucky to return once a year.”

The wind urges you forward, closer to the forest that borders your kingdom on the east side. That dense line of trees looks darker now that the day has become overcast, dimming to orange and violet shades in the evening. There’s something about the forest’s vastness that fascinates you. You’ve often wondered what it would be like to venture in, a natural maze, a wild garden tended by no one.

“Princess,” Dean calls a warning. 

Over the years, this forest has become the bane of the kingdom. Civilians, merchants, even knights have reported hearing unearthly sounds, seeing strange movement in the trees. Travelers have even disappeared on the road. They call it the Blackwood.

The longer your gaze focuses on the dappled light flickering between the trees, you think you begin to see a curling vine. A shadowed shape. There’s a whisper on the wind, growing stronger. It drowns out all other voices… 

Until Dean grabs your wrist. His touch is a firebrand, and his brows are firmly knitted when he asks, “What are you doing?” 

You blink as you turn to him, half an apology on your tongue. When you turn back to the forest ahead, whatever you thought you saw is merely shadow and wood.

Yule and Christmas both fall at the end of December, and are therefore celebrated one after the other in your kingdom. Ordinarily, this is your favorite time of year.

Already you can smell mulled wine and spices on the air as the castle bustles with preparations that will continue late into the evening, along with the excited chatter of the maids as they discuss the decorations. Even Lady Margaret has a certain spring in her step.  

You can’t bring yourself to match their cheer, however. The spark dimmed all too quickly when you realized this would likely be the last Yuletide you would celebrate in your home. 

Dean notices as he escorts you to your chambers. There he hands off his duties to Sir Benjamin, who serves your evening watch. 

You turn to Dean and ask, “Would you mind coming a little earlier in the morning, so we can go out to ride again at dawn?”

He smiles slightly, indulging you with a nod.

“As you wish.”

“Thank you,” you say, with a small smile of your own. Yet it doesn’t reach your eyes.

You then bid both men a goodnight. After you retire to your chambers, Benjamin gives Dean a knowing look. They’ve been friends since the start of their apprenticeships, and they know each other well. 

“She has the touch of melancholy,” Ben says. 

“Wouldn’t you?” Dean replies. “Everything she knows is about to change.”

Dean later shares dinner with Sam in their shared lodgings within the castle. Knights are given rooms in the West Tower of the castle. For the brothers, it’s a home of convenience. 

Their father died just four years ago. Traditionally, that would leave the Winchester estate to Dean, as the eldest son. On paper, it’s his to inherit. However, he’s had to leave much of the day-to-day running of it to Sam and their mother, Mary.

For her, the responsibility is nothing new. John’s duty as your day guard had occupied most of his days, as it now occupies Dean’s. Sam and Ben alternate on your evening watch, which allows Sam more time to help Mary with the estate.

Dean is unable to see home as much as he would like, but he’s grateful for evenings like these shared with his brother, before Sam leaves in the morning. He will spend the rest of December at home, while Dean will remain here into the new year.

By now, Dean has bathed and stripped his armor, but he still feels its weight. Or maybe it’s a different sort of burden he feels, weighing on his chest rather than his shoulders. Sam notices, casting his brother a glance as he sips some ale.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sam says.

“I’m fine,” Dean replies. “Just tired.”

“Tired, or coming to terms?” Sam counters.

It earns Dean’s furrowed brows. “With what?”

“With the fact that things will soon be different, for her and for you,” Sam says. His eyes are knowing, but not unkind.

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to acknowledge everything his brother is implying, so he settles on stating the obvious.

“She has her duty, and we have ours.”

Even on Yule, a crisp twenty-first of December, Dean must serve his watch. 

The smell of smoke and spice lingers in the air from roasted meats. The women wear holly in their hair, and families and lovers alike indulge in games and feasting in the dining hall. Many of the knights who live in the castle are given leave to be with their families and friends there, trading stories and laughter, well-wishing and gifts, cinnamon apple tarts and kisses. 

Dean lost you in the fray for a few minutes, but he soon finds you after one of your maids points him in the direction of the courtyard. He grabs two mugs of wassails, as well as the fur cape you left inside. He ventures out and finds you in the garden. There you sit on the cold bench and sing a soft kind of melody, the one your mother sang when you were a child. 

“Do you mean to wake the trees with a lullaby?” he asks. 

A smile flickers at your lips. “I meant it to lift their spirits as well as my own, but I doubt I’ve succeeded.”

He brings you a cup of wassails. “This will warm you.”

His hand brushes yours, and he feels the coldness of your skin. He hesitates just slightly before he holds your hand around the cup, setting down his own. He frowns and sits beside you on the bench. 

“How long have you been here? You’re ice-cold,” he says. 

“I suppose I have sat here too long,” you acknowledge.

He would like to tease you into a smile, but your unusually dour face discourages him. 

“Here,” he says instead. He guides you to your feet and wraps your fur cape around your shoulders. “You could have at least worn this. Please be more sensible, for your own sake.”

“Excuse me?” you frown up at him, even as you take the offered coat. “I’m not a child.”

“I know that. Yet you insist on sitting alone in your melancholy,” he replies, before he could think better of it.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” you snap. “I am sorry that I cannot be cheerful and sensible at all hours of the day. I am sorry if I cannot bring myself to care if I become ill. Maybe in my absent-minded, selfish heart, that will delay the world for a while.”

You drink the wassails he brought you, all in one long gulp. The spiced alcohol goes straight to your head in a heady rush. You suck in a few breaths, and only then do you realize how immature you sound.

Dean’s brows are raised, but he doesn’t censure you again, like you expect. He gives you a nod of respect and busies his hands with retrieving his leather gloves from his pocket and putting them back on, now that yours are warm enough.

“The apology is mine,” he says. “It’s not my place to reprimand you.”

Your heart weakens further. You contemplate your empty cup, tapping a nail on the side.

“The signed letter of agreement arrived from Hallstein this morning,” you reveal. “It’s done. The prince will come for me.” 

Dean processes that with new understanding. Before, the arrangement was still an idea. Now it is confirmed.

“My ladies are brimming with excitement, already talking of the wedding preparations. A new life, they say I will have,” you say with a chuckle, despite the tears brimming in your eyes. “I don’t know why it causes me such dread. The man could be perfectly agreeable. Or, he could have a terrible wheeze when he laughs. Or have a disgusting vice, like pipe smoking or gambling.”

“He could have a terribly receding hairline,” Dean adds.

You snort in amusement. “And a furry headpiece to cover it, like Lord Marvin. I do think he had some poor animal skinned for it.”

“I’ve always wondered if it has fleas. He really should invest in a decent wig,” Dean smirks.

He makes you laugh. Laugh through the beginnings of tears.

Dean can’t help treat you gently, his gloved hand reaching up to hold your cheek. Your eyes flick up to him in surprise. He collects your tears with a swipe of his thumb, leather against soft skin. You hold his hand afterward, allowing it to fall gently entwined between you.

“Do you know, I think you may be my only true friend in the world,” you say.

Dean finds that hard to believe. “You are beloved, Princess—by everyone in this place, and in this country.”

“But do they know me?” you counter. You shake your head at the thought. “If I am beloved, it’s only the idea of me. I am beginning to wonder what a royal is in this world, if but a symbol. And what does that symbol truly represent?”

“Hope,” Dean says, after a moment. “And security. Your family makes the people feel safe.”

“Well,” you say, your lips forming a small, but more genuine smile. Your eyes hold a familiar teasing spark. “Then I suppose you are my prince.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. His brows furrow and his mouth falls open in surprise, along with his hand away from yours. 

You hold your laughter behind your hand at that look on his face. You get up to leave him behind in the cold, and in the wake of you. 

“Please forgive my teasing. It’s just that your expressions do amuse me, Sir Dean,” you say, still with a certain smile on your face. “Come, let’s venture inside before you become a block of ice there. I doubt your brother will want to thaw you when he returns.”

Dean huffs, shaking his head in annoyance. 

You really are a vexing woman.

The day you meet your betrothed goes better than you expected. 

The Prince of Hallstein is handsome, you suppose. His frame is tall and lithe, his features angular and distinct, his hair a dark brown, his eyes a lighter blue. There are already marks of distinguished gray in his well-kept beard. 

His eyes follow you while you give him a formal greeting, a curtsy that used to strain your neck and back when you were young. Now it feels second nature. 

“It’s my honor to meet you, Princess,” Alastair says. “I’ve traveled far to meet you, and the anticipation has only built each day.”

“Then I do hope it’s not a disappointment,” you say.

He bows and kisses the back of your hand, lingering there as he stares up into your eyes.

“On the contrary. You are a rare beauty to behold,” he says. His smile seems genuine, making you smile in return.

Dean stands behind and to the left of you, as always. His face remains stoic, hiding the deeper shadows underneath.

When King Damian volunteers you to host a tour of the castle, Alastair is polite and interested to accompany you. He allows you to explain each room you show him, as well as each bit of history and point of interest in the tapestries and artwork on the walls. He occasionally interjects with a question or two, which allows you to continue explaining what makes this place your home.

“That way is the kitchen,” you point down to the halls that already smell lovely and sweet. “Oh, they must be making pies for this evening. That smells like strawberry and rhubarb, one of Sir Dean’s favorites.”

You give him a smile over your shoulder. Dean keeps his more reserved, noticing how Alastair watches your exchange.  

“What is your favorite cuisine, Princess?” Alastair asks.

“Hmm, I’m partial to roast chicken, but I have a weakness for apple tarts. The apples produced in the orchard are lovely.”

“You have orchards here, in the castle?”

“Oh, yes. My mother and I planted them together when I was a child,” you reply. “Now the garden is almost overrun.”

“Then I should like to see it,” Alastair says.

You blink in surprise. “Really?”

“Indeed, I would.”

You never thought the prince would be interested in your garden.

“Well, all right then,” you reply.

You lead the way, with the prince keeping hold of your arm in his. 

Dean follows behind.

You and Alastair take a moment to sit beneath your favorite tree, eating a pair of apples with afternoon tea. When he compliments the garden and asks who tends to it, you admit that you help the gardeners almost every day.

“They are a marvel to me. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to grow fruits such as these in Hallstein,” Alastair says. “It snows for most of the year.” 

Your attitude deflates. “Oh, really? Does very much grow there?”

“Trees, yes. Potatoes and other necessities, I suppose, but not much else of delight, I’m afraid. The rest we acquire through trade,” he says. “You may not have need to tend a garden, but you will be comfortable in my home. I will see that you have warmer clothes made.”

You fall quiet. You set down your tea, half-finished.

As if sensing your change of mood, Alastair turns to you with a smile.

“Is there anything else I should see of your country?” he asks. “Perhaps another favorite place of yours?”

You’re grateful for the fresh air as the carriage ventures out of the castle bounds and into town. You were beginning to feel stifled.

For once, you’re also grateful to be alone with Margaret. You don’t need to hold yourself so rigidly. 

You glance out the window, and there you find Dean and his men on horseback, riding on either side of your carriage. You can’t help but admire your guard. His armor gleams in the sunlight, and there’s a casual, controlled power in the way he rides. In the steady line of his broad shoulders.

It’s the same when he stands or moves; he’s at ease, but he is also ready—to draw his sword, to act. He was well-trained by his father, but you also believe that Dean was born to become what he is. A natural warrior.

He glances your way and gives you a nod, with a slight upward tug of the lips. You smile, holding his gaze for a moment. Then you sit back in your seat. Margaret glances at you curiously.

“What is so amusing as to warrant that expression?” she asks. 

“I just love coming to the city,” you reply.

“Why? For cheap trinkets, the crowded streets, or the influx of criminals?”

You laugh. How she exaggerates. “I admire it for what it is, the reality of life.” 

“Your life is just as real as theirs,” she points out. “Pain is pain. Joy is joy. The only difference is how you perceive them.”

Your mirth fades. Perhaps there’s some truth in that.

Suddenly the carriage feels stifling as well. You open the small hatch that separates you from the coachman, and you ask him to stop.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asks.

“I need some fresh air,” you reply.

“The air is no fresher out there than it is in here.”

“Come on,” you encourage as the footman opens the door. “After riding so long it’ll be good to stretch our legs.”

“My legs have no need for stretching,” she quips, and is quite content to stay in the carriage where she won’t have to endure the dust and grime of the common road, as well as common people.

Dean dismounts his horse and offers you his hand after the footman helps you out, even as he frowns.  

“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out here, Princess. We could soon be overrun,” he whispers to you. 

The prince’s carriage behind yours also stops. Alastair wears a look of wary confusion as he steps out to meet you. 

“Are we meant to stop here?” he asks. He takes in the storefronts and vendors peddling their wares.

“Yes!” you say. “I would like to show you the city, and this is the largest road where most commerce takes place.” 

The prince grimaces in distaste when a nearby fishmonger shouts his way after chopping the head of a tuna. “Fresh fish!”

It doesn’t smell particularly fresh.

“I see,” Alastair remarks.

“Stay close, Princess. Let’s keep moving,” Dean warns. They are drawing spectators, curious eyes recognizing the green and gold banners of the royal carriages. They begin to recognize you as well, excited chatter and spectators stopping in the streets to catch a glimpse of you.

Dean’s left hand rests on the hilt of his sword as he steps in front you, his right hand on his belt. Against his advice, you linger to greet the crowd. It’s not just your attempt to be kind; if this is one of the last times you will get to visit these streets, you want to connect with your people. You want to know them, and you want to be more than a living symbol.

Dean shares warning looks with his men. It’s not often that you’re close enough for the people to touch, and that can inspire undue boldness.

When an excited woman reaches for your arm, Dean steps in between with a censuring word. He and his men try to form a kind of perimeter around you and the prince, but the people begin to crowd them, pushing and shoving to try and speak to you, wishing you well, asking for blessings, or gold, or more salacious things.

In the confusion, you shuffle too close to the horses. Dean hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you toward him when one of the stallions spooks, nearly trampling you. 

“Stay close,” he says firmly. “Back to the carriage.”

For once, you concede his point without argument. You nod and try to follow his guiding hand, but he soon becomes distracted when a man tries to break past him and grab the gold chain right off your wrist. 

His jaw clenching, Dean rears back his armor-plated elbow into the man’s face.

You lose Dean’s steady grip on your shoulder, as well as your path as you try to find some breathing room from the crowd closing in. The road beneath your feet is dusty and uneven cobblestone. Your heel finds a narrow crack, and a gasp escapes you when you lose your balance.  

A man dressed in a dingy brown robe helps you after you stumble, nearly falling in the dirt. You look up and meet a gruff face.

“Get back!” Dean shouts. He and his men continue to push against the teeming crowd.

By the time Dean turns back to find you and make sure you’re all right, he realizes you’re no longer at his side. His eyes widen. 

“Princess?”

He calls out to you several times, but he doesn’t find you in the mobbing street or in the carriage with Margaret. The woman rails with worry, but Dean calms her down, promising that he’ll find you. 

He mounts his horse again, and his next orders are sharp and exacting for his men.

He commands Jack, a young knight newly entered into the royal order, to blow the horn of warning. The sound carries loudly in the streets. Dean draws his sword and spurs his horse onward through the dispersing crowd.

“Where is the princess?” he shouts. “Speak! The longer it takes, the more severe the punishment will be. That’s a promise.”

Dean’s horse stamps as impatiently, and almost as agitated, as his rider. Her black coat shines in the afternoon light.

Alastair watches the knight from the open window of his carriage, considering and calculating. 

Dean oversees his men checking every house, shop, and vendor cart along the busy road, but no one can give a straight answer as to the whereabouts of the princess. 

The sun begins to bow toward the horizon, marking Dean’s frustration and growing worry underneath. His chest is tight with failure. How the hell could he have lost you? You were at his side. He had you in his hands…

A young member of the clergy dressed in a humble gray robe steps forward to approach Dean’s horse.  

“Apologies, Sir Knight,” he greets, but he beckons Dean to bend closer and receive a quiet message. 

“The princess is safe,” he whispers. “She awaits you at the church. Will you follow me?”

Dean’s firm expression lessens slightly in relief. He nods and urges his horse onward.

He finds you, of all things, having tea and shortbread with the friar of the local church. Dean strides in through the large double doors. His boots fall heavy on the tile floor while shards of color—cobalt, red, and gold—hit his back through the stretch of stained-glass windows.

The sanctuary is quiet, with rows of empty wooden pews and wax candles lit along the wall. The smell of incense and smoke linger in the air. 

All Dean cares about is the way you sit there peacefully in the first row, sipping from a simple cup. The picture you form is an instant relief, abating the tightness in his chest. But it’s also a little maddening.

You smile at the sight of him. 

“Dean! Oh, there you are. You look tired. Here, would you like some tea? Or some cookies. I know you like shortbread—”

“No,” Dean snaps. “I told you to stay by my side.”

You blink up at him in surprise, your smile fading. “I know, I’m sorry. I was struggling in the crowd, but Father Robert found me and helped me.”

After a moment, Dean relents, turning to the other man with a grateful nod. 

“Thank you,” Dean says.

Father Robert nods in respect, absently stroking his beard. “It’s no trouble.”

Dean arches a brow though, noticing the other man’s simple brown robes that are still dusty from the road.

“You’re a priest? You’re dressed like a friar.”

Father Robert glances down at his humble clothes and shrugs.

“It’s more comfortable. Easier to get around too.” 

Dean tilts his head at that, not really knowing what to make of it. Any priest he’s ever met has been all too happy to remind others of how much closer to God he is, judging by the fine fabric of his robes.

Dean turns to you and more gently offers his hand. You accept, allowing him to help you stand. 

You give the clergyman a polite bow of your head.

“Thank you again for your help. You’ve been a gracious host.”

“Think nothing of it, Princess.”

You grace a sincere smile on him. “On the contrary. I shall think quite a lot of it.”

You allow Dean to lead you out of the church. You linger close to his side and wrap your hand around his arm. He holds your hand there, even as he opens the door for you.

Father Robert watches you and the knight with a slight smile crossing his lips.

Once you return to the castle, safely behind its walls and arrived at your chamber door, Dean stiffly bids you goodnight. You hesitate at the door, your fingers poised on the brass knob.

“I’m sorry for not heeding your warnings in the city,” you say softly, “and for not following your directions well enough. I know your duty is to protect me, and I made it more difficult for you to do so.” 

His eyes linger on your contrite face, the downturn of your lips. He sighs, letting some of the tension fade from his shoulders. His lingering anger isn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he says. “It was…ungentlemanly at best. Impertinent at worst.” 

He earns your gaze, where he meets you directly. 

“Forgive me,” he says.

Only he could say it in a way that demands without demanding. You smile in amusement, but with a warmer note underneath. 

“If we were to tally your impertinences, I dare say it would become a novel,” you remark.

He smirks. “At least it would be a novel worth reading.”

You laugh, shaking your head. 

With that, he hands off his watch to Ben, who approaches in the hall. Dean is on his way to his lodging in the West Tower when he’s stopped by Prince Alastair. 

“Do you have a moment, Sir?” he asks.

Dean is exhausted, starving, covered in dust and grime from the road. The last thing he needs is to be derailed by the prince, who didn’t lift so much as a finger to help his men find you. Dean supposes that sort of chivalry would be too much for a powdered lord.  

“How can I be of service?” he says.

Alastair gathers his hands behind his back as he joins Dean more fully in the hall. 

“May I ask how long you’ve served as the princess’s guard?” 

“Four years,” Dean admits. 

Alastair nods. “And your brother shares her night’s watch rotation with Sir Benjamin, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Dean says. Though his brows draw together. “Are you curious about my family, Prince Alastair?”

“I simply want to know the men who protect my future wife,” says the prince. There’s a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “Your father was also a knight, was he not?”

“Yes. He served the princess before me,” Dean replies. Four years ago, his father suffered an attack on his heart. The healers presumed stress to be the cause, as well as the toll of running the family estate while committing to his duty to the Crown.

A man can only serve on two fronts for so long, as one of them said. Dean had nearly served him a blow for it, if not for Sam holding him back.

“For how long?” Alastair asks, disrupting Dean from his thoughts.

“Since she was born,” he replies curtly.

“Ah, so it is a generational profession.”

Dean considers that for a moment. “I suppose it is.”

Alastair briefly smiles. “I’m sure you’re quite fond of her then. You watch over her well.”

Dean hesitates. In those seconds, the prince reads more than words. He reads exactly what he’s suspected throughout the day, and it displeases him. Not that he shows it.

“It’s my duty, Your Highness,” Dean replies.

“Of course.” Alastair nods. And he calculates.

“In that case,” he says, “I do hope you will be joining us in in Hallstein. Your conduct was most impressive this afternoon.”

Dean’s brows furrow slightly. He wouldn’t say that what happened today was a glowing testament to his skills. You slipped out of his grasp much too easily. If it weren’t for the clergymen, you might’ve been trampled by the crowd, or worse. He has to wonder what the prince is getting at.

“It will be as my king commands,” Dean says.

“I understand,” says Alastair. He steps in closer, and his voice lowers a touch. 

“On our wedding day, I should like you to stand watch in the evening as well. It would ease my mind a great deal knowing you are just outside the door, should anything transpire,” he says. A slight smile tugs at his thin lips. “Well, anything outside of her marital duties. Do not take all sounds for distress.”

The only reaction that escapes is a tick of Dean’s jaw.

“It will be as my king commands,” he repeats. This time, there lies an undercurrent of steel.

“Yes. Perhaps I will speak with your king,” Alastair says.

Dean finds a way to hold his tongue, and gives the prince a brief nod instead. Alastair’s smile has a touch of winding, like a serpent. He then retires to his guest chambers.

Dean remains in the hall.

Finally, when all is silent, he forces his feet to move. As he goes, his leather gloves cinch tightly into fists.

AN: 😬 cue the Law and Order bell lol. What do we think about Sir Dean and his friendship with the princess? Needless to say, both of them are going to have a very important choice to make, even if their futures seem to be laid out before them here.

Next Time:

The king becomes thoughtful, an idea growing in his mind. “Let us say your brother remains here and continues to serve me. If you were to accompany my daughter to the north, know that I would see to it that your estate is well cared for, including your mother.”

Dean’s brows raise marginally. “How so?”

“With generous funding, of course,” Damian says with a smile. “I imagine the Winchester coffers are far from empty, but if you were to indulge me in this, they will soon be overflowing. I will ensure it is so for generations.”

Dean’s mind spins with fractals of indecision. The choice laid out before him is heavy, pressing on him from what feels like all angles. Damian notices his difficulty, though Dean wonders how much he truly sees.

“That’s too generous, Your Majesty,” Dean says at last.

“It would come at no great cost to me. On the contrary, it would allow me to honor your father once more,” says the king. But he has a shrewd eye, and he sees that Dean still struggles. “Think on it well. I will give you until the day of the wedding to decide.”

᯽ Keep Reading: Part 2

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato CD @deans-spinster-witch

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@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

Adoration || Summary: it’s no secret Dean adores her.

All the Snuggles || Summary: even after a hard day of work, Dean never fails to make you feel loved.

And Another One Bites || Summary: dean loves seeing all of your piercings.. who knows which one you’ll have next for him?

Big Celebrations || Summary: Dean never had the chance - nor the care- to celebrate his birthday. While on a hunt in his hometown, you come up with a plan to make his day even better.

Birds, The Bee and All Of What’s In Between || Summary: Jacks asks you and Dean about the Birds & the Bees.

Christmas Lights || Summary: You help Dean set up holiday lights outside the bunker

Don’t Push It || Summary: Dean gets hurt on a hunt… yet your heart’s the one that ceases.

Freckles and Green Eyes || Summary: You and Dean had a lazy morning.

Gothic Games || Summary: he loved messing with you. this time, you mess with him back.

Half Asleep With You || Summary: Cuddling with Dean has never felt better

Heartbeat || Summary: dean's in love with your belly.

Impala Drama || Summary: you find out your best friend, Crowley, painted your boyfriend’s beloved car. [high school au]

Love of the Rivaling Seaboard || Summary: After being at sea for months at a time, you'd never expect to see your 'rival' at the docks with your crew...however the reunion is anything but hostile. [pirate dean]

My Fierce One || Summary: Dean absolutely loves how feral you can be.

Sleeping Cuddles || Summary: One morning laying next to Dean.

Swap Happens || Summary: Dean Winchester thought he’d seen it all—angels, demons, ghosts…normal Winchester life. What he never expected… was a goddamn body swap.

We’re Just Friends || Summary: yeah, totally NOT a Thing, huh?

WHERE'S THE PIE? || Summary: you make Dean a pie and he goes absolutely bananas over it.

“She wished she could explore his body and inspect him. Learn him and memorize him. That way she'd know what to miss when he was gone. Sam was heartbreakingly, hauntingly beautiful. It made her heart hurt. This couldn't end well.”  −Mary H.K. Choi, Emergency Contact

It was just your luck that the heavens opened right before your long walk back home. 

You curse under your breath that you had naïvely ventured out unprepared, without an umbrella or even a coat. It was a humid summer evening, but the night is drenched in relentless rain, the kind that clung to your skin and mingled with the city's distant lights. 

You shouldn’t be out this late, you know that like everyone else does, but you hadn’t been able to shake off a feeling of restlessness, as if something was calling out to you, that had brought you out.  

The Garrison is still open, light spilling gold against the wet pavement. Voices drift out, accompanied by laughter that sounded too loud and too forced and the clinking of glasses. You hesitate at the street corner, wondering whether you should just turn back, but your feet start to move as if no longer under your control towards the pub. 

You hurry along the slick pavement, picking up the pace, yearning for the safety and solace of somewhere familiar. It hadn’t been the best of days; the interview you had attended only a few hours earlier had taken an age and the pervy old goat who had been conducting it you swear had kept you in that room with him longer than was needed. 

You shudder as you remember his leery look, taking in your attire −a casual but smart black dress− the moment you had walked into his small office that absolutely stank of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor. You would kill your friend who had told you only this morning that there was an opening in the small…

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the misty veil, colliding with you. His dark silhouette, framed by the downpour, exuded an undeniable magnetism and when you look up, your eyes meeting, something that feels like an electrical jolt surging between you. You find herself inexplicably drawn to him, the rain blurring everything but the fierce connection that seemed to burn in the space between you. 

You knew him, you’d know him anywhere −who didn’t? You had bumped straight into none other than Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders. And here you were, caught like a rabbit in headlights right under his blue, penetrative stare, unable to move or even utter any coherent word. 

Droplets of the heavy rain that cascaded down relentlessly ran small rivers along the hard lines of that well known, handsome face to drip down over the front of his dark navy suit. Your eyes were drawn to that quick clench at his jaw, the slight parting of those lips that glistened with watery moistness. 

He tilts his head slightly to one side and peruses you with a fresh, lingering amusement for a moment, and you suddenly feel as though you aren’t wearing a stitch as his gaze takes in your sodden state from head to toe. You straighten yourself, determined not to be ridiculed even if you were drenched, and even if he was the infamous Tommy Shelby. You had your pride after all. 

He arches an eyebrow, astutely noticing your change in stature, and this time he looks you deep in the eyes, finally addressing you in that deep, gravelly voice you had never heard this close to you before. “You alright, love?”

Your senses come alive, as though they are like paper that has just been lit with a match, and you start to become aware of the way his presence seems to be pulling you in like a magnet you are powerless to resist. You manage to nod at him, biting down so hard at your tongue you make a sudden noise. 

“Can I get you someplace?” he offers unexpectedly. “It’s not ideal weather for a pretty young girl to be out in so late.”

“Uh−,” you stammer, fighting to find your voice suddenly. “Actually, I was just going there.” You gesture towards the pub. 

“I see,” he says. “Come on then, I’ll walk you.”

He has the manner of someone who wasn’t used to anyone saying no −not that you would have said no anyway. It was Tommy Shelby, escorting you to the Garrison. This was a turnup for the books. 

Tommy makes his way to a table at the back, where he takes a seat with his back to the wall, cap dipped low over his eyes. You can feel the way the room bends around him, even if you hadn’t been looking at him. You’ve heard enough to know better than to stare, but you can’t help yourself. 

His gaze lifts and meets yours with something that presses like the air before a storm breaks. You look away first. There are empty tables, but none feel right, feeling too exposed or close, and you consider leaving again.

“Sit.” 

The word cuts clean through the room, not loud but absolute. You don’t move at first, telling yourself he couldn’t possibly mean you −but when you glance back, he’s looking right at you, there’s no mistaking it.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Tommy adds, quieter now. 

You cross the room, unhurried and without hesitation. The chair scrapes softly as you sit opposite him carefully, aware of every eye that follows you. 

Up close and in this lighting, he doesn’t look how you had expected. He’s sharper somehow −not just the lines of his face, but the edges of him, as if he’s been carved down to something essential. There’s a bruise darkening along his jaw, half-hidden beneath shadow, and rainwater still clings stubbornly to his damp collar. 

His eyes are the bluest blue you had ever seen. Like cerulean pools you wanted to dive into and get lost. 

“You make a habit of being out so late?” he ventures.

“No,” you reply, a little too quickly, defensive. ”−Do you?” 

It slips out before you can stop yourself. Tommy looks at you, his gaze so piercing it feels like he can see right into your soul. You see the flicker of a smile at the corners of his lips, but not quite. How could you ask him something so stupid? 

You fold your hands in your lap, steadying them, waiting as he considers you. His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing something, and you expect him to dismiss you with a curt remark. Instead, he leans back, the chair creaking softly. “I do,” he says matter-of-factly, “−because I have to. But as it happens, tonight I just didn’t want to be alone.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession, or even something vulnerable in the way most people would mean it −but his words find their way under your skin. You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all.

Tommy studies you again, longer this time. There’s a calculation there, yes, but also something else, and you can feel it like a thread pulled taut between you.

“What’s your name, love?” he asks.

“Y/N.”

He repeats it once, under his breath, as if testing how it feels. Then he nods, satisfied. “Drink?” he offers, gesturing vaguely toward the bar.

You shake your head. “I should probably−.”

“It’s already paid for,” he interrupts. “Everything in this place is tonight.”

You glance around, seeing the looseness that surrounds you −even the way people avoid looking directly at him, even in their gratitude. “You bought silence,” you state. 

“I bought a little peace,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“And which one did you want?”

“Which one do you think I got?”

You don’t answer, you don’t think he expects you to. A barmaid appears, setting a glass of something amber that smells strong in front of you anyway. You don’t touch it, and Tommy glances at you through long, lowered lashes. “You don’t drink?” he asks.

“Not when I don’t know what it is.”

“Good,” he says, a flicker of what looks like approval crossing his face. “That’s good. You should always be careful, you never know who you can trust.” 

“So, what is it?” you ask. 

He stills, continuing to survey you for a beat as he pulls out a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his suit jacket. “It’s the finest whiskey served here,” he tells you. He offers the box towards you, but you shake your head no, and he pulls one out for himself. “It’s not poisoned, I guarantee it. I’d hate to watch a perfectly good drink go to waste.”

You reach for the glass as he lights up, bringing it to your lips almost in a daze. The first sip burns, but you hold fast and take another before setting the drink down. “It’s good,” you tell him. 

The corners of his mouth twitch in the beginnings of a smile, which doesn’t quite materialise as he exhales a plume of white smoke into the already cloggy air. His eyes are just as blue through the haze, as if they were the sky through the clouds. “Yeah?”

You nod, taking another hurried sip as if to highlight your opinion. A silence stretches around you, not uncomfortable or strained, but more like a suspension, as if something is waiting to surface at any moment. 

“Do I make you nervous?” Tommy asks suddenly. 

“No,” you state as boldly as you can. But the truth is he did make you nervous. 

He smirks. “You don’t have to stay if I’m making you nervous. I won’t stop you.”

“I’m not leaving,” you state resolutely. 

You can’t help but think about the weight of his attention and the way it anchors you in place more effectively than any hand could. The right thing to do would be to leave. 

Tommy looks at you curiously, leaning forward, elbows on the table with his fingers laced loosely. The movement brings him closer, into the dim light, and you see the fatigue etched deeper than you first realized.

“Then stay,” he says, sounding softer now. 

It’s not a command this time, but something closer to a request. You don’t ask why, because you’re not sure you want the answer. Time passes strangely after that. The room shifts around you, people coming and going, laughter rising and falling, but your world narrows to the space between you and him.

He speaks in fragments. Not stories or explanations, but just pieces. A comment about the rain, a remark about the city, or a question −occasionally about you. You answer carefully, choosing not to be evasive but not revealing much either. You get the sense he’s the kind of man who would notice the difference.

At some point, the crowd thins as people leave, one by one, until the pub feels hollowed out, echoing.

“You should probably go, love,” he says again, though there’s less insistence in it now, his eyes seem to be conveying an entirely different message as they flicker over your mouth. 

You flush and sit up straighter, wishing you had another drink ready, but you had thrown back the remains of the one you had been nursing whilst you had been listening in fascination to this man talk. Trying your hardest not to notice just how beautifully mesmerising he was. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I should.” 

But you don’t move a muscle, and you see the small tick of his jaw, as if he were swallowing back something he wanted to say that never quite makes it out. 

“You keep ignoring my suggestion,” he states finally. 

“Maybe I don’t trust you,” you retort, holding your own. 

That gets his attention and his gaze sharpens, something sparking behind those icy blues. “Smart girl,” he says. “And what about you −do you trust yourself?” 

The question hangs between you, heavier than anything that’s come before, and you feel it settle in your chest dangerously, laden with something that feels a lot like innuendo. 

You swallow, averting your eyes, but you don’t answer. Tommy simply watches you silently, and he doesn’t press for a response. Then he nods, once. “Fair enough,” he shrugs. 

The barmaid approaches again a little hesitantly. “Mr. Shelby, uh− we’re closing.”

He doesn’t look at her, his eyes focused solely on you. “Give us a minute.”

The woman nods quickly and disappears. Silence returns, thicker now, edged with something unspoken.

Tommy exhales; a slow and controlled breath. “You don’t belong here,” he tells you after a while. “You’re far too innocent for places like this.”

You bite at your lip, your face colouring with indignation. He made you sound as if you were just a girl who had indulged in underage drinking. “I’m not a child,” you snap, unable to hold back. 

He leans back, unphased by your outburst. You don’t feel like apologising either, still smarting at his patronising tone. 

“No,” he says, eyes appraising your face very slowly, lowering to the neckline of your dress and down to where the slightest hint of your cleavage was visible, “−You are most certainly not a child.”

“I’d like another,” you state, “Drink, please.”

Tommy smirks again but registers no surprise as he gets the barmaid’s attention with a click of his fingers and calls out for another whisky. “I like people who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it.”

You give him a tight smile, you hadn’t forgiven him just yet. Not even if his eyes were oceans you wanted to jump into, and his lips were slices of illicit sin you wanted to feel on every bare inch of your skin. 

Two new drinks are set out on the table in front of you, one for you and one for him. “Do you know who I am, love?” he asks, gesturing for you to go ahead and take your glass. 

“I know who you are.”

“Hmm, yes.” His tone is flat and unreadable. “Stories travel fast.”

“I’ve never heard stories about this version of you,” you tell him after a long sip, the burn at your throat feeling good, and alcohol bravery disguised as bravery fills your blood. “The one where you’re not beating people up.”

Tommy lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “That’s because this version doesn’t last.”

He seems so sad beneath the words, and you feel a pang in your heart of something. You soften, deciding to forgive him now. Instead, you want to know more. “Why not?”

Tommy looks at you as if deciding how much truth you’re worth. “Because it’s dangerous,” he replies. “For me, and for anyone near me.”

“But you asked me to stay.”

“I didn’t ask,” he corrects automatically, as if the distinction mattered more than it should. “I just didn’t stop you either.”

“Maybe you wanted someone to see the part of you that doesn’t want to be alone,” you suggest. 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you wonder whether you’ve gone too far. That he might shut down and retreat behind whatever walls he’s built.

“You think that’s what this is?” he asks quietly. 

“I think that maybe you wouldn’t still be sitting here if it wasn’t,” you reply cautiously. 

A long pause ensues, and you swear you can hear the thudding of your heartbeat louder than the rain outside. 

“You’re not afraid to speak your piece,” he observes, giving you that almost-smile again, faint and fleeting. “I like it.”

“Seems like you need to hear it.”

“Touché.”

Then he stands, smooth and deliberate, and for a moment you feel the loss of his presence like a shift in gravity. You rise too, unsure what happens next. Tommy reaches for his coat, shrugging it on, then pauses to look at you.

“You’ve got somewhere to go?” he asks.

“Yes, home.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t leave yet, and the distance between you feels more significant than it did before. He studies you again, something unreadable passing through his expression. “Let me walk you out,” he says, surprising you.

You nod politely, letting him escort you to the Garrison doors, and for some reason the thought of your impending goodbye leaves you feeling oddly jaded. 

Outside, the rain has eased to a mist, the air cool and sharp. The street is nearly empty, lamplight reflecting in puddles. You step out together, the door closing behind you with a finality that seems louder than it should, and for a moment, you just stand there.

He turns to you, and you can feel something in the air around you. His posture changes, as if the distance he’s been holding so carefully wavers. “You’re not making this easy, are you, love?” he murmurs.

“I’m not trying−.”

“Y/N,” he interjects, taking a step closer to you. 

You can feel his presence, the heat of him around you, drawing you in. Your heart thumps behind your ribs with anticipation but you don’t know of what. All you can think of is how your name sounds on his lips. 

“Why didn’t you bring a jacket?” he asks softly. “Didn’t you see the rain?”

“I didn’t expect−,” you begin, “I was on my way home from an interview. It wasn’t raining when I left.”

He exhales, something like frustration threading through it. “And you thought going around alone in that dress was a good idea, eh?” 

His question shocks you, and you take a step back. What did he mean? What was he trying to suggest? 

“I’m not−.”

“You really don’t know how much danger you could have been in,” he warns sternly. “Alone, in this rain, in the dark. What if it hadn’t been me you ran into? What then, eh?”

You stare back at him, seeing past the sharp edges and the controlled exterior, where you can see something raw and tightly held. Something you sense he was trying not to show. 

“But it was you,” you say calmly. 

Those blue eyes pin yours as if marvelling at your defiance yet cautioning you that those stories you’d heard weren’t just stories. 

“You’re trouble,” he says quietly, the space between you disappearing inch by inch, until you can feel his breath, warm against your skin. You are so aware of your body willing him closer yet, wanting him to touch you. 

“So are you,” you reply quietly. 

“This is a mistake,” he says, eyes searching yours, although there’s no conviction in it.

You say nothing. Tommy lifts a hand, hesitating for a beat before it settles lightly at your jaw, fingers cool against your skin. You lean into it before you can stop yourself, and that’s when the last thread of his restraint snaps. 

His mouth collides against yours, the tension in the kiss high with a push and pull that makes your breath hitch. His hand tightens on you as you answer the kiss with equal certainty. Rain drifts around you, soft and steady, but you barely notice because in that instant, you are focused on how Tommy is letting go of whatever he’s been holding. The kiss deepens, his control slipping just enough to reveal something real beneath it. 

And then, as quickly as it had come, it’s gone. He pulls back first, breath uneven, eyes searching yours as if trying to place something he doesn’t quite understand. 

“This is as far as it goes,” he tells you, his voice cool steel under the breathlessness, conflict written clearly all over his face, no longer hidden. 

“For tonight?”  

He doesn’t answer, and that tells you everything you need to know. 

You don’t argue.

The rain is falling harder tonight. It isn’t like the quiet, needling kind from a week ago, but relentless, pounding and loud enough to swallow thought. 

You’re already soaked, but this time you knew you would be when you stepped out. But you didn’t turn back because part of you wondered if Tommy might be out again. Of course you convince yourself that’s not why you came, but it’s a lie that you don’t examine too closely.

The man beside you leans in slightly to be heard over the rain, his hand hovering near your arm near enough to suggest he wants to touch. “You sure you don’t want to go inside?” he asks. 

He’s been trying to talk to you for at least five minutes now and judging by the overwhelming smell of whisky on his breath and the slight stagger you’ve noticed on him, he isn’t sober enough for you to trust he would behave himself. 

You had only come out because of Tommy Shelby. You curse him under your breath, ever since that night he had turned you into some fawning schoolgirl with silly dreams. You were also starting to wonder whether you would ever be able to leave home without incident. 

You offer a polite smile. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” he says, glancing at the downpour through heavy eyelids. “You’re gonna get all wet.”

You shudder, barely managing to mask your disgust at the thought of his eyes on you. “I’m not too bad,” you state. “It’s not cold.”

He laughs like this is a harmless conversation between friends. Even though he’s clearly drunk, he seems predictable enough. Nothing like−

“Walk away.” 

The voice cuts through the rain clearly, and your breath catches before you can stop it. You don’t turn immediately, because you don’t have to. You already know. 

The man beside you frowns. “What?”

“Not you,” the voice says, more dominant now. “Her.”

You turn, and there he is. Tommy Shelby, standing a few feet away, coat darkened by rain, cap low, but his eyes are clear, fixed and unmistakably locked on you.

The man beside you straightens slightly. “Mr. Shelby,” he stutters nervously, now appearing completely sober as he backs up. “I think you’ve got the wrong−.”

“I don’t,” Tommy interrupts.

Tommy’s gaze flicks to the man, brief and dismissive, then back to you. “Go,” he says again, and this time it isn’t a suggestion.

“But−.”

Tommy steps a step forward, and the protest dies in the man’s throat. No raised voice or threat made out loud, just the weight of Tommy’s considerable presence was all it had taken.

“Right,” the man mutters, retreating further. “I’ll get going then.”

He looks at you once more in confusion, then turns and disappears into the rain. You don’t watch him go, you’re already looking at Tommy.

“Was that necessary?” you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Rain drips from Tommy’s jaw, his lashes and the edge of his cap. He doesn’t come nearer yet, but you can feel the tension coiled tight beneath stillness.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate.

You cross your arms, more to contain yourself than for anything else. “I can talk to whomever I want. It doesn’t concern you.”

His gaze sharpens. “No?”

“No.”

“You were letting that drunk come closer to you, eh?”

“I was being polite,” you snap.

“Didn’t look like it, love.”

“And what exactly did it look like to you?”

Finally, he steps closer, and now it’s impossible to ignore the heat of him.

“Like he thought he had a chance,” Tommy says.

“And that’s a problem?”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him. “Why?”

Rain fills the silence. “Because−” you press, moving closer too, “The last time I checked, you made it very clear−.”

“I did,” he cuts in.

“And yet here you are,” you continue, voice tightening, “−Telling other people to stay away from me like I belong to you.”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t,” he says.

“Then stop acting like you think I do.”

He moves in until there’s hardly any space between you. “I’m not acting,” he states. “And why do you have a habit of going out in the rain in dresses without a fucking coat on?”

You flush, lifting your chin up indignantly. Who the hell did he think he was? “What’s it to you anyway?” you say exasperatedly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He doesn’t flinch at your outburst, his eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second. “I’m trying,” he says slowly, “−Not to do something I’ll regret.”

Your pulse stutters. “And what would that be?” you ask.

“Touch you again.”

You inhale sharply. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It was simple enough for you to walk away last time.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I didn’t see you with someone else.”

You search his face, but there’s no deflection now. “You’re acting like you’re jealous,” you say quietly. 

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are. But you’ve no right to be jealous.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the one who said it ends there last time we met, remember? What even was that?” You straighten up proudly. “You know, you can’t have it all ways.”

His gaze darkens. “Why did you listen?” he asks.

“I respected it.”

“Same thing?”

“No,” you admit.

Rain runs down your neck, your spine, but you barely feel it now as the air between you charges further. “Then maybe,” he says, “−you shouldn’t have.”

“That’s not my style,” you tell him. 

“Why didn’t you walk away when I told that man to go, eh?”

You hesitate, but you don’t know why exactly. Whether it was that you didn’t have the answer, or whether you did and just didn’t want to tell him. 

His hand moves, fast this time, closing around your wrist firmly enough to stop you from retreating into thought. “Answer me,” he says quietly.

Your pulse jumps at the contact. “I...” You stop, because the truth is right there, and you knew where that might get you. “I didn’t want you to−,” you admit.

“Didn’t want me to what?”

“Leave.”

The word barely makes it out, and his grip tightens enough to anchor you. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, breath uneven now. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything, love.”

“How?”

“Because now,” he says, his voice dropping, “I know I’m not the only one thinking about it.”

Your chest tightens. “Thinking about what?” you ask, even though you already know.

His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist, rough and warm, heat searing through you at the point of contact. “This.”

Your back hits the brick wall behind you, rain soaking through everything, his hand braced beside your head, the other still holding your wrist as he kisses you hard. You feel everything all at once, the tension from before and the restraint, broken. You respond without thinking, your free hand gripping his coat, surrendering yourself to your own feelings, and to him.

His control slips further, the kiss deepening as if he’s trying to prove something or claim it. You don’t care which, and you don’t pull away. That’s what surprises him.

And this time, he doesn’t tell you to leave.

An urgency rises in you. Suddenly, you find that you don’t want to wait, you need him now. The rain pounds harder, you’re both getting wetter, but it doesn’t even compare to how soaked you are getting for him. Your walls clench tighter, your breathing shallow as you cling onto him, his kisses driving you crazy with an insatiable want. 

You were his girl. Belonging and claimed. For now at least, and it would do. 

You break apart and he looks down at you. When you look back at him, it’s like you can see into his darkness and see those faint shards of light that diminish with every day he fights through. Like a fire slowly dwindling out, its kindling growing thin and sparse, edging closer to extinguishing entirely. You long to be the petrol that reignites the flames. 

“I don’t want to see you with anyone,” he says, voice rough, jaw clenching as if the thought were too much to bear. “I don’t know why, but I can’t stand to see it.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to see men like that with their eyes, or anything else, on you. Do you understand me?”

You’re shaking now, trembling like a feather in the breeze, and it isn’t from the rain. “Yes,” you breathe, reaching up to curl your hands around his neck. You let your lips caress his, slowly like butterfly wings, not wanting to be too demanding all at once, give him some gentle, tender care. Reassure him that this was where you wanted to be, and nowhere else. 

He’s bittersweet on your tongue. Broken beyond repair, yet so in need and he doesn’t even know it. You ache with that deep, insatiable need to be his everything, to glue him back together and soothe over those cracks until he can finally find something to smile about and return to living without ghosts. 

“Tommy−,” you whisper, looking up into the cool blues of his eyes that even in the dim lighting of the evening are striking, prominent against the hard lines of his face. You reach up a hand and stroke his cheek, thumbs smoothing across, wiping raindrops away in its path. “Take me with you.”

He looks at you unwaveringly, studying you as if he wanted to see what lay behind your expression. You know that he will see that there is only love and desire, because you haven’t got the capacity for anything else right in this instant. 

You were here with the man you wanted. The hell with consequence and regret; the moment was now. 

He gathers you closer to him so that your face is pressed against the material of his waistcoat, his jacket already soaked and open. “You’re sure this is what you want, love?” he asks gruffly. “You know I might not the best company. I can’t do romance and roses, you understand?”

Your fingers find their way to his chest, curling at his tie, gathering it in one hand as you place a kiss at the hollow of his throat. “I never asked for romance and roses,” you reply softly. “I just want to be with you tonight, and I think that’s what you want too.”

He cups your face and studies you intently with darkened eyes, before his lips descend on yours to kiss you fiercely. “I knew you would be trouble,” he groans hotly against your mouth. 

You smile into the kiss. “You wouldn’t like it any other way.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard−,” he says, head dipping, voice low beside your ear, sending fingers of lightening jolting up and down your spine, “I’m a dangerous man. I could do anything to you now that we’re alone like this−.” His teeth nip at your earlobe, and you gasp with the unexpected ecstasy. He was turning you on like crazy. “Are you ready for that?”

“I’m ready,” you say.

Minutes later, you’re standing in Tommy’s living room, ready for him to take you apart right there on his expensive carpet. The look in his eyes makes you tremble as he moves in, guiding you up the stairs, the arousal between you so high that you can barely wait to make it to the bedroom. 

You let out a desperate moan as Tommy kisses you, your whole being alight, your desire unbridled against him, no longer caring about anything but the here and now. This is what you had been craving. 

You fall against him on the large bed, your mouth leaving his to rain kisses along the sharp angles of his face, over his cheek, his eyes, the dark eyebrows, his nose, his ears and then over the line of his jaw, lingering at the scars you find. You go down further over his neck, breathing in the scent of him, your lips wanting more and more. 

Tommy buries his face in your chest, his mouth feeling hot against your skin, as he tugs down the front of your dress, kissing the bared tops of your breasts. Your hands entwine themselves in his dark hair which was still wet from the rain. 

“You should be careful,” he warns, voice low and strained. “You might not like it if I let go.”

“Let go,” you say breathlessly, “I want you to let it all go for me. Forget everything, just concentrate on this, on now, and on me.” 

His eyes search yours for an instant, before suddenly, he tugs down your bra to expose your bare breasts, and you arch yourself up to meet his mouth. There is no shyness in your actions this time, just raw need. You wanted him to know how much you wanted him. This was such a different feeling to anything you had felt with anyone before. You feel ravenous for him, aching to feel him inside you, filling you up and bringing you to those heights you had fantasized about since that night in the rain. 

“Tommy!” you sigh as he cups your right breast, his mouth closing around it, sucking at you with purpose. 

One hand travels over your thigh, pushing up the material of your dress as it goes up. You love the feel of his touch on your skin, and the dress was a hindrance. You pull back, reaching for the hem and lift it over your head, discarding it over the side of the bed. 

Tommy needs no second invitation as he once more returns to your breasts. You feel his teeth clamp down over your nipple, his tongue flicking over the violated skin, one moment pain, the next pleasure. 

Tommy flips you onto your back, exchanging positions as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, eyes on you as he pulls them down slowly. You like naked, writhing with desire as he starts to stroke your clit, his mouth moving to your other breast. 

His touch sends searing heat through you as he rubs you firmly over and over again, arousing you to such a point you are giving begging moans to be allowed to release. “You are such a pretty girl,” Tommy whispers raggedly before he claims your mouth again, kissing you deeply while he continues to stimulate you. 

“Such pretty red lipstick,” he murmurs, thumb dragging over your mouth sensually, the sky blues of his eyes never leaving yours once. “−It’s almost a shame to take it off.”

You moan, pressing your hand over his, wanting him inside you so bad with a continued urgency. His fingers start to slide across your soaking, wet opening, before slowly he inserts one and then another into you. 

You groan loudly, calling out his name as he starts thrusting them into you. He leans over you, kissing your neck, his tongue tracing your inner ear to send shivers down you. “Feel good?” he says, his breath hot against you, pushing his fingers deeper into you. 

He starts to kiss his way down your body, over your neck, slowly biting at you, each kiss leaving you more and more insatiable. “I want you, Tommy,” you moan. “−Now!”

He takes his hand away from you, leaving an empty feeling inside as his touch deserts you. “You’ll have to wait a moment, love,” he says, coming off the bed and beginning to strip, clothes efficiently removed down to his underwear, and placed neatly on a small stool at the side. You take him in with hungry eyes. “I’ve not even started.”

His threat makes your longing intensify, unable to move because you are so enraptured by the sensations sweeping over you. It couldn’t be possible to want someone so much, surely. A slow, excruciating death would hurt less. 

Tommy comes back onto the bed once he’s naked, spreading apart your legs, his body covering yours as he kisses you. You whimper as he kisses down your body, over your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel and nipping at your skin. Your body quivers as his mouth goes low, between your legs to find your opening. His tongue licks at you, teasing up and down, pushing and probing. 

Tommy’s mouth closes around your clit, sucking slowly, leaving you gasping for air as the sweet painful sensation sent your body wild. Your physical attraction and yearning for him controls you as you grasp his hair and press him harder to you, wanting and needing to be satisfied. 

You feel his tongue find its way inside you and hear yourself begging for Tommy to take you. After an eternity of torturing her body, bringing you to the verge of release before taking his mouth away and repeating the process, Tommy finally reclaims your mouth. You kiss him back ardently, tasting yourself on his lips, your hands pressed against the masculine hard warmth of his chest. 

Tommy positions himself between your legs and you feel his hardness pressing against you. Your breathing is shallow in anticipation as he rolls off you and takes off the remainder of his clothes without blinking an eye. You take in his naked male form, enthralled by his lean body and the size of his hard cock, filling with the appeal of touching him. 

You rise to your knees and take him into your mouth, causing him to gasp with pleasure as you suck him, wanting him to feel as tortured as he had made you under your touch. You move your lips over him, tongue running up and down the length of his shaft, taking him as far into your mouth as you could manage, tasting him. 

Now you had him where you wanted him, as you hear his jagged breath when he tells you to stop. He pushes you back down onto the ground and lies on top of you. Your heart pounds, lost in the intensity of your lust. You can feel Tommy’s cock pushing against you. He holds your gaze as he slowly enters you, filling you gradually, going as deep as he could into you. 

You cry out his name as he starts to move, slowly initially until his whole length was inside you, before he starts to go faster. With each thrust, he buries himself in you right to the hilt, causing you to cry out louder, imploring him to take you harder. The wanting in you had escalated into fever pitch as his thrusts grew faster and deeper and harder. He kisses your open mouth, his hand grabbing at your hair to pull your head back as he did so. 

You can see the concentration and raw carnal lust in his face as over and over he slams his hard cock into you, bringing your ravaged body closer and closer to climax. Your dreams were nothing like this, they couldn’t have lived up to this force, this depth and this heat. You had never imagined pleasure like this existed. The pure strength of feeling burning you up brought with it a wanton lust like nothing you had ever experienced before. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, feeling him hit your spot. 

“Look at me, Y/N,” Tommy says.

You obey, watching his eyes narrow with desire, engaging you in a look that could see right to the depths of your heart.

“Say my name,” he says, as he feels your body give way to the volcanic crescendo that’s been coming around him. 

“Tommy!” you scream as you feel yourself coming. 

He continues to thrust inside you, as you cling onto him, rocked by the sheer force of your orgasm. You hear him swear as he comes inside you, filling you up. When he’s finished, he sinks into your arms, leaving his cock inside you, holding you close. 

“Satisfied?’ he murmurs into your ear, kissing your neck. 

“Yes,” you whisper, staring into the blue depths of his eyes. 

“That should have been your first time,” he said softly, “−Ever.”

You kiss him on the lips gently, stroking his hair. “It was my first time,” you say. “−With you.”

thanks for reading❤ Taglist ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 @scorpiosdemise, @shelbyblinded, @trulyscrumptiousangel, @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld, @omgphanphorever, @urmom418, @theangelofbastogne, @emilycookie86, @vbqueen02, @licornie, @liquidmongoose, @archiveofsnow, @illgeekthefout, @pineapleguy, @maironluv,  @missyviolet123

Alfie Solomons Masterlist | @darklydeliciousdesires

Disturbance, part 02, part 03 |  @sopxhiea

Alfie visits a group of sisters who recently lost a loved one and finds out that the oldest one is rather intriguing.

Hazard | @/sopxhiea

Business is being done in a new buyer’s office and that’s when Alfie stumbles upon a person that does not seem to fit the rough lifestyle.

A Shelby Caught Out With A Solomons, part 02, part 03, part 04 | @buckys-beach

Your secret relationship with the infamous London gangster was going extremely well. Well, as good as it could be considering you were a Shelby. But it all comes crashing down once your brothers discover you on your knees in front of him.

Braiding & Bread | @wouldpollyapprove

The Baker & The Runaway Master List | @/wouldpollyapprove

Drama Queen | @/wouldpollyapprove

gentle giant | @charliehoennam

The Solomons enjoy quality family time with their young baby daughter

Pregnant wife | @/charliehoennam

Alfie comes homes late at night and finds his pregnant wife sleeping on the couch and confesses his fear to his unborn child

“Caravaggio” | @solomons-finest-rum

The mysterious and elusive Mrs. Solomons finally makes a public appearance. Safe to say, her and Grace Shelby won’t be best friends.

“A Decent Bastard” | @/solomons-finest-rum

It was just another morning; you went out for a walk, got attacked by Alfie’s enemies, came back bleeding to his bakery barely standing. Obviously, Alfie craves revenge and his rage turns murderous.

Imagine | @/solomons-finest-rum

Family respect | @dyns33

Alfie and his Shelby wife are back for more adventures.

Change of Plans | @muneca-lemon-steppa

Married Life with Alfie Solomons - HCs | @/muneca-lemon-steppa

Run Away With Me Darling | @/muneca-lemon-steppa

Art with Alfie | @peakyblinders1919

Traitor, part 02 | @itsthestutterforme

Off the Menu | @theshelbyclan

You were bored to death with your life, your wealth and the bourgeoisie. Until one party, your friend Tommy Shelby inadvertently introduces you to the gangster Alfie Solomons

Welcome to the chaos, little one | @/theshelbyclan

Giving birth is never easy, especially when it’s a Shelby x Solomons baby…

The matchmaker | @/theshelbyclan

You and Alfie strike up a strange sort of friendship, and Alfie is keen for it to become more than that, which leaves Tommy less than pleased

under my protection | @vintunnavaa

When Alfie’s favourite employee fails to report to work, the gangster decides to the needful to bring her back.

Ugly | just-iimagine

Bun In the Oven | @fandom-puff

Shelby!sister reader

Mistake | @/fandom-puff

Alfie knew he made a mistake when he pushed you away, and when you show up in the middle of a meeting with Tommy, it all comes flooding back to him

Blinds drawn | @/fandom-puff

“Favorite” | @clairecrive

Protect You | @murderousginger

ALFIE SOLOMONS AS A BOYFRIEND | @hardyslave

Gone Soft | @imagines-fandom

Alfie and the reader have been sneaking around for weeks. Tommy finally finds out. 

Bad Men | @tommyspeakycap

Protected | @/tommyspeakycap

𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑃𝑡．1 | @tommyshebyisdaddy

Ivy | @urimaginespimp

Alfie Solomons x Shelby Sister Reader where she’s betrothed by Thomas for a truce, now her and Alfie’s secret love affair is in thin line.

The Love Not Yet Known Part 1, Part 2 | @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes

Tommy Shelby needs to make sacrifices to ensure the safety of his family. So he concocts a plan to marry off his sister to the one and only Alfie Solomons.

Say My Fuckin’ Name | @cinebration

Wicked Creature | @/cinebration

Slice of Heaven | @sinfulshelbys

secret relationship with alfie and shelby sis

Negotiation Skills | @multifandomwriter56

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Sister reader | @vampirestookmydoubts

“Are you sure?”

You rolled your eyes from the bed, “yes, I’m sure. I’m only five weeks. It’ll be perfectly fine.”

Michael bit at the inside of his cheek as he adjusted his belt, looking over at you through the mirror.

Ever since you had told him you were pregnant it was like the entire world was all the sudden out to get you. Everything was dangerous to him. You appreciated his precaution, it was endearing.

“If anyone tries grabbing at you, I’m gonna have bad headlines in the press tomorrow.”

Standing up, you walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his back to hear his heart beat.

“It’ll be okay.”

You felt him sigh before he turned around in your arms, cupping your face with his hands and not a moment later his mouth was on yours.

Smiling into the kiss, your arms came up and wrapped around his neck. Laughing a bit as his hands danced down and started to lift up your dress.

He was always like this. He could never get enough of you, but ever since you got pregnant his sex drive only seemed to double. If possible.

“Honey, we don’t have time.”

“We’ll make time.” He muttered, fingers already searching for your zipper.

Lights flashed in a blinding crescendo the moment the car door opened. You squinted against the light and suddenly grew envious of your husband's choice to wear sunglasses.

Like always, he got out first and offered his hand. Your heels settled on the ground and not a moment later his arm was around your waist and his lips dipping low towards your ear.

“You okay?”

Patting him on the chest as a yes, the two of you were ushered towards the entrance of the red carpet. Waving and smiling at the cameras and fans as you went and every time someone shouted your name, you felt Michael’s grip tighten around you.

The whole time you walked in increments down the carpet, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you. Ignoring the shouts from the press to look over. His hand reached up to move some hair out of your eyes and he seemed to ask you for the hundredth time if you were doing okay and if you needed to sit down.

As the two of you navigated the crowd to find your seats, he acted like a human shield. His hand holding tightly onto yours as he practically pushed through the crowd, muttering excuse me as he went and shooting daggers at people who didn’t move over enough. Dismissing anyone who tried to stop him for a talk and when someone grabbed your arm he looked like he was about to punch someone.

You couldn’t help it as you laughed behind your hand, finally finding your seats by the stage for the night.

“What?” He asked, oblivious as he knelt to adjust your dress after you sat down.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

He raised a brow at you but didn’t bother to refute that statement as he leant forward and placed a kiss to your exposed knee from where it peeked out from the slit in your dress. Your cheeks immediately heating up at the display of affection.

He sat down next to you, ever so subtly adjusting himself as he did so and he leaned over, voice a whisper. “You look beautiful tonight. You’re glowing.” He kissed your shoulder then, “I wish we were back at the room.”

“Stop it, I probably look like a tomato.” You smacked him lightly but he easily caught your hand and brought it up to his lips.

Quincy finally joined them, sending them a wink as he sat down. “Hey, lovebirds.”

“Hi, Q.” You smiled and leaned over to talk but before you could utter a word, Michael was kissing you. You were expecting a peck at most since you were in public but became acutely aware of his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth.

Like always, you just about melted but also felt on fire with the fact people were around.

He pulled back, his smile devilish and his thumb tugged on your bottom lip. “You need to fix your lipstick.”

With each Grammy he won, he’d squeeze your thigh before getting up, bending down to kiss you before he went up on stage. The lipstick marks building up as the night went on and God, he was glowing up on that stage and your hands itched from all the clapping you had been doing.

“First, I’d like to thank God for all the wonderful gifts He’s given me and of course my beautiful wife, Mrs Jackson.”

Eight Grammy’s later, you could tell he was on an adrenaline high. Holding as many awards in one arm as he could while the other was wrapped around your waist. He had been smiling so hard you were sure his face went numb.

You were so caught up in the rush of it all you barely noticed he was leading you back to the car.

“What about the after party?”

“We’re not going to that.”

“What? Mike, you broke the record. You have to—“

He turned around, tugging you close and it was only then you took note of how blown his pupils were.

“Baby, if we’re not back in that hotel room in the next hour, I’m gonna pop a fuse.”

You bit your lip, enjoying the way his eyes flicked down to your mouth far too much.

“Okay.”

“Good, now get your ass in the car.”

You were giddy and nodded without another thought, on your own high when he slapped your butt as you bent down to get in the car.

The ride there was anything but tame. The second the car started to move, he rolled up the partition and was on you.

His hands were everywhere, immediately messing up the meticulous updo you had going on with your hair and his mouth ruining your makeup for the hundredth time that night.

His tongue was searing as his mouth trailed down from yours to your neck, lower to the exposed cleavage of your chest and you were half expecting him to rip your dress off just to get at more skin.

Your heart caught in your throat as you watched him slide down to the floor of the car, throwing your exposed leg over his shoulder as he kissed up the inside of your thigh.

His eyes caught yours in the low light, the city passing by in a blur and casting shadows across his face. You suppressed a shiver and he pushed your other knee out, exposing your underwear to the air. You were already wet, something you probably would’ve been embarrassed by but maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.

Michael sighed, sounding blissful. “Look at you. Perfect.”

Then his mouth was on you through the thin cotton and you couldn’t help it as your hips bucked up, hand coming down to hold the back of his head as your own was thrown back against the seat.

The sounds leaving your mouth were lewd and filled the air, not caring if the driver heard you and when you felt Michael pull your underwear aside and sink two fingers in you felt delirious.

His mouth was hot and wet against you as he worked you with his fingers, his gloved hand holding your thigh securely over his shoulder as he ate you out. His tongue was like a weapon, drawing circles over your clit before flatting it.

When he added a third finger you were pretty sure you started to cry.

“Michael! I’m… fuck.”

“That’s it,” he whispered against you and once you came he didn’t bother stopping. Apparently in his own frenzy and it was only then you noticed he was gripping himself through his slacks.

The door to the hotel room shut and his hands were back on you, fumbling for the zipper and he just about ripped through the fabric in his haste. His mouth latching onto your neck from behind and hands clawing at your hips to grind into you, guiding you through the room blindly before falling onto the bed.

You watched with a ringing in your ears as his teeth caught on his glove and pulled it off, tossing it carelessly behind him and shrugging off his jacket.

Eyes flicking down, you could see him clearly through his pants and your mouth went a little dry as you watched him undo his belt.

“Do you know how difficult it was trying not to make this obvious the whole night?” He kicked his pants off and was left in his boxers, taking hold of himself through the fabric and he shut his eyes briefly as he squeezed.

You watched the way the veins in his hands popped as he did so in a lust induced haze.

“Sorry,” you muttered. Slowly beginning to lie backward into the bed as he approached, his thumbs hooking onto the band of his boxers as he began to lower them.

“No, you’re not.”

You shook your head and hummed as he crawled over you, his knees pushing your legs open as he did so.

“Not at all.”

His lips crashed down on yours, one hand winding in your hair as the other hiked one of your legs up and you felt him brush against your entrance.

He tugged lightly, still careful with you as your neck bent back and his mouth trailed down, sucking and biting as went and a groan left him when he finally thrusted into you.

“Eight times,” he said between bites and you were sure marks would be littered all over you tomorrow.

“What?” You barely managed to get out, your own hands in his hair and he fucked you with little restraint. The sound of skin slapping against each other was enough to send your nerves tingling but then he took hold of your jaw, making you look at him.

“I’m gonna make you come for each award I won and you’re gonna take it because I know you can.”

Before you could even think to reply to that statement, his hand danced down and started to circle your clit and he looked beyond pleased to see your back arch off the bed.

It was rough and you loved it. He always started off pretty sweet, gentle. But as time ticked away he always got lost in it, his mind slipping somewhere else and you were sure it was heaven.

One hand took hold of your hips as he started to yank you down onto his cock, the pace brutal and your nails sunk into his back as you let out a cry. The way he had one of your legs up and around him made the angle he was hitting feel like you were being struck by a tuning fork hitting a star.

“Michael—“

“Come for me, baby.” His voice was low in your ear and worked like magic as you did as told.

And you started again.

The next was you bent over with your face pressed into the mattress. He made you finish twice that way.

Then with you on top but you were hardly in control of the situation as he thrusted up into you.

You were a complete wreck with no sense of direction when his head was back between your thighs.

“I can’t—“ but then you did and you were crying and he was drinking up the sight.

Barely giving you any grace when he carried you to the shower, though he was slower to give you a little breathing room, his fingers found their way back to fucking you eventually.

Lucky number eight he didn’t even have to touch you.

His hands were wrapped in your hair and he thrusted into your mouth and the sight of him with his head thrown back as he came down your throat was enough to send you over the edge.

The air smelt like sex and sweat and you were half conscious as his hands rubbed circles into your back.

“I think I got a little carried away,” he said up to the ceiling before peeking down at you. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, half way into slumber and held onto him tighter.

“I loved it.”

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was him kissing the top of your head.

michael jackson masterlist

You were minding your own business. Relaxing. Existing. Apparently, that alone was enough to ruin whatever focus he had left.

Clark stood at the sink, adjusting his tie in the mirror, fingers working at the knot with practiced precision. He fixed it once, then again, and again, like something about it still wasn’t sitting right, even though it had been perfect the first time.

Behind him, the tub sat visible in the reflection, and you were there, sunk low in the water, completely at ease. Steam filled the room in slow curls, softening the edges of everything, including you.

Clark’s eyes kept flicking toward you in the mirror, quick at first, then slower. Then longer. And longer. Long enough that he’d forget what he was doing entirely before dragging his gaze back up to his own reflection like that might somehow fix it.

He swallowed hard and forced his attention back to his tie.

Focus.

Clark straightened, running a hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses, eyes fixed on his reflection to anchor him there, to keep him moving, to keep him from—

His gaze slipped again.

Slower this time. Heavier in a way where he couldn’t even pretend it was accidental.

The water moved when you shifted your legs, the surface breaking just enough to catch and follow, offering brief, shifting glimpses before settling again. Droplets clung to your shoulders and throat, slipping slowly over your skin each time you moved, tracing small paths he couldn’t stop noticing. The whole room felt warm with it, thick with quiet and water and the faint scent of whatever you’d poured into the tub.

You weren’t even doing anything, not really, which only made it worse. Clark couldn’t seem to look anywhere else, or think of anything else for that matter.

That didn’t stop him from trying, though.

And God, did he try. 

Clark let out a slow, steady breath, deeper than it needed to be, like it might push whatever this was back down where it belonged.

“Alright, baby,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I have to go.”

He turned and stepped closer as he said it, already leaning down before the sentence had fully settled between you. It was supposed to be quick. Normal. Just one last soft kiss before work.

Clark’s hand braced on the edge of the tub as his lips met yours, gentle and familiar, something that should’ve ended there but didn’t. You were warm, your mouth slightly parted, soft where you gave under him without resistance.

He lingered a second too long, catching the faint drag of your lower lip before pulling back just barely, his breath brushing yours.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again—and stayed there.

Something tightened in his chest, heavier now, pushing up from where he’d tried to bury it. 

He kissed you again. 

Longer this time. 

And then again, deeper, his mouth pressing into yours with intent, the kiss opening, getting away from him, losing whatever restraint had been left in it. His hand on the tub clenched tighter, grounding himself in the strain while the other came up to your face, thumb pressing along your jaw as he pulled you into him.

He should have stopped. He knew that. Knew that this was the last thing he should be doing right now.

The thought flickered, thin and useless, drowned out by the way you felt, by the way your lips moved with his, by the immediate reaction in his body. Heat hit him low and sharp, his cock caught tight beneath his slacks, the pressure there before he could even pretend otherwise.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

His mouth stayed on yours, each kiss deepening with every second he didn’t stop. His breathing shifted, uneven, heavier now, pulling through his nose in quiet bursts that brushed hot against your skin. Every inhale came tighter than the last, tension winding through his chest instead of easing down.

You laughed softly against his mouth, a quiet, breathy sound that brushed his lips when you spoke. “You’re gonna get all wet,” you murmured, the words light, amused, as if this was still something easy. Still playful.

His response came in the way his mouth pressed harder to yours, more insistent, the kiss turning urgent without pause. His hand flexed against the edge of the tub again, grip tightening, fingers pressing into the porcelain for resistance, for something solid to hold while everything else slipped further out of his control.

A faint sound gave under his palm.

Small. Thin. Barely there.

A hairline crack split through the porcelain, too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but he caught it all the same. That faint give beneath his hand, the smallest surrender under pressure, something yielding when it shouldn’t have.

It echoed too closely. Too much like the way his restraint had been going, not all at once, but splitting, fracturing, giving in pieces he wasn’t getting back.

He didn’t notice himself leaning closer at first. It just happened gradually, his weight shifting forward, his body following where his mouth already was, where his focus had narrowed completely. 

The edge of the tub pressed into his body, then more and more. He kept going. Closer. Further. Until there wasn’t really a line left to cross.

His weight tipped past the edge before either of you could slow it, one knee dropping into the water, then the other, his mouth still fixed to yours. The bath surged around him, spilling hard over the sides as his clothes soaked through all at once. His shirt and pants stuck to him in seconds, ruined and heavy, water streaming from the fabric and pooling across the floor.

It didn’t matter. None of it did. The mess, the sound, the fact that he had been halfway out the door minutes ago. All of it dropped away under one singular focus.

You.

His hands were already on you, firm, urgent, pulling you up and into him with a kind of need that made it clear he was past the point of caring how it looked. Water sloshed violently with the movement, spilling over again, your body shifting against his as he maneuvered you onto his lap.

It wasn’t neat or careful. It was messy, rushed, a little clumsy in the way urgency always was with him when he got like this. Clark moved fast, driven by how badly he needed you there, by how little patience he had left to get you there any other way.

You startled, breath catching sharply, the surprise obvious in the way your hands braced against him, the way your body reacted to the suddenness of it. He didn’t ease up, didn’t even think about slowing down. His mouth found yours again, rougher, open, all urgency now. He sank lower into the tub beneath you, water shifting hard around his body, soaking him through completely, but it didn’t register. Not with you on him.

His hands moved like he couldn’t pick a place, like he needed all of you at once. One slid up your back, broad and hot, pressing you down into him, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades before sweeping lower. The other traced down your side, slow for half a second before taking hold of your hip, then shifting again.

Higher.

His hand closed over your breast, fingers curling around the weight of it as he squeezed. His thumb moved slowly over your nipple, pressing, rolling, pulling a breathy reaction from you. The sound you made hit his mouth, and he swallowed it instantly, tongue pushing in to taste it, to take more of you anywhere he could.

His hips worked beneath you with no real attempt to hide it anymore, rolling up against you with purpose. His cock pressed against you through the soaked fabric of his slacks, the friction pulling a low, strained sound from him as it jumped against you, needy and insistent. His hands settled harder at your hips, keeping you right where he needed you.

Steam hung thick around you both, heat wrapping tight, softening everything around the edges until even his glasses began to fog.

It registered for half a second—

That was all it got.

Clark’s hand shot up, ripping the glasses from his face before they could fog over completely. He tossed them aside without looking, the frames skidding across the bathroom tile with a sharp crack that failed to pull his attention.

His mouth crashed into yours again, deeper, sloppier, breath hot and wrecked as his hands went right back to you, gripping, sliding, squeezing like any space between his hands and your body was too much.

Clark wasted no time. One hand dropped from you just long enough to fumble at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency as he yanked it loose. The buckle knocked dully against itself before he shoved his pants down, fabric resisting under the water, soaked and clinging as he forced it out of the way beneath you. The movement jostled you both, water splashing up and over the edge again, but he didn’t pause, didn’t dare break the rhythm of his mouth against yours.

He didn’t give you the usual slow slide, didn’t ease you into it like he normally would. The second he freed himself, he was already pulling you closer, lining himself up more by need than patience, his breath catching the moment he found you before pushing in all at once. 

The stretch hit immediately, sudden and full, pulling a cry from you as your body clenched around him. Clark groaned at the feel of it, low and broken, his head dipping forward like the sensation had knocked the rest of him loose.

“Shi—”

The word broke apart in his throat, cut off into something rougher.

There was no time to adjust, no chance for your body to catch up before his hands found your hips and started moving you again. His hands locked onto you, fingers sinking in as he guided you into motion, pulling you down onto him, lifting you back up, setting a pace that hit hard and fast right from the start.

Water sloshed violently with every movement, spilling over the edge in steady waves, the sound of it mixing with breath and skin and the wet slide of your bodies coming together again and again.

It didn’t take long before you caught it, matched it—

Then took it.

Your hands twisted into his soaked button-up, fingers curling tight in the fabric as you shifted your weight and rode him properly, not just following anymore. You bounced on him, harder now, faster, the angle changing as you ground down between each lift, dragging him deeper every time you came back down. The friction got to him immediately.

A ragged sound slipped out of him, as you took over, his hands braced at your hips while your pace started pulling him apart. Each movement worked more out of him, left him less steady, less able to hide how badly you had him.

You felt too good.

Too tight, too warm, too perfect around him, every bounce pulling another rough sound from him, every grind making his grip tighten.

He was already gone. 

Fucked out in a way that stripped him down to instinct, to reaction, to nothing but the feel of you working him over. He could feel it bleeding into everything else too, that lack of control, the way heat built behind his eyes each time you sank down, the way his strength kept threatening to slip into his hands where they held you. Even the air leaving him came out wrong now, too hot, too wrecked.

He tried to keep it all in check, tried to rein it in before it got away from him.

Clark’s jaw tightened, breath snagging as his hands clung to you with a care the rest of him had no room for. Everything in him wanted to push harder, take more, fuck up into you with all the strength he kept buried under skin and restraint. He held it back by inches, barely, muscles locked beneath you while his touch stayed careful through sheer force alone. 

It worked.

Mostly.

Until you leaned forward.

Your arms slid around him, pulling him close, pressing your body flush against his as his breath broke hard in his chest. The sound of his name left you in a low, wrecked moan, dragged straight out of you with the roll of your hips, each one locking tighter around him.

“Baby—” he tried, the word breaking halfway through, strained, like the start of a warning he already knew wouldn’t survive the next second.

You didn’t slow down, didn’t give him the space to finish it, and he didn’t fight for it either. The warning lost shape in the way you kept moving, in the fact that he didn’t want you to stop at all. 

Your hips drove down again and again, relentless, the pressure building with every movement, taking him deeper each time, too much and not enough all at once. It stacked on him fast, sensation piling as his hands dug into your waist.

And then your hips sank lower. 

One deep, filthy grind.

It pressed him all the way in and held him there, your weight settling fully, the drag of it hitting something sharp and exact that tore straight through whatever control he had left.

Clark’s entire body seized before a loud, guttural groan ripped out of him as he came hard, hips jerking up into you on instinct. 

His hand slammed down with it, the force splintering through the side of the tub hard enough to break a chunk loose. Porcelain gave way beneath his palm, the side splitting open as water flooded through the gap and rushed across the floor.

At the same time, his eyes flashed.

Just for a split second.

A flare of heat vision shot wide, too sudden for him to catch, striking the metal faucet behind you with enough force to shatter it clean. The pipe split with a harsh snap, water bursting out hot and pressurized, hissing into the room and adding to the chaos.

“Shit—”

His eyes squeezed shut instantly, jaw clenching hard as he tried to rein it back in, like he could force himself under control if he just held tight enough. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, locking you against him as another rough groan tore out of his chest, muffled against your skin.

Water poured around you now, from the split-open side of the tub, from the broken pipe, soaking everything, flooding the tile, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Your reaction caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, a choked inhale, a sound that never fully formed as the pace hit too fast, too hard. Your body tried to respond, hands tightening on him, fingers gripping into soaked fabric, but every attempt got swallowed by the next thrust, the next snap of his hips that stole whatever you were about to say.

The break in the tub shifted everything, the side giving way enough to let his legs spread wider beneath you, changing the angle completely. He felt it and used it without hesitation, hips bucking up into you even as he was still coming.

He kept you pressed to him, hands locked at your hips as he fucked up into you through the broken rush of water, through the soaked mess around you, through the wreckage of everything he’d already let go too far.

“I’m sorry—” he gritted out, the words catching as his hips snapped again. “I’ll fix it—I promise—just—” His hands pressed harder into your hips, breath shuddering hot between you. 

That was the only thing left in his head.

Need.

His pace changed, not easing, only deepening, his body rising to meet yours as he dragged you down against him in heavy rolls that kept him buried inside you while he chased the feeling again and again. His hands moved with it, guiding the motion, making you feel every inch of him as he ground up hard, breath breaking with each grind.

Clark forced his eyes open, pulling himself back into it, into the moment, into you. His brows pulled tight immediately, mouth parting on a ragged breath as his gaze dropped between you, locking onto where your bodies met. He watched the way you took him, the way he disappeared inside you with every movement, and the sight tore another wrecked sound from his chest.

The reaction chased up his spine just as fast, too much, too immediate, and his head tipped back on instinct, eyes squeezing shut again before it could go any further. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he tried to contain it, tried to fight that heat building fast and dangerous behind his eyes again. It came back stronger, hotter, threatening to spill if he lost even a fraction more control.

But that didn’t stop him. 

“Keep—” his voice faltered, breath catching, “keep going—don’t—”

You could see how badly he was fighting it. It was there in the hard set of his jaw, in the faint tremor running through his hands, in the way his breathing refused to settle even after everything. The pressure hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Your mouth parted, instinct kicking in, ready to ask if he was sure—but he caught it.

Maybe it was the way your hips stilled for half a second. Maybe it was the breath you pulled in, that slight pause before you spoke. Whatever it was, he felt it instantly, his hands locking at your hips hard enough to keep you there.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t stop,” he groaned.

His hips ground up as he pulled you down harder, the motion breaking his words into something rougher, something he barely seemed to realize had left him.

The edge of it cracked just as fast as it came.

His voice dropped in sync with your hips, the tone softer but no less strained—

“Please.”

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