elle

He doesn't approach you directly. He works the floor. He nods at men twice his age, clasps a few shoulders, and laughs at a joke you're not close enough to hear. He lets you watch him do it.

The whole time, his eyes come back to you. Brown on one side. Pale blue on the other. Unsettling in a way you can't yet name. Not because his stare is cold or leering, but because it’s a curious stare. You’re not used to men looking at you curiously. Men look at you hungrily; they look with calculation. They look at you because of your father.

He looks at you like he’s found a page he didn't expect to find in a book he'd already read. By the time he's in front of you, you’ve already decided you will let him speak.

"You're the Stark heir."

You angle your head. "I am."

"Valarr Targaryen," he says in a smooth voice. "I own—"

"I know who you are."

You give him the inventory—Halcyon Holdings, the tech portfolio, the shipping arm his father had been trying to divest—and watch his face go through four different expressions in half a second, ending in something delighted. He laughs, and it’s a real laugh. Not the performed, polite kind he gave others.

"You've done your homework."

"I do homework on everyone in my father's orbit," you inform him bluntly, and his smile widens. 

Some small animal part of you sits up inside you, taking very careful note of what kind of man smiles wider when you show him your teeth.

He takes you for a drink. Just one. He doesn't try to make it two which surprises you. He’s charming and painfully handsome, the type of young man everyone in the room looks to while he looks only at you. He walks you out at the end of the night, doesn't touch you once, except to brush his lips over your knuckles goodbye. 

He sends a car to your dorm the following morning with a bouquet of peonies and a note that reads only: I'd like to see you again. No pressure. Valarr.

You call him because he sends peonies, not roses. Because there’s a thread of candour in his note that would be absent in another man's attempts to grab your attention. A man of his pedigree doesn’t need the embarrassment of chasing someone who doesn’t want him back. 

You still make him wait a week before you dial his number. 

You decide later that this was your first mistake, though you’ll revise that assessment many times over the following five years until you can no longer locate the mistake at all. Because the mistake will turn out to be him, in his entirety, and he’s not something you can extract from your life by then. 

He will have woven himself through you like a silver thread.

II. december, year one.

It happens at his penthouse. 

Everything that matters with Valarr happens at his penthouse in those early months. The apartment is a stage, and he’s the only actor who lives in it full-time. He likes you on his set, framed by his windows, lit by his lamps. There's loneliness in that, but also coldness.

Still, it's the first time you’ve slept with a man who chose his own light fixtures.

He asks if he can kiss you first. Actually asks. Means it, too. And that's the thing that sets your teeth on edge for reasons you don't understand yet. Because nobody’s asked you that in years, because the men who want you take, or they presume, or they pose the question as foregone. Valarr asks like it means something, like he needs the word for more than your comfort.

You say yes.

He kisses you slowly, then, like he’s mapping new terrain. His mouth is careful, too careful. His hands stay high. Respectfully so. One at your jaw, one at the curve between your shoulder and your neck. His restraint is so deliberate it reads as its own kind of pressure. You can feel him holding back. You note it even as it happens. He’s managing himself, you think, and then, what for?

You find out what for, eventually.

You fuck him in his bed. On his white, pristine sheets, art you haven’t bothered to identify on the wall behind his headboard.

Valarr undresses you with a reverence that edges on worshipful. He slides the dress off your shoulders, presses his mouth to the notch between your collarbones. There’s a soft murmur of god, look at you into your skin like a man who’s never in his life felt lucky and now does.

He kisses his way down your body. He’s generous and attentive. Eats you out patiently, focused, reading your body for its responses and adjusting. Not badly; he’s good at this, he’s been good at this with other women, he knows the mechanical shape of what he’s doing. You come, eventually, for him. Because he’s earned it, because your body is responsive and because he’s pretty and wanted you badly enough.

And then he rolls you under him, sliding inside you, and he fucks you like a man who’s been told, at some point in his life, that women like it slow and reverent. That's it. The only setting.

He looks into your eyes. Smiles. He says your name, moves with a careful cadence, a kind of technique. He’s performing a version of making love that he’s learned somewhere, from someone, and it is—you realise with a small, distinct pulse of dismay—soft.

Not bad. Soft.

And somewhere in the middle of it, around when his mouth finds the hollow of your throat and stays there like an apology, you get bored.

You don't mean to. It’s not a conscious act on your part. It’s the involuntary response of a Stark to being handled too gently: boredom, and under the boredom, the oldest thing in you, the wolf-thing, the predator, turning its head and noticing the room has a man in it. Realising how easy it would be to claim him, however you want to claim him. 

You flip him.

You put a hand flat to his sternum, shoving him back against the pillows, and Valarr goes. He goes easily, readily, with a surprised sound in the back of his throat that’s not displeasure. Then you climb him, and you pin his wrists above his head with one hand. You watch with great curiosity how his pupils dilate. The brown eye goes nearly black. The pale blue one goes almost luminous. You’ve never seen a physiological response happen this fast in a grown man's face, and you’ll remember it, in detail, for the rest of your life.

"Oh," he breathes.

"Shh."

His mouth parts. "Yes—whatever you—yes."

You take him apart for forty-five minutes. 

You ride him hard and mean, with his wrists held down and his hips pinned by your weight, and you watch him come undone in a way he clearly has never been undone before. 

Beautiful boys who’ve been beautiful their whole lives are used to being unwrapped. They’re not used to being handled. 

They’re not used to being made to earn anything. But you do. You make Valarr earn permission to move, to speak, to finish, and by the time you let him, he’s gone somewhere very quiet behind his eyes. When he comes, Valarr makes a sound like he’s dying, like you’ve broken something vital inside him. 

Afterwards, he lies on his back in the wrecked sheets and stares at the ceiling like he's trying to remember his own name.

"Where have you been all my life?" he asks, half-joking.

You don't answer.

Because this, right now, is the first crack. This is where you understand, somewhere wordless, that you’ve just shown a beautiful self-contained man a version of himself he didn't know was accessible, and that he’s not going to forget. 

Valarr is a cataloguer, a collector. And he’s just catalogued this—the weight of your hand on his wrists, the precise angle of your mouth as it bit, the particular heat of being made to wait, to plead—and he’s going to want it again. He’s going to want it differently. Going to want you with escalating need that, by the end of the week, will feel less like desire and more like a project plan.

You let him hold you afterwards. You lie against his chest, and you listen to his heart rate come down, wondering, dimly, what you’ve just let yourself into.

III. january, year two.

The second time is three nights later. 

You come to Valarr's apartment straight from a dinner your father made you attend. You’re still in a dress and heels, still carrying the particular tense irritation that two hours at such gatherings always loads into your shoulders. 

He opens the door with a glass of wine already in his hand for you, and the look on his face when he sees you—the one that’s half-devotional and half-hungry—somehow sharpens the irritation instead of easing it.

You don't let him kiss you hello.

You stalk past him into the apartment, set your bag down, turn around, and you say coldly, quietly, "Bedroom."

He doesn’t ask. Valarr's expression shifts once—the surprise, then recalibration, his pupils blowing—and he follows you without a word.

You’ve not planned this. You don't plan, with men. Generally. You’ve spent the cab ride home thinking about three nights ago, thinking about the sound he made when you let him finish. Remembering that precise glazed stupidity of his face when you finally let him speak. 

Something in you is hungry for it in a way that’s making you reckless.

You put him on his knees.

Not with your hands. With a single word and a small gesture of your chin. Valarr goes down onto the rug at the foot of his bed with a grace that’s almost unseemly. He looks up at you. The white streak at his temple catches the bedside lamp. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar now, slightly crumpled. He must have undone it at some point between the door and the bedroom. Whether consciously or not. You can see the pulse in his throat moving faster than it should be. Almost smile at the sight.

"Is this what you want?" you ask.

His jaw works. "Yes."

"Say it properly."

"I want—yes, I want this, I want—" He stops, searching for the word. He doesn't find it because he's not yet fluent in the language you're about to teach him. "Please."

You let him undress you from that position.

You make him do it only with his hands. No mouth. Not yet. He hasn't earned his mouth yet.

His fingers find the zip at the side of your dress. He's used to undressing women, not to being made to do it without being permitted to touch them the way he wants. When the zipper finally gives, he peels the dress off you, knuckles skimming your ribs, your hip, the outside of your thigh. Not a caress, exactly. Something else.

You watch him swallow when the fabric catches on the curve of your hip, and he has to tug it gently, until it slips down and puddles at your feet. You step out of it with one hand light on his shoulder for balance. Valarr flinches faintly at the contact because it's the first you've given him voluntarily in almost ten minutes.

He folds it, of all things. Folds the dress and sets it aside, because he's Valarr Targaryen and even on his knees at his lover's feet, he can't not be neat, and the small domestic absurdity of it twists something warm in you that you weren't expecting to feel.

"Bra."

He reaches up, fingers shaking so faintly you would have missed it if you weren't watching for it. He has to slide his hands around your ribs to get at the clasp. You feel him go still for half a second when his palms bracket your sides—feel him fighting the urge to press his mouth to your sternum, to your stomach, anywhere—and then he masters it. He finds the clasp, unhooks it in one practised motion. The straps slide down your arms.

"Good boy," you hum gently.

His breath rushes out like you hit him.

It’s not a sound he meant to make or for you to hear. He makes it anyway, a short ragged thing, and his head tips forward so his forehead is almost touching your stomach. Valarr doesn't look up at you—can't, you conclude—but you see the flush rising up his throat. 

Oh, you think.

You file that away neatly.

You make him take your underwear off with the same rule. Hands only. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband, drawing them down your legs so slowly it’s almost cruel to both of you. When he has them at your ankles, Valarr pauses. His forehead nearly grazes your thigh, his breath hot on the skin just above your knee. Then he waits. Because he’s understood, now, without you having to say it, that he’s not to rise from this floor until you tell him he can.

"Very good," you tell him. "So good, Val."

Another shudder. Full-body. You feel it in your calf where his hand is still resting.

You let him put his mouth on you eventually. You make him earn it inch by inch.

First, he’s allowed, only, to press his mouth to the inside of your knee—closed lips, no tongue, you specify—and when he does it, Valarr’s eyes close and his whole face softens in a way that makes you warm.

Then an inch higher. Then higher.

You let him kiss the inside of your thigh in a slow ascending line. When he shakes faintly against the skin he hasn't yet been permitted to taste, you feel it go all the way through you.

By the time his mouth is at the crease of your thigh, you can feel Valarr’s breath against you. You’re already wet—embarrassingly wet, obviously wet, and he knows it; you see his eyelashes fluttering at the nearness of it—he’s visibly struggling not to turn his head the two inches he needs to turn and put his tongue where he wants it.

He doesn't. He waits.

That's the part that undoes you, in the end. That he waits.

"Look at you," you murmur fondly, almost to yourself. "You're so good at this already."

His eyes flutter closed. A small sound comes out of him, soft and hungry.

"Open your mouth."

He does. Just like that. Just parts his mouth, on his knees, and waits.

You press two fingers to his lower lip. Slide them inside. Valarr closes his mouth around them without being told, and sucks, his tongue working against the pads of your fingers with the same careful, thorough attention he applies to everything he does. His eyes—when he opens them and looks up at you—are gone.

Not dazed. Not drifting. Gone.

You pull your fingers out of his mouth slowly, wet and slick, dragging them lightly down his chin, down the line of his throat.

"Now," you say.

You stand over him with your fingers in his hair. His hair is silky in your grip, dark and thick, the white streak sliding between your knuckles like a bright ribbon. Beautiful. So beautiful. You guide him where you want him to be, and you hold him there.

Valarr makes a sound the instant his tongue finds your core.

Low in his throat, half-swallowed, not a sound he meant to make, either.

He wanted this, you understand now, for longer than the twenty minutes he’s spent on his knees. Wanted this for weeks, maybe months. The specific version of this where you hold him in place and don't let him lead, but he didn't know how to ask for it.

You feel him go slack with the permission of it now.

You feel him sink into your thighs. His hands come up and settle on the backs of your legs. Not gripping, not guiding, just resting there. The way a man rests his hands on something he’s grateful for, and then he begins.

He’s good at it.

He’s Harvard-good at it, in the same way he’s Harvard-good at everything. Which is to say, thorough and attentive to feedback; he learns the rhythm you want from the very first twitch of your hips, and he adjusts to it, he builds on it, and when he finds the stroke of his tongue against your clit that makes your breath catch, Valarr stays there with a focus that’s almost unnerving.

But this isn't what he's used to. You can feel it in him.

You can feel him trying, underneath the skill, to work out what you want from him now—not the technique, he has the technique; what you want from him as a person, in this position, in this reversal he hasn't rehearsed—and the searching of it is what's making his breath shake against you.

You tighten your fist in his hair and grind down against his mouth, once, experimentally.

Valarr moans.

Loud. Longer than he meant to. The sound breaks against your sensitive folds, and you feel it all the way up your spine. So you do it again, harder, and Valarr’s hands tighten on the backs of your thighs. His throat works, and you think he likes being used, he likes being used, he likes being used, and the knowledge of it makes you cruel.

"Take it."

He takes it.

"That's it,” you hum, gripping his hair tighter. “That's exactly what I want. Just like that. Don't move."

He doesn't move.

You ride his face.

There is no polite word for it, and you don't want one. You hold his head in place with both hands now—one fisted in his hair, one cupping the back of his skull almost tenderly—and you use Valarr’s mouth the way you would use a tool.

With intent, with pressure, a rhythm you choose for yourself and not for him. You don’t let him set the pace or pull back. When his breath goes ragged against you, you hold him through it, and when he makes a choked, wet sound into your skin, you tell him, "That's it, love, you’re so good for me," and you feel his whole body jolt.

When Valarr tries to pull back to breathe, you tighten your fist, and you say, "No. Like that. Don't stop."

He doesn’t stop.

His throat works. You feel it against you. He takes a breath through his nose, ragged and shallow, and goes back to what he was doing. You grind your hips down into his face and let him feel the weight of you against him. Valarr moans again, but this time it’s smaller. Lovelier, wetter, more ragged. This time, it’s closer to a whimper. It’s the sound of a man who’s just discovered something about himself that thrills him.

"Look at me."

His gaze snaps to you like you’ve yanked a leash.

Vlarr’s eyes are glazed, his mouth glossy. There’s wetness on his chin, his upper lip, the line of his elegant jaw. The blue eye has gone so pale it’s almost white, while the brown eye has gone almost black. He’s breathing through his nose in quick, desperate pulls, and when you look down at him, he looks up at you.

"You're doing so well for me," you tell him quietly, stroking your thumb against his temple. “You’re perfect, Val.”

Something in his face breaks open.

You don't know what exactly. You only see the aftermath of it. The way his eyelids flutter, the way his mouth parts against you in a shape that’s almost a smile. Then Valarr sets back to work with a renewed devotion that makes your knees wobble.

He’s putting the entire finish of his Harvard MBA and his twenty-six years of self-possession into the single project of making you come. By the time he manages it, working for it, struggling a little, his jaw trembling with the effort, his tongue gone soft where it was precise ten minutes ago, you’re coming against his mouth in long, cruel waves that you don't bother to be polite about.

"Fuck," you breathe, gasping for breath. "Fuck, Valarr—"

You hear him moan against you.

Dry, small, wrecked. He moans into your swollen cunt at the sound of his own name in your mouth, and he keeps going, keeps working you through it, lapping at your folds, drinking you in. You ride it out against his face without mercy because you know now, with absolute certainty, that mercy is not what he wants.

Valarr’s taking it like a gift. 

You have understood something.

He’s never done this before, exactly. Not like this. He’s gone down on plenty of women; his skill backs that up. But he’s never been used before, and the distinction is not lost on him; the distinction is what he’s just tripped face-first into.

He keeps going when you tell him to.

Through the aftershocks. Gentler now, but still there, still working, still mouth-to-skin and hands-on-thighs and not moving until you permit it. When it's too much—when your whole body flinches at the overstimulation—you say, "Stop." 

Valarr stops instantly. He doesn't move back. He just stops. Rests his mouth there, open, panting against you. Waiting.

"Good boy," you say again, softer this time, and his whole body shakes.

When you finally let him up, he’s dishevelled in a way you’ve never seen him. His perfect hair tousled where you tore at it, mouth wet and swollen, jaw shining, eyes blown. His collar is crumpled, damp mess at the throat. There's a red mark on his cheek where you pressed him into you too hard.

The pristine line of him, that Valarr-polish you've been looking at for four months, is gone. 

It's just a man on his knees with his mouth ruined.

He sways forward on his knees. He presses his forehead to your hipbone.

He whispers, "Thank you."

You freeze, briefly, because you hadn't expected the thank-you, and because you felt it in your whole body.

"Get up."

He does as he’s told. 

You fuck him against his bedroom wall. He puts his hands against the paint on either side of your head, and he holds himself there. Doesn't move them, doesn't touch you except where you’re letting him touch you. He looks into your eyes the entire time with an expression that's, more than anything, studying. He’s memorising what works. For every micro-expression your face makes, and he’s noting which movements of his hips produce which sounds from you, filing it all away, in real time, for next time.

You come a second time with his hand at your throat.

Not hard. He doesn't know how hard yet. You have to take his wrist, afterwards, and place his hand back there, more firmly, and say, "Like this. Not there. Here." And he corrects, he learns. When he comes, he comes with his face buried in your neck, and he’s whispering something, and you only catch the end of it.

—anything you want, whatever you want, tell me—

You stand in his bathroom ten minutes later, splashing cold water on your face, staring at yourself in his obscenely expensive mirror. Your hair is ruined. Your mouth is swollen. You still feel the ghost of his hands at the back of your thighs. 

You have the thought, then, for the first time:

I could make him into anything.

And under that thought, immediately and with the specific chill of an instinct you don’t yet trust:

I probably will.

IV. february, year two.

You wake up in his bed on a Saturday morning in February, and it’s snowing outside.

King’s Landing snow. The rare, good kind. Fat soft flakes drift past the penthouse windows in a slow hush, the city muted under them, the light in the bedroom gone grey. 

You’re under a cashmere throw because he pulled it over you sometime in the night. Valarr’s still asleep next to you, on his stomach, one toned arm thrown across your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. The white streak at his temple is a pale slash in his dark, messy hair. His mouth gapes open slightly. He’s not handsome in sleep; he’s boyish, a little ridiculous, softened.

You gaze at him for a long time.

There’s no performance in him right now. No studying. No careful awareness of the angle of his own jaw. He’s just a man in his twenties, asleep next to a woman he’s in love with, and he’s breathing evenly, a small crease between his brows that you want to smooth with your thumb.

You smooth it with your thumb.

Valarr stirs at once. His mismatched eyes crack open. They focus on you slowly, without sharpening, and the first thing his face does is smile—helpless, unguarded, delighted.

"Hi," he mumbles.

"Hi."

"What time is it?" he croaks sleepily.

"Early," you tell him gently.

"Mm." He pulls you closer, tucks his face into your shoulder. His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin. "Five more minutes."

You let him have five more minutes. You let him have a whole hour. You lie there with him curled around you like a very expensive dog, and you watch the snow come down outside. 

At some point, you understand, with no particular astonishment, that you’re happy.

Plainly happy. The kind of happiness your mother used to talk about. The quiet kind, the Sunday-morning kind, the kind that can't be captured or faked. You’re in a warm bed with a man who loves you, and it’s snowing. There’s coffee somewhere in your near future. There’s nothing you have to do today, nowhere to be. Valarr’s body is warm against yours, and he smells like cedar and clean skin, and you’re happy.

You turn your face into his thick hair, and you think: oh.

And then you think: oh, no.

Because you hadn’t expected this. 

You expected the sex, expected the dance, the expensive gifts, the careful strategic pursuit. You braced for all of it, watched yourself enter this relationship with a kind of distant curiosity. 

What you hadn’t expected was the five-more-minutes. Or the gentle urge to smooth the crease between his brows. You hadn’t expected the domestic, boring, ordinary, warm-bed happiness of a man who makes you breakfast and laughs at your jokes and holds you in his sleep.

You’ll remember this morning later, after it’s all over, as one of the ones that mattered. Really mattered. 

You’ll remember the grey light, the cashmere throw, the comforting weight of Valarr’s arm across your waist. You will not be able to explain to anyone how a man you eventually understood to be dangerous was also, unambiguously, someone you loved dearly.

But you did.

For a time, in that apartment, in the snow, in February of year two—you did.

Valarr eventually wakes properly, gets up with a groan, and stretches, making you appreciate the toned lines of his back. 

He makes you breakfast: eggs, toast, and the specific preserves you like from a small local shop that he had delivered last week. He puts a record on—jazz, soft, something his father used to play, he tells you—and he stands barefoot at the kitchen island in a t-shirt and sweatpants, and he cooks for you.

You sit at the counter with your chin in your hand and you watch him. Valarr catches you watching him, and his whole face does the thing it does when he’s happy: it goes transparent, briefly, and you see him, the man under the golden performance, and he’s not a man who’s been loved enough.

You see it that morning. You see it so clearly it hurts.

He’s a man who’s been adored and admired his whole life but never loved, and the difference is catastrophic. Because you’re the first person who’s bothered to know the difference. Valarr knows you know, and he is—in his careful, precise, terrified way—trying to let you inside.

You eat the eggs, spinning your fork with each mouthful. You kiss him on the jaw on your way to the coffee pot. Valarr catches your elbow and pulls you back and kisses you properly, deeply, consuming. Not hungry, not sexual, just a long warm kiss that means stay, and you do.

You stay the whole weekend.

You tell him, on Sunday night, in the dim of his bedroom with your head on his chest: "I love you."

You hadn't planned to. It comes out of you whole, unstudied, clumsy. His body stills under you.

"Say it again," he whispers.

"I love you."

Valarr is quiet for a long, long time. His hand is in your hair. When he speaks, his voice is not the voice he usually uses. It’s smaller, more cracked. "I've loved you since October."

You skim your lips over his chest. "I know."

"I know you know."

"I wasn't ready to say it back until now," you tell him.

"I know," he says again, and there’s such terrible gratitude in the words that you understand, lying there, that you could ruin this man simply by changing your mind. 

You could ruin him without trying. It’s already too late; he’s already folded into you past the point of extraction, and you’re only three months in.

You close your eyes and breathe against his sternum. You tell yourself, then, that you’ll be careful with him. 

You will not be.

But you mean it, that night, when you think it.

V. march, year two.

You teach him to bite.

You do it slowly. Patiently. One day at a time. You’re in no rush. You have months—you have years, it will turn out—and there’s a specific pleasure in taking your time, in shaping him in increments so small he doesn't notice the shape changing until the shape is already altered.

The first time, you’re sitting on his face. It’s something he asked for, quietly, after weeks of letting him earn it in smaller increments. Somewhere in the middle of it, bored with his stiff politeness, you grab his hair, hard, and you say, into the dim of the room: "Bite me."

Valarr hesitates. Two seconds. A full two seconds of hesitation, in which you can feel him not understanding the instruction.

"The inside of my thigh,” you clarify. “Bite me. Do it."

He does it. Lightly. A nervous, under-committed bite, more suggestion than action.

"Harder."

He bites harder.

"Harder, Valarr."

He bites until you gasp, until you feel his teeth sink in, hard. The skin will bruise in a faint shape that you will look at in the bath the next morning with a small satisfied curl at the corner of your mouth. He freezes after, holds too still, uncertain whether he’s overshot.

You tell him, "Again."

You see his eyes darken. You see him learn.

Two weeks later, in the middle of fucking you, Valarr bites the joint of your shoulder and your neck unprompted. He does it because he can feel you wanting it—reads it off you, reads it in the arch of your back, reads it like a language he’s becoming, slowly but thoroughly, fluent in. 

He does it without asking. He does it knowing you want it.

You come almost immediately, with your nails sunk brutally into his toned back. He kisses the bite afterwards tenderly, apologetic in a theatrical way that’s not actually apologetic, and you laugh—actually laugh—against his chest because you can feel him performing the tenderness for you. It’s cute and it means he’s yours.

You teach him to hold you down.

You put his hands where you want them. You tell him—not always with words; sometimes just with a look over your shoulder, sometimes just by lifting your wrists above your head and waiting for him to understand—and Valarr learns to pin you. He’s tentative at first, afraid of hurting you, his grip more like a suggestion than a hold. 

You break his wrist-grip one night just to show him he isn't trying. "Try again," you order, soft but firm. "Mean it this time."

He tries again. This time, he means it. The grip goes iron. You can’t pull free, and your breath catches with a slow, satisfied curl of heat in your belly.

"There," you rasp against his mouth. "There, Val. Like that. Don't let go."

He doesn't let go.

VI. april, year two.

You teach him to talk to you.

This one takes longer. Valarr's natural register in bed was praise (beautiful, you're so beautiful, god, look at you, I can't believe you're mine), and the praise is real. It’s genuine. It’s not a thing you want to remove from him. You just need to layer something underneath it. You need to teach him to be filthy under his perfect, golden shine.

You coax it out of him in small pieces.

You ask him what he's thinking about when he looks at you. You ask him questions in bed that he has to answer, and watch him struggle with the vocabulary. 

What do you want? What are you thinking about when you’re inside me? Tell me. 

He’s articulate. Valarr has been trained his whole life to be articulate. But this particular articulation—the dirty one, the possessive one, the one that lives under the golden boy and has never been spoken aloud—he has to find the words for first.

But you’re patient. You’re endlessly patient. You coach him like a man learning a language, and he learns it for you, because he learns everything for you.

The first time he manages mine in that low, smooth voice—against your ear, his teeth at your throat, his hand at your hip—you actually shudder. He feels it. His rhythm stutters. Then Valarr whispers it again, more certain this time, hungrier, and you feel him understand that he’s found a key that works.

By April, he's saying worse things.

Specific things.

The kinds of things you hadn’t known you needed to hear from him until he’s saying them, in that smooth voice, while fucking you against his windows with the city eighty floors below.

You feel so tight around me, love.

You're so wet for me. Listen to that. You’re making a mess.

Look at you taking it. Look at you. Perfect.

Some nights, you make him narrate.

You make him tell you, in his quiet voice, exactly what he’s going to do to you before he does it. You make him describe, out loud, in exact words, how he wants you. At first, he can’t do it without laughing a little—self-conscious, unused to the performance, the white streak at his temple catching the lamplight as he ducks his head—and you let him laugh, you kiss the laugh out of his mouth, smiling, and you urge him to try again.

Valarr tries again.

I'm going to put you on your back, and I'm going to eat your cunt until you're crying.

I'm going to make you come on my tongue so hard you forget your own name.

Then I'm going to fuck you so slow you'll be begging me, and I'm not going to give it to you. I'm going to make you work for it. I'm going to make you ride me until your thighs give out.

You reward him for that one. You reward him generously.

You let him put you on your back, let him take his time, watch him watch you the whole time he's doing it. His mismatched eyes burn, fixed on you, feverish with pride at himself. His mouth shines, the picture of a man delighted with his work, and you understand that you’ve started something. That there’s something inside this man that’s coming apart. Thanks to you. 

Some nights, he narrates before he's even touched you.

Sits across from you at the bar cart in his sitting room with a glass of something amber in his hand and tells you conversationally what he's been thinking about since lunch. In detail. Tells you what he wanted to do to you in the elevator, what he almost did in the car. Tells you about the board meeting he sat through that afternoon, where he couldn't stop picturing your mouth.

I had to cross my legs under the table like a teenager. Half-hard in a room full of old men, thinking about you on your knees. Thinking about the noises you made when I had my fingers in you this morning, and still won't let you come.

Thinking about how you taste after I've already made you come twice. How you go soft for me. How you let me do whatever I want to you when you're that far gone.

You drink your drink. You let him talk. You don't interrupt.

He's learning the cadence of it, learning what lands. He knows, now, to slow down on the parts that make your breath catch, to speed up on the parts that make you shift in your seat. By the time he stands up and crosses the room to you, he’s already fucked you twice in his head, and you’re already half-gone for him, and you haven't moved.

He takes the glass out of your hand, sets it down.

Come here, love. Let me show you what I've been thinking about all day.

I'm going to ruin you for the rest of the weekend.

And then he does. 

By May, Valarr’s saying them first. Without you having to prompt him. It’s then that you understand that you’ve succeeded completely. That you’ve taught him oh so well. That the version of Valarr who will now, unprompted, describe to you in graphic detail what he’s going to do to you across the dinner table is a version of Valarr you built, line by line, with months of patience.

You take him to a gala in late April at the Met. Black tie. His hand at the small of your back. At some point during dinner, with a lord on your left and a museum board member across from you, Valarr leans in, ostensibly to pour you more wine, and purrs, in a voice pitched just for you:

"I'm going to take you home and fuck you in that dress, my love. I'm going to put you face down on the bed, still wearing it and fill you up. I want to ruin that dress. I'll buy you another one, and then I’ll ruin that one, too."

You don’t spill your wine. There’s no change in your expression at all in fact. You just keep smiling at the lord.

But when you turn your head, just slightly, to look at him, Valarr’s face is smooth and pleasant, his mismatched eyes hooded, and you understand, with a bright, cold thrill: I taught him to do that. I made him into a man who could do that. I put that in him.

He ruins the dress.

You let him.

VII. may, year two.

You teach him to take.

This one is the hardest one. Because Valarr's natural instinct is to give. Everything inside him is oriented toward giving, toward worship, toward the specific pleasure of making you pleased, and learning to take requires him to suppress the reflex that’s organised his entire sexual life.

You make him anyway.

"Put me where you want me," you tell him one night. You’re standing in his bedroom in a silk slip he’d bought you, purposely crooked so he glimpses the curve of your breast and the crease of your thigh. "Don't ask. Don't check. Put me where you want me and fuck me."

He stares at you. "I won't know where—"

"Figure it out," you say bluntly.

He hesitates. Then, slowly, he crosses to you. He puts his hand at the small of your back, walks you backwards toward the bed. He turns you, at the last second, and puts you face down on the mattress. His hand grips the back of your neck, pressing you into the duvet. His other hand lands at your hip, yanking you up onto your knees.

Your breath catches.

"Like this?" he asks, tentative.

"Don't ask."

"—alright."

He fucks you like that. Face-down. Hand at the back of your neck the entire time. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. He doesn’t check in, doesn’t ask. He reads everything off your body—the tension in your thighs, the starved, half-animal sound in your throat—and he adjusts in real time. 

He takes, and you come harder than you’ve come in months.

Afterwards, he’s trembling faintly against your back, kissing the damp skin of your shoulder.

"Was that—"

You hum, pleased. "Yes."

"I didn't want to—"

You reach behind you, tangle your fingers in his hair, the roots faintly damp from sweat, and say, "It was perfect, Val. Shh."

Valarr is quiet for a while. Then, "I didn't know I could do that."

I know, you don't say. I know. I'm teaching you. I'm teaching you what you are.

You kiss him instead, kiss him slow and deep and long. He folds against you with that particular trembling gratitude, and you understand, in that moment, that you’re in the middle of remaking a man from the inside out, and that he’s letting you. 

That he’s thanking you for it every step of the way.

Over the next few weeks, Valarr gets bolder. He doesn’t ask anymore. Valarr puts you where he wants you, holds you there, and takes. He flips you in the middle of the night and fucks you half-asleep into the sheets until you’re gasping from pleasure, one hand collaring your throat, another pinching your clit. 

He pulls you off the couch and onto your knees without warning, parting your mouth with his thumb. He pins your wrist against the bathroom counter one morning. Fucks you unhurried and deep, looking at your own reflection while he whispers gently, chin on your shoulder, his eyes dark, what you look like when you come for him.

You’ve taught him, by the end of May of year two, to be the man you needed. You’ve spent six months in his bedroom remaking him, and the remaking isn’t done, but the structure is in place. The rest is finishing work. The rest is polish.

He’s so grateful you taught him.

That’s the part that, later, you will not be able to stop thinking about. 

That the whole time you were shaping him—the whole time you were pressing his hand to your throat with the right pressure, the whole time you were correcting his grip, his language, his angle, his tempo — he was thanking you. He was grateful. He was so happy. 

Valarr walked around the city feeling like he’d been given a gift and the gift was himself. He didn’t understand, yet, that what you were giving him was also a leash. Because you were the only woman who would ever know how to handle him like this. 

You were building a lock and holding the only key to it.

And he loved it.

He loved every fucking second of it.

VIII. summer, year two.

He flies you to Myr for ten days. Private plane. Private villa. A staff you will never see who puts fresh fruit on the terrace each morning before you wake.

Valarr is, in Myr, the best version of himself. 

He cooks you breakfast in the little kitchen overlooking the bay. He reads with you on the terrace, your hands occasionally brushing over the pages, his thumb tracing yours when he thinks you aren't paying attention. 

He asks you questions about your mother that no one has ever asked you. Not the polite questions, but the real ones, the ones that come from a man who’s lost his father young and who knows the particular shape of that absence. What was her laugh like? What did she smell like? What did she think of your father, honestly?

You answer him with more honesty than you’ve given anyone in years. You lie in a pool of sun on his chest, and you tell Valarr about the last Christmas before she died and about the way your father still mourns her. Describe the specific sharpness of grief that’s hardened inside you. Valarr listens, and his hand strokes the back of your neck, and you feel known.

You feel known.

It’s not the only time in the relationship you will feel it. It’s one of several. You will have a handful of mornings like this—on terraces, in beds, in cars, on planes—where Valarr will look at you and you’ll have the unmistakable sense that someone is listening. The listening is real, and the loving is real, and the man listening and loving you is not a performance.

It is, however, the first time you feel the wrongness alongside it.

Because that night, after sex—after he’s eaten you out until you were gasping and then fucked you until you couldn't feel your legs, after he’s let you mark his chest with your nails and kissed the inside of each wrist with that bowed, careful reverence that’s started to unsettle you a little—he lies behind you with his arm over your waist and he says, casually, into your hair:

"I want to marry you."

You go still.

"Valarr."

"Not tomorrow. Not next year, even, if you don't want. I know it's fast." His hand flattens over your stomach. His palm is warm. "I'm telling you because I want you to know that I'm serious about us. I've known since October."

October. You’ve been sleeping with him for eight months. He’s known since the second.

"I don't think you know me well enough to—"

"I know you perfectly well." There’s no defensiveness in his voice, only a calm, unwavering certainty. "I've been paying attention. I know what you take in your coffee and tea. I know the sound you make when you've had a bad call with your father. That you check your watch every forty minutes when you're bored, and that you laugh at bad puns you pretend not to laugh at. There’s a particular way you kiss when you want more and when you're being generous. I know, more or less, what you'd name our children. I've been listening."

You lie in his arms, and you feel the entirety of your body go cold, and then warm, and then cold again.

Because he isn't lying. He has been listening. For eight months, with a focus of a man building a dossier, and he’s assembled a working model of you accurate enough to be operational. He can predict what you will want for dinner, can predict what you will wear to a party. He can, demonstrably, predict what you will say when he does certain things in bed.

And none of it is knowing you. Not really. It’s the shape of knowing. It’s the model, not the real thing.

But he loves the model so completely that he can’t tell he doesn't love you.

You don't say any of that. You turn in his arms, and you kiss him. Because what Valarr has just said is, in some animal part of your brain, a thing you want to be flattered by. You’re a Stark heir. Men have been vying to marry you since you were sixteen, and none of them has ever meant it with this degree of genuine want.

You kiss him, whispering, "Not yet."

Valarr smiles against your lips. There's no bitterness in his voice when he says, "I'll wait."

He means it. That’s the other thing about Valarr. 

He means every single thing he says.

IX. autumn, year two into year three.

It happens at a bar near Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Valarr’s in the bathroom, and a man with a clean-shaven jaw and an expensive jacket sees you alone at the table and decides that’s an invitation. He’s not aggressive. Not even even vulgar. Just the kind of lawyer-ish, investment-ish man you’ve been politely deflecting since you were old enough to understand what men want from you. He puts his hand on the back of the chair next to yours and asks if you'd like a drink.

"I'm with someone," you dismiss him with practiced ease. 

"He's not here," the man replies.

"He is, actually,” you say coolly. “He's in the bathroom."

The man smiles, unbothered. "Long bathroom break."

You give him the Stark look—the one your father perfected and your mother refined—and he laughs, shrugs, already gone by the time Valarr gets back. You don’t mention it because it’s not worth mentioning. It was nothing.

Three weeks later, the man had moved across the country.

You find out by accident. A girl you know from your studies mentions, at a brunch, that so-and-so took a sudden role in Gulltown. Which is strange because he'd been up for partner at his firm in King’s Landing and everyone assumed he was going to take it. The change of heart was unexpected. Something to do with the timing, she says vaguely. His firm made him a very aggressive offer to leave.

You look at Valarr across the table. He’s drinking coffee, his expression serene. 

"You knew him," you say, later, in the car.

"Who?"

"The man,” you say tightly. “The one who's moved."

"Oh. That one." He doesn't glance at you. His eyes are on the street, and his hand is on your thigh, thumb stroking absently. "Was that his name?"

"Did you do something?" you ask bluntly. 

He’s quiet for a moment, only his thumb moving.

Then: "I made a phone call. That's all. A friend at the firm mentioned they were looking for someone to head up the Eastern office, and I mentioned that I knew a promising associate. That's all. Whether he took the role was up to him."

"Valarr."

"He wasn't coerced."

"You—" 

You don’t know how to finish the sentence. You exiled a man across the country because he flirted with me for forty seconds at a bar. It’s insane. It’s also, you realise with a cold ripple down your spine, entirely plausible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Valarr would do. Quietly, legally, unimpeachably, with deniability built in at every step. He’s probably not broken a single law doing so, and he’s almost certainly sent a man across the country.

"I didn'tt like the way he looked at you," Valarr says, mildly, as if it were a small dietary preference. "I handled it."

You’re silent for the rest of the drive.

That night, you make him fuck you on the floor of his foyer, because you’re too angry to get all the way to the bedroom. Because the only way you can process what you’ve just learned is to take. 

You yank him down by the tie. You bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. He takes it. Valarr takes everything like a black hole made solely for your consumption. He takes you roughly on the marble with his head at an uncomfortable angle against the baseboard, and when he comes, he whispers your name like a prayer. When it's over, he lies there under you and looks up at you with those mismatched eyes gone entirely dark, and he says softly:

"I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't be angry."

You understand, then, something true about Valarr that you will not articulate to yourself for another two years. 

You understand that sorry and angry are, for him, interchangeable currencies, because both of them end with him in your hands. He doesn’t actually regret the phone call. He would make it again. He’s only sorry that you’re angry, sorry that it has cost him something. The action itself, he’s not sorry for at all.

You roll off him and stare at the ceiling. You think, for the first time: This is not a good man.

Then you think: I don't know if I can leave him.

Then, more quietly, and even more honestly: I don't know if I want to.

X. winter, year three.

Valarr takes you to his mother's house at Dragonstone for Christmas. 

He’s never taken anyone there before. You know because his brother tells you, at the door, with a slightly dazed look on his face, as if he doesn’t quite believe you’re real at all.

Matarys Targaryen is three years younger than Valarr and auburn-haired. He and Valarr don’t look like brothers at first glance, not until you find the architecture of the face underneath, the same line of the nose, the same mouth. He got their mother's colouring. Valarr got their father's. Matarys is warm, where Valarr is polished, loose where Valarr is calibrated.

When he opens the door to you that first evening, he hugs you before you’ve finished stepping inside.

"The Stark heir," he calls out, pulling back, grinning widely. "God. You're actually real."

A surprised, amused snort builds in your throat. "I'm real."

"He's brought me girlfriends before. Valarr, I mean. I mean—he's mentioned girlfriends before. In passing. I'm not meant to know about most of them. But mother doesn't meet them. Mother hasn't met one, ever." He’s still holding your hand. His grip is warm and unselfconscious in a way his brother's grip has never once been. "You're a big deal, apparently. I hope you know."

You suppress another smile. "I'm fast getting that impression."

"I'm Matarys by the way,” he introduces himself, flushing when he realises he hasn’t yet given you a name you already know. “I'm the disappointment."

"He's not the disappointment," Valarr says behind you fondly, setting the bags down. "Don't believe him for a second."

"I’m definitely the disappointment,” Matarys disagrees, even as Valarr throws his arm around him and ruffles his hair in a gesture so brotherly it makes a pang go through your chest. “If I weren't the disappointment, he'd have to invent one." Matarys winks at you. "Come in. Mother's in the drawing room pretending not to care that you're here."

Their mother, Jena Dondarrion-Targaryen, has the same auburn hair as her younger son. A deep burnished red, streaked through with grey at the temples, pinned up with the careful artlessness of a woman who spent her youth in magazines. She’s slender and elegant, and eats one almond with every glass of wine she drinks. She examines you for precisely three seconds too long, assessing your face, your hair, your clothes, your posture. She approves. You see her decide as much in real time. 

The Stark heir. Northern ice. Old money. Good bones. Can give him beautiful children. 

She folds her hands.

"My son has spoken of you." Her voice is dry and dignified. "Extensively."

"I'm flattered."

"He doesn’t speak of women extensively,” she tells you pointedly. “This is new. I think you should know."

You feel Valarr tense, very slightly, next to you. Mother, his body says, without his mouth moving. His hand tightens at your waist a fraction.

Jena looks at her son, then she looks back at you. "He’s been patient his whole life, for lack of anything worth being impatient about. I had begun to fear he would never find anything worth impatience. It’s a relief to me that he finally has."

You say the polite thing and make equally polite conversation. You get through dinner. Matarys is at your elbow the whole time—making you laugh, feeding you gossip about the other guests, refilling your wine without asking—and you like him, immediately, in the instinctive way you like very few people. You understand that Matarys has been deployed gently by his brother, as your ambassador to the house.

Later, much later, after the dinner and the drawing room, in the guest bedroom (he’s been given the guest bedroom; no unmarried couples in the main wing, even for him), Valarr strips you out of your dress and lays you down and makes love to you so gently you could cry, and you do, silently, a few tears sliding into your hair. 

Valarr notices but asks nothing, simply kissing the tears from your temple. And you love him, in that moment, with a quality of love that’s terrifying. Because you don’t trust it, and you don’t trust him. You’re lying in his mother's house in a guest bedroom, and you’re crying, and he’s kissing your tears away with the tenderness of a man who’s been preparing for you his whole life.

He murmurs into your hair: I have never been so happy, love.

You believe him.

That’s the most frightening part.

The next morning, you come down for breakfast in one of his shirts over your own pyjama bottoms. Matarys is at the kitchen island in a sweater that used to belong to their father, and Jena is at the table with a cup of tea and a newspaper. The sun is coming in through the windows, and Valarr comes up behind you, kissing the top of your head absently while he reaches for the coffee, and you think—with a small, clear tremor of shock—this is what it would look like. If I married him. This is what the rest of my life would look like.

Jena lowers her newspaper. She looks at you over the rim of her teacup. You think she sees something in your face, then.

"He is better," she says mildly, "when you are in the house."

You don't answer.

You don’t know, that morning, that you will remember her saying that for the rest of your life.

XI. january, year three.

You come back to the penthouse late on a Tuesday night in January. Eleven, maybe later.

You’ve been to a dinner you hated. Your shoes are off before you’re fully through the door, your shoulders set in a rigid line. You peel off your coat impatiently, a moment later, glaring at nothing. You want a drink, a hot bath, and you want not to think about the man you sat next to at dinner for a full forty minutes. That’s how long it took you to realised he was the uncle of a woman whose deal your fund had just walked away from.

You drop your bag on the console.

You call out, "I'm home.”

And a voice behind you, low and leisurely, drawls: "I can see that."

You turn.

Valarr stands in the doorway of the living room. He’s still in the suit trousers, and the shirt from his own evening—rolled at the sleeves because you told him once you like how his forearms look bared, collar open at the throat, the white streak at his temple catching light. He has a glass of scotch in his hand, and he’s not smiling. 

He’s looking at you in that particular way Valarr looks at you now, which is different from how he looked at you two years ago.

Two years ago, he looked at you like a man who found something he’d not expected to find and was afraid, faintly, that it would be taken away from him.

Now he looks at you like a man who knows exactly what he has and is, quietly, keeping it.

"Hi," you call out.

"Hi." He takes a sip of his drink. His eyes do a single slow pass down your body, head to toe, unhurried. Shoes off, hair a mess, dress wrinkled, the faintest mascara smudge at the corner of one eye. "Bad night?"

"The worst," you admit tightly.

"Mm." He doesn't move from the doorway. "Come here."

You don't go, immediately. Not because you’re refusing, but because you like, these days, to make him ask a second time. Sometimes third. Because the small pause between the first instruction and the second has become its own private language between you, a thing he understands, a thing that turns the air in the room half a degree warmer.

His mouth does a small thing it does nowadays. The corner tugs slowly, something tender and dark in it.

Valarr waits a beat. Then, lower: "I said come here."

You cross the room unhurriedly.

Valarr sets his drink down on the side table without looking at it. He catches your jaw with the hand that was holding the glass—warm, faintly tacky from the condensation—and he tilts your face up. He looks at you. Just looks. No kiss yet. He’s reading your face, the way he always does now, doing his inventory of you: tired, wound tight, wants to fight something, wants to be handled.

Alright.

He tilts his head a fraction. "Who seated you next to him?"

You blink. "What?"

"At dinner. Who seated you next to him? Not by accident, I assume." His thumb is moving leisurely along the line of your jaw, his mismatched eyes hooded. "You wouldn't be this tense if it was an accident. So who did it?"

You stare at him.

You haven’t told him who you sat next to at dinner. You haven’t told him anything about dinner. You’ve only been home for forty seconds. He’s read it off you, you realise. The angle of your shoulders, the particular tension in your mouth, the fact that you dropped your bag instead of setting it down. He’s reconstructed, from this, a whole sequence of events he wasn’t present for, and he’s landed with uncanny precision on the actual problem.

"How do you—"

"You'll tell me later," he says, dismissive, almost bored.

He’s not interested in dinner anymore. He’s already set it aside. It’s a thing he’s logged for later. You know there’ll be a phone call later in the week, you know someone will find himself suddenly unavailable for a seating arrangement, and that will be that . 

He’s already turned his full attention back to you.

"Not now,” he goes on idly. “Now you're going to take off that dress, my love."

Tonight you do. 

Because you want to, because you need this, and he sees it in you. 

Valarr watches you, but he doesn't help. Two years ago, he would have helped—would have reached for the zip, would have knelt to slide it down you, would have made a little production of it—and now he just watches. He leans back against the doorframe, head tilted back, and watches. His eyes go steadily darker as you work the zip. The dress slides off your shoulders, and you step out of it, kicking it aside.

"Bra. Underwear. All of it. Slowly."

You obey, keeping eye contact throughout. You reach behind your back for the bra clasp, taking your time. Because he said slowly, and you are, these days, a woman who rewards specificity. 

The straps slide down your arms. You feel Valarr’s attention on your breasts when the bra comes loose. There’s a small sound he makes—not a word, just a silky exhale—and you hook your thumbs into the sides of your underwear and drag them down your legs. You step out of them, and when you straighten, he’s looking at you the way men in paintings look at things. All consuming, devout.

"Stay there."

You stay.

He crosses the room, still half-dressed, and walks once around you. A full slow circle. His eyes on your back, the line of your spine, the curve of your ass. Valarr stops behind you. You feel his breath at the nape of your neck. His hand, warm and dry, slides down the length of your spine leisurely, following the bumps of each vertebra down to the small of your back.

He palms your ass.

Squeezes, almost thoughtfully, appreciatively. Then, without warning, he hits it—one sharp, precise smack, not hard enough to really hurt but hard enough to make you gasp. You feel the heat of his handprint bloom instantly across the skin, and you feel his breath at your ear dip a half-register lower.

"Hm," he hums, pleased, as if confirming something. "I thought so."

He comes back around to the front of you.

His eyes have gone entirely black now. He slides the back of his knuckles down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach, and between your legs. When his fingers come away wet, he looks at them for a long contemplative second, then pops them in his own mouth.

You watch his eyes close.

You watch his throat work as he sucks his own fingers clean of you, and when Valarr’s eyes open again he’s smiling. It’s small, private, the smile of a man who’s just had his first sip of a very good wine he was looking forward to all evening.

"Tell me what you want," he says quietly. "The short version."

"Valarr—"

"I said the short version."

"Rough," you answer breathlessly.

"Mm." His thumb, still wet, strokes the side of your throat, almost tender now. "Is that so?"

He manoeuvres you against the wall.

One hand at your throat—exact pressure, the pressure you taught him, two years of calibration behind his thumb—and one hand at your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. He’s not kissing you yet. He’s just looking at you, up close, his forehead almost to yours, his breath warm against your mouth, and then Valarr kisses you.

It’s not the kiss of a man asking permission. 

Instead, it’s a kiss of a man who’s fucked you several hundred times and who knows, from the rhythm of your breath and the angle of your chin and the specific way you had dropped your bag, precisely what you need from him tonight.

He kisses you hard, with teeth. With hunger. He bites your lower lip and drags it between his own. And when you bite his lip back, Valarr laughs against your mouth, low and pleased, as if you’ve just confirmed a diagnosis he was already fairly sure about.

The hand at your hip slides between your legs. No preamble. Two fingers into you in one long, slow push, knuckle-deep, and the wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet of the entryway. His mouth goes still against yours for a half-second as he catalogues how wet you already are.

"All through dinner?" he wonders.

You don't answer. You can't answer. He’s curled his fingers, and you’re breathing through your teeth, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.

"Answer me."

You make a small, hungry sound. "Valarr."

"Were you sitting across from him, thinking about this?” he demands, working his wrist. “About coming home to me like this?"

"Yes," you breathe out.

"About what I'd do to you?" he probes further. 

"Yes."

His lips skim your temple. "Good. I’ve been thinking about you, too."

He adds a third finger.

You feel yourself stretch around him, and your knees go for a second. Valarr catches you with the hand at your throat, holds you up, keeps fucking you on his fingers without breaking rhythm. He’s not going easy. He’s decided, somewhere in the last three minutes, that tonight is not a night for going easy. His thumb finds your clit at the same moment his fingers hit the spot inside you that he’s mapped years ago. 

You come on his hand against the entryway wall less than ninety seconds after walking through the door.

Valarr doesn't let you ride it out. He pulls his fingers out of you before you're done, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

"Open."

You open your mouth.

He slides his fingers in. You taste yourself on him, tangy and clean, and you close your mouth around his knuckles, sucking slowly, because you know what it does to him, watching his pupils dilate. Valarr’s breath catches, and his cock twitches visibly under the fabric of his trousers.

"You're going to kill me, my love," he murmurs fondly, already slightly breathless. "Turn around."

He half-turns you himself. Face to the wall. One hand between your shoulder blades, holding you there, the other sliding up the inside of your thigh, keeping you open.

"Stay."

You swallow, staying in your spot.

He undresses behind you without hurry. You hear it—the soft drag of his shirt, the clink of his belt being drawn from his trousers, the considered way he puts his cufflinks down on the side table because Valarr doesn’t throw cufflinks.

No matter how hard he’s about to fuck you.

You hear the whisper of fabric when he steps out of his trousers. You hear him take himself in his own hand, a single slow stroke, and the small catch of breath that follows.

You hear all of it, and you can’t see him, but listening is part of it, and he knows it’s part of it. This play between you. He’s taking his time on purpose.

When he comes back to you, he’s fully naked, skin hot against your back, the length of his cock sliding heavy between your thighs before he's even angled himself. He drags his length through the wetness of you, slow, once, twice, and you hear him groan low behind your ear at the feel of it.

"Look at you," he breathes. "Come undone. All for me. Just for me."

Valarr puts one hand back at the nape of your neck, pressing you forward against the wall, and the other hand he slides down to check—thorough, unhurried, two fingers back inside you like he’s making absolutely sure you’re exactly as ready as he wants it—and he makes a low, satisfied sound against the back of your shoulder.

"My good girl."

Good girl is new.

He would not have said good girl in year one. He wouldn’t have said it in month eighteen. He’s arrived at good girl through long study, through months of testing adjacent phrasings, through watching your face when he tried things, abandoning the ones that didn't land. Good girl landed. For a different reason good boy landed with him. 

You feel yourself react to it now, with a small, involuntary shiver. Valarr feels it against your back, and you hear the small pleased huff he makes when he catches it.

He fucks you against the wall.

He pushes into you in one long, deliberate stroke, to the hilt, no mercy, and the sound you make is raw and loud. You would, on a better night, be embarrassed about it.

He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He doesn’t ask. Valarr pulls almost all the way out and pushes back in again just as hard. Then again, setting a pace he’s chosen for you. You feel the flat of his pelvis hit your ass with every stroke, his balls heavy against you, and you feel yourself already starting to build again against the wall.

He fucks you with the hand at your nape, holding you exactly where he wants you, and the other hand reaching around and down to work your clit with a precision that comes from two years of specific practice. His mouth brushes at the join of your shoulder and your neck where he had, once, been taught to bite.

He bites now. He bites hard enough that you yelp. There’s no pause, no apology. Valarr sucks the bite afterwards, a long, relaxed drag of his tongue, and you know you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow in the exact place your collar will not cover.

He fucks you through it, and his voice low in your ear is not a voice he had in year one, is not a voice he knew was in him in year one, because it’s a voice you made.

Listen to yourself. Listen to how wet you are for me.

You're so fucking tight tonight, my love. Did you miss me this much?

That's right. Take it. Take all of it. That's my good girl.

You're mine. Say it.

You let out a breathy gasp. "Yours."

"Again."

"Yours, Val, I'm yours—"

"Louder."

He reaches up, his fingers sliding into your hair, and pulls. Not brutally but with intent. Forcing your head back against his shoulder so your spine arches and your breasts push forward against the cold of the wall, and the angle of him inside you changes. You make a sound that’s not a word, exactly, and he fucks you through the sound of it anyway, his mouth at your ear again.

"Come on my cock."

You do. 

You come with your forehead pressed to the cold of the wall, his hand at your throat, and his cock pulsing inside you. When you do, Valarr makes a small sound behind you that’s not thank you anymore, not the way it was in year one.

It’s something else now. Something more possessive, darker, closer to yes.

He doesn't let you down from it. He keeps moving. He fucks you through the aftershocks, slower but not gentler, his hand still working your folds, and when you whimper and try to close your legs, he murmurs, "No. Stay open for me, love," and you do.

He pulls out of you only when he's decided to.

He’s still hard. You feel it against the curve of your ass as he presses a slow kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder—almost tender now, almost apologetic—and then he turns you, bodily, with a hand on your shoulder. Still controlled, still in command, walking you backwards to the couch and puts you on it.

Knees open, thighs spread. On display. One hand flat against your sternum to keep you lying back.

He kneels between them.

He looks up at you.

And this—this is the moment you don't quite expect.

His mouth is wrecked from your mouth, floppy hair mussed from your fingers, the white streak at his temple dark with sweat. His cock is still hard and flushed, glistening where he pulled out of you a minute ago, stomach tight with the effort of not finishing in you against the wall. Looking down at him on his knees between your thighs, still entirely composed even now, his mismatched eyes blazing, you feel, for a second, a small bright flare of something you have to call wonder.

Plain wonder. The kind you feel looking at something you didn't know could exist.

Because this isn’t the man who came to your dorm with peonies in September of year one. Not the man who asked if he could kiss you.

This is a particular, meticulous, terribly capable man who’s just fucked you against a wall with the exact intensity you needed on a bad Tuesday, without being told a single thing about the said Tuesday. Who’s now kneeling between your thighs with his own release still unspent, looking up at you like he’s waiting for the next instruction.

Valarr sees your face change.

His own face shifts, just a fraction in response, eyes going soft. His mouth tugs at the corner. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. You’ve seen this expression on him maybe four times in two years. It’s the expression he makes when he catches you looking at him with that particular stunned, wondering, what are you look on your face.

He loves it. He loves it more than anything.

He loves being seen by you. That’s the deepest thing in him, you understand in that instant. That’s the mouth of the well. He loves being seen. And you’re the first person who’s ever looked at him and seen what was under the gold. You’re the only person who knows what to do with it, with him. And when you look at him this way—with wonder, with the small stunned what have I made gleam in your eyes—his whole face goes soft.

"What?" he asks, almost a whisper.

"Nothing."

"Tell me," he urges, more needy than ordering. 

"I was just—"

You don't have the word. A part of you doesn’t want to give him the word. The word is organising itself in your mouth anyway. You know, if you say it out loud, he will keep it, he will treasure it, will pull it out on bad days and press it against his chest like a warm stone.

"I was just looking at you."

His mouth softens further. His hand, big and warm, slides up the inside of your thigh. It’s a slow movement, fingers still slick from you, and his hand settles high. Not yet where he wants it. He holds it there. You can feel the faint tremor in him; he’s not as composed as he’s pretending to be. He’s still hard, wound up tight without release. But you know he’s not going to come until he’s made you come again, and the decision is written into every beautiful line of him.

"I like it when you look at me like that," Valarr admits quietly. His eyes don’t leave yours. "Keep doing it. Look at me like that forever please."

You keep doing it.

He puts his mouth on you.

He’s messy about it tonight. Deliberately so. Two years ago, he was precise about eating you out—careful, technical, a man demonstrating his competence, selling himself—but tonight he’s sloppy. In a specific way he’s learned you like, open-mouthed and wet, tongue flat and lazy, a filthy worship.

He licks into you, tongue curling. He licks you clean of his precum. He makes a low sound against you when he tastes both of you mixed together, and that sound goes through you like a current.

Valarr hooks your knee over his shoulder and opens you wider, taking you apart, all while you watch him. The whole time he’s working you with that specific precision—which was yours, which you gave him, your gift—he keeps glancing up at you through his lashes to check that you’re still watching him with that face.

And every time he catches you still looking, Valarr’s mouth curls minutely against you, pleased. You feel his throat hum with it.

He’s thriving on it, feeding on it. He’s a man who’s happiest when he’s being looked at like this, and this look—the slightly stunned I did this to you, didn't I look—is the only look in the world he wants. More than anything. More than oxygen, more than food. 

He slides two fingers back into you while his mouth sucks and nibbles between your folds. You hear how wet you sound. He hears it too and makes a small choked sound against you at the evidence of it. His free hand, slotted between his own legs, you realise with a hot jolt, tightens on himself. Not to stroke himself, but to clamp down on his own orgasm. He refuses to waste himself like this, even now. 

You come again. Slower this time, longer, messier, twitching and rigid against the couch. Your hand goes tight in his hair, and Valarr’s face is a mess of you and his own fingers slick to the knuckle. He fucks you through it with his mouth and his hand until you push his forehead away with your own hand because you can't take any more.

He sits back on his heels.

His cock is visibly pulsing, wet and leaking at the tip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, not breaking eye contact.

"Come here," you order quietly.

He comes up.

He climbs onto the couch with you. He puts his head in your lap. You stroke his hair, your fingers finding the white streak at his temple, sliding through it. Valarr closes his eyes. He makes a small contented sound, almost a hum, and you feel the warm press of his mouth against the skin of your inner thigh. It’s lazy and affectionate, not meant to start anything, even though he’s still hard against your leg.

You reach down with your other hand.

You close your fingers around his hot, slick length, and you start to stroke him, working up a steady rhythm. He shudders against you, breath stuttering against your thigh. He doesn't ask for it; he wouldn't; he’s learned, over two years, to take only what you hand him.

"Who was it?" you ask, after a long, quiet moment. 

Valarr twitches in your hand, hot and throbbing. You’re calmer now, more settled and watch his beautiful face as his brows furrow.

"At dinner?"

You hum.

"Later," he whispers, eyes still closed, mouth moving against your thigh. Little nibbles and kisses. "Tell me… later. I'll take care of it."

You tighten your hand on him, an almost cruel grip, and Valarr makes a small, wrecked sound.

You stroke him like that, slow but relentless, and you feel him starting to tremble. When he comes, he does so quietly. Spilling hot and sudden into your hand, face pressed into the meat of your thigh, breathing your name into the crease of your hip. It’s not the way he came in year one, either. In year one, he made a production of it. In year one, it was all theatre.

Now it’s almost silent. It’s private. Now he comes into your hand like it’s the only place in the world he’s permitted to.

And he will take care of it.

You believe him. Completely.

You stroke his hair with your clean hand, spreading his cum back across his softening cock with your other, marvelling at the groan that vibrates in his slender throat as you do so.

You look down at the top of Valarr’s head, and you think—with the same quiet wonder you had a minute ago, not yet frightened, not yet aware of what the wonder is going to cost you one day—look at you, look at what you've become, look at what I've made of you.

He hears you thinking it.

He turns his face into your thigh, kissing the skin there, once, and he says, almost too quietly to hear, "Thank you."

And you understand he’s not thanking you for letting him do what he just did to you.

He’s thanking you, specifically, for the look on your face.

He’s thanking you for making him whole. 

XII. spring, year three.

It’s not all wrongness. 

That's the thing you have to remember. That's the thing you’ll have to remember, later, when you’re trying to explain to yourself why you stayed.

There’s the morning in Pyke, at the house his father left him on the coast. You wake to find him on the porch with two cups of coffee and a book he’s not reading (he’s watching the water with a faraway look you’ll remember forever). When you come out barefoot in his t-shirt, Valarr pulls you into his lap without a word and kisses your temple. Lightly, lovingly. You sit there together for forty minutes while the fog burns off the bay, neither of you speaking, and it’s one of the quietest hours of your life.

There’s also the night in the penthouse kitchen when you’re both drunk, and he tries to teach you to make his grandmother's pasta by hand (my father's mother, her side was Dornish, this is how she taught him, this is how he taught me) and you ruin the dough twice.

Valarr laughs so hard he has to brace himself against the counter. You throw flour in his face, offended. He catches your wrists, still laughing, flour on his cheek and in the white streak at his temple like snow. He backs you against the refrigerator and kisses you until you can’t breathe. The pasta is forgotten, and you eat cereal for dinner in his bed at one in the morning, and he tells you, softly, that his father would have liked you.

There’s the afternoon at Maidenpool, when you both go to a gallery, and Valarr watches you more than the art. You catch him, in the reflection of a glass case, looking at you with an expression of undiluted wonder, and that look is so naked, so unguarded, that you have to turn your face away because you can’t bear the weight of it. Later, in the cab home, you put your hand in his. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, one by one.

There’s the weekend in late spring of year three when your father has had a small cardiac event, and you fly up to the family estate. Valarr comes with you without being asked. He handles the logistics and makes himself useful with your father's staff. Warm and competent.

He charms your uncle, Brandon, who’s not an easy man to impress. No Stark ever is. He doesn’t charm your grandmother, who’s far worse, but he’s respectful, and your grandmother tells you, at the end of the weekend, in her dry northern way, that he’s sufficient. 

It’s the highest compliment she’s ever given a man.

Barthogan Stark, in bed, propped on pillows and recovering, watches Valarr from the doorway and then looks at you and says, "He'd take good care of you."

"I know," you reply.

"He'd do it well,” he continues. “He'd do it with everything he has. I can tell. He has that look about him, that boy. It’s how I once looked at your mother. Just… more intense. He’s charming, alright, but I can see the dragon in him, deep beneath that shine. Maybe that’s good. That edge. You’re a wolf, pup; a weak man won’t survive beside you. You’d eat the bastard alive."

"I know, Dad."

Your father's face softens, and he grips your hand. "I'm only saying, I want you happy."

You hesitate, squeezing his hand back, and admit, because you love him more than anyone, because he’s everything to you, "I'm thinking about it."

And you are thinking about it. Through year three, you think about it more and more. 

You think about it in the penthouse and in his mother's house. On the plane coming back from a weekend in Pentos, and in the cab on the way to a friend's engagement party. An evening where Valarr holds your hand all night and introduces you, everywhere, as my girl, low and fond, with a small proud angle of his jaw. You think about it at 2AM in his bed when you can’t sleep, and he pulls you into him without waking, his arm going heavy across your waist. 

You feel, underneath everything, the specific warmth of a life that you could have and keep, if you wanted it.

There’s another night in June of year three, after a charity gala, where you end up barefoot on his penthouse terrace at two in the morning. He’s in his shirtsleeves, you’re in your gown, and he glances at you and says, "I'd like to ask you something. I'm not going to. Not yet. I'm telling you that I'd like to."

He hasn’t mentioned marriage once since Myr, put no pressure on you about the subject. "I know," you tell him.

"I've had a ring for a year," he reveals calmly.

You meet his gaze. "Val"

"I'm telling you so you're not surprised. When I do ask. I don't want you to be surprised. I want you to have had time to think it through." He reaches over, tucking your hair behind your ear. His hand stays there, warm against your jaw. "I'm not asking now, but I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have known. I want a lifetime with you. Just that. This, us."

You stand on the terrace with him, and you gaze at him, your heart torn inside your chest. The night is balmy, and the city is lit up below you. He’s so beautiful, and he loves you more than anything, and you think, I could say yes. I could. I could marry him tonight. I could have this forever.

You almost tell him yes, then.

You don't.

You kiss him instead, long and deep, holding his cheek in your palm, and whisper against his lips, "Ask me again in a year."

Valarr smiles softly, "Alright."

He means that, too.

He has the ring.

You could marry him, you know you could. He would be a good husband, by every standard that can be measured. His loyalty to you goes beyond anything you’ve ever found in any other lover. He would be attentive, he would be kind. He would fold himself around you and your future children like a man building a fortress. 

He would spend the rest of his life learning you.

You think about it seriously for months.

And then, somewhere in year four, you stop.

XIII. winter, year four.

It begins quietly. 

You don’t wake up one morning having decided to leave Valarr. You wake up one morning, and you’ve been not-quite-looking at him for three weeks, and you realise, over coffee, that you’ve stopped laughing at his jokes.

Stopped looking up when he enters a room, started staying late at the office. You’ve started picking small fights about unimportant things, the way you used to do as a teenager with your father when what you actually wanted was to go outside and scream. Wolf-blood, you father always huffed, it runs thick in you, pup.

You don’t know why you feel this way. 

Valarr is the perfect lover. Attentive, kind, rich, devastatingly handsome. He is, in bed, precisely the man you shaped him to be. In public he’s a proud, ambitious young dragon prince, and in private with you he’s a devoted puppy who would drink from your palm if you offered it. He anticipates your moods. He brings you tea with honey without being asked on the mornings your sinuses hurt. He’s memorised the names of your father's men. 

He’s faultless.

And you’re so bored.

Not sexually—the sex is still, somehow, excellent, because he keeps iterating, he keeps learning, he keeps studying you like a language he’s determined to master—but existentially. 

You’re bored in that specific way that a person is bored when their lover has become a mirror. 

Valarr reflects you back at yourself exquisitely, but there’s no him anymore that’s not also you. He’s folded himself so completely to your shape that when you reach for him you find only your own reflection staring back.

You want to be met. Challenged. You want to be met by a thing that’s not you. You don't know this yet, then. You know only that the penthouse has started to feel like a tomb.

And you know only that sometimes, increasingly, when he’s inside you and he’s saying your name, pressing his forehead to yours with that total worshipful absorption, you want to tear his throat out.

You want to bite him until he bites you back.

But he won't.

Valarr will open his mouth. He'll moan, let you draw blood. He'll thank you for it afterwards. Genuine and polite.

But he’ll not bite you back, not really.

He doesn’t know how.

You gave him every other tool. That one—the one he would have had to bring himself, the one that can’t be taught—he doesn’t possess, you realise. He never did. The whole core of Valarr is receiving, refining, and reflecting. He can’t originate, he can’t surprise you.

He’s not a match that lights the room. He can only ever be the mirror you light yourself in.

And you’re tired of lighting yourself.

XIV. spring, year five.

You end it in May. 

You do it at the penthouse, on a Sunday afternoon, in his kitchen, with sunlight coming in through the windows and striping the floor in gold. You’re wearing jeans and one of his old t-shirts. Valarris making pasta. His grandmother's recipe. The one he taught you badly, the one you now make together sometimes on Sundays. It’s domestic and ordinary.

You feel vaguely sick. 

"Valarr,” you say, “I can't do this anymore."

He stops stirring.

He carefully sets the wooden spoon down on the rest, turning off the burner. He turns to face you fully, his hip leaning against the counter, his full attention on you. There’s no pain, no panic, no anger. He doesn’t even look particularly surprised.

"Tell me why."

"I can't explain it," you reply. “I’m sorry—”

"You can,” he cuts in softly. “You just don't want to. Please tell me."

"Val—"

"Please." His voice pitch hasn’t changed. It’s the please that kills you, because the please is precise. It’s the please of a man who’s asking for data, not mercy. He’s asking because he wants to understand what happened so he can adjust. Even now. Even now, at the end, his first instinct is to find out what the input was so he can recalibrate his output. "Please tell me. I'd like to understand."

But you understand, in that moment, why you have to leave him. You understand it with full clarity for the first time in five years that almost staggers you.

You can’t leave him in a way Valarr can understand. Because if you do, if you leave him in a way he can understand, he’ll simply become the thing you left him for. And if that happens, you’ll be back in his bed within six weeks. You will fold him again, then again, and you'll be married to yourself more than ever.

So you give him nothing. You give him, It's not working. You give him, I'm sorry. You give him, I need time.

His jaw works, his eyes tracking your face.

Then, Valarr says quietly, "I know you're lying. I don't know about what. But I know."

"I'm not—"

His voice is soft but there’s iron underneath. "Whatever it is, I deserve at least not to be lied to. Keep your reasons. I won't make you explain, but don't lie to me, my love. Please."

You stand in his kitchen, staring at him and you feel the shape of what you’re leaving. You feel it with full weight. Four and a half years. The silver thread he’s woven into your life pulses faintly, painfully.

You sense each place where, if you pull it out, the fabric of you is going to tear. The snowy morning in February. The porch in Pyke. The night with the flour. Matarys winking at you in the doorway. Jena saying he is better when you are in the house. The terrace in June, and the ring he’s had for a year. 

The life you almost chose, and the life you will never now have.

You whisper, "I'm sorry."

For doing this to you, for remaking you, but I can’t live with myself anymore, seeing what I’m turning you into.

"I love you," Valarr says, so simply you feel yourself exhale, pained, "I will always love you. You should know that. I'm not going to stop. I don't have that in me, I’m afraid."

You nod because you can’t speak.

"When you're ready to come back," Valarr says quietly, "I'll be here."

"Val—"

"I heard you. You need time. I'll give you time." His voice is low, almost tender. "However long it takes. Take years if you need. I have nothing but time. I'll be here."

You leave, hesitating for exactly four seconds at the door, chained by four and a half years. Valarr inhales, and you yank the door open before he can speak again.

You walk through the lobby and out onto the street, where a car is waiting for you. A car he called, because he called it before you even finished leaving him, and you ride all the way to your father's townhouse with your hands shaking in your lap.

You know, even then, that he meant what he said.

I'll be here.

He will be. For years. He’ll be exactly where you left him, in the specific shape you left him in, made to precisely your specifications, patient, waiting. Valarr will not move on, will not date, or forget. He’ll do what he’s always done: build businesses, sit on boards, attend galas and smile that golden smile of his and underneath it all, he’ll be a man at the bottom of a well waiting for the sound of your footsteps.

He’ll wait.

And he’ll not be becoming someone else while he waits. He’ll stay exactly who he was on the day you left him. Because the man he was on the day you left him was you. He finished becoming himself the minute you unlocked him, and the self he became is the self you made. 

There’s nowhere else for that man to go now.

That’s your last mistake with Valarr Targaryen.

Not the leaving.

The making.

XV. later.

You will meet Aerion Targaryen a year later. 

In a bar. In nowhere, Ashford, off a highway, on a road trip you took because you couldn’t sleep in your own beds anymore.

You’ll meet him and your whole body will go still. Because his jaw will be the shape of Valarr's jaw, and his mouth will be the shape of Valarr's mouth, and his eyes will be the wrong colour—both of them pale, icy, mean—and his hands will be callused in a way Valarr's never were. He’lll look at you like nothing at all and everything, simultaneously, and you’ll understand, immediately, that this is the other branch of the family.

The failed one. The cautionary tale Valarr told you about once. 

You will understand immediately, that this is the man you’ve been looking for your whole life. 

Because Aerion will bite you back.

Aerion will not have been made by you. He’s been shaped by his own wounds, his own father, his own failures. You’ll be dropped into his life like a match into dry grass, and he’ll burn, and you will burn with him. It’ll be the first time in years you’ll feel met. By something that’s not yours, that wasn’t shaped by you. 

That existed independent of you and that still, somehow, wants you more than air.

You’ll never tell Aerion about Valarr. You’ll keep Valarr like a grave in the back garden of your life, water it and tend to it but you’ll never speak its name aloud.

But the whole time, in the city, in a penthouse that still has your toothbrush in a drawer he’s never emptied, Valarr will be waiting.

Because he’s a man of his word. 

He has nothing but time.

And he remembers everything.

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

Even now, your life still revolved around him. You would have it no other way. Even now, when he had no air in his lungs, no rise and fall of the once warm chest you used to lay your head on every night, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat as you listened to his voice prattle on and on about his latest discoveries like a bedtime story… you still heard him in your head.

“Can you imagine it, baby? The shock of the entire medical industry—no, life itself—when we finally crack the code?” You’d hear his excitement in the darkness of your bedroom. His endless blue eyes steeped with unquenchable passion. “Those narrow-minded dimwits on the board might call us crazy now, but we’ll show them, won’t we? Soon, they’ll be singing a different tune.”

“We?”

“Of course, baby.” The glow of the bedside lamp would catch in his eyes. A glint that never failed to mesmerise you. “We. Us. Me and you. It won’t feel as good sticking it to them without you by my side.”

“But this is your life’s work, Toru. I’m just your assistant. I can’t possibly take the same amount of credit.”

“It’s ours,” he’d said firmly, kissing your head as if he was sealing his words in stone. “Everything of mine is yours, if not officially now, then it will be soon. Why do you think I’m marrying you?”

“Because you always forget to eat unless I remind you.”

“That’s because I can’t live without you. I thought we’d established that fact.”

You’d smiled and snuggled into him. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he’d said, wrapping you closer in his arms, his scent. “Because neither am I.”

But he did. He’d gone and died.

And now you would fix him.

This was not ‘The End’.

Gently, you smoothed back the wisps of snowy white hair from his face. Your fingers traced his brows, his temple, along his jaw, brushing the pale, grey lips that used to press against yours not so long ago. Your gaze moved first before your hand, to the fine stitches down his chest, circling his right arm, raised slightly against the skin across the width of his stomach—a perfect split, and a reminder of the state he’d been in before you’d patched him up—

In pieces. 

You smacked the image away. There was nothing left in you to hurl out, but you refused to remember him that way. Your Satoru was too brilliant, too full of light, too alive. He was too beautiful to be fleeting. Too precious to be taken away so brutally.

And he was yours. He still was. 

You heard the staccato beep of an access card tapping in, the door sliding swiftly open. A pair of shoes clacked against the tiles. You didn’t turn around. 

“It’s time, doc.” The voice belonged to Shoko, your former colleague before you inherited the research centre Satoru left you in his will. “They’re waiting for you to do the final checks.”

You nodded once, your gaze still fixed on Satoru. You should be excited. This was it. You were going to revive him. You should move. Get him to the Infinity Chamber immediately.

But your feet stayed rooted to the floor. 

You felt Shoko come up beside you. The room was soundless for a few seconds.

“He looks good, doc. Your suturing is impeccable. It’s lucky his brain wasn’t damaged and all the injuries are neck-down. Cell and nerve therapy was a bitch, but I don’t think we’ll stand a chance if we have to replace brain matter.”

“It has to be his brain,” you said. “He wouldn’t be him if it wasn’t. And I would’ve found a way.”

“Mmm,” was all Shoko replied. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what they all thought but didn’t have the heart to say aloud in front of you. 

That you were delusional. That despite shutting down every research arm except those that benefited your cause, despite stripping the centre down of non-essential staff and resources, and pouring the entire budget into speed funding Satoru’s wildly controversial Theory of Resurrection—his life’s work—the chances of success was next to none.

And if it didn’t work, then that was it. You would have destroyed the Gojo family’s legacy. The board would kick you out and sell the centre. It was a miracle they had agreed to this in the first place. You supposed you had Sukuna to thank for that extra vote, though the man was a cunning bastard, so you were sure his motives were not completely altruistic. 

You’d calculated the odds. There was a six percent chance this would work. Only six. All for today. All for him.

Eh, better than five, Satoru’s voice spoke in your head. You clutched onto the sound, but it was like chasing a ghost. A blink, and it was gone.

A water bottle appeared in your vision.

“Drink,” said Shoko. 

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. You’re also living in hell, and I guarantee you won’t find him there.” She pressed the bottle into your hands. “So you’re going to drink this, and you’re going to wheel him out of this room. You’re going to put him into that chamber, and you’re going to face the fact that it might not work. But I’ll tell you something—staring at his corpse for five more minutes isn’t going to bring him back.”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. “How many?”

“All of them,” confirmed Shoko. “Every board member, not just Sukuna. Arrived some time ago. And ah… Fushiguro Megumi is here too.”

Fuck.

“I see,” you said, keeping your tone steady. “I—give me a moment. I won’t be long.”

A beat, and then Shoko was retreating. You waited for the sliding doors to seal shut before reaching into the pocket of your lab coat. Your gaze hadn’t wavered from Satoru this whole time, and it still didn’t as you let the water bottle fall on the floor with a loud thud.

“Hey baby,” you whispered, taking his hand in yours. Like reflex, you waited for his fingers to curl around yours. For his thumb to brush lightly along your knuckles. And when nothing happened, you stroked his instead. “So, here we are. You could’ve made it easier if you’d sorted out all your files like I told you to. And didn’t I say making my birthday your password was too obvious? Anyone would’ve guessed that and you know it.”

A distant chuckle echoed somewhere in your head. 

“I wish you could see it,” you continued. Paused. “I mean, you will. When you wake up, you’ll see I did everything according to your specifications. No deviations. No variables. It’s all your design, down to the last decimal. It’s all you, Toru. It will be all of you… you’ll be you again.”

You lifted his hand, your other holding the ring you’d been carrying around in your coat pocket for what felt like an eternity, and slipped it onto his fourth finger. A simple platinum band, matching with the one you wore. You’d picked it out together during an extended lunch break a month before the wedding.

You squeezed his hand, and bent down to press your lips against his. 

“I’ll see you soon.”

Thirty three weeks ago…

“Death is a process, not a moment. But you already know that.”

You groaned. “Satoru, it’s two in the morning. The wedding is in fifteen hours. We should get some sleep before checking into the hotel.”

“Just humour me for a bit, baby. I think I’m onto something.” Satoru was already hopping out of bed. He flicked on the lights without warning, temporarily blinding you, and was rolling the whiteboard to the foot of the bed by the time your vision recovered. 

You stared at him, shirtless and in a pair of checkered pyjama pants, as he uncapped the marker pen, his blue eyes wide awake and bright with that unrivalled ambition you envied and loved.

You sighed and shifted to sit up against the pillows. “Alright, make it quick. I don’t want to walk down the aisle with bags under my eyes.”

“I’ll still think you’re the most beautiful person in the world.”

You couldn’t help the skipped beat in your chest, or the smile that appeared on your lips. “You want to keep the compliments coming, or tell me your theory?”

“Baby, you underestimate me. I can do both at the same time, and then some more.” Satoru winked, and began sketching.

You watched as Satoru filled the whiteboard with diagrams, his hand moving like an artist with a brush. Sometimes, you swore you saw equations flying out his head, faster than the average human could comprehend. His mind was a marvel, his face was a dream. He was your dream.

The dream you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your days with. 

"The key isn't preventing death,” Satoru was saying. “It's reversing it. Death is a cascade—cellular processes shutting down in sequence. If we can interrupt that cascade, reset the cells' programmed death response, we can bring them back online."

“Yes, it’s the basis of your entire research,” you said. “Interrupt cell degradation. Reverse. Reconstruct. Rehabilitate. Regenerate. The Four R’s, as you like to remind everyone. It’s why we’re building that machine in the first place—“

“Chamber, darling. Not machine. Sounds better.”

“But why are you repeating this?”

“Because, my gorgeous soon-to-be wife, I just realised we’re missing an important ingredient.” Satoru proceeded to draw a big question mark and circled it. “We can revive a body, but what of the soul?”

You lifted a brow. Since when was he suddenly concerned with the spiritual side of things? “You’re going to have to elaborate, Toru.”

“Think about it, baby. Why am I so madly in love with you?” Satoru grinned. “Why do I look at you now and think I want nothing better than to take your clothes off? Why do I want to fuck no one else but you?”

Heat prickled up your neck. But you said, “It’s the logic your brain comprehends, as unromantic as it sounds.”

“Exactly. It’s brain chemistry.” Satoru flung the marker pen aside and in the next moment, he was climbing on the bed, and on top of you. “The soul is tied to the brain.”

His head lowered, lips brushing against yours.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “Do you like that?”

You melted under his gaze.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Then he was ripping the blanket away. His hands slid underneath the oversized shirt you wore, up and up and peeling it off you, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

“What about this?” His fingers dragged up the middle of your torso, tracing the underside of your breasts. He began drawing slow circles around your nipple.

You arched into his touch. “Yes…”

His mouth caught a nipple, and he began sucking. Flicking. His tongue and teeth playing with you until little moans escaped you. “And what about now, baby?”

“Ngh—get to your point…”

A chuckle. “Consciousness,” Satoru said, as his hand travelled down your stomach, down between your thighs, and with two fingers, began stroking you over your already soaked panties. “Our brains are what shapes our souls. What allows us memory and complex emotions. We can revive a body, but without a soul, without consciousness, the body would be human in appearance but not in essence.”

Your moans grew louder when his fingers slipped underneath your panties, sliding right up the middle of all your aching wetness. Your legs parted wide to give him more access.

“Pleasure…” Satoru murmured, his mouth and tongue working up the curve of your neck as his fingers caught your clit, and pinched it.

“Ahn! Toru—take it off…”

His tongue had reached its way along the shell of your ear, but his fingers remained, holding your clit hostage.

“Patience, baby. I’m not yet done with my demonstration,” he teased, then did the most wicked thing, and began rolling your tight little nub between his fingers. Slowly. So, so slowly.

“Oh my…” Your head tipped back against the pillows. You tried to grab hold of Satoru, but he only pinned down your wrists above your head with his free hand. 

“God,” he finished what you couldn’t, “why do I always go crazy for you like this? Why are you enjoying what I’m doing as much as you do now? Tell me, baby.”

“Because—nghh! Because it’s you… because I only want you, Toru…”

“And I, you, my love,” he said against your lips, in a tone so tender and reassuring there was no room for doubt, before finally plunging two fingers inside you, pumping deep. “Which brings me back to my point. You love it when I fuck you like this because it’s me. Because of all the memories you have of me. Because of what you feel for me. This is what your brain has decided, and because the brain is connected to the soul, one cannot be brought back without the other.”

Somewhere in between, he’d added another finger, making it nearly impossible for you to concentrate on what he was saying. In this moment, with him rocking inside you, hitting you over and over again in that terribly sensitive spot, driving you insane, Satoru could’ve been reciting the ABCs and you still wouldn’t have understood much.

“T-toru…please—“

“Almost, baby. Did you forget about my cock?” His fingers ceased its sweet torture, slipping out. The sudden lack of him jarred you, but you could only whimper out a plea.

In one easy motion, Satoru flipped you around and was yanking off your panties. Warm, solid hands palmed your ass, lifted your hips high, exposing all the slick evidence dripping down your inner thighs. 

Satoru swore under his breath. “Fuck, look at you. If this is the last thing I see before I die, then I’ll die happy.”

Your thoughts shattered as you felt the warm press of his tongue. Satoru licked you clean. Licked up all that wetness leaking down your thighs. Then he licked you there—a single stroke, deep and slow, up your melting core, before narrowing on your dangerously sensitive clit, flicking and sucking and making you lose your mind. 

Satoru let you come like this first—on his tongue. With your face buried in the pillows and his buried in your pussy. Your legs were still trembling when you felt his impressive length, rock hard, rubbing against your folds, making you go wet all over again. 

“Yes or no, baby?” he asked, though it was pointless. He already knew what your answer would be.

You mumbled something unintelligent, but wiggled your hips for emphasis. Then felt his tip nudge at your entrance. 

“Which brings us back to the missing ingredient,” Satoru said, and a loud moan escaped you as he sheathed the full length of him inside you. He was so impossibly hard and thick, you were struggling to even clench around him. “We’ve only taken four R’s into consideration, when there’s actually a fifth… Resurrection.”

He pulled out, almost to the tip, and slammed back into you. Hard. Fast. Then he did it again, and again, and again. And each time he did it, you felt like you’d died and came back to life. 

“Because a soul can’t be regenerated,” Satoru continued as his pace increased rapidly, ruining your mind and your insides at the same time. “So, in essence, our theory is not about reversing death. It’s about resurrecting the whole self. All the intangibles that make us—fuck, baby, you’re so tight. You’re choking my cock.”

“S-Satoru…”

“Mm?”

“More… Harder…”

“God, I can’t believe I get to have you like this forever.” Satoru did as you asked, fucking you until your cries drowned out the erratic thumping of the bedhead against the wall. Until you could no longer close your mouth. Until nothing existed save the feel of him pumping deep inside you…

The way he filled you so completely, so perfectly… it was everything.

He was everything.

Stars exploded in your vision. Your climax came in swift, escalating waves, overwhelming you.

You cried out his name, and it was only then that Satoru finally gave in, driving right over the edge along with you. You felt him—all of him—spilling into you. Heard his deep, unrestrained groan as he spent himself inside you before falling on the bed, half his body still draped on top of you. 

Satoru’s mouth found yours, his tongue sweeping in and pampering you with gentle strokes while his fingers danced slow, playful circles down your spine. He grinned against your lips. “How was that, baby?”

You were still out of breath. “I think you know the answer.”

“But I want to hear you say it.”

You peered up at your fiancé. At the man who was to become your husband in less than a day. A part of you still couldn’t believe it—that someone as brilliant as him wanted you as much as you did him. That you, who had dedicated your life to science and medicine, to logic and reasoning, still couldn’t explain why you found yourself speechless whenever his gaze was fixed on you. 

So you told him the truth. “You’re incredible, Satoru.”

The smile he gave you then… you could look at that smile a billion times and still melt from it. “I hope you mean both the sex and my theory.” 

You sighed, knowing exactly where he was going with this. “Alright, five minutes. Then I’m really going to sleep, promise?”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “As you wish, my love.”

“Well, for starters, you’re talking about preserving brain activity—core consciousness—after death, not only on a cellular level. That’s notoriously tricky. Impossible, some might say, but I know you hate that word—“

“Most things are not impossible, merely improbable.”

“But brain function is quickest to deteriorate, so you’ll have to find a way to—“

“We, darling,” Satoru corrected. 

You couldn’t help your smile. “Right, so we will have to find a way to prevent core consciousness from ceasing to exist the moment the heart stops beating… save the soul, as you say, from extinction.” You tapped your chin, your mind whirring as his fingers continued their light tracing along the contours of your body. You didn’t doubt Satoru had already found the answer, but you loved him all the more for letting you figure it out on your own, even if he wasn’t letting you sleep. “The difficult part is the time constraint, unless we freeze the brain. We already have the cryogenic technology for that…”

“But?” Satoru looked at you with hopeful eyes.

“But the soul isn’t cellular. It’s immaterial.”

His answering grin told you that you were close.

“Even if we do bring back consciousness, we don’t want it to be a blank slate,” you continued. “We want it the way it was before death. We want to retain memory…” It hit you then. Your eyes widened at Satoru. “So we back it up. We copy neural activity in the brain before it dies and upload it back in later.”

Satoru leaned in, and pecked your lips as reward. “By the way, have I told you I’m crazy for you?”

You laughed. “Everyday. Don’t stop.”

“Oh, as if I will,” he said, pulling you in for yet another kiss. “You’re stuck with me for the indefinite future, baby. You’ll soon get sick of hearing it, but I’ll continue saying it anyway.”

You reached for his beautiful face.

“Never,” you said.

Satoru’s smile was tender. “I’ll hold you to that.” He kissed your palm, your lips again, and then he was pulling away to slip out of bed. 

Your brows furrowed. “I thought you promised we were going to sleep?”

“Huh? I thought you were going to sleep.” He was already pulling open the dresser drawer. “I’m going to the lab. Don’t wait up for me, okay baby?”

 “What? Are you serious?” You sat up straight now, back stiff. “Satoru, you have a wedding to attend. Our wedding. Can’t whatever it is you want to do wait for just one day?”

“I’ll meet you at the hotel. I need to make some new adjustments to the chamber. I’m thinking of calling it the Infinity Chamber. Has a nice, ring to it, no? Infinite life. Infinite time. Very mythical—”

“Satoru, don’t,” you warned. “Just forget about work for twenty four hours. That’s all I’m asking for. Please.”

“Baby, you know it’s not just work to me.”

“Then what am I? Just some girl you’re marrying?”

His hand paused midway to his backpack on the armchair. Satoru’s gaze found yours across the room.

“Is that what you think?” he said, his tone gentle but serious. “Because to me, you’re my equal. In every measure.”

“Satoru, don’t you dare walk out that door. I’ll kill you.”

“Baby, we both know you won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Then I’ll win,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Well, I am. I’ll win because you’ll let me. Because you love me.”

He winked, and blew you a final kiss.

And then he was gone. 

Satoru never turned up at the hotel. You’d waited at the lobby for an hour, and when he hadn’t answered your call for the sixteenth time, you went to check in to the suite you thought you’d be stepping in together with him. 

As the hours until the wedding drew closer and closer, you’d finally hit the last straw of your patience and sent Suguru to the research centre to drag Satoru over. It didn’t matter if you had to marry him in his lab coat. It was better than marrying his ghost.

The call came thirty minutes before it was time for you to walk down the aisle. The guests had arrived. White roses covered every surface of the ceremony hall. You were in your gown, veil draped over your head, chewing on your lip when Suguru’s name flashed on your phone. 

You’d laughed first. You’d thought it was a joke. A bad one. Suguru had to repeat it three times before you were running to your car.

But still, you didn’t believe him. Not until you reached the lab. Not until you saw Satoru. 

They’d categorised it as an accident. The security cameras confirmed Satoru had been alone. You’d seen the time stamp. It happened while you were sleeping. He’d forgotten to turn off the main power, and was ripping out some components from the cryochamber, presumably to move to his new Infinity Chamber, when the door malfunctioned, and sealed him inside.

Hours. Satoru had been stuck in there for hours. In a temperature of minus two hundred degrees celsius, slowly freezing. His blood solidifying…

And like brittle ice, he simply broke apart.

As with every task that involved touching Satoru, you were the one who performed it. The human mind was fallible, so it was natural for them to make mistakes, but you less than others. Satoru was unmatched, of course, but since he was out of commission for the time being, the next best person you trusted was yourself.

You were not unaware that Shoko and the team, as well as every board member, had their eyes on you the moment you wheeled Satoru into the Infinity Chamber—more a tall, circular room that resembled the inside of a silo, with large lamps fixed onto the generous, three-storey high ceiling, clinical light glaring down as rigid and impersonal as the spectators watching you from above, shielded behind a circumference of glass. 

Well, you supposed ‘impersonal’ was being unkind to your team. Suguru was Satoru’s best friend, after all. Correction—he is. Perhaps unforgiving was a better word. They’d understood why you’d put all of their jobs and livelihoods on the line for this, but it didn’t mean they would forgive you for it. 

And then there was the boy. Megumi. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back as you hooked up the last of the dozens of tubes connecting Satoru to the walls of the Infinity Chamber itself, because that was what this room was—one giant machine built to execute the last of Satoru’s ‘Five R’ Principle: 

Resurrect.

You checked the tubes again, checked the wires, checked the position of the helmet fastened over Satoru’s head, then checked everything again before finally forcing yourself not to prolong this any further. You hated leaving Satoru alone, but you needed to be in the control room, and no one could be in the chamber while the procedure was taking place unless they enjoyed being electrocuted.

You went through a steel inforced door that took you up a set of winding stairs straight to the control room, where the chatter immediately died a quick death the moment you stepped in. 

No doubt they had been discussing you. Not like you gave a shit. You were used to it by now—the whispers behind your back, the glances shot your way when they thought you weren’t looking. The furrowed brows and downturned lips, and perhaps worst of all, the knowledge that none of it was out of hate but pity. 

“Doc,” Shoko nodded in greeting, the others mimicking her gesture, albeit in silence. “All screens are live. Perfusion system is loading, should be ready to go in three minutes.”

You turned to Suguru, who was positioned in front of a wide monitor, the screen filled with lines and lines of ever-shifting numbers. You asked him the same question you did everyday.

“How’s it reading?”

And Suguru answered you as how he always did. Calmly. A little bleak. “We’re still at a 0.0000033 percent loss. Nothing’s changed since the soul mapping. The system shows his neural patterns are still processing information at an unnaturally high efficiency. His consciousness is more than active, doc. It’s fully functioning, fully realised—it’s like Satoru can’t shut up in there. Typical of him, I guess.”

“We should have just made him a new body,” Nanami remarked from where he stood monitoring the blood tanks. “By my calculations, it would have lowered the risks by precisely sixteen more percent.”

“Yeah, but then we’re wasting the original body,” Haibara pointed out. “We can’t just throw him out—“

“We’re already copying his brain. I don’t see what’s the—“ Nanami cut himself off, glancing for half a second in your direction. He cleared his throat. “It’s done anyway. The best course now is to proceed as is.”

It’s all noise, baby. Block it out. Satoru spoke in your head. You have me. 

Without thinking, you walked over to the wall of thick glass. Below, Satoru lay unmoving, in the exact same position as when you’d left him. You couldn’t explain it, but even now, a tiny, microscopic part of you still thought he might just wake up on his own. As if he’d merely decided to take a very, very long nap. It was ludicrous since you were the one who had put his body back together. But when it came to Satoru, your own brain tended to override most rhyme and reason.

“Everything’s good to go,” said Shoko, pulling you from your thoughts. “Want to do the honours, doc?”

Your gaze narrowed on the small green button raised against the main control panel. You approached it, reaching out a hand, fingers hovering. 

You think I can’t do it, baby?

I think you can do anything, Toru.

Do you doubt me?

Never

“Never,” you whispered, and pushed the button.

It was as if the chamber itself had come to life. The great whir of a beastly machine waking up from an eternal slumber. Invisible currents coursed through the air inside the cylindrical shaft where Satoru lay alone, hooked up to the tubes that were now pumping synthetic blood into his body. You thought you saw him twitch. You blinked. It was just electricity. But then—

“Doc—“ It was Shoko, her tone uncharacteristically shaken. “Peripheral nerve activity detected. We're seeing reflex responses. His motor neurons are firing."

“Perfusion efficiency at ninety-two percent…ninety-three…ninety-eight...” Nanami added, similarly unable to hide his surprise. “Capillary beds are accepting the new blood flow. Oxygen saturation levels are rising steadily. No adverse reactions detected. This is… unprecedented.”

“Ah, guys…” Haibara announced. “The ECG just detected a heartbeat.”

Your breaths stilled.

“Fuck me.” Suguru jolted from his seat. “Doc, you should come see this—all of you should see this. The upload… it's working. His consciousness is downloading into the biological brain. Neural pattern fidelity is nearly perfect. I'm seeing unified brain activity. He's not just alive. He's conscious. He’s… he’s coming back—“

But while everyone rushed to Suguru’s monitor, your feet were moving in a different direction. In the next moment, you were flying back down the stairs and slamming through the door into the Infinity Chamber. 

And just as your gaze snapped to his body on the metal slab—

Satoru bolted upright.

Blue eyes, wide awake, found yours. 

Your mouth fell open.

His lips, no longer leeched of colour, parted.

Satoru blinked. Once. Twice.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Your lungs hollowed out. Disintegrated.

But then he was laughing. 

“I’m joking, baby. It’s a joke. Hey, don’t pass out, okay?”

You stared at him.

At the same time, a voice came through the chamber’s speakers.

“Oh my fucking god, Satoru. Are you serious? Of all the times, now’s not it.”

“Suguru? That you? Tch—some friend you are.” Thirty three weeks of stillness, but now Satoru was tipping his head up at the control room. “If you’d just answered when I called you, then I wouldn’t have turned into a block of ice, would I? Because I would’ve forced you to come to the lab.”

“So you do remember dying?” It was Shoko this time. 

“I remember freezing my ass off with no way out of that bloody cryochamber. Doesn’t take a genius to know what came next.”

“That’s a ninety nine percent memory retainment.” Shoko gave a low whistle. “Impressive work, doc. You did it.”

“Of course she did. She’s my—“ Satoru paused, his gaze finding yours again. “Fuuuuck… baby, I’m sorry. I missed the wedding, didn’t I?”

You didn’t answer him. It was as if your mind had glitched while trying to process if this was real, or if you were actually hallucinating. If somehow, somewhere in the process of trying to bring him back to life, you’d lost your mind and ended up in the loony bin, and that all of this was happening in your head. 

“Baby, you’re shaking.” Satoru made to stand but was jerked back by the tubes connected to his body. “Ow, damn it—fuck.” He gripped a tube, about to yank it off, but then had the common sense to drop it when he saw blood still pumping into him. His arms reached out towards you. “Come here, baby. It’s me… I promise.”

But before your feet could decide to function, the door to the chamber opened. Two figures strode in. Both, you recognised. Both, you could do without seeing.

“Huh, so you’re actually alive.” Sukuna picked off some imaginary dust from his creaseless suit, his tone managing to sound both amused and scathing all at once. “I was expecting some sort of trickery. A hologram, maybe. At most, a robot. Who knows what they’ll come up with to prevent the board from selling this place off.”

Satoru snorted. “You’re lucky there were cameras, or I would’ve found a way to frame you for my murder. And a robot? How insulting. No one can be me but me.”

“Evidently. A robot would know when to stop talking.”

A step behind Sukuna, Fushiguro Megumi stood glaring. Not at Satoru, but at you.

He looked more dishevelled than last you’d seen him during the reading of Satoru’s will, in which a mini skirmish had broken out among Satoru’s relatives—who hadn’t bothered showing their faces until that day—when the Gojo family’s lawyer had announced that the entirety of Satoru’s assets were to be split equally between you and Megumi. An adopted son and a not-yet-wife.

And like you, Megumi hadn’t given a flying fuck about the inheritance. What he did care about was the one clause Satoru had somehow had the foresight to include in his will. That the decision on what to do with his body would be solely up to you. Satoru’s own messed up way of showing you he meant it when he’d once told you, “I belong to you.”

Megumi had wanted a funeral. You didn’t. Megumi had wanted to say his goodbyes. You didn’t. Megumi didn’t want Satoru to be tampered with, to be experimented with. You didn’t see it that way. And that was how your relationship with the boy had soured to this point. 

“I hope you’re happy,” he said to you. He might as well have spat in your face. 

Satoru must have sensed the tension, because he immediately dropped his verbal sparring with Sukuna. “Oh? What seems to be the problem, Megumi-chan? I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

But Megumi wouldn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed on you like daggers slicing into your skin. “The Gojo Satoru I know is dead. This…thing you created—with fake blood and a fake brain—“ he laughed, bitterly. “And now you’re pretending he’s real? What a load of bullshit.”

He didn’t wait for a reply and stormed out of the chamber. 

“He’ll come around,” Satoru said, but still, he’d winced. “Alright, welcome party’s over, everyone. As nice as I am to look at, I don’t really want to sit here naked with my dick hanging out for much longer. So if all of you could kindly piss off, that would be amazing. I’d like a moment with my wife, please.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Well, if you’re in good condition to yap incessantly, then I expect you’ll be in good condition for a board meeting tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Don’t die and be late again.” And with that, he was out the door. 

Shoko’s voice spoke through the speakers. “We’re going to stop the perfusion, Satoru. It should be safe to remove the tubes. But me and the team will need to stick around in case of anything… unforeseen. Just pretend we’re not here.”

The whirring of machines faded, steeping the chamber in a new silence. Once again, you were alone with Satoru. But this time, you’d finally accepted he was truly breathing. 

“Baby? Talk to me.” Satoru flashed you a nervous smile. “You haven’t said a word.”

You moved.

And the moment you did, you couldn’t stop. 

You reached for him. Your hands were on his face, moving down his neck, his chest. Over the very real beat of his heart. And when you felt his hand on yours, the pressure of his very real touch, your voice broke.

“I—we should try taking the tubes out.”

It was lame. You should have told him you missed him. You should have told him all the things you wanted to tell him in the months he lay lifeless while you pieced him back together. How you refused to let a single drop of tear roll down your cheek, because it would mean that you had something to cry about. How the entire research centre thought grief had turned you into some mad scientist who was obsessed with creating your very own Frankenstein, and that you almost believed them… almost.

But you didn’t tell him those things. Because those things no longer mattered.

Slowly, you removed the tubes from him one by one. Satoru just sat there, watching you work, his fingers playing with your hair, grazing down the back of your neck, applying gentle caresses here and there until the last of the tubes were gone. 

“Try standing up,” you said, your voice too thick to hide the emotions threatening to burst out from within you. “I need to check your sense of balance.”

Satoru nodded and wasted no time hopping off the table onto his feet. He grinned, and did a little spin. Like he was modelling for you. “Nice stitching, baby. I think I prefer myself like this—adds a lot of character, you know?”

“I’ll get you some clothes.”

But he caught your wrist then, pulling you tight against him. His arms enveloped you, fingers lifting your chin to meet his gaze. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he said, stroking your cheek. 

The way he spoke, softly, his cadence perfect and familiar and exactly as you remembered—it really was him.

Your lips trembled, betraying you as you peered up at him. 

“Never again, Satoru,” you said. “Okay?”

He leaned in. “I promise, baby.”

And when his mouth brushed against yours… when you parted your lips, feeling his tongue sweep inside you, meeting his every stroke and caress with your own… it was like everything that had been blocking up your insides for so long—the sand in your lungs, the pain in your chest, the hollow pit in your stomach—all of it became but a distant memory. 

Your kisses grew hungry. You couldn’t stop touching him. You needed to bottle up all of his warmth and preserve every ounce of this moment because you couldn’t bear to lose another second with him. 

“Hey,” Satoru murmured against your lips. “Easy, baby. I’m right here.”

A smile cracked through some forgotten place in you. “Well, deal with it. All my kisses have been one-sided for months.”

“I bet I still taste good dead.”

“That’s not funny, Satoru.”

He laughed. “We’ll see if it is sixty years from now.”

“Why sixty?”

He grinned, and then he was pulling you in for another kiss. “That’s what husbands and wives do, don’t they? Grow old together.”

Like wildfire, news of the scientist who died and came back to life spread across the globe, saturating every media outlet, baffling entire religions, upending the medical world and whatever long held beliefs they had been preaching on the subject of mortality. 

The headlines were calling it a miracle. Churches called it blasphemy. The medical journals were split between praise and skepticism. The National Registration Department had never had to rescind a death certificate eight months after registering it. Gojo Satoru, billionaire scientist, child prodigy, TIME 100 most influential individual, the world’s sexiest man alive for six years running, and former corpse, had become a global sensation as the man who had defied death. 

And you were right there in the spotlight alongside him. Satoru had made sure of it, insisting that your name was listed first in the accreditation for his now infamous Theory of Resurrection. Whenever he was asked, Satoru always drove in the fact that though he was the mastermind behind it, you were the one who saw it to the finish line.

“Execution is worth infinitely more than mere ideas,” he’d point out in all the interviews while refusing to let go of your hand.

Naturally, with any bizarre phenomenon came the conspiracies. There were those who accused Satoru of not being human, instead believing he was some kind of top secret, hi-tech artificial intelligence the government was testing out as a weapon for modern warfare. The ufologists’ deductions were much simpler—that extraterrestrial beings had abducted Satoru, conducted experiments, and placed him back on earth as one of them. 

In answer to these wild accusations, Satoru had only one reply. “Whether I’m an alien or the Terminator, at least I’m a damn good looking one.”

Well, if there was a truth you could confirm, it was that he still fucked you like a feral beast.

After three weeks of monitoring at the research centre, Shoko and the team had determined Satoru’s condition as stable, and the board finally allowed him to return home with you. The moment the both of you stepped through the front door, it was like Satoru was a man on a mission.

“To make up for lost time,” he said as he tore off your clothes, and took you against the wall. “It’s lucky you didn’t have to sew my cock back on as well.”

“If you’d lost it, I wouldn’t have brought you back—ahn!”

He laughed as he thrusted deep into you, filling you up so completely, making you take in every inch of him until there was no doubt that he was here to stay. Inside you. With you. “And here I am thinking you fell for my incredible mind.”

“It’s—nghh—Toru, you’re…”

“What is it, baby?” Another thrust. Your moans filled the foyer. “Tell me, what am I?”

“Everything,” you breathed. “You’re everything, Satoru…”

His gaze softened, and when his lips found yours, his kiss was tender. Warm. 

Alive. 

You let him pick you up, clinging onto him as he carried you to the bedroom and gently laid you on the sheets. You didn’t let go. Not when he sheathed himself in you again. Not as his mouth claimed every part of you as if he never wanted to forget the very shape of you. Not while your bodies moved in sync together, while you cried out his name over and over again as he brought you to the edge, and went right over it together with you. 

You still didn’t let go as your head rested in the crook of his arm, your palm on his chest, over his beating heart. Your fingers traced the thick gash spanning across his stomach. It was still too early to remove the stitches, but he was healing up nicely. You wanted to believe scars could be beautiful, too.

“You can close your eyes, baby. It’s alright.”

You peered up at Satoru, not understanding at first. 

“You’re exhausted,” he said. “I bet you haven’t properly slept since—“

“Don’t, Toru. I’ve heard that word enough. I don’t need you saying it too.”

“Then what do you me want to call it?”

“You didn’t—you were just absent. That’s all.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Satoru trailed his fingers down the curve of your back. “And I’m going to marry you. We’ll have that wedding I stupidly ruined. We’ll take that trip to Paris and never see the sights, because I’ll be fucking you so well you won’t want to leave the hotel.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “What about all the improvements you want to make to the Infinity Chamber? It’s going to be a tight schedule. All the major hospitals have already placed their orders, and Sukuna wants to release the first commercial model by early next year—“

“Baby, if there’s one thing I learnt from dy—my absence, it’s my priorities. Work can wait. Never you. Never again.”

You hugged him tighter. “Is that a promise I’m hearing, Gojo Satoru?”

He beamed. “I don’t have to promise anything, baby. I’ll show you. Just sit back and see for yourself, I’ll—“

Satoru paused. His brows furrowed.

“Toru?” Your smile vanished as he suddenly jerked upright, and stumbled out of bed.

Satoru was coughing. The coughing turned into heaving. He was doubled over, clutching his stomach. 

Red spilled out his mouth. Globs of it, fresh and dark, splattering across the white carpet.

Someone was screaming.

It was you.

Of all the fucking things that had to go wrong, why did it have to be his immune system?

Your jaw was tight as you read the report, your eyes burning holes into the file as if you could force the words to magically reshuffle and change the diagnosis. 

But nothing changed. Satoru was dying. Again.

“We’ll rush a stem cell transplantation,” you said. “We’ll develop new immunosuppressants. We’ll—“

“Those treatments take time, doc,” replied Shoko. You hated the tone she was using. It was too gentle. Too final. The kind of tone doctors used when they were required to deliver bad news to patients. “If it were a normal autoimmune disease, we’d probably have a chance. But Satoru isn’t normal. At the rate his immune system is attacking… it’s like a war inside him. His body is shutting down too rapidly—“

“How long?” you asked, already knowing the answer. But your brain refused to accept it, instead seeking out someone, anyone, who might tell you otherwise.

The team fell silent. 

“He won’t last the hour,” Suguru finally said. “I’m sorry, doc.”

You pitched the file across the Infinity Chamber. The papers came loose, flapping about midair before scattering soundlessly onto the floor. On the operating table where Satoru lay motionless, those blue eyes lost under closed lids. Unseeing. 

He’d fallen into a coma before the ambulance arrived. Simply keeled over, face down in a pool of his own regurgitated blood. No hospital would be able to treat him, so you’d screamed at the paramedics to take him straight to the research centre. Everyone had seen his face on the news, and it didn’t take much convincing for them to oblige your demand.

His skin was greying again. The pink in his cheeks, his lips, had faded to an ashen pallor. His breaths were waning. Those fucking tubes were stuck in him once more.

“Brain activity is flatlining,” Nanami reported, his expression grave. He added, quietly, “You might want a moment alone with him, doc. He can’t respond, but he can still hear you.” 

Your fists were balled, nails puncturing through the skin of your palms. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

This wasn’t happening. You weren’t going to let it happen. 

You weren’t going to fucking say goodbye.

“Activate the resurrection procedure,” you said. “Now.”

Someone touched your shoulder. You flinched back.

Shoko’s hand retreated. “Doc,” she said, carefully. “We never calculated for a second time. It’s too much. The process will fry his organs. The synthetic blood might destroy his natural cells.”

You spared her a single glance. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

No one moved at first. Then, Haibara spoke. 

“She wants to try, guys.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he said it. “We should let her try.”

A sigh. You didn’t know from who. You didn’t care.

“Everyone to the control room,” said Shoko. “Nanami, reduce perfusion speed by half. Suguru, watch the reading—the moment his consciousness hits zero, we’re uploading immediately. Haibara, see if you can block some of the electro current. Satoru’s still alive. We want to jolt his system, not subject him to an electric chair. Doc—“

“I’m staying in the chamber,” you said. 

“It’s not safe—“

“It will be if you block a portion of the electro current, which you are. Either way, I’m not leaving him.”

“If we’re going to do this, we should get moving,” said Suguru. “We have less than an hour now, and I’ll have to recalibrate the neural mapping.”

There was nothing to recalibrate and you knew it. Shoko might not have given up on you, but Suguru had accepted the fact that convincing you to do anything else was a lost cause. You suspected he’d understood this a long time ago. He was the one who had found Satoru in the cryochamber, after all. The one who had to call you while you waited in your wedding dress. 

But you didn’t need him to understand. You didn’t need a friend. You didn’t need compassion. 

You needed Satoru back.

The team left you alone and hurried to the control room upstairs. You positioned yourself beside the operating table, and waited your second eternity. But you were used to waiting by now. You’d waited for him to offer you a spot on his research team, waited for him to notice you as more than an assistant, waited for him to ask you out for a quick lunch at that dingy sandwich joint staff liked to go to when they were sick of cafeteria food…

You waited for him to love you. So death could go fuck itself if it thought it could rip Satoru away from you after you’d spent all this time waiting.

You counted each shallow rise and fall of his chest. Saw the moment it stopped moving before the machines around you started buzzing. You stood, numb, as the chamber you’d finished building—not for humanity’s advancement but for one person—came alive around you in a flurry of mechanical droning. 

All the while, you watched him. Until you chewed the inside of your cheeks raw and your vision blurred from refusing to blink. Until you spotted the twitch of his finger. A fluttering of long, white lashes. 

Satoru groaned. His eyes flew open, then he was fumbling upright. 

A small cry escaped you, and then you were holding him. 

“It’s alright,” you said when he looked at you, dazed and confused. “You’re alright now.”

“I…” Satoru hesitated. “Where am I?”

“At the research centre. You had an accident, but everything’s okay now. You’re okay.”

“I see. I think I remember. Just… give me a moment. My head feels like someone cracked it open with a hammer.”

You helped him to unstrap the helmet, and draped your lab coat over him. Continued to hold him steady as he studied the tubes running out his body.

“So I died,” he said. 

“For a short while, yes.” 

“And you brought me back.”

“I always will, Satoru.”

Those blue eyes searched yours. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “But I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Satoru, I told you it’s not funny.”

He blinked. “Right, ah… so I do know you. I mean, it feels like I do. It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”

You stared at him.

Satoru stared back. “Shit. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

The speaker crackled. A grim voice cut through the chamber.

“Doc. Satoru…” Suguru sounded too calm. “So this is what’s going to happen—I’m going to read you the diagnosis, and then me and the team… we’ll wait for your decision. But, doc, I think this time you should let Satoru decide.”

Suguru didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “You died twice, Satoru. We brought you back using your Theory of Resurrection. Do you remember your theory?”

For a long moment, Satoru didn’t speak. His eyes darted from you up to the control room above, and then around the chamber, assessing. Processing. As if a flurry of information was running through his head at lighting speed to reach a conclusion. 

“I think I understand now,” he said, slowly. “And I can guess where this is going. Whoever you are, give it to me straight—and don’t bother explaining my theory. I know what I created.”

Silence.

“We couldn’t recover a portion of your memory, Satoru. Your body is rejecting the neural upload… among other things.”

“Please, I forgot some things. I’m not an idiot.” Satoru’s gaze settled back on you, on the matching rings on both your fourth fingers. He mustered a grin. “Well, at least I was lucky enough to find someone like you, even if I can’t remember how.”

You didn’t know when you’d started shaking. 

Suguru spoke. “Satoru… your body is shutting down. The synthetic blood we’re pumping in is keeping you functioning for now, but the moment we shut off the tubes, you’ll—“

“I’ll die,” Satoru finished. “Took you long enough to say it. Kind of figured that out since I woke up feeling like shit.”

“Your consciousness is currently at thirty three percent retainment. We can try to bring you back again, but from the reading, retainment percentage will only go down. You’ll probably lose another fifteen percent if we go through with a third procedure.” Suguru’s voice hitched. “I—listen Satoru… even if we succeed, you won’t be yourself.”

“Again, Mr. Obvious, I’m not an idiot. And I can hear you sniffling, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Suguru. We’re friends.”

“Well, Suguru, if we’re really friends, then I think you know what to do.”

“No,” you whispered. Then louder. “No. That’s not what we’re doing. We’re not going to—“

“Hey, come here.” You froze as Satoru took your hands in his, gently pulling you closer. He shifted, wincing as he stood, and wrapped you in his arms. 

The world slipped away from under your feet. There was only him. Soft, white hair falling over deep blue eyes. His pale, tired face, still perfect. The pressure of his hands around your waist, lifting to cup your cheek. The stroke of his fingers against your skin. The way he was looking at you, like he…

“I’m sorry, baby.” His lips were on yours as he spoke. “Do you hate me?”

At last, you broke. Your face crumpled. Your composure went. You stopped caring if he could feel your body shudder. 

“Never,” you said.

“Do you love me?”

Your laugh was bitter. “I can’t believe you’re even asking that.”

You felt his fingers tighten a fraction around your waist. “Then, do you know that I love you?”

“I—“you could barely choke the word out. Because the truth of it was more than you could handle. It was easier to beg. So you did. “Please don’t leave me.”

Satoru’s smile was oddly relaxed. Almost relieved. As if he’d lost something important and had found it. “I’ll still be around, if you want me to. Right here,” he said, and gently tapped the side of your head. “As long as you live, so do I.”

“It’s not the same.” Your vision blurred. “It’s not—it’s not everything. It’s not you...”

“My love, you know as well as I do that I won’t be me even if I stay.” He kissed you. Kissed away the damp streaks flowing down your cheeks. Gently. Slowly. 

“I’ll find a way,” you tried again. “There’s always a way. Nothing’s impossible, only improbable. That’s what you told me. There has to be another—“

“You’re right, there always is. Doesn’t mean you should go searching for it.”

“No. I refuse.” You were shaking your head violently. “Don’t do this to me. If you don’t want to try, I will. I’ll fix it. All you have to do is wait. I won’t stop—“

He hugged you tighter. You felt his lips on your hair.

“Look at me, baby.”

You screwed your eyes shut. If you couldn’t see the what was written so clearly on his face, then it wasn’t true.

“Please, baby,” Satoru said, lifting your chin. “I want to get a good look at what my soul cannot deny.” 

You wanted to scream. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to burn down this whole fucking place, with you and him in it, so you wouldn’t have to live through what was coming next. So you wouldn’t have to feel yourself tearing apart inside.

Not yet. It wasn’t enough. The time you were given with him was simply too short. It should be more. It should be sixty more years like he promised. 

You weren’t ready to let him go. 

But you knew you had to. Because it was what he wanted. Because he didn’t want you to lose him slowly. Because he was losing himself. Because he couldn’t be brilliant without his memory. Because he would no longer be Gojo Satoru, and he didn’t want you seeing it. 

Because he loved you.

You looked into his eyes… the eyes you once thought you’d be looking at forever.

“There’s my girl.” Satoru’s smile destroyed you. “Better holes in my brain than yours, because I don’t want you forgetting I’m yours. In every lifetime. Can you do that? Can you remember that for me?“

 It was the same before, and it was the same now. You would do anything for him. So you nodded, and told him what he wanted to hear. “You’re too much for me to forget so easily, Satoru.”

  He laughed and kissed you again, long and slow, and for a moment, nothing existed but the warmth of him that filled you. 

“Come here, baby,” he said. “Let me hold you.”

You let him pick you up and place you on the metal slab. You laid down with him, your head on his chest like how you always fell asleep, curled up against him. Your legs tangled with his, his arm under and around you. Your hand in his, where it belonged. 

You couldn’t say how long you stayed like that. Talking. You told him about the day you met, how he’d asked you to marry him one random morning to make you feel better about the coffee machine breaking down. He laughed and told you that he must be quite a catch for you to say yes to such a lame proposal. Then he told you his vows—the vows for a wedding you would never have. 

Somewhere in between, Satoru must have signalled for Suguru to stop the perfusion because the whirring in the chamber faded. You ignored the silence. There was only him. His voice. The press of his body against yours. His fingers wrapped in yours as you moved yourself up, placing your face so close to his that his features became indistinct, and you began to lose yourself in them. 

You held him as he slipped away. As his chest slowed and his skin turned cold. You told him it was okay for him to close his eyes, and right before he did, you told him you loved him. 

You held him long after his heart stopped beating. Long after the team had left and your muscles had gone stiff from lack of movement. Long after his soul had departed to a place you couldn’t reach. And when you finally let go of him, it was to pick up the metal helmet from the floor. 

You placed it over your head, and sat back down beside him.

“System override,” you said, your voice calm. Flat. “Password: Replacement.”

Satoru was wrong. He’d theorised Five R’s, ending with resurrection. He never considered a sixth. But you did. You’d figured out the final ‘R’ to the equation.

A computerised voice droned through the speaker. “System override. Affirmative. Existing consciousness detected. Permission to erase for remapping.”

“Permission granted.”

“Affirmative. Accessing stored neural data for replacement. Confirm subject.”

“Gojo Satoru.”

“Affirmative. Neural data for subject, Gojo Satoru, confirmed for replacement with existing consciousness. Requesting password for final permission.”

Your gaze fell on Satoru. You took his hands in yours, and brought them to your lips. 

“Never,” you said. 

“Password confirmed. Neural replacement loading. Erasing existing consciousness in ten… nine… eight…”

You loosened a great breath. 

You’d proven his theory. You’d succeeded. If you could not give him everything, then you would give him you.

His soul would live.

Even if yours couldn’t.

Anyway, it wasn’t like yours could exist without him.

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