Both of you swear it’s just a normal morning.

As usual Rocky and Adrian stop by during breakfast, the conversation drifts from crop yields to the newest improvements in the biodomes, and for a blissful hour, everything feels perfectly ordinary.

Then Adrian chirps. “My Love, question.”

After months of hearing Ryland call you nothing else, the Eridians had simply concluded that My Love was apparently your name.

“Yes?” You replied, still chewing on your breakfast.

“Ooh…” Ryland visibly shrinks to himself. “That’s never a good way to start a sentence.”

“Adrian has reviewed the human educational materials.”

“Okay…”

“Anatomical diagrams are excellent.”

Ryland sighs in relief.

“However.”

“There it is.”

You glance nervously at Ryland and he doesn’t look any better.

“Demonstrations are insufficiently detailed.”

You blink. “What do you mean, demonstrations?”

“Anatomical lecture video is informative.” Adrian continues.

“Good.”

“The reproductive process remains… incomplete.”

“…Incomplete?”

“It explains gametes, fertilization. It does not explain why bonded humans repeatedly perform reproductive behavior but intentionally prevents fertilization, why no complete explanation for behavioral sequence, question?”

You nearly choke on your drink. Beside you, Ryland quietly closes his eyes, accepting his fate.

Then Adrian continues, earnestly.

“Current hypothesis: pair-bond maintenance.”

Silence.

“Secondary hypothesis: stress regulation.”

Ryland rubs a hand over his face.

“Third hypothesis: recreational.”

“…No.” Ryland already knows where this is going.

Both Adrian and Rocky tilt their carapace.

“No?”

“No.”

Another thoughtful pause.

Rocky joins the conversation. “Would additional—”

“ROCKY.”

“Adrians need details, can’t understand from Earth’s science video.” Startled Rocky clicks in confusion.

Ryland being Ryland, keeps trying to avoid explaining any further, but his curious friends won’t stop asking either.

“Grace.”

“No.”

Neither Eridian seems remotely discouraged, they simply exchange a series of thoughtful clicks before Adrian tries again.

“Observation also insufficient.”

Ryland frowns. “…Observation?”

“Cannot understand from only listening to Grace and My Love.”

The room falls completely silent.

“…What?”

“Why humans so noisy while mate, question?”

“…Excuse me?”

You clasp a hand over your mouth as a loud gasp of realization hits you, Ryland looks like he’s considering launching himself out the nearest airlock.

“Wha—how did you—”

He points accusingly between the two Eridians.

“You’ve been watching us?” Now he actually sounds horrified.

“Listening,” Rocky corrects. “Not watching.”

“That is not better!”

“It was not intentional,” Adrian says. “Biodomes transmit sound efficiently.”

“Very efficiently.” Rocky added as an agreement. “Eridians incredible hearing, why Grace keeps forgetting, Grace dumb.”

Ryland’s face drops at that.

“Your resonance frequencies are impressive.” Adrian added.

Ryland groans loud enough to make both Eridians click in concern. But oblivious to the source of his distress, Adrian asks their next question.

“If offspring are not desired, why perform reproductive behavior? Grace and My Love performs frequently.”

Ryland makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a dying star.

You finally realize what the problem is. Embarrassment simply… doesn’t translate across species.

You clear your throat.

“You’re approaching this like it’s only biology.”

Adrian tilts their carapace. “Clarify.”

“For humans, reproduction and pair-bonding overlap, some behaviors have biological functions, but they’re also shaped by emotion and personal relationships, a way for us to express how we feel for our…mate.” You try so very carefully, explain to them.

Rocky clicks thoughtfully. “So scientific explanation alone is… insufficient.”

“Exactly.”

“Humans are more complicated than anticipated.”

Ryland mutters, “You have no idea.”

“Curious.” Adrian pauses for several seconds before chirping. “Adrian wishes to improve understanding. Can Grace and My Love demonstrate now?”

“…D-demonstrate?”

“Yes, demonstrate humans mating ritual.”

Ryland swallows at the thought, immediately understanding what Adrian is asking for.

“Grace and My Love explains better than Earth’s videos.”

“Yes, like puppet show.” Rocky chitters happily, completely missing the weight of the favors they are asking for.

“They’re not judging us.” You sigh, looking towards Ryland.

“No.”

“They’re not making fun of us.”

“Nope.”

“They’re literally writing biology notes.”

“…Yes…We’re the only humans in their system.” Ryland groans, dragging a hand down his face. “That somehow makes it worse.”

Silence settles over the room. The two of you steal uncertain glances at one another.

Finally, Ryland clears his throat. “…You’d have to ask her. I’m not making that decision for both of us.”

Lies.

You know him well enough to catch the flicker in his eyes. Curiosity, embarrassment. And beneath both of them, the unmistakable excitement he’d been trying so desperately to hide.

Ryland likes the idea.

Your own thoughts aren’t much better, it should horrify you. But for reasons neither of you expected, that doesn’t repel the two of you. Instead, it got you pressing your legs together.

Ryland caught that, his hand finds your thigh beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze and you lace your fingers through his.

The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly.

Neither Eridian misses the exchange.

“Grace’s heart rate has increased,” Adrian observes.

“Body temperature elevated and behavior consistently indicates Grace ready to mate now.”

Both Rocky and Adrian clicks happily.

“Agreement!”

Ryland nearly chokes.

“W-What? No—that’s not—” He gestures helplessly between the two Eridians. “I-…I, of course I’m aroused, s-she…she’s my mate and both of you just put the thought in my mind so early in the morning.”

Heat rushes to your face.

The worst part is knowing neither Rocky nor Adrian means anything by it.

They’re not voyeurs.

They’re scientists.

They’re trying to understand.

To them, this is no different from asking how human lungs work, or why humans laugh, or what makes a pair bond last a lifetime. No judgment, no hidden motive. Simply another scientific question

That makes it so much harder to say no.

You sit there in silence, feeling so caught red handed, cause you know very well, to you and Ryland it’s entirely something else. Your eyes slowly find Ryland’s.

There it is. Neither of you really needs convincing anymore.

“We…can,” Your voice comes out much quieter than intended. “I-I guess?”

“…What?…” Ryland blinks.

“We can…” You swallow, forcing yourself to finish the sentence. “…demonstrate.”

For a heartbeat, he simply stares at you.

The words have barely left your mouth before Ryland is pulling you into him. His lips crashing onto yours in a hurried kiss, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other wraps securely around your waist.

You instinctively circle your arms around his neck, melting into the familiar warmth, answering his kiss without hesitation.

Desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips as he tilts his head to the side to kiss you deeper, his hands are quick to under your shirt, wandering over your skin in slow, affectionate strokes, lingering wherever they land, hesitant to move.

He pulls off the kiss, just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath as he creates the smallest sliver of space to speak. “You see?” He never takes his eyes off you. “What you call a human mating ritual isn’t just for reproduction.” His thumb lazily traces your cheek, he can’t help touching you.

“Speaking for the two of us…specifically.”

A fond smile softens his voice. “We do this… frequently because it makes us feel the closest to each other.”

His nose brushes yours. Featherlight. Lingering there for a heartbeat before nosing against your cheek with a quiet, contented sigh, rubbing himself against you in the most habitual gesture that seems almost beyond conscious thought. “It feels good,” He whispers, the words swallowed by the warmth between you.

“Pleasurable.”

As if he still isn’t close enough, he nuzzles fully into you, cheek ghosting slowly along yours before settling into the curve of your face, smiling to himself when you instinctively lean into the touch. “And…” He kisses softly under your ears, sending shivers down your spine.

“I love making her feel good.”

His confessions so soft it leaves you speechless, you can only hide your face against the crook of his neck, far too shy from his actions. Especially, knowing that in just a few moments, your sweet alien friends will be diligently documenting everything that follows in the name of science.

“My Love is responding to Grace’s touch, mating behaviors reciprocated.”

Ryland lets out an awkward chuckle. “…Right.” Then he shifts his attention back to you.

“Up.”

You don’t hesitate.

The moment you jump up, Ryland sweeps you into his arms effortlessly, holding you close enough that your laughter brushes against his neck.

“Ry!”

“Couldn’t wait,” He admits with a sheepish smile as he hurries toward the bedroom.

Rocky and Adrian exchange an excited series of chitters before following several steps behind, dutifully continuing what they believe to be an extraordinarily important scientific observation.

Ryland sets you gently back on your feet before turning to face the two Eridians.

“If we’re doing this…” He rubs the back of his neck. “…We’re doing it properly.”

Rocky clicks excitedly. “Proper scientific method.”

“Exactly.” Ryland points at him. “…Scientific method…”

He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then he reaches for your hand. “This,” Intertwining your fingers with his, he begins. “comes first.”

Both Eridians lean forward. “Humans don’t begin with reproduction.” Adrian chimes.

“Yes, we begin with trust.”

Ryland smiles at you before continuing. “Everything starts with communication. Consent. Making sure both people are comfortable.” His thumb traces slow circles across the back of your hand. “Touch isn’t just physical.” His voice soft. “It’s reassuring.”

Then he lifts your hand up to his face

“I’m asking even though I already know the answer.” A faint smile tugs at his lips before he tilts his head just enough to brush a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

So impossibly tender.

“Repeated confirmation.” Rocky notes to himself, Adrian continues. “Must indicate mutual willingness before progression.”

Ryland nods.

“That’s one of the most important things about humans.” He looks back at you, his expression softening. “And honestly…” Another sheepish grin spreads across his face.

“I just really like holding her.”

You can only blush upon his statement.

“Human mating consists of numerous affectionate behaviors before, during, and independent of reproduction.” Adrian clicks happily.

Ryland chuckles. “…That’s actually a pretty good summary.”

“They really are just writing biology notes.”

“I know.” Ryland sighs. “…I still can’t believe I’m teaching alien anthropology with my own relationship.”

“In the name of science?” You ask teasingly, biting on your lips to hide the smile.

“In the name of whatever they are trying to conclude.” His reply makes you laugh, cupping his cheeks in your hand, holding him softly as he slowly kneels in front of you.

“May I?” He asks, pressing a lingering kiss to the waistband of your shorts.

A smile tugs at your lips as you nod in reply.

He carefully slid them down, letting them pool around your feet.

Then slowly, so slowly, his fingertips trail upwards from your ankles, tracing a slow path over your skin until they reach the hem of your shirt. He gently lifts it, easing the fabric higher before pulling it over your head, his lips following in its way with absentminded kisses, he can’t bear to leave an inch of you untouched.

He guides you to the bed, helping you settle comfortably between his legs. He pats his chest, silently asking you to lean back against him.

You do, resting against him while facing Rocky and Adrian.

The two Eridians remain completely focused, watching with undivided attention of scientists attending an important lecture.

Ryland clears his throat. “Next step,” Effortlessly switching into teacher mode despite the growing heat in his body, “you make sure your…mate is ready to take you.” Referring to you as mate got him feeling some type of way, actually and verbally claiming you. He says it so naturally, and you like it, for all you know you are his.

You tense with anticipation, mentally preparing yourself for what’s coming.

“Relax,” He murmurs, offering you a reassuring smile as his hands gently guide your legs open. “Show them My Love, they can’t observe if they can’t see.”

Now that this is actually happening, embarrassing excitement floods through you. Something about Ryland explaining this as seriously as your eager audience sends different kinds of thrill through your body.

His hand remains intertwined with yours, easing you as he continues his demonstration, he slowly runs his fingers along your heat, breath shaking slightly the moment he feels your wetness.

“hhnnh—Ry…”

Two of his fingers gently spreading your folds open.

Never in your life have you felt this exposed, and to your own amusement, your body refuses to hide how affected you are by leaking more of yourself.

“You like this don’t you?” Ryland teases as he never stop tracing over your entrance.

You can only answer him with muffled moans, stuffing your face against his neck. It’s impossible to keep looking at Rocky and Adrian, too ashamed of how much you are enjoying yourself in this situation.

Ryland lets out a soft breathy laugh before returning to his explanation. “The human female body is just…amazing…” His voice lowers with admiration.

“Extraordinary.”

Ryland softly nudges on the hood of your clit, exposing them. “You may already recognize this structure from the anatomical video,”

“This…this is the clitoris, It’s one of the most densely innervated structures in the human body, containing thousands of sensory nerve endings. Unlike many other parts of the reproductive system, its primary biological function isn’t reproduction itself, but sensory perception.” He glances briefly toward Rocky and Adrian before continuing.

“So by stimulating it…she’s going to experience a great deal of pleasure.”

He does exactly as he’s describing, his finger starts rubbing slow circles on your little nub making you writhe from the contact, panting softly into his skin.

“Everything we’re doing right now has a purpose.”

Your fingers tighten around the hand intertwined with yours while your other hand finds his wrist, holding on through the overwhelming vulnerability of the moment.

“We call this foreplay,” Ryland continues. His voice is calm, but every sentence carries a little more enthusiasm than the last, clearly enjoying whatever is unfolding upfront. “It’s part of how humans prepare physically and emotionally before reproduction becomes possible.”

He lightly pinches on your clit and a tiny yelp escapes you.

Adrian chirps. “Mating noises increase. Therefore, mating noises indicates to experiencing pleasure, question?”

Ryland lets out a quiet laugh. “Well… not all humans are particularly… vocal.”

His eyes drift back to you.

“But lucky me, she is.”

A helpless whine escapes you at his words. Ryland bites his lower lip, unable to hide the smile threatening to break free. He looks almost unfairly pleased with himself, every little sound you make is another reminder that he knows you and your body by heart.

“I like how expressive she is,” Ryland continues working on you, somehow not losing the almost lecturer-like tone. “Her reactions tell me whether she likes what I’m doing or not, if what I’m doing is welcomed, and if I’m taking care of her the way she needs.”

Rocky and Adrian exchange a thoughtful series of chitters. “So vocalization functions as communication.”

“For many humans, yes,” Ryland replies. “It’s not universal, but it can be an important part of how partners understand one another.”

You lift your face up to find his eyes never looking away from you. There’s unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

“I’d say, she’s enjoying herself.”

The contrast between his composed explanation and the way his finger doesn’t stop toying with you leaves your thoughts in complete disarray. If this is his version of talking dirty to you, you need him to keep talking this way.

A push of his finger past your entrance breaks your busy thoughts.

“Now, I need to make sure she’s relaxed enough to continue.”

Soft whimpers slip past your lips the moment he pushes a second finger.

“That’s it,” He murmured warmly.

You never quite get used to how he just seems to know exactly what you need.

“Open up for me...”

So skilled with his movements, his fingers perfectly in tune with how he moves his hand, opening them as he goes inwards, closing them as he goes outwards. In and out just like that, the pad of his fingers rubs against the warm spongy walls inside of you.

“Kiss…” You whisper, voice trembling. “W-want kiss.”

You need him to kiss you. To ground you. To give you something to hide behind, because being so completely exposed as the center of his lesson for your sweet, unsuspecting audience that are diligently taking notes is almost more than your flustered heart can bear.

Every explanation he gives seems to make it worse. Speaking about you with such quiet admiration, each sentence carries the tenderness of a love letter that is whispered gently against your skin.

“Mhm.” Ryland glances briefly toward Rocky and Adrian, unable to hide the quiet pride in his smile, proudly showing off how good he takes care of you. He kisses you slow, a little messy, humming softly into the kiss when he feels you biting on his lower lips.

You can’t stop moaning into his mouth as he swallows them whole. Especially when his knuckles deep fingers curl inside you, hitting exactly on your sweet spot, making you twist in his hold. You jerk off the kiss, breathless.

“R-ry! please…”

He feels it immediately, the way your walls flutter before clamping hard around his fingers, he answers you with a moan, somehow feeling the pleasure himself just from watching you.

“Come on Lovey, you’re so close.” He murmurs.

Your body trembles against him, broken sobs of his name spills off your lips. You bury your face in the crook of his neck again, squirming helplessly in his embrace as wave after wave of high crashes over you.

Ryland slows down his finger, talking you through it by whispering soft praises by your ear.

“There’s my girl.”

The words are followed by featherlight kisses along your temple, soothing you as your breathing slowly begins to steady.

Adrian chirps delightfully. “My Love has reach climax. Does this count as a successful mating, question?”

Ryland lets out a quiet chuckle. “Not quite.” He continues easing you, his lips brushing your cheek between explanations.

“As I said, the human female body is extraordinary, they are capable of reaching climax more than once and that doesn’t necessarily mean reproduction has occurred. Before we start the intercourse, it’ll be more comfortable for her this way.”

Rocky and Adrian diligently noting down the new information.

Ryland gently withdraws his fingers, taking them in his mouth long enough to steal a lingering taste of you before a quiet, helpless groan slips from him.

His eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment.

Just how much he’d rather be doing you properly right now, going down on you, feasting on what’s left of you for him. Instead, he exhales a breathless laugh, acknowledging the fact that his face would be in the way of the demonstration, when the whole point was for Rocky and Adrian to actually see what he was explaining.

It will only complicate things and raise far more questions than it answered.

With visible unwillingness, he pushes the thought aside and brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” He asks softly. “Good to continue?”

“Yes…” You answer almost immediately, nodding eagerly, still tucked safely against him. “Please, Ry~”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Atta girl.” He presses soft smooches across your cheeks. “Help me out will you?”

You pull yourself from the comfort of his embrace, shifting to kneel beside him, your gaze never leaving his as you kiss your way down, all while pushing on the hem of his shirt. The shirt is in your way.

You give it a small, impatient tug. “Take it off,” Your whine sounds almost annoyed at how the shirt is covering him.

Ryland chuckles under his breath, unable to hide the amused smile spreading across his face. “Bossy,” He whispers under his breath, already reaching for the hem of his shirt.

You answer by kissing the smile right off his lips, your hands fumble with the waistband of his pants tugging the fabric down hastily, just enough to free him.

Ryland lets out a shaky breath as his cock sprangs out all tall and ready, the heads throbbing angry red, leaking shiny beads of precum.

You too can’t help the embarrassingly needy whine at that sight, one that never fails to make your mouth water.

He is just so pretty everywhere, all for you.

“Well…” He looks down at himself and laughs under his breath, clearly trying to slip back into his teacher mode. “I…I don’t really have much to explain about the human male. Specifically myself.” His sentence falters as your touch steals the rest of his thoughts. “I’m just—”

Your hand wraps around him, leaning into the curve of his neck, you lick on his skin before leaving a series of lingering kisses. You playfully nip on his skin, sucking on them softly as you hum in contentment, unable to resist leaving your mark.

“F-fuck…” He cries out. The softness of your lips on his neck paired with the way your thumb is circling on his dribbling tip. All the sensation steals the last of his composure, his head tips back against the headboard as a shaky moan escapes him.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment before forcing himself to continue. “While some human males… need more time to become physically ready…”

Another breath catches in his throat.

“I’m…” Ryland laughs breathlessly. “I’m just always like this with her.” The confession earns warmth across his cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment anymore. “I-I think…” He exhales another quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I t-think you’ll explain m-me…much better Love,” Meeting your eyes with an utterly helpless smile.

“I… I can’t.”

Gone was the composed lecturer tone. All that’s left is a hopelessly, thoroughly, and utterly undone Ryland.

Rocky clicks several times, spinning around in rapid succession. “Grace incapable of objective scientific observation.”

Ryland snorts, though it quickly catches in his throat. “Yeah, well—hnngh…” He struggles to gather a sentence together. “You… have no idea how incredible she is.”

Adrian pauses from taking notes.

“Grace’s explanations contain an unusually high frequency of compliments.”

Rocky clicks knowingly. “Bias detected.”

“It’s called…” Ryland breathes out another shaky laugh. “…being in love, Rocky.”

You bite back a smile, delighted with his response. “Okay,” You say sweetly. “Let’s stop teasing him.” Saying that while you proceed to do the exact opposite, never actually moving your hand and only toying around his tip.

“My Love also demonstrates mischievous behavior,” Adrian notes.

“Affirmative,” Rocky chirps. “Scientific term: menace.”

You grin. “There are lots of ways humans approach foreplay. While Ryland used his hand on me…” You glance up at him with a look that promises trouble. “…I’m going to use my mouth.”

Ryland exhales sharply, hips jerking up at your words.

“He prefers that,” You tell the two Eridians with a knowing smile. “You two just watch him,” You continued. “You’ll understand.”

And despite his flushed out situation, he smiles at your remarks.

You give him a long lick from the base back to the head, suckling softly on them before slowly taking him whole.

Ryland’s whole body shudders instantly at the feeling of your warm mouth around him.

You start bobbing your head pulling out soft whiny grunts from him before he can stop it.

Rocky chirps excitedly. “Grace equally vocal.” Adrian immediately added to the observation notes. “Pair demonstrates reciprocal vocal communication.”

Ryland, looking thoroughly dazed, manages to lift one hand just enough to flash Rocky a weary thumbs-down. Then his hand slides down into your hair, tugging on them softly when you start gagging on him. “S-slow down…” He breathes out. “You’re gonna hurt yourself…and I’m—” A choked moan cuts him off.

“I’m not gonna last…”

You hum pulling off him with a soft pop, wiping the corner of your mouth before reaching over to the bedside table for a condom. To this day, neither of you knows why the Hail Mary had an emergency supply of condoms tucked away in the storage. Guess whoever packed them had somehow anticipated some scenarios.

You silently thank them every single time.

Holding it up for Rocky and Adrian to see, you explain, “This is one of humans contraceptives. It goes over the male reproductive organ and acts as a barrier, preventing sperm from reaching the female reproductive tract. That way, pregnancy doesn’t occur.” You press one last lingering kiss on his length before carefully rolling the condom into place, earning a quiet hiss from him.

“We’re…actually running low on these,” You admit, cheeks warming as you realize just how quickly the supply has dwindled.

Ryland lets out a breathless laugh, unable to hide the smile spreading across his face at your flustered confession. “Back on Earth, we had plenty of different contraceptive options,” He adds, slipping back into his lecturer’s cadence. “But here… our choices are a little…limited…”

You glance hopefully at Rocky and Adrian. “If… you two wouldn’t mind helping us…” The request alone makes your face burn. “I could mark a few possible ways that might be possible to recreate…here.” And you just can’t withstand your own request anymore, instinctively folding yourself into Ryland’s embrace, letting out an embarrassed sound as you do so.

He catches you immediately, laughing softly as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Another reason why humans separate intimacy from reproduction.”

You nod against his chest. “Our situation just…” You trail off before quietly finishing, “…isn’t one where having a baby would be responsible.” The words linger heavier than you expect. Not because you’re unhappy, quite the opposite actually.

You have Ryland.

You have Rocky, Adrian, and everyone else.

A home, strange as it may be.

But if circumstances had been different, if it had been back on Earth, living an ordinary life together. With a man like him? You’d spent half your life pregnant and the other half wondering how you ended up pregnant again. You are definitely having his babies, constantly. The man wouldn’t stand a chance, Ryland would’ve looked utterly bewildered every single time.

You know yourself well enough to admit the truth. You will never find yourself not pregnant.

The thought makes you smile into his shoulder, but some dreams simply belong to another world.

Ryland notices the change in your expression immediately. “Lovey...”

“You okay?” He brushes a thumb across your cheek.

You nod, smiling a little wider this time. “Just thinking.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Rocky’s excited clicking fills the room. “Okay. Now showtime! Hurry, hurry!”

The quiet moment dissolves instantly.

You slowly lift your head from his shoulder. “Uh…Ry…” Your voice comes out even smaller this time. “You should explain this part…” There is simply no way you’ll be able to. The moment he starts, it will be impossible for you to state actual sentences, you are not going to embarrass yourself by trying.

“Of course,” He kisses the top of your head before looking at you with a smile that barely hides the need in his eyes.

“How would you like to have me?”

“The one where I c-can lean on you…” You trail off, already feeling your face burn more and more. “You know which one…or just however you think is… s-suitable for the observation.”

Your answer earns a fond smile.

“You are adorable.”

Ryland clears his throat. “Intercourse,” He begins, “…well the real deal.” attempting to gather what little composure he has left. “This is the actual reproductive act.” His own thoughts have become an absolute mess.

Of course they have.

He’s about to fuck you and he needs to explain it in a very biologically proper way as he do so. That too in front of two alien scientists who are watching with the enthusiasm of graduate students attending a guest lecture.

Without another word, you settle where he asks you to, following his lead. He gently raises your legs, draping them over his own to keep you comfortably in place. The position leaves you spread open all for the two researchers to see and they still have absolutely no idea why humans find any of this embarrassing.

“This part,” Ryland says, stealing a quick glance toward Rocky and Adrian, “isn’t that different from the educational material you already reviewed.”

Both Eridians chirp in agreement.

He lets out a nervous laugh. “So… I guess this is mostly for completeness.” His scientific tone remains remarkably steady, though you catch the tiny stutter that slips into his words. He grabs himself by the base, aligning his cock with your entrance to slowly glide through your folds, coating himself with the slick already waiting for him. “As we’ve already explained, a proper foreplay and preparation make the process considerably more comfortable. To simply say it, the wetter she is…the better.”

“Ry—nhh…i-inside…” An impatient whine slips past your lips as you instinctively buck your hips forward, trying to coax him to push in.

Ryland only chuckles under his breath.

“Patience, My Love…” He murmurs, tightening his arm around your waist just enough to keep you still. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, lingering there for a moment before smiling against your hair. He then continues his explanation.

“It’ll still feel snug, just not uncomfortably tight. She is relaxed and that makes it easier for her to r-receive…me.” He swallows. “…easier for me to slide in, because the body naturally provides lubrication.”

You know him well enough to hear the cracks beginning to form beneath the composed explanation.

He’s losing the battle with his own desire.

The two of you are trying.

Desperately trying.

Holding back so much, to present this like a proper, respectable scientific demonstration. Instead of whatever exploration this has become. Fighting every urge to just go rabbits at each other the way you usually do, where the second you’re alone together, any remaining dignity gets launched straight out the nearest airlock.

None of this is normal.

Both you and Ryland are doing your absolute best to pretend that it is. As if any of this could possibly be considered ordinary.

It isn’t.

And somehow, that’s exactly what makes the whole situation feel so ridiculously exciting.

With one smooth push, he is in.

“Ry!” You yelp helplessly, as if he hadn’t been inside you for months instead of less than twenty-four hours.

“I know…I-I know, Lovey.”

His hand smooths over your hips in slow, reassuring strokes, seemingly meant to calm you down. But the shaky breath that follows, gives him away almost immediately.

He’s just as much trying to calm himself.

Slowly, he starts moving his hips, pulling back just enough to settle right back in.

The drive is just crazy, it’s almost comical how impossible it is to keep your hands off each other, or maybe you’re just a little too sexually compatible.

It doesn’t help that life on Erid is alarmingly peaceful.

No emails.

No jobs.

No bills.

No taxes.

Just the two of you, hopelessly in love, with far too much free time on your hands. The odds were never in your favor.

He pauses, catching his breath. “I—… I need a second.” The groan that leaves Ryland borders on feral as he buries his face against your shoulder, huffing and puffing, trying to collect himself to continue his very serious, very scientific lecture.

Rocky tilts his carapace. “Grace respiratory efficiency decreased.”

“I’m aware.”

“Teaching quality also decreased.”

“…T-thanks.” He chokes out.

“She just—feels good…” He admits with a shaky laugh. “…Too good.” Every word comes out as heavy as the roll of his hips. Pumping in and out of you in deep slow thrust, the measured pace lasting around two seconds before he starts ramming into you.

You? you’re gone, stupidly moaning and babbling his name at every sweet graze of his length, you’re no longer capable of forming words.

One of his arms remains securely wrapped around your waist, holding you close, while his other hand drifts upward to fondle on your breast.

“The breasts…” Ryland manages between uneven breaths. “Their primary biological purpose is lactation, b-but…” He swallows “…like the clitoris, the nipples also contain numerous sensory nerve endings. Stimulating them during intimacy can… increase pleasure.”

You gasp loudly when he tugs on them between his fingers, sending shivers through your whole body.

“Y-yes!…please~”

Ryland’s composure cracks into a dazed lovestruck smile. “You’re so pretty hmmm…” He practically whines out the words. “So, s-so pretty Lovey…you’re so pretty.”

The admiration in his voice is so genuine it makes your heart squeeze.

Rapid clicking.

“Grace deviates from lecture.”

Ryland grunts. “I know.”

“Compliment unnecessary for scientific accuracy.”

“It is for me.”

“…Fuck.” He lets out another helpless laugh. “They’re so pretty...” He can’t resist giving them a teasing little bounce.

“Everything…e-everything about you is so pretty My Love.”

Adrian’s claws never stop moving. “Grace repeatedly interrupts explanations to compliment My Love.”

Rocky clicks. “Pattern consistent.”

“Can we not… not put that in the paper?”

“Already documented.”

Ryland groans.

The hand on your waist travels down between your legs, back to circle your clit. “And…” He says, pausing to steady his breathing as he feels you clenching harder immediately from the stimulation. “…since pleasure is the goal for us,” Another shaky inhale. “Again, the special little button.” By the end of the sentence, even Ryland sounds unconvinced that he’s still giving a demonstration.

“Fuck—that’s it!” He groans out. “I—I can’t anymore.”

His face disappears into the crook of your neck, muffling another helpless sound as he sucks at your skin, hard enough to leave an obvious mark. “I’ve explained…all that I can.” He forces himself to look towards the two Eridians, his eyes glassy with the strain of holding himself together. “I want to f-focus… on her.” Another shaky breath escapes him. “Just… save your questions for later...”

“Please.”

It’s almost funny. How he is begging them like they force him to keep talking.

A chorus of giggly chirps answers him, clearly amused by how thoroughly the great Ryland Grace has fallen apart.

Rocky clicks triumphantly. “Observation concluded.”

Adrian immediately follows.

“Reason, Grace no longer capable of coherent explanation.”

“Both of you…” Another breath catches in his throat. “…are absolutely paying us back for this.”

“Not a problem,” Adrian replies without hesitation. “Adrian and Rocky will compensate Grace and My Love appropriately.” Followed with another round of cheerful clicks.

Neither Eridian realizes they’re teasing him.

Which somehow makes it even worse.

His thrust grew more and more erratic, growing closer and closer from how you’re clamping mercilessly on him. Every ounce of composure he’d been clinging to, slips through his fingers.

“I wish…” His voice catches, and the confession escapes before he can stop it, “wish I could b-breed you like they said.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, as if he immediately regrets saying it aloud.

He swiftly flips both of your bodies, pinning you down against the bed as he snaps his hips harder. “…Wish I could fuck you full of my cum.” One admission becomes another. “You’d look perfect carrying my babies…all swollen and pretty.” The impossible dreams he’d kept buried slips free before he can stop himself, before he can think better of it.

“W-want too…Ry! hnnngh—” You breathe, the words breaking apart between uneven breaths. To your own embarrassment, you can feel tears gathering in your eyes. “want y-your babies~”

It feels ridiculous to be on the verge of crying now, of all moments. But the longing beneath his words reaches somewhere far deeper than either of you expected.

“You’d be beautiful…I know you would,” His voice trembles, laced with wonder and heartache. “I wish we could have a family.”

The words force both of your breaking points.

Your body convulses under him, crying out his name as you milk everything he got in him. He buries his face against your neck, making you catch even the littlest desperate sound out of him as he spurts ropes of white cums into the condom, clinging to you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. Your face pressing against the mattress, muffling the sounds of you falling apart.

The tears finally spill off your eyes, not from sadness. But the overwhelming ache of loving someone so much that, for one fleeting moment, the impossible feels close enough to touch.

Ryland peppers open-mouthed kisses along your neck before trailing them slowly down your spine, every lingering kiss meant to soothe you through the last waves of your high as he carefully pulls out of you. He drops his body beside you, pulling you in his embrace.

“Such a good girl..” He whispers, “Always did so well for me Lovey.” pressing a tender kiss so lovingly on your cheek. “I love you…”

His soft kisses continues all over your face, brushing away the tears clinging on your lashes before gently fixing the hair that’s sticking on your forehead. Simply holding you close until your breathing gradually evens out beneath his embrace. Only once he’s certain you’ve settled does he finally lift his gaze to the two Eridians.

“You…” He clears his throat, still sounding delightfully wrecked. “Both of you.”

Rocky and Adrian perk up immediately.

“There’s a procedure back on Earth called a vasectomy.” He gestures vaguely, his thoughts clearly still scrambled. “If you can recreate something similar…”

You don’t quite catch where he’s going, your mind still floating somewhere in the haze of your high.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “I just— I really need to be able to finish inside her.”

“…Yes…” You answer absentmindedly, before your own words register, heat immediately rushing to your face.

“If you can figure out a permanent contraceptive, anything that makes me sterile, please…” He lets out a tired laugh. “yeah…forget the payment talk, just give me that.”

Rocky responds with a rapid burst of amused chitters. “Grace exceptionally desperate.”

Another click.

“Grace wants permanent solution because Grace leaks too much.” Rocky chirps.

“Leaky space blob.”

Ryland groans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder.

“…I walked right into that one.”

Rocky chirps triumphantly while Adrian quietly adds another line to the growing stack of observations, sounding almost pleased with themself.

“Conclusion,” Adrian chirps. “Grace requests sterilization to increase mating frequency.”

Ryland lets out the longest, most defeated sigh of the day.

“…That is, unfortunately, an accurate conclusion.”

afterwords: I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HOW IN LOVE ROCKY IS WITH ADRIAN ughhhhhh…

i just hope this doesn’t freak you guys out, i just think it’s so funny and hot at the same time, AND YEAH IDK MAN RYRY FELT SO ASSERTIVE AND SASSY, I JUST CAN’T STOP WRITING HIM AS A SOFT DOM, I WANNA DO THINGS FOR HIM…ANYTHING, woof woof~

English isn't my first language, so there might be a few awkward phrases or grammar mistakes here and there. If you spot any mistakes, feedback is always appreciated.

The other day, they asked to watch Ryland piss. He let them. You yourself were a firm no on that one.

"Mate?" Ryland manages, after he's finished wiping his espresso off of his chin. Nye, the more science-minded of the two, bobs her carapace as if nodding. Her partner in life and in science, Theroux, an obsessive question-asker, bounces in anticipation.

"Yes, Theroux and Nye want to watch Grace and the botanist mate. We know you have been mating for some time now, it is no secret across Erid. This would just be a close-up," Nye states.

Yes. 'The botanist'. That was how you introduced yourself when you got here after the several-year journey and it's sort of stuck. It's been cute to have a nickname given by aliens so you don't mind it at all.

You do mind them knowing you and Ryland are fucking like rabbits. That seems... personal.

"It would be very exciting! Theroux could write a paper on human biology and it would be incredible for human-Eridian relations! Does Grace not want human-Eridian future, question? Grace wants to see our socities break down and go to war, question!?" Theroux asks, throwing their hands in the air. Nye pats them on the back.

"No, obviously not--"

"Then it is agreed! Botanist and Grace will mate and Theroux and Nye will observe and take notes. And you will talk us through the process! Amaze amaze amaze!"

"Guys, can we discuss this between ourselves? It's a very... intimate thing for humans," you plead, as Ryland pinches the bridge of his nose. The Eridians seem to exchange a glance - hard to do for creatures with no eyeballs but they manage it - and Nye nods.

"We will give you time to speak. Thank you for your consideration."

With that, the two of them hop off of your sofa and skitter out the door, as if they've just pitched you a business idea rather than asked to watch you go at each other hammer-and-tongs.

"Let's have a fresh coffee," you suggest, and Ryland nods weakly.

The two of you don't address it for some hours after, not until you're done eating your me-burgers and the faux sun has set in the dome. He washes up, you stare out over the beach.

"I mean. We could do it."

"Do what?" he asks. It's been such a busy day, he's genuinely forgotten.

"What Nye and Theroux asked."

His hands still around the rim of the mug he's cleaning.

"Oh. I... really?"

"If you wanted. I mean, I've considered it, and I think it will be okay. If you don't mind, that is."

You know him well enough to know the little signs of his arousal. His throat bobs as he swallows, his pupils blow slightly wider.

"Only if you're sure, sweetheart."

"Positive."

"Okay. Okay, I'll let them know," he says, voice low. You swan over to him and wrap your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to his back.

"Shall we get some practice in?"

He follows you to the bedroom so quickly that he almost rolls an ankle.

They set up a little sex-pod for you. There's no other word, that's what it is: a bed, some chairs, and a ton of Eridian computers for them to make notes on.

"Nye and Theroux have lit candles to help improve 'mood'," Nye informs you both, pointing at the few little glowing lights around the bed.

"Oh. Thank you."

You pull the bedsheet tighter around you, suddenly weirdly self-conscious. The two of you are naked below the bedding you've draped around yourselves, and you suppose clothes don't really matter to echolocaton-based Eridians, but this all seems so... much.

"We can back out," Ryland whispers, his lips tickling the shell of your ear as he leans in. His hot breath makes you shiver and you shake your head.

"No, let's... let's do it. I want to."

"Excite excite excite. Please head to the human sex area," Theroux says, pointing at the bed. You have to stifle a laugh because of how silly this all is, but follow Ryland's lead when he drops the quilt to the ground and gets on the mattress.

"What position?" you ask, quietly.

"All," suggests Theroux, and Nye elbows them.

"How about just missionary for now?" Ryland chuckles, and helps you lie back. You try to concentrate only on his face and ignore the clacking of keyboards from the goddamn aliens beside you.

"Okay."

"Good?"

"Good."

Ryland lifts your arm so he can place a kiss to the pulse in your wrist. It goes a hundred miles an hour and you gasp.

"What is point of this, question?" Theroux pipes up.

"It's to stimulate your partner. Light touches can get humans excited, expecially on erogenous zones."

Oh god, he really is going to talk them through this. Which means he'll be talking you through it. He must feel your heartbeat pick up even further from where his lips nestle against your skin, because he kisses you properly then. For a moment you get lost in Ryland, the sweep of his tongue, the press of his naked body against yours...

clack-clack-clack

"Humans are very quiet when mating," Theroux states.

"Social discomfort," suggests Nye. You squeeze your eyes shut. To take your mind off of it, Ryland suddenly begins to pepper kisses down your body: one to your sternum, one to your nipple, one to your stomach, and then--

"Ry?!" you ask as he gently pulls open your legs. He looks up at you.

"What is it, what's the matter?"

"You... you're not gonna... in front of them?!"

"I was planning to," he says, with the tiniest hint of a smirk. You almost explode.

"It's not really necessary though, is it?"

He looks actually offended by that.

"It certainly is to me. What's the point of doing this if you don't come?"

"'Come', question?" echoes Nye.

"Orgasm. A great release of pleasure. It makes mating enjoyable for humans."

clack-clack-clack-clack

"And this is needed by vagina-having partner for human mating, question?"

"No," you say, as Ryland chimes in, "absolutely."

You have to listen to Ryland explain the difference in orgasm importance when it comes to genitals in humans, and all the time you can feel his hand tracing down your thigh and coming to rest on your cunt. His thumb carefully parts your folds and begins to stroke your clit, and you get wet embarrassingly fast.

"Oh, understand. What is Grace doing now, question?"

"Remember I just mentioned erogenous zones?"

"Theroux remembers."

"This is one of the most important ones for a vagina-having human. The clitoris. Fantastic for stimulation."

"Ohh, excite excite excite!"

"That's the idea," Ryland mumbles, so quietly you think that you're the only one who catches it, and just before you can tell him off for being cheeky he dives into your cunt tonuge-first.

"Fuck!" you moan, arching your back as he works at you with his mouth. An arm comes up to clamp around your waist, holding you in place so he can eat you out as the scientists watch. It's a lot. He's very good at it, too, one second fucking your hole with his tongue, the next reaching up to suck on your clit, then going all the way down to your other entrance...

You do kick him a bit, then. You both like a bit of ass play, but at this moment in time, you don’t want to explain the point of anal to the Eridians. Not today.

Not unless Ryland is the one taking it, maybe...

You're pulled back into your body and out of your small daydream as Ryland picks up the pace, and soon you're coming all over his face. You pant and whine and moan as he eat you through your orgasm, leaving you boneless and satisfied.

"Is it done now, question?" asks Theroux, confused. "Why Grace's extended appendage not been used, question?"

“It is called a penis,” corrects Nye.

“Bad name, inaccurate. Extended appendage better.”

You glance down as Ryland gets to his knees in front of you. He's so hard that he's dripping. That's always a compliment to be honest, that he gets that turned on just from the taste of you.

"I'm about to use it,” he says, his voice gravelly, as if it's getting more and more difficult for him to remember this is meant to be a lesson of sorts. You open your arms and bring him down into your embrace, kissing him long and slow, tasting yourself on his tongue.

A beat.

"Grace and botanist taking too long..." Theroux grumbles.

"Let humans enjoy," Nye retorts. As you kiss, the sound of keyboards fill the air, the scientsits electing to take copious notes as you make out.

"I'm going to use my extended appendage now," Ryland states, and you snort in laughter.

"Are you going to put it into my wet orifice, Dr Grace?" you ask, cocking your head to the side, and it is so silly for him to be turned on by that... but you know that he is, because he loves when you call him by his title. His cock bumps against your slick cunt and out of the corner of your eye, you see Theroux slap Nye's arm.

"It's going in! Appendage is entering!"

"Yes, I see, Theroux must calm down."

"Science amazing! Humans amazing! Appendage amazing!"

"It sure is," you whisper to Ryland, a punishment for his earlier little quip, but he soon silences you as he slides inside with one easy thrust. You gasp, your cunt still sensitive from the orgasm he gave you, but it’s quickly overtaken by pleasure as he begins to fuck you properly.

It’s always good when you do this with Ryland, and this time is no different. He knows how you like it: long, slow, but hard. He snaps into you with rough rolls of his hips and you can hear the satisfying slap of his skin against yours.

His eyesight is shot without his glasses, but he stares down at you as if you are the centre of his universe. In response, you cross your ankles at the small of his back and drag him impossibly closer into you, so deep you practically feel his heartbeat syncing with yours.

“Why botanist do that, question?”

“To have him further inside me. Sometimes it feels better for vagina-having humans. Certainly feels better for me,” you take this question, and it makes Ryland grin smugly. You wipe it off his face by concentrating and then tightening around him, and he yelps.

“What was that noise, question?!”

“He’s getting aroused.”

“Ooh. Grace not already aroused, question?”

“More so.”

“Understand. Good time for Grace!”

“Yep,” he agrees, through gritted teeth, as he continues to keep up the pace. You kiss your smile into his shoulder.

clack-clack-clack meets slap-slap-slap, and you can tell Ryland is really having to concentrate on not coming. However, coming is the point of this, so you reach up to take his face in your hands and bring him down for a kiss. It’s messy, it’s desperate, and his hips begin to stutter as he gets closer to finishing.

“Put a baby in me while they watch,” you hum into his ear, and it’s such a weird thing to coo, but he’s gone anyway. Come floods your tender walls and the feeling of it pushes you over the edge too, cunt twitching around him as he empties.

He rolls off of you so he can tuck you in against his arm and drop post-coital kisses all over your face.

“Now is finished, question?”

“Yes, now is finished,” you confirm.

“Amaze amaze amaze! So when pebble coming, question?”

You and Ryland both stare at Theroux.

“I’m… do you think I’m pregnant now?”

“Yes. Otherwise what is point of human mating, question? Plus Eridians want human pebble. Excitement for whole planet!”

“I’m on birth control.”

“Birth… control… question?”

So you have that conversation as Ryland tries to hide his giddily amused smile. You slap him lightly on the pec to try and get him to behave, but he just grabs your hand and squeezes it instead.

“Oh. This is disappointing,” Theroux sighs, their whole carapace bobbing with the movement.

“Untrue. We have learned much about human biology. Thank you, Grace and botanist,” Nye corrects.

“Don’t mention it,” Ryland chuckles.

“Same time tomorrow, then, question?”

Ryland splutters in surprise, and all you can do is laugh.

"five minutes," he grins, holding up the remote. "just wanna show you how this massage function works."

as soon as you're within reach, he grabs your wrist and pulls you down onto his lap. the clipboard nearly slips from your hands as you land sideways across his thighs.

"bobby!" you laugh, trying to push yourself up. "clark will kill me if i don't finish this inventory."

"clark can wait," he murmurs, his lips finding that spot behind your ear that makes you melt. "you've been working wayyyy too hard anyway."

his hands slide down to your hips, fingers tracing patterns through your skirt as he starts kissing down your neck. you can feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing.

"seriously, i need to-oh," you gasp as he nips at your pulse point, your body betraying you as you lean into his touch.

"need to what, babe?" he asks, his voice muffled against your skin. "right now i think you need to relax." before you can protest again, he's guiding your hips to move against him and lifting your thigh to get you to straddle him. the friction sends a jolt straight to your core, and you bite back a moan.

"bobby," you breathe, but your hands are already tangling in his hair instead of pushing him away.

"that's it," he murmurs, his hands tightening on your hips as he helps you grind against him. "just like that."

his lips find yours, and you're lost in the kiss, all thoughts of work and inventory sheets forgotten. his tongue explores your mouth as your hips move against his with increasing urgency.

"god, you feel so good on me," he whispers against your lips. "been thinking about this all fuckin’ day."

"me too," you admit, your head falling back as he kisses down your neck again.

the leather chair creaks softly as your movements become more desperate. bobby's hands slide from your hips to your ass, practically kneading your ass as he guides your movements.

"like that?" he asks, though he already knows the answer from the way you're grinding against him. "you like rubbing against me like this?"

you can only nod, words failing you as pleasure builds with each movement. bobby's dirty talk has always been your weakness…the sweet way he says the filthiest things.

"wish we were naked," he murmurs, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "wish i could feel how wet you are right now."

the thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you press harder against him, chasing the pleasure that's building with each movement.

“this is a really bad idea…” you whine in a haze, “anyone can walk in and catch us-”

"let 'em watch," he growls, his hands gripping your ass tighter. "maybe they'll learn something."

you laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a moan as he shifts his angle, pressing perfectly against your clit through the denim. the friction is maddening, not enough to get you there but more than enough to drive you wild.

"that's it," he encourages, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes your stomach clench. "ride me just like that baby…"

bobby's hands guide you, his mouth claiming yours again as he swallows your moans.

"ew! guys!" kat's voice cuts through your post-orgasmic haze. "really?! on the furniture we're selling?!"

you and bobby freeze simultaneously, eyes wide with panic as kat stands there, hands on her hips, looking utterly disgusted.

"we had a deal! if he got to hang out here like a deadbeat loser, we agreed NO SEXUAL ACTIVITIES in the store!"

bobby has the decency to look embarrassed, though he's still holding you tightly on his lap. "we were not having sex," he defends. "our clothes are on."

kat stares at him like he's just grown a second head. "the 'it doesn't count with clothes on' rule? seriously? are we fifteen again?”

"we weren't-" you start, but she cuts you off.

"don't even," she grimaces. "i can see exactly what you two were doing…grinding all over each other like teenagers in the back of a movie theater…"

"it's not like we stained it," bobby mutters.

kat throws her hands up in exasperation. "oh, well that makes it perfectly fine then! as long as the furniture remains pristine, feel free to turn my workplace into your personal love nest!"

you hide your face in your hands, mortified. "can we please just forget this happened?"

"oh, i'm not forgetting this," kat says, "i'm mentally documenting this moment for future blackmail purposes."

"hey!" bobby protests. "that's not fair, we didn't even finish."

"BOBBY!" you and kat yell in unison.

"what?" he asks, genuinely confused. "i'm just saying, it's rude to cockblock." he grumbles, finally loosening his grip enough for you to slide off his lap.

as you stand awkwardly adjusting your clothes, kat looks between you both with disgust.

"you two are like horny rabbits with impulse control issues. now get back to work before i tell clark you're both 'stress testing' the furniture cause i'm pretty sure that's not in the job description."

"actually," bobby pipes up, "i think it could fall under 'team building exercises'."

kat stares at him, then at you, then back at him again. "i'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. now both of you, back to work. and if i catch you 'testing' any more furniture, i'm hosing you both down with the fire extinguisher."

as she walks away, bobby leans in to whisper, "think she'd really use the fire extinguisher?"

The knock to the hotel door came twenty minutes prior to when you were due to walk the carpet. It was a distinct knock, five sharp, melodic raps against the wood that could be mistaken for something along the lines of morse code. It was protocol—of course. The debut premiere of a high profile movie adapted from the pages of millions of people’s most treasured story, the stakes could never be higher to ensure that the other person on the side of the door was not a human will ill-intent. 

It came with the profession. Media consumers, movie buffs, locals disrupted by the chaos that a bunch of actors and their entourage brought to their city, weren’t all going to be elated by the movie adaption. 

You were never going to win; women never got to win. 

So, the knocks were mandatory. 

One of the many assistants that were collaborating for the initial get ready to go as smoothly and as on time as possible, crept to the door, cracking it open just a slither before their shoulders drop in relief—because there was no use of brunt force or verbal abuse needed to the potential threat on the other side. 

You are closer to the opposite side of the room with a team of hair, makeup and your most trusted confidant; your stylist, when the door opens and shuts with urgency. From where you are stood, you can see the red carpet beneath the building you were residing in and it had been cause for a brilliant distraction amidst the tugging and turning you had to endure to look the part. 

Eventually, you turn your head to see your boyfriend approach you with—what you would call it—a shit-eating grin on his handsome features. Clark Kent is almost unrecognisable as he forgoes the frumpy, ill-fitting grey ensemble suit for his everyday work escapades at Daily Planet, and stands in all broad-shouldered excellence in a sleek suit that deliberately complimented the theme of your outfit. 

It was subtle. Completely intentional. (The world had yet to unearth the privacy of your relationship, but that didn’t mean Clark couldn’t tease a declaration of possession with a suit.) 

Your posture slumps with relief to see him. 

“Hey.” you breathe out, the team around you dispersing momentarily to allow you a moment with your remedial significant other. 

Clark bends to press a featherlight kiss to your lips—conscious enough to not ruin the perfected makeup look. “Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”

“Yeah, just—” you inhale and Clark copies, “—nervous. Sort of.” 

Nervous was an understatement to how you felt. To be morbidly graphic, what you felt was close to the comparison of, if you had ingested flesh-eating maggots that had a craving for eating away at your vital organs. Especially your stomach. 

Nervous was just a more eloquent way of expressing that. 

It was to be expected. The movie that you had been working on amongst some of the top-dogs of the theatre industry, was also your introductory film. It took close to two years of filming, hundreds of repetitive script-reads—with Clark has your practice partner—and endless but intermittent travelling to locations to capture the true essence of a backdrop for a scene. This movie, with a director that was renowned across the globe, would change the trajectory of your life within this business you were so passionate to be apart of. 

The premiere was another ominous entity entirely. 

In simpler terms: this is where the public scrutiny came into play. 

Clark’s face fills with empathy, “I know. It’s a big deal for you.” he rubs circles into the pulse point on your wrist, “You deserve the recognition. Everything else is just outside noise. Alright?” 

“Right.” you give a curt nod, “I do deserve this.” 

“I’ll be right there with you. Well—behind you, not in shot…just with your assistant. Away from the limelight.” Clark mulls the positioning of his standpoint on the red carpet, “Golly. You know what I mean.” 

You let out an airy laugh, “Thank you, baby. I really appreciate you being here.” 

Clark pecks your glossy lips again with a smile, before taking the opportunity to stand back on his heel to appreciate the work your team had put into the creation that moulds to the curves your body. It was a craft—the art form that spoke through the visuals of fabric against the human form. The team that remains devoted to you to this day have completely encapsulated the aesthetics on par with the movie; as if they shook the script and you fell out wearing a divine masterpiece. 

He could appreciate the concept pieced together on your body. He would appreciate that you brought it to life, even more. 

Clark’s hands smooth down your forearms, his face melding into that of a man on a ledge of delaying the entire premiere process. Brows in a pinch, a low hum rumbles from his chest as he drinks up your external beauty.

You tuck your chin to your shoulder because, even after a year and some change with the bumbling journalist—and true Kryptonian behind closed doors—Clark still manages to conjure up some shyness from the depths of your core. 

“You look…angelic.” Clark speaks in a barely audible tone. 

You look down at your frame, “That was the prompt. This dress was put on hold from the runway for two years—Can you believe that?” your eyes shine with excitement when you look back up. 

“They made the right decision, honey.” Clark muses, happy to keep your spirits up before the anxiety seeps in from the corners. 

“You look handsome.” you redirect, voice dripping in saccharine. You subject your team to the ooey-gooey tempo pouring from the bubble you found yourself in with Clark. You smooth your hands down his chest, “I like your suit. You suit this cream colour.”

“Yes—Well, I thought I could match in some way.” Clark mumbles, pink from praise. His fingers dip into the breast pocket, pulling out a pair of golden-frame sunglasses. “I made these.” 

You pluck the sunglasses to inspect the plexiglass. “The same as your others?” 

(It was an attempt to be as discreet as possible in a room full of listeners. For all they knew, your significant other had a passion project of making sunglasses.) 

Clark nods happily and you express your amazement through the subtlety of facial expressions—trying hard not to draw too much attention to raise questions from the others. He takes the glasses from you, angling his body away momentarily to exchange the signature frames for the newly designed ones. 

He turns back, dimples prominent with the shades now adorning his face. 

“Ooh.” you chirp, “Are you sure you don’t want to walk the carpet?”

“That’s all you, honey.” Clark ensures as he laps up your fawning over him. 

Your publicist finds a moment of reprieve in between the flirtations between you two, signalling that the final touch ups can be made in the short car ride to the venue. Clark breathes with you when the apprehension returns in shudders of air from your lips, his reassurance quiet as he gathers your skirts to ensure your walk to your assigned vehicle is as undisrupted as possible. 

The elevator ride from the tenth floor doesn’t last long enough for you, and suddenly you’re struggling into the backseat of the car with the tinted windows—Clark prompt to step up and help you into the seat with his hand at your hip. Once you’re awkwardly settled, the dress preventing as much fluid movement as usual, Clark ducks his head when you place a hand to his jaw to tug him in for one final kiss; before the relationship was placed behind a thin veil and away from prying eyes. 

Then it’s you, your stylist and your thoughts. 

Clark is in the car following behind yours. He has your publicist talking in his ear about the protocol to be strictly followed once on the carpet. She’s essentially the brains of the operations that happen under everyone’s starry-eyed infatuation with the stars of the movie. She talks of the interview triages assessed prior to this moment, where you need to be an opportunist with popular media outlets, the strict schedule to help you flow through the process with minimal overtime with interviewers. 

“It’ll be hard not to step in.” she says in regard to parasite that were the paparazzi, “That’s my job. I know the cues, the questions that aren’t to be asked. Just be there as background support. She’s nervous.” 

“Of course.” Clark agrees with zero protest.

This was beyond the cushioned comfort of Daily Planet, or in the skies as the protector of Metropolis—or wherever he’s needed. Clark was out of his depth with all the glamour, besides the handful of times he had attended the Metropolis Gala still in civilian clothing. 

Even taking all of this taken into consideration, the event was about you, and your co-stars no less; but you. That meant Clark had to chew on his feelings and relinquish his protective streak to allow the professionals to do the job they had been employed to do. 

Take care of you in the spotlight. 

And, for the most part, they do. 

As soon as you’re out of the car, your publicist doesn’t let you out of her sight. Even with the blinding flashes coming from the bulbs in the plethora of cameras, she never loses you in the swarm of desperate hands waving posters for signatures. When the time tiptoes on, she is the one to give your elbow a light tap and you move along. 

Clark watches you in awe from the sidelines. The fluidity in which you manage to maintain as you manoeuvre from interacting with fans to snappy interviews with various different media outlets, is genuinely admirable.

From an insider’s perspective, Clark couldn’t help but show his bias. You weren’t a hard person to fall in love with. He finds himself falling deeper everyday. So, it made complete sense the way strangers would practically fall to their knees in reverence the moment you turned your attention in their direction. 

(Clark was just privileged enough to be able to take you home. Whereas, these people didn’t.) 

Eventually—after the red carpet photos, interviews and fan interactions—you make it into a more communal, but still public, area with all the co-stars of the movie, and where the paparazzi also begin to spill into the edges of the carpet; without as much as a barrier to hold them back. 

Despite this, the photographers had been told on numerous occasions that this was an intermission to allow to actors to breathe for a minute. Therefore, photos were to be put on hold until the group photos of all the people starring in the movie were to take place. 

“You okay?” Clark checks in when you finally come to a stop. 

“Phew—Yeah. This is pretty intense. Do you think I’m doing okay?” you look up at him all twinkly-eyed, your pupils dilated from a mixture of strong affection and the adrenaline from the event. 

Clark, without much thought, rubs the nape of your neck, “You’re a natural, sweetheart.” 

You lean into his touch. (He refrains from pressing a to kiss your temple. Or anywhere on your face.) 

“How are you feeling?” you ask whilst you take Clark’s hand into yours to absentmindedly play with it. 

“I’m happy.” Clark chirps, “Happy to be part of this moment with you.” 

You tilt your chin, humming in content—Clark Kent was a man who knew how to love. “You’re sweet. We just have some group photos and then we’re inside to introduce the film. We aren’t obligated to stay after that.”

“You don’t want to watch it?” 

“I do! I just have this idea in my head on how I’ll watch it. You know, when it’s released to the public. You, me and our friends can go to the Metro to watch it.” you beam at the idea of sharing your moment with your close ones; and as an extension, Clark’s close friends too. 

Clark wants to kiss you. You can see it in the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. Behind the tinted shades, blue eyes are pinned to your lips as the end goal. He gives you a handsome smile, hungry for some public display of affection but is aware of the boundaries in place. 

This was your moment. He didn’t want any kiss to detract from that in the newspapers the next morning. 

The tension is palpable, because your relationship has always been pretty handsy. Anywhere you went together, there was always a hand placed on a hip, a kiss pressed to the back of a hand or a peck to the lips when you found the time. To have the restraint to not flaunt the love shared between you two, was a talent in its own. 

(That didn’t mean the ride back had to be cuffed to the self-control too.) 

Even so, you still found yourself fiddling with Clark’s hand, stepping into him as you waited around for the signal for the group photos. 

It’s only when a few bulb flashes spark in your peripheral, that you drop the gentle affection. 

Your publicist is first to step in. “There’s no photos to be taken here. If you make your way round to the podium, the group photos will be held there.” she announces it clear and concisely—so there shouldn’t be any confusion. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” a male with an expensive camera drawls. 

You turn back and pull a face at Clark, “There’s always one, huh?” 

Clark offers a smile reserved only for you. 

The flash goes off again. 

“Excuse me—” your publicist steps up to the same male, “—Did I not make it clear enough? This is a no photography zone. Go round to the podium, or I will call security.” 

The pap chuckles and lifts his lens to snap another candid photo of you. “Let me do my fuckin’ job, lady.” 

“Hey!” Clark moves toward your publicist to defend her. His face contorts into frustration, “Everyone has a job to do here. Let’s be respectful of that.” 

“Shut the fuck up, dude.”

Clark’s nostrils flare, “Don’t be such a jerk, buddy.” 

The man scoffs at Clark’s polite insult. 

“This your guy?” he snorts, thumbing in Clark’s direction whilst he stares at you. 

You also step into the space where the minor conflict was beginning to arise. Media trained down to the bone, you were aware of how to keep composure whilst trying to snuff out the growing tensions amongst ravenous paparazzi that will do anything for a front page image. 

Silence follows you, ignoring the provocation from the paparazzi. 

Your hand comes to rest on Clark’s forearm as he stares down the bald-headed man who was sneering back at him. He could feel the thrum of the pulse quickening in his neck but yields all the same. Your publicist gives him a grateful nod, all three of you turning your backs to weave through the rest of the people that congregated on the carpet. 

It’s the step to the side, and behind your publicist—to check in with her—that induces a blur of aggression. 

The belligerent paparazzi male makes himself an opportunist to the vulnerability in having your back turned. Unsatisfied with the limited images he has taken of you, his hand outstretches and he dictates your movement with a hand yanking at your bicep. 

It makes you yelp from the unexpectedness of it. His intentions are rough and you’re pulled from your publicist. 

You attempt to shake him off—his fingers curling deeper into your flesh. “Get off of me!” 

“Hell no. I need one good fucking photo—” his demands are cut short when Clark comes up from behind you, grabbing the camera in the paparazzi’s grasp and crushing it into smithereens beneath his foot. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“She said get off of her.” Clark sizes the guy up, a couple of inches taller, “No one takes photos here. You heard the rules.” 

“Clark—” 

“No, fuck you!” The guy points a finger in Clark’s face, “And fuck this nobody bitch!”  

A shade of red blinds Clark’s vision as he takes the fabric of the man’s shirt into his fingers, his teeth bared as he sends him a couple of feet into the crowd of paparazzi standing idle—all observing the ordeal before they became part of it. Luckily for the bald-headed pap, Clark had only mustered up a slither of his strength to send him backwards; so it wasn’t as evident that he contained the power to have his body flung to the other end of the street.

You stop Clark from following the path in which he tossed the man like a rag-doll, seeing as his point had been well and truly proven. His eyes remain where a few people have bent at the knee to check for any injuries on the male.

A single flash goes off. 

“Come on.” you mumble, your fingers intertwine with Clark’s as you tug him behind you with your linked hands flush against your back. 

Clark feels the visceral anger water down to dread whilst he walks, the guilt rising like bile in his throat as you guide him away. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve ruined this for you.” 

“These things happen.” you speak over your shoulder, straining a smile to onlookers, “You didn’t ruin anything. It was about time these paps get put in their place.” 

“Are you hurt?” he asks worriedly. 

You shake your head as you come to a stop, your publicist beside you already on the phone. “Peachy.” you fix the lapel of his suit, “You need to be careful what you’re showing off here. They are here to provoke us, to get a headline—negative or not.” 

“I know, I just—couldn’t stand back and let that happen.” Clark pouts, “You’ve worked so hard to get here. I feel terrible.” 

“Hey—” you coo, placing a hand to his cheek to raise his eyes back up to yours. You smile warmly, “—Nothing is ruined. We might get a hospital bill in the mail…but it’ll be okay. We just have to keep rolling with the punches.” 

Clark nods along as your publicist approaches. With security already on the way to escort the aggressive instigator out of the venue, she advises that the group photos will be next—however the time for it cut short as it seems that a few more of your co-stars have reached the same fate with the paparazzi. 

She ushers you away, and Clark stands with his hands clasped at his front as he watches you stand amongst the A-listers to get your photo taken. 

You’re a vision. Again, this could be Clark’s bias rearing its head, but he thought you stood out from the team. A different type of glow from stardom around you. 

“You’re a lucky guy.” your publicist muses quietly as she stands shoulder to shoulder with Clark. 

“I know.” Clark inhales to fill the air that has escaped his lungs from watching you. “She’s one of a kind.” 

“Hm.” she hums, “Anything we should be keeping under wraps from the tabloids?” she leans in to refrain from the conversation bleeding out into the eavesdroppers in surrounding areas. 

The tips of Clark’s ears tinge with pink at the thought of an upcoming proposal he had in the works. 

Clark chuckles, “Soon. I’ll let you know.” 

“Well—you have my email.” 

The group photos are wrapped up instantaneously, and you are back within Clark’s grasp. You introduce him to a few of the co-stars he had missed the day he visited you onset, and he spends most of his time talking about you rather than being complimentary to their extensive work in the industry. 

A few of them check on you after the altercation with the paparazzi and Clark keeps a firm hand on your back. (All previous notions of subtlety are gone with the wind.) 

The whole team filter into the venue, away from the cameras and reporters which invites a unified sigh of relief—postures less straight, shoulders rounded, genuine personalities beginning to peek through. 

There’s a fifteen minute wait before you are required to assist in introducing the film to the audience within the theatre. Your publicist finds you a room to sit in, with some refreshments on the table whilst you await to be called.

“I’ll give you a knock when you are needed”. she says before shutting the door, leaving you and Clark alone for the first time in, well, a few hours. 

His hands come to smooth across your hips, head nuzzling into your neck as he breathes in your scent; sending goosebumps up your spine. You bend slightly to allow him to apply minimal weight against your body with his, with your arms snaking around his neck to keep you balanced. 

Clark presses a few innocent kisses to your pulse-point. 

He lifts his head from your neck and gives you a lopsided smile before dipping to kiss you properly. There’s a sigh of content from both parties as you lean into the kiss, lapping up all the missed opportunities to display this kind of affection with him. 

You pull away first, “I really appreciate you being here today.” 

Clark is hungrily staring at your lips—his brows pinched with need. “Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

“I also appreciate how you stuck up for my publicist.” you kiss him again, “And for me.” you move your kisses from his lips, to his cheek and then onto his neck. “Let me show you how much gratitude I have.” 

“Honey—” Clark grips onto your hips as you suck at his neck, “—We don’t have time.” 

Your hand travels south, “Please?” 

“Gosh, sweetheart.” Clark whimpers when your hand palms at the outline of his cock. His shaft twitches from the pressure you’re applying. “Darn it.” 

You grin wickedly and in a blink of an eye, you’re on your knees in front of him. Fingers making light work of his trousers, Clark tucks his chin to watch you peel his boxers downward; allowing his already hard cock to spring free, slapping against his suit jacket. 

The slit is seeping and you waste little time by pressing your tongue against it. 

“Do you know how sexy it was? Watching you throw that man for me?” you whisper with your lips pressed to his shaft. You flatten your tongue against the hot skin, dragging it upward to lick at his pink head again. “I love it when you get protective.” 

“Uh-huh.” Clark whines as his head falls back. His fingers curl around the air in front of him; knowing he cannot touch you as it would ruin the look your team had spent hours perfecting for this premiere. 

“We have to be quick, okay?” 

Clark squeezes his eyes shut. “Honey, I won’t last long. I promise.” 

You hum before taking him into your mouth. One hand at the base of his cock, you begin to pump him into your mouth—the other hand balancing against his muscular thigh. Easing him inch by inch, you feel him twitch against your tongue until the tip of his head is close to the back of your throat. 

Clark bites down on a knuckle to muffle the guttural moan he lets out. He peels one eye open to see you begin to bob your head back and forth, saliva gathering around his shaft, making it as a substitute for lube as you jerk him off with your hand.

You take a second to look up at him, eyes gleaming with your mouth stuffed full. Clark feels his hips shift, and you whine with pleasure as he begins to gently thrust into your mouth. 

“Just like that, honey.” he grunts, “You are doing so well.” 

“Mhm.” you mumble, sending vibrations all the way to his tight balls. Your eyes shift to the clock on the wall behind Clark’s head. 

8 minutes.

You pick up the pace, gagging each time Clark’s tip hits the back of your throat. You let him use you, relaxing your mouth as he desperately ruts into you, chasing his climax. Both hands are now curled around his thighs to keep you in place, eyes watering, the room now filling with the ambient noises of Clark sloppily fucking your mouth. 

Clark is verbalising his pleasure in babbles, ensuring that you’re comfortable with the pace he’s thrusting into your mouth at. He can feel the coil tighten in his stomach as he attempts to push back the worry from being caught by your publicist—or anyone who takes a moment to take a peek into the room. 

“Honey, I’m—I’m close.” he whimpers pathetically. His cheeks are rosy, sweat clinging to his fallen curls. “Should I cum in my hand?” 

You shake your head. 

“In your mouth?” you nod and Clark feels the explicit word on the tip of his tongue, “Fuck. I love you.” 

His words go straight to your core. 

With his thrusts beginning to stutter and you brace yourself as he punches his cock into your throat. Clark’s whole body tenses up, his hands coming to clamp over his mouth as he releases hot ropes onto your tongue and down your throat. 

Some of it spills out from the corners of your mouth, and you swallow as much of it as you can whilst Clark pulses against your tongue. 

You look up to see his chest heaving, teeth marks bitten into the skin of his hand. 

After thirty seconds of him slowly softening, you release him from your mouth with a quiet pop. Satisfied, you grin up at him, chin wet with a sheen of your own salvia. 

Clark wipes it with his thumb, bringing it to his mouth to taste. 

You stand from your knees and press a wet kiss against his pink lips. “Did I get the message across?” 

“Loud and clear.” 

You laugh softly as Clark bends to pull his trousers back up. “And with five minutes to spare. That’s a record.” 

“Yes—Well, considering the circumstances. We got lucky.” Clark grumbles, feeling hot with a newfound embarrassment. 

As you begin to retort a smart-mouthed comment, a handful of knocks in a recognisable sequence hit against the other side of the door. You both straighten as the door opens to reveal your publicist—neither of you acting any sort of casual. 

She speaks as you both shift on your feet, “They’re rounding up everyone now.” 

“Okay.” you smooth the front of your dress and let out a sigh whilst feigning innocence to the dressing room escapades you had just partaken in. 

She looks you up and down as you approach. “…We need to fix your makeup.” 

Clark barely manages to conceal the striking shade of red that covers the entirety of his face. 

Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding. 

And your patio?

A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close. 

You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.

You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.” 

Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.

And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night. 

Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show. 

You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.

He doesn’t. He just knocks again.

You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together. 

You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now. 

“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation. 

“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off. 

“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.

He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside. 

Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience. 

Just Abbot. 

And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like. 

You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them. 

 He probably doesn’t. 

And you definitely don’t have time.

“Cute place.”

“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”

“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”

That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for. 

You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.” 

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard.” 

He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.

You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all. 

Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway. 

“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems. 

You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.” 

He looks. 

There’s a faint pause. 

“She’s, um—”

“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow. 

“I was going to say compact.”

“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.

It is now very clearly the opposite of that.

“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”

“I’m thinking.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”

He finally meets your gaze.

“...No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”

“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”

“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”

You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”

“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.

“Sorry?”

“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”

“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”

“Yes.”

“And you being there.”

“I live there.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”

He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”

“Why not?”

“Because it solves your problem.”

“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.

It does not. 

“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”

You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”

“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”

“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head. 

“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”

“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago. 

“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated. 

“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back. 

You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative. 

Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family. 

Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.

Your boss.

Who you might be slightly crushing on. 

And your earlier exchange?

Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.

You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.

It hasn’t been working. 

If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off. 

“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”

He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”

“You still haven’t changed your mind?”

He glances at you again. “About?”

You stare at him. 

You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences. 

It’s incredibly annoying. 

Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him. 

Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want. 

Exactly how you want it. 

And look at him while you do it. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.

“Everything okay?”

“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”

“You just said you had everything.”

“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve. 

“That wasn’t a question.”

You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.” 

He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”

“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”

“You are. It’s very polite.”

You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.

“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest. 

“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity. 

You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”

“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”

“Am I?

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual. 

You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air. 

This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse. 

Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house. 

And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings. 

You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again. 

With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing. 

By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown. 

You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier. 

“Got everything?” 

“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal. 

When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either. 

You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of  room to spare. 

The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used. 

You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better. 

That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway. 

You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave. 

Or just to soak up the sun on days like this. 

“Ready to go?”

Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”

“Does it very well.”

You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.  

You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill. 

You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him. 

These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them. 

“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat. 

Abbot doesn’t answer straight away. 

You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here. 

Your stomach continues to drop. 

“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.

He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”

You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked. 

You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest. 

“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling. 

“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not. 

“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”

You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly. 

“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.

His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again. 

“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open. 

Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around. 

When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.

Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably. 

So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.

“Is it okay?”

You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.

“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”

“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.

You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain. 

There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince. 

“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use. 

And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in. 

Great. 

You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution. 

“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.” 

“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”

You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.

“You’ve cut yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.

“It’s really no big—”

“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist. 

You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light. 

He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor. 

You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again. 

You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down. 

“Thank you.” 

He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.” 

Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out. 

It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind. 

But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it. 

“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact. 

You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.” 

“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought. 

Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said. 

“Good to know.”

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.

Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…

“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out. 

“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir. 

“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”

“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”

He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time. 

“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”

“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”

He’s mocking you. Funny.

“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”

“No complaints on my side.”

Now he’s…flirting?

“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly. 

You grin at him. “Thank you.”

“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.

“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway. 

“Mm.”

The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help. 

You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.

What was that?

Does he even realise he’s doing it?

You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long. 

Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair. 

After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset. 

Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.

You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless. 

On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work. 

Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice. 

You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside. 

The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing. 

You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing. 

You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time. 

There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient. 

He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep. 

“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him. 

“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”

“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.

He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from. 

“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill. 

“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”

He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”

“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”

“You always like having the last word?”

You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”

“Thought you had a problem with those today.”

You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”

“Is that so?”

You nod, taking another sip. 

“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”

“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.

He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”

“Why go through all this trouble?” 

He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.

“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.

He takes a step closer. 

You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.

It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.

“Bullshit?”  

You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”

“Then ask properly.” 

Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.  

“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer. 

You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.

“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”

He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.

“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”

You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”

“Then that’s your answer.”

“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”

“You want me to answer it properly?”

You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point. 

“I did it because I wanted you here.”

You don’t quite know where to file that information. 

There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word. 

It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt. 

Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else. 

He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back. 

“Not the answer you were hoping for?” 

“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”

“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”

“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.

“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees. 

Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything. 

Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter. 

You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”

“We’re outside, honey.”

“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”

“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses. 

He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.

You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine. 

Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.

You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Didn’t notice one.” 

“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.” 

You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not. 

You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.

Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”

There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app. 

“Out of my hair?”

His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder. 

He seems…tense.

“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”

“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow. 

“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”

He stays silent.

“What do you want?” 

Nothing.

“Huh?”

Still nothing.

You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list. 

You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.

“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone. 

He takes a step back.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“And you’re not listening to me.”

“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”

His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.

“You’re not walking.”

“Watch me.” 

You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.

“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.

You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”

One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. 

You don’t. Obviously. 

“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”

You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”

His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”

“No.”

His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.

You don’t move. 

Not even an inch. 

His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs. 

“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”

You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”

“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”

“Y-you’re in the way.”

“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.

Your head tips back before you can stop it.

“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.

You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”

“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”

“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”

“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.” 

“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.

“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck. 

“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric. 

“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent. 

He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response. 

“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin. 

“One off.”

His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm. 

“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?” 

You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.

“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”

You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out. 

It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.

You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.

Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.

It's humiliating. 

“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”

“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.

“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”

“Yes.”

He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”

You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down. 

“Did it feel as good as this?”

“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long. 

His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.” 

Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.

“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.

“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.

“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”

“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.” 

Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.

“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”

“There you go. Just like that.”

He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.

“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”

For a second, neither of you move. 

Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet. 

“Shit.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.

There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.

Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door. 

You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.

“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.

“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”

You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”

“Like what?” 

He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile. 

“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.

“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.

You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.

“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.

“Uh yeah, he’s…”

You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.

“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”

“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.

And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.

He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”

“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”

You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears. 

“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly. 

There’s a pause.

“...Right.”

You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.

“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.

Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”

Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared. 

“Yeah…One off.”

You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow.  “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”

He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.

And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

You want the ground to swallow you up. Digest you, even. It was bad enough that you were half dressed, hair tousled in an un-subtle way; there was no doubt what sent you here and even though the nurses were lovely - you knew you had made their night.

And then they sent in a sexy silver fox in a pair of scrubs to check you over. Worst. Night. Ever.

"Marcie tells me you took a tumble - you might be concussed?"

"Uh, yeah," You manage out, throat dry as all hell. You wished your partner had been considerate enough to grab you a drink and some snacks before heading for the hills. "Fell off my bed."

"I'm the night shift attending, Dr.Abbot." He says with a friendly smile. "I'm just going to shine a torch in your eyes and check that there's no swelling behind the eye or dilated pupils, okay?"

You nod. He makes a hissing sound as he sees the bruise swelling beneath your brow bone, where a small but deep cut sits. He shines a small torches into your eyes, moving it to and fro quickly, and you wince.

"That looks like a pretty nasty bruise for just falling off your bed." His voice is playful, however, there's a steely undertone you can't miss. An friendly opening for you to elaborate or perhaps confess the true nature of why you have such a nasty bruise.

No wonder your bed-friend had bolted.

Steeling yourself, you sigh but you can't help the heat that rises to your cheeks.

"I fell off my bed and hit the corner of my bedside table." You say candidly.

His eyebrows raise, mentally painting himself a picture, but before he can finish piecing it together, you're giving him the answer.

"During sex."

He stares at you. You stare back, frowning slightly. And then he cracks ever so slightly, with a huffed laugh and a wide grin.

"Ah. That would do it." He says matter-of-factly, trying not to laugh.

You smack your lips together. "Tell me about it."

"And your partner didn't-?" he raises a brow and you shake your head.

"No, he didn't do it. And no, he didn't stick around after dropping me off."

Abbot nods and then offers another warm smile. "Well, the good news you don't need stitches. I'd like to keep you for a little bit longer just to be safe. I'll send an a nurse around with tylenol and an ice pack."

"Thanks, Dr. Abbot." You smile weakly, sighing as you retire yourself to the uncomfortable hospital bed.

"No worries." Before he leaves, he flashes you another smile. "I'll try and check in on you later."

You watch casualties and emergencies of varying degrees of severity rush past your open room. Dr Abbot occasionally barks orders, but over the hub-bub his voice is drowned by beeps, bloops and screams of pain.

You manage to fall asleep once your ice pack melts to a lukewarm temperature, however, you are rudely awoken by the blaring alarms of a patient crashing in the next curtain cubicle over. There's a lot of commotion; shouts of medical jargon, shoes squeaking on linoleum, silence as a long beep stretches through the curtain to your ears.

Then it repeats.

After the third repetition, a familiar voice says "call it" and a soft, female voice announces the time of death of you curtain-neighbour. You don't realise you've been holding your breath or how tight your chest feels, despite not knowing the person that was less than two metres away from your sleeping body.

It's a strange sensation. You're still groggy, someone somewhere in the ER is screaming, more beeps, more yells and yet… there's an eerie quiet behind your curtain partition and next-door's. Your heart aches for the stranger. You wonder if they had family, if they were loved. You're overwhelmed with the urge to leave the ER. Someone else needs your bed. Someone out in the fray.

Someone who was screaming.

You were on your feet before you could talk yourself out of it, grabbing what few things your lover had managed to scrounge together for you before leaving you at the doors. The beeping persists, ringing in your ears as you throw back the curtain and walk straight into a hard back.

Dr Abbot turns slowly towards you, or at least it seems that way as you sway on your feet. A wave of nausea hits you so hard you stagger backwards but thankfully Dr Abbot already had his hands out to catch you and hold you steady. Could he really move that fast?

"Woah there," his voice is soft. "I was just about the check in on you. Where d'you think you're goin'?"

You blink slowly. Your head throbs. Your eyes hurt. You squint at him. He looks different. Why is that? Sluggishly, your brain orders you to drop your head and take him all in… His scrubs are covered in blood, so are his hands, and specks of it are on his face and neck. The voice, the one who commanded a T.O.D, was his.

You meet his eyes. How long had you been asleep? His eyes were now mirthless; still soft but serious.

Even when you puked over his shoes.

Head CTs weren't as cool as they looked in TV shows. You were cold, oddly vulnerable, and all alone. There were no speakers for the doctors to speak with you, no microphone for you to speak to them. Just you and the rumbling of the moving machine.

Dr Abbot had been a saint. You assumed he had to be because of his profession but you knew that once whatever drowsiness had passed, you would be re-living the moment puke was on his shoes forever. Even if he smiled and joked about it after.

God. That was embarassing.

Porters wheel you back to your small section of peace quickly once you're done with your CT. No one is speaking to you about the results and you cannot decide if that's a good or bad thing. Once you're back and safely nestled, you make a grab for your phone. No missed calls or texts from… Anyone.

Cool.

Great.

You wonder if you should let your family know and then opt against it. You don't need to worry them. It's nothing.

You hope.

An hour of doomscrolling passes by in a nauseating ebb and flow of ER casualties until Dr Abbot reappears with fresh scrubs and a small smile. You don't feel like smiling, but you somehow manage one.

"Good news," He says, coming to stand at the side closest to you. "CT is normal. So, most likely you had a concussion."

You raise an eyebrow at him and he looks sheepish. "Sometimes a concussion doesn't present for hours, sometimes days." Then he flashes you a grin. "Got me back good though. I needed a new pair of shoes."

You groan into the side of your pillow at the reminder. "You're welcome."

He snorts a little and presses some keys on the monitor beside you. "Don't beat yourself up about it. Puke is better than some other bodily fluids."

Like blood? You want to say, but press your lips together and hum non-committally. You doubt he needs that reminder.

"How are you feeling?"

"About as good as I look." You sigh, flexing your fingers in front of your face idly.

"Well, you look pretty good to me." Abbot says. He's not looking at you when you whip your head up. He taps something else into the monitor. "And you're awake and speaking, so that's a bonus."

You open your mouth and close it again. Did he just say what you thought he said?

"We'll up your fluids and monitor you a bit longer. You may be discharged tomorrow sometime or the day after."

"Okay." You say blinking at him like he's a dream.

He turns to you again. "Why were you trying to leave?"

"Huh?"

"Before," he says, resting his arms on the side of your cot. "You looked like you were in a hurry."

You swallow the last of the spittle in your mouth and look away from him. In the quietest voice you can muster, you tell him why.

"I heard what happened next door."

At first you don't think he heard you, and you're about to change your answer to something less honest when he sighs gently. His shoulders slump, his demeanour more exhausted than relaxed, and his hands open and close tightly.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"I'm sorry." You blurt suddenly. "I... your job... it's..." You curse the concussion that muddles your brain. You want to be able to ease the burden of his role, but you know he's heard it all before. You sigh, slumping into your uncomfortable cot pillow. "You did the best you could. I just felt anxious. Like someone else could have needed this bed more than me."

"Thank you." There's a sincerity in his tone that warms your chest. A little something to ease the sounds of the E.R. "That's not entirely true though. If you'd left you could have collapsed in the street, or at home, and choked on your own vomit." He says matter-of-factly and then smiles a little. "At least with you here, I get to keep a close eye on you."

More beeps and bloops sound and someone calls his name but it feels like time stretches. You watch him. He watches you. And for a moment, you could swear this is a little more than a doctor-patient interaction. You dismiss your doctor with a half-hearted wave and a small smile when his name is called again. "Go get 'em, Doc. You're dismissed."

He snorts in disbelief before playfully saluting you as he steps out into the chaos. "Yes, ma'am."

Abbot returns another five times before the end of his shift. He says it's to check in on you but you think it's for reprieve of the cluster-bomb that is the emergency room. Each time, he arrives tired and each time he leaves slightly more envigorated.

"Why would he just leave?" Abbot says, brows furrowed in disgust. It was his third visit, clearly emboldened by the events that had transpired beyond your curtain partition.

"You gotta ask him that, Doc." You say with a half smile. He looks so sweetly baffled by the prospect of someone leaving you after being part of the cause that sent you to the E.R., that you feel a tug in your chest that you hope isn't an underlying condition.

"Oh, believe me. If he calls come find me. I have a few choice words for him." He harumphs.

"Easy Tiger," You tease with a knowing smirk. "I don't think he will be calling anytime soon."

He coughs, pretending to clear his throat as he checks your charts, but by the rosy cheeks and his smile - you know your tease was a success. Perhaps this thing you had going on wasn't all in your concussed head.

"Good." He swallows. "It isn't my place to say but if I were you, I'd be breaking up with my girlfriend over something this."

You raise your eyebrows at him and a half-manic grin spreads across your face. "He wasn't my boyfriend." You say.

"Oh." Abbot's eyebrows raise too.

"Yeah." You say, watching him. "I dodged a real loser."

"You most certainly did." He says, snapping the thin folder shut. Something about his expression seems strange; not in a bad way, more that his brain had realised there was a second option he had not yet considered. He opens his mouth to say something and grimaces as his name gets yelled from the ambulance bay doors. "I'll be right back."

You nod and watch him jog away, before hearing him intercept a patient on their way to a bay, cussing them out for yelling at the nurses. You bite back a smile; somehow the hospital visit is turning out to be better than you expected.

You've managed to sleep a little more and are far less nauseated than you had been earlier in the nigh; all good signs according to Dr Abbot, though you tell him you wished you had a cappuccino in hand. As the clock creeps closer to 7 a.m. you see Abbot less and less as he prepares handover for day shift. It's a strange feeling. You feel like you're going to miss him but you also feel stupid for feeling such a thing towards a doctor, whose literal job it is to take care of you.

The curtain opens and Abbot's face appears, grey curls sticking out in odd directions and a warm smile on his face. Behind him is another man, another doctor, of a similar age but with darker hair, a beard and a sad Droopy-esque demeanour. They play off eachother wonderfully.

"This is dayshift attending Dr Robinavitch," Abbot tells you, and Dr Robby nods behind him, hiding a smile into folded arms. "He'll watch over you for me."

"Call me Dr Robby," the doctor behind Abbot says.

You struggle to keep a straight face. "For a concussion?"

Dr Robby half turns away from you, unable to keep a grin underwraps and shakes his head. Dr Abbot shrugs and, at a very endearing attempt at acting nonchalant, tells you that it's protocol. When they leave, you can hear Robby's sarcastic tone carry back through the curtain,

"Protocol?"

Day-shift was somehow worse than night-shift. The noise was unbearable, and with only luke-warm hospital food to keep your hunger at bay and no Dr Abbot to brighten your mind-numbing hours in the hospital bed, you were so far beyond agitated you didn't know what to do.

To Dr Robby's credit, he checked in where he could. But unlike his night-shift counterpart, he was curt and quick. Other, more pressing matters needed his attention.

At 2pm, you were asking every nurse or student doctor to be released. Each one told you they would ask Dr Robby. Each time, they never came back with an answer. It wasn't until 3pm that you heard there had been a major pile up and emergency traffic was being redirected to the hospital, as it was closest. At 4pm, you heard a familiar voice rushing in through the ambulance bay, emergency bed wheels squeaking as they were pushed and pulled around the E.R.

You got up to peek through the curtain, half convinced that you had made up hearing Abbot's voice. However, he was there, helping a patient breathe through a balloon and barking orders at student doctors. It was a sight to behold. You couldn't do what he was doing, but you respected it. You thought about when you'd last seen him hours ago. He looks a little rested, though not much. He must have been called back to help.

Once the patient was stable, Abbot handed the patient over to the nurses and porters to move them into a room. He sighed to himself and then glanced up, meeting your eyes across the E.R.

Then, he smiled.

Your hand gripped the curtain tight as you forced yourself to not whip it closed. Your face was burning up - but not from a fever - and you managed a smile that you knew looked incredibly bashful and waved with your free hand. He half raised his back when someone called his name and he was gone again. Hyperfocused on another patient.

You back into your cubicle, grateful you don’t have a heart monitor attached to you. You can't be making this up. But then again, even if you were reading into it too much, had you not already embarassed yourself to the point of no return? What would adding one little question to test the waters do?

You hum to yourself, mind made up, before marching out of your cubicle to the charge nurse.

Dana, the dayshift charge nurse, was a sassy blonde haired woman that instantly captured your heart. She commanded the E.R. and it's staff in way that left you awestruck, and she still managed to joke and tease along her way.

"I only have a concussion," you tell her as more casualties wheel in.

"Only a concussion?" Dana retorts sarcastically. "Where's your icepack?"

You wave her question away. The thought of another icepack gives you a headache. "I need to be out of that cubicle."

"No can do, honey." Dana sighs. "Head injury-"

"I'll sit in a chair, nearby." You interject quickly. "I won't leave. But-"

Abbot's voice cuts through, calling for a place for his next emergency patient. Before Dana can reply, you shout over pointing to your vacated cubicle.

"Use mine!"

He's about to argue, flabbergasted you're even suggesting such a thing, but Dana snorts from beside you and hurriedly directs to nurses in to whip away your old sheets and disinfect the bed. As Abbot pushes the cart past you, patient groaning in pain, he shoots you a concerned and almost disappointed look, before telling you to stay put.

The noises from behind the curtain blend into the monstrosity of noise where you stand, gripping the few of your belongings. You can't tell how long the minutes stretch, but then Abbot and two student doctors reappear relieved. Abbot directs them to the colourful screen before making a beeline for you.

"You shouldn't have-"

"He needs it more than me."

You both stare at eachother for a second before breaking into shy smiles. The flutter in your stomach this time around doesn't make you worried for Abbot's shoes.

"Thanks." Abbot says. "How're you feeling?"

"Better now that you're back." You instantly cringe at your response, but Abbot chuckles. You can feel at least three pairs of eyes watching you both, and a creeping sensation rises on your neck. You don't want to bottle out from nerves but with so many people around-

"Glad to hear it." His name is called again, and he looks agitated. "If you can wait around a little bit longer, I'll do a last check up and discharge you. Princess will find you a chair."

As he weaves through the busy rush of patients, visitors, doctors, nurses and porters, he turns back to look at you. "Don't go anywhere."

Don't plan to, you think as you watch him disappear.

Watching Abbot is mesmerising. Now that you're a bit more lucid, and have a front row seat to the E.R. chaos, you can truly appreciate the fast and strenuous work the doctors, nurses and porters do. Abbot hypes up his team, barks orders and then dips into room after room, dealing with case after case.

A couple of nurses gossip in hushed tones when Abbot comes past and shoots you a wink or a smile. You are well aware you're staring after him with a scorching face. If only you were hidden away behind your curtain again.

For a while, you don't see him. You're too busy doomscrolling again and messaging loved ones to let them know your condition, hoping they don't worry too much. Just as you begin wondering how much longer he'd be, Dr Abbot rounds a corner and holds up two to-go cups. He almost crashes into another patient being wheeled elsewhere in the building, only avoiding them by standing on his tiptoes and raising the cups above his head like a rather comical ballerina. When he reaches you, he checks the cups and hands one that has cap scrawled onto the side in black marker.

"You remembered." You say, taking the cup from him.

"I did." He says with a boyish smile. "But it may be cold by now. People just keep getting injured and it's almost like it's my job to fix it."

You chuckle lightly and take a sip. It is indeed cold but it's both the best and worst cappuccino you have ever had. "Thanks. For the coffee and, well," You shrug awkwardly. "Taking care of me."

Abbot taps his medical badge to where it reads doctor in block capital and you feel yourself smile again as you look at the cup in your hands.

"Well, as of," he checks his watch, "-Two minutes ago, you are no longer my patient."

"Ah." You're about to ask if you can go home but he continues.

"And as of two minutes ago, I'm on my break." He nods his head towards the exit doors. "I'll walk you out."

The evening air is lukewarm but it's cooler in comparison to the Emergency Room nevertheless.

You sip your cold coffee and fall into step alongside Abbot. "Will you be staying until your next shift is over?"

"Most likely." He says.

"Yikes." You shake your head in disbelief. "I do not envy you."

"Most people do." He says, sipping his drink. "I think it's the silver fox look I have going on rather than my shift pattern though."

You snort. "Mmhmm. That sounds about right."

"How're you feeling?" He asks after a beat. "Head ok?"

"I've been told my head's great," you joke and he half chokes on his coffee. "But yes, I feel a lot better being out in the fresh air."

"In that case, I can confidently send you on your way home." He says with a grin. "Although, I will say take some rest rather than romps for a few days."

"Where's the fun in that?" You say to the sky. Abbot huffs a half laugh. "I promise to be a good girl, Doc. No fun for me for a while."

"I didn't say anything about not having fun," Abbot says playfully. "And call me Jack. I'm not your doctor anymore."

You spare a glance over at him, eyebrows partially raised in questioning; Does that means what I think it means? He meets your glance with raised eyebrows of his own, a smile and a tilt of his head that says, "Yes - it's exactly what you think it means."

Nodding, you hide a satisfied smirk behind your cup. "So, what happens now?"

"For starters, you go home and rest." Jack says seriously. "Then when you feel up to it, give me a call." He points to your cup and you turn it slightly, where there's a number scrawled on the other side.

Oh, he's too smooth.

You can't believe you missed it and you shake your head with a laugh. "Do all of your patients get this special treatment?"

"Only the pretty ones." Jack says it playfully but from the glimmer in his eyes, something tells you it was a rare occurrence. "And not all of them get coffee."

"You are unbelievable." You scoff. "But I suppose having a doctor on-hand for other sex mishaps would be beneficial."

"If it means you boost my hospital rating then, yes, yes it is." Jack nods, placing a hand over his heart. "Patient care and comfort is the most important thing to me."

You chuckle, taking another sip of your drink. "I heard you telling a patient to shut the fuck up."

He shrugs, and swigs the dregs of his drink, before checking his watch. "Eh. Deserved it, he was insulting the nurses."

"Very deserved." You agree. "Need to head back?"

He looks disappointed but nods, resigning to his duty as a doctor. "Yeah. It's going to be a long shift. Let me know when you get home safe."

"I will." You tell him, loading up Uber on your phone. "And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." He grins at you, and you can't help but grin back. "Again."

"You can thank me again over dinner sometime." He replies as he walks back towards the road. "Consider the coffee a free trial."

"A free-?" You laugh as he rushes across the road as an ambulance sounds in the distance. "Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?"

End

Follow @grems-library for reblogs of my fics or join my taglist here

he found you out back already when he came home. the bags of soil were in the bed of his truck secure and a bag in his front seat with sunscreen he knew you’d forget to wear if he hadn’t bought some. you realized he’d found his way home when you heard his grunting as he heaved the bags around the house. his grumbling came out in a stream when he rested them against the house.

“‘m getting a bit too old for this, sweetheart. my back isn’t how it used to be.”

“such an old man,” you scoffed lightly. there was a soft smile on your face he couldn’t ever miss. “next you’ll be complaining about your knee.”

“i was thinking about going for my hips next,” jack shrugged, standing up straight to admire you.

with beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck and hands covered in dirt, he still couldn’t help but find you endlessly attractive. your eyes, squinting aggressively at him in attempts to see him, he knew would be glistening in the sun under normal circumstances. there was a sort of elegance about you outside working on something you cared so passionately about.

“you’ve still got a few years until your hips give out, but nice try,” you claim.

with an exasperated shake of his head, jack disappeared into the house through the back door. you assumed he got sick of the heat and you didn’t blame him too much. it was already beginning to be miserable. so much for your nice day outside. still, you persist, refusing to accept defeat. you made a promise to yourself to get this done today, and you wouldn’t dare break that. besides, that last thing you want to do is admit to him that he was right. that it was too hot outside. so, you continued on, using the last bit of soil you had before bracing yourself to grab a new, much heavier bag than before.

he came back out when you were lugging over that new bag. you heard his scoff, something you learned to block out. he tended to scoff at everything. it was never personal. usually. you gave in and glanced over your shoulder to him. jack held out a glass over ice water to you in an instant. dropping the bag of soil where you needed it, you shuffled towards jack right after, grasping the slick glass from his hand.

“you’re not working yourself too hard, are you, sweetheart?” jack questioned. he already knew the answer from the way you gulped down the water.

you shook your head as you swallowed. “‘course not. ‘s just some gardening.”

“it’s also in the 90’s,” he pointed out. you shrugged.

he retreated back into the house after that. you gave him that look you always give when he worries too much. he at least said to holler if you needed anything, before sliding the door shut. the sunscreen he left beside the rest of the soil caught your eye. he knew you better than you’d like to admit.

you spent another hour outside planting your summer garden. your marigolds were in its new home, and so were his zucchini. if you hadn’t needed to tear up weeds and dig out some extra space for your flowers, maybe you wouldn’t have spent so long out here already. you considered getting a heads start a few days beforehand. time just slipped right past you. wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, you frowned towards the back door. you were beginning to accept defeat. at least, just for some ac and another glass of water.

jacks head popped up from where he was looking down to read the newspaper as you passed your way through the door. his reading glasses were hardly on the bridge of his nose, slightly askew from the sudden movement. in a weak attempts to contain his smile, he pushed the glasses up to rest against his curls, distracting himself.

“i didn’t give up,” you announced quickly. you knew he was going to poke fun at you. “i just needed some more water.”

“right,” he mused.

it was obvious how overheated you were becoming. your chest was heaving a little more than usual, sweat sticking to every inch of your skin. he noticed the way you began relaxing the more you stood in the cool air of the house. you took a long sip of water while standing by the sink, knowing you’d inevitably need a refill. you were so absorbed in the water that you didn’t notice jacks presence until he was right up on you. his heat radiated onto you rather uncomfortably.

right before you could complain about him invading your space, his fingers gently came up to the nape of your neck, dancing against your slick skin. he pushed upwards, tugging your hair off of you just enough. you exhaled deeply. taking that as a sign, he began carefully pulling your hair up into a loose ponytail, held up only by one of his broad hands. the other came down to the nape of your neck again. his thumb brushed delicately against it, swiping away beads of sweat from you. it was an incredibly intimate gesture that left your lower tummy fluttering.

“jack” you whispered out. your eyes glanced over to your left. he was leaning over to kiss the side of your clenching jaw.

“hm?” he responded, placing another kiss just right below your ear.

“‘s too hot for this.” the hair of your neck was nice, but his large stature nearly pressed up against your back was not. it was quite overwhelming.

“just tryin’t help,” he mumbled. the hand not in your hair traced down your spine until it found your lower back. “would a cold shower make you feel better?”

you looked out the window above the sink. there sat the mess you left. you were meaning to go back out and finish. jacks lips were kissing up your ear now until it got to the tip of it. he was making it awfully hard to care.

“it can wait til tomorrow, babygirl,” he soothed. “it’s not going anywhere.”

that’s when you finally gave into him. letting go of your hair, jack guided you to the bathroom. you frowned at the sudden loss of touch at your head. the only thing that stopped you from complaining was getting to watch him start the shower for you. the normal fog from the hot water you usually set never came. the air didn’t turn muggy. you were able to sit on the edge of the sink patiently without feeling suffocated.

your eyes were trained on him the entire time. you watched the way his large hands grabbed a soft towel, eyes flickering up to his large biceps bulging through his shirt. it was ridiculous how attractive he looked doing something so mundane. taking care of you seemed to come naturally for him.

with the water running and the curtain waiting open for you, jack shuffles towards you. big hands grip your hips pulling you towards him slightly. your legs part to accommodate his size. the closer he gets, the quicker you realize what exactly he was looking for, sliding your hands up his chest to eventually rest at his broad shoulders. his lips connected to yours, slightly chapped yet still tasting like the raspberry chapstick you bought for him.

“worked so hard today, princess,” jack mumbled against your lips. “y’deserve to relax.”

“oh yeah?” you questioned, an eyebrow quirking up as you look up at him. he nodded.

his fingers danced down to trace against the top of your shorts, breaching the fabric to touch the skin underneath. your face twisted when you realized what exactly he meant. biting back a smile, you give him a nod, too, allowing him in.

jack tugged off your flimsy shorts and your thin panties in one swift hook of his fingers. he let his touch linger at your ankles just briefly as he discarded your clothes to the ground. you adjusted yourself so your hands were resting on the countertop behind you, your behind propped up at the very edge. his hands smoothed up the back of your thighs until they reached beneath your knees, guiding them apart so he can have a clear line of sight of your glistening pussy.

“always so beautiful,” he mumbles, just moments before letting spit dribble from his lips.

he admired the way the glob slid down to your aching hole. carefully bracing the edge of the sink, he sank to his knees between your parted legs. you held them upright where he’d left them, despite a dull ache beginning to form in your body from trying to keep upright. he licked a broad stripe through your folds before you could think too hard on it, gathering up his spit and spreading it towards your clit.

if you smelled from the heat he didn’t show it, rather, he embraced it. his mouth began his slow assault against your pussy, licking at the saltiness of your skin, sucking gently on your throbbing clit. he didn’t seem to mind, either, that your legs came down to rest on his broad shoulders. he simply held onto the fat of your thighs. you heard a soft inhale from his nose as we worked carefully on your clit. small swipes of his tongue were in tangent with his thumb softly running against your skin.

jack didn’t rush. on days like these he doesn’t. you had nowhere to be and nothing better to do. and even if you did, he didn’t seem to care. he worked you up until you couldn’t take it any longer, fingers tugging at the roots of his hair, back arching without any warning. the suckling sound of his lips wrapped around your swollen clit made your neck heat up again. you came with his tongue assaulting your pussy and your thighs squeezing around his head.

when they were less tense, and your breathing evened out a little, his lips pressed small kisses on your inner thigh. he smushed his cheek right up against the softness of it like a pillow. there was a shin on his chin you were sure covered you, too. when he eventually stood up, you clawed at his tanned arms, nails scratching slightly at his freckles. his lips soothed the frown on your face quickly.

I let my fingers rest on the stem of the wine glass, trying to keep myself grounded and convince myself that I could do this. I lift the glass to my lips and let the fine red wine slip down my throat - trying to ignore the fact that this glass cost more than all the lunches I ate that week combined.

This restaurant and bar was not the place for a single woman in her mid-twenties. I knew this when I had searched for a place to do this. I needed a place where my solitude could feel sophisticated and not come off as sad while being surrounded by people my age - and people in my tax bracket. 

The list sat on my phone. It had come to be when my favorite colleague - and mentor - had retired. It made it clear how much in this life I had not done, simply because I let my overthinking and nerves control me. That time would pass and much of life would slip through my fingers if I did not make changes to my life. I had already crossed off a few things on it, tonight I would cross off another - Drinking alone at a bar.

It was a small thing, but it felt big as I sat there by the bar drinking my glass of wine. I did not rely on my more socially equipped friends, or some guy who would talk about himself for the whole time and then stare at the bartender's chest. I did not even sit there, single and alone, hoping to meet someone. I was simply enjoying a delicious red wine from 78’ while slowly swaying my feet to the music that played from the speakers.

The doors opened frequently with new people walking into the restaurant. However, it was hard not to see how he stood out. He was in his 40’s, dark features with grey hair and a prominent nose. His suit looked tailored to him and he had a watch that was able to catch every light that was available in the room. All of these things were not the reason why he stood out. In fact, they just showed that he belonged to the rest of the restaurant’s demographic. What made him stand out was how polite he had been to the hostess that showed him his table. How he did not walk with arrogance and showcasing the things he had bought with money that could easily erase my student debt. No, he walked with a sense of gratitude. That is the only way I can describe it. Like he was thankful for getting a table and for having a nice hostess to help him.

When he passes by me to get to his table I see him smile at the hostess and I am able to see two slight fangs on otherwise perfectly white teeth. A small quirk that made him stand out even more. Then there was the matter of his fragrance. It was no doubt a cologne with hints of firewood, musk and perhaps a little tobacco. Yet there was something else, something earthier and also a hint of a certain sweetness.

I could not help but to look over at him when he sat down at his table where there were two sets of tableware waiting for him. He sits down and when he does he looks up and his eyes catch mine. I turn back to look at my glass of red - hoping that the flush in my cheeks was covered in the dim light. 

…

I let the last of the wine slide down my throat and set down the glass, about to pull out my wallet from my handbag when I see him approaching in the corner of my eye. I stop my movement ever so slightly.

He does not go up to me, however,  instead he turns to the bartender, holding two glasses that had red wine in them.

“I am so sorry to bother you, but it seems that I will not be needing one of these so you can have it back.” He puts down the glass and when he does he seems to feel the weight of my eyes on him. He turns to look at me. It is then that I see that his eyes were mismatched. One brown and one eye that is blue. No, not blue. Violet. Violet like the sky in the last few minutes of the day. His eyes traveled from me down to my now empty glass that still carried the red residue that my wine had left behind.

“Pardon me, I know this is forward, but would you like one of these glasses?” He takes one of them and slowly slides it over to me on the counter.

“Yes.” My answer comes too quickly. I am aware of this. I do not know if it is the wine that already flooded my blood, the rush from crossing off my list of things to try or this incredibly gorgeous man that made me do it. But I said yes and he smiled. “What wine is it?”

The bartender answered that for me - it is the same one I had already had a glass of. This makes the man smile, showing once again the fangs that sat on the corners of it.

“Then I can sleep more soundly tonight that I did not let good wine go to waste” He takes the other glass and raises it in a cheer before taking a seat further down at the bar. Far away that if I wanted to, I could ignore him. Yet not far away enough that it was possible for me to.

I take a sip of the wine before turning to him. “Pardon me, it is my turn to be forward.” I offer him a small smile. “Why did you order two glasses instead of just one?”

“I had not intended to be here alone” he says while twirling the stem of his glass, his eyes are not on me when he continues. “It seems I have gotten ‘ghosted’ or ‘stood up’ or whatever it is that they call it nowadays.”

His words are soft, and when he looks up at me there is a tint of shame in his eyes. As if it was his fault for taking the chance at meeting someone.

“I am sorry” It is all I can think of to say. For a beat I consider trying to make the conversation lighter. If it had been anyone else sitting next to me, I believe I would have. But this man, this man whose name I had not yet learned, made me feel like the weight of the words could be there. That a conversation could exist without it being easy.

“I will survive it. I did not even know who she was.” He smiles at me and then looks at me, eyes slightly narrowing. “Might I ask what you were doing drinking alone? Business trip?” 

His question drags out a laugh from me which makes his eyebrows shoot up. “I apologize, it is just that I am an english teacher. Not a lot of business trips”

“I suppose not”

“But to answer your question,” I take a breath, before admitting to the reason for why I had gotten dressed up – simply to drink alone. “I am on a mission to try new things. A sort of bucket list, I guess you could call it. And one of the items on that list is to drink alone at a bar.”

“Then I guess I should be apologizing,” he says and I take note of how he shifts closer to me. “It seems I have ruined your mission.”

I shake my head and let out a little laugh before taking another sip of wine. “ Do not apologize, I drank an entire glass all on my own. That counts in my book.”

He nods while swirling his glass in his hand. 

“What else is on that list?”

…

It is the occurrence of things that one cannot quite explain afterward. I tell him my name, I know this. I know he gives me his name – Baelor.  I do not know when we moved closer until our shoulders brushed. I do not know whose idea it was to have another glass of wine - I only know he insisted on paying for it. I only know that while we went over each item on my bucket list that the conversation flowed carelessly between us. I told him how ziplining had gone (surprisingly well). He told me of the time he had adjusted his will before going to an amusement park with his two sons. I told him about my job as an english teacher. He told me that although he loved his job - that he did not quite specify what it was - he loved his hobbies more. These hobbies included reading, puzzles and as of late - pottery. 

The conversation did not steer away from the heavier topics when we arrived there. He told me briefly of losing his wife. I told him some of the parts of my childhood that made me think that I needed others to be enough. Obviously, we did not cover all the grounds on these topics. There would be far more wine needed for that to be achievable. However, we both were able to mention it. Discuss it in any way that felt comfortable while the other met it with kindness, and an appreciation of the trust that we had already given each other. 

“Now now,” Baelor says while letting the last of his wine disappear down his throat. “What is next on the list?”

I smile and scroll down on my notes, but the smile falls while I read the item. “It’s…” I do not quite know how to say it. Instead I angle the phone so he can read the words. Have a one-night stand.

He nods, I can see him bite his lip for a fraction of a second before speaking. “You’ve never had one?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It seems that…intimacy is better when you have a connection with a person. And to me it seems strange that if you were to strike up a connection with someone, why not see them again?” 

“I could not agree more” His voice is slightly lowered when he says the words to me. Then he clears his voice. “ I have not had one either. With me being married young and then becoming a widower. Not really the thing that you can bring up to a stranger.”

“Oh it isn’t?” I say and he catches my smirk and the corners of his lips curl up slightly.

“Usually not.” Then I see his eyes travel over me, his gaze becoming more intense. “But you do not feel like a stranger”

I do not know if it is him that leans in first or if it’s me. I only know that my wine stained lips meet his. That his beard slightly scratches my chin. That his hand goes up to my cheek - not rough or demanding but soft and appreciating. That his lips were smooth as they moved on mine. That I let out a small gasp when his tongue entered my mouth and that made him smile while still not breaking the kiss. 

In my head I was silently thanking myself for making that silly list. For choosing this place instead of a dive bar. And I was, selfishly, thanking whatever stupid woman it had been that stood Baelor up. I was also thanking Kiera, she was the one who had told me to bring a condom tonight - because as she had put it “you never know what happens”.

…

He leads me through the hallways of his apartment building  with his hand resting at my lower back - steady and guiding. He had not kissed me in the car. In fact after we had both agreed where the night was heading, he had not kissed me since. Which made me feel increasingly greedy and needy for each passing second.

It turns out I was not alone in this feeling. For as soon as we enter his apartment he presses me up against the door and crashes his lips on mine again. This kiss was different from the first one at the bar. That one had been curious and gentle. This one was hungry and thorough. Not rough nor soft - but taking time with each press on the lips. Making sure that nothing is missed due to lack of patience.

 He lets his hand go to my waist at first. Then his hand travels upward to the swell of my breast through the blouse I wore. When he reaches it, he only lets it rest there at first. Giving me space to pull away. To move his hand. I even feel it in his kiss - how he is seeking permission. I give it. When he squeezes my breast I let out a moan - causing my lips to part. He uses this  to let his tongue enter and dance with mine.

One of my hands is on the door to make sure I do not fall on my knees. The other is on the nape of his neck - pulling slightly on the grey hairs there. I let myself pull at it with a bit more force - making him groan and then pull back from the kiss. 

“I need you to know, that if you wish to stop at any point” he swallows while breathing warm heavy breaths that I feel on my lips “You just need to say the word and I’ll stop. Okay?”

“Okay” I nod and let both of my hands go up to the sides of his face to pull his lips to mine again.

He kisses me back while letting his hands go the curve of my ass, then they go to the back of my thighs. He gives them a slight pat and I immediately catch on to the meaning of it - I jump up slightly and his hands grab my thighs and wrap them around his waist. He moves us through the apartment - never letting my lips leave his - leading us to the bedroom where a king size bed waits for us. 

He lays me down gently while letting his lips go from mine to my cheek. Then my jawline and then his kisses travel all the way from my neck down along the neckline of my blouse. His long fingers go up to the hem of it, his eyes look up to meet mine - once again asking me. I nod and he pulls it off my body - leaving me in my lace bra. His eyes darken when he looks at me and I see him flexing his jaw.

“Gods, you are bewitching.” Then his mouth is on me again before I even have time to digest his words. He lets go of my lips and starts a path all the way down to my collarbones while his hand caresses one of my breasts through the bra.

I sit up slightly and then my hand reaches to the back and unclasps it, grabbing and throwing it into the dark room. At the sight of my naked breasts he did not say anything. Instead he just made a low sound from his throat before letting one of his hands go up to one of my already perked nipples. 

When he touches it I arch into his touch. “Baelor –” His name falls easily from my lips. As if he is not a stranger to me.

Then his mouth goes to it and an embarrassing loud sound leaves my lips, which makes him groan against my nipple. My hand goes to his suit jacket trying to pull it off him.

“You are wearing far too many clothes” I mutter and he smiles down at me, before letting go of my nipple and sitting up. He discards his suit jacket and my hand goes to the buttons of his shirt. As the last button is done and his chest is now bare to me I feel how the heat between my legs grows stronger. Beneath his calm composure, beneath the shirt of the man who had talked about his sons and how he had spent three hours researching the right clay for his pottery - he was ripped. I let my hands go up to it. Covered in dark hair that covers the toned muscles underneath it. 

“Is this what puzzles do to a man?” I say which makes a laugh rumble in his chest and I feel it against my palm. 

“No. But the gym does.” He takes my hand from his chest and kisses the knuckles. “Now lay back down, darling. I am far from done with you.”

I do what he says with his hands guiding me down back on the mattress. His lips went to my breast who had not yet received the attention of him. He listens to me moan as he swirls his tongue on the sensitive bud. Then he lets it go with a pop and lets his lip trail down all the way to my jeans. He puts his hand on the button but goes still - waiting to see if I will object. Instead, I put my hand on his and help him unbutton them. I lift my hips and he pulls the jeans off. When he sees me in the sheer fabric of my panties, where I had undoubtedly left a spot where I was soaked, he let out a raspy sound before kissing my thighs.

“Please sweet girl, please let me taste you” he whispered against the skin of my thighs. 

“Yes.” The word coming through a breath and bucking my hip toward his face. “Please, Baelor I- ”

Before I finish my pleas he puts his teeth on the waistband of my panties, his fangs that sit in the corner of his mouth catches them and pulls them off my legs in a swift move. Once they’re off he does not waste a second before his mouth is on me. Letting his tongue explore the wetness that had been there since the bar and had gotten more of a problem each minute since then. 

He lets his tongue and lips work my folds and my clit, he uses every sound I make as a guide to where I most need him. Occasionally I feel him whisper, without letting his mouth move away from me, words like Delicious, Fucking perfect, My sweet sweet girl, spilling out of him as he takes me apart. 

Then he pushes a finger in, stretching me while his mouth’s sole focus is now on my clit. I pull on the grey hairs on his head. While moans and praises fall from my lips - there was no use of holding them back. When he adds a second finger there is a tightening coil in my stomach, that only gets tighter and tighter as his fingers move fast and he sucks harder down on me. 

“I-I-m close” My words come out between my moans. He does not answer me with words. Instead he keeps his pace and I come undone on his face and fingers.

While I try to catch my breath he kisses up my body until he reaches my neck where he buries his face. He leans over me and against my thigh I can feel him - hard and ready. 

“I need you” I whisper into his hair. He pulls back his face from my neck - searches in my eyes for any hint of doubt, he finds none. He pulls back and works his belt and I help him with more eagerness than precision.

When his pants and boxers are gone I can see him fully, dark trimmed hair around his thick length with precum already leaking from the red tip. My breath hitches slightly at the sight. When I  look up at him, he is already staring at me. 

“Do you see what you do to me?” he asks while one of his hands goes to my hair, stroking it back from my face. Then he closes his eyes and lets out something between a laugh and a breath. “ Please tell me that you have condoms because it’s been so long I do not -”

“My purse.” I say, because seeing how ready he was for me made me not want to waste another second of him not being inside of me. 

He rushes to get my purse and holds it out for me, I dig the small foil packet out of it and rip it open. Instead of giving it to him, I am the one who rolls it on - an action that makes the muscle in his abdomen tense.

When he enters me he does it slowly, while keeping his eyes on mine. He pushes in until he is buried inside of me. The tip presses exactly at the spot where I need him the most. The feeling of him becomes so overwhelming that I close my eyes shut. Which makes him place one of his hands on my jaw. 

“No, no, sweet girl look at me” When my eyes open I see his darkened ones and he groans at the eye contact. “There we are, you’re doing so good. Taking me so well” He says, while starting to move inside of me. 

One of my hands goes down to his lower back, pressing him in even deeper while also lifting my hips to meet his thrusts. The other hand has found its place on his chest hair, fingers pulling on the dark strands.

He takes hold of the hand that is placed on his chest and puts it instead next to my head on the mattress - lacing my fingers with his while letting his hips meet mine at a quickened pace.I look at him, eyes still staring at me and then I pull him down for a kiss, capturing his lips in mine and then he hits hard at just the right spot - causing me to bite his lower lip. He groans as soon as my teeth make contact with it. Making an idea form in my head.

I let my lips travel from his, down his jaw and neck all the way to the pulse point on his throat. I kiss it, then drag my tongue and then suck on it - all while feeling him twitch inside of me. Then I bite him. He lets out a whimper - honest and raw- followed by him pulling me back up to kiss me and slamming his hips with a force that caused the mattresses to sink so deep I could feel the bed frame underneath my back.

Everything he does, each movement, each look and each sound that escapes him along with the sound of our bodies meeting is all too much.  I know that I won't be able to last long, and Baelor can feel it. 

“Let go darling, I have you.” He whispers in my ear while one of his hands goes down to where our bodies are joined, rubbing it in the exact pattern he had taken note that my body enjoyed, making me reach my second peak. It is harder than the first and as I am clenching around him - he can no longer hold on. He buries himself to the hilt while dropping his face to my neck and groaning my name while spilling into the condom.

We lay like that, catching our breaths together. Me running a finger along his spine, and him giving small kisses to my neck. Then he lifts up his head and kisses me again, softer than the ones before, before pulling out slowly. 

“Stay there, love” he says and goes away from the bed. I close my eyes and hear him moving his feet across the apartment.

“Here” I look up and in his hands are a damp cloth and a t-shirt. I take the t-shirt he is offering while he tenderly cleans me using the cloth. When he is done he throws the cloth in the laundry bin, while also walking to the drawer to pick out a new pair of underwear for himself. The t-shirt he picked out for me is soft when I put it on my body, it smells like laundry detergent but also of him. After putting it on, I look up and see him staring at me from across the room. 

“You okay there?”Raising my eyebrows at him while letting my lips form into a smirk.

“Please stay the night.” The words escape him it seems because then he shakes his head and a blush creeps up on his cheeks. “I only mean - I know it is not - I know this is a one time thing but I - I want you to stay. I want to make you breakfast in the morning.” He looks at me like I am about to reject him. Say that this was just something to cross off my list and then leave in the middle of the night. He could not be more wrong. 

“I’d love to stay” I whisper while reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Good. That is good” He squeezes my hand back.

That night I fell asleep in a stranger’s arms. But it does not feel that way. There is a pain in my chest when I think that this is all it is. Tomorrow we will say goodbye and all I have will be the memory of this night. But then, if this was all I was getting - I had to cherish every second I got with him. 

…

When I wake I cannot help but notice how the other side of the bed is cold. I am still wearing his t-shirt that smells like him, but out from the hallway I can smell something else - bacon frying.

I let myself slowly walk out into the apartment. In the daylight I could now see more clearly that this was no ordinary apartment. This was an apartment that I had only seen on those trash reality real estate shows where they did drone shots of every property.

Baelor is stood wearing only a pair of dark grey sweatpants by the stove. On the kitchen table he has already placed plates, glasses and what seems to be a hotel breakfast buffet. There is a fruit platter, a stack of pancakes, some greek yoghurt, eggs and three loaves of bread. 

“Good morning” I say while stopping a few metres away from him. He turns and looks at me, his eyes travel down to where his shirt stops at my thighs, then back up at me. 

“Good morning. That looks better on you than me” Then he turns back to the bacon on the stove.

“You do know it is only you and me that are eating breakfast, right?”

He puts the last strip of bacon on the plate after patting some grease away from them. When he turns back to me his cheeks are flushed and his eyes refuse to meet mine. 

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he shrugs. I walk closer to him. It felt more intimate to do it in the daylight. Like standing close was somehow bigger of a step than anything that transpired the night before. 

When I am standing close to him I lean up and press a kiss to his cheek and then give his arm a squeeze. “Thank you, Baelor. This is one of the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me, I think” He looks at me then, while letting one of his hands tuck a piece of my hair away from my face. 

“Of course.” he whispers before taking a breath and stepping back. “Coffee? Tea? Or I have an espresso machine so maybe a cappuccino?Latte? " He goes back to the kitchen counter while opening cabinets.

“Regular coffee is fine Baelor” I smile while taking a seat at the table, looking at the spread he has put out. From the round fluffy pancakes to the freshly cut fruit. “How long did all of this take?”

“Not that long” he said while handing my cup of coffee and then sitting down in the seat across from me. “Besides, I do not mind it” Then he smiles at me, his eyes creasing and I swear I wished I could kiss every crease and wrinkle on his face.

When we both start to eat the beyond delicious breakfast he had prepared, my eyes go around his apartment. It was truly remarkable, designer furniture filling the space. Yet on the desk and the fridge there were photos, postcards and small stoneware things he had properly made himself. 

“I’m sorry, we have to talk about it” I say and put down my coffee cup. He looks up with me, a piece of bacon in his mouth that he swallows and then he nods. “What is this apartment? I mean what - how - can this even be real?”

My question catches him off guard causing him to laugh while dabbing with a napkin at his mouth. He shifts in the seat, putting one leg over the other and putting his hands in his lap. “It is real. I assure you that.”

“Yeah but…what do you do for work? Are you like some fancy drug dealer? ” 

His smile falters for a minute, his eyes going from me down to the table where he slightly adjusts his plate. “I am a CEO of a tech company.” 

My eyebrows shoot up, usually that was something someone would mention rather early upon meeting someone. I want to comment on the fact that he had not told me about it. That he had sat all last night while I spoke of grading papers and about how AI had completely stumped the students' learning  - all while he was the CEO of a tech company. But the way he had said it, as if it was a confession, showed me that there was something delicate in the matter for him. That perhaps it was not something that I could joke or tease about. 

“How did you get into that?” Is the question that falls from my lips instead. “I mean was it the leadership or the tech part of it that got you there?”

“Well,” he says taking a sip of his coffee. “It was the family business part, along with it basically being written on my birth certificate that got me into it.” 

“I see” I pick up a strawberry and take a bite of it. “Do you like it?”

“It is all I have ever known. But I do quite like it. Being able to make a difference of sorts. Being a good leader.”  Then he claps his hand together and looks at me with that crooked teeth smile. “And what got you into teaching? You never told me”

“Not a family business” earning a laugh from him as I placed my hand on my coffee cup, focusing on my fingers against the ceramic instead of him. “There are two answers really, one that I usually give and then the real one” I let my eyes travel up to him where he is sitting. The morning light cascading on his face, highlighting his mismatching eyes as they gazed upon me - soft and waiting without any pressure.  I clear my throat. “I usually tell people that it’s because I did some tutoring when I was younger and enjoyed seeing things fall into place for the student. It's true, but it is not why I chose teaching as a career. The real answer-” I hesitate. I never told anyone this because it felt embarrassing. Because often when they asked it was to mingle, and they simply wanted a short answer and then move on. Baelor did not seem like that is what he wanted, he seemed like he genuinely was curious for my answer.

“The real answer is that I heard another student tell a teacher that he should have chosen a different job with higher pay. That he should have become a doctor, a lawyer, a politician or any other high paying job. The teacher turned around, he was not upset or hurt by the words. He simply asked the boy who had said it ‘ And who was it that taught the doctor about biology? Who was it that taught the lawyer how laws were made? Who taught the politician about economy and geography? Was it not a teacher?’” As I recall the memory, the feeling of pride of my profession settled in my chest. I remembered it all clearly. On the days where the students did not listen. When it felt like most of my job was to tell things to people who did not care, all while getting paid too little - I had to think back to that moment.

I cleared my throat, while my eyes are on my fingers who are now tapping slightly against the coffee cup. “I think it made me realize that as a teacher I could truly make a difference in the world. I could be a part of something bigger …if that makes sense”

The words are followed by silence, then his hand comes from across the table. His fingers touching mine, I look up at him where he is sitting across from me. 

“It makes sense,” he says in his low and smooth voice. 

I let my fingers caress his. Wanting to stay in this moment. Wanting to talk more. Wanting to eat the breakfast he had prepared for me. Then my stupid phone rings from the bedroom.

The two of us look up, knowing I should go answer it, knowing we should let go. Still, I wait a few seconds before finally removing my fingers from his and running to answer it, closing the bedroom door behind me. 

It’s Kiera. She does not sound like her usually happy and bubbly self - that is when I realize. 

“Shit I was supposed to have brunch with you” I say as I realize that before I went out and took  my glass of wine, me and Kiera had made brunch reservations. 

“Yeah, you were. Where the fuck are you? I’m outside your door and my knocking seems to not do anything?”

“Oh. That might be because I did not sleep at home last night. And I am still not home.”

I have to remove the phone from my ear when she lets out a high pitched scream. I sighed while already picturing my neighbour Margaret giving me a lecture about respect and neighbourly consideration. 

“Are you kidding me? Did my brave sweet girl have a cheeky little one night stand?” My cheeks go red at her words, but I cannot help but smile despite it. 

“Fuck off.”

“Well, my dearest, you are forgiven. Go get some morning dick and call me later with the deets okay?”

After we hang up, I take a moment to breathe before going back out to Baelor. When I come  back out he is still sitting at the table. However, now he has his phone in his hands and a pair of glasses on the tip of his nose as he is reading something on the screen. When he hears me coming, he moves the glasses to his head and puts down the phone. 

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just my friend.” Then I look at his phone. “And you?” 

“Yes. Or no…it is my youngest. He is -” He lets a hand drag through his beard. “He is a first year at uni and he apparently had a bit too much to drink last night. Had a fight with his friend.”  He shakes his head and then looks down at his laps, where his fingers twirled with the rings he wore even this early in the morning.

“Is he alright?” Something about my question makes him snap his head up to me, then the edges of his mouth curls up just a little bit. 

“Yes. Just a bit…shaken up.”

I know what I have to say after that. I know what conclusion we have both already reached now that breakfast was finished and our real lives started seeping into our morning. I know what was going to happen - but that did not mean I liked it.

“You should call him” I say and let my eyes fall to the floor when I continue. “And I should probably head out.”

“Yes,” his voice was low and deep when he said it. “I-” He starts but he does not finish. Instead he starts clearing the table and I head to the bedroom to change and gather my things.

When I stand in his door, there is a silence between us that carries a weight I wish would disappear. Last night and even this morning neither of us felt the need to fill the quiet. We could be silent and comfortable. This was not that. There was nothing comfortable about the silence that took place in the distance between us. 

“Thank you” I say and give him a smile - although it feels wrong on my lips. “For last night and breakfast. I had a really nice time.”

“Me too” He says, and I see how his throat bobs while he is standing in front of me. “I’ll call -” He stops himself and we both let out shallow laughs. “I guess I won’t” 

“Yeah,” I say, hoping my voice did not showcase how illogical the pit in my stomach felt at his words. “It was nice meeting you. I hope your son is gonna be okay.” 

“Thank you.”

My hand goes to the door handle and I turn it but then his hand is on mine. We both look at each other and then his lips are on mine again. He tastes of coffee and strawberries - sweet and bitter. Everything we cannot say. As our lips press together, I let myself get caught in the intoxication that is him. 

When we pull apart, he leans his forehead against mine. “Goodbye, sweet girl” he whispers.

“Goodbye” 

That night when I sat at home alone in my apartment I pulled up my notes app and crossed off the two items on the bucket list. When I crossed off Have a one night stand I hated myself for getting teary eyed while doing it. I hated myself even more when I talked to Kiera about it. I told her everything, except his name and his work and the fact that he had sons  - some things I wanted to keep to myself. When I had told her everything she simply gasped and then she uttered a sentence that broke me. 

“You had the best night and sex of your life and now you’ll never see him again - how crazy is that?”

And I responded with some empty white lie, while feeling completely wrecked and devastated - and Gods how I hated myself for being so pathetic.

…

2 months later

I did try to go on dates after that night. But each date always ended up with me back in my apartment, calling Kiera and giving both her and Valarr a debrief on one of the worst moments of my life. If one sought after a humiliation ritual, one only needed to be in the modern dating market.

Due to my date life being a train wreck it led to me always ending up alone in bed. Some nights, far too often then I would like to admit, there would be a heat between my legs. Those nights were spent with my fingers working myself while thinking back to that night with Baelor - remembering each sound and sight I had experienced.

Kiera thought I was hopeless, which I was truth be told. Her idea to cure my hopelessness had been a night out with me, her and her boyfriend Valarr. The premise of the night had been that they would be my wingmen, and that I would totally not be a third wheel. I was stupid enough to believe that premise. 

It is well past midnight when I realize that the love birds are far too drunk to continue this nightout. Besides, I had grown tired of sitting next to them while they made out sloppily on the seat next to me. 

We stand outside the club, them swaying together and me with my arms crossed to keep the cold from completely killing me. Valarr had called his dad who had promised him that he could give us all a ride home.

“Are you sure he is on his way, Valarr?” I say while looking out on the street - besides having no clue what Mr. Targaryens car looked like. 

“I’m sure. My dad is just a very law-following driver. He is coming.” He says this before peppering kissed down Kiera’s neck. 

“And then we will drop you off first” Kiera says while giggling at her boyfriends affection.

A few minutes later the car pulls up and I look up at the sky to do a silent prayer in my head. However, it seems that whatever listened has a weird sense of humour. 

He stands there, frozen, while Valarr stands next to us - introducing us. Luckily, both him and Kiera get into the car and do not notice how the two of us are staring. 

“Hi” I let out while still trying to puzzle the pieces together. 

“Hi” Baelors voice is rougher than I remembered it ever being that night. “I-”

“Dad! Come on! Kiera is not doing well” Baelor is about to protest when Valarr interrupts him. “Unless you want your leather seats to be covered in throw up”

At that we are both moving toward the car - he jumps into the driver’s seat and I jump into the passenger seat. 

“Where to?” Baelor says while pulling out into the street. I am about to give him my address when Valarr tells him to drop them off first at his place. When I turn to throw him a look he shrugs at me.

“Kiera is not doing well.” His hand dragging a hand over her head while she slept against his shoulder. “Besides, I think the two of you would get along. You’re both some of the smartest people I know. A car ride together won't be that bad.”

After that the conversation dies, the only sound coming from the radio. Valarr has no idea of the tension in the front - completely occupied by his drunken girlfriend. I let my feet tap along to the music that is playing, and in the corner of my eye I see Baelor tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’s a good song” I say, quiet so that only he can hear. 

“Yes. A very good song.” He says and keeps his eyes on the road

Then the conversation dies again as we pass a few streets. Then suddenly Kiera makes a sound that is somewhere between a screech and yawn, causing Baekor to swear under his breath. She puts either hand on both of the front seats. 

“Are you two getting along?” she asked in her sugar sweet tone. Then she decided to completely destroy me. “Just be careful, Mr Targaryen, my best friend here recently had a one night stand with a man your age.” After sticking a dagger in me  without knowing it, she settles back into Valarrs shoulder. 

“No shit, really?” Valarr asks.

“Yep,” Kieara answers, and then she decides to twist the dagger. “Was apparently the best sex she ever had.” 

In that moment I wish that we would crash or that the leather seats would just swallow me whole. Instead my cheeks flush red and in the corner of my eye I see Baelor smiling - but staying silent.

For the rest of the car ride to Valarr’s place, I looked out the window and tried very much not to think about what had been said. Although it was impossible because every now and then Valarr would bring it up and would even want details. Thankfully, Baelor always stopped him. “Do not make your friend uncomfortable” he would say. It was nice that he shut it down. Reasonably, that is all I should feel about it. That it was nice. I should not feel a pang of sadness that he referred to me as his son’s friend. I should not feel that. Yet I did. 

When we drop off the drunk love birds, it is only me and Baelor left in the car. He does not pull out into the street at once. Instead he drums against the steering wheel.

“So,”

“Shut up.” I say, which brings out a laugh from him. “I am going to kill Kiera.”  Then I look at him where he sits, a street lamp shining through the dark night making his eyes look darker. “ I did not know that you were –” I trail off.

“Valarrs father?” He finishes for me and I nod. “ I did not know Kiera was your best friend.” He adds, then he clears his throat. “ Type your address into the GPS. It’s getting late.”

I type it into the car’s built-in GPS-system. When he pulls out into the street, I wonder if this is it. If we simply endure this car ride and then nothing more will come of it. Then he speaks again. 

“How is the list going?” He asks while still keeping his eyes on the road. “Cross off any other items?” In his question I hear genuine wonder.

“Yeah, you are looking at someone who went to her very first salsa class” 

“Salsa? And how did that go?” 

“Terrible. But I did it.”

The conversation quickly falls into the same flow we had on that night. Him discussing how he had almost lost his mind doing a jigsaw puzzle - and then it turned out the manufacturer had not included one of the pieces. I tell him about having started writing again - small scribbles, but a start. It was easy. Not like with the guys I had gone on dates with. I did not need to think about each word I said. I did not need to analyze every word he said. We could just be.

When we arrive outside my apartment, the only voice comes from the GPS - a digital tone letting us know we have arrived. 

“So this is me” I say it but I do not move out from my seat. 

“Yes. It is” He says, his hands dropping from the steering wheel. One landing close to me, not so close that we touch but close enough that I can reach him if I want to.

“You know,” my voice comes out smaller than I intended while I let my pinky touch his hand. Then I put down my hand with the palm up - an invitation for him. “You could always come up for tea.” 

He places his hand in my palm, squeezes it. His mismatched eyes meet mine while his voice comes out smooth and deep. 

“Ow. Ow, ow, ow, ow- stop it!”

Your voice cuts through the humming ship. 

“Sorry!” 

Ryland winces as he releases your leg. It flops unceremoniously to his left, boxing him in. 

“Maybe we should try the floor again?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Heck no. That’s murder on my knees.” 

“Okay uh…” you close your eyes for a moment, trying to remember. “How did we do it before?”

“Exactly like this.” He insists, gesturing to your current position. 

“Really?”

The dorm set up wasn’t exactly… compatible for your current situation. The beds were far too small and far too high above the ground for anything stimulating. You tried the floor- too painful, then the wall- also painful, did you know that pipe-covered walls are integral to space travel? Who knew!

After various positions and placements, you opted to use one of the built in storage units; a cramped bumpout that barely had enough space for you to sit on. But still, where there’s a will there’s a way and you were gonna find it. 

“Maybe if I..?” You trail off, inching your legs forward. Your torso hangs off the ledge while you brace yourself with your forearms. 

“What? What is this?” He asks, inching back. “What are you doing?”

“Grab my legs.”

And he does. He grabs you by your knees. 

“No, my legs” 

“I am.” He insists, laughing as he pulls you up. You’re perpendicular to him now. “This isn’t gonna work.” 

“It is.” You strain, fighting against the artificial gravity. “It’s working, I’m making it work.” Despite your efforts your body gives in, slumping into the cold metal. 

You groan as you slide down the ledge and sink into the floor. Ryland joins you, dejected. 

“Well we had a good run.” He jokes, looping his arm around your shoulders. You lean into his chest, skin to skin. 

“If only we could turn off gravity.”

You stop. 

“I mean…” Ryland starts. Eyes meeting yours. 

One quick trip to the cockpit later and you’re both free floating. You fumble over each other, spinning mid-air as you float your way back to the dorms. 

“How have we never thought of this?” You beam excitedly, hands gripping the ladder to guide your way down. 

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve been doing this for a long time.” Ryland cuts through, following close behind. 

“Ok, ok what’s a position you’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t?” You ask. 

Ryland thinks for a moment and grabs your hips, tilting you back slightly so you’re still facing him. You look at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish positioning you. He doesn’t do anything else, you pause. 

“That’s it?” 

He sputters. “What do you mean that’s it?” 

“Missionary?”

“I like it!” He insists, offended. He leans forward, kissing your neck softly. “I can turn the gravity back on…”

“No! Missionary is fine. Love missionary.” You respond quickly, wrapping your legs around his hips. Your hair floats wildly around you, framing your face as you tilt your head back for him. 

His hand works between you, slowly opening you up with gentle circles. You choke back a moan as he slips a finger inside. Your eyes flutter shut as he pumps his hand in and out, his mouth moves down the column of your neck and to your shoulder. His name spills from your lips as he adds a second finger. 

You throw your head back as his lips move to your breast, tongue circling your nipple. You open your eyes and stare at the floor above you, slowly inching by as your bodies rotate mid air. Ryland kisses down your torso as he turns you in his hands, guiding your center closer to his mouth. He buries himself in you, teasing your clit with his tongue. Blue eyes gaze into yours as you run your hands through his hair. The sounds that come from you are downright sinful. 

“Fucking- please Ry.” You whine, gripping his blonde locks a little tighter. 

He pops off.

“Please what?” You can hear the stupid grin in his voice before you see it. 

You pout down (up?) at him, he raises his eyebrows in response. You groan. 

“Can you please fuck me?” You huff. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” He replies smugly, snapping you right side up. 

His hands grip your hips tightly as he lines himself up with your waiting pussy. You lock your legs around his hips as he slowly inches into you, pushing and pulling your body against his cock. You moan into his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin. He gasps your name as he writhes against you. 

It’s embarrassing how close you are, you haven’t been handled like this in… well, ever. Heat builds in your stomach as he moves you faster. In and out. 

He mumbles nonsense into your skin as he pulls you closer, rutting impossibly deep into your heat. You flutter around him, clenching as he finally coaxes you over the edge. He follows close behind, providing a few more pumps before pulling out. Thick ropes of cum spill out of him, clinging to his tip and globbing together mid air. 

“Oh my god.” You whisper, catching your breath against his shoulder. He holds you tight, mushing your bodies together as you continue to spin. 

“Yeah. I don’t think I can go back.” He admits. 

“Me neither.” You sigh, pressing a kiss into his lips. He’s quick to return the favor. 

“We should do that more often.” He whispers between kisses. 

“Please do not.” A robotic voice echoes through the halls, just out of sight. 

Shoot. Rocky. 

Still, you were both begging for some alone time, when Ryland quickly led you both into the bathroom and attacked your mouth before you could protest. And hey, why would you?

You slid his tie loose and he swiftly unzipped his dress pants, waiting for you to provide him with easy access as well, shifting your wedding fit swiftly. No words were spoken, it happened at lightning speed, knowing you only had so much time.

You were both locked inside of the bathroom stall, trying to stay as silent as possible. Ryland had your hips lifted so perfectly, his hands gripped your ass with a strong grip, his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside of you. You threw your head back whining, and he was hiding his head inside of the crook of your neck groaning as his hips pistoled forward. He was gasping and whining, you had him right where you wanted him, and he had you where he wanted you too.

“Missed you so much.” He whined. “God, you feel amazing.”

“Ryland, don’t stop, I’m–” Your sentence was cut off by a moan as he thrusted harder.

Suddenly you felt his hands slip, and he lost hold of you.

You yelped as you dropped to the tiled floor on your feet and he slid out of you abruptly.

You both had a look on each other's faces that said you’ve been blinded by horniness like teenagers. Ryland pulled you towards him so your bodies were still pressed up against one another. When you looked at Ryland’s tie that was way too loose to be taken seriously, you both let out a fit of laughter.

You smiled at the absurdity of the situation and he leant his head down toward you to kiss your mouth again. 

“God, we are idiots.”

“Married idiots.” Ryland murmured, kissing your cheek.

“You know, this is so much better than reciting vows.” You joked.

Ryland gasped at you in shock.

“I’m joking!” You half whispered, half shouted.

“Your vows were so good. Did you see how much you were making me cry?" He asked.

You laughed.

"Hey, says you! I was a sobbing mess."

It was true, both of your vows had been the perfect amount of bantery and kind. He managed to tell you how attractive and talented you were in five different ways. He brought up inside jokes you had forgotten about. And you recounted falling for him reluctantly during his PhD (your Master's) and his obliviousness to your flirting. You even teased him about his nerdiness and his tendency to talk in puns. And by the end of it, you were both sobbing and laughing.

Ryland pecked your lips again, and you were overcome with a feeling of being utterly content.

"I'm so happy." You sighed.

"Me too. I just wish I could find my glasses so I could see you better.” 

You placed your hand on his check, cupping his face softly. Those were expensive glasses, and a gift from Colt.

“What do you say we try again, I was just about to cum.” You said, looking deep in Ryland’s eyes.

“Were you now?” Ryland teased. "Yea we can try again. Please, let's try again."

You let out a giggle at his begging.

He placed his hands on your waist again, he was about to place you back in position, when you heard the bathroom door open and a knock directly on the stall you were, it made you both jump. Ryland quickly tucked himself back inside his pants, and you tried to adjust your outfit too.

“Ryland, y/n? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It was Colt.

“Are you serious right now!” You whisper screamed at Ryland.

Ryland gently rubbed your shoulder.

“Yea, we’re uh a little preoccupied.” Ryland cleared his throat.

“Ew really? Here? Out of all places?!” Colt asked.

You and Ryland both cringed, the ridiculousness of the situation coming to light. Colt banged his hand against the door again.

“Alright, that’s enough, come on love birds, it’s time for your entrance.” Colt demanded.

“Do something.” You whispered, looking at Ryland with pleading eyes.

He laughed, catching your puppydog look.

“Uh, okay wait, can we get 10 more minutes you think? Please?” Ryland said, turning his head toward the door of the stall.

You heard Colt audibly sigh, then groan in disgust.

“What’s in it for me?” Colt asked.

And without seeing his face you could see the way Colt was giving you his squinty eye, face scrunch. You sighed. Ryland gave you a look that read, ‘you know what he wants’.

“Fine!” You whined. “You can do a backflip! But only after your speech.” You grimaced.

You could feel Colt pumping his fists in excitement.

“Alright, fine! I guess I can tell them to delay the entrance because of an emergency or something. But only for at least 10 more minutes. Use protection you weirdos.” Colt said, his footsteps getting farther away. 

Ryland turned back towards you.

“You think you can do this in ten minutes?” You asked.

Ryland scoffed as if you were doubting his skills.

“It’s our wedding day, of course I can do this in ten minutes.”

Even at his gentlest, his most careful, his touch is all consuming, brutal. He tries to reconcile it with gentle, feathery touches to your cheeks, your hairline. A sharp contrast to the mess he’s making of your womanhood.

And then, well, you can’t just gush all over the hilt of his palm like that and expect him not to manhandle you onto your back on the bed, shoving his face into your cunt. If he’s trying to lap up all the juice you leak (he is!) it’s a losing battle. Still, Dunk lays long stripes from the base of your folds, up your slit and over your clit.

“Dunk, fuck!” You’d cry, involuntarily but instinctively twisting your fingers into his short hair. Trying to squirm away was always useless; a burly arm laid across your belly, effectively clamping you down and giving himself leverage to lick and slurp you up. It’s when his lips close around your clit that you have to push at his forehead, only to look down at his dazed cerulean eyes and shiny lips, and pull him back into the fray. He gladly lets you tug him around.

It’s when he’s inside you, though, that restrained touches by his standards remain intense. Dunk’s got you on your tummy, his thighs holding yours open for him, your entire front smushed into the bed. He moves slow. Careful, measured and deep strokes into your velvet, squelching around his impaling length. But you squeak with every press inward as if it’s too much. God forbid he tilt your chin up, give you that sweet, concerned look to check in, or you’ll huff and puff at him to continue.

But even carefully, his dick is a sure bully. The pressure is intense, heavy and thick in your lower tummy. You’re completely at his mercy, you know that— even if you tried to squirm away, your mighty knight would overpower you. It’s a good thing you’d rather die than end this.

His hands, calloused, firm and sure, press against your low back. Just above the curve of your ass. It’s meant as leverage, as a soothing pressure to your aches, but it’s only a reminder of his strength over you. His palms dig into your plush skin, dwarfing your own clutching at the bedsheets. He presses your hips into the mattress, uncompromisingly. You whine and mumble utter nonsense that gets your man to just press sweet kisses underneath your ear, telling you between heavy breaths and grunts, “Shh, sh. Y’can take it. Always do.”

He’s not wrong. You always do.

You’re loud as you come, filthily so. It’s a moment Dunk seizes, pounding into you with a reinvigorated force until his own spend is spilling out of you, over your thighs and onto the bedsheets. The weight of him is overwhelming, dominating while he partly collapses onto you, held up only by a burly arm by your ear. He’s warm, firm and soft and fucking everywhere around you. After a moment, with a low groan of exertion, he rolls onto his side facing you.

You can’t help but smile at your knight. Giant, dominating in size alone and strong even when he refrained. And yet, gentle and sweet. Staring at you with lidded, blue eyes, and mumbling as he stroked your bare, sweat-sheened arm, “You’d think she’d be a bit less resistant t’me by now.”

You know what ‘she’ he’s referring to. With a harmless swat to his heaving, thick chest, you laugh, “Not unless you magically lose 100 pounds and a foot of height.”

“You think I ought to?” A toothy, lopsided grin spreads over your husbands rosied cheeks as he watches your expression crack open in a gasp.

But Dunk, never reached first. And that was the danger of it, even in those private moments where neither of you could could breathe right, faltering a little in your step, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder. 

Under the shadowed archway of the tower, the cool evening breeze whispered through the stone corridors of the keep, carrying the distant clamor of the court below. Ser Duncan stood close— too close by an onlookers standards—his frame a shield against the world, yet his eyes darted nervously toward the flickering torchlight at the corridor's end. Your hand cradled his face, thumb tracing the rough stubble along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles like a bowstring ready to snap. He was your knight, your secret flame in this web of alliances and duties, "But Princess," Dunk murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your palm, laced with that boyish hesitation he could never fully shed. "If someone were to see.." His large hand covered yours, squeezing gently, but he couldn't hide the way his body leaned into your touch, betraying the hunger beneath his caution.

You met his gaze, eyes boring into his with unyielding fire. "Then they can see," you had whispered, your words a defiant vow that hung heavy in the air between you, smile creeping on your lips. In that moment, the truth burned clear; no love like this could bloom from the cold beds of lords or the volatile arms of a prince. Aerion's passion was fire and fury, a dragon's claim that scorched without warming the soul. But Dunk, your Dunk, offered something deeper, a quiet strength that made your heart ache with belonging. You didn't want to share it, this raw connection forged in hidden corners. Your lips brushed his in a fleeting kiss, tasting salt and promise, before you pulled him deeper into the shadows, your fingers intertwining with his as you led him toward the hidden chamber above.

—

Time blurred in the haze of hurried steps and muffled breaths, the archway's tension carrying you both to the sanctuary of your private room. Hours had slipped away since that defiant exchange, the moon now high and casting silvery beams through the narrow windows, but the fire in your veins burned hotter than ever. You lay sprawled across the wide bed, linens tangled around your legs like lovers' knots, your gown long since pushed up to your waist and forgotten in the heat of the moment. The bedposts loomed, draped in silk and mesh that swayed gently with the draft, enclosing you in a cocoon of intimacy amid the ever-present danger of discovery.

Dunk hovered above you, his heavy hands braced at your thighs, spreading them wider with a grip that was equal parts tender and possessive. The air was thick with the scent of your arousal, mingling with the faint musk of his sweat-slicked skin. He was shirtless now, his broad chest heaving, muscles rippling under scarred skin from years of tourneys and trials. Those blue eyes, wide with that perpetual awe, locked onto yours as if you were the only star in his night sky. "My lady," he breathed, voice roughened by desire, the lilt that shook his voice. Even after all these stolen nights, he looked at you as if it were the first time— wanting and unhurried.

His mouth descended on you slowly, starting at your neck. Lips brushed soft kisses along the column of your throat, each one a spark that made your pulse thunder. He nipped gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear, teeth grazing enough to draw a shiver from deep in your core. You arched beneath him, fingers threading through his tousled hair, tugging him closer until his weight pinned you deliciously to the mattress. His breath was hot against your ear, a ragged whisper of your name that sent hairs raising across your arms.

He shifted lower, his callused hands sliding up your sides and wrapping you around his arm, thumbs circling the undersides of your breasts before cupping them fully. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, lingering at the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat fluttered wildly. When his lips closed over the swell of one breast, he sucked the nipple into his mouth with a hungry groan, tongue swirling around the hardened peak in slow, deliberate circles. The wet heat of him pulled a soft moan from your lips, your back bowing off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. He lavished attention on the sensitive bud, flicking his tongue tip against it gently soothing it with broad laps.

But he was patient, intending to take his time so long as he could have you, drawing out the build-up until you trembled with need. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching the nipple between rough fingers, rolling it until it pebbled further under his touch. He switched sides, sucking the neglected peak into his mouth while his thumb teased the first, the dual assault making your thighs clench around his hips. "Gods, Princess," he murmured against your skin, voice muffled and thick, his stubble scraping deliciously over your ribs as he kissed lower, tongue dipping into your navel, circling the soft skin there before nipping at your hip bone.

Your arousal throbbed insistently now, pussy slick and aching, folds swollen with the slow burn he'd ignited, every layer shed away. Dunk's hands gripped your thighs again, parting them with firm pressure, exposing you fully to his gaze. And he paused, drinking in the sight— your cunt glistening in the candlelight, clenching around nothing. "Gods, you are so beautiful," he rumbled, a small grin flashing with the hunger in his eyes. He leaned at last, pressing you deeper to the bed to place a kiss to your inner thigh, high and teasing, his breath ghosting over your core, so close it made you whimper. The anticipation stretched taut, your hips lifting in silent plea, but he held you down with one massive hand splayed across your lower belly, his strength unyielding.

"Slowly, love. Let me taste you first." His words vibrated against your skin as he started with feather-light kisses along the curves of your groin, moving to each side of your hips, the tension building inch by torturous inch. His head bowed to you, tongue flicked out and tracing the outer edge of your pussy lips without mercy, lapping at the slickness there, narrowly avoiding your clit and savouring you. You bucked against his hold, a frustrated whine escaping, and he chuckled low, the sound rumbling through you. Finally, he relented, his mouth sealing over your folds in a deep, possessive kiss.

The knight ate you out like a man possessed, tongue plunging into your entrance first, thrusting in short, insistent strokes that fucked your pussy with wet, obscene sounds. He groaned into you, the vibration humming straight to your core as he lapped upward, gathering your juices on broad, flat drags as you shifted in his hold chasing it. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, pulling the sensitive nub between them while his tongue lashed in quick flicks. "Fuck, my love.." his voice was muffled, voice gravelly and muffled as he buried his face deeper, nose nudging your clit while he devoured you.

And he stayed there, alternating angles with masterful skill even you hadn't known, not precision, but passion. Long, slow licks from hole to clit that made your toes curl, circling rapid around the bundle of nerves that had you gasping his name. You reached down, pulling at the hand grabbed at your thigh, aching for more you tugged it slightly, right to your core, and through the lines of your dampened hair your eyes found each other. I know. His hand slid up, two thick fingers pushing into your soaked pussy, stretching you with a burn that bordered on bliss and he curled them upward, stroking that spot inside with each pump, syncing the motion with the relentlessness of his mouth. Your free hand fisted the sheets, body trembling as the pressure built, coiling tighter with every swirl. Dunk's other arm banded across your hips, pinning you as you ground against his face, chasing the edge shamelessly. For you, but he couldn't help the rush that heated in his pants from seeing you like this alone.

He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his tongue never ceasing its carnal attack— dipping back to fuck your hole alongside his digits, then returning to suck your clit until you swore you could feel the whole room buzzing. The room filled with your moans echoing off the stone walls, the mesh drapes whispering like conspirators. "Come on my tongue, Princess," he whined out, as both command and promise, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal, before diving in again with renewed fervor. His fingers pumped faster as you groaned, deep, tongue lashing without quarter, and it shattered you, your orgasm ripping through in crashing waves, your cunt clenching around his fingers as you cried out, flooding at his mouth with release.

Dunk lapped through it all, drawing out every tremor until you were boneless and oversensitive, his jaw already damp and glistening, pressing a soft kiss right to you as you twitched. Only then did he rise, licking at his mouth with the back of his hand, that boyish awe returning to his eyes amid the sated fire. He looked to you as you nodded through eyelashes, and he nodded back to himself, shedding his breeches in one swift motion, freeing his thick cock. It was large and veiny, slapping red and heavy against his abdomen as he crawled over to you, chest towering at your own. Positioning himself at your entrance, he teased your folds with the broad head, coating himself in your wetness. "Are you sure.." He flicked to you, finger reaching at your lulled expression, inching you to look up at him just a bit, and your chest swelled as you exhaled, wrapping your arms at his neck, "I'am sure.." Your voice wobbled, but not with uncertainty, with want, soft violets glazed over in his warmth.

He hummed, nose knocking to yours as his head tilted, cowering down into you as he pushed himself in slowly as he could, "I'll go slow.." and it was slow, inch by thick inch he was fearfully aware of and of hurting you, and the stretch of his fullness made you both groan. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue just as he bottomed out, sitting inside you and waiting for a response, meeting with your moan, he swallowed it. Then he began to thrust, deep and claiming, each snap of his hips sealing the forbidden bond that no prince or court could break.

He groaned low in his chest, burying his face further in the crook of your shoulder, his hips rocking forward in a measured rhythm that built like a gathering tide. "Gods, you feel like heaven," he whispered, one hand cupping gently at your hip again, thumb rubbing at the flesh, the wet slide of his cock filling you completely. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, nails reaching to dig into the muscles of his back as pleasure coiled tight in your core. He kissed you then, deep and unhurried, tongues tangling in a dance that spoke of whispered promises and forbidden dreams— his awkward charm melting into something fierce and protective, his body shielding yours even in this act of love.

Your lips and tongue wrapped at his own, connecting him and pulling him down to you, and his pace quickened, thrusts growing firmer, and hips snapping against yours with every slap that echoed softly in the chamber. You moaned into his mouth, your hole clenching around him, slick and hot, the friction sending sparks racing up your spine. Duncan's breath hitched, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit in clumsy but earnest circles, drawing a whimper from your lips. "I love you," the words tumbled out haphazardly, his cheeks flushing even as he drove into you harder, chasing the edge together. Sweat beaded on his brow, his broad frame trembling with restraint, every movement a testament to the depth of his devotion— the way he held you like you were the only light in his world, ever clumsy in his tenderness but unyielding in his care.

"And I love you.."

The door burst open without warning just as you and he closed your eyes, foreheads clasped together in sweat and lust, the heavy oak slamming against the wall with a crack that shattered the intimacy like glass. Both of your heads snapped up, tugging at the sheets to cover yourselves, tracking the way to the door you groaned hiding behind, but the man above you saw it all. 

Aerion.

Your very own brother, the Prince, stood in the threshold, his silhouette framed by the torchlight from the corridor, violet eyes narrowing into slits of fury as the scene before him registered. His silver hair was disheveled, as if he'd stormed through the halls in a rage, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt glinting ominously. The air turned to ice, the warmth of the chamber that was, fleeing under his gaze. Duncan reacted on instinct, pulling out of you with a startled curse and rolling to shield your body with his own. He scrambled up, his naked form towering protectively as he positioned himself between you and the intruder, one arm outstretched to keep you behind him while he snatched a sheet to drape haphazardly over your exposed skin. His face was a mask of awkward alarm— cheeks burning red, and eyes wide like a boy caught stealing— but there was steel in his stance, broad shoulders squared, fists clenching at his sides.

Aerion had stopped short there in the threshold, eyes wide at the man beside you, in your chambers. 

He hadn’t meant to, and of that you’re certain, his pride carries him most places like a blade held high, though to you was somewhere he frequented, but whatever he sees when he looks at you now, standing too close to a hedge knight of all, it stills him. Only for a heartbeat, long enough for Dunk to turn. And he doesn't bow this time, he straightens instead, shoulders filling the space like a wall that’s decided it won’t move and his hand flexes at his side. Not reaching for a sword. Not yet, just… there, ready.

Aerion’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless.

“So this is what you’ve lowered yourself to,” he says, eyes cutting to you around the figure, wrapped in your sheets barely covering your breasts. And that’s the cruelty of it. “A hedge knight who smells of horse and sweat. Gods, sister— have you no shame?”

The words land as he means them to, ugly and deliberate. And without thinking himself, Dunk steps forward before you can speak.

“That’s enough,” his , voice low, steady, dangerous in its restraint, uncaring for insults thrown his, but not to you. “You don’t speak to her that way.”

Aerion laughs softly as looks at Dunk now, taking in the size of him, the way his shadow falls over you without swallowing you whole. “How gallant,” Aerion replies. “Be careful, knight. You’ll start to believe she’s yours to defend.”

Dunk doesn’t blink, but his lip startles, minding his words in ways even he doesn't want to.

“She doesn’t need owning to be defended,” he says. “And she.. certainly doesn’t need you.”

Aerion laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the chamber, but he made no move to draw his weapon. Instead, he stopped at the foot of the bed, leaning in with a predatory grace, his eyes locking onto yours over Duncan's shoulder. "Oh, but I do own her, ser. The betrothal was sealed in blood and fire, your lowborn seed changes nothing. Touch her again, and I'll have your head on a spike, paraded through the streets for the smallfolk to pelt with filth." His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for you alone, laced with dark promise. "And you, my sweet betrothed... remember your place. Defy me, and watch your tall knight burn."

Duncan's jaw tightened, and your eyes grow wide as you go to step forward, but he stops you, his fighting with himself hardening into resolve as he shifted to block Aerion's view more fully, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. "She's her own woman, Your Grace," he said, the words tumbling out in that haphazard rush, protective fire burning through the shield of his shyness. "Betrothal or no, you don't own her heart— or her choices." He stood taller, chest heaving, ready to throw himself between you and any harm, even if it meant facing a prince's blade.

And that does it.

Whatever Aerion had planned, whatever sharp little scene he’d rehearsed, dies right there on his tongue, that glare falling to defeat behind his eyes— for now. His jaw tightens and eyes flick to you once more, searching for something he doesn’t find. He scoffs, smooth as silk, wounded as pride ever is.

“Enjoy your playacting,” he says coldly. “I have no interest in watching you debase yourself.”

And then— he leaves.

No storm or other threat, just the door closing far more quietly than it should. And the silence left is thick and heavy, Duncan exhaled shakily, turning back to you with wide eyes, his protective stance softening as he gathered you into his arms once more. "Are you all right?" voice thick with worry, his large hands gentle as they stroked your hair, like he’s been holding his breath since Aerion arrived. He turns to you then, eyes searching your face, concerned and trying to blind himself of the way he'd done all of that naked. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have—”

You step closer instead, close enough to feel the heat still on him, hands coming up to the centre of his chest, resting right at the dip over the many scars that had been formed. Your feet padded across the cold stone, sheets falling away at your feet as you pushed you both back to the bed, he listened quietly, allowing heavy feet to be led to the mattress until his calves hit the wood. He sat then as you stood between his knees, bracing your legs either side to straddle him, both completely bare, his cock laid beneath your core as you cupped his face. "I do love you.. and I wouldn't let those things be done to you." He huffed, face falling into your hold, steady hands coming to rest at your middle. "Well, I don't think it be easy to go against a prince.." His voice faltered, a wall up not against you,but against the reality, the only he'd gladly take if it meant having you.

But your hands pulled him up again, shuffling closer into his grip, placing a deep kiss onto his lips it may as well have been burned, "I wont.."  And you were serious, no matter the situation, how frowned upon or dangerous, you'd meant ever word. And from your look, your tone, the way you held him tighter, Dunk knew it, and he held onto it with a deep breathe, his head knocking at your temple once more with every bit of reverence.

doggy on couch ("lazy susan")

one of tt!aerion's favorite positions is you sprawled out on the couch, on your stomach and pounding into you from behind, his hands tangling in your hair, yanking your head back as he grunts with each thrust or his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

the worn fabric of the couch creaks under you both, the smell of his cheap cologne and your pretty perfume mixing with the heat of your skin. his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, before he pushes inside stretching you open. he groans when you take him, you're always so so so tight for him!! he won't last long with your walls fluttering like that.

he’ll let out a string of low, guttural curses that get muffled by your gasps. he likes that he can see the way you take every inch, the way you stretch around him, desperate to accommodate him completely. he’ll grip your hips harder, nails digging into your skin, and lean over you, trapping you against the worn cushions.

"look at me, c'mon look at me-" he’ll command, his voice rough and demanding as he picks up the speed, pounding into you with a ferocity that leaves you seeing stars. the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud in the small, cramped space of the living room, echoing off the peeling paint and the bare walls.

face to face

aerion's absolute favorite position is anything with eye contact. on the armchair, on his bed, the front seat of the truck, on the boat…and pull you onto his lap. you straddle him, facing him, and he wraps his arms tight around your waist, his hands wandering up your back to hold you close.

he loves this angle. it lets him look deep into your eyes while he works you open. his grip on your hips is firm, anchoring you so he can lift and thrust up into you with steady, deliberate strokes, grinding against your sensitive walls.

the sight of your pretty face when he hits that sweet spot sends a spark through him. he likes watching you fall apart for him, seeing the pleasure wash over your features, your lips parting, eyes fluttering. cooing a sweet, “i know…i know, baby.”

he’ll tilt his head down to kiss you, messy and hungry, swallowing your moans against his mouth. he LOVES to kiss you, wet smooches against your cheek, jaw and neck- just anywhere he can get to, he’s kissing. his fingers trace patterns on your lower back, feeling the tremors running through you as he rocks his hips against yours. he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you breathe out when he fills you up completely, marking you not just with his touch, but with his gaze.

pole position (thigh master)

he'll sprawl out on the bed, one knee bent, and you'll climb over him, straddling his thigh while he lies on his back. his leg goes between yours, pressing up against your clit with every movement.

he loves that you have to grind against him to get it right, that you have to work to find the rhythm. he'll guide your hips, showing you exactly where to sit, how to angle your body so his thigh is grinding against you just right.

his hands will rest on your hips, holding you in place as he lifts his leg up to grind against you more firmly. it's intimate in a different way—slower, more deliberate. he likes watching you squirm on top of him, likes knowing he's controlling the pace without even touching your pussy.

as you start to get comfortable with the rhythm, he'll grab your hips and pull you down so he can slide his cock inside you from this angle. the combination of his thigh grinding against your clit and his cock stretching you open is too much to handle.

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

Now he was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there?"

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

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

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

"No one would think that," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I am..."

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

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

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

"I did not know you worried."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aerion..."

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

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

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

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

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

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

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

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

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

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

"I would expect nothing less."

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