❝a diamond is precious because it is rare ❞

undoubtedly, he did it on purpose, his intention to rattle you until you could no longer form a thought that did not revolve around him or utter a sentence that did not relate back to him. 

“your eyes are quite intense,” you had explained the first time he questioned your timid behaviour.

and gods, they were. 

his brown eye, while the colour gave him a softer appearance than its vibrant companion, held your attention with equal fascination, especially when it would catch the last remnants of the sun’s golden hue, giving it a honeyed tint. 

his blue eye was capable of penetrating your soul, efficiently piercing every rule, custom, and law that had been indoctrinated into you since you were a young girl until you were pliant, moldable putty in his hands.

baelor, although he would never admit it aloud, held a fond adoration for your inability to maintain his gaze.

an affectionate bloom of heat and love would blossom within his chest with each sharp turn of your head at the possibility of his undivided attention descending upon you, a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes at your sudden interest in everything but his knowing glances.

“my shy, sweet wife,” he had teased you one quiet evening with his fingers in your hair.

the rare times you initiated eye contact with him were the moments when baelor felt as though he would collapse on the spot, right then and there.

You didn't give him a chance to reconsider before you climbed into his lap. Your knees sank into the mattress on either side of his hips as you settled over him, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body - a palpable force that made your skin prickle.

“Just hold it and record from below,” you instructed, trembling slightly.

Baelor’s grip tightened around the camcorder. He shifted against the headboard, angling the lens upward. “Like this?” he asked, voice edged with hesitation as he looked at the small screen.

“Yes, baby,” you breathed. You were already dripping, the folds of your lips slick and swollen. You weren't sure how much longer this new 'adventure' would last before it left you completely undone. But you steady yourself on top of him, wet heat of your center hovering just inches above his cock.

"I want you to watch every second," you stated before gradually sinking lower. The sensation of him stretching you open made you arch your back, a long, shaky moan escaping your throat.

"Oh god-" Baelor groaned. The small screen showed a striking image: you kept pushing until you felt his base, and a wet squelching noise resonated in the silent room as you completely seated yourself on him. You released a sharp, high-pitched moan, tilting your head back and exposing the graceful curve of your throat to the ceiling.

His eyes widened as he adjusted the camera. He held the device low, angling the lens to capture the point of impact. "Look at that," he said, voice rasped with need.

Any trace of hesitation was gone, only consumed by a raw, primal hunger. The uncertainty that had lingered moments ago had disappeared entirely as his eyes roamed over you. “Aren’t you a sight, my sweet girl?”

You started to move, lifting your hips and slamming back down. The awareness that he was watching through a tiny digital eye, capturing the raw, unfiltered reality of your pleasure, sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. So, you began to quicken your pace.

Baelor let out a choked sound, his knuckles turning white around the camera. "You make me feel good, baby" he hissed. He kept the lens focused, capturing the way your thighs trembled and how your pussy lips gripped him tightly.

"And you looking delicious riding me like this. I can see it... I can see you swallowing me whole." The vulgarity of his words only acted like fuel. You moved to pull him into a messy kiss, and a soft moan slipped between the two of you, feeding the intensity of the grind as your skin pressed together.

The sounds of your connection filled the room: the rhythmic, fleshy slap of your pelvis against his, the slick noise of lubrication being worked between your bodies. Your breasts bounced with every movement, nipples hardening into tight peaks.

At this moment, Baelor was no longer passive. While he kept the camera steady, his other hand reached up, gripping your hip with a force that could bruise to help quicken the pace. With a possessive energy taking over him, he began to thrust upward, meeting your descent with a fierce intensity.

"Oh yes- harder," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "Baelor, yes, p- please, harder!"

He adjusted his hold on the camera, wanting to capture every detail. He observed how the skin on your inner thighs turned a deep pink, how your clitoris was being pressed and stimulated by the base of his shaft with each thrust.

"You want it harder?" he roared. The sound of his voice reverberating in the bedroom. The friction was turning into an inferno. You could sense the wetness flowing, a blend of your own arousal and his pre-cum seeping out, forming a slippery, frothy lather that allowed every thrust to penetrate deeper.

"Look at the camera," Baelor ordered, his breath coming in uneven gasps. "Look at me, my love. I want to see your face while I ruin you."

He flipped the LCD around so you could see yourself clearly. You leaned forward, hair spilling around like a curtain. You looked directly into the lens, eyes glazed with desire, lips parted. On the screen, you saw yourself - tousled, yearning, utterly consumed by him. It only deepened the heat building within you.

Baelor's thrusts became frantic, his composure shattering. He was no longer merely recording; he was engaging in a visual feast of his own creation. He observed how his cock vanished into you, the skin stretching tight, and how your body jolted with each impact against your cervix.

"I'm going to fill you," he groaned, his voice faltering. "I'm going to put it all inside you, and we're going to watch it together." The tension in your lower belly tightened into a knot, a coil of electricity that refused to let go.

Baelor sensed that you were nearing your climax, so he reached down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it vigorously while you continued to ride him. Your internal muscles began to spasm, clamping down on him in tight. Without warning, you screamed his name, your head thrown back as a powerful orgasm surged through you. You felt your walls pulsing around his cock, milking him with every contraction.

He didn't hold back. With one final, powerful thrust, he drove upward, burying himself as deep as he could. He let out a guttural shout, body tensing as he came. You felt the hot, thick jets of his seed erupting against your cervix, wave after wave of pulsing warmth that seemed to fill you completely.

The camera recorded everything - the tremor in his arms, the way your eyes rolled back, and the raw, intense release. As the peak faded, you fell onto his chest, your skin glistening with sweat, heart pounding against his ribs.

Baelor didn’t move the camera right away. He kept it rolling for a few more moments, capturing the heavy silence in the room, the sound of your synchronized, labored breaths, and the sight of your bodies still intertwined, shaking in the aftermath.

After a while, he reached out and pressed the stop button. The red light disappeared. He set the camcorder down on the mattress and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You lay there for a long while, the cool air of the room starting to dry the sweat on your skin.

"Well," Baelor whispered, his voice returning to its usual steady tone, though still tinged with a lingering tremor. "I think the camera works perfectly."

You let out a soft, tired giggle, snuggling your face into the crook of his neck. The scent of cedar and sex surrounded you, a intoxicating mix that made you feel safe and completely cherished. You looked up at him, a playful smile on your lips. "Do you think we should delete it now?".

You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep. 

The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.

He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees. 

“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around. 

“Your Grace.” You curtsy.

“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.

“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.

“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”

“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”

When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.

Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument. 

You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.

“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.

“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”

You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”

His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly. 

The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.

You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.

He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.

You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.

“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.

“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.  

Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up. 

He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.

“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”

“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.

“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.

“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.

“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers.  “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.

He watches you. “Do you have them often?” 

You nod. “Since I was a child.”

“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”

“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”

Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.

–

Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth. 

In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.

He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.

“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.

“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.

“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back. 

He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.

You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.

Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”

From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same. 

You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.

In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.

The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him. 

Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he announces his choice to retire early with his lady wife.

Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then. 

The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.

“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”

“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed. 

“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”

“Did you find them?”

“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”

He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.

He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”

However, having watched you play with Maekar’s youngest children with a look of adoration and a nurturing, guiding hand, Baelor felt a tendril of longing wrap around his heart to witness you behave in a similar manner with children whose physical traits, as well as other attributes, were a perfect mixture of both yours and his.

“You mustn’t move,” he chided quietly, arm tightening around your waist to discourage squirming.

The soft fabric of his silken robe caressed the bare flesh of your stomach with every shift and rearrangement of your bodies, causing an eruption of goosebumps to rise over your flesh.

“It feels so–,” your words were cut off by a whimper escaping your throat, head lolling over his shoulder at the sensation of his pulsating appendage within your passage.

The dizzying sensation of being wholly engulfed by him, whilst enveloping his own fullness within your walls caused your eyes to become unfocused and watery.

Baelor was reclining comfortably into the cushioned thickness of his armchair, the tie of his night robe undone, revealing his loosened silken trousers and thick torso to the heated space of your shared bedchamber.

He had you completely bared and sprawled atop him with your thighs hooked on the arms of the seat, mounted on the twitching, redden length of his cock.

“This is the best way,” Baelor moaned lowly when you wriggled your hips, “to guarantee success." 

You felt his voice as a physical sensation that entered your ears, trickled down your body and settled pleasantly at the base of your spine, level with where it felt like he was piercing you.

“I know, my love, I know,” the wanton raspiness that laced his words elicited another shiver out of your trembling form. 

It felt like he was residing within the deepest depths of your soul, the fat head of his cock pressing into a sacred part that resided deep within you, one that you had not even known existed until he discovered it.

“I feel–gods, I feel everything.” you confessed, turning your face to place kisses along the column of his flushed, damp neck, paying extra attention to the visible vein that ran along the length of it.

He had brought you to completion several times and had released inside of you three times in various positions, yet he remained fully, and more than readily, erect with an ever growing and desperate desire to ensure that his seed took. His dedication to seeing you swollen with his child appeared to have given him an insatiable hunger.

Every tiniest movement caused the short, coarse, dark and grey hairs dusted across his chest to ticklishly poke into the flesh of your back. 

The combination of your fluids had soaked into the cloth of his trousers and dripped down your inner thighs; each time you imagined the lewd scene the two of you had created, a new spread of heat would travel across your chest, neck, and face.

Baelor’s wide, calloused hands slid up your body, not stopping their upwards voyage until they cupped your breasts.

“Have you thought of a name?” 

You nodded in reply, fingers threading through the soft hair near his nape, “But, it’s a secret.”

He playfully nipped at the flesh of your earlobe, “Is it now?” his arms returned to their embrace around your torso, holding you firmly to him and the warmth he provided.

“Yes,” you sighed, tightening around him until he let out a quiet groan, “one that you will only learn when we are expecting.”

“Then,” Baelor began, moving his hands to support the underneath of your thighs as he rose from his seat, holding you wide open and split apart on the girth of his shaft, “I should make certain that you are with child after tonight.”

“I suppose you should,” was your cheeky response, a teasing grin etched into your face. 

Baelor owned many rings. There was the heavy gold wedding band he never removed, worn smooth with time. A dark silver ring crowned with black stone sat often upon his index finger, severe and princely. Another bore the shape of a dragon curling around itself, its ruby eyes catching candlelight whenever he moved his hand.

Others came and went depending on the occasion. Plain bands, signets, rings etched with Valyrian patterns.

Most men would never care for such things. But Baelor did. Or rather, he cared because you did.

It was you who chose which rings to adorned his hands each morning, standing beside him while he dressed for court. He would simply watch you with quiet amusement as you decided which metals suited his doublet best.

And perhaps because he allowed you such freedoms so easily, your boldness had grown with time. Sometimes you would slip one ring from his finger and wear it yourself for an hour or two before returning it without a word. Sometimes longer.

He had been the one to encourage it during the periods when duty kept him away from you.

“Have something to remind you of me,” he had said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. And, of course, you happily obliged.

Until one morning, just after breakfast, you reached for his hand out of pure instinct and found his fingers bare.

Your eyes lifted immediately to the ring box atop his dresser. The velvet grooves held nothing but the faint impressions of where his collection usually rested.

You turned to him. “Where are your rings, husband?”

“I sent them to be cleaned,” he answered, glancing up briefly before returning to the cuff of his doublet with suspicious concentration.

“Sent them away?” you repeated, brows knitting together. Something uncomfortable twisted inside your chest. “B-but, Baelor, I usually cleaned them.”

He glanced up again. “I know. It will only take a few days.” He crossed to the mirror, smoothing the front of his clothes in silence, with no apparent intention of explaining himself further.

“And why did you not inform me?” you pressed. “What possessed you to do such a thing?”. Madness had begun to stir unpleasantly beneath your skin, and it was barely morning.

“My love, trust me.” He walked back toward you. “They are safe. I will have them returned within a few days, I promise.” With that, he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead and disappeared into the endless duties of his day, before you could ask anything more.

A few days. The words turned endlessly in your mind long after he had gone.

Why would he send them away? Had you annoyed him somehow? Had he finally grown tired of your constant fiddling with his hands and rings? Had he simply endured the habit until he no longer could?

You tried to bury the thoughts before they could take root. You failed.

The first day passed, so did the second. By the third day, the absence had begun to feel physical.

You sat beside Baelor in the small council chamber while lords and ladies rambled through endless matters of court. Out of habit, your hand reached toward his beneath the table, only to find bare skin where cool metal should have been.

Your looked down to study rings that sat on your fingers instead - your wedding band, your house's sigil, and a slender ruby ring Baelor had gifted you during your courtship - all precious, all beloved. Yet none settled against your hands the way his rings did.

Something sore and foolish gathered quietly beneath your ribs.

And in the silence of the following nights, your thoughts returned again and again to the same possibility: Perhaps he had simply grown tired of indulging you. Tired of watching you steal his rings onto your own fingers. Tired of your constant touching. Tired enough to remove the temptation entirely rather than tell you outright.

It was a small thought, a cruel one. But once it lodged itself inside you, it refused to leave. And you said nothing to him, because you did not know how to ask without sounding like someone who had already decided the answer.

On the fifth day, he found you at mid-day and said he had something to show you in the garden. So you followed him.

The afternoon was pale and breezy as he led you down familiar stone paths lined with trimmed hedges. He stopped beside the bench where the two of you often sat together in the evenings and turned toward you quietly.

Then he reached into his doublet and took out a small cloth pouch. He pulled it open with eassness and held out a neat row of rings. Silver and dark metals glimmered beneath the sunlight - some plain, others engraved with familiar patterns.

Your breath caught. They were his rings. But only smaller?

You stared at them in confusion before looking back at him. “Baelor…?”

Did he have them resized? Why?

Your expression must have betrayed your bewilderment, because his mouth curved slightly as he reached for your hand.

Gently, he slid the first ring onto your finger. Then another. And another. He worked in silence, fitting each piece carefully into place while you sat there stunned beneath the drifting garden breeze. When he finished, he turned your hand over in both of his, admiring the collection now adorning your fingers.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket again and withdrew a second pouch. His own rings. Oh. One by one, he slid them back onto his large fingers before lifting his hand beside yours.

“See?” he said. His fingers threaded through yours, metal clinking softly together. “Now we match.”

You looked down at your joined hands. The same silver, same craftsmanship, same weight. Mirrored perfectly across both pairs of hands, as though they had always belonged that way.

“I know how much you love mine, so I had matching ones made for you," he said softly. "That way, you may carry a part of me wherever you go,” he continued.

Sunlight caught against the silver bands, turning his eyes molten with warmth. Before you could open your mouth to respond, he spoke again - words that would leave a permanent mark upon your chest.

“I want the whole realm to know you are my equal. My queen.” He gave your hand a light squeeze. The sunlight glimmered against the silver once more, and his love sat plainly within his gaze, without hesitation or restraint.

And suddenly, everything inside you gave way at once. All the foolishness. Every miserable hour spent convincing yourself he had taken the rings away because he no longer wanted your affection.

You should have known better. Baelor had never been a man careless with silence. He moved through the world quietly, gathering his intentions close until the moment came to place them gently into your hands all at once.

Your vision blurred. You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him hard enough to draw a startled laugh from his chest. Tears burned behind your eyes as the rings continue to glittered between your intertwined fingers beneath the afternoon sun.

In the South, the earliest lesson every young lord and lady learns is that words are a knife; you must learn to wield them properly, lest you end up making yourself bleed. You'd been through countless lessons with your septa as a girl, political meetings after meeting, and so many dances and feasts that it’d become reflex to put on that polite smile expected of you. You chose your words carefully to match the atmosphere of every room you walk into and held your head high even with every practiced curtsy. You became the knife your mother sharpened you to be.

But life in the South was lonely. Even with all of the riches of Westeros within reach there was very little to care for. The longer your stay in Winterfell, the more obvious it became: what the North lacked in complexity it certainly made up for in the beauty of its simplicity.

You never had to worry that someone didn’t mean what they’d said. Northerners never minced their words or tried to hide their true intentions behind fanciful phrases and follies. They were calm and level-headed, keeping their sense in the heat of every conversation.

The North also understood that the only way to survive through the winter was together. Everyone had their duty and everyone honored it. They would keep each other warm.

And the land was respected, not like the South where people would sell an arm and a leg to purchase a plot of land, eager to cut down trees and raise farms for a profit. The forests were sacred and hunting was much more for survival than entertainment. The hot springs were the lifesource of Winterfell, heating the city with their steam and warming its walls as the hot water traveled through the inlay pipes. And the stars… oh the stars.

When you’d arrived at Winterfell, unaware you’d never return home, the one hope you’d held close was to see godswoods at night. Your father had described them the same way throughout your childhood, in the

stories he only told when he was sober enough to wish you goodnight. He would recount the days of his youth and his friendship with the Starks, painting portraits of the godswoods with his words, complete with descriptions of the blood red leaves reminding him of blood whenever they’d fall on the snow covered ground. He’d told you that every time one of his men would fall in battle, he’d try to imagine their blood as leaves claiming their bodies to return them to nature. And despite terrifying you as a child when describing the trees, he’d always manage to make you smile when he’d describe the stars.

“It will overwhelm almost any southerner,” he’d tell you. “There’s so many of them so close together… It almost looks like velvet, like the sky would be soft to touch.”

And you’d laugh when he’d ruffle your hair, saying, “You can’t touch the sky!”

“No,” he’d respond, his voice gruff and tired. “But you’ll never see the sky so crowded as you do in Winterfell. The stars all gather there because it’s the only place in this god forsaken kingdom worth being.”

So when you’d arrived with your family in Winterfell, on your father’s business to visit his oldest friend, Ned Stark, you’d been certain the most excitement out of this trip you’d find would be in the godswoods under a blanket of stars. You were proven dreadfully wrong.

It had been a surprise to no one but yourself when your betrothal to Robb Stark was announced at the supper feast on your very first night in Winterfell along with the wedding announced to be only a moon away. This put a rather large spoke in the wheel of your plan to see the stars. Suddenly your days were filled with preparations. Your only hidden moments were with Robb himself, as he took it upon himself to get to know you whenever you had the time.

He had taken you to the godswood, navigating it with an expertise that only could have come from years of living next to them. You’d asked each other questions about values and duties, of family relations and habits you’d found in yourselves to be annoying, and of wishes you’d held deep in your hearts that you knew could never be because of who you’d been born as.

Soon enough, you’d found that Robb took up most of your time, pulling you for dances at dinner feasts and whispering jokes in your ear while you tried not to step on his foot while laughing. He’d sneak into your chambers at night, only to drop off Grey Wind, his direwolf, who’d grown fond enough of you that he’d sleep at the end of your bed as often as he could. And during meetings amongst yourselves and your parents, discussing your dowry, agricultural trades, and political alliances, the two of you exchanged looks that had your mother kicking your foot under the table chastising you for your lack of propriety.

Although the company was lovely, with only seven days left until the ceremony, you’d still never seen the stars of the Northern skies. So that night, once you were certain your family had retired to their own chambers for the night and wouldn’t wake until the morrow, you’d asked your handmaiden to sneak you out. She brought a fur cloak with a large hood to hide your face, and helped you navigate the halls of Winterfell, leading you to the entrance of the godswood with the straightest paths to a clearing to see the stars.You’d thanked her profusely before entering.

The air in the godswood was crisp and biting, the Northern wind whipping through the ancient weirwood trees. It smelt of pine and snow, sharp and wild compared to the heavy perfumed air of the South and the rotten air of King’s Landing.

You stepped into the clearing, the canopy of branches parting just enough to reveal the vast, endless stretch of the Northern sky—more stars than you’d ever seen.

And you laughed. You laughed because it looked like velvet. You laughed because it looked soft enough to touch. You laughed because no one was there to see the future Lady of Winterfell ignoring her duties just to get a glimpse of the stars. There were no courts here, no lady mothers to scold you or septas to drag you back into your chambers. There was only you and the stars, and the sky had never been so crowded. Just as your father had warned, the majesty of the Northern skies overwhelmed you.

You shook your head in merriment, lowering your head to rest your neck, only to find the carved face of a weirwood tree staring at you.

“Here are the gods of old,” you muttered to yourself and the weirwood. “I can see why the South no longer believes… It’s difficult to hear your voice when the cities are so loud.”

The wind seemed to answer you—a strong insistent gust that seemed to hum through the canopy, carrying your words like whispers. It wrapped around you, lifting your hair, pressing against your skin.

“And I can see why the North still believes,” you continued, “it’s quieter up here in the cold. And the wind sounds like whispers.” You smiled to yourself glancing at the sky once more. “And you can see so many stars.”

A particularly strong gust answered you, this time nearly knocking you back on your heels, but it carried with it the clean scent of snow and pine. You threw your arms wide in response, laughing as the wind howled around you, whipping your cloak up like wings. There you stood momentarily yet utterly free.

“I’m to be married here, in seven days time,” you called out with a small chuckle. “It feels so far away now… I wonder, if you’ve seen all then you must be able to see my future here in Winterfell. You must know if I’ll be able to do my duty, not just to Westeros but to myself.”

The wind died down abruptly, leaving the godswoods eerily silent. Even the nocturnal sounds of night birds and rustling leaves seemed to hold their breath. A heavy, expectant stillness settled over the clearing as if the very trees were leaning in to listen—or answer.

“I hope I love him,” you admited, your voice barely a whisper. “And I hope he grows to love me.”

A single snowflake drifted down from the sky, landing softly on your outstretched palm. It melted instantly, leaving a tiny spot of water. The weirwood tree seemed to shiver, its red sap eyes glinting in the moonlight as if acknowledging your words.

You smiled, watching the snowflake melt on your palm, and you looked to the stars again. It might have been your imagination but you could have sworn they seemed brighter.

You breathed in deep, the cold, thin air filling your lungs until it burnt. For the first time, in months, perhaps years, you felt alive. No masks, no performances, no Southern courtiers watching every move, just you and the Northern gods and the roaring silence of a thousand stars above.

The snow creaked behind you, the sound of heavy boots tracking across the snow.

You turnt with a gasp, pulling out the small dagger hidden in your sleeve.

Robb freezed in his tracks, hands raised in surrender as he caught sight of the dagger glinting in the moonlight. His heart pounded—not from fear of the blade, but from the sudden realization that you were armed and alone in the godswoods at night. 

“Easy,” he whispered, “It’s only me.”

“Robb?” you breathed out, the dagger slipping from your grasp onto the forest floor. It hit the frozen earth with a soft thud. 

He lowered his hands slowly, his expression a mix of amusement and genuine concern. He stepped into the moonlight, the weirwood left casting blood-red shadows across his face.

“You carry a dagger into the godswoods at midnight?” he asked quietly, his tone more curious than chastising.

You glanced down, remembering yourself, “Yes.”

A low, amused huff escaped him, fogging in the cold air. He stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the snow as he retrieved your dagger from the ground. He wiped the blade on his cloak before holding it out to you, his eyes dancing with a mixture of respect and dry humour. 

“A sensible precaution, my lady.”

You took it from him, still in shock of his presence. 

“Why are you here?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head slightly, considering the question. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and the moonlight highlighted the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he responded softly, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustling of the leaves. “But I think I already know the answer.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you think I’m here?”

He took a step closer, his gaze steady and intense. The weirwood tree seemed to watch you both, its red eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

“To talk to the gods,” he said simply. His voice was low and serious, devoid of any mockery or judgement.

You laughed and shook your head.

“I came to see the stars,” you admitted with an upward twitch of your lips.

His expression shifted suddenly, caught between surprise and something warmer. He looked up at the night sky, the countless stars twinkling brightly against the dark velvet backdrop. When he met your gaze again, there was a hint of understanding in his eyes.

“To see the stars,” he muttered.

You smiled and nodded, explaining yourself quietly, “My father always told me that there were more here than in the South. He used to tell me stories about them to calm me down as a child.”

He listened silently, his expression thoughtful. The wind howled softly through the godswoods, carrying with it the scent of winter and the distant sound of wolves. You were suddenly very aware of how alone you both were, with no guards, no servants, nor anyone to witness this midnight meeting under the stars.

“It’s difficult not to talk to the gods here,” you admitted, mostly to yourself.

He nodded understandably, his gaze drifting to the weirwood tree behind you. The intricate carving of the face seemed to pulsate faintly in the moonlight, as if listening intently to your words.

“They’re more present here,” he said quietly, almost reverently.

You looked at the tree and had to agree with him. As you stared, you were reminded of his sudden encroachment on your time alone with the stars. Your breath caught and you turned toward him suddenly.

You spoke shyly, not meeting his eyes, “Were you listening to me?”

His eyes met yours unflinchingly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Perhaps,” he admitted calmly. 

He didn’t apologize for eavesdropping; instead, he stepped closer again, so close you had to shiver as his warm breath hit your neck. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers brushing against your cold skin. The simple touch sent warmth flooding through you despite the freezing air. 

“You told the gods you hoped to love me,” he murmured, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You didn’t sound certain.”

“I’m not.” Your gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips. Your own trembled, either from nerves or from the cold. You couldn’t tell which.

The corner of his mouth lifted—a fleeting, crooked thing that was more understanding than amusement. He didn’t step back, the space between you charged with unspoken energy.

“Seven days,” he murmured, echoing your earlier prayer. “It is a short time to build a lifetime upon.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then lifted back to your eyes.

“We’ve known each other twenty,” you reminded him quietly,

His expression shifted, acknowledging the truth of your words. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a mere whisper.

“Twenty days,” he agreed softly. 

His hand moved from your ear, his fingers trailing down your jawline.

“Robb.” Your voice was hoarse. His name was a ghost on your lips, barely audible over the rustling leaves and howling wind. 

He leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes locked on your mouth. His thumb brushed gently over your bottom lip, a touch soft as a snowflake.

“Will you love me?” you asked him quietly, surprising even yourself with such a query.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The godswoods seemed to hold its breath with him, the silence stretching taut as a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, he nodded. His thumb continued its gently caress of your lip, his blue eyes filled with a quiet intensity.

“Yes.”

Your eyes watered with the cold wind blowing against them as they widened to search his own.

“How do you know?”

He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly as if the gesture could transmit his certainty directly into your mind.

“Because,” he whispered, “I think I might already.”

His lips hovered inches from yours, his words warm against your cold mouth.

“Twenty days,” he muttered.

At that moment, you were certain that a fire could have broken loose in the castle, a war could have erupted throughout Westeros, the stars could have fallen from the sky and you would have paid them no mind. There was only him.

The world outside this sacred grove ceased to exist. The only sounds were the soft rush of breath between you, the distant howl of the wolves, and the whisper of wind through the weirwood leaves. 

His eyes searched yours—deep blue pools reflecting starlight and something warmer, something that felt perilously close to hope. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb still tracing your lip.

“Robb,” you said again, even quieter this time. It wasn’t a question. Not a protest. Not a name spoken lightly. It was an invocation, a surrender, and a plea all wrapped into one soft exhale.

His restraint flickered and broke. When his lips found yours you were certain you’d died. The breath he’d stolen from you came back in droves. You could finally breathe again if only to breathe him in.

The kiss was both gentle and desperate, a collision of souls rather than just mouths. He tilted his head, deepening it instinctively, his large hands spanning your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. The cold vanished, replaced by a heat that started where your lips met and spreaded through every frozen part of you.

Your hands found his chest, your fingers digging into the heavy furs of his cloak.

He broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back with a sharp inhale as if burnt. His blue eyes were dark with desire, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your clutching fingers. The cold air rushed back between you, biting at the sudden exposure.

“Gods,” he rasped.

You could do nothing but stare. Your cheeks were rosy from the cold of the godswoods and the heat of the kiss. You went to speak but could not find your words.

He searched your face, his own flushed with colour that stood out sharply against the pale backdrop of snow and moonlight. His thumb returned to your lip, tracing it once more as if memorizing the shape.

“I should not have—” he started, his voice low and rough.

“We should not have,” you corrected him quietly.

He nodded, his jaw clenched. The moment of surrender was over, replaced by a tense awareness of the boundaries you’d just breached. His other hand fell possessively at your waist, thumbs hooking into the soft fabric of your dress.

“We should not have.”

You chewed at your bottom lip, unsure what to say.

His thumb caught your lip before your teeth could mark it, pressing softly to release the small indent.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. His eyes flickered down to your lips again, watching the faint impression of his thumb on your skin, then back up to meet your gaze. “Not when I’ve just learnt how you taste.”

You wanted to speak but found that your breath had been stolen again. No words came out.

His expression softened momentarily, catching the sight of your parted lips and wide eyes. But he swiftly schooled his features back into stern lines, clearly at war with himself.

“You should go,” he said gruffly, his hands abruptly dropping from your waist.

“Robb,” you said quietly, desperation seeping into your bones.

At the sound of his name on your lips, something inside of him cracked. The stern lines on his face broke, revealing a tumult of unsaid emotions. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if physically restraining himself from reaching out to you again.

“Go,” he repeated hoarsely.

Your brows furrowed, but you gathered your skirts. You turned to leave, glancing back at him one last time before taking the path back to the entrance of the godswoods where your handmaiden waited for you.

He watched you go, his entire body stiff with restraint. As you disappeared through the trees, he finally allowed himself to sag against the nearest weirwood, a low curse escaping his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands in frustration.

You chewed on your bottom lip as you walked down the path, glancing up at the stars with every break in the trees, hoping the gods could still hear your thoughts. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but it did little to cool the heat that still lingered from that stolen kiss.

You found your handmaiden, Elinor, waiting patiently by the entrance, her own cloak drawn tightly around her.

She curtsies “My lady.”

You smiled at her but it did not reach your eyes.

“My father was right,” you muttered, “there are more stars in the Northern skies.”

She studied your face carefully, her eyes sharp despite the dim light. Snowflakes caught in her hair like tiny diamonds.

“Are you well, my lady?” she asked gently, her voice carrying a knowing quality. “Your cheeks are flushed.” She didn’t mention the way your bottom lip is slightly swollen, nor how your fingers tremble against your skirts.

“Overwhelmed, I think,” you decided not to mention the encounter. “I must need sleep,” you said brushing slightly past her and starting back to the castle, pulling your hood back over your hair.

Elinor fell into step beside you, her arm brushing against yours in silent support. She knew better than to press for details, understanding that some things are better left unspoken.

As you walked back toward the castle, the cold night air did little to sooth your racing thoughts. You wondered back to Robb in the godswoods, and what he must have thought of what had just occurred. You wondered if he was as ruined as you were.

Back in the godswoods, Robb stood frozen beneath the ancient weirwood tree, his hand still gripping its rough bark. The kiss played over and over in his mind—the softness of your lips, the way you tasted like winterberries and something uniquely you. He closed his eyes briefly.

A chill ran through the woods, snapping his eyes open.

Grey Wind emerged from the shadows, golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight, watching his lord with an almost knowing intensity. The direwolf padded silently to stand beside him, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.

Robb rested a hand on the creature’s massive head, seeking—what? Absolution? Guidance?

“I told her to go.”

The wolf just nuzzled into his hand.

A bitter laugh escaped him as he scratched between the wolf’s ears.

“As if that solves anything,” he murmured to Grey Wind.

He turned his face up to the stars, searching for answers in their cold light. But all he finds is your face, those wide eyes, and that swollen bottom lip.

How was he supposed to? You were practically begging to be stared at. Your hair had that natural crimp in it from always being tucked behind your ear, and so when it fell loose, it made this gorgeous swoop over your cheek. Your eyebrows gathered up all pinchy when you got confused over the equation before you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the tips of your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You shifted in your seat every few moments, the soft pudge of your tummy and back twisting with your discomfort, the cute little fold of your chin rolling when you pulled back in confusion. You hummed under your breath to help you think, for gods sake. There was no focusing when you looked so beautiful. All he saw when you sat so prettily was your face, and then the memory of your face twisting and back arching and voice cracking, and he became a lost cause. 

Clark took on the gargantuan task of tutoring you in calculus because you struggled so adorably in the seat next to him, and for a college girl who maintained A averages, he couldn’t let you sabotage yourself. That English-geared brain needed to survive calculus so it could keep reading books. Plus, you always seemed to be looking at him instead of the board, so maybe by combining the two, you would find some focus.  

But the problem was that you were a good student. A smart girl who wanted to get things right. So, as cute as he was, you unfortunately took this very seriously– he sometimes ended up sitting with you for hours, practicing derivatives over and over until you finally got it. It was torture. College tutoring sessions were supposed to end in him bending you over a table, not in you crying over difficult questions and him coaxing your hair back and kissing your temples. Sure, he got a few smooches here and there, but you were very strict. Only kissing outside of tutoring hours. He had to go alllll the way to your dorm just to touch you. O, the inhumanity!

Tonight was like the others as you poured over a word problem that was entirely simple to him, but gibberish to you, and so he sat and stared while you tried to stubbornly work it out on your own. But Clark was withering away, and he needed you. 

His probing finger traced the curve of your shoulder as he leaned in and nosed at your cheek. “Why bother? I could just take the test for you.”

You grumbled and pushed his face away like a puppy. “I’m trying to focus.”

“C’mooon. You’ve been at it for an hour. Pay attention to me.”

“Clark,”

“Bunny,” he pouted, pressing his forehead to your arm. 

“Clarkie, I can’t focus with you interrupting me,” you whined, and you rubbed your eyes. “Great. Now I lost my train of thought.”

The boy huffed softly at your look of disdain, and he rolled his eyes. He was a total sucker. Clark smoothed the paper out and took your pencil, tipping your chin up with it. “Fine. I’ll be good. Listen, okay? I’ll explain it.”

You perked up as he put on his teacher's voice, and you rested your chin in the palm of your hand as Clark began to unpack some ridiculous collection of symbols that meant nothing to you. This, of course, was equally not useful. Clark had this way of talking that just… hypnotized you. His soft lips, the pretty dip of his cupid’s bow, the absolutely criminal flutter of his lashes over those baby blues when he flicked between one side of the equation and the other. How was anyone supposed to focus when their tutor-turned-boyfriend had a face like that? It was like if Patrick Swayze was trying to teach you how to dance. They made a whole movie about how that was impossible– look where it got Baby. 

Clark smirked and stopped talking when he realized you weren’t listening. When he leaned in and kissed you, you weakly protested, “Mm.. but m’studying…”

“No you’re not,” he purred, “you were staring at my mouth.”

“S’a pretty mouth.”

“You’re a pretty mouth,” he blabbed, collecting your soft body and hoisting you from your chair into his lap. 

You hummed in satisfaction as he wrapped his arms around you like a boa constrictor and squeezed, sinking into the strong warmth of his chest. You pushed and pulled at his hair, sticking it up on all sides, and he happily smeared your jaw and neck with sloppy kisses, breathing you in like a hungry puppy. 

“M’gonna fail calc,” you frowned, gasping when he nibbled on your ear.

“You won’t fail a thing, baby, you’re a genius.”

“I suck at math, Clarkie.”

“You suck at nothing," he chuckled, pulling back to kiss your nose. “You just need a break.”

You nudged his nose. “A break…”

“Yeah, baby. You want a break? You did some good work today… you deserve a reward, honey, for being so smart.” 

You blushed, smiling knowingly, falling for the age-old classic Clark trick. He loved to baby you, and you ate up the pampering like no other. “Mhm.”

“My good girl,” he cooed, nipping your lip. “What do you want, huh?”

“Right here, in your lap,” you mumbled, ducking your head to kiss his Adam's apple.

“Yeah? Wanna sit in my lap? My bed’s right there, honey,” Clark tipped his head back for you, glancing at his dorm mattress. His hands snuck under your shirt to smush the softness of your back between his fingers. 

Your hands roamed the broad, tan expanse of his biceps, and you leaned down to teeth at one. “Mm… right here.”

Clark’s heart swelled at your bites, and he brushed your hair back. “You just wanna be in my arms, don’t you?”

You came back up for another kiss and smiled, grinding your hips down against his. Clark swallowed a broken grunt and yanked you close, hands smoothing up your back.

“Want me to take my time, or you just want me?”

“Just you,” you breathed, nipping at his cheek.

Clark couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. You got so needy when he collected you into his grasp. He let you busy yourself with his mouth, kissing and sucking dutifully on his bottom lip as he freed his cock from the fly of his jeans, shoving them down just enough. There was no use for decorum or fuss when you both were buzzing like this. Clark smiled sweetly as he smacked it lightly against your thigh, seeing how you squirmed and pouted for it. 

“Say the words, honey,” he coaxed.

You cupped his jaw and planted lipstick prints across his chin. “Pretty please, Clarkie.”

“Mm… try a little harder, baby. I want you to mean it.”

You whimpered and ground against the hard muscle of his thigh. “Pretty, pretty please, baby…”

His cheeks tinted pink as you begged, and it was certainly enough. He never liked to string you out. Clark made good on his word– he tugged the hem of your dress up and simply snagged your panties to the slide, and he notched the head of his cock between your puffy folds, not yet sinking inside, but teasing you with it. Your frustrated face melted into desire as he caught your clit, and he whispered, “That’s my girl, yeah… my smart girl.”

“Clarkie,” you moaned.

“You gonna bounce for me, bunny, or do I have to do all the work?”

Your skin flushed red from your ears down to your neck, and you stiffened as he prodded your entrance. “Can hop, I can,” you swore.

Clark smirked at your eagerness, and he curled his long fingers over the handlebars of your hips to remind you to sit still and sink down. You drew in a deep breath as you carefully sheathed his cock inside of you, feeling the delicious stretch between your walls; an embarrassing whimper spilled out as you crumpled in his lap, hips rocking against the intrusion. Clark’s eyes fluttered shut at the tight, familiar heat of your cunt, vision fuzzing out. He watched you slowly rise and drop your hips, giving your best effort, but you never could follow through when you were this needy– you laid on him like a rag doll, moaning and suckling at his neck, and he had to pump you up and down for him. A low grunt escaped his chest as you obediently hopped with his help, watching his length disappear inside you. By the way your eyes rolled back and you soaked his hips, he knew you needed it, and he was obliged to give it to you. You were just so gorgeous when you finally focused on something you cared about. 

Clark kneaded the pudgy flesh of your ass and murmured into your ear, “Feels so good, baby, you’re doing so well… such a smart girl, makin’ me feel so good…”

You whined and swallowed him whole, in and out over and over, laying all your weight on his shoulder as he used his big paws to fuck you. Heat burned low in your tummy, low and fast. As he began to meet your manufactured bounces with his own bucks, he groaned with pleasure against your cheek.

“Good girl… take it… Always such a high achiever, bunny– Jesus– sometimes you gotta let me take care of you.”

“I… oh, Clarkie… feels so…”

“I know, baby, I can feel you,” he crooned, licking your bottom lip before kissing you. “Cum whenever you want, bunny. Feel good. It’s your reward.”

“S’gonna be messy!” you warned as you dropped down on his cock another time, feeling the soft throbbing of the muscle against your constricting walls. Your hands fisted in his shirt for a tether.

Clark’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at how tight you could grip him. Sometimes he was somewhat worried that your cunt would squeeze so hard he would never get out, like a chinese finger trap. He pressed a palm to your lower back hard enough that it stopped you rocking, and you whined petulantly. He praised, “Shh, be a good bunny, hm?” before he started drilling into you from below. 

A squeak of surprise escaped you before you disassembled against his chest, grunting with the exertion of being jackrabbited like a toy. Clark moaned pathetically into your neck as he thrusted deep and fast, battering into the velveteen muscle that had you writhing and begging for just a little more, just a little faster. He gave you everything you asked for until you couldn’t even form the words.

“Gonna– gonna-!”

“I got ‘ya, honey, cum for me… c’mon, give me a good one, bunny,”

The coil snapped inside your gut as he shoved himself as far inside as it was possible to go, and you spasmed into a trembling orgasm, arms around his neck, clinging on for dear life. Clark bullied your cunt happily, refusing to stop until he came, too– which was barely seconds later. The way you cried into his shoulder from overstimulation made him dizzy, and before he knew it, he was flooding your womb with sticky spend, bucking erratically to give it all away. He grunted in breathless victory as pretty little rings of creams coated him, and he gently eased you back down, squeezing your hips as he let you sit on his cock and settle. 

Your face was slack and pressed to his neck, hands scratching at the nape of his neck like a kitten; little puffs of exhausted air left you as your lashes fluttered and the feeling tamped down. Clark made little promises against your shoulders and neck.

“That’s it, bunny… so good, love, you took it like a champ… just like a good student should, right? At least you can pay attention to something…”

Your skin flushed brutally hot and you burrowed into the hiding spot of his collarbone. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” Clark chuckled, gently cradling the back of your skull and using our hair to tug your head back. “Just happy you finished a lesson.”

You gazed up at his sleepy eyes– that face that got him anything he wanted– and you chewed the inside of your cheek. “Think I might need another if I’m gonna finish that homework…”

Clark poked your cheek affectionately. “Baby, if I fuck you again, there won’t be any homework.”

You grinned, “Good.”

The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily. 

The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up. 

The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted. 

The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation. 

You hated it. 

Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease. 

Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing. 

Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand. 

Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed. 

This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault. 

Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work. 

So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around. 

By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.

You immediately regretted coming up here. 

Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine. 

You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.

Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip. 

Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders. 

The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.

You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation. 

Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment. 

His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot. 

Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers. 

You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place. 

You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice. 

Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"

"Morning, Morgie." 

You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."

"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye. 

"Trying to," you answered honestly. 

Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing. 

You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her. 

If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people. 

Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion. 

"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?" 

You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question. 

Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."

You blinked at her. 

You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life. 

But apparently none of that really mattered. 

Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."

Your brain stalled completely. 

Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"

Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to. 

"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."

For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long. 

Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?

"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."

"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"

Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances. 

"Catching what?" you asked.

She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked. 

"Should I?"

In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."

Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion. 

"I'm confus—"

"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted. 

Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips. 

Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered. 

Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath. 

It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?

It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes. 

You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough. 

This was different. This was public. 

This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick. 

Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.

And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense. 

Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh. 

You couldn't speak. 

You couldn't breath. 

Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you. 

"There it is." 

Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God. 

Had it always been that noticeable?

You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder. 

"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER. 

You almost didn't answer the door. 

The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. 

Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem. 

The problem was you. 

It was how Jack made you feel. 

Jack was thoughtful and kind. 

The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you. 

The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole. 

You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned. 

The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."

The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with. 

"Can I come in?"

You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered. 

He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items. 

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it. 

"You look better than I expected."

You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick. 

So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained. 

"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin. 

You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm. 

"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."

You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed. 

"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."

"Jack, thats too much."

"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."

Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people. 

You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you. 

"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward. 

Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing. 

He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere. 

"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary. 

"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued. 

You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable. 

He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence. 

You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."

"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."

The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator. 

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.

"Tell me what's going on."

You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations. 

Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere." 

You blinked, confused, "What?"

"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I don't think—"

"Sit."

His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling. 

"Oh my god."

"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation. 

But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in. 

"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"

You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."

You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."

"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."

"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."

You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable. 

"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"

Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."

"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."

"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"

You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."

Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"

"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."

Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"

And there it was.

This was the moment. The point of no return. 

You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"

The silence that followed was immediate.

"What?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"

For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."

"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."

"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing. 

"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.

"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"

Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"

"You don't understand."

"No. I do."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."

"Jack."

"What?"

His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."

"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."

"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away. 

"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."

"It is terrible."

"Why?"

"You weren't there."

"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked. 

You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."

Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."

For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."

"Oh."

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”

The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"

"No!"

You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."

Your mouth dropped open.

"I do not."

One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.

His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."

"Jack, that's not helping."

"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"

Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."

"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."

"Please stop talking."

"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."

Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.

The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.

And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.