Kalopsia

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you almost everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It’s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have rarely known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That’s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Blue Jay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

your eyes were slightly fluttering, the tiredness from the day rushing over you. your head dropped gently on dex.. he smelt of sea salt and oak, and a tad of musk. you closed your eyes just momentarily, soaking in the hum of the television and dex’s chilling body temperature. 

dex looked down at his body, gazing at your figure. he brought his trembling hand up to your face, stroking a stray hair from your forehead. dex then rested his hand on your cheek, thumb moving in small circles. you were so precious. what did he do to deserve you?

your eyes blinked awake, feeling a large, calloused hand on your cheek. dex stopped his movements for a moment, moving to retract his hand. before he could, though, you set your hand over his. the small, manicured one compared to his rough one. 

you removed your hand now, trailing it up dex’s muscular arm to his broad shoulder. “you're so beautiful,” you mumbled out between your sweet lips.

dex hadn’t replied with words, but instead lifted you to sit in his lap. god, he was so big. he was capable of so much, and you weren’t afraid a single bit. your body shifted around, finally settling on his strong thighs. his large arms came around you, hands settling at your lower back. dex peered back up at you with the deepest fucking eyes, looking at you like you were the sweetest girl ever. 

“my sweet girl,” he hummed, his grip tightening. it was firm, but not enough to bruise. never enough to bruise. dex would never hurt his girl, and he would never allow her to be hurt. 

you pawed at his shirt, begging to get the soft cotton off. “dexy, m’begging you, please.” 

“anything for you,” he rasped out, pulling the fitted navy shirt over him. his sculpted body was covered in scars, raised and red. you didn’t care, though. dex earned them. proof he was superhuman. 

now, clawing off your own tee, dex pulled you somehow closer. you were wearing the bra he liked. navy, fabric smooth like butter, and cupped your chest perfectly. it was his favorite because it wasn’t like the others that dug into your skin and left marks that you would silently rub before you stepped into the shower. 

you snaked your arms around dex, his eyes locked onto you like a target. his eyes were now rimmed with hazel and filled with a deep void of desire. you peered down at his pink lips, laying a warm kiss. it was short, but sweet. dex loved how soft and pliant you were. you would melt in his hands, like strawberry ice cream on a balmy day.

dex wasn’t much different. anytime you would cuddle, ass plush against him, he too would melt. anything you would do had him chasing the high over and over again. 

he now chased your lips, pressing back against your smooth ones. they tasted like your banana cream lip gloss and whipped cream. he licked them once before he went in again, tasting all of you. you giggled at his sweet action, a hand snaking to his sandy blonde tufts. you gripped it gently, bringing it towards you. he hummed in satisfaction, the slightest sting of pain thrilling him. “fuck.”

you ran a hand down his chest, down to his abdomen. your pointer finger drew hearts over his abs as you looked back up at him. “can i, baby?” you asked, eyelashes batting. you shifted your hips right over his growing bulge, a wet patch already forming in his grey sweatpants.

he nodded, “yes, f-fuck, love.” your gaze never broke, because that was the real intimate part. dex never took you fully from behind, unless there was a mirror in front of you two, or if he held you against him. he loved looking at your fucked-out face as you took all of him.

your finger trailed down, right above his length. you let it linger there, licking your lips. his hands engulfed your ass as you pulled at the band, letting it snap against his waist. his hips twitched at the action, restraining from bucking up into you. 

you pulled him out and cupped your warm hand around him. you could hear dex’s breath hitch, the airflow becoming heavier. after a few jerks, you swiped over the tip, a bead of his sweetness sticking to your thumb. dex whined out, mouth agape. you drew forward, taking advantage of the opening. you kissed the side of his mouth, your spit drowning his shaved skin. he tilted his head to the side to take control of your mouth now, his tongue immediately invading it.

you pulled your underwear to the side, already wet, waiting for him. every time you and dex made love, he knew at this point it was his turn to take the reins. dex dragged his hands up and down your thighs, feeling the soft skin. you hovered over him, not wanting to sink down until he gave the green light, even though you knew you always had it. when it came to dex, anything was plausible. 

“my girl needs me now, hm? need me to fuck her good?” he asked with a smooth tone, cupping the curve of your waist. 

you nodded with teary eyes, the ache in your cunt worsening by the second. a tear slipped, and dex wiped it away with his thumb, licking the wet streak. the salty trickle now replaced by his damped love that you would go to war for. 

dex brought you down slowly, easing into you. no matter how many times you had taken him, it was still far too much. maybe he needed to mold you more, he thought.

you whined pathetically, hands planted right on dex’s chest. he threw his head back in ecstasy, never getting tired of your gummy walls. “move please, please, dex, i need you,” you begged. 

he brought you back up before slamming down. a moan etched from you, the noise coming straight from the back of your throat. dex winced with pleasure, getting his fix. he brought his lips to your artery, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the pressure point. 

once he saw you catch your breath, he continued his movements, pulling your body back up and down with no effort whatsoever. he’s throbbing inside, tip kissing that sweet spongey spot inside you. you're babbling now, whispering sweet nothings against him. dex glanced at your tummy and the slight bulge in it. he was obsessed with the fact that he could see himself leaving and entering you.

dex closes his eyes, replaying the image over and over. his lips trailed down to your chest, licking and nipping gently at the smooth skin. dex was so proud whenever you took him, falling apart so easily. the fact that you let him every single time, treating him like he hung the moon. 

“i-i’m gonna cum, dexy..” you whimpered against his lips, closing your eyes. the tightness in your tummy was ready to snap. “i know, babygirl, let it out,” he moaned back, his jaw unlocked. 

you tightened around him, listening to dex’s instructions. you would never disobey him. you were so loyal, like a dog. 

“not much longer, baby,” you cried out, eyes tearing up once more. “now, c’mon, sweet girl,” he grunted. 

you threw your head back, letting go. you saw stars transform into white, chest heaving. 

dex wasn’t far behind, bucking up and his pace increasing. though, he was getting messy. he pushed your hair back before bringing your face back to his. dex smothered you in spit-soaked lips as you were still coming down from your high. 

“yeah, that’s it, baby. take fucking all of it,” he groaned. and you did. like his good fucking girl.

you could feel dex’s movements faltering as he gripped harder. “fuck, all mine. where, sweetheart?”

his hand trailed up to your throat, wrapping around it like he could cut off your airway at any given moment. “inside, dex,” a mewl comes from you. “inside me, please!”

dex sobbed at your words, thrusting fully into you. you both came instantaneously. he was still fucking up into you, his cum filling you to the brim. the creamy ring around him made you drool buckets. you whined at dex, laying a lasting sloppy kiss on him. “i love you, dex,” you mumbled.

“i love you too, doll, so fucking much. you’ll never know,” he whispered out, palm back to cradling the back of your head on his chest.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⁠𖣠

Anxiety has M’rone gnawing so fervently on her lower lip, that the tender skin has split and is bleeding. Lapping at the iron droplets, she tries to focus on the task in front of her. It is simple enough. She just needs to brush off the layer of dust and inspect what she is dealing with. But she fails to focus. It is not the strange dreams she had last night—she refuses to blame her disorientation on some hallucinated spiders and, again, a dream of her teeth falling out. No, her distraction is merely caused by the here and now.

Around her the Queen’s Ballroom is submerged in organized chaos: carpenters are barely done with covering the floor in thin wooden plates, or local builders are already setting up the scaffolding. Meanwhile her sister, Drenace, and her husband, Narvo, are discussing the old records they were provided, leaving their twin children free to run about unsupervised.

The turmoil was to be expected. It is their first day on the project, much is to be done. At least the furniture was removed before they arrived, and someone took down the obnoxiously large mirrors that was meant to obscure the pathetic state the murals were in. Gods be damned. The artisans who painted these had little skill let alone artistry in them. In principle she is not opposed to the fresco-secco technique. It fades quicker, but because one does not have to be worried about the plaster drying they have more time to work their craft. And a quicker fading is not necessarily bad: it gives the opportunity to retouch and redesign after a few years. She finds that the rich and noble are bored rather swiftly with designs, no matter how intricate they be, so it can be favorable.

However, the design on these walls makes no sense, proportions are strange and there is an inner-contradiction in the lay-out. What is she to make of knights dueling next to a nymph bathing? She would have thought that the Targaryens, old and illustrious as their house is, would have had some vision for the murals displayed in their home. Apparently not. Then again, Maegor the Cruel was likely too busy terrorizing his wives to realize his poor interior design choices.

‘M’rone!’

Startled she almost lets the brush fall. She turns around swiftly, bumping against a man carrying in a large plate of wood.

‘I frightened you,’ her father observes as he nears her.

It is a relief to hear some Braavosi between all the talk in common tongue. She speaks both fluently, but Braavosi sounds like homecoming. And she has a bit of an accent whenever she speaks the other.

Noticing his daughter’s frown, Tumyro Vilendrys adds in a softer tone, ‘Do you have a bad conscience, my dear?’

She does not blame him his lightheartedness. If anything she envies him for it. It is somewhat unfair that she has not inherited his good spirits from him. Even before the tragedy which befell her months past, even before the loss which still covers her in gray and black dresses, she had it found difficult to laugh. Then again, maybe that talent was stolen away from her during infancy. Perhaps the greyscale left more scars than just the ones covering her shoulder, throat and lower jaw.

‘I am in no mood for your nonsense, father. What is it?’

He laughs. Like usual her gloom only amuses him. ‘The Targaryens have given us another assignment.’

‘We did not even start this one. We cannot—’

‘We will hire more artisans from the city.’

‘I do not mean to speak bad about the locals, but I do hope their craft is better than whatever this is—’ She gestures at the mural she was just inspecting. ‘—because otherwise we will be in here whole spring and summer.’

‘I can understand you dislike the design, it is not pleasing to the eye. But you will not have to bother with that. It is a restoration job.’

‘This whole palace needs a redesign,’ she grumbles.

‘Then we will be here spring, summer and next winter.’

She rolls her eyes.

‘The task requires skill, not artistry. The local artisans may lack the latter, they are tolerable enough in the former department. We will have to explain them how to mix the paints—’

‘You would just share that knowledge with them?’

‘Not in detail…’

‘Narvo will mix the paints,’ she says. ‘We are not sharing something our family has labored on for decades with strangers.’

As brilliant of an artist as Tumyro Vilendrys is, he is a terrible businessman. For him it is all about passion and the love for the craft. And he loves sharing what he knows and loves. In Braavos his unbridled creativity and warm heart helped him rise to renown quickly, but only under the guiding hand of his late wife and, despise them she might but admit this she could, her aunts and uncles. It is just one of the many reasons why she laments that he accepted this contract abroad. Now she is left alone to keep him in reign.

‘Narvo will be needed elsewhere. How about the twins?’

‘They have barely begun learning!’ she starts, but then she relents. ‘Yes, the twins. Drenace and I will speed up their lessons. We will not be needing paint for the next couple of days at least, so by the time we actually need some, they should at least be able to prepare the primary colors.’

‘Wonderful! See, all will be fine. Now, on this new assignment. I want you to oversee it. It is quite a large undertaking, but of a more intimate, feminine nature, so it would suit you.’

Feminine nature. It remains disappointing whenever he father speaks in this way.

‘Father!’ Drenace calls out.

Her sweet little sister—not so little anymore, but still—looks positively frustrated. Her reddish brown curls stick to her sweaty brow and her amber eyes sparkle with clear annoyance.

‘M’rone and I will be quick.’

‘I do not care what the two of you are up to,’ she yells, trying to be heard above the general commotion in the room. ‘These plans make no sense. Come look. And also, the scaffolding, father. I am not getting up on that.’

She points at a construction being placed around one of the large windows. The builders are doing a bad job on that one to say the least.

‘Well, it will be your project, so you may as well discuss it with the queen dowager alone,’ Tumyro mutters as he guides M’rone to the doors.

‘Queen dowager?’

But Tumyro, unbothered, goes on to address a page boy in the common tongue, ‘Lad, it will just be my daughter.’

The boy gives an uncertain nod. Tumyro heeds his youngest daughter’s call, leaving M’rone to follow the servant to wherever it is she is going. As soon as she is away from the clamor and chaos of the Queen’s ballroom, she lets out a deep sigh. She dislikes first days on a new project precisely because of the noise and the crowd, so she is not loathe to have been stowed off.

‘We will have to take a detour,’ the page boy mutters, ‘the readying of the ballroom is causing quite a logistical disarray at the moment.’

As she closely follows the servant, she cannot help but notice just how bland and lifeless the Red Keep is. Magnificent and grand of course, but there is no soul to this place. Decorative paintings and murals alike are faded and fading. Is this the residue of years of winter and war?

The Seven Kingdoms are only just recovering from the carnage. She did not pay much heed to news from the west prior years, too busy with her own concerns, but now that she is here, walking through the uttermost innards of this strange realm, she finds herself recollecting some bits of the tragedy. A succession war between dragons is bound to be a bloody ordeal. And it has been. A little prince murdered in front of his mother, a king burned and disfigured, a queen eaten by a dragon. But all M’rone can think about is the fire devouring the smallfolk, those the most like her and her kin: as the dragons bickered about who was to sit on the throne, the Westerosi lords summoned their armies, depending not in the least on the ordinary man and boy. And then the Targaryens; they reduced lands to ash, laid whole towns and villages to waste, burned smallfolk as if they were kindle.

And now it is Aemond Targaryen who rules those left behind to live in the ashes and the waste. With his older brother deemed too incapacitated, too weak and most of all, unable to sire an heir, the Iron Throne was relented to the cruel, one-eyed prince instead. Jacaerys Velaryon and his bride Baela Targaryen may still live in Pentos, but with the dead Rhaenyra Targaryen’s youngest boys locked away in the Red Keep the succession war has come to a stalemate. And for all of Aemond’s savagery in the Riverlands, it appears this realm is more eager for peace under a wicked tyrant than to risk more years of war in trying to depose of him. It would matter little to M’rone, these jarring facts, if only she were not here.

She begged her father to decline the offer. Admittedly, the whole restoration was supervised by the queen dowager, Alicent Hightower, and so it is unlikely they will ever have to deal with the king himself. But Braavosi common sense made her certain on the matter from the very beginning: they had to refuse the offer. Leave the restoration to the Westerosi, leave dealing with those wicked dragons to others.

But Tumyro Vilendrys is becoming older. And there is nothing old men are so easily tempted by as the promise of glory.

As they pass a courtyard, M’rone’s gaze finally shifts away from the displeasing interior of the castle. Instead her eye has fallen on a young girl, ten or eleven, playing with a white bunny. It is not her pretty dress of green and gold which makes M’rone almost fall over her own feet: it is the girl’s silver hair and the uncanny purple eyes. She remembers that the queen Helaena, when she fell to her death, left behind a daughter, but she cannot remember her name. The young girl is supervised by a dark haired woman, maybe twenty years of age, who speaks to her with a strained smile. Her attire is simple and nice, but does not speak of nobility. Yet, she is not dressed like a simple servant either.

‘Miss?’ the page boy calls when he realizes she has fallen behind.

M’rone lifts her skirts just a bits and hurries to follow him. Once they have left the courtyard behind, she dares ask, ‘Would you please… This place is strange to me. Who is the young princess and the woman who was with her?’

‘There is no need for you to think on them.’

She bites on the inside of her cheek. The servants in this place are beyond frustrating. They clearly look down on her and her family. While if one were to truly consider class and rank, artisans do take precedence over castle staff. But she will not press the issue. Not now.

‘I mean no disrespect.’

The page sighs and relents, ‘The princess Jaehaera, daughter of the late queen Helaena and resigned king Aegon the Second. With her is her governess, Sara Snow.’

‘Snow?’ M’rone echoes, remembering that foreign naming custom. ‘Are there many northerners at the court?’

The page eyes her suspiciously but ultimately relents, ‘No. But…Sara Snow, she is a Stark bastard.’

‘Oh.’

It is all she says, because she has no idea what weight that holds. Who did the Starks side with again? She has an inkling they did not readily support Aemond Targaryen’s claim to the throne. Perhaps that is why she is here then. Still, it is strange. A bastard left to look over a princess. He says no more and neither does she. He takes her up a staircase and stops at a pair of impressively carved wooden doors.

‘The queen Alysanne’s quarters,’ the page boy says as he opens the door.

She steps inside hesitantly.

‘The queen dowager will be with you shortly.’

Door left open, M’rone finds herself alone in what are clearly forgotten, unused personal quarters. She is immediately drawn into the splendor. Admittedly, it is a faded glory, but on these murals she can clearly detect what was once a clear creative vision. The paintings were carefully composed to resemble a garden. Or perhaps even a priory; yes, an orange priory, in full bloom. Still the artist did not resolve to simplicity. They hid little details: a hedgehog in the bushes, a falcon in far skies and a forgotten shoe—a child’s lost sandal? It must have looked marvelous back when they were just painted.

Taking in the sight, she moves from the entrance room to the sitting room, the bathing room and then, the bedroom. In each of them the murals keep true to the theme, but they provide a different perspective. In the bathroom, one has a view on a distant sea, whereas in the bedroom the ceiling is adorned with a motive of the heavens. Mouth fallen agape she cannot help but admire the tension between the moon and the sun, kept in each other’s magnetism, but unable to ever touch.

‘The queen dowager,’ a voice suddenly calls, ‘Alicent Hightower.’

Caught unprepared, M’rone does not even look at the queen dowager before quickly sinking into a deep courtesy. It is not her first time in the presence of someone of renown. She has worked in the fine houses of many noble and rich Braavosi. But this is her first time in the presence of a queen. So it is only natural that her heart has taken to a loud, rapid pounding. Heels click against the stone floors and she dares to look up.

The queen dowager has an obsolete rigidity to herself. Her dark brown curls, lined only slightly with gray, are braided into a stern hairdo, and covered in a black net, embedded with green jewels. Her green dress is finished up with black details. But it is the look in her brown eyes which betray it: she is grieving.

Of course she is. Not so long ago she lost a daughter, not long before a grandson, then another. It must have been horrid. It must still be horrid. M’rone knows all too well. Her own grief is still as nightmarish as six months past, even if everyone says that time will heal the wounds. Time heals nothing. Time only allows her the opportunity to sew together a carefully crafted mask to conceal herself with.

The queen’s mask is imperfect at least.

‘You are one of the Vilendrysi daughters,’ the queen says finally.

‘My name is M’rone, your grace.’ She rises. ‘My apologies for my father’s absence. Matters in the Queen’s Ballroom required his immediate attention.’

The queen’s gaze lingers on M’rone’s childhood scars, but only for a moment. They are partly hidden away, but are still evident enough to catch attention. Given the lack of hesitation and comment, her father must have informed the queen on them. Or someone else did. Without a doubt this castle is alive with web upon web of whisper and rumor.

‘You are the eldest I presume.’

Only now does M’rone have enough attention to spare to notice the queen’s entourage: two White Cloaks by the door, as well as the handmaiden.

‘I am, your grace. I will take responsibility for the restoration of these murals, if it pleases you.’

‘I know little of your skill,’ she says. ‘But then again, if your father entrusted you this assignment, I believe you will suffice.’

‘This is not the first assignment of this scale that I have taken onto myself, your grace.’

Alicent Hightower arches a brow. ‘But the first of this prestige.’

Alright, the queen has a stick up her arse. It was to be expected, but it is still annoying nonetheless. Diplomatically M’rone replies, ‘That goes without saying.’

‘You speak the common tongue well.’

‘My father has looked into my and my sister’s education.’ Not eager to dwell on the matter longer than needed, she says, ‘If you wish for these murals to be restored to their original state, I estimate about six months of work, your grace, depending on how many extra hands we may hire.’

‘You have three months.’

The reply is not uttered by the queen. The male voice comes from behind Alicent Hightower. She appears startled herself to hear it, for with a jerk she sets a step aside and turns.

M’rone does not much like the sensation of Aemond Targaryen’s one amethyst eye resting on her body. There is something awfully intimidating about the young king and it has little to do with the eye patch covering the hole where once his other purple eye was. Perchance it is how he moves, like a predator on the prowl, or the scowl on his face. Whatever it is, the dread he brings with makes even the White Cloaks visibly uncomfortable, makes the queen’s servant tremble ever slightly. Even his mother appears less than eager to have him join the conversation.

Swallowing down even though her mouth is dry as sanding paper, M’rone sinks into yet another courtesy.

‘We need these quarters prepared for the new queen,’ the king goes on, roaming around the room with lazy steps. ‘And I will not delay a wedding for something as trivial as this.’

She clenches her jaw. She has little patience for this. If it were trivial then the crown would not have gone out the way to hire foreigners to do the job, no? She has enough on her plate as is, and that while she did not want to come to this place to begin with. She takes a deep breath and straightens her back.

‘In that case you should decide on which color to cover up the murals on the walls with, your majesty, and we will focus on restoring merely the paintings on the ceiling.’

He pauses amidst his stride and slowly turns to look at her. She does not meet his gaze, instead she looks stubbornly on ahead, through the window. She can hear her blood rushing through her ears as he nears.

‘Three months, woman, for the whole ordeal,’ he says, now standing close by. ‘I will not repeat myself another time.’

It comes back to her now. He has laid waste to the Riverlands. He killed his nephew, killed his uncle, and by some accounts laughed when he watched his half-sister being eaten alive by the dragon Sunfyre. It is reason enough the bow to his will. But M’rone has seen her fair share of misery. And Aemond Targaryen’s atrocities do not hold sway over her.

‘In that case, I must resign, your majesty.’

He arches a brow and she goes on, ‘I cannot commit to a task that is impossible to see through to an adequate result. It would ruin the reputation of the Vilendrys name. So I offer you my resignation.’

She bows and takes a few steps back, but he takes hold of her arm. Startled she stands back straight, leaning back, but he does not ease her grip on her.

‘You insolent—’

‘M’rone Vilendrys is an artist, Aemond,’ Alicent Hightower intervenes. ‘Not merely an artisan, but an artist of renown. that is why we hired the Vilendrysi. We agreed, the Red Keep needs to be ushered into a new era.’

‘We hired Tumyro Vilendrys,’ Aemond spits, ‘not his greyscale defiled daughter.’

Does he think he can insult her thus? She is not even trying to free herself from his iron grip anymore. Instead she stands perfectly still and looks him straight in the eye when she speaks, ‘You wish for your queen to live in splendor, your majesty, I understand well enough. But splendor requires time. In this case it requires six months. At least.’

She holds his gaze, having made her peace with the possible violent retaliation she may meet for it. But then Aemond’s gaze drifts to her fingers. Her fingertips are smudged still from this morning, in purple. She mixed some paints, one of which a lavender on the basis of the dark purple her people yield from the sea snails found in the Braavosi waters.

He lets go of her. Finally.

‘You are right to protect the name of your craft, milady.’

She goes ice cold at the title. She is no lady, he knows well enough. Yet, it does not sound like an ironic insult. What has changed for him to turn thus?

‘Six months, but no more,’ he decides, already walking away from her. ‘You may want to begin right away.’

Alicent Hightower’s gaze lingers on M’rone for just a moment too long. The dowager queen has noticed as well—the shift in his approach to her—and she does appear pleased with it. Feeling hollow and overwhelmed at the same time, she watches the queen and her entourage leave. Only then does she hurry to return to the Queen’s Ballroom. The king’s words ring true: she should begin this very moment. She cannot waste any time.

Only by dusk does she retreat from the old queen’s quarters. She has spent the remainder of the day making notes on the murals as they are now, penning down the properties of the plaster—at the verge of crumbling—and making an index of which shades of paint will be needed. Even with the six months she has been given, she fears she will not be able to deliver in time. It is a massive task, made all the more challenging due to the artistry of the original artisan’s. Compared to these private chambers, the restoration of the Queen’s Ballroom is a breeze.

She is worn out by the day’s hectics. She is still to introduce her niece and nephew to the craft of paint mixing, something she does not look forward to, but cannot postpone either. Her days at the Red Keep are already proving longer and more tiresome than those spent at home. But in part she is grateful for it. It keeps the memories at bay, it allows her no space to over think.

Only too late does she realize that she has gotten lost. She does not recognize the hallway, but its lush carpet indicates she is nearing the heart of the castle, not getting away from it. At a crossing of two hallways, she turns and looks around. And falls motionless. It takes a moment before she understands what she is seeing. It the deepening dark, only somewhat illuminated by oil lamps, it is difficult to make out at first. But then it dawns on her—someone is standing in the window. Without a further thought she is rushing forward, her feet carrying her towards the window much faster than she remembered she could run.

She is only in time. Her arms wrap around the person’s waist and she leans back with all her weight. An angry scream echoes through the empty halls, its pitch high and shrill. Childishly, girlishly shrill. They tumble down on the floor in a swirl of skirts and hair—M’rone’s ash brown, the girl’s silver. M’rone groans at the impact of the stone floor against her head.

‘Let go of me!’ the princess Jaehaera screams as she tries to free herself from M’rone’s grip. ‘Let go of me and let me be and let me—let me—’

Her screaming and yelling dies down into panicked sobbing. Soothing the little girl comes like a slumbering instinct to M’rone. Combing her fingers through the princess’s starlight adorned hair, she hushes her and whispers, ‘I will not let go, little princess, I will not.’

She is but a child. The realization comes crashing on M’rone like a tidal wave. Just a child. And yet she feels so much pain, she is weighed down by such grieve that she would contemplate and try to follow in her mother’s grim and fatal footsteps; out of the window, down below. M’rone understands such pain all too well, the kind which comes from misery ordained by fate and evaded in no way. But at least hers accumulated over a span of twenty seven years. This princess, how old is she? Eleven?

By the time a Kingsguard finally comes upon them and brutishly drags M’rone by the neck away from the princess, her own cheeks are sticky with tears. As soon as Jaehaera is separated from M’rone, she is screaming again as if she were possessed by all the spirits of this godsforsaken place. M’rone watches on with empty eyes as the princess is carried off in the arms of a White Cloak. Another barks something at her, but she does not hear him. She can only see—the vivid image of their corpses: her little boy, stillborn, in her arms; and her husband dead in their bed mere weeks later. It has been barely over half a year. How uncanny. Just half a year. It feels ages ago. It feels like just yesterday.

The Kingsguard drags her through the hallways. As this happens, she half catches sight of a figure behind her, leaning heavily on a cane, his face hidden behind a golden mask. It is such an odd sight, she almost believes she is hallucinating. Eventually she is sat down on a chair in some luxuriously furnished sitting room. Only then does she understand that she now finds herself even deeper inside Maegor’s Holdfast.

‘Ser,’ she speaks, ‘My apologies for my behavior. I was in shock.’

The man gives a small nod, but does not say a word. It is something at least. She only said it because she does not want to be thought of as a fool. He stand straight by the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He thinks she may run, prompting her to consider whether she should try to run. She is in trouble, that much is evident. She may have saved the princess, but that does not take away that this turn of circumstance has made her privy to likely the most delicate matter in this castle: young princess Jaehaera’s wish is to follow her mother’s example.

She remains as is for a long while. Call it a professional deformity, but she cannot help but inspect the paintings put on the wall. Most of them feature dragons of old; Balerion the Black Dread, the silver-scaled Meraxes and the Bronze Fury, Vermithor. There are few of them left now, she supposes, she heard a great many of the dragons were killed when the smallfolk stormed the Dragonpit in the city. But a few did escape. She may not know how many of these terrifying beasts still live, but she does know what is of importance now: the king she will have to face still has a dragon, alive and well. Even more, he rides the largest, most terrifying beast still alive. Dusk has turned into pitch black night by the time the doors open and in walks the king of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen.

Swallowing down her fatigue, she stands and courtesies low. But the king pays her no mind. He walks past her to pour him a cup of wine. In the meanwhile the Kingsguard leaves. As the king drinks, M’rone straightens her back, but keeps her eyes low. Once emptied, he places the cup on the table with hard clank which does nothing to soothe her nerves.

‘Look up,’ he says and she does. ‘Not like that, as you did before.’

But she cannot. Then she was emboldened by being in her element, by knowing she was right to speak as she did. This circumstance is different, unknown. So she tries to meet his gaze, but she cannot.

He hums and leans against the table. ‘You are shaking. Sit.’

‘Thank you, your majesty,’ she mutters as she does as ordered.

‘The crown offers you her gratitude, milady.’

‘I only did what was right.’

‘Then you will find it easy to do the right thing furthermore and show the utmost discreetness on what you witnessed.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

Silence falls and it leaves M’rone uncomfortable. Aemond Targaryen—not so. He takes his time observing her as she is now. Undoubtedly, he is amused. She is a shade of the woman who during the day told him her mind.

‘A shame,’ he says. ‘You may leave.’

‘Thank you.’

She rises, courtesies. She has already turned her back on him, when she hesitates. She cannot just leave. Not without asking. She would spend the whole night lying awake if she does not at least inquire.

‘Your majesty, if I may.’

She turns around and now does meet his gaze. He arches a brow.

‘You may.’

‘Why did she… Why did the princess do that?’

‘She takes after her mother,’ he replies and after a moment he adds, ‘A fragile creature.’

She did not come across on her as fragile. Broken and tarnished, yes, but not fragile.

‘Does she…’ She bites her tongue. That goes too far.

‘Go on.’

‘It is not my place.’

He takes a step forward, leaning a hand on the back of the chair whereon she just sat. ‘I prefer it when people finish what they start.’

What a rigid man he is. And also wrung so tightly. He is clad all in leather, of a dark green color. And then that sword—is it one of the renowned blades of Valyrian steel?

He strikes an imposing, stern picture. It is unsettling.

‘I heard she lost two brothers.’

‘Lost is a soft word for it.’

‘I would not know the details, your grace, I do not make it my business to think on foreign wars.’ She is already losing her patience with him. But he only smirks. ‘What I want to inquire about is whether she has companions.’

‘To replace her brothers?’

‘To not make the loneliness so daunting,’ she corrects.

He scoffs, fingers clenching around the backrest, and says, ‘She has her grandmother. And governess.’

Yes. Sara Snow. What a strange choice for the king to allow a Stark bastard so close near his niece.

‘They are women, adult women, there to raise her not to… A friend, your grace, do you not think she could do well with a friend?’

‘Who do you propose?’

‘Any child would do, I think.’

‘This is a princess.’

‘And a child.’

‘Not for long anymore.’

She opens her mouth, baffled. How can he say that? She is still so young. Finally, knowing not what better to say, she pleads, ‘Let her enjoy what remains of her childhood.’

Aemond tilts his head, eye slightly narrowed. The shade of it, that otherworldly purple, distresses her so. She half understands why some Westerosi believe their kings to be more akin to gods than to men. But mostly, now she is so close to this Targaryen king, she wonders if they are not perhaps half demon.

‘I heard you have children—’

‘Then you heard wrong.’ Her interruption comes like the lash of a whip.

He hums. ‘Then… Ah, your sister.’

‘She has twins,’ she admits, folding her hands behind her back. They have become clammy.

‘They speak the common tongue?’

‘Well enough.’

‘How old are they?’

This is not the direction she intended this conversation to take.

‘Nine.’

‘Younger than Jaehaera, but she would not mind. Two girls or…’

‘A girl and a boy. But they are to help us, your grace, in the restoration, with the paint mixing—’

‘Of course. They will do their work, we do not want them to become lazy, hm? But after seeing to their tasks, they will join the princess in whatever she sees fit.’

She lets out a trembling sigh and bows her head. ‘As you wish, your majesty.’

He closes the distance between them with slow, unbothered steps. Tilting his head, he takes hold of her chin and makes her look up at him. The gesture is too intimate; it crosses a line which he has no business to cross. And yet, he does, and yet here he stands, so close she can smell him. Like ash and smoke.

He says, ‘Now you dare to sound displeased. It was you who insisted the princess needed a friend.’

‘I am not displeased, your majesty.’

‘You are a liar, M’rone Vilendrys.’

His fingers wander to her jaw, to her throat; over the scales of her scars. Her breath hitches. She remembers the last time someone touched her there. The last time a man touched her there.

‘You are the eldest daughter, the heir to the Vilendrysi trade. You have no children, but deducing from this gray attire of yours, your shadowed eyes, I would say that you are a widow.’

He is invading her. He is breaching her privacy, trespassing across her body—and he knows it and he enjoys it.

‘If that is all,’ she says, ‘I will take my leave, your majesty.’

Aemond hums and removes his touch from her. As she courtesies, he inquires, ‘He has not been dead for long, has he?’

‘Half a year.’

He says something in High Valyrian; maybe he thinks she will not understand, but Braavosi is related to High Valyrian and she has been taught enough of the old language to understand.

Good riddance.

She does not remain to linger there any longer. By the time she returns to her family’s temporary quarters in the far edge of the castle, she is nauseous with frustration and disgust. The remainder of the Vilendrysi are eating dinner. Her father calls her out to join them, but she mutters something about needing to freshen up first and retreats into the bedroom she shares with him. With a sigh she sits down on her bed. Drenace is by her side before she can blink.

‘What is it?’ she takes hold of her hands. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost.’

She remembers the man in the hallway, leaning on that cane, with his gold mask and mutters, ‘I think I have.’

‘M’rone?’

She blinks and then says, ‘Drenace, I am sorry.’

‘Alright, no. Now you are just scaring me.’

M’rone shakes Drenace’s hands off and, standing up, she says, ‘I cannot explain in detail, but… Lanna and Trystane, they will be the princess Jaehaera’s playmates while we are here.’

Never one for quietude, Drenace shrieks, ‘What?’

A tiresome day is followed by a tiresome night of informing her family about the agreed arrangement for the children. While Lanna and Trystane are only happy to have been ordained more play time than they would without this turn of events, her sister, brother-in-law and father are hearing none of it. Of course they are not: she cannot explain to them the reason for it, the circumstance which brought them here. While Tumyro gives his questioning up rather quickly, Drenace and Narvo are annoyed with M’rone for the remainder of the evening. Their resentment tastes bitter.

To make matters worse, when she finally lies down and drifts to sleep, she dreams, once again, of her teeth falling out.

"Baby's all sensitive and red now, Paige, we gotta settle this. Don't wanna tire this pretty pussy t'much." Emily said to which Paige rolled her eyes at, taking another drag before she answered. "Fine, whoever makes her squirt, then." Paige casually said as if you weren't there, laying down in their messy bed.

Emily scoffed, shaking her head before looking down at your fuck out figure, smiling at you. "You heard her, baby girl, squirt all nice for me and we'll get that Dior bag you've been whinin' about, yeah?" Emily said as she gently tapped the tip of her strap in your entrance, pushing it slowly but surely and making sure you felt every fucking vein the silicone have. She groaned, throwing her head back like she could actually feel your walls around her and in some sense- she does, your pussy clamped down on her cock, making it harder for her to thrust.

"Fuck, baby... loosen up" she gulped, her tatted hand finding your clit to gently rub you and it worked, your walls started to relax, your eyes shut as you savored the feeling of her inside your cunt. Emily smiled, kissing one of your nipples, then she started thrusting, throwing your legs over her shoulders before she got to ramming you. It was brutal, you can feel her hitting all the right places, her pace was mind-shattering and you can't help but feel yourself getting close again.

Paige sat back as she watched all of it. Was she jealous? Yes, she wanted to be the one rawwing your pussy, but she'd be lying if she said that it wasn't hot watching you get fucked dumb by her friend rival.

"P, look at this." Emily groaned as she dragged her cock out, leaving the tip in, Paige raised a brow but went over anyway. She could see the way that the strap was splitting your cunt open. She bit her lips. "Fuck..." Paige cursed under her breath. "Faster, Em, I wanna fuck her too." Paige groaned which Emily nodded to, chuckling. She carefully slides back in you, the bulge of her strap visible in your tummy. "Holy shit, Emily!" Paige exclaimed.

You laid there, watching them watch you like you're a hit movie, and to them, you were. "P-please... Can't- can't anymore..." You whined, looking up at the blondes with teary eyes. Paige looked away, wetting her lips before cursing again.

"Fuck you, Em, move." Paige said before lifting you, just enough so she's sitting on the bed and you on her lap while Emily's still inside you, kneeling in front of you. They were sandwiching you. "I-i don't think I can..." You shyly said to which Paige smirked to, kissing your ear. "Of course you can, pretty girl, you want that car bad, no?" She whispered and you couldn't help but nod, biting down your tongue. "Y-yes, Paige..."

Now they have you between them, both of their strap pounding your pussy — hard. "A-ahh! Fuck fuck fuck fuck...!" You moaned, head resting on Paige's shoulder while you body arched towards Emily whose sucking your tit, Paige fondling the other one all while fucking you dumb. "Just like that, mama, just like- Fuck!" Paige moaned, throwing her head back when you claimed down on them both again, her free hand snaking to your waist and finding your clit, rubbing it.

"can't- can't anymore! I-im cumming!" You cried out, Emily smiled, humming as they both kept fucking you. "Mhm, cum f'me, ma" she whispered, kissing your lips, swallowing your moans as she did so. A few more thrusts from them was all you needed. You felt the cool in your stomach snap, sending shockwaves through your body, you hand finding Emily's forearm and Paige's hair, gripping both of it for anchoring.

"fuck! cumming cumming cumming!" You moaned louder, but you didn't cum, no. You squirted around their cocks wetting Emily's stomach and Paige's thighs under you. You shook as you let it out, taking a few moments to breathe before collapsing on Paige.

"shit, she passed out." Paige chuckled, kissing your temple before they both pulled out, laying you in bed all spent and fucked dumb. "It's definitely me who made her squirt." Paige said who's already on her way to the bathroom to grab some warm towels to clean you up. "nah, that's all me for sure." Emily smirked, lifting you up gently and placing you on the couch so she could change the sheets.

Question is — who made you squirt?

she practically threw you onto the bed, her strength fueled by the intense desire that had been building up inside her all day. your eyes widened in surprise as she straddled you, her hands eagerly roaming over your body, desperate to feel every inch of you beneath her touch.

the air crackled with electricity as emily's lips found yours in a feverish kiss, her hunger matching your own. there was no hesitation, no holding back ─ just raw, unbridled passion igniting between you as you surrendered to the primal urge that consumed you both.

your hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as you lost yourself in the intoxicating heat of the moment. the world faded away, leaving only the two of you, entwined in a dance of desire that knew no bounds.

"fuck, ma." she groaned into your lips before she pulled away. "sit on my face, princess, i need you,"

it wasn't a statement, it was a demand. you whimpered as she caressed your face before getting off you, laying on her back as her hands led your hips toward her face. she'd barely touched you and you were already soaking wet and it would've been embarrassing if you weren't so damn needy for her.

emily didn't waste any time, her lips attached to your wet cunt as you moaned, your back arching. she let out her own sounds that vibrated through your body, adding the pressure you already began to feel in your stomach.

the pure bliss you felt was indescribable, it felt like the world had faded away into nothing as her tongue explored you. her hands were gripping your hips harshly as she pulled you further down on her lips and didn't have it in you to protest anymore ─ you knew she wanted this as bad as you did.

"oh my god," you cried out as you began moving your hips against her mouth. you glanced down at emily, her eyes already on your face as she ate you out like her life depended on it.

your legs began to tremble, your neediness evident in the way your lips were pouted and your eyebrows were twisted in concentration. you felt the pressure in your stomach go tighter, your head falling back as you kept letting out desperate moans.

your hips began to falter but emily was determined to make you cum, hard. she gripped your hips even tighter and began moving them, her tongue finding your clit as you let out a gasp at the new sensation.

"fuck, em!" you moaned out as the knot snapped harshly, your body shaking as you doubled over. "oh fuck,"

she kept her tongue inside of you until she was satisfied, your legs were shaking as you slowly got off her face.

"good girl for me, hm? such a good girl," she sat up and pulled your face in for a sloppy and needy kiss, you could taste yourself on her tongue as you let out a small whimper.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

hc 1:

this girl is CLINGY!!! Whenever yall are together she has her hands everywhere—thighs, shoulders, hands, waist, like she's actually obsessed with u !!! n don't get her started on cuddles — she loves her cuddless—usually she's the bigger spoon but she also loves being held so occasionally she'll be the little spoon

— immediately after practice is done, bella goes straight to ur apartment and falls asleep on u, she'll spend hours laying there knocked tf out and if u wake her up bc u have to pee shes like " 5 more minutes baby…." (5 minutes my ass)

hc 2:

when shes at away games, she is ALWAYS on the phone with you. Like wheneverrr she has the time, she's grabbing that damn phone & immediately calls u

— you'll be on call & she's just telling u about her day, n when u fall asleep, bella stays on the phone even after she feels herself getting tired too, yall both wake up & the phone be hot asfff😭

hc 3:

this girl does NOT play behind u, let sb say sum sneaky before or during a game…we all know what happened before a certain game on Nov 12 🌚

— the little comments charlotte made alr had LSU heated but when bella gets on dat floor n she hears sb say sum sneaky shit regarding u? oh yeah😭

hc 4:

somehow everything always comes back to u, we ALL know bella is a lover girl & she isn't afraid to show it!

— she'll be like mid convo with somebody and be like "you know my girl—" "oh yeah my girl was just—" like as cute as the team thinks yall are, they be SICKKK😭

hc 5:

she loves randomly flexing. Like she'll be in her sports bra & flexs for nooo reason just to get ur attention

— ur literally in the middle of doing an assignment n shes like "ma", u turn around n the first thing she does is start flexing 😭ur just like …"bella i know u see my doing something🌚"

hc 6:

she is a sucker for pet names ok. she loves calling and referring to u as: pretty girl, ma, my wife, my girl, my baby. BUT she gets just as equally flustered when you call her pretty girl or wifey

— ur in front of the mirror getting dressed for a party bella is dragging u too and she just comes up behind u, wraps her arms around ur waist—chin resting on ur shoulder as she stares into ur eyes and says "ur so pretty ma" FOLDED. immediately hello.

— BUT like i said, she alo gets flustered with little pet names & she'll just be chilling on facetime with u and then u call her "pretty girl" n she immediately starts cheesing n says "yo chill" with a shy laugh n all u can see is her blushing through the screen😭 n its like 10 times more noticeable when ur actually together

now onto the freaky headcannons….(once again pls skip if u don’t feel comfortable ❤️)

hc 7:

SHE IS A EATERRRRR!!!! thank u very much lets talk about it

— the first time yall sleep together, mid kiss she's like "lemme eat u out ma" and ur IMMEDIATELY gone. like….an eater & she called u ma in the same sentence??????? gimme dat

hc 8:

so i know yall see her muscles….yall seem em right?….exactly now lets talk about THAT.

— one of her favorite things to do is to hold u down during doggy style…she becomes lwk rabid seeing the strap appear/disappear n she’s lwk a fein for ur moans…like thats what gets her off

hc 9:

her favorite position is cowgirl. We alr addressed how she's clingy as fuck and its even worse when yall fucking okay.

— SCENARIO ONEEEE: strap.

bella doesn't rlly care what she's using, she just loves being close to you. The vision of you taking control n chasing ur own release ….she legit goes insane, if she could take a picture she would (👀). n with her being clingy she's gripping whatever she can grab, her favorite are ur thighs….she softly guides your movements, mouth OPENN as she's watching u — like im telling u this girl is obsessed with u and add the base of the strap rubbing against her clit ….… YO YO savannah slow down🌚 can u tell i've thought about this alot ?

— SCENARIO TWOOO: hands!

while she very much enjoys using the strap, like mentioned early, she LOVES to be close to you, n being completely hands on allows her to do that. like im telling u she legit gets off from it. Another one of her fav positions is Missionary!!! Pair up ur breathy moans—hands gripping on her hair, n skin-to-skin?yep.

hc 10:

look ik we've been talking about giver!bella but lets address taker!bella…

— in her other relationships she was always the giver but when you first offered to go down on her she was like…."what?baby u don't have to do that" n with this little pout on ur face u said— "but i wanna make my girl feel good" (she's a hair gripper)

hc 11:

speaking of pictures 😛 we all know bella enjoys photography so when u first bring up the idea of her capturing u on film in the middle of riding her, she blacks out.

— she calls you pretty as her hands r resting on ur legs, watching ur facial expressions, n without thinking you say "i bet id be even prettier on camera" the idea drives her INSANE like its legit stuck in her head for weeks.

Of course they had warned him about this. The heightened senses and all that. Miles knew about the Na‘vi’s keen sense of smell, their incredible eye sight and the distinctive hearing, even before he became one of them. Well, sort of.

What he didn’t expect though, was how incredibly good his senses actually were now.

It was a blessing and a curse.

A blessing mostly because it gave him an advantage, made him better than the human soldiers, a better version of his own past self. And finally he was eye level with his sworn enemy. But as soon as he was back in bridgehead city, back at the base and in his private quarters, it was curse. Miles could handle his new body and all the changes that came with it, there was no doubt in that. But out of all things, it was his distinctive hearing that quite literally made his life hell. Well, not his whole life but specifically his nights.

To his right, there was Lyle‘s room. The Corporal had always been a heavy sleeper, snoring louder than the roar of a Thanator. It was annoying, but bearable, even with his heightened senses. To his right, however, there was your room.

Miles didn’t know you when you were a human, he had only frequently met you when you had joined his team. You were a cute thing, young and eager and maybe a little too pretty to be a recom soldier. You looked more like you belonged to the nerds working in the bio labs, always walking around with that bright smile and sunshine attitude. And you definitely got on his nerves more than he would like to admit. More so, when Ardmore made you move in to the room right next to his. Now his nights were spent mostly sleepless, forced to listen to the little night owl he had as his new neighbor. All thanks to the Na‘vi and their damn distinctive hearing.

On some nights, it felt like there weren’t any walls at all. He could hear you loud and clear, like you were standing right here in his room as you did your little bedtime routine, several hours after you were supposed to go to bed.

Quaritch could hear how you turned on the shower, the water running against the tiled wall and down the drain for a good ten minutes until he heard you step under the spray. You probably loved a good, hot shower, he noticed right away in the first night. From then on, with nothing better to do than to lay there and listen to the newbie showering, Miles often found himself imagining you under the spray of water.

He just couldn’t help it. His mind almost instantly presented him with a clear picture of your naked body, imagining you all wet and soapy, with your hands running over your curves. Fuck, he could smell your damn shampoo all the way from here. Fucking vanilla, he scoffed, as his hands found the waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down enough to free his now hard cock. He would make you run an extra mile around the campus tomorrow, just for that.

It’s not often that he had some alone time on this damn planet. Better use his precious time wisely if he couldn’t sleep anyway…

At least he had his private quarters, unlike most of his subordinates who either had to keep it in their pants or be stealthy about it. Or didn’t care what others might think of their nightly jerkoff session.

Miles was so hard, his cock was throbbing painfully in his palm as he begins to move his hand up and down, stroking lazily to the thought of you. Faintly, he remembers overhearing a conversation between you and Z-dog from a couple of days ago. It was after a mission, when she had asked how you always smelled so nice and what you used to keep your skin so soft. Their new bodies required more care than what they were used to when they were all still human, so you happily recommended her some oil that you frequently used. Of course you went into full detail, talking about how she had to use a generous amount and make sure to rub it into her skin and fucking great, now he was imagining you oiling yourself up like a damn snack.

Miles was gritting his teeth as he stroked over his shaft, squeezing the blue tip of his cock just right, forcing the very first droplets of pre-cum to form and spill over his knuckles. While he enjoyed fast-pace excitement every so often, it was nice to take his time and let all the pleasure course through him.

Out of all his years of living, he had never wanted to bend a woman over so bad. It was an unfamiliar feeling, something that hadn’t plagued his usually cool and composed mind in such a long time. You just looked so inviting, so good, so kissable, suckable, so fuckable. Miles wanted to bend you, eat you and fuck you in so many different ways, he wanted to make you cry. He wanted to see tears trickle down that beautiful face of yours, wanted to see those plumb lips slick with spit and his cum. And fuck, did he wanted to see that ass bounce on him. You were almost as sweet as your delicious ass looked. Quaritch wasn’t the type to stare, he barely paid you any attention at all, truth be told. But god damn, was it hard not to crane his neck to get a glimpse of that ass whenever you walked by.

On some nights, his perverted thoughts would come to an end once you mercifully decided to end your twenty minute long hot shower and went to bed. On other nights however, you didn’t went straight to bed. Well, to bed yes but… not to sleep. Those nights were the very reason Miles was cursing your name so venomently while wrapping his fist tightly around his cock.

Those nights, where you would settle down with the faint creak of your bed and where he could pinpoint the exact moment your breathing increased. He could see it clear as day in his minds eye, how you laid down and spread those pretty legs, ran your soft hands down over your stomach until they disappeared between your thighs. Oh, how he would love to bite into the soft of your inner thighs, leave his marks there, before he would taste you. Miles frequently imagined the flavor of your pussy and he could almost taste it on his tongue every time. He bets you’re so sweet– all dripping wet, smelling like that damn vanilla stuff and so fucking delicious.

The recom‘s ears twitched as they picked up the sounds of your tender fingers entering your slick cunt. God, what he would give to replace them with his cock. Miles tried to stroke his length in the same rhythm of those obscene squelching sounds coming from the room next door. But those sweet moans and heavy pants that left your lips made it very difficult for him to not fuck his fist like a madman.

There’s a tightness, a warmth that swells inside him and it gets even worse when he hears you shift around on your bed, clearly turning to your side to reach for something.

By now, he already knew the familiar sound of your nightstand drawer getting pulled open. It was a sound that would probably wake him up from the deepest slumber and instantly give him a boner. Like some sort of muscle memory or whatever. And that even though he absolutely hated when you used your toys. And you seemingly had a various amount of them. Going by the way you were moaning and whimpering on some nights, they had different sizes too. Oh you would definitely be able to take all of him, if he were ever going to stuff that needy little hole of yours.

But the worst of all was whatever toy you owned that was buzzing so fucking loud. He cursed it. Were you really that desperate that you needed a vibrator too? It was almost impossible to hear your sweet moans, thanks to that damn thing.

If you needed something to fill you up so bad, why didn’t you just ask? There were like… ten guys in his squad that would gladly bend you over the next best surface, going by the way they all looked at you and tried their absolute most to sweet talk their way into your pants. Why the fuck were you rejecting them, if you needed to get laid so bad?

Nevertheless, Miles thanked god you didn’t settle for that vibrator today. Whatever you had chosen instead though, must’ve been big enough for you to whine so loud, even a regular without distinctive hearing could’ve heard that.

Quaritch‘s imagination provides him with images of you, laying on your bed and with your legs spread wide while you thrust the toy into you. Or would you kneel? Would you hover over it and slowly sink down, forcing the silicon cock to stretch you out to the absolute most? Maybe you were the type of girl that would enjoy a little pain, maybe you would rush it because you’re so desperate. You would just sit down and take it all at once, because you love the sting that the sudden stretch brings. He imagines how you bounce on that fake cock, humping like a little bunny in heat and he groans through clenched teeth, wishing it was him instead.

Speeding up his movements, Miles hips were already bucking up to fuck into his fist, your moans and whimpers only egging him on more. Shit, he was close. It had been so long since he'd let himself have a satisfying release, but this would have to do. He would end up shooting his cum into his fist, instead of a wet little pussy that would actually satisfy his needs. Then he would clean himself and he would try to rest for at least a few more hours, until he had to get up for his squad’s morning workout. And he would look at you– if he would even look at you, no, he would most definitely ignore you just like any other day, acting like none of this has ever happened. Like he wasn’t daydreaming about fucking you stupid every second of the day.

This was how it was supposed to go. How it always went.

Just not today, though.

At first, Miles thought that his mind was playing tricks on him. That it was just his brain adding further stimulation to the imaginary scenario in his head, in favor of helping him cum. But then he heard it again.

A soft, high-pitched and keening whine of his name. His damn name.

"Miles– oh god Miles, fuck yes", you were moaning, chanting his name like a prayer. Like you were begging for him to come over and help you out.

Miles head perked at the sound, so audible even through the wall that separated your rooms. And then it was like his body moved without his brain telling him to. Pulling his boxers back up and rearranging himself, he made his way over to the room next door.

It took a whole five minutes after knocking that you finally opened. The door creaked open just a few inches, revealing your delicate frame to him. The room behind you was almost dark, the only source of light was coming from the dim hallway. Quaritch couldn’t hide the smug grin that formed on his face by the sight of you, dressed in nothing but an oversized shirt that had the RDAs logo printed on it, your tail nervously swaying behind your back. And you weren’t wearing a bra, by the looks of it. What a delightful sight for his hungry eyes.

When you realize that it’s him, your eyebrows rise in surprise and you open the door just a little wider. "C-Colonel, Sir, what— it’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here?"

Miles takes a step closer to you and your eyes widen. "Next time you need a hand, kid", he takes another step, "just ask me."

He steps closer and closer, until you’re left with no choice but to let him in. Your eyes are wide and your cheeks have turned into dark blush of purple, as you look at him. He then closes the door behind your back and with the way he’s standing, he’s basically towering over you.

"Heard you moaning my name like a little bitch in heat", he then tells you grinning and you swallow thickly, "was wondering when you’d finally ask for help."

With that, he spins you around, your hands flat against the cool metal door, before he positions himself behind you. You don’t resist when he kicks your legs apart and rides your shirt up, enough to expose your lower half to him.

"Hm, would you look at that", he hums, "No panties, huh?"

"I- I had to hurry to open the door, sir", you try to explain but the Colonel only chuckles. You feel his hands, caressing the back of your thighs and the curve of your bottom. He kneads the plump cheeks of you ass in his big hands, his head tilted enough to get a glimpse of your pussy when he spreads your cheeks. Your lips and inner thighs are covered in your arousal, glistening in the dim room and he can’t help but lick his lips at the sight.

"Ah right. And what were you doing before that?"

Miles pulls his boxer briefs down enough to free his hard length before he lines himself up, the head of his hard cock rubbing along your slit, coating himself in your slickness. He hears you gasp and your head hangs low between your arms, support yourself on the door. He gives you a minute to relish in the feeling of his cock sliding between your wet folds before he clicks his tongue, "Answer me when I’m talking to you."

You can’t help yourself. His words have your pussy clenching around nothing and you are so desperate to finally get what you’ve been wishing and praying for, you’re left with no choice but to respond to his teasing, "I‘m– I was… I was fingering myself." Your voice is barely above a whisper, but you know he’s heard you loud and clear.

"Just your fingers?", he scoffs, "Didn’t sound like it was just your fingers. Don’t lie to me, sweetheart."

His hands find purchase on your hips, pulling you closer so the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and you hold your breath. He’s thick and warm and he pushes himself in so painfully slow, you can’t help but whimper. But then he retreats, pulling the very few inches he had granted you right back out. It was torture, all that just to make you talk.

"F-Fuck okay, okay! I was using… toys", you shamefully admit.

With those words he slams his hips forward, cock forcing itself deep inside you, the blunt head hitting your cervix in a way that has your legs quaking. And if you weren’t being pushed against the door, with his big hands supporting your weight by your hips, you would already be on the floor.  

"What kind of toys?", Miles asks you so nonchalantly, it’s beyond you how he can keep his voice so composed while he’s buried balls deep inside you. "Anything big, hm? Bigger than me?"

You can’t really see him from your current position, but you know he’s grinning– that shit eating grin, with the tip of his fangs showing.

You quickly shake your head, "N-No sir!"

"You know what? I believe you, cupcake. You’re still so fucking tight, there’s no way you were using anything bigger than me. I barely fit, jesus christ." Quaritch exhales a shaky breathe, his eyes fixed to where you were joined, how you hugged his length tightly and he knew just from the feeling of your wet walls sucking him in, that this couldn’t be a one time thing. You had him addicted already and while this wasn’t even done yet, he was already imagining all the positions he would bend you in next.

“Gonna fuck you now. Think you can take it?” He all but growls in your ear, the timbre of it making you clench around him and you nod, desperately wiggling your hips to get him to move. “Good fucking girl", he gruffs out the praise, hips starting to retract and snap back at a furious pace.

Quaritch fell into a steady pace, the swing of his hips becoming quick and rhythmic. The slap of skin on skin filled his ears, joined by the breathless panting and moans that escaped your lips, sounding more and more desperate with each passing second and every stroke of his cock.

The firm snap of his hips against yours made your eyes roll to the back of your head, while you were trembling on unsteady feet to keep yourself upright. The way he was fucking into you was everything but lovingly. Quaritch was using you, using you for his own pleasure and fucking hell– you loved every second of it.

Especially so, when one of his hands encircles your middle and drops low between your thighs to search for your clit. Once found, he lightly slaps the little bundle of nerves and you suck in a breathe between clenched teeth. He then proceeded to roll it between his rough thumb and index finger, drawing tight circles that have you moan and squirm underneath his touch.

"F-Fuck yes, right t-there oh my god", you cry out when he speeds up the movement of thrusts, combined with the flicks of skillful digits between your thighs. You both knew that neither of you would last long, not with the way you both unknowingly worked each other up.

Some sane part of your brain registers that there’s no way the rest of your squad, the recoms in the other rooms that were littered along the hallway, couldn’t hear what was going on. Strangely enough, that thought starts tightening the coil inside of you, making you clench around him harder.

"That’s it, cupcake, don’t hold back", Quaritch groans, "Let everyone here how good I’m making you feel, be as loud as you need to. Never had a problem with that anyways, am I right?"

He pounded into you then, the head of his cock rapidly hitting your g-spot in the process while he rubbed your clit in a matching pace. Your jaw dropped and your hand clenched into fists against the door, but oh, that wasn't all that was clenching. Your breathing turned needy and higher pitched, struggling to keep steady as he was driving you over the edge faster.

You feel a familiar tension crawl under your skin, a warmth spreading through your core and you can’t help but push yourself back against him. You wanted– no, you needed to cum.

"God, look at you fucking taking it", Miles groans, biting his bottom lip hard enough to keep himself from spilling just a few moments longer. He was already so close from his little jerk off session, it was on the verge of edging himself now. But he wanted to feel you fall apart, wanted to feel you come first. He wanted to use your orgasm, the pulsing rhythm of your thigh pussy clenching down on him to help him over the edge.

It's a buildup of tension that arches your back and curls your toes and just when you think you can't take it anymore, something snaps. "Oh fuck, I’m gonna come", is the only thing you manage to get out before your orgasm pulses throughout your body and you moan, loud and lewd. You should probably feel embarrassed for being so vocal in the middle of the night, but you couldn’t care less right now. It was too late to feel embarrassed now. Especially when the Colonel was fucking you through it so good.

"Shit, would you look at that. You look delicious enough to eat, so damn pretty when you cum around my cock."

You feel his pace change before you can even come down from your high. It’s not necessarily slower, but his thrusts become shorter, deeper and they knock you forward until you can barely hold yourself upright against that damn door.

Quaritch grunts, ears flat against his head, as he reaches his own limit with a hiss. He buries his cock deep inside your cunt, cursing as he pumps his release straight into you. It’s hot and sticky and feel every rope of his cum enter you, while the hands on your hips hold you firm, hard enough to bruise. You moan and quiver as you’re filled, his heat pouring into you, filling you to the absolute brim, before spilling over and bubbling onto the floor.

"Can’t deny you’re a good fuck, cupcake", Quaritch tells you panting, pulling his cock out of you a little too fast for your liking. You cringe when you feel more of his cum seep out of you and the feeling of it smearing between your thighs leaves you feeling filthy. You push yourself off the door, your face flustered as you turn around and you avoid his gaze at all cost. Nervously, you fiddle with the hem of your shirt, pulling it down enough to hide your private parts from. As if he didn’t just get a front row seat to look at your pussy in all its glory…

Shit– what were you even thinking, letting this happen? Quaritch was basically your boss! And now your secret little crush on him wasn’t so secret anymore…. All that just because you couldn’t keep it down. But how were you supposed to know that he was able to hear you all this time? Fucking thank you for that Z-dog, you curse your next door neighbor. She could’ve at least said something, assuming that she must have heard you too then.

You just can’t bring yourself to look up at the man standing in front of you, too awkward now that you realized how much of a fool you’ve made out of yourself, moaning like a slut for the whole world to hear. It’s not until you hear Quaritch scoff that you take a quick glance at him. He looks entirely too good standing there in his boxer briefs and muscle shirt, board arms crossed over his chest, right where his dog tags dangle against his sweaty skin. Oh god…

He grins with his canine showing and tilts his head in amusement, when he sees you swallow thickly and adverting your gaze from his body to his eyes in a not so subtle way.

"If you’re so needy, at least come over and let me help you out", he then tells you with a chuckle and your eyes widen at his unexpected words, "Instead of keeping me up all night and forcing me to listen to you, fucking yourself with whatever toys you’ve got in that drawer. Got it?"

"Yes sir…"

Sometimes you hated this job.

Recombinant Support Officer, or RSO for short. Lots of fancy-sounding words for what’s basically the professional babysitter of the recombinant team Deja Blue.

Your days are a blur of running around playing manager, nurse, personal assistant and part-time waitress. You fetch whatever they demand, no matter if it’s protein sludge, ammo or a snack they suddenly need in the middle of a briefing. You check their vitals, patch up minor wounds, monitor their workouts and make sure they don’t forget to hydrate. You keep them healthy, combat ready and basically presentable enough to show off to command.

And when one of them snaps their fingers? You’re there, med kit in one hand and coffee in the other, trying not to roll your eyes too hard. They’re supposed to be the pinnacle of military engineering. Most days however, it feels like you’re wrangling giant, moody housecats with assault rifles.

The military calls this "critical operational support." You however just call it the longest, never-ending shift of your life…

Okay, you may be exaggerating a bit. Usually it’s not that bad.

You get to order around people, which is kinda fun when they’re these genetically enhanced badasses who’d rather glare than listen to anyone but you. You’re the one calling the shots on the small stuff, like when to eat, when to rest, who needs patched up first, so you get a little taste of power.

And yeah, you do get to see some insane action every now and then, when the squad actually gets sent out instead of just flexing in the lab. Makes the whole circus feel kinda worth it.

Sometimes they actually surprise you, too. Like when one of them cracks a joke or thanks you for keeping their sorry asses alive. That’s a win.

It's nice to know they need you. But that isn't the part that bothers you. No, what bothers you is that even though they’re blue and inhumanly tall, they’re still men.

And the thing about men is that they are all the same. No matter how big, how strong or how blue their skin was, they were still just men. Selfish, arrogant assholes who think the world owes them something. Even underneath all that superhuman bullshit that should make them look like earths hero’s, they’re just men with zero self-awareness and a serious touch of entitlement.

In their spare time, when they’re not roughhousing with each other, the soldiers tease and flirt like you’re some prize they’re trying to snag, tossing around dumb jokes and smirks like it’s all just harmless fun. You’ve had to shut down more than one awkward friendly shoulder squeeze or accidental hand linger. And they don’t even realize they’re being gross half the time!

So yeah, it’s nice to know they need you, that you’re as much part of the team that they feel comfortable around you. But the constant parade of unwanted attention? That’s the part that wears you down.

This was one of those weeks, the kind that seemed to stretch on endlessly, where every shift bled into the next and sleep became more of a vague memory than an actual necessity. Between running interference on squad drama and making sure none of your overgrown blue idiots forgot how to eat properly (no, a cigarette and beer doesn’t count as breakfast), you were running on fumes.

So that morning, the cafeteria was your sanctuary. Early, quiet, blissfully free of soldiers. Just you in a corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that was finally, mercifully hot. A very rare occurrence.

You were halfway lost in thought, mentally counting how many hours of sleep you’d missed this week, when the artificial light above your head suddenly vanished and a shadow fell over your table.

"Well, ain’t this my lucky mornin’."

You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was: "Colonel."

"Boss." With a sharp grin, Quaritch slid into the seat across from you without waiting for an invite, his long blue frame making the table look like it belonged in a dollhouse. "Up early I see."

You took a sip of your coffee. "I’m trying to have breakfast without an audience for once."

Quaritch’s grin widened, before he tipped his own coffee mug up in cheers. "Hell, I’m the whole damn show, sugar. Front row seats, backstage pass. Comes free with my company."

A dry laugh escaped you. "Generous offer. But I’m still not interested."

"That’s cold," he said, feigning injury with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Here I am, brightenin’ your day and you’re gonna shut me down like that?"

This was nothing new. Quaritch had a way of circling conversations like a predator that already knew it had the upper hand. Among all the recombinants, he was easily the most persistent, needling with a mix of sarcasm, shameless flirting and just enough sincerity to make it difficult to tell where his game ended. Or where it was even headed.

"Quitting isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?" You joked lightheartedly, yet your chuckle came out more nervous than you intended.

"Not when I see somethin’ worth the effort." His tone was smooth, confident, as if the words were a statement of fact rather than an attempt at charm.

You couldn’t help but squirm in your seat at that.

Quaritch was still grinning, all teeth and arrogance. Sometimes you thought he must’ve been paid by the number of flustered looks he could wring out of you, because when it wasn’t teasing, it was this thick, shameless flirting that made you want to either laugh awkwardly and flee the scene or pour cold water over your head to regain some sense of control over your own body.

Because truth be told, it was betraying you. Every. Single. Time.

Unfortunately you knew just where unprofessional work affairs would get you. And Pandora was not one of those places.

The stakes were too damn high for that kind of stupidity. Getting caught flirting (or worse) with the Colonel wouldn’t just earn you a slap on the wrist. It’d get you a one-way ticket off Pandora, and not the cushy kind with severance pay and a nice shuttle ride home. No, it’d be the kind where you’re tossed out with a 'don’t come back' stamped on your record, reputation shot to hell before you even made it through the debriefing.

But this right here, this was exactly where your newest plan finally came into play.

Born out of equal parts desperation and self-preservation, you had went out and bought the cheapest fake diamond you could find in a rundown supply store tucked away in one of Bridgehead’s less glamorous corners.

Pretending to be married, or at least engaged, wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was certainly better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job (and dignity) when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base. Because, let’s be honest, a simple 'no' would not work on this man. Not that you were able to ever tell him that, once it really came down to business.

So, with a subtle clearing of your throat, you let your hand rest casually on the table, the ring catching the light just enough to draw attention.

And just as you thought, his eyes immediately dropped to it. Quaritchs smirk faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before he recovered. "Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know ya‘ had a boyfriend."

"Fiancé," you correct, hiding your nervous smile behind your coffee mug.

He let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head. "Huh. Bet he’s a lucky son of a bitch."

"Yeah," you said, quickly taking another slow sip. "He is."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s amazing how fast a simple band of metal changes the mood of team Deja Blue.

Only a couple of days later and the not-so-professional comments at work had dropped by half, the 'accidental' touches happened less and the teasing had shifted to dumb jokes about your 'lucky husband' instead of your ass. It was as though the squad had collectively decided that maybe there were better uses for their energy than testing boundaries.

Today’s task list, however, hadn’t gotten any shorter. Down in supply, a fresh shipment had arrived. Crates stacked high with whatever specialized gear Command had decided the recoms couldn’t live without this week.

Unfortunate for you, none of them moved itself.

Three bulky boxes were stacked in precarious balance against your chest, your arms straining to keep them steady. Every step down the hallway became an exercise in blind navigation, the top box blocking nearly all of your vision. The muffled thud of boots and distant chatter echoed off the metal walls as you shifted the boxes from one hip to the other, inching closer to the squad’s staging area.

Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted into view, though the stack made it impossible to identify what or who was standing in your way. There was no warning, no greeting for that matter, just a sudden shift in weight as the boxes were lifted away in one smooth, unasked-for motion.

"Jesus, kid. C‘mere." Quaritch huffed, the boxes now cradled easily in his arms, his expression equal parts irritation and amusement, as though watching someone single handedly drag themselves into exhaustion was both maddening and weirdly impressive. His gaze flicked over to your now empty hands, then back to the face that had been hidden behind the boxes.

"Thanks, Colonel," you muttered, hiding the relief in your voice.

"Where do these go?" he asked, already walking ahead, like this little rescue operation was just a minor detour in his day.

"Oh, uh, these are for the squad," came your reply, already a little breathless from keeping pace with his big steps. "They’re headed to your floor."

A curt nod was all you received as an indication that he’s even heard you.

As you walked, Quaritch’s tail swished lazily behind him, a subtle, rhythmic motion that was impossible not to notice once your eyes had drifted in that direction. And that was certainly not because you were staring anywhere else in that region. There was just something about the way it moved, those sharp little flicks when he was irritated, that made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled to be here right now. Maybe it was the fact that someone had been hauling three boxes solo, maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, he carried these boxes as if they weighed nothing to him, which was definitely impressive.

From behind, it was hard not to let your gaze linger. The broad line of his back, the easy flex of his biceps, the muscles under his camo tank, even the casual confidence in every movement. It was an irritating kind of perfect. And sure, it was easy to dismiss that flicker of interest as something purely biological. Quaritch was tall, strong, yeah even a little bit handsome, but that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Yes, that also may have made him look dangerous in all the best ways and infuriatingly capable, but it also made him off-limits.

So no, there was no real crush here. Just… an aesthetic appreciation. That was all.

Not to mention, he was so much older than you!

Old enough that if life had gone a little differently, he could’ve been the dad glaring at your prom date on the front porch.

The worst part about this was that you found it a teeny tiny bit attractive. Not the potential dad part— God, no, but the way it showed how much older he was.

Every time he called you 'kid' (and he did that a lot) it was like being smacked in the face with the reminder that you were barely halfway to his age and miles beneath him in experience, rank, and, well… every other way that counted. It was both a turn-off and a turn-on in the most deeply inconvenient, self-loathing and confusing sort of way.

Never, ever in a million years would you admit that to anyone. This piece of information about yourself was something you’d take to the grave.

Which was exactly why you had to actively force your eyes away now, because if he ever caught you staring you’d never hear the end of it.

"So," the Colonel drawled, slowing his steps just enough to glance over his shoulder with that stupidly hot half-smile, "your boyfriend know they let you do manual labor, sweet cheeks?"

"Fiancé." You correct him again. "And yes, he does."

"And he’s fine with it?" Quaritch pressed. The corner of his mouth twitched with a flicker of curiosity, though there was a certain weight in his stare that you guessed meant he probably wouldn’t like whatever answer was coming.

You arched an eyebrow in return. "Why wouldn’t he be?"

"M’just sayin’," he shrugged, shifting the boxes in his arms with ease. "You’re such a tiny thing, I wouldn’t want my girl carryin’ boxes twice her weight."

A short, nervous laugh escaped you. "Well, lucky I’m not your girl then, huh?"

Quaritch didn’t bother replying to that. He just let out a low, amused scoff, as if the very idea of you being his was so far-fetched it was laughable. Oh, well. There goes another blow straight to your self esteem. Not that there was much left to chip away at when it came to Quaritch anyways. He was so out of your league, the both of you (and basically the rest of the world) already knew that. No need to sulk about that in self-pity.

The rest of the walk stretched in silence, his boots echoing dully against the corridor floor until you stepped through the wide double doors into Team Deja Blue’s common area.

This part of their floor looked exactly like a bunch of oversized soldiers had claimed it as theirs.

There was an absurdly large couch sprawled across one wall like it had been built for titans, all rumpled cushions and a suspicious stain you weren’t willing to identify. In the center sat a pool table so big it looked like it had been stolen from a luxury cruise liner, with pool cues that could double as spears. A mini fridge, that was about as tall as you, hummed quietly in the corner, plastered with dented RDA stickers, pictures of na’vi pinup girls and the faint smear of what looked like dried hot sauce across the handle. Ew.

This room smelled like the unmistakable cocktail of protein powder, sweat and whatever half-eaten ration pack someone had abandoned in the sink. Your nose wrinkled and you took a mental note to get someone to come in here this afternoon with industrial-strength disinfectant.

In the open gym section, the heavy clank of weights rang out as one of the men grunted through a bench press. Meanwhile, Lyle was flexing in front of the mirrored wall. Behind him, Z-Dog sat cross-legged on Mansk back while he cranked out push-ups, barking encouragement like some sadistic personal trainer. A few others lounged across the couch, trading jabs over a card game.

"These go into the storage room next door," you told Quaritch, moving to take one of the boxes from his arms.

He didn’t argue, just shifted his grip so you could grab hold.

In the storage room, narrow industrial shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly labeled crates of gear, recom supplements and spare uniforms.

Balancing the weight in your arms, you stepped past Quaritch and made for the nearest empty shelf, stacking one box on top of another with a grunt. The second you did, there was an unpleasant little snag. Your hand caught somewhere between the cardboard and the metal of the shelf. You hissed under your breath, tugged, and before you knew it, the fake engagement ring went spinning off your finger and clinked against the floor.

Quaritch’s gaze tracked it instantly.

He set his own box down with a solid thunk and, without a word, strode over in one step. One large hand swept it up from the floor, his long fingers turning it once between them as though examining it.

When he straightened, the ring sat gleaming in the center of his palm, dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand. His eyes flicked from the cheap little diamond back to you.

"I know I said you’re tiny," Quaritch murmured with a dry chuckle, “but that thing is ridiculous, even for you. It’s so small."

"Excuse me?" The words came out sharper than intended as you stepped forward and quickly snatched it from his fingers.

His smirk didn’t budge, if anything, it deepened. "I’m just sayin’. Your fiancé must not love you if that’s the best rock he could put on your finger."

You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, not entirely from embarrassment but also because his words hurt. Fake marriage or not, you felt offended by his comment.

"It’s not always about the size!" You grumbled angrily.

"Sure it ain’t," he chuckled. "Man lets his girl bust her back carryin’ shit at work and sticks her with a pebble from the bottom of a fish tank. Sounds like a real winner."

That was the last thing you’ve heard him call after you, after you squeezed yourself between him and the door, and marched off.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The water tastes sweet.

It takes you by surprise and for a split second you think of spitting it out. If this was the same water you got in the canteen yesterday then it should still taste like the bottom of a boot or licking a stop sign. But it doesn’t. Now it’s citrus and sugar, things you hadn’t tasted since before the world went to shit and your minimal pay on this exo-moon was spent on more important things and not… Lemonade.

You glance down at the translucent cup in your hand, brows furrowing in confusion. It’s lunch hour and the usual grumble of tired bodies and clinking trays slowly fill the cafeteria.

You swallow as slowly as you can, savoring a flavor that may end up killing you if that turns out to be poison or something. But there’s nothing. It really is just lemonade.

Interesting.

Usually, the only liquid that ever crossed your lips since you’ve landed here was water and the occasional black coffee so bitter it could strip paint. Lemonade wasn’t part of the deal. Not for someone at your rank, not unless you were dreaming or someone had screwed up the dispensers. Or… paid for your ration.

Here, everyone carried those thin, plastic cards that could be scanned at the drink machine or the food line. The machine would then spit out whatever ration or meal plan had been assigned for you, a hardcoded limit on what you could order. Usually, that meant choosing between two options neither of which was worth getting excited about.

You take a sip again, eyes scanning the room, wondering if someone upstairs finally decided to cut you some slack. Like that’d ever happen.

The higher-ups and the recombinants, those were the only ones who could afford things like lemonade, beer, or even an occasional steak. And speaking of the devil…

"Trouble in paradise?" Quaritch’s voice cuts through the background noise like a knife.

Before you can blink, he’s already settled himself to sit opposite of you, that damn grin stretched wide, looking almost hopeful as he’s waiting for a response. Hopeful for what… exactly?

"Huh?" You stare at him, dumbfounded. His gaze flickers down and you follow his direct line of sight. The ring! You must’ve forgotten to put it on this morning.

"Oh! Oh, that. Uhm, no I, I’m just getting it cleaned." It’s a lame excuse and you know chances are high he’s not buying it, but Quaritch just raises a brow, clearly disappointed. That must have not been the answer he was looking for.

Before another beat can pass, the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle. That flicker of disappointment in his eyes is almost worse than the grin. On top of that, he’s a lot more intimidating when he’s quiet like this.

You scramble for an escape hatch. "So… the lemonade." You lift the cup with an awkward smile, waiting for him to put two and two together.

The Colonel’s laugh was low and quick, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made your shoulders hitch. He leaned back in his chair, big arms folding over his chest. "What? Can’t spoil my favorite girl?"

"It’s Recombinant Support Officer," came your prim correction.

He snorted, one brow hitching up. "Yeah, whatever, kid."

There was a long, drawn-out sip from the lemonade, partly to hide the flush creeping up, partly to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Of course, that only earned you a slow head tilt from across the table, like he was evaluating whether the drink or your fluster was sweeter.

Now that you were thinking about it, today was the second time this week the Colonel lingered in the cafeteria without the rest of his merry band of chaos following in his wake. That alone was unusual. Quaritch was a pack animal, the squad usually orbited him like stubborn moons. Seeing him here alone, sitting across the table with no distraction but the occasional sip from his coffee, sent an odd ripple of unease crawling up your spine.

Not fear exactly, he wasn’t about to flip the table and throw punches, but a different kind of nervousness. The kind that came from being the sole focus of someone who didn’t often give their attention in such a concentrated dose. And the lemonade? Clearly his way to apologize for the rude comment about your ring size the other day.

You idly stabbed your fork at the pile of mashed potatoes on your tray, more a performance of eating than an actual attempt at it. Every so often, an obligatory bite was taken just to keep yourself from looking too obvious, though chewing felt mechanical under the weight of Quaritchs unblinking gaze.

There was a feeling of hyper awareness of every movement, how long it took to lift the fork, whether your posture looked too stiff, if avoiding his eyes made it seem suspicious or just obvious. But still, he stayed put, leaning back and watching you like his favorite show was on.

"The squads been wondering when we‘ll get to meet the lucky guy," Quaritch said eventually.

The cup in your hand met the table harder than you had planned, a muted thunk that drew his eyes briefly downward before they came back up, pinning the focus squarely in place. Great. Now you were sweating for real.

Once more, the tray in front of you became very interesting. Stabbing at the limp cafeteria greens felt safer than holding his stare, though the fork kept scraping against the plastic in a way that was far too loud to be considered subtle.

"Oh uh, never I guess." You forced it out as casual as possible. "I keep my private and work life strictly separated."

Opposite of you, Quaritchs gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk and no easy grin this time, just a low grumbled, "Aha."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

"Pick it up, ladies! I’ve seen retirees with hip replacements run faster than this!"

That damn whistle of yours split through the morning air again, sharp enough to make Quaritch’s ears ring.

There was something about the smug little way you stood on the inside of the track, clipboard in one arm, whistle dangling from the other hand. Your shorts, fitted top, hair tied back just enough to keep it out of your face… Christ, you looked like a high school PE teacher who’d swapped dodgeball for military-grade training.

Behind him, a few groans rose from the pack. Z-Dog threw a glance over her shoulder, her signature smirk in place, before she broke into a bark of laughter.

"Pretty sure this counts as harassment, boss!" She called out.

"Pretty sure you still have another three laps," you countered without missing a beat. The laugh that followed was completely unbothered.

The sun caught on the sheen of sunscreen across your shoulders, highlighting the faint smirk you wore every time someone groaned or cursed under their breath. That, of course, only egged you on. You could be a real sadist if you wanted to, he had to give you that.

"Straighten up, Wainfleet! You’re leaning like you’re dodging sniper fire— fix it!" Another blast of the whistle, followed by some spiel about daily training goals like you were the damn drill sergeant here.

Quaritch smirked despite himself. There was a part of him that almost respected the nerve. Most people simply kept their mouths shut around the recoms unless they wanted a bad day. Not you, though.

Little spitfire. Barely came up to his shoulder and yet somehow had the balls to bark at a squad of recombinant marines.

"She’s enjoying this way too much," Fike muttered from somewhere next to him, just loud enough for the others to hear. A few chuckles followed at that.

"Yeah, she’s only here to watch us suffer." Wainfleet, never one to keep his damn mouth shut, didn’t even bother lowering his voice as he poked Fikes side with his elbow. "Waste of a good view if you ask me."

That earned him another round of snickers from the rest of the squad.

"I wonder if she’s that bossy with her husband," Prager then chimed in, words laced with a grin Quaritch didn’t need to see to picture. "Poor dude probably doesn’t get a say in bed either."

"Yeah, bet she’s got a damn spreadsheet for it," someone else added. Most likely Wainfleet, by the sound of his smug laughter.

Again, Z-Dogs shrill voice piped up, "Hell, if she gives him performance reviews like she gives us, I feel bad for the guy."

Enough of that. Quaritch gave a sharp whistle of his own, the kind that cut clean through their gutter talk. That got them moving again, boots thudding against the packed dirt in uneven rhythm. A few of them still muttered under their breath, but it was drowned out by the slap of sneakers and the shrill blast of your whistle. If their banter had hit, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing. Maybe their little comments didn’t register to you anymore, just another layer of morning noise, like the hum of the electric fence or the smell of wet earth.

Still, the mental picture stuck in his head like a tick. Some poor sap, thinking he’s king shit in his own little castle, while getting steamrolled daily by a five-foot-nothing hurricane. A guy like that probably asks permission before touching so much as a shoulder. Probably schedules his own sex life around your damn Google calendar.

Quaritch bit back a laugh. That’s not what a woman like you needed. Not some limp handshake motherfucker who folds like a lawn chair every time you bark an order. No, you were the type of woman who needed to get yanked right out of that command tower, shoved up against the wall, and reminded you didn’t have to hold the reins every second of every day. Let you lean back, breathe for once, and watch somebody else put in the work. You needed someone to fuck that tension right out of your little body, turn you into a real mess, until you were satisfied and fed. Not this pencil-pusher you were supposedly shackled to now. You needed a real man.

But that tiny ring belonged to a man who probably thought taking charge meant picking between the two options of a dinner date that you had planned. Poor bastard didn’t even know the fire he was sitting on.

After a quick medical checkup once you’ve had decided their morning cardio was done, a shower and choking down whatever the cafeteria was pretending was chicken, the squad drifted off to kill their free time.

Quaritch however, had a briefing to sit through. One of those that dragged on well past its usefulness while some corporate type clicked through slides of information he’d already heard twice this month. Unable to keep his focus on the slide show about na’vi migration patterns and some half-baked plan to foster cultural understanding, his gaze kept drifting to the datapad balanced on his knee. His thumb dragged over the brightness slider that refused to land anywhere between blinding and nearly black.

After the third flare of white across the screen, the Colonel exhaled slowly through his nose. Not that this was urgent, but irritating enough to decide it needed fixing once this was over.

When the meeting finally wrapped, he headed straight for the IT department.

The echo of his boots on the tile carried down the corridor, drawing a few sidelong glances from passing people. Some stiffened automatically, stepping aside to give him a clear path. Others held his gaze for half a second too long, that mix of wariness and grudging respect written plain on their faces. A pair of soldiers straightened from their slouch against the wall and snapped quick salutes as he passed, earning nothing more than a curt nod in return.

The second floor’s hallways were quieter, lined with the less glamorous offices and departments. IT sat at the far end, the door unmarked except for a faded placard with a serial number no one bothered to replace.

Quaritch didn’t knock when he reached it, just swung the door open and ducked under it.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

The low murmur of conversations and the clack of keys faltered, replaced by the same silence that often followed when his big shadow fell across a room.

Rows of desks were cluttered with cables, monitors and the occasional half-drunk cup of coffee. Most of the occupants were men, heads bent over their work, but a few women also sat among them, their posture stiffening as his gaze swept over the room.

The first to actually move towards and approach him was, surprisingly, a woman. A woman with more balls than the rest of these nerds in here. She was tall, soft around the middle and with a mess of red curls tied back in a loose knot. With thick glasses perched low on her nose, she certainly looked like she belonged here.

Now that he looked at her up close, there was something familiar about her face, though he couldn’t place from where exactly. She might be one of those people he‘d seen in passing often enough to know they belonged, but not enough to remember their name.

"Colonel," she greeted with a polite nod, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"This needs fixing." Quaritch shifted the datapad in his grip, holding it out for her. "Thing‘s been acting up all day and I can’t figure it out."

The woman in front of him nodded briskly. "Alright, just give me a moment, sir."

But when she turned toward her desk, he didn’t move to the entirely too small chair she’d no doubt intended for him without second thought. Instead, he fell in step right behind her, the soft squeak of her flats barely covering the heavier sound of his boots. She glanced back once, then decided not to argue with the man twice her size.

The desk she led him to was a battlefield of stacked folders and open manuals. There were a few familiar devices to the datapad in her hand as well, all of them connected to her computer by a chaos of several different colored cables.

The redhead slid into her chair and began tapping at the screen, narrating in a quick, clipped tone about recalibrating the sensor and adjusting some internal settings. But Quaritch didn’t bother to take in any of her words. His attention had already shifted, eyes skimming over the chaotic sprawl in front of him. Two handwritten notes about codes he couldn’t make sense of hung on the edge of her monitor, right next to a small framed picture that stood on the desk.

The photo showed her and a few other women, smiles wide and carefree, arms draped around each other as they were holding their boarding passes to Pandora. Friends, maybe. Nothing unusual at first glance.

But then his gaze hit the far right of the frame, and his chest hitched ever so slightly at this one particular face. There you were, all smiles and grin wide enough to make the sun jealous. Made him wonder how anyone could look that damn confident and still get through life without flattening half the idiots around them.

A slow grin began to form on his face, part disbelief, part amusement. That explained where he had seen this woman before: You had the exact same framed picture sitting on your tidy desk.

Leaning back slightly, pretending to stretch, Quaritch then settled his gaze on the woman that seemingly grew nervous under the sudden, unwanted attention.

Licking his lips, he then asked, "Busy day?" Although his mind was anything but, he kept his voice light, letting it sound casual.

"Always," the redhead replied without looking up, hands still dancing over the keys. "This place doesn’t run itself. But who am I talking to?"

Quaritch let the corner of his mouth hitch up. "Fair point." His eyes drifted toward the little frame perched on the edge of her desk once more. This time, the woman did notice. "That your crew?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah, kinda," She said a little awkwardly. "Some of us came to Pandora together. Training, orientation, that kind of thing."

"The one on the far right…" He hummed, tilting his head as if studying the picture for the first time. Then his finger tapped the desk beside the frame. "She the one who keeps barking orders at my squad, right?"

"Sounds like her." The redhead briefly looked up, then laughed softly. "Yes, that’s y/n. We shared quarters for a while before assignments got shuffled. She’s… She is a handful, huh?"

"She is." Quaritch’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk. "Bet her husband’s got his hands full keepin’ all that fire under control."

The redhead snorted. "Oh, no. Y/N’s not married."

Now that made him pause for a moment.

"No?"

"Nope," she said, popping the p a little, her nose too far up that datapad to pay any attention to the way Quaritch ears twitched at that. "Far as I know, she’s not even seeing anyone."

The woman was already back to clicking through menus, like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of his thoughts, when Quaritch leaned an elbow on her desk, licking his lips,

"Interesting."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s not like you’re busy or anything.

The digital clock in the corner of your monitor had already slipped well past quitting time and the only thing on your mind was the blessed quiet of your quarters. The keycard to your room was already in your hand and the only thoughts you had left in you revolved around a shower, maybe a snack and definitely not about work for at least ten glorious hours.

That was, until your phone buzzed.

»Need your input on reworking the squad’s training schedule to accommodate new operational priorities. Come by my office to sync calendars. Now. — MQ«

"Wha— right now?" You groaned.

There wasn’t even a 'please,' no 'if you’ve got time' or anything of that sort, just the assumption that your evening plans were infinitely less important than the Colonels little calendar crisis. You let your head fall forward against the door to your quarters with another long groan. God, sometimes you really hated this job.

Guess the universe had decided your night off needed a body count.

"I’m gonna kill him," you muttered as you shoved your keycard back into your pocket and turned on your heels.

The halls were quieter at this hour, most offices you passed already had their lights off and blinds drawn, but a few scientists still lingered in the corridors.

By the time the Colonels office came into view, it was immediately obvious something was… different. Pushing the door open you found him already expecting your entry. But instead of sitting in his chair behind the desk like usual, Quaritch leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest in a way that somehow managed to make him look both casual and intimidating at once. The muscles in his arms flexed a bit once you stepped into his office.

"Evening, Colonel," you said, trying to keep your tone casual, though a subtle edge of impatience crept in. The day had already stretched longer than it should have and all that was standing between you and your bed was him.

Surprisingly, Quaritch didn’t reply to your greetings. Not a word, not even a grunt. You raised a brow, half expecting some sarcastic jab, but nothing.

"Alright then," You murmured. Shrugging subtly, it was easy to chalk it up as nothing. Moods like this weren’t unusual for the Colonel after all, even if they so very rarely were directed at you.

Sitting felt almost absurd, given he was practically looming over you. But since he made no move to sit as well, you just continued with your routine. Bag set down beside you, your hands immediately fished out your datapad, flipping it awake with a swipe of your thumb.

"Looks like we’ve got a clash with the training simulations on Thursday," you said, keeping your voice measured, trying not to betray how aware you were of his close proximity. "We might need to shift some sessions or—"

Fingers hovered over the first entry, but before another word left, a large hand slid into view. The datapad was then taken from you. It left your hands ever so slowly and was gently laid down on the desk, just out of your reach.

Your spine straightened instinctively and a look of confusion crossed your features. Had something been entered wrong? Some misstep in the schedule? Maybe he’d dragged you up here just to chew you out over a typo or something.

"So," the Colonel said, licking his lips before they spread into a grin. "How’s your little boyfriend, fiancé, whatever?"

"Uhm… what?" The word slipped out sharply, surprise tugging your brows together. For a moment the thought struck that maybe you’d misheard him, maybe fatigue had twisted his words into something else. But the look on his face told a different story.

Quaritch didn’t so much as blink.

"You heard me, sweetheart." That grin of his only widened, teeth flashing like he was savoring your reaction.

The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to trip over itself. You shifted in your chair and a flicker of defensiveness running up your spine made your posture straighten instinctively.

"…Good, I suppose," you finally managed, though it came out clipped and uneven. Fingers tapped against your knee in restless rhythm, desperate to steer things back into safer waters. "Can we now go back to—"

"You know what’s funny?" He cut you off.

Your jaw tightened. "No, sir."

"I had a nice little chat with one of your girlfriends earlier." Quaritch drawled, shifting just enough to push himself off the desk and step closer. "The redhead from IT, what was her name again? Ah, hell, doesn’t matter." A low chuckle rumbled out of him. Then, he leaned over your frame, his hands gripping the armrest of your chair on either side, basically caging you in.

You swallowed drily. Every nerve in your body seemed to stand at the attention, muscles coiling before you even knew why.

"But she told me something very interesting."

A cold shudder licked its way down your body, pooling heavy in your stomach. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. You could hear the faint hum of the overhead light, the sound of your own pulse thudding in your ears.

"She said you don’t have a fiancé." His voice was low and steady. "That you don’t even have a boyfriend."

The bottom dropped out of your stomach immediately after Quaritch had uttered these words.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your mouth parted— whether to deny it, explain or tell him off, you weren’t sure, but he was already leaning a fraction closer. You decided on the second and perhaps the safest option.

"L-Listen I can explain—"

"I‘m all ears."

Your mouth went dry, words tumbling out in a rush before you could stop them. "I just— I don’t want to get in trouble!"

One of his brows arched. "For what, sweetheart?"

"For this." Hands made a vague, helpless gesture between the two of you before dropping back to your lap. "Flirting with the squad, being unprofessional. For getting caught doing something I’m not supposed to, doing inappropriate stuff—"

The ramble spilled faster, "I mean, I’m supposed to keep things organized, on track, not get tangled up in rumors or, jesus, even just laughing too much at one of their dumb jokes could look bad, and now you’re sitting here looking at me like that, and what if—"

You stopped only because your chest seized and your lungs were clawing for air. Quaritch took his sweet time to take all of your words in, his eyes mustering you for a moment.

"So you’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ things that aren’t appropriate?"

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "Wha— No!"

He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost amused. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away and sweat broke out over your forehead at that.

"Relax," he drawled, voice rumbling with that calm authority that made your pulse trip faster instead of slower. "Ain’t no one gettin’ you in trouble, kid."

The words should’ve soothed you, but the way he said them only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter.

"But you could’ve just said no, you know?" Quaritchs tone was lighter now, almost taunting. "S‘not like they were gonna bite you or anything."

"Yeah, sure," you scoffed, frustration edging your voice. "Your men behave like animals. Even Z-Dog gives me the creeps sometimes..."

That earned you a laugh.

"Can you blame ’em?" Quaritch said, leaning in just enough that the air around you grew significantly warmer. "A young thing, cute little doll, bossin’ us around. ’Course they’re gonna act like dogs around you."

Heat rushed to your cheeks before the meaning even finished sinking in. His eyes stayed locked on you, even as your breath caught when his shadow shifted closer and you glanced away in shame.

A single calloused finger then tipped under your chin, the touch deceptively light for a hand that size. Instinct had you jerking a fraction, but his grip didn’t tighten, just held you there, guiding your gaze back up to his.

"There wasn’t any need for that little story about bein’ engaged. Not with me, kid." He said lowly. "I ain’t in the business of makin’ trouble for you. Hell, I’d make damn sure no one else does either."

Again, your lips parted, but nothing came out. That little pause seemed to amuse him. He angled his head slightly, studying your face like he could peel you open and read everything you hadn’t said out loud. That alone made you shiver.

"You know that, don’t you?" His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, slowly, enough to make your pulse hammer. "I know you do, but you were tryin’ not to let it show. The way you go stiff when I’m close. The way you talk back like you’re tryin’ real hard not to trip over your own tongue. S‘cute."

"That’s not—"

"Sweetheart," he rumbled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted warm across your cheek, "you don’t lie half as well as you think you do. That little ring ain’t foolin’ nobody. Truth is, you want that cookie. You just don’t wanna get caught with your pretty little hand in the jar, right?"

The faint scrape of his lips ghosted along the sharp line of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. And when he pressed his mouth to the side of your throat, heat flared beneath your skin.

This shouldn’t be happening.

God, this couldn’t happen. One wrong sound and if anyone opened that door, just one of the night staff or a soldier passing through, it’d all come crashing down. The thought should’ve snapped you into motion, should’ve made you push him off, should’ve sparked a protest sharper than the shallow breaths slipping through your lips. But instead you sat rooted in place.

Each exhale from him feathered warm across you, raising goosebumps that contradicted the heat pooling in your core. Involuntarily, your thighs squeezed. Then his mouth was there again, but not in the polite brush from before. No, this time he parted his lips, pressed them open against your skin, leaving kisses that burned and claimed all at once.

His tongue skimmed the column of your throat, dragging a hot line over tender skin as if he were committing the shape of you to his memory.

"W-We really shouldn’t," it finally burst out of you, and if it hadn’t been words you were sure it had been a moan instead.

Your body betrayed you. Shoulders twitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs pressing tight together in some futile effort to ground yourself. Heat coiled in every inch of you, flooding your face, your neck, down your chest. Each open mouthed kiss dragged another surge of warmth up your spine, until it felt unbearable to sit still, unbearable to do nothing.

"Then don’t. Tell me to stop," he hushed against your neck. "Tell me like you mean it."

Your lips parted, breath spilling uneven and shaky, but the words he had asked for never came. Of course not. Because you didn’t mean it. You didn’t actually want him to stop.

His hand then found your thigh with the same unhurried certainty as his mouth, palm broad and warm even through the fabric of your uniform. The weight of it settled heavy, reminding you of the difference in size between you and him. His fingers tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched sharp in your chest. That small show of strength sent a pulse of heat straight through you, robbing you of any last scraps of willpower you’d been clinging to.

Your eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling, as if shutting out the sight of him might dull the sensation. It didn’t. If anything, it sharpened everything else, the rough scrape of his jaw against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue marking you, the pressure of his hand as it squeezes your thigh.

"If Ardmore finds out about this…" The words came out as a whisper, half plea, half warning, but barely steady enough to count as protest.

The Colonels hands didn’t falter. They shifted higher, inch by inch, broad palms sliding until they nearly encircled your hips.

"No one will find out about this," was muttered against your neck.

And then the world tilted. Strong arms lifted you in one swift motion, the grip around your waist like iron. With a squeak, your body was set down atop his desk. The solid edge was cool beneath yours thighs. A sharp contrast to the burning press of him crowding in close. Under you, papers shifted and a pen clattered to the floor.

A minute later, Quaritch has you pinned to the desk with a giant hand on your chest.

The weight of his palm flattened against the center of your chest, not harsh, but firm enough to keep you pressed back into the wood. Every shallow breath only made your chest rise against his hand, every movement reminding you how easily he held you there.

Soon, Quaritch‘s hands find the waistband of your skirt. He tugs on it with minimal effort and against all logic, your hips rose to help.

He peeled fabric down inch by inch, humming under his breath in a sound that might as well have been approval. A hum. The Colonel humming at your half-naked body like he’d just stumbled onto a damn fine bottle of bourbon.

For all his size and brute strength, his hands moved with startling precision. Your shoes thudded against the floor as your legs shifted, freeing yourself from the last stubborn stretch of fabric.

You could feel every pass of his eyes like a physical touch, hotter than his palms on your thighs as he dragged your lace panties down. Quaritch hummed again, deep in his chest, and something traitorous in you fluttered at the sound.

Then your eyes caught his.

The reality check slammed into you with the grace of a shuttle crash: this was Quaritch. Colonel Miles Quaritch. Not some faceless soldier, not some harmless flirt you could shrug off at breakfast tomorrow. This was the man with enough authority to ruin you six different ways before the end of the week.

Quaritch’s mouth curved into something smug, as if he knew about the thoughts behind your eyes just from looking at them for too long and too intense. Then he sank lower between your thighs, shoulders wide enough to nudge them apart with barely a shift. The cool air of the room skimmed your exposed skin, but all you felt was heat.

Soon, Quaritch started kissing down your stomach, savoring every inch of skin. You felt the faint graze of teeth as he dipped lower and lower, his tongue drawing a path from your navel down to—

"But what if we… what if we’re—"

Quaritch’s low growl cut you off once more. "Jesus, kid. Relax and let me take care of you, will you?"

And then his mouth was on you in the blink of an eye.

You spine arches at the sudden, but not at all unpleasant sensation. Your gasp of surprise peeks into a whine and you quickly bite your lip to quiet yourself, when his long, board tongue swipes through your folds.

It becomes clear almost immediately after that first lick, that this moment right here. This would be so worth getting in trouble for.

Who would’ve thought that the Colonel Quaritch was so damn good at pussy eating?

It only takes mere seconds for him to find where you are most vulnerable, the most delicate. Tracing the outline of your cunt with his thumbs on either side of you, he spreads your slickness up and then down, then gently spreads your folds apart. It gives him access to lick and suck on your clit in all the best ways.

His lips and tongue are big, so much bigger than yours. But that made it so much easier for him to cover your pussy whole, to reach all these wonderful places. The top of his tongue moves with practiced ease as it flicks over your clit and god, it feels phenomenal. Your toes curl and you sob out a moan, lungs burning with the need for air. You don’t know whether to suck in a breath or hold it there.

Despite all you know of him, in this, Quaritch is messy, you realize. He doesn’t care about the mixture of spit and slick running down his chin, that it covers half his face or the fact that you hear him gulp it down with groan like it’s the fountain of youth and you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting on his tongue.

"Oh!" Your spine arches even more, subconsciously pushing yourself against his face. It’s embarrassing, really. But you’re already too far gone to care. No one has ever made this feel so good before.

Then his middle finger breaches your entrance, sliding in deep, and you moan, something high and pitched, hips canting upwards as Quaritch fucks you with a single digit, smooth and slow.

One finger becomes two, and you sigh, arching like a wave with every thrust. Your hands grasp at nothing before they settle on the back of his head and Quaritch circles your swollen clit with his tongue, playing with it in a steady rhythm. Occasionally you even feel him kiss it and it’s enough to make your thighs shake.

Your slickness increases until his lips and chin are sopping, his ministrations ringing sighs and cries in an ever increasing volume from you. Your hips stutter, you pull at his hair and that makes him suck on your clit harder.

Distantly, you remember the fact that you’re not in any of the soundproof rooms meant for training, but in an office with very thin walls and an even thinner door. Immediately, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the strings of curses and moans that fell freely from your lips.

"Such a shame." Between your thighs, the Colonel glanced up at you, his grin wide and sharp canine wet with slick. "Those sweet little moans suit you better than that bossy tone."

His hand slid up your thigh, prying it wider as if to emphasize his point. His eyes never leave your face, not even as he sinks down again.

"Don’t go hiding ’em now, sweetheart. Let me hear ‘em." The words were hushed against your wet skin and his lips were immediately drawn to your clit once more.

"I- I‘m gonna.. oh, fuck," you let out a shaky breath. "M‘gonna cum— stop! Stop, stop, I— can’t!"

"Can’t, what?" Came a low chuckle from between your thighs, pointed tongue teasing your entrance where it stretched around his thick digit.

"Quiet," you choke out, fisting your hands in the short stubbles of his hair to try and pull him off, "I can’t keep quiet! S-Stop, oh god!"

But the bastard doesn’t stop. If anything, his lips sealed firmer against your slick heat while two thick fingers curled deep inside, grinding into that exact spot that made your vision strobe with white-hot sparks. The low groan that came from the man feasting on your sweet arousal sent vibrations up to your core. It rattled your bones, stole what little composure you had left. And if it weren’t for his wide shoulders to be in your way, you would’ve clamped your thighs shut around his head. It doesn’t hold you back from trying though.

The sound that escaped you was strangled, almost feral, muffled only by the trembling hand still clamped against your mouth. Every twist of his fingers, every stroke of his tongue, dragged you closer to the edge of something that felt inevitable, unstoppable, terrifyingly good.

"Mm, there she is," Quaritch rasped against you, his voice low and wicked, lips dragging slick down your folds before latching back onto your clit. "Knew you had more in ya than that stiff little attitude."

You shook your head, tried to twist away, but the desk under your hips and his hand splayed heavy across your stomach kept you pinned. Each flick of his tongue ripped another ragged noise out of you, each thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to shattering.

"Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Give it to me." His words vibrated into you, sharp enough to make your toes curl, thighs quivering against the iron lock of his shoulders. And then— release hit like a flood. Your hand fell useless from your mouth, the sound that tore free far too loud for thin walls, a cracked cry strangled into his name.

"Atta girl," Quaritch growled in approval, holding you down as your body arched off the desk, every muscle seizing under the quake of your climax. He didn’t let up, not until the tremors had left your thighs trembling and your chest heaving, not until you sagged back against the wood, utterly spent.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from you, dragging them slick over his own tongue to clean them, before rising to his full height. That grin was back, sharp and devastating, mouth glistening with proof of what he’d just done to you. Proof of how much you enjoyed it.

The air hadn’t even returned to your lungs before the world spun again. Now Quaritch’s hands were on your hips and in one effortless motion he flipped you onto your stomach. The desk rattled beneath the shift, papers scattering again, the cold edge biting into your ribs as your cheek pressed against the polished surface.

Quaritch’s palms slid up your sides, pinning you down just enough to remind you who was in control here. He leaned over, chest hovering heavy against your back, breath hot at your ear.

"I ain’t done with you yet," he murmured, his voice a low gravel that made your core clench all over again.

Rolling his hips forward just enough for you to feel the promise of him pressing against you, thick and hard even through his gear, you gasped softly.

"Please… stop teasing me," you whispered, and even though your legs were shaking, toes barely touching the ground, you tried to push back against him.

The rasp of a zipper made goosebumps race across your arms, your back, your neck, everywhere, as anticipation began to flood your veins like fire.

"Y’know," Quaritch drawled, "I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while now. Wonderin’ how that sweet little pussy might feel wrapped around me."

Your breath hitched, body tightening at the words alone. His laugh rumbled against your spine, dark and satisfied, as though he could feel the way you clenched around nothing just from the thought.

"Bet it’s even better than I imagined."

Through the tangle of hair that fell into your face, you risked a glance over your shoulder.

Quaritch’s pants rode low on his hips now, his broad hands tugging them just far enough to free himself. And what he revealed had your breath catching in your throat.

Huge. That was the first word your scrambled brain managed to cling to. Too big, too thick, alien in ways that made your pulse trip and stumble. His length was ridged in subtle lines and dots that caught the low office light, the flesh a darker shade that gleamed faintly as he stroked himself once, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. The sheer scale of him made your thighs quiver against the edge of the desk, heat pooling low in your belly.

"Eyes up here, sweetheart," Quaritch rumbled with a smirk, catching you staring. The tip of him brushed against the inside of your thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum behind.

"Don’t worry about that," his voice dropped into something dangerously close to a growl, "I’ll make it fit."

The blunt head of him then pressed against you, nudging insistently at your entrance. Your whole body clenched in defiance and desperate need all at once. The stretch came slow at first, a sharp, biting fullness that made your breath break apart in short, choppy gasps. Nails raked the desk, useless against the hard surface as the first thick inch split you open.

"Jesus— fuck!" The words dissolved into a moan, muffled by the crook of your arm as you bit down to silence yourself. Every nerve lit with fire as he eased deeper, inch by agonizing inch, the ridges along his shaft dragging over hypersensitive flesh in a way that felt so alien and yet unbearably good.

"Relax," his breath was hot against your ear. "Breathe. Let me in, sweetheart."

His palm spread over your lower back, pressing you down just enough to make your hips tilt for him. "That’s it," he rasped, voice thick with triumph. "Takin‘ me so good, so fuckin‘ good."

The desk creaked under the strain of your body fighting to adjust, trembling thighs trying to hold steady. Every inch he fed into you sent another shockwave, another surge of heat through you.

"Miles," His name broke out of you like a prayer, shaky and drenched in need.

The fullness of his cock sinking into you was overwhelming, almost suffocating. Each inch settled heavy inside you until there was no room left, no space unclaimed, just the ache and heat of him stuffed to the hilt. Your walls clenched instinctively, fluttering around the thick length buried deep inside you.

Quaritch stayed pressed flush against you, chest to your back, holding still as though savoring the way your body struggled around him. His cock throbbed inside you, thick veins and ridges pulsing against your inner walls like he was marking his presence there with every heartbeat. The sensation sent another shudder down your spine, your breath catching on the sharp edge of another moan.

"Feel that?" His voice rumbled low against your ear, almost smug. "That’s me. Right where I belong."

Slow at first, letting the full weight of himself sink in deeper, he started moving. Each thrust made your body melt over the desk, every inch dragging fire through nerves you didn’t even know could burn so hot. Quaritch’s hands gripped your hips like anchors, guiding each powerful thrust. The sound of him moving inside you, the wet slap of skin against skin as his movements grew faster, made a new wave of pleasure crash down over you.

"O-Oh my goood," you let out a long, drawn out whine. Your thoughts spiraled— this was reckless, insane, probably career-ending, but fucking hell did it feel good.

Each powerful thrust drove deeper, stretching and filling you in a way that made your mind spin. The pace of his hips was calculated, cruel and intoxicating, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock. Another stroke, harder this time, and your body jolted in response, the pure intensity of it making your brain melt.

The force of Quaritch’s thrusts made the desk squeak and groan beneath you. His own grunts were low and guttural, vibrating against your back as he drove into you again and again.

"Fuck, yes… Look at you fuckin’ takin’ it. So perfect and tight," he groaned, hips snapping forward with precise, merciless intensity. Fingers dug into the curve of your hips, holding you steady even as every pulse of his length stretched and filled you further.

"Please," you begged in that whiny little voice that was still so unfamiliar to you. "Please don’t stop, don’t s-stop! I‘m so close! Pleasepleaseplease!"

Quaritch grunted against your shoulder in response, teeth grazing the tender skin as his hips pistoning without mercy, each stroke pushing you closer. One of his hands then found your jaw, lifting your face until you were bent enough for his lips to reach yours.

His tongue still tasted of you, salty and warm, as he shoved it inside your mouth, deep enough you nearly choked on it. It’s enough to make you clamp down hard on his cock, and you moan into each others mouths at that.

And then finally, warmth pooled and spilled, every nerve ending inside your core alive with fire, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath his relentless rhythm. More moans tore free, high and broken, echoing across the walls of his office as you arched hard, pressing yourself impossibly close to him.

Quaritchs hips still snapped forward, holding you in the peak of your pleasure, matching the rhythm of your shuddering climax until he‘d reached his own. The grip he had on your hip was almost bruising and your teeth found the softness of his bottom lip in return. The Colonel hissed sharply at that, but the sound quickly morphed into a sigh of relief as you felt his hot cum paint your insides.

His hips pressed forward a few more times, languid thrusts that drove every drop home, making sure none of it went to waste. Your walls clenched reflexively around him, a trembling, overstimulated cocoon of heat and satisfaction.

Finally, he pulled back, letting his cock slip free with a slick, wet sound that left your core aching and your body shivering from how empty it suddenly felt.

The Colonel straightened, his gaze still locked on you with this possessive intensity and also a hint of triumph as he helped turning you over and sat you onto his desk when your legs were to weak to stand on their own. Truth be told, it did flatter you that he was so obviously uncaring about the way you made a mess on his things when you sat there, bare and filthy wet. If anything, the sight of you shifting uncomfortably to prevent his cum from staining his desk made a flicker of hunger return to his eyes.

"Okay," you finally panted between heavy breaths, fingers brushing through your hair in a desperate attempt to appear collected, but there was a significant amount of spit, cum and slick smearing between your thighs that made you physically cringe. "We… we can’t— nobody can ever know about this!"

"Jesus, kid." Quaritch just rolled his eyes as he slumped down onto the seat behind him. With his thighs spread and his sweat soaked tank highlighting his abs, it was hard not to ogle the man in front of you. His hand rested casually around your ankle, mindlessly rubbing circles onto your skin with his thumb.

"For the record," he adds, his lips curling into that signature grin. "I don’t care what anyone thinks about rings or promises, so you can keep wearing that shiny little lie. But you’re mine when you’re around me, got it? Anyone else even looks at you wrong, and I’ll make sure they regret it."

Your brows lifted at that. "You… you would do that for me?"

"Course I would." The Colonel scoffs. "Nobody is gonna get you in trouble because you’ve decided to have a little fun. Not tonight, not ever. I’ve got that covered."

Your cheeks heated even more now, and a smile tugged at your lips despite the rapid thump of your heartbeat. It covered the feeling of guilt that wanted to gnaw on your insides for tasting this forbidden fruit, and that alone was a win.

Quaritch mirrors your little smirk. "But," he leans forward, letting his thumb continue its lazy circles over your ankle, "if you feel like trying that again… I’m more than willing to help make sure ya‘ don’t forget how good it can be to break a few rules sometimes."

"Alright," You bite your lip, laughter and heat blending together, and nod. "I think I can agree to that."

And sometimes you think, you don’t hate your job that much.

Considerations:

submissions are for the story COUNTERFEIT (read here: one two three) please keep the characters in mind when submitting.

Faith is 24, Rio is 32 → 8-year age gap.

Rio has two girlfriends and a son → He’s experienced with women.

Dominant personality → But he lets Faith push limits within reason.

Think About:

🌶️ Who’s initiating? Why? 🌶️ Where are they? Is it risky, or are they all clear? 🌶️ Are there consequences, or is this just pure indulgence? 🌶️ Power dynamic—who’s in control, or is it balanced? 🌶️ Tone—fun, playful, serious, intense? 🌶️ How does it end?

Using Flags Crimson as an example

🌶️ Who’s initiating? Why? Rio’s initiating cause the reader is upset with him and has been distant.

🌶️ Where are they? Is it risky, or are they all clear? At the readers house, Rio popped up to show out. The stakes are pride on the line.

🌶️ Are there consequences, or is this just pure indulgence? Rio’s dominating and punishing her with pleasure his way. Because he’s upset she thinks she can run from him.

🌶️ Power dynamic—who’s in control, or is it balanced? Rio’s mostly in control. The sex is about him exerting his power and value.

🌶️ Tone—fun, playful, serious, intense? There's an intensity there.

🌶️ How does it end? It ends with them satisfied but with Rio flipping the deck of cards and giving the reader more than she bargained for. She realizes he was trying to get her pregnant so she would stick around.

How to Submit:

📌 Anon: If you don’t want credit, just send it in here. 📌 With Credit: If you have a longer submission, you can send it here—I’ll credit you if I use your idea.

Please no comment submissions - inbox only.

Drop your ideas 👀 in the inbox or submission box.

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