Unknown

The great bronze dragon had his massive head turned in your direction, eyes like molten gold; already fixed on you as soon as you came into view. Mayhaps he had caught your scent mixed in the wind, or the soft crunch of your feet against the gravel; it was hard to tell for a dragon’s senses were far greater than a human’s.

You approached him without hesitation, a feat that would have been impossible for you a few moons ago. Some time back, the sight of Vermithor even from a mile away had your heart racing, palms sweating, and throat dry. Now you approached him like he was one of the Red Keep’s domesticated cats.

As you stood in front of him, the old dragon lowered his enormous head until it hovered just inches from your own. His heat rolled off in waves; it felt like standing before a forge, and the scent of smoke, ash, and brimstone filled your senses.

Your hand lifted for a moment, silently asking for permission, though you and the beast’s relationship had come a long way. In the end, Vermithor was still a dragon, an older one at that; he didn’t always like being touched.

A warm huff escaped his nostrils, sending curls of smoke that tickle your face and stir loose strands of hair. Permission.

“Hello to you too.”

A laugh escaped you as you wrapped your arms around his snout, rubbing your hands along the rough bronze scales. Even through your layers of clothing, you could still feel the heat from them. Vermithor rumbled lowly at the feeling, and you felt the vibration travel through you.

Then the old beast pressed forward, shoving his head against you in a silent demand for further affection, the force of it nearly sending you stumbling backward.

“Seven hells,” you laughed. “You will have me tumbling back down this hill.” You spoke, knowing all too well he didn’t understand the Common Tongue.

“So I don’t get a greeting?”

The familiar voice came from above.

You tilted your head back to find Baelor who sat comfortably atop Vermithor’s saddle, his short, wavy dark hair sway softly in the morning breeze as he looked down at you with poorly concealed amusement.

“My lord husband,” you smirked, looking up at him with a playful eye roll.

“My lady wife,” he replied, his tone just as teasing.

He then slid off the beast with such ease. “You know, if we put in word now, I believe the blacksmith could create a two-seater for Vermithor before this month ends.”

You laughed with a scoff. It had taken time, and a great deal of it, to grow comfortable around Vermithor. Moons of patience, encouragement, and careful, slow interactions. Then, somewhere along the way, fear had softened into trust, and trust into affection.

You had grown so fond of the dragon that you often joked Vermithor was your first child together, but still, it would take a bit more time before you were comfortable being miles and miles above the ground.

“No need, I am quite content as a spectator.”

He joined you at Vermithor’s side, patting the dragon’s flank and commanding him in the ancient tongue to return to the Dragonpit, but the dragon ignored his rider entirely, not even blinking in his direction, choosing instead to continue basking in your attention.

The prince narrowed his mismatched eyes in mock offense.

“I am prone to believe he likes you more than me.”

You continued tracing your fingers along Vermithor’s rough scales, and the dragon’s orange eyes closed as if in bliss.

“Just wait,” you chuckled lightly, glancing over at Baelor. “When he gets his little brother or sister, I suspect you’ll be replaced entirely,” you teased.

Heat rose to his brown cheeks. Gods, he hated when that happened. It had already been half a year since your wedding. You shared a marriage bed and all that came with it, yet comments like that still had him smiling and blushing like a green boy.

You opened your mouth to tease him when suddenly the sky darkened. A massive shadow swallowed the sun, covering the world in darkness. Then came the sound……Seven hells, the sound. It was a shrill, violent screech that split through the air, followed by the thunderous beating of enormous wings.

Baelor stiffened instantly, every trace of mirth disappearing from his face. Most of his family had dragons, and he knew every one of their calls, and that was not one of them.

His hand firmly gripped your forearm, pulling you behind him. Vermithor needed no command. One massive bronze wing unfurled, shielding both you and his rider beneath its span. A deep growl rumbled from his throat as his head snapped toward the dark shape circling overhead.

When you finally looked up, you saw a dragon the color of the sea on a moonless night, and there was only one dragon alive that color; Cannibal. Which could only mean that upon his back was none other than Daemon Blackfyre.

The black dragon circled overhead several times, slow and deliberate. It reminded you of vultures wheeling above dying prey.

Vermithor took it as a taunt; it upset him, but the old beast would not attack unless his rider commanded it. Instead, his growl deepened, and his eyes never left the intruder.

After another circle, Cannibal finally descended. His immense wings beat against the wind, sounding like a king’s banner flapping in a storm. As he neared the ground, the powerful sweep of his wings sent loose stones and dust exploding outward. His massive claws stretched forward, reaching for the rocky plain below. The moment he touched down, the earth shuddered beneath the beast’s weight.

Thinking back on it now, you had never truly seen Cannibal. His scales were nearly as black as the formidable Balerion’s had once been. Scars crisscrossed his body in pale streaks, each telling unspoken stories of his violence and aggression. His wings were ragged and torn at the edges, and his emerald eyes seemed to burn with a thirst for blood.

Even standing there, the beast seemed restless, shifting under his rider, claws sharp enough to tear through steel digging into the rocky plain. But, he was smaller than Vermithor…..thankfully so, you prayed that difference would matter, if it came to it.

Your eyes then shifted up to Daemon, who looked far calmer than the beast he rode. It had been years since you had last seen him. The last time you did, he had still been a mere boy, but now he was a man, and by the Seven did he grow beautifully into his Valyrian features. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, arms muscular, and jaw sharpened. His silver-gold hair was much longer and had been pulled back into a warrior’s braid.

There were still a few things that remained the same about him from your youth together however, like those deep violet eyes that immediately settled on you, followed by that smile. The same smile that had once convinced you not to attend lessons with your septa, the one that talked you into climbing castle walls or exploring King Maegor’s secret tunnels. The one that had easily triggered your own so many times before.

You realized you were staring and quickly tore your gaze away, but Daemon had already noticed. His smile widened, and by the way Baelor’s jaw tightened, so had he.

Daemon dismounted in one fluid motion and began to stride toward you when Baelor’s voice cut through the air.

“That is far enough.” His voice was calm and steady, but a warning nonetheless.

Daemon paused for a moment before a chuckle slipped past his lips.

“You seem to resemble Daeron more and more every day,” Daemon remarked.

His gaze drifted leisurely over Baelor's features.

“Well... solely in personality, of course.”

He took another step despite the order.

Baelor’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword.

Behind him, Vermithor lowered his head beside Baelor’s shoulder, lips peeling back to reveal rows of sharp teeth, a deep growl rumbling at the back of his throat.

Cannibal hissed immediately in reply, shifting forward and raising his jagged wings, clearly trying to appear bigger, more fierce. He let out a loud shriek that pained your ears and had you gripping onto Baelor.

Vermithor didn’t seem fazed; instead, his mouth slowly opened as a strange sound began to build deep in his throat. It started as a low, uneven chitter, like two stones striking together, sparking the first breath of fire. The sound grew louder as smoke passed between his teeth in thin threads and the  back of his throat began to glow with that infamous orange heat, brightening with every passing second. His mood quickly shifted from a warning into a promise.

Daemon raised a hand.

“Lykirī, Cannibal,” he said, far too calmly, his eyes not even looking back at his dragon. “We came to greet an old friend, not steal what has already been claimed.”

The black dragon reluctantly settled, but those deep green eyes remained locked on the bronze fury, and Vermithor’s orange ones remained locked on him as well.

Daemon stood a good foot away from you, now fully aware of the cost of taking another step. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, feigning ease as though he hadn’t nearly been roasted like a pig moments earlier.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/n.” His voice was smooth as silk.

“Daemon.” You answered, hoping your tone carried none of the warmth or familiarity that threatened to surface.

“I regret missing your wedding,” he paused briefly, shifting his weight. “I am sure you made a very beautiful bride.”

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

“But I thought it best not to attend. I imagine my presence would have caused more trouble than celebration.”

“Message received, Daemon.” Baelor’s voice cut in, the calmness from earlier slowly fraying like old rope. “I’m certain there are far more entertaining activities awaiting you elsewhere.”

Daemon’s eyebrow shot up in mock confusion.

“Am I not allowed to speak to an old friend?”

“Not when that friend is now my wife.”

You had seen Baelor serious before; during council meetings, training, and matters of state, but this was different. There was something sharper to his tone, more protective, angry… possessive even.

Daemon noticed it and seemed amused, his smile became taunting.

“I see marriage has made you territorial, dear nephew.”

“You said you weren’t here to stir any trouble. Now make good on that promise and go.” Baelor used the same tone of voice he did when commanding a council.

Daemon lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“As you wish, my prince.”

He mounted Cannibal, giving you one more glance before they launched into the sky.

The tension did not leave even after they were gone. Vermithor did not move, his great head still angled toward the fading speck of Cannibal, and Baelor remained just as rigid, his eyes fixed on the horizon long after the dragon and rider had vanished from sight.

Baelor had always just tolerated his half-uncle; that was the most polite way he could put it.

The easiest answer came from politics.

Growing up, he always had to hear how his grandfather, the foolish King Aegon IV, compared his father to his half uncle. The king delighted in humiliating his true heir, Daeron, whenever he could while praising his favorite bastard in the same breath. Even after Aegon’s death, the realm continued to compare them.

But that was the convenient answer.

The real one stood beside him.

Baelor knew you and Daemon had once been close.

Growing up in the Red Keep, you were rarely seen apart from him. Baelor could still picture it: finding you two in the gardens, seated close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, speaking in low voices meant for no one else.

The training yard was no better.

Whenever the squires sparred under Ser Quentyn’s watch, your cheers were always loudest for Daemon. Gods, that smile of yours so bright, so proud. Baelor found himself training even harder, hoping one day that smile might be directed at him. Moreover he had always tried to talk to you, but it proved impossible without the Waters boy intervening.

Then at fourteen, everything changed.

Before his death, Aegon the Unworthy legitimized Daemon and all his other bastards (the first spark of future discord). The Waters, now Blackfyre, was wed to a noblewoman of Tyrosh, then given his own lands along the Blackwater Rush by his half-brother, the now King Daeron. It served as both reward and leash, as Blackfyre had now become his newest threat.

When Daemon left King’s Landing, whatever childhood friendship and petty rivalry existed seemed to die there, or so Baelor told himself so often it felt like the truth.

Yet watching Daemon smile at you today, watching old familiarity flicker between you, even for the briefest moment, stirred something unpleasant in his chest. The same feeling his child self had once known, but for some reason it burned hotter now.

The wedding celebrations of Princess Daenerys Targaryen and Prince Maron Martell had transformed King’s Landing into history in the making. The wedding had been even grander than yours and Baelor’s.

Every inn was full and tavern crowded. Hundreds of pavilions lined the tourney grounds, spilling across the usually plain fields in a riot of color. Silken tents bearing distinctive heraldry stretched as far as the eye could see, their banners flying proudly in the summer wind. Golden roses of Highgarden fluttered beside the silver trout of Riverrun. Westerling seashells and Hightower beacons snapped sharply in the breeze, alongside countless others.

Your eyes swept across the jousting grounds. It seemed as though everyone in the Six, now Seven Kingdoms had come for the wedding.

Hundreds of nobles occupied the upper galleries beneath embroidered awnings displaying the colors of their respective houses, while below them hundreds more smallfolk stood shoulder to shoulder in the mud.

The royal family sat high above them all. A great three-headed Targaryen banner draped from one side of the royal box, while the sun-and-spear of House Martell hung from the other.

A symbol of two houses united in peace.

Yet, as with many decisions made by the Crown, not everyone celebrated. Arguments echoed through the streets of the realm. Many raised their ales to the gods, praising the end of years of war and bloodshed, while others grumbled into their cups, claiming the king had become far too influenced by the Dornish and favored them above every other house.

You slipped into the royal gallery just as Princess Daenerys laughed at something Prince Maron had whispered into her ear. The newlyweds already seemed to get along, and for that you were glad.

Arranged marriages, especially among nobles, rarely blossomed into true love. You had been fortunate that yours and Baelor’s had. From what you had seen so far, it appeared Daenerys had been just as lucky.

You were engaged in a small conversation with one of your handmaids when a trumpet sounded across the field.

Then came a familiar name.

“First born son of King Daeron the good, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone; Baelor Targaryen!”

The cheers rolled across the tiltyard like distant thunder as Baelor urged his horse into a lap around the lists before making his way toward the royal box.

Your gaze drifted toward him, taking a moment to appreciate his armor.

Thousands of dark steel scales overlapped across his chest and shoulders, crafted to mimic those of a dragon. Upon the breastplate, countless tiny rubies formed the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, glimmering brilliantly beneath the summer sun.

The moment he removed his helm, dark waves tumbled free from their confinement, falling slightly across his forehead. His skin was slightly more tanned than usual, something you had noticed always happened during the hottest months of the year, a gift from his Dornish blood, which was suited to withstand the unforgiving sun than most.

Those mismatched eyes, one darker and one lighter, lifted briefly toward you before shifting to his father.

Baelor lowered his head to King Daeron in respect. The king did not bother to hide the proud smile that spread across his face, he raised a hand and gave a small nod.

“Our beautiful boy,” Queen Myriah said fondly.

Baelor immediately looked away.

Even being heir to the Iron Throne did not spare a man from embarrassment at the hands of his mother.

He guided his horse closer to where you sat.

“May I ask for your favor, my lady?”

The smile he flashed up at you had laughter threatening to escape. It was that same boyish grin he always wore whenever he knew he was up to no good.

You leaned casually against the railing.

“Depends. Will you win?”

“Of course I will, especially when I have something worth riding for.”

you giggle, and the sound made his heart flutter. You knew all too well this was mock arrogance, Baelor was never the egotistical type.

You made your way down from the royal box, stepping in front of him and his horse.

You and Baelor’s courting days were long over, but still, you found joy in small gestures like this. You presented him with a purple ribbon.

Baelor extended his arm, allowing you to tie it around his bicep.

The soft lilac stood out beautifully against the black dragon scales of his armor.

“There.” You patted the knot as it fluttered softly in the wind. “You’d better not lose, or you’ll ruin my honor.”

Though you couldn’t have cared less whether he won or lost, the mere thought that he rode in your name was victory enough.

The thought barely settled before the sharp blast of horns split the air.

A herald’s voice followed.

“Son of the late King Aegon IV, wielder of the conqueror’s sword, Daemon Blackfyre!”

Smallfolk surged against the barriers, young lads climbing atop benches or their fathers’ shoulders for a better view. Noble ladies leaned over balcony railings despite the protests of septas and husbands alike. Squires carrying shields and lances paused mid-step. Even knights mounted for the day’s contests turned in their saddles to watch.

Daemon Blackfyre rode onto the field beneath a storm of cheers.

His white destrier trotted proudly beneath him, tossing its silver mane as if even the animal knew all eyes were upon it.

Sunlight flashed across crimson armor etched with black dragons. His horse’s barding bore the same colors. Bastards, legitimized or not, could not wear their father’s arms as trueborn sons did. Instead, they bore them reversed, a cruel courtesy that acknowledged their blood while ensuring no one forgot the circumstances of it.

A roar rolled across the grounds.

Men leapt to their feet, noblewomen waved ribbons from the galleries, smallfolk women underclothes….

Not everyone joined them however, some lords remained seated, exchanging dark looks and muttering amongst themselves, others watched in silence, mouths drawn tight.

Yet whether they cheered or frowned, every eye followed him.

Attention had always come as easily to Daemon as breathing.

His squire handed him a bouquet of white roses, and Daemon began circling the lists, tossing flowers into the crowd.

Maidens squealed, leaning over to catch it, two girls nearly came to blows over a single bloom.

For a moment, it seemed the entire tourney belonged to him.

You glanced toward Baelor.

His eyes were already fixed upon the black dragon across the field. To anyone watching, he appeared perfectly composed and unbothered the image of a crown prince. Only the slight tightening of his grip on the reins betrayed him.

After allowing the crowd their adoration, Daemon guided his horse toward the royal box.

He bowed first to King Daeron, receiving a measured nod in return.

Then his gaze found you.

Your breath caught as he extended a single red rose.

Memories from when you were younger flooded your mind. He had always been the one to give out flowers during tourneys. 

White roses for the crowd, a  red rose for you.

Back then, he could not openly court you. He was still a bastard, and you were a maiden of a noble house, a scandal enough to make septas faint, but that had never stopped the two of you. It had merely meant the courting happened in the shadows.

Hidden behind the stables before a tourney. A red flower tucked behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than it should.

He had always worn red proudly during every tourney, a silent declaration that he rode for you.

“Wish me luck.”

The familiarity struck you so hard that your hand reached for the rose but then the sight of your gold wedding ring caught the sunlight struck harder.

…

“I wish all the knights a fair and honorable contest,” you said, folding your hands neatly before you in a way that left the wedding band impossible to miss.

Daemon’s arm remained extended until Baelor’s black stallion stepped sideways. Suddenly the prince and horse sat squarely between you and Daemon. A wall of black armor, red silk, and broad shoulders.

His gaze swept over your gown, the dark red and black silks, then the diadem resting upon your brow in the shape of dragon wings…… bronze dragon wings.

“Though I suppose I should call you Princess now.”

His smile curved into a smirk.

“I always knew you’d marry into royalty. I simply imagined it would happen by a different road.”

“Daemon.” Baelor’s voice was calm, but his eyes hardened in a way that said the opposite.

“What?” Daemon said lightly, glancing at him.

“You’ve already expressed respect to your king. You needn’t linger.” Baelor’s voice still remained courteous; his expression did not, dark eyebrows drawn together, eyes sharp and unyielding.

Daemon ignored him, violet eyes drifting downward, settling on the ribbon tied around Baelor’s armored bicep.

“She used to kiss the flat of Blackfyre before any of my duels. I never lost. Does she do the same for you?”

Baelor’s stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, a hoof digging into the dirt, pulling against the reins,displaying the emotion its rider refused to show.

For a moment that felt far too long, both men simply stared at each other neither looking away.

Baelor was all controlled fire beneath polished steel, rigid and unflinching. Daemon, in contrast, sat loose in the saddle like a man carved from confidence itself, smile faint but sharp at the edges, eyes unblinking and daring.

You were reminded, absurdly, of their respective dragons studying one another across the field that day.

"If I were you," Baelor said at last, his voice tight, he reaches out to pet the stallion’s neck to calm her, "I would be more mindful of how I speak about another man's wife."

Daemon tilted his head.

"And if I choose not to?"

"You'll regret it."

Daemon looked genuinely  pleased at the reply, a laugh slipping past his lips.

"Ah, there he is.” he leans in “I'd begun to fear all that Dornish sand had extinguished the dragon out of you."

The insult hung in the air, a jab at Baelor's Martell blood. A reminder that some still whispered that too much of  Dorne  ran through the royal line.

Baelor did not react at least, not visibly anyways.

"I pray your horse carries you safely to the end of the lists, Daemon."

Daemon's smile sharpened.

"And I yours, my prince."

Neither man missed the meaning; courtesy, challenge and promise wrapped in one.

Then Daemon wheeled his horse around and rode off into the fields.

My love—"

You reached for Baelor, only  then did he seem to realize how tightly wound he had become. His shoulders eased, the  rigid set of his jaw softened and  when he looked at you, every trace of tension vanished.

Whatever you were about to say died on your lips as he took your hand and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

His heavy Valyrian steel gauntlet molded awkwardly around your fingers, yet somehow still held them with remarkable gentleness.

"The tourney will begin soon my heart, find your seat.”

The lists no longer felt the same after that.

The women of the royal court rarely cared for tourneys the way men did. You found yourself seated amongst them in a corner of the royal box while conversation drifted around you like distant waves.

Princess Daenerys spoke at length about her impending journey to Dorne, her excitement battling with her worries in equal measure. The ladies listened politely, offering soft reassurances and occasional smiles.

You heard almost none of it, your attention remained fixed on Baelor.

The tourney had scarcely begun, yet he had already unhorsed three opponents.

A lord of House Swann.

A knight sworn to House Tarly.

And now some hedge knight whose name you had already forgotten.

After the pass, Baelor guided his horse toward the edge of the lists where Maekar waited.

His youngest brother hurried forward at once. The boy took the reins with all the seriousness of a knight preparing for battle. Next year he would be six-and-ten, the age at which most squires hoped to earn their spurs, and he seemed determined to prove himself ready.

Maekar led the horse to water, checked the straps, and inspected the tack with an intensity that would have made an older squire laugh.

Baelor never laughed, he always thanked him and somehow that only made Maekar try harder.

As Maekar readied the horse for the next pass, Baelor slouched in a chair before his black-and-red pavilion, his helm resting on his lap.

Dark hair clung damply to his forehead. A faint flush colored his tanned cheeks from exertion, though he showed no sign of weariness. Whether he felt fatigue at all or simply refused to acknowledge it was difficult to say.

His gaze remained fixed on the Blackfyre, who was preparing for his first tilt.

It was something Baelor always did with every opponent. It did not matter who they were: highborn lord or hedge knight, tourney champion or green boy riding his first lists.

He studied them all with equal seriousness.

How they sat a horse, carried a lance, reacted to victory and defeat.

Every detail mattered.

But Daemon Blackfyre was not merely another opponent.

From the wolves of the North to the scorpions of Dorne, everyone knew what Daemon Blackfyre was.

Knighted at twelve.

Bearer of Blackfyre.

Victor of more tourneys than most men twice his age.

The very image singers filled their songs with.

Baelor respected that, whether he wished to or not. For all their faults, he could still recognize that Daemon was one of the greatest warriors in the realm.

Most of all, Baelor knew his chances of losing were higher than his chances of winning.

Across the field, Daemon raised both hands as the crowd cheered for him, acting as though victory was already his.

Considering his record, perhaps it was.

When the horns sounded.

His entire demeanor shifted, the smile vanished and the way he lowered his helm was almost ceremonial.

His attention settled wholly upon his opponent.

He became unnervingly still.

You had seen Vermithor do the same when stalking prey. The great bronze dragon would freeze moments before striking, every muscle coiled beneath his scales.

The signal was given.

They charged.

Hooves shook the ground.

The two riders met in a blur of crimson and steel.

Daemon struck like a hammer upon an anvil.

Once.

That was all it took.

The opposing knight barely managed to raise his shield before the lance shattered against him.

Horse and rider separated instantly, the mount continuing onward without its master.

The knight crashed into the dirt, dust exploded across the lists.

The crowd erupted.

Beside the barrier, Maekar's mouth actually fell open.

The boy had only been six or so the last time Daemon rode regularly in King's Landing. This was the first time he had truly witnessed the Black Dragon in action.

"Fucking hells," he breathed.

Next to him, Baelor said nothing.

He simply stood from his seat, to most it would have appeared he was unfazed, but for the briefest moment he let out a slow breath, his eyes closing before he placed his helm back on.Then the visor lowered, hiding whatever thoughts lay beneath, and he mounted as though it had been nothing more than another pass.

By late afternoon, the worst of the day's heat had faded. Long shadows crept across the lists as a cool breeze stirred through the grounds. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted from the kitchens behind the royal box, a quiet reminder that the tourney's final hours were approaching. 

The field itself felt smaller now, ranks thinner.

Only two names remained, their names scrawled across the weathered wood in streaks of dripping black paint. 

Baelor of House Targaryen.

Daemon of House Blackfyre.

It was a shame, the other men had ridden well enough but it did not matter by tomorrow nobody would remember their names.

All anyone would remember was this.

Dragon versus dragon.

Targaryen versus Blackfyre.

Certain future versus possible future…

To some it was merely a joust between two men of royal blood but to others it ran much deeper.

For years whispers had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire

Arguing which of the half brothers should be king.

Some argued that their king should be a strong warrior and that the wielder of Blackfyre should go with the crown. Others remained loyal to House Targaryen and King Daeron, believing wisdom and peace worth far more than martial glory.

Some houses had already begun drifting toward one side or the other, drawn by old loyalties, ambitions, and promises yet unspoken. Still, no one voiced such thoughts above a whisper, for wars involving Targaryens rarely remained ordinary wars.They either ended swiftly or consumed everything in their path with fire and blood

However, whatever the future held,it was not this day's concern.

A trumpet sounded across the field and the murmuring crowd fell silent.

As custom demanded, both riders met in the center of the lists before the final tilt.

Obsidian gauntlet met crimson steel as Baelor and Daemon clasped forearms.

Daemon leaned closer, whispering something into his nephew’s ear and judging by the grin tugging at his lips, it was not kind.

Baelor’s expression did not change but his grip visibly tightened, for a moment, neither released the other.

Only when the trumpet sounds again did they part and ride toward opposite ends of the lists.

The drums began.

Low and steady like a heartbeat.

At one end sat Daemon, impossibly confident even from this distance, as though this were merely another tourney and another victory waiting to be claimed.

At the other sat Baelor.

He looked like a man fully aware he might win or lose, and prepared to face either outcome. His gaze swept across the hundreds gathered around the lists until it found you.

The look lasted only a moment then he lowered his visor.

The marshal raised his scarf.

“READY!”

The horses tossed their heads and pawed at the dirt.

“RIDE!”

The scarf fell.

The drums quickened.

Hooves thundered.

The distance between them vanished in seconds followed by a  sharp crack that echoed across the grounds. Both men defended in  time, their shields caught the blows cleanly thus both men remained mounted.

The crowd roared and drums began again.

The second pass came harder.

The third both men pulled their strikes at the last moment, neither willing to risk a poor angle.

The fourth and fifth are even harder than the last.

Splinters now  littered the ground, their shields were battered and scarred and dust coated their armor yet neither man had fallen.

The crowd groaned in disappointment and impatience. 

By the sixth pass something changes in both men, both clearly growing impatient.

Daemon no longer feigned coolness; the charming knight adored by crowds was gone. Instead, the warrior people sang of emerged, the Black Dragon.

Across from him, Baelor sat straighter in the saddle, not in mockery but in equal determination. 

The signal dropped again. They charged… somehow even faster and harder than any other  and distance vanished in the blink of an eye.

Impact.

The crack echoed louder than anything else. Gasps swept through the stands as both riders were ripped from their saddles.

You were on your feet instantly.

“Baelor!”

He struck the ground hard. Far too hard and if he had rolled even half a second too late, he would have been trampled by Daemon’s stricken destrier, which continued running despite its rider falling.

Daemon fell just as bad yet he was already rising to his feet. He ripped off his helm; blood ran down one temple, silver-gold hair, now stained with dirt and blood. There was a slight limp as he stood, but he stood.

On the other side, Baelor did not move at first. He was clearly winded mayhaps for a second or two, but it felt like eternity. Then a hand pressed into the dirt, and slowly he pushed himself upright. Relief hit so hard that, if you weren’t holding onto the railing, you would have collapsed.

He removed his helm. There was blood at his lip, dirt across his brow, and a dark bruise already forming on his cheek. His face twisted in a grimace as his hand shot to his ribs.

Maekar is already at his side, the younger prince spoke urgently, pointing toward the waiting maesters but Baelor shook his head once firmly, muttering something.

Maekar’s expression flickered with worry for a split second before he nodded and went to grab another lance and shield.

It makes you feel sick

“Don’t.” You speak even though you knew he couldn't hear you.

Your stomach twisted as you watched Baelor mount again, but why? That last ride should have been enough. Both men were unhorsed no one would have questioned ending it there.

Something else in him however was clearly taking over, refusing to end it, Baelor climbed back onto his horse and put his helm on again. Across the field, Daemon’s eyes narrowed; he looked surprised, but followed, mounting his own steed.

When Maekar returned, he hesitated, then reluctantly handed over the lance and shield. Baelor gave his shoulder a firm squeeze for a moment before riding back into position.

It shook everyone that mounted again but they also loved it. The marshal looked toward the game maker, who looked sick to his stomach. If he ended the game now, the crowd would revolt but if he continued and the crown prince was injured further, it would be his head. Despite it, he slowly nodded.

The drums began again.

Everyone knew this was the pass to end things. Suddenly, even the ladies in the royal box turned their attention fully to the field. The signal dropped.

The drumbeat somehow becomes more menacing and it makes you shift in your seat.

“By the Seven, please protect him.” you prayed to any god who would listen.

They charged and everything seemed to slow till they made impact

Daemon’s lance shattered against Baelor’s shield but Baelor struck higher and harder across Daemon’s chest.

For one impossible moment, Daemon remained seated and the gods knew he tried, but gravity won the Blackfyre crashed into the dirt hard enough to shake the ground.

 Baelor remained mounted.

Silence…complete, stunned silence follows

Then somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted, low:

“Breakspear…”

Then another joined, more confident.

“Breakspear!”

Another five, then ten, then hundreds.

“BREAKSPEAR!” “BREAKSPEAR!” “BREAKSPEAR!”

The name rolled through the lists like thunder, thousands of voices, stomping feet, banging steel.

“BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR!”

Yet Baelor seemed not to hear them. He dismounts, removing his helm slowly, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, as though he could not quite believe it himself.

Across the field, Daemon still sat on the ground, the second impact having hit far harder. 

Baelor’s gaze caught something red, face-down in the dirt.

Daemon’s shield.

He picked it up and stared at the red surface with the black dragon painted across. The crowd gradually quieted as Baelor neared him. Daemon looked up as Baelor stopped before him. Baelor held out the shield and Daemom stared at it for a moment before taking it.

Neither spoke though no words were needed however.

The gesture said everything;he would not take his horse, nor his armor, nor demand ransom. Daemon could keep it all.

The Blackfyre could only  manage a single nod before he was helped back toward his pavilion.

Only then was the victor’s wreath placed into Baelor’s hands that it truly hit him what he had just achieved. Fresh green leaves and bright colorful  flowers. Delicate things strangely out of place against muddied gauntlets and battered armor.

He is ripped from his thoughts when he is suddenly lifted into the air.

Older knights who had watched him grow from a gangly boy into a prince worthy of song hoisted him onto their shoulders, while younger men, those he called friends, brothers in all but blood banged against his armor and ruffled his hair.

The chant continued to roll across the lists as he was lifted above the crowd.

Only when the Kingsguard approached did they begin to lower him, creating a path for King Daeron, who strode through with a smile brighter than any crown.

“My son.”

His hands came up to cup Baelor’s face before pressing a kiss to his cheek. The king had never hidden his love for his children.

A few nearby knights chuckled, and the tips of Baelor’s ears immediately turned red.

“Father…”

He tried to pull away, though not very hard.

It was only when Queen Myriah laid a gentle hand upon her husband’s arm that Daeron finally released him.

“Let the poor boy breathe,” she said fondly.

Baelor’s expression softened into something only ever reserved for you when you appeared.

Suddenly, it felt like the first day of your courtship all over again. He couldn’t quite meet your gaze. Instead, his fingers fumbled briefly with the flower crown before he slowly dropped to one knee.

The afternoon sun caught him just right, highlighting his usually smooth cheeks now marked with faint scuffs of battle, a bruise begins to bloom along his cheekbone, and he now has a split lip still dark with drying blood. One brown eye glowed warm like honey, while the lilac one flecked in the sun like light catching a shard of glass.

He lifted the wreath up to you like a relic and when he looked at you, he smiled for the first time since jousting that same easy, teasing, boyish one. 

“See?” he grinned. “I told you I’d win, if I had something worth riding for.”

You accepted the wreath, turning it carefully in your hands.

“Yes,” you said dryly. “You only nearly killed yourself doing it.”

A sheepish look crossed his face.

“Well…”

His fingers rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Did I at least look heroic?”

You laughed despite yourself.

Stepping forward, you reached up and brushed a thumb across his split lip, carefully wiping away the last trace of blood.

“Annoyingly so.”

His grin softened.

“Then I suppose it was worth it.”

His smile faltered for a second.

“But…” he said more quietly, “I am sorry if I frightened you.”

The sincerity caught you off guard.

You had watched him ride into danger without hesitation, watched him thrown from a horse and climb back into the saddle while barely able to stand.

Yet this was what concerned him most was your fear.

“Forgiven,” you said.

His shoulders relaxed immediately.

“And giving Daemon back his shield makes you ten times the man he’ll ever be.”

A breathy laugh escaped him.

“Ah.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the Blackfyre pavilion.

“I must admit that part was difficult”

Silence settled between you, but it was a comfortable, familiar one.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the wreath, and you sighed, knowing you should have said this sooner.

"Daemon is my past, Baelor."

His attention snapped back to you immediately.

"And you are my future."

Everything else seemed to fade away. The glory of his victory slipped to the back of his mind, replaced by something sheepish and  vulnerable.

"Oh... was I truly that transparent?"

You smiled.

"Terribly."

A groan escaped him.

"Gods."

You tsked 

"I've always been able to read you."

That seemed to embarrass him more than being kissed by his father in front of half the realm. Color crept into his tanned  cheeks beneath the bruises. Both your hands came up to cradle his face as you smiled at him, gentle and true.

His breath caught.

"And if I had to choose again, I would still choose you."

For a moment, he simply stared. The great victor of the tourney, the prince who had just defeated Daemon Blackfyre none of it seemed to matter anymore.

He rose slowly to his feet, you expected him to take your hand.

Instead, his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.

"Baelor—"

"I think I liked that answer better than winning."

Before you could respond, he dipped you backward. The world tilted, and the flower crown nearly slipped from your hands. Around you, the crowd erupted, wolf whistles, laughter, and a few scandalized cries from older ladies that sent heat rushing to your face. Baelor paid them no mind; his attention remained fixed solely on you.Then he kissed you not the triumphant kiss of a tourney champion, but the kiss of a young man hopelessly in love with his wife.

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"

In the distorted logic of your dreams, you were standing in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, but the ceiling had been stripped away, leaving only a bruised, blood stained sky that bled down the walls. The Iron Throne sat atop its jagged dais, looking less like a seat of power and more like a mountain of dragon's teeth, glistening with wet with the familiar liquid of blood.

You were alone, clutching a bundle of silk to your chest. You looked down, expecting to see the soft, sleeping faces of either Valarr or Matarys, but the silk only felt cold and limp. When you pulled back the fabric there was nothing but the grey ash that caught in the wind, blowing it away until your arms were empty despite how you clung to the flying ashes of your sons.

"Valarr?" You called out, but your voice didn't sound like your own, "Matarys?"

The silence was broken by the sounds of thousands of voices whispering. From behind pillars, the hall started to close in around you; shadowy, eyeless figures draped in heavy velvets and silks. They stared down at you, their judgement evident despite their eyeless faces. The weak queen, they hissed in your mind, the fragile mother. How can she guard the dragons when she cannot even guard herself?

The floor underneath your slipper clad feet began to turn into liquid, a messy sea of black sand. Every step towards the exit only sank you deeper as you looked to the grand hall's doors, they were shut, barred. You were desperate for the bars to shatter, to see the sight of your husband who would save you as he always did. But the doors remained miles away, receding into the distance as you sunk deeper and deeper.

The air grew tight, turning every breath into a labour, like smoke in your throat. You tried to scream for him, to scream for your sons, but the sand reached your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs. The shadows of the court closed in, their eyeless faces leaning over you, their fingers like cold needles.

"You are losing them," a voice echoed, a voice that sounded cruelly like your own internal thoughts, "you are failing."

The black sand had swallowed you up to your neck, hungry to devour you whole by every inch. The pressure against your ribs was immense, crushing your heart that pounded painfully in panic as you struggled, the sand shifting, dragging you deeper into the cold maw of your own failure, your own fears.

"Baelor!" You screamed, the word dying on your throat, stifled by the thickening air and the taste of salt and ash.

Then, through the haze of the bleeding sky, he appeared.

He was standing at the edge of the pit, just a few feet away. He looked exactly as he did on the days he returned from a political trip - strong, clad in the dark, heavy plate that bore the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight of him was a flare of hope. He was the Hand of the King, the Prince of Dragonstone, the man who held the realm together with his steady voice and firm hand. The man who despite your arrangement, was a loving husband who had given you two beautiful sons. Surely, he could help you.

With the last of your strength, you forced your right arm free from the tightening grip of the sand. The movement felt as though you were tearing your limb through wet clay or extremely deep water. Your fingers shook, reaching upwards, straining towards him. You could see the familiar line of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, the very person who was your sanctuary for your fears.

"Baelor, please!" You gasped, your voice ragged and tired from struggling, "I'm sinking, help me! Husband, please!"

You needed only one hand. Just a firm grip to pull you from the encroaching void. You reached out, your fingertips mere inches from the hem of his dark cloak. You could almost feel the phantom warmth of his skin, the safety of his presence that he always promised would be there for you. You poured every ounce of your bleeding strength, a silent plea for the one person who knew your fears and knew how to stand between you and the dark of them.

But he didn't move.

Baelor stood perfectly still before with a coldness that froze the marrow within your bones, he turned away. He didn't even bother to look down at you. He didn't acknowledge the frantic scratching of your nails against the grit or the way your voice cracked as you begged for him. He simply walked away, his back being the only thing that you could see left.

"No!" You wailed, "Baelor, my love, please! Don't leave me here!"

He continued to walk, his pace steady, heading towards the distant, glowing light of the royal chambers where the ghosts of your children waited. He was leaving you to the dark because you were too heavy, too broken, too lost in your own fears to be saved. The rejection was more painful than the pressure of the sand, a blade in the center of your heart.

As he vanished into the gloom, the sand surged upwards, drowning you in your own despair. It rose past your collarbones, hot and dry as it began to pour into your mouth that opened to cry out one last time, the grains coating your tongue and scraping against the delicate lining of your throat. It felt like swallowing glass.

The sand forced its way into your nose, cutting off the last of your air. You squeezed your eyes shut, unable to keep the sand from stinging them like a thousand tiny pine needles blinding you. You were buried alive in the very center of your own mind, the weight of your status finally proving too much to bear. The last thing you felt was the crushing silence of the world as the sand closed around the crown of your head, erasing you from the world where Baelor walked in the light.

The suffocation was torture, the burning in your lungs reaching near agony--

"Sweetheart...listen to me. Come back. You are dreaming, my love, only dreaming."

The sand in your throat seemed to thin, turning back into air, though it came in pathetic hitches of breath. The crushing pressure on your chest didn't vanish, but it shifted, becoming a sensation of firm, warm hands anchoring your shoulders to something solid and soft.

"Open your eyes," the voice commanded, though the words were wrapped in desperation to see your eyes awake and not stuck in the terror of your own mind, "focus on my voice. Follow it out of the dark. I am right here, I'm not going anywhere."

With a final, violent gasp that sounded like a person who was drowning in water that was finally able to breathe again, your eyes flew open.

The transition from your dream to the real world was one made your heart only slam harder against your ribs. The bruised, bleeding sky of the nightmare was gone, replaced by the flickering warmth of the candle on the side of your bed that you always kept burning, not liking to be completely in the dark. The smell of the ash and dry earth vanished, replaced by the overwhelming but familiar scent of Baelor; leather, cedarwood, and the faint tang of the oil he used on his beard.

You were shaking so violently that the heavy furs draped over the bed shook with you. Your breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, but as your vision cleared, the first thing that you saw was him.

Baelor was hovering over you, his face inches from yours. He wasn't the cold, armored specter who had turned his back. No, this was your Baelor, the real Baelor. His dark hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes wide and bright with concern. His hands were braced on either side of your head, not touching you yet; he knew the rules of your panic, knowing that even just the most comforting of touches could make you feel like the sand was coming back to swallow you again, but he was close enough that his breath fanned your cheek.

"There you are," he breathed, a shuddering sigh of relief escaping him.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt sore, the phantom sensation of the sand still making you want to cough and gag. You reached out, your fingers trembling as they grabbed at his forearms, needing to confirm that the steel-clad back you had seen was a lie.

"You...you left," you managed to wheeze out, your words broken by a sob that tore through your chest, "you turned...you left me."

Baelor's expression fractured, a look of profound pain crossing his features at the thought of his dream self causing you such agony. He didn't hesitate this time; moving forward to slide his arms beneath yours and pulling your trembling frame upwards until you were folded against his chest. He held you with a fierce, protective love, his chin resting on top of your head.

"Never," he promised in his whispered tone, his voice cracking with a rare flicker of fear, "may the Gods strike me down before I ever turn my back on you. I am your husband, your sworn protector. If you are sinking, I am to dive in after you."

He began to rock you slowly, a swaying motion that he had learned moons ago helped soothe your frantic, firing nerves. One of his hands moved to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the back of your skull in a circling motion.

"I heard you crying," he murmured against your hair, "you were fighting the sheets. I've got you now, you are safe now. Listen to my heart, it beats for you, just for you."

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, the heat of his skin finally beginning to melt the ice that the nightmare had left around you. The fear of the dream, the horrific certainty that you were a burden he was tired of caring for had lingered like a bitter aftertaste, but Baelor didn't seem bothered. He didn't grow impatient, telling you to be strong, instead holding you against the shadows of your own mind, waiting for the storms to pass as he had done hundreds of times before.

Yet even with the warmth and comfort of Baelor that began to seep into your skin, your mind was still fractured, trapped between the reality of the living world and the one you were haunted by.

You pulled back from him abruptly, your hands clutching at the silk of his night shirt with a desperate, white knuckled grip. Your eyes, wide and swimming with unshed tears, darted towards the heavy door that led to the boys' shared chambers across the hall.

"Valarr," you gasped, the name of your first born coming out as a panicked nose, "the boys. Where are they? The ash...the sand took them. They weren't in my arms."

The grief in your voice was so raw that it made Baelor's own heart clench at seeing you so haunted. In that moment, the logic of the real world didn't exist, convinced that if you walked into their room, you would find only Matarys' empty cradle and Valarr's empty tiny canopy bed.

"What happened to them?" You cried, your voice rising in a frantic panic as you tried to scramble out of the bed, your limbs tangling in the heavy furs, "I have to go to them- I have to see my-"

"Shh, look at me. Breath, my love. Just breathe."

Baelor's voice was firm in your ears as he didn't let you fall, his hands moving to your waist, holding you gently but immovably to the mattress. He didn't grow frustrated by the repetition in your terror or the way your nails scratched at his skin in your scramble. He moved with you, like a shepherd guiding a lost lamb back from the edge of the cliff.

He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against yours, forcing your gaze to lock onto the violet and brown of his eyes.

"They are safe," he promised, his voice a rumble that carried the authority that came with being a Prince, "they are exactly where you left them when you tucked them in."

"But I saw-" You started, a sob catching your throat at the images of your sons empty, ash filled blankets, "I couldn't reach them, Baelor. You walked away and they were just...gone."

A flicker of sadness crossed Baelor's face. He knew that for all his power, all his knights, and all his political maneuvering, he could not build a wall high enough to keep the monsters from invading your mind. It was the only battlefield where he felt truly helpless, and it broke him to see you so fragile and horrified.

"The dream is a liar," he whispered, his thumb moving to catch a tear that had escaped down your cheek, "it took your greatest loves and used them as a weapon against you. But we are here, they are breathing the same air I do. The Seven themselves could not take them while I draw a breath, and I am right here with you."

He pulled you back into the familiar spot on his shoulder, his hand coming up to stroke the back of your head in a slow motion that mimicked the heartbeat you were still struggling to match. He held you with a protective hug, letting you weep against him until the sharp, jagged edges of panic began to dull into heavy exhaustion.

"They are safe," he whispered into your hair, "and so are you. Sleep now, my heart. I am not going anywhere."

The amber glow of the dying candle cast long shadows along the bedchamber, turning the silk hangings on the walls to shifting ghosts of black and red. You were slumped against Baelor, your body feeling strangely heavy and light at the same time, hollow and drained from the sensation that always followed after a peak of adrenaline. Your head rested on the familiar spot of his shoulder, the linen of his night shirt a welcome texture against your dmap cheek.

Baelor remained as he promised. He sat with his back to the carved headboard, one arm draped securely around your waist while the other hand continued to sooth your hair down. For a long time, the only sound of his even breaths and heartbeat beneath your ear.

But he knew you. He knew the way your muscles remained coiled, the way your breath would hitch every time the wind rattled the windows. He could feel the tremors in your body that refused to settle.

"Stop fighting it," he asked of you with a murmur, his voice feeling like it was echoing in your ears, "you are exhausted." He shifted slightly, looking down at the top of your head, his brows furrowed with a mixture of tenderness and concern, "there is something more, isn't there? Something lingering in the corners of your mind."

You let out a long, shaky breath, your fingers tracing the silver embroidery of his sleeve. Your voice was whispered, "I'm terrified, Baelor. I'm terrified to go back." You closed your eyes, but the darkness immediately flickered into an image of that rising sand once more, "the moment I sleep, the world disappears. If I go back there...I don't think I'll find my way back next time. I'm scared the dream is waiting for me right where I left it."

Baelor was quiet, his hand pausing in your hair. He understood the cruelty of your mind. He hated that couldn't simply taken his sword and drive the nightmares away from you. He was the Hand of the King as well as his heir, the man people looked to for strength and justice, yet here in the peace of his own bedchamber, his strength felt inadequate against your anxiety.

His own mind drifted, his expression changing at a certain memory that changed the light in his mismatched eyes. He recalled a night years ago, shortly after Valarr's first name day, when the world had felt just as terrifying.

"Look at me," he requested softly.

You pulled back just an inch, your neck feeling stiff as you lifted your gaze to meet his. You were confused; usually at this stage, he would offer you a word of logic, or perhaps a warm draught of wine to dull your senses. But his gaze was different, focused and burning with a protective love that made the breath catch in your throat for a different reason.

"Baelor?" You whispered, his name shaky on your tongue.

He didn't answer your confusion with his smooth voice. Instead, reaching up, his warm hand cupping your jaw. His thumb traced your bottom lip, his touch incredibly gentle like he expected you to flinch away. The callouses on his hand against your soft cheek reminded you of how many burdens this man already had in his life and you only added to his pile, it reminded you of the man who stood between you and the world some nights.

"I cannot follow you into your dream," he said, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register that sent a shiver down your spine, "but I can give you something else to hold onto. I want you to remember this instead of what happened."

He leaned in, giving you every second to retreat from him, but you found yourself leaning in as well, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. When his lips finally met yours, the world finally narrowed and quieted around you.

It wasn't a tentative kiss that you were used to, instead slow like he was trying to imprint this kiss into your mind. It was the kiss of a husband who had spent years learning the map of your body and mind. His beard, well groomed but coarse, scratched against your cheeks and the sensitive skin around your mouth, a sensation that when you first met made you turn away from him, asking him to shave but slowly had grown to love.

The kiss tasted of the honey sweetened water he had made for you before bed that you wanted to share with him. He moved his mouth against yours with a patient, simmering hunger, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you closer. It was a kiss that promised safety but also carried a sense of infatuation - a reminder that you were a woman loved by a Prince, a woman who was desired even in her most broken moments.

The darkness of the nightmare began to recede, replaced by a dizzying feeling of your blood in your ears. The phantom squeezing of your throat was washed away by the sensation of his tongue and the pressure of his lips.

He pulled back only a hair's width, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes dark and heavy lidded as he watched your breath hitch in longing.

"Is the dark a little further now?" He murmured, his voice holding a tenderness that made your chest swell, "do you think you can find your way to sleep, my love? I'll be right here."

You didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched between you, filled only by dying flame of the candle and the beating of your heart that felt like it was echoing in the room. You knew he wanted you to say yes and to find the peace you so desperately deserved but the thought of closing your eyes still felt like stepping off one of the main cliffs of Dragonstone. Your fingers found the silver thread of the three headed dragon embroidered onto his shirt as you began to pick at the fine stitching, your gaze fixed on the movement of your restless hands.

Baelor watched you, his eyes taking in the nervous shaking of your shoulders and the way you bit your lip to keep it from quivering. He was a man who led councils and commanded armies; he was the expert in the language of the body, especially your own.

"You are picking again," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained serious, "you want to ask me something." He caught your hand in his, bringing your knuckles to his lips, kissing them as your breath hitched, "speak it. There is nothing you cannot ask of me."

You looked up at him, your face flushed. "Can we..." You struggled to say, your voice barely a whisper, "can we keep doing that? The kissing. It...It makes the noise in my head stop. it makes me feel like I'm safe."

Baelor let out a soft, rumble of a laugh filled with affection. He pulled you closer to him as the bed creaked underneath the both of you.

"We can kiss until the moon sets, if that's what you require," he promised. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him; clean skin and old parchment started to cloud your senses.

He didn't wait for a response before his mouth found yours again. This time, you were less cautious. He tasted the desperation in you and met it with a steady passion. His beard was a delicious, rough friction against your skin, reminding you exactly where you were. His tongue traced along your lips, a silent request that you granted instantly, letting his tongue meet yours until your head was spinning.

But as his hand slid from your neck to your shoulder, his palm warm through the silk of your shift, Baelor pulled back just a fraction of an inch. His dark eyes were burning, seeing straight through the walls you tried to keep up.

"But that's not all you want, is it?" He whispered against your mouth. He felt the way your heart hammered against his chest, not with the jagged rhythm of your panic but instead with the heavy, thumping drum of desire. His hand moved downwards, tracing the curve of your ribs, his touch firm enough to make you shiver, "you don't just want to be distracted, you want to feel me until there is no more room left for your thoughts."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to elicit a soft, broken moan from your lips. Baelor was a man known for his discipline, but he was also a man smitten for you.

"You want more than just a kiss," he murmured, his hand coming to rest on your hip, "you want me to take you so far from the dream that you forget it existed." He looked back up at you, his expression beautiful in the dim lighting, "am I right? Do you want me to how you how real this is? How real we are?"

The vulnerability in his gaze met yours, the fear of the sand completely gone from your mind, replaced by a desperate, hungry need to be held, to be taken, and to be reminded that you were a woman made of flesh and blood, cherished by the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms.

You couldn't find the words so you simply nodded. It was a small, jerky movement that Baelor caught instantly.

He didn't move with the frantic haste of a younger man, instead moving with the heavy grace of a husband who intended to cherish every second of reclaiming his wife. With one arm hooked behind your knees and the other supporting your back, he eased you down against the pillows. The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed you down, looming over you like a shadow of warmth and safety.

"I have you," he whispered, "you are here. You are with me."

He began at your jaw, his lips pressing firm, slow kisses against the bone, his beard scratching at your skin. Each touch was like his wedding vows, pulling you further from the cold fear of your dream and into the searing heat of the man you loved. He moved to the sensitive dip beneath your ear, his breath hot and you found yourself unable to hold back an involuntary sound escaping your throat.

His hand found the hem of your nightdress. He didn't pull it just yet, letting his palm rest on the skin of your calf, the heat of him seeping into your goose fleshed skin. He looked up, his dark eyes searching yourself with an look that made your toes curl.

"Is this alright?" He asked, his voice thick with desire but also caution to make sure you were okay with this, "I want you to tell me if it's too much. I want you to tell me if you want to stop."

"No," you managed to gasp, your fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck to pull him back down, "don't stop. Please."

Baelor let out a breath he seemed to be holding as he began to work the dress upwards, his hand sliding over the curve of your knee, the soft skin of your thigh. He moved slowly, his eyes never leaving yours for long, constantly checking for the rhythm of your breathing, ensuring the flutter in your chest was no longer fear but anticipation.

He sat back on his haunches for a moment, the dim light catching the powerful lines of his shoulders as he helped you slip the dress over your head. When the cool air hit your bare skin, you shivered before Baelor was there to replace the cold with the furnace heat of his own body.

He hovered over you again, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight couldn't crush you, though you found yourself craving the feeling. He began to kiss his way down your throat, his mouth lingering where your heart pumped a frantic beat still.

"Your heart is racing," he murmured against your skin, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip, "let me slow it down."

He moved lower, his kisses trailing across the curve of your breasts. Every movement, he would pause, his gaze lifting to yours, a silent question in the way he would tilt his head. He was the Hand of the King, a man used to having what he wanted, but with you, he was a servant to your own comfort.

"Is this what you want?" He asked, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb grazing the peak, "do you want to feel me, my love?"

"Yes," you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut, "Baelor, yes."

The first touch of his tongue made you gasp, a wet contrast to the dry terror that had consumed you earlier. Baelor never rushed, he was a man who understood the value of patience. He circled the sensitive peak with the tip of his tongue, his breath hot and damp against your skin, before drawing your nipple into his mouth.

A long moan left your throat, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. The pleasure was so sweet and overwhelming that the last flickering shadows of your nightmare finally snuffed out.

"Baelor," you whimpered, your head falling back into the pillows.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of reverence and hunger. He looked at you not as the fragile princess that the court saw, but as the woman who held his heart in the palm of her hand. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone while his other palm remained anchored on your hip, holding you steady.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, "do you have any idea? The singers waste their breaths on the legends of old, they should sing about the most radiant light in the Seven Kingdoms right here, in my arms."

He moved to the other side, his beard grazing the underside of your breast. He kissed the valley between them before taking the other side into your mouth, his lips firm and steady, sending jolts of heat straight to between your thighs.

"Every inch of you," he murmured against your skin, his words muffled but clear in the quiet of the room, "the way your skin feels like silk...the way you smell of lavender and sun. You are my sanctuary."

He trailed his lips upwards, tracing the line of your collarbone with the tip of his tongue before nipping gently at the sensitive skin of your neck. He was admiring you with every touch, every breath, making you not feel like someone who was 'broken' by anxiety, but like someone who was cherished by the man who promised to never let a cruel whisper hit your ear.

"I see the way you look at our sons," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, "the fiercest mother in the Red Keep. You think you are weak because you fear for them, but the fear is your strength. Is it the fire that makes them and me know we are loved. You are perfect, my love. You are the only crown I ever truly want to wear."

His hand slid lower, his palm flat against your stomach, feeling the way it fluttered under his touch. You could feel the slight tremor in his own fingers, hesitant on moving a step further without your explicit invitation.

He shifted his weight, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look down at you.

"I want to make you forget your own name," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that was almost a growl, foreign coming from him. His hand moved a fraction lower, the heat of his palm seeping through to your cunt, yet he held back, "tell me what you need, my princess. Would you have my hand...or would you have my mouth?"

The question hung in the air, thick with intent. You felt the flush creep up from your chest to your cheeks, your breath hitching at the honesty of his desire. The fear from the nightmare from earlier had been replaced by a different kind of feeling, one that made your skin tingle and your pulse thrum in your throat.

"Your mouth," you whispered, the words coming out breathless but certain, "I want...I want your mouth, Baelor."

A smirk flickered across his face of satisfaction. "As my lady commands," he replied.

He sat up fully, the cool air rushing into the space between your bodies. You watched, mesmerized, as he reached for the hem of his shirt. With a fluid grace, he pulled the garment over his head and tossed it onto the furs at the foot of the bed.

As he settled back over you, your breath caught for an entirely different reason. Baelor was not the sculpted warrior of the tourney songs that he once was. He was a man now of council chambers and scrolls, a man whose day were devoured by the heavy labor of ruling an empire. His body bore the marks of that reality; his shoulders broad from years of training, but his torso lacked the lean, jagged lines of a knight who lived only for melee.

Instead, he possessed a soft, sturdy strength. There was a gentle curve to his stomach that made him feel infinitely more real, more human, and more approachable than any suit of armor. It was a body built for holding, for endurance, and for the comforts of home.

His chest was carpeted in a fine, dark blur of hair, a soft thicket that caught the dim light. Your eyes followed the path of hair as it narrowed, tapering into a dark, enticing line that dipped into the waistband of his loose silk sleep breaches. The sight of him always made your stomach flip with a violent surge of attraction.

"You're staring," he noted, his voice a teasing sound. He didn't sound self-conscious, Baelor was too grounded in himself for that. Instead, he sounded pleased that he could still command your attention so easily.

"You're beautiful," you breathed, your hand reaching out instinctively to brush against the soft hair on his chest.

He caught your hand, pressing a lingering, hot kiss to your palm before pinning it back to your side, "you can focus on me tomorrow, tonight I am all yours."

He worked himself down till he laid between your thighs, his kisses returning to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He teased the skin with his tongue, his beard scratching against your sensitive inner thighs in the way that always made your back arch and cry out his name. He was worshipping you with a focused, almost trained intensity.

Before he moved to fulfill your request, he paused. Baelor was not a man of thoughtless impulses, even in the heat of passion, his primary instinct was always on you. He leaned forward, his hand sliding up to your inner thighs to rest at the spot where your hips met your legs. He didn't look down at your cunt, instead tilting his head up, his eyes meeting yours.

It was a look of silent permission. He was checking one last time, looking past the flush on your cheeks and heaving of your chest to ensure the woman he loved was truly okay with this, truly wanting him. He waited until you met his gaze, your eyes wide and hazy with desire, and saw the subtle, encouraging nod you gave him.

"I have you," he promised, "everything else is gone. Just focus on this."

His fingers were incredibly gentle as they found your cunt. He used his thumb and index to slowly part your delicate folds, baring you to the cold air and his intense gaze. The sensation of being so open to him was a thrill that made your breath hitch, a vulnerability that felt empowering because it was Baelor, Hand of the King and his heir, who was laying between your thighs.

He lowered his head, his beard scratching at your skin, and then you felt it, the first hot, wet slide of his tongue.

It was a sharp, liquid heat that seemed to snap the last thread connecting you to the world of worries. Baelor was slow, as thorough and patient here as he was at the small councils. He began with long, languid strokes of his tongue that held a pressure that made your hips tilt upwards instictively, seeking more of him.

The scratch of his beard was keeping you in place against the sensitive skin of your thighs and the soft hair on your mons. It was a reminder of your first night together, how you shook so terrified of being married to a man you had only known for a week, expecting him to hurt you but only making you cry his name into the night. You reached out blindly, your fingers finding his hair, urging him closer.

"Baelor...oh Gods," you gasped, your voice breaking as a wave of pleasure radiated outward from where his mouth was lapping at you.

He groaned low in his throat and increased his pace. He found the small, pulsing peak of your clit with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around with perfect precision. His hands remained firm on your thighs, his thumbs occasionally stroking the sensitive skin of your thighs, keeping you pinned to the pleasure, refusing to let you drift back to the shadows of your mind.

He was drinking what you gave him, feasting on you like a man starved. Every flick of his tongue was making your thighs tremble, every suction of his lips were a promise that he would keep doing this until you couldn't even remember what happened to lead to this. You were no longer the 'anxious princess' or the 'fragile mother', you were Baelor's wife, loved by the man who swore his soul to yours.

The world narrowed until there was nothing left but the scent of him, the rough slide of his beard, and the beautiful pleasure he was pulling from you. As the tension in your lower stomach began to coil into a tight, simmering knot, Baelor looked up for a split second, his face flushed and his lips wet, his eyes telling you that he wouldn't stop until you were blissfully undone.

Baelor didn't relent. He had spent years navigating the complexities of the Kingdoms, but here he was more focused on the vital conquest of you. He could feel the way your muscles were beginning to coil, the tensing of your thighs against his cheeks, and the way your fingers were now hopelessly tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer with a desperate need.

He shifted his technique, his tongue becoming more insistent, flicking with a expert precision against your sensitive clit. He knew the exact moment the tide began to turn, the moment your breath ceased to be a series of gasps and became one long, suspended note of anticipation. He used his hands to hold you open, his thumbs stroking the insides of your legs to keep you grounded as the world began to fracture around you.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin, "give it to me. Let go, my love, give it to me."

Your breath hitched before you cried out his name, your voice cracking as the waves of your pleasure crashed over you, leaving you breathless and shuddering in your climax. Your hips bucked up into his mouth as Baelor grabbed you, holding you down to him as he stayed with you through every tremor, his tongue lingering until the last wave finally crashed over you.

He didn't pull away immediately. He let his forehead rest against the soft skin of your inner thigh for a moment, his own breath coming in heavy, ragged hitches. When he finally looked up at you, his face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen, and his mismatched eyes alight with a mixture of pride and mischievous, teasing glint that he saved for his private moments with you and your children.

He began to trail slow, cooling kisses along the sensitive skin of your thighs, his teeth grazing against where your thighs crushed the side of his head while you laid above him, gasping for air.

"There she is," he chuckled, "I believe I heard you calling for the Gods? I didn't realize my love for my wife was so...spiritual."

You let out a weak laugh in return, covering your face with your hands as the blood rushed to your cheeks. "Baelor, hush," you managed to say, your lungs finally accepting air again, "I couldn't help it."

"And why would I want you to help it?" He asked with a mock seriousness. He propped himself up on his elbows between your knees. He looked down at the barely visible bite marks he had left on your thighs before his eyes looked back up at you, "though I must say, for a woman who was so worried about her 'strength', you nearly took my ears off with these thighs. I may have to walk with a limp tomorrow, Lord Tyrell will think I've had a falling out with my horse."

"You're terrible," you whispered, reaching down to swat at his shoulder, but your hand no real strength to it. You felt light, as if the bed was floating on a cloud instead of sitting on the cold stone of Maegor's Holdfast.

"I am Hand of the King," he reminded you with a wink, his thumb catching a stray drop of sweat on your thigh, "I am required to be thorough in all my investigations."

He looked at your face, now uncovered by your hands as his features softened. The sharp, strategic mind of the Hand had been set aside, replaced entirely by the heart of a husband.

"Your eyes are heavy, my love," he whispered as he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss on the space under your belly button, his beard a soft tickle, "do you think you can find your way to sleep now?"

You laid there, feeling liquid and warm, the phantom sand of the nightmare washed away long ago by the tide of your pleasure. You knew you should say yes. He knew he had a long day of petitions and council meetings ahead of him in the morrow. But as you looked down at him, the thought of the 'peace' of sleep felt hollow compared to the feeling of his touch.

"I'll be okay," you admitted, your voice still breathless and hazy. You bit your lip, your fingers tracing the firm line of his shoulders, "but...but I wouldn't mind if we didn't stop."

Baelor's dark brows arched, a flash of surprise quickly melting into intrigue. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the look of a man who had been challenged but didn't plan to lose.

"Is that so?" He murmured, his thumb stroking the skin of your stomach, "my Lady is bold tonight. And what, pray tell, would you suggest we do with this sudden...wakefulness?"

You felt the heat rush back to your face, your gaze flickering from his intense stare to focus on the dark stitched canopy of the bed. The words were there, heavy and thick on your tongue, but the lingering ghost of your anxiety, the part of you that still felt like the 'fragile princess', kept them locked behind your lips. You couldn't say it. You couldn't tell the Prince, no your husband, that you wanted to feel the fullness of his cock, his body crushing yours, that you wanted your distraction to be so overwhelming that you'd know nothing but his name.

Baelor didn't need you to speak.

"Still so modest," he teased, though there was no sting to it, "even after all these years, you think you can still hide how much you need your husband."

He didn't wait for your courage to catch up with him. Your cunt was still sensitive, your skin humming with the aftershocks of your climax so when his thumb found your still pulsing clit, you let out a sharp gasp.

He didn't pull away, his thumb starting to circle your clit. He wasn't seeking another climax out of you, although he wouldn't complain if that happened, instead trying to overstimulate you, his thumb circling the tiny, pulsing nerve that was making your thighs already quiver.

"Baelor, please," you gasped, your voice fractured. You reached down, your fingers trembling as they wrapped around his wrist but you didn't push him away, "stop. It's too much...I can't."

Baelor didn't pull away, resting his bearded cheek on your thigh, his eyes sparkling with a wicked, playful light that you only ever saw during these moments of intimacy. "Stop?" He repeated, his voice having a soft chuckle to it, "now, why would I do a thing like that? You were the one who said you didn't want to sleep. A Prince must listen to the asks to the demands of his Lady, mustn't he?"

"I didn't mean...like this," you whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand, betraying every word of protest, "I'm going to go mad, Baelor, please."

"Let yourself be mad," he murmured, his thumb growing a little more heavy against your clit, "better to go mad in my arms than sink in your own mind. Tell me, heart of mine, does the nightmare feel close right now, or is that just you?"

"No," you confessed through a sob of overstimulated pleasure catching in your throat. You arched your back, your nails digging into the powerful muscles of his forearms, "no, I can't think of anything. I can't think of anything at all. I like it...I like it when you do this, you know that, but I'm...I'm falling apart, Baelor."

"Good," he teased, his lips grazing against your thighs again as he pressed a long, lingering kiss to your skin, "I've spent all day listening to squabbles. I much prefer the sounds you make, they're far more beautiful." He bit you once more, gently before he used his tongue to soothe the blooming bruise, "every time I touch you here, you jump like a startled doe. It's almost a crime how much power I have over you in this bed."

"You're a tyrant," you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation became a blinding blur.

"A tyrant who keeps your mind quiet," he countered softly.

He watched your face, biting down on his lip that still tasted of you before he let his fingers slip inside of you. The sudden fullness made your breath hitch while his fingers buried inside of your cunt until he was knuckle deep, his fingers always providing a overwhelming feeling of fullness within your cunt that could never compare to your own fingers

"Oh, Gods," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his shoulders as your heels dug into his back, "Baelor...my love...you're too much."

"I am exactly as much as you need," he whispered, curling his fingers in a slow motion as your toes curled. He watched your face, his expression of pure devotion and a smug, satisfaction, "you're shaking, my love, but if you can talk, then clearly I'm not doing a good enough job, you should be forgetting how to speak entirely."

"I hate you," you lied, the words ending in a breathless moan as he increased his speed, his thumb never ceasing on your clit while his fingers worked within.

"You love me," he corrected, his thumb leaving your clit to be replaced by his mouth once more, kissing and sucking at the sensitive nerve while his fingers continued inside of you, "as long as I am here, the only thing that will make you tremble is me. Only me."

"Baelor...please, I can't," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the pillow, "it's too much, I'm-"

"You're right where you need to be," he murmured against your clit before his tongue swirled around your overstimulated clit, his beard scratching against your tender skin once more in a way that made you cry out, your voice echoing off the stone walls of the bedchamber.

As Baelor's mouth continued to suckle and lap at your clit, his fingers continued to curl against the sweet spot inside of you that he had learned the location of years ago. The taste of you was intoxicating, making his hips grind down onto the bed. You could see the muscles of his back tensing with the effort of his restraint, his own desire that he was keeping under lock and key until you were drained.

The sight of him was the final blow to your defenses.

"Baelor!" You whimpered loudly, your fingers tugging at the short strands of his hair so tightly that you were sure was hurting him, but he only groaned against your cunt, his tongue moving faster, harder, and more desperate to taste the moment you'd break again.

The second climax hit you with a violence that made your entire body go rigid. You bucked against him, your hips seeking every ounce of pleasure that he could provide, and Baelor met you move for move, his hips grinding into the silk of the bed as he drank your release again, not caring how you soaked his beard.

He stayed with you through every shudder, every broken plea, and every cry. He didn't pull away until your legs fell slack, draped over his shoulders, and your breath returned in long, shaky hitches.

He crawled back up the length of your body, his skin slick with sweat, his face flushed and his beard stinking of you as he reached up to cup your face, his touch light.

"There," he whispered, his voice rough. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes searching your dazed expression, "are your thoughts quiet now, my heart?"

Your senses were reeling, your skin tingling with the aftermath of the pleasure he had just wrung from you. You felt weightless, as if the gravity of the Red Keep had finally loosened its grip, leaving you floating under your husband's gaze.

But as your breath began to return, a deeper ache took root inside of you. It wasn't the sharp, frantic need of one of your panic attacks, but a longing that only Baelor could satisfy. You didn't want to be alone in your skin anymore, you needed him.

Weakly, your muscles trembling from the waves of your climax, you shifted. Your legs, draped beside his, slid up his thighs, your heels hooking firmly behind his waist. It was a silent plea for him, tethering the Prince to his Princess. You pulled him down, your fingers angling in the dark, damp hair at the nape of his neck, and drew his face to yours.

When your lips met, you tasted yourself on his tongue, the sour but sweet taste that you had grown used to in your marriage. It was dizzying, but you didn't pull away, instead deepening the kiss, your tongue darting out to taste the salt on his lips, a bold invitation that made Baelor let out a low groan against your mouth.

He broke the kiss for just a fraction of an inch, his eyes searching yours. He saw the haze of your desire, a flush that refused to fade, and the way you were trying to pull his hips against yours.

"You are a greedy little Lady tonight," he murmured, his voice full of both affection and lust.

His hand slid down between your bodies, finding the laces of his sleep breaches. You watched him, your heart hammering against your ribs, as he discarded the last barrier between you both. When he moved back over you, the feeling of his bare skin - the soft hair on his thighs and the solid heat of his cock pressing against your inner thighs made you let out a soft, broken whimper.

He braced himself on his forearms, his chest hovering just above yours. The fine hair on his torso tickled your breasts, the sensation making your breath hitch. He didn't rush, not even now with his desire so clearly torturing him, taking his time as a man who lived to serve your needs.

He guided himself to your cunt, the tip of his cock sliding against the mixture of his saliva and your arousal that he had helped created. He paused there for moment, his gaze locked onto yours, his features set in his devotion to you.

"Look at me," he asked of you, "I want you to see me. I want to watch your eyes."

Slowly he pushed his hips forward.

The sensation was blinding. It was a slow, stretching fullness that seemed to reach all the way up into your stomach. You let out a long, high pitched cry, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt his cock get pulled in by your still pulsing walls. He filled every part within you, leaving nothing untouched, leaving no room for your fear or anxieties to creep in.

Baelor let out a shuddering sigh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he buried himself to the hilt. He stayed still for a moment, letting your body adjust to him, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

"I have you," he groaned, looking down to where your bodies joined, "I have you, my heart."

He breathed heavily, his breath mixing with yours, his heart thundering in a heavy, erratic rhythm that mimicked yours. He didn't dare move, his eyes searching yours in the dim light with a reverence that was almost holy.

"May I?" He asked, his voice gravelly, "can I move, my love?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word caught in a sob of relief. You tightened your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the sturdy muscles of his back to pull him closer, if such a thing were possible, "please, Baelor, I need you."

He let out a low, shuddering groan and began to move. It was not the frantic pace of a man seeking a quick end, but instead slow, in the cadence of a husband who intended to savor every bit his wife was offering him. He withdrew until he was almost completely out, a sensation that made you whimper and tighten around him, before he surged back with a slow, heavy drive that seemed to reach your heart.

"You are so tightly wound around me," he murmured as he leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and wine, "my beautiful wife, wish I could stay within you for all my days."

His hips grinded against yours slowly, his head tucking itself into the crook of your neck that made his beard scratch against your skin, as his chest pressed against yours, your thighs cushioning him against you with every thrust.

"You are so brave," he whispered against your skin, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your neck, "the strongest woman I know. To carry the weight you do, and still have so much love...you are my wonder, my love. My perfect, beautiful girl."

He knew how much the praise affected you. You reached up, your fingers tracing the scars of his shoulders, feeling the damp heat of his skin. "And you are my shield," you murmured before your head tossed back when his cock hit a particularly sensitive spot, "you always...you always find me, protect me. You never let me stay scared for long."

"Never," he vowed, his pace quickening just barely, though he kept his thrusts deep and agonizingly slow, "you are the mother of my sons, the keeper of my heart. There is nothing I wouldn't do to hear you breathe like this underneath me."

The pleasure slowly built, a heavy heat that radiated from where you were joined, spreading through your body until your fingertips felt light. Baelor's head lifted to look at your face, his features full of love and admiration. He watched the way your eyes clouded, the way your lips parted to gasp his name, and the way your skin flushed beneath his touch.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as his lower body continued its relentless, beautiful work, "stay here with me."

You locked eyes with him, and in that moment, the last of your anxieties faded. You weren't the 'fragile' one, and he wasn't just the 'strong' one, you were two halves of one whole, forged in the heat of a shared life.

"I love you," you whispered, the words lost against his mouth as he captured your lips once more.

Baelor's gaze fixed on yours, his mismatched eyes shimmering with a protective admiration that seemed to burn away every memory of any nights that you've woken him up due to your fears. As he felt your cunt pulse around his cunt, his expression softened, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that felt like a vow.

"I love you," he whispered back, carrying the weight of every year you had spent building together, "more than any crown, more than any realm. You are my heart."

As the words left his lips, your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, your cunt squeezing him in a desperate, loving grip. Baelor's head fell forward, a groan ripping from his chest. His grip on your hip tightened, his knuckles turning white as he fought to maintain his restraint.

"Gods," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, "you are going to be the death of my composure, my love."

He reached down as he shifted, his hands sliding beneath your knees to gently but firmly press your thighs up towards your chest. The change in angle opened you completely to him, making the connection even deeper.

"I need to be a little faster now," he warned in a husky tone that sent a jolt down your spine, "I want to give you what you need, and to do that I must be a little faster. Hold onto me, my love."

You reached out blindly, your fingers digging into his sweat slicked forearms, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing that was in the room.

Baelor didn't wait. He began to move with a more renewed energy. The slow, agonizing pace from before was replaced by a relentless strike of a man who was no longer a Prince, but a husband trying to please his wife. Each thrust was deep, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing against the walls so loudly that it drowned out the whistling wind outside.

He stayed buried within you, never losing his connection to you, his body heavy as he pinned you down to the bed. The bedframe creaked in protest under the increased tempo, the heavy silk canopy drapes swaying with every thrust of his hips. He was moving with a soldier's endurance, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches.

"Baelor...oh, Baelor," you whimpered as your eyes rolled back.

"I'm here," he grunted, his pace becoming more frantic, "I've got you. Focus on my cock, feel how much I love you."

He looked down, watching the way your breasts moved with each thrust, the way your hair was a mess against the pillows. The sight seemed to spur him on more, his jaw clenching as he pushed himself even harder.

He felt the tremors starting deep within you, the exquisite tightening that signaled your own fast approaching peak. It was what he needed. His hands, calloused and strong, gripped your thighs, pinning them still against your chest, holding you open for him.

"I'm close," he groaned as his hands trembled against the back of your thighs, "I can't...I can't hold back anymore."

You looked back up at him, your vision blurred from both overstimulation and profound love. You reached down, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his face down so your words could be whispered directly against his lips.

"Do it," you whimpered, pleading for him, "give it to me, Baelor. I want it. I want your seed...I want you to give me another baby. Give me a daughter. Give our sons a sister."

Baelor's body stuttered for a second. The request didn't just stoke his desire; it struck a chord of such deep need that it nearly broke him right there. To hear you, the woman he had spent every waking hour trying to protect from the harshness of the world, ask to carry his life once more made his chest swell with love and his cock ache for release.

He let out a low groan once more, his eyes locking onto yours.

"A daughter," he rasped, "a girl with your eyes and heart? Gods, I'd be such a push over."

He paused for a heartbeat, his hips hovering over yours, his face flushed with a breathtaking beauty. A ghost of a smile, tender and heavy with memory touched his mouth even as he struggled for his next breath.

"You have no idea how beautiful you were carrying our sons," he whispered in a husky but soft tone, "I used to watch you, your skin glowing, your body round with the life we made together. You were a goddess to me then, and you are a goddess to me now. To see you carry my child again..."

He couldn't finish the thought, instead finishing it with action.

With a couple more needy thrusts, Baelor buried himself completely inside of you. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tensing as he reached his limit. He let out a long groan against your neck, his body grinding against yours in a series of powerful pulses. You felt the hot, liquid proof of his promise filling you, a deep warmth that seemed to only spur you onto your own climax.

You followed after him, your last climax hitting you with the force of a summer storm, your cunt clamping around him in a desperate, loving need. You clung to him, your legs locked tight around his waist, as the world dissolved into a blinding white light where no nightmare could ever follow.

The heavy ringing silence was all that could be heard in the royal bed chamber except for the two slowly beating hearts in unison. Baelor remained draped over you, his forehead resting against yours, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that made him shimmer in the candle's light.

As his breathing began to level out into a long, ragged sigh, Baelor started to shift. He helped your thighs ease down before he rested himself on his elbows, his hair disheveled in a way that made him look less than the Hand of the King and more like the man you had fallen in love with years ago. He looked down, his gaze traveling over the tangle of your limbs and the silk sheets that were now bunched and damp beneath you.

A flicker of concern crossed his handsome face. He bit down on his lip, his brow furrowed as he looked at the wreckage of the bed.

"I've made a disaster of our bed," he murmured. He looked truly contrite, his gaze fixed on the spot where your bodies were still joined, "when I pull away...well, it won't be dignified. I've left you in quite a state, my love."

You felt a bubble of genuine, lighthearted warmth rise in your chest, a sharp welcome contrast to the cold terror you had woken up with. You reached up, your fingers still a bit shaky as you cupped his face. Your palms felt the heat of his skin and the rough texture of his beard as you forced him to look at you.

"Baelor," you whispered, a sleepy smile playing at your lips, "look at me."

He obeyed, his mismatched eyes meeting yours, still hazy with the remnants of his adoration.

"The servants will handle it," you said simply, your thumb stroking his cheek, "it's their job to look after their Prince's comforts and I'd say this was a very necessary comfort."

Baelor let out a huffing laugh, a sound of pure amusement before he leaned against your palm, kissing the center of it before looking back at the sheets with a shake of his head.

"I still feel for the poor soul who has to come in here at dawn," he teased, his voice regaining its usual steady stone, "to have to scrub away the evidence of the Prince's...enthusiasm. It seems a bit too much to ask from some poor servant."

You let out a soft laugh of your own, shrugging your shoulders in the pillows. "Oh please," you countered, your eyes sparkling with a touch of mischief, "they've dealt with far worse than your seed, Baelor. I gave birth to two Targaryen princes in this bed. I think a bit of spilled passion is the least of their worries compared to the blood and screaming of a baby being born."

Baelor's reaction was immediate. He winced, a pained but fond smile tugging at his lips as he looked back at you. "A queen's logic," he conceded, his voice thick with reverence, "i still have the faint scars on my knuckles from where you nearly crushed my hand during Matarys' arrival."

He let outa slow, reluctant sigh and slowly pulled his cock out of you. You felt the warm, leaking evidence of his promise slowly leak out of you, slicking your thighs and soaking into the ruined sheets. The sensation was one that you wouldn't admit only turned you on more, knowing your husband was with you without even being inside of you anymore/

Baelor didn't immediately move to clean himself. Instead he sat back on his haunches, his gaze drifting towards the windows of his chamber. The heavy curtains were slightly parted and through the gap, the sky was no longer dark. Instead it was a pale, ghostly grey that was beginning to creep over the horizon, the first hints of a cold, spring dawn.

He let out a long, weary sigh, not one of regret but of a man who felt the crushing weight of carrying the Seven Kingdoms on his back.

"The sun," he noted softly, his voice regaining that steady, authoritative tone that commanded that Small Council, "the realm doesn't wait for a man to rest after loving his wife. My father will be waking soon, and the scrolls on my desk have surely multiplied since I left them."

He leaned down, his warm hand cupping your face one last time. He looked down at you, seeing the way you were curled into the furs, your skin flushed and your eyes heavy with the exhaustion of a woman who finally found her peace.

"You stay here," he commanded gently, his thumb stroking your flushed cheek, "sleep, my love. I must go be the Hand, but I am leaving my heart in this bed with you."

He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before he rose from the bed, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the room. You watched him through heavy lidded eyes as he reached for the basin of water, his mind already turning towards the laws of man, even as the warmth of his body still lingered against you.

Baelor moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency that tried to hide the exhaustion tugging at his own limbs. He stood at the basin, the water splashing softly as he cleaned the salt and sweat of the night from his skin. Every movement was careful, his boots treading softly on the thick rugs to ensure the silence of the room remained unbroken.

As he pulled the fresh linen tunic over his head, he paused. He didn't reached for his doublet or the heavy symbol broach of Hand immediately. Instead, he turned back to the bed, his hand resting on the carved bedpost.

He looked down at where you laid. You were deep sleep, the tension that had bunched your shoulders and pinched your brows together for days now dissolved. You were curled on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other resting on the spot where Baelor's warmth still lingered on the mattress. The furs were bunched around your hips, not bothering that your bare chest was exposed to the dim light, as your breath rose and fell steady.

There was no more twitching at your eyelids, no more frantic gasping for air. You looked younger, softened by the aftermath of his touch and the safety of his presence.

Baelor stood for a long moment, simply watching you sleep. He thought of the daughter you asked for, imaging a child with your stubborn spirit and his own dark hair, and a faint, private smile touched his lips. He spent the night fighting a war in your mind, and as he looked at your peaceful face, he knew he had won.

He reached down, gently pulling the heavy quilt higher, tucking it securely around your shoulders to ward off the morning chill. He leaned over, his lips barely grazing the crown of your head, whispering a vow into your hair that you wouldn't hear.

"Sleep, my heart," he murmured, "the realm is mine to worry over. The day is mine to hold. You have nothing left to fear."

He straightened his tunic, it squaring his broad shoulders, and turned towards the door. As he stepped out into the cold, stone corridor where the Kingsguard stood in a silent vigil, Baelor Targaryen was once again the unbreakable Hand of the King, but his heart remained behind, held by the woman who was dreaming peacefully for once.

──── ୨୧ ────

@vigilante24ish

You wake up drooling. The sun is coming in sharp and bright, a sword of light piercing your shuttered lids, your face smashed up against something warm and hard yet still soft. And you are definitely drooling. You can feel that early morning sun beckoning you to wake but you don’t move, wanting a few more minutes before you face another day. You think of nothing as you feel the heat on your face and your bed beneath you. Except…since when does your bed have…chest hair? And suddenly the form under you shifts slightly, and last night comes rushing back to you all at once.

You snap your lids open, wincing as soon as the yellow rays hit your naked eyes, and jolt upright, the sudden movement causing the world to spin as you take in Joel. He lays on your bed, underneath you, still deliciously shirtless and sturdy and strong, one arm folded behind his head, the other hand playing with a strand of your hair. And his eyes are on you.

“Mornin’.” he drawls.

He’s here. He’s still here. You slept so hard you woke up not remembering anything, and now your brain is scrambling to put all the pieces back together in real time. You realize that you honestly had expected Joel to have taken off before you awoke or maybe that you dreamt the entire thing altogether. Either way, you’re surprised to see him so comfortably leaning against your pillow, the golden light cascading over his tan skin, making him glow. And, dear Jesus, the tiniest pool of your drool on his chest.

You let out an incomprehensible noise of muddled alarm, sleep dragging heavy on your tongue, and rip the blanket up to wipe at his chest, feeling suddenly breathless.

Joel smirks at you and cocks his head, reaching a hand up to your face as he uses a thumb to wipe your bottom lip. Quickly you grab his hand and wipe it with the blanket as well. You feel whiplashed at the blazing embarrassment so immediately upon waking.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, lazy, easy. Not seeming fazed by any of it.

You just stare at him, unable to form the tangled thoughts of your half-awake brain into comprehensible sentences.

“You look like you slept well…wonder why…” he muses, going back to lightly pull at a strand of your hair.

Not a single word on earth comes to you as you just stare at Joel like an idiot.

His easiness falters now and he looks slightly concerned.

“Is it ok--?....I can leave if you’d rather--” he begins, and panic rises within you at his misinterpretation of your silence, setting the gears of your brain clunking back to disorderly movement.

“No!” you almost yell, your voice cracking with sleep. You emphasize the sentiment by smacking both hands to his chest, holding him in place, as if you are even remotely physically capable of doing anything of the sort.

His smirk returns, mischievous now at your blatant display of desire. You haven’t been awake long enough to remember to not be too obvious. So, you clear your throat as you readjust yourself.

“I mean…whatever you wanna do…is cool.” you say offhandedly.

To this Joel reaches out and places a warm, rough hand on your thigh, running it up to your stomach and back down again to your hip, squeezing your flesh. Your eyes follow his hand and dear God that is a lot of hickeys. Deep red and violet patches, ranging in size, mark the skin of your inner thighs, your lower stomach, and when you crane your neck down further you see them trailing up your breasts. You don’t remember feeling him make all of those, don’t recall his mouth lingering that long in all those places, entirely too focused on the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

“Woah.” is all you can manage, marveling at the love bites.

Joel lets out a chuckle at this and grabs your arm, swinging you around until you thud to your mattress, your back pressed up against his chest. He draws you into him, running his hands to feel up and down your stomach and breasts, and presses a kiss to your neck.

“It ain’t fair how good you look first thing in the morning.” Joel rumbles against your neck and your breathing hitches as he nibbles at the skin there.

In an instant, surprised at how quickly he flips the switch within you, your focus shifts entirely to animal desire, the feeling blooming low within you. Heat ladles in your stomach at both his praise and continued touch and you can’t help the movement of your hips as you arch backwards into him.

He lets out a mmmm as he squeezes against you tighter and you feel something hard and large press against your ass.

You want to touch him, you want to feel him and see him and know him in that way. You grind backwards, loving the feeling of the long length of him throbbing through his boxers against the soft flesh of your bare ass. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and grips your hip tightly as you continue to roll backwards onto him, your breathing coming ragged at the thought of how close he is to your already drenched entrance. How easily he could dip his waistband and angle the head of his cock to slide right into you. How badly you want him to fuck you right into this mattress. And you are caught between equal desires to reach between your legs and maneuver him inside of you yourself or turning around to yank down his boxers to finally see him. To feel the skin in your palm, maybe even dropping down to slide him into your mouth. The thought makes you salivate. But then Joel slows to a stop and stills your hips with both hands. Before you can question this sudden break he dips his mouth to your ear.

“So…you asked me a lot of questions last night….” his voice rumbles low, and he trails his nose along the side of your throat making you shiver.

“Mhm.” you agree, not sure where he is going with this. You strain in his grip, wanting to return to the close contact, wanting friction, something, but he holds you still before him, seeming to contemplate.

“I feel like it should be my turn. That seems only fair to me.” he says, still drawing feather light circles on your neck and shoulder with his mouth, the scruff on his jaw, but a space remains between his groin and your backside and you whine impatiently. His thumb draws a slow circle on your caught hip.

“What kind of questions?” you ask suspiciously, restless for more touch. You have no idea what he would want to know about you, and there isn’t much you feel inclined to share anyway.

“I don’t really know a lot about you…besides what you sound like when my fingers are inside you…” he whispers at the end, making you blush. You can feel a heat begin to throb between your legs, and you’re getting impatient. You figure he’ll be able to stop most of your physical attempts at breaking free from his grasp, but he seems concentrated on internal deliberations and maybe if you take him by surprise, you’ll be able to spin quickly and throw a leg over him, climbing on top.

“And it sure is a pretty sound…but…I’d like to know more.” he muses.

You lean your head back against him and his grip loosens ever so slightly as he presses a soft kiss behind your ear.

You take the chance you get and push on the mattress to spin to face him. He isn’t expecting it and you make it almost all the way, your leg coming up to just barely reach over his lap before his hands move like lightning. They grab both your wrists and pin them together between both your chests as his right leg shifts free from you and locks down over both of your thighs, trapping you completely, with the annoying gap still between your lower halves.

“Nice try.”

“Can you please just say whatever it is you’re trying to say?” you groan, frustrated.

Joel chuckles at the genuine irritation in your voice.

“Why? You want something from me?” he says, his voice teasing.

You glare at him, annoyed to another level.

“How about we make another kind of deal? You talk, I touch.” he says, fastening both of your wrists in one hand and moving the other to brush a thumb across your bottom lip and then up along a cheekbone. And the touch is so gentle, so careful, as if he is trying not to break you, his gaze so wholly reverent, that your core goes molten. It’s all you can do just to nod weakly.

He breaks into a grin, running his hand down to your throat, and you’re surprised at just how far his fingers wrap around your neck. He squeezes for half a second, his eyes glazed and widening, but he shakes his head slightly before he breaks his hold and moves down to your collarbone. Your brain is hot mush at the briefly tight grip, at the break in air, wishing he had kept going and surprising yourself with how much you liked it.

“Where did you come from before this?” Joel asks calmly.

“I-uh-well-I t-t-traveled around a lot, b-but I was in Nevada before t-this.” you stutter as he runs a hand down your breast, squeezing each firmly before sliding down your bare stomach.

“Were you alone?”

“N-n-not r-really, no.” you gasp out as he lands between your legs, his fingers finding your center already drenched. Joel’s eye flash at you, dark and liquid.

“What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“It means s-sort of yes and sort of n-no.” you say breathlessly.

His fingers pause at that, causing you to let out a whine.

“The deal was you talk, princess.”

You squirm under his leveled gaze but keep talking.

“I…was with a group.”

Joel keeps looking at you, his fingers still not moving.

He is SO annoying.

“Just some people! No one that mattered, okay, I was never really a part of them. Most split off.”

His fingers dive into you at that and you gasp, two of them, slowly working in and out of you. You begin moving in tandem to them.

“Most?” he questions.

“One st-stayed with me. But, eventually he left too.” you say, not even really thinking about your answers anymore, just letting the truth come out as you feel yourself clamp onto his thick fingers.

“He?” Joel stops suddenly.

“Hey, I’m talking! The deal was I talk and you—”

“Who was he?”

“Just some guy.” you say gritting your teeth, moving your hips to try and encourage his fingers to begin again.

But your tone must have revealed something because Joel’s eyes flash and he picks his rhythm back up, this time more forcefully and you let out a moan at the increased pace and power.

“Did you ever…?” his question trails off, his eyes furiously scanning your face.

Your brain is muddled chaos at this point, his fingers bringing you close to the edge within you, and you are unsure how much to reveal but your pause makes him stop for just a moment so you spit out the truth.

“A couple times.”

“Did he make you cum?” Joel asks bluntly, his eyes full of fervor. His fingers curl up inside you.

“No.” you manage to choke out. And it’s the truth. The man you were with before was nobody. You never had any feelings for him and he didn’t for you. It was just physical, pure necessity what you did with him. Nothing like this.

“What happened to him?” Joel asks next, his eyes still searching yours.

“He left.” you say, not even really focused on the conversation, you are so close to climax.

“He left?” he asks, stopping.

“Ugh, Joel!” you almost yell.

“Tell me.” he demands, still not moving.

“He just left! He said I was slowing him down so he left, and then I came here.” you say, at your wits end. If he keeps starting and stopping like this you’re going to lose your mind. But something about Joel’s face stops your internal annoyance. He is looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read, and you think one of his eyes twitch.

“Where did he leave you?” he asks, his voice controlled, and to your dismay, removes his fingers from you completely, placing his hand on your inner thigh.

You huff out a breath. He stares back at you, unwavering.

“I traveled for maybe a week alone before I got here so, I dunno, somewhere in Utah?” A beat. “I managed.”

You haven’t thought about your trek here alone in a while, you had a few bad run-ins, and almost got torn apart by some clickers at the end but you scrambled up a tree last minute and waited up there for about two days before they wandered far enough away. You had clambered down, muscles shrieking, exhausted out of your mind, and starving. But you were alive. You found Jackson the next day, thankfully.

Joel’s eyes flit back and forth between yours for a long moment before he speaks.

“I hope he’s dead.” he says matter-of-factly.

And before you can respond or really even process his words he crushes his mouth to yours, fucking you deeply with his fingers once again, and all thoughts go out the window.

You moan into his mouth and press forwards, suddenly feeling his length against your leg. It is straining in his boxers, hard and large, and you suddenly feel desperate with the need to feel it, but Joel still has your wrists grasped in one of his.

You break from his mouth.

“Let me f-feel you too, p-please.” you almost beg.

“No. I want-” he begins to say.

“P-please, Joel.” you do beg now, looking up at him through your lashes.

He lets out a low growl and pulls your hand down into his boxers. You gasp as your palm touches his skin, so smooth and soft. And so hard you would think it would be painful. It’s like velvet and steel, and it twitches in your grip as soon as you lightly squeeze it. He’s big. You expected big, but this is something else, and you wonder how you’ll ever even fit it all inside pf you. Your fingertips barely meet around it as you grip it, his hand still covering yours.

Joel shudders against you and lets out a stuttering breath, his face falling into your neck.

You have no idea what he likes, how he wants to be touched, so you start with gentle pressure but he tightens your hand on him. So you oblige until you are squeezing his cock firmly, and he removes his hand as you begin pumping him up and down. Joel is panting into your neck, letting out noises you never expected from him, tight and breathless. You feel yourself get even wetter from the sounds right in your ear like this. You run your hand down his length and gently squeeze his balls. Joel’s head falls back at this, letting you see the way his eyebrows are knitted together, the way his lips are parted. He meets your gaze and groans, moving his fingers inside you again. You hadn’t even noticed that he had stilled them, so transfixed on the reaction you were eliciting from him, from such a simple touch. You can’t imagine how he would react to your mouth. You pull your fist back up his length and he stutters again, his fingers stopping.

You have never felt more powerful in your life.

You swipe your thumb over the top of his cock, smearing a drop of precum across the head. You want nothing more than to taste it, to shimmy down on the bed and take him in your mouth, licking and sucking on that velvety hot skin, until he is cumming down your throat. You move to do just that, sliding down on the bed and he growls, pinning you with his body as he crushes his mouth back to yours, and begins curling his fingers inside of you, hitting that one blissful spot. You go liquid. He then makes a move to slide down the bed himself and you use your fleeing strength to grip his shoulder.

“Let me.” you both say at the same time, your voices rushed and insistent. And that makes you giggle, and it makes him let out a short, huffed laugh, but soon he is making to move down your body again.

“Wait, please. I really want to.” you say, the idea of him in your mouth all you can think about now.

“I said I would make you cum many times before you did anything to me.” Joel says, hovering above you.

“You made me cum three times last night. That’s a lot!” you insist. “It’s my turn, I want you on my tongue now.” you say softly, causing Joel to pause, his eyes on your face.

“I want to fuck you.” He says bluntly. And the idea of that, of him driving inside you, of you pinned beneath him or you on top is so alluring that you almost change your mind. But you want this. You like how reactive he has been to your touch, and you want to feel all of that control now, as he lays powerless before you. Big strong man brought to his knees because of a girl like you and her open mouth.

“Please, I want to feel how hard you are. Against my hands-” you say, giving his length another squeeze upwards, causing him to shudder, and bring your lips up to his ear. “-and in my mouth. I want to slide you over my tongue. I want to see how far down my throat you can go.” you whisper against him.

And he stays very still above you, not making any moves, so you push him back as you sit upwards in front him. And before he can change his mind you’re using all your might to press him to lay back down on the bed. He slowly relents, as if you were a gentle breeze and not a human being using all her strength to try and shove him back.

“I have to f-finish with fucking you at least. I need to know what you feel like.” Joel says, beginning to prop himself up again so you scramble on top of him, pressing your lips to his until he lets himself lay flat again, his head propped up by pillows.

“Sorry handsome, but I want to swallow every single drop you give me.” you say against his mouth, feeling a rush of power as you straddle him.

Joel’s eyes flash at you but before he has a chance to argue further you shimmy lower and pull his boxers down.

His cock springs free, and it’s even bigger than you thought, maybe 8 inches and thick. It’s framed with dark curls at the base, running up his happy trail and the skin is golden, the tip slightly pink and leaking precum. You can’t help yourself, you flick your tongue over the head to taste him, and he groans at the contact. He tastes fucking delicious. You grin, running your hands up his abdomen and scraping your nails down the muscles there as you drop your head to the base of his hard cock and swipe your hot tongue up his shaft. Your hands meet to grasp his length just as you swirl your tongue over his head. Joel jerks, his fists clenching your sheets.

“Oh, fuck me.” Joel hisses out.

“Do you like that…Joel?” you say his name sweetly as his eyes meet yours and you keep them locked as you lick another wet line up the side of his dick, pressing a soft kiss to the tip this time. Joel just lets out a small moan. You smile, holding his length against your cheek with one hand as you scrape your nails down his thigh.

“I like your cock.” you say playfully.

“I think it likes you too.” Joel says pressing his hands to his face, breathing sharply. And with that you take him back into your wet mouth, slowly seeing how deep you can get him; only a little further than halfway without much effort. So, you slather both hands in your spit and begin jerking him off, your hands slowly twisting in opposite directions as you begin swirling your tongue over his head.

“Fuck…Baby your mouth feels s-so good.” Joel pants out as you take him down as far as he will go, choking a bit. The sound seems to do something to Joel, his abs clenching. You push him farther back in your throat and gag more, making him groan.

“Yeah?” you ask, coming up to take a breath.

“Y-yes. You’re such a good girl.” he says, bringing a hand up to stroke your hair, his voice low and his gaze heavy. You feel like your pupils dilate at the praise and you give him a Cheshire smile.

“Keep talking.” you purr as you lower your mouth to his balls, kissing each one before licking and sucking them too, liking how tight the skin gets in response to your contact.

“You’re such a good girl, such a good little slut taking my cock like that, y-you, ughnn, shit, you look so fucking pretty looking up at me like that, such a pr-pretty girl, I, God—you—oh fuck--"

You are now pumping him in and out of your mouth as if your life depended on it, sucking and jerking him off at the same time, gagging when you push him far back in your throat. You remove your mouth to lay a kiss on the sensitive skin of his thigh and then make eye contact with him as you bite him there, as he had with you last night. He does not retract from the pain, in fact the fire in his eyes only seems to become wilder. You notice how white his knuckles are fisting your sheets, how his muscles are so tense that he feels like stone. He’s holding himself back.

You want him unleashed, you want him to fuck your throat.

You pump him a few more times and then come up for breath, a line of saliva dropping from your bottom lip to the tip of his cock.

“I want you to be rough. Please. I want you to cum down my throat. Use me.”

Joel looks wildly at you.

You answer by lightly smacking his cock against your open mouth and cheek. He groans, pausing for only a moment before doing what you ask, his hands pushing your head down and slowly fucking into your throat. You dig your nails into his thighs, hard, and his hips start to come off the bed as he increases the pace. There we go.

“Fuck, look at me, look at me pretty girl.” Joel all but whispers with one hand on the back of your head and the other wrapping down around your neck as he thrusts into your waiting mouth.

You look up at him and he looks so close to being undone, so on the verge of unravelling, his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth slightly parted, breathing heavy. You moan around him, eyes still locked in his, sending vibrations across his cock.

And then Joel Miller lets out a whimper as he cums hard down your throat. His body is hard as stone, jerking slightly as he moans your name. You stay attached to him, sucking down every single drop he gives you, but when you slowly pull off of him, one last spurt of cum paints your lips. Joel is looking at you, panting, as you bring your hands up and scoop it all in your mouth. You suck your fingers of the taste, reveling in it. It’s warm and slightly salty but also tastes like him. You wish there was more.

Joel watches you do this, transfixed. You smile up at him.

“I think you might kill me.” he says, his voice weak.

You chuckle lightly at this and he reaches forwards, grabbing you and hauling you up until you are laying on his chest. He kisses you and you melt against him. You think this might be your favorite thing. Even though everything is else is really fucking nice, kissing him is different. You feel like jelly against his mouth, the way he holds your face so steadily, how soft his lips are and the scruff of his beard against your jaw. The smell of him, citrus and leather and wood oil. You begin pressing your lower half against him. You know you just made him cum very hard in your mouth but the pounding within you has not decreased. Joel doesn’t hesitate for a moment, pushing your shoulders up until you are perpendicular to him, straddling him. He then holds your hips above his body slightly as he slides down in one smooth movement and you are hovering over his face.

“Joel.” you gasp.

“Sit.” he commands.

You hesitate for a moment but his unwavering gaze has you slowly lowering your body onto him, still holding most of your weight in your legs. Joel licks up between your folds and you moan at the contact, jerking up slightly. Joel grabs your hips tightly.

“I said, sit.” he says sharply. And then pulls you down onto his face until all your body weight rests on him. You feel worried for a split second, until he licks up into you and around your clit, sucking on it passionately, and you can do nothing but grind against his tongue, your hands reaching down to twist in his hair.

“Oh, f-fuck, J-J-Joel.” you stutter out, as he continues sucking on your sensitive skin before laying his tongue flat for you to ride. You move on him slowly at first but are soon grinding onto his face with abandon. You are already so close, so close, and you look down and see Joel beneath you, face buried in you, his salt and pepper hair, his golden skin, and it’s almost too much. And then he flashes his jade and chocolate eyes at you and it is too much. Your orgasm barrels towards you.

“I-I’m gunna c-cu—I’m gunna cum-” you exhale, and Joel just moans, sending vibrations along your clit. You feel the force of it hit you, hard, a cry ripped from your throat as you cum against his tongue, reaching your hand out to brace yourself against the bed as you ride it out above him. Sparks flash in your core, shooting out into your limbs and you feel your legs and arms shake as Joel continues licking you throughout it all. You can barely hold yourself up, trembling above him. You let out a whine as you eventually start to slump over, jerking away with sensitivity.

Joel catches you, pulling you down to lay against his chest once again. You groan weakly and he chuckles.

“I didn’t expect that.” you croak out, your insides like honey as melt against him.

“There’s no way I’d cum in your mouth without having you cum in mine.” he says nipping your shoulder.

You flutter your eyes open to meet his. They are warm, warmer than you’ve seen them while directly looking at you. Your stomach does a flip.

“I guess I should let you ask me questions more often.” you say wryly.

“I guess I should be hit in the head with beer bottles more often.” he smirks.

“Are you mad you didn’t get to fuck me?” you ask, brushing your fingers over the short scar over the bridge of his nose.

“Next time. And that’s a promise.” he says, grabbing your hand in his, kissing each finger.

“You’ll have to catch me first.” you respond coyly.

Joel’s eyes flash at that and he uses a hand to grip your face, smushing your cheeks and making your lips purse together.

“Wherever you go, I’ll find you.”

You smile at him through the hold. He returns it and dips his head, kissing you deeply, softly. Like you are the answer to a question he’s been asking for a long time. And the sun shines on you both, and the birds outside continue their declaring chirps, to the breeze and the trees and the moon somewhere far away. And you kiss, and you kiss, and you kiss.

**********

Well, damn.

Joel left a lot of hickeys on you. Most are covered by your jacket, but you have to keep tightening the collar to cover one that creeps up the side of your neck. You want to be annoyed, but you secretly like the idea of having his mark on you. You feel tied to him in this way. You smile at your reflection one last time before heading out to the stables to help Kali.

Kali has been employing you since you got here, and while you like to spend time with the horses, with her, it doesn’t pay nearly enough. There isn’t enough work to get you very far, and you’ve been considering asking to go on patrol for a while now. You watch the rangers pick up their horses and drop them off with awe. It is as impressive as it is a lucrative job. And that makes sense, those who go out with weapons to clear the surrounding areas of infected are putting their lives at risk. You never thought you’d be willing to go back outside the wall after your harrowing week alone prior to Jackson and your many past run-ins with clickers.

You haven’t considered it in a, though. But you are now. Ever since Joel brought those memories back to the surface, you've been ruminating. You were pretty helpless back then, could only run. But what if you could fight? Perhaps you could be taught how to shoot, how to defend yourself. And you’d be lying if you were to say you didn’t envy those who went out beyond the wall. In the sense that they seemed so self-assured, so strong and capable. They were used to danger and adventure, and they could take care of themselves. You look down at your hands as you open the door before the porch steps. Weak, no callouses. You flex them. You could change that, you think, if you wanted to.

The thought stirs in your head as you step out in the increasingly warmer weather, but before you get far something colorful catches your eye. Resting on the top step, on a folded piece of newspaper, is a bright, round orange. You stare at it.

Is this for you?

You look around and see nothing, no trace of anyone, so you lean to scoop it up in your hands. That’s when you notice the pen marking the upwards facing page. It’s a paper from May 2010, roughly 28 years ago, turned to the funnies with a joke circled once in pen:

What did the citrus fruit say to his friend?

Orange you glad you met me?

**********

You can’t help the giant, stupid smile on your face as you wash your hands in a bowl of cold melted snow. Blood runs off your fingers in tiny rivulets, dyeing the water pink, and you scrub underneath your nails, smiling. A mare had given birth today and you had been right there with Kali to pull the new slippery body out into the world. To watch as mere minutes after coming to life, this thing was standing and ready to run. The joy of it, of that new spirit, combined with the orange you carefully ate on your way here has you practically buzzing. You’ve been replaying the way you and Joel kissed yesterday morning in your head over and over again. You feel like your feet might lift off the ground at any moment.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Wiping your hands on a rag, you go to restock the mother and baby’s stall with fresh hay. As you shovel the last lump, Kali pokes her head in.

“I’ll ask John if he can set you up with a trainer next time I see him.” she says.

You had asked earlier if she knew how to get you started on patrol training. A buzzing begins in your chest, exciting and terrifying. You thank her, finish refilling the stall, and pet the new horse once more before heading out.

Watching your boots crunch on loose gravel, you can’t not think of him. You are not sure exactly what you and Joel are, if he feels the same way, and you would be tempted to remain doubtful. But…the orange. You shake your head.

This terrifies you. Because what is given can be taken away. And you are very, very scared of this being taken away. You are scared of how the wide-open hole that had been punched through your chest years ago is slowly filling up with him. There is one thing worse than having nothing at all, and that is having something to miss. You already have plenty of things to miss, you don’t need to add another.

But humans are stupid and fickle and forgetful. And the high is so vicious and trembling, so good after so much emptiness. Your cheeks hurt from grinning as you ignore the possibilities. Maybe you’ll invite him over this week, wanting to continue what you two had started yesterday Wanting him to finally fuck you, and fuck you right. But maybe you should have an activity planned. Maybe he wouldn’t want to only see you in your shabby apartment. Maybe you both could go to the small theater in town? You feel silly but…maybe he would want to go. On a date. With you. You feel entirely stupid at the idea. He would probably never want to do something like that. But…the orange. You bite your thumbnail to hide your smile as you pass a group of passerbys.

Giddy, you round the corner, passing the utility shop, a place for fixing faulty guns or searching for tools, and something inside catches your attention. A familiar tan jacket. You come to a stop as you realize Joel is beyond the open double doors, fiddling with a gun on a wooden work bench. Seeing him feels like a gravitational pull, and you aren’t even thinking as you step towards him, to say hello, and maybe even bring up the movie idea, when you notice that he is talking to someone. The words that trickle out to you stop you dead in your tracks, but it’s not so much what is being said as much as it is the tone of sharp anger.

“You’re allowed to have feelings you know, Joel.” the woman in front of him speaks.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now, Maria.” he says, spitting the words at her.

You pivot back to have your back pressed up against the outside wall, out of sight but still within ear shot. The bitter anger of his voice cracks through your buoyant mood. Your curiosity flares, bright and wild. You should leave. You should walk away and definitely not be eavesdropping on a private, angry conversation between Joel and his brother’s wife. You should really, really leave. But…you remain in place.

“Ellie will be fine. How much do you even see her these da—”

“I don’t need you to tell me anything about Ellie.” Joel snaps back, and the sound of metal being forcibly smacked on wood is indication enough of his level of irritation. Your brain reels at what they could possibly be discussing to make Joel this pissed off.

“I don’t know why I try. God forbid you find someone to love and just be happy, right?” Maria sighs heavily and your heart thuds in your chest. Are they talking about…no…you don’t let yourself get that far. You can’t even begin to process her word choice in that statement. You really should walk away, now.

“Oh, Jesus. Give me a break, nobody is in love and nobody will be.” Joel retorts, and his next sentence is said quieter, so you can’t make it out except for one word. Your name.

You can’t explain the sensation happening in your chest, like everything has been wrapped up in a tight knot and someone is squeezing on it hard.

“I know these kinds of things make you think about Sarah. I get it. I had the same fears because of Kevin, but—”

Joel’s voice is deadly quiet now as he speaks, each word enunciated carefully, as if they are grenades dropping out of his mouth one by one, and he is trying not to pull any of their triggers.

“Do. Not. Bring. Up. Sarah. Ever again. Do you understand me?”

“Joel--”

“Fucking drop it, Maria! She’s just a lonely kid with no family who nobody cares about. She doesn’t mean anything. She’s nobody. Everybody leaves her and I will too. So, DROP it.”

The vice grip inside your chest tightens and tightens until it feels like something inside of you viciously severs in two. Your lungs you think. You can no longer breathe.

She’s nobody.

Everybody leaves her and I will too.

You aren’t seeing, or hearing, or feeling anything anymore, you’re just stuck. You only have his words, replaying over and over again on a loop.

Nobody. Nobody. Nobody.

Everybody leaves her and I will too.

You should have walked away, you really should have just walked away.

And then you are too late to notice the sounds of footsteps approaching. And suddenly Joel is exiting the store with Maria at his heels, his bag at his shoulder, and they both stop when they notice you standing there, utterly frozen.

Joel’s eyes go wide for a moment at the sight of you. A flurry of emotions pass over his face as he becomes just as still as you. Maria next to him lets out a long sigh, her expression crumpling into crushing pity. And that face of pity, of concerned sadness for you, it shatters your numbness, and the inky, vast pool of repressed grief and shame maws open before you. One more push and you would fall in, heavy as a rock, right to the bottom.

Maria looks expectantly at Joel, as if she is waiting on him to apologize, to explain himself, to do anything. And Joel’s gaze flickers with uncertainty for a moment before hardening.

“What?” he questions gruffly. And it takes you a moment before you realize he is speaking to you.

“Uh-I s-sorry I-I didn’t mean to-I was just-” you stutter through your regret for eavesdropping, but are not sure why you are the one apologizing in this moment. You shouldn’t have been listening to a private conversation, and maybe Joel would never have been so harsh had he known you were listening, but it was still him being cruel just now. Not you. And you wonder if it’s something he simply said to Maria to get her off his back, or if he really feels that way. If you are just some sorry nobody he seeks out for physical gratification. If…if he really only sees you like that. Like the girl that gets abandoned.

I will too.

Is he planning on leaving once he gets what he wants? And what does he want? Just sex? But then why…why any of the rest of it? You haven’t discussed feelings or anything close. Had only had a handful of interactions. But you realize in this moment just how much you are already attached to the idea of having him around. And how he simply might not care. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

“Today.” he commands, indicating how long it is taking for you to get a sentence out. His tone stings more than anything. You can feel your face crumple in reaction and you hate it, you hate how pathetic you must seem right now, how small and sad you feel. Like nobody.

No.

He doesn’t get to talk to you like that. He isn’t allowed to do this. You are the girl who tears men a new asshole when they deserve it. You aren’t going to roll over this time. If he wants to be a dick, you can step up to the plate too. You feel your devastation be replaced with anger as it so often is, and that fury is a ball of heat inside you, alive and purring to be let out. So, you open the door for it.

“Fuck you.” you breath out to him. Your voice is quieter than you’d like, but the sentiment feels clearly written on your face.

Maria’s eyebrows shoot upwards and Joel’s face twitches. He looks between you both and you see his stony expression falter for just a moment before he inhales once, slowly, and lets it out evenly. He then turns on his heel and makes to head away, beckoning for Maria to follow him.

Your anger growls unsatisfied at the lack of response, the lack of play.

“Alright, I’ll see you at my doorsteps in a couple days then? For whenever you feel like begging to put your face between my legs again.” you call out to him, your heart thudding.

Joel freezes completely on the street for a second before he ever so slowly turns to you. His face is incredulous. And mad.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

You might have pushed the very scary, dangerous man too far on this one. But you couldn’t help it, and it feels good to hit your mark. Maria coughs besides him, hands on her hips, looking anywhere but at either of you. But her mouth is pulled up at the corners. She mutters something about Tommy and begins walking up the street.

You’re glad she’s amused, because Joel is clearly not.

“Excuse me?” Joel all but breathes at you, his eyes wild.

It’s probably time to go now, so you spin and begin power-walking away.

"Hey!" you hear him half-yell behind you.

You don't slow down, instead you speed up, breaking into a flat out run, turning into an alley. You make it maybe ten steps before you hear his footsteps catch up to you. His hand grabs your elbow, yanking you to a stop. Goddamn him and his stupid fucking fast legs.

Joel's face is wild.

"What the hell was that?" he demands.

"Me?!" you can't believe you are the one being prompted to explain yourself in this moment. You twist in his grip but find zero release point.

"You can't just-" he starts, but you've had enough.

"Can't what? Tell the truth? Exist around you outside of my fucking bedroom? It shouldn’t bother you should it? Considering I’m nobody.”

"Oh, sweet Jesus, listen, please-" Joel grumbles, wiping his face with a hand.

"Unhand me, you oaf." you say, using your other fist to bang on his fingers, but still he doesn't let go.

"Oaf?" he snorts once, shock breaking his frustration for a brief moment.

"Argh, let GO!" you yell, and finally he does. However, the way you were pulling away from him at a 45-degree angle causes the lack of his hold to have you fall clean on your ass with a hard thump.

"Oh god. Are you okay, pretty girl?" Joel asks, obviously trying to hide a full on laugh now.

You look up at him and he is smothering a smile, and only then do you realize where you both stand. The barrels and brick, the familiar ramshackle buildings. The same alleyway from your first kiss. And the difference from that moment to this one, him literally standing over you laughing, the pain from the fall, the different kind of pain from hearing him call you your favorite pet name just moments after he called you nobody. All of that mixes with your still lingering, hot shame. You sense tears begin to smart the corners of your eyes. You feel like the dumbest child on earth. How did you ever fantasize that this would end in anything but pain? He was always going to leave. Of course he was going to leave. Joel's face softens at your expression, into regret and guilt, and something else.

"Hey-" he begins, his tone gentle now, leaning towards you to help you up, but you smack his hand away and get up yourself, ungracefully.

“Can you…just…you don’t understand.” Joel says, unable to find his words, running his hand through his hair.

You huff but press your mouth closed and look at him waiting.

But Joel seems unsure how to continue. He falters and look at the ground.

“Did you mean it?” you ask finally, quietly.

He looks up at you and his face is unreadable, tense. He just stares at you. And then looks back to the ground.

You slowly close your eyes.

“Okay.” you breathe.

Somehow this is worse. Having him in front of you, silent, is so much worse.

You make to leave and he reaches out to you one more time.

"Please just leave me alone." you say to him, a cold wall coming up inside of you.

Joel drops his hand, and you turn on your heel towards your apartment. You keep your head forward until you exit the alleyway and don’t look behind you until you make it another block.

He is not following you.

you’ve lived in apartment 505 for four months, which is long enough to memorize the rhythm of the flickering hallway lights, long enough to know when mrs callahan from across the hall comes and goes by the faint scent of lavender she leaves trailing behind her, and long enough to know which delivery drivers are cool with the doormen. you’ve even mastered the delicate art of airing out your apartment after smoking a guilty cigarette on your fire escape. 

but four months still hasn’t been long enough to properly meet your next-door neighbour. you know almost nothing about him, just the trudging of his footsteps in the hallway, and the music that seeps through the paper-thin wall between your apartments. sometimes it’s a touch too loud, but it’s always undeniably good: the soft sweep of romantic piano late at night, or a 70s guitar solo that pulls you back to car rides with your dad.

he also has a regular visitor with equally heavy, if uneven, footsteps, and whenever the guest is over, the smell of warm, devastatingly healthy food seeps through the walls like a routine. 

but, as far as you can tell, your neighbour is usually alone. you’re not a stalker or anything, just bored and lonely in a new city. school and your crappy part-time job takes up most of your time, but four months isn’t long enough to make real friends and your apartment is just so quiet.

it’s a tuesday night when you finally see him.

your evening class went way over and the walk from the bus stop is cold enough to sting your fingertips. the only thing keeping you going is the comforting thought of hot wonton soup waiting for you. the chinese place you frequent knows your order by heart and joseph, the older doorman, always keeps it behind his desk until you come trudging through the door.

“rough day?” he asks, already pulling out the plastic bag that holds your small salvation.

“you could say that,” you mutter, accepting it with chilled hands. “thanks, joseph. you’re a lifesaver.”

he chuckles. “just doing my job. go on, before it gets cold.”

you smile, muttering a quiet, “yeah, thanks.”

as if on cue, the elevator dings, its brass doors sliding open with a weary groan.

“goodnight, joseph!” you call over your shoulder.

“‘night, kiddo,” he replies, just as someone slips in through the giant glass doors of the building. 

you hoist your school bag and the plastic bag holding the container of liquid gold onto your shoulder and press the circular 5 button and the weight of your bags and the weight of a long day hit all at once and you slump against the mirrored wall.

“hold the door!”

your reflexes somehow respond, even as your mind is sluggish with exhaustion. you stick your arm between the metal doors and they jolt reluctantly before parting.

a tall and disheveled man steps in, bringing a wave of antiseptic and latex with him. 

“thanks,” he says, voice low but polite. his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes or the soft crease between his brows but there’s an attempt.

“yeah, no problem,” you breathe. “what floor?”

he opens his mouth to answer, then notices the lit-up 5. a small exhale of a laugh slips out. 

“we’re headed to the same place,” he says, and finally meets your eyes. big brown cow eyes blink down at you and all you can do is gape like a fish until the elevator dings and the doors close with a thunk and your brain clicks back online.

“oh!” you blurt, your voice sounding too loud for the occasion, “crazy coincidence.”

his half-smile is tired but warm, like he’s been running on empty for a while and just remembered what amusement feels like. the elevator hums to life and the only sound is the rattle of old machinery and the muffled ding of passing floors. you glance sideways. he’s leaning against the mirrored wall beside you, crushing his backpack with broad shoulders. his eyes are half-lidded and his black scrubs stretch over his crossed arms. you’re really trying not to ogle but whoa. shoulders. 

there’s a hospital ID badge clipped to his front pocket and honestly, you’re not checking him out; the shiny white laminated card with his name on it just draws your eyes to his chest.

Michael Robinavitch, MD — Attending Physician, Emergency Medicine

a doctor.

the tall, handsome, weary-eyed man next to you is a doctor.

you think about saying something, anything just to break the silence; maybe a joke about how the elevator’s slower than the semester you’re trying to survive but exhaustion feels like something sacred when it’s this late so instead, you keep quiet, holding your bag a little tighter, the salty smell of soup filling the small metal box.

when the elevator dings at your floor, the doors creak open and he steps forwards to brace one arm against the frame, holding it open and looking entirely too gallant for someone who has probably been awake since the invention of sliced bread.

“after you.”

you murmur a thanks and shuffle out, not knowing where to let your eyes fall because looking directly at him while being close enough to briefly feel his body heat feels intimate, and then, unfortunately, you both start walking in the exact same direction. he’s behind you; you can practically feel the creation of a precise, respectful bubble of distance so you’re not side-by-side. he’s so aware of the weirdness, shoulders tightened, steps measured, trying to give you space and not come off as a Creepy Older Man without literally plastering himself to the opposite wall. you hike your backpack further up your shoulder, pretending this is totally normal, totally fine, absolutely not weird at all but when you stop at your door and he stops at the one right next to it, your brain short-circuits. he blinks, then lets out a small breath of laughter.

“so you’re my neighbour,” he says, shifting his backpack off one shoulder and extending a big hand. “i’m michael, by the way.” 

you stutter out your name and move your bags around in order to grasp his hand. you feel kind of bad; his hand is so warm in comparison to your icy one and it can’t be pleasant but his soft smile finally hits his eyes and the handshake tightens just a bit.

“nice to finally meet you. and—uh—your soup smells good.”

your ears burn as if he complimented you directly and you let your hand fall when he lets go. he steps back toward his door, keys in hand. “have a good night.”

and that’s it. he disappears inside, letting out a gust of warm air with the closing of his door and you’re left standing there, shell-shocked, holding your very warm, very aromatic soup like it’s suddenly the most important thing in the world.

── ୨ৎ ──

the next time you see him, it’s your laundry day.

or night, you suppose.

you push open the laundry room door and are immediately hit with the warm, humid smell of detergent and dryer lint. the fluorescent lights flicker, casting everything in a slightly sickly yellow, and you grimace, already regretting your decision to do laundry at this hour.

and of course, there he is. michael. because the universe hates you and your day-three hair and the pair of oversized sweatpants an ex left behind, which just so happen to be the only clean pants you own.

he’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, a t-shirt so old it should probably qualify for retirement benefits tucked into slightly rumpled jeans, hair mussed but clean and soft-looking. he looks up from the beat up paperback he’s holding in his gigantic hands and blinks and the door clicks shut behind you and somehow it’s exactly like last time; you’re trapped in a too small room with a man you’re convinced is a male model moonlighting as an emergency doctor. 

he straightens, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. 

“hi,” he says, voice low. “i didn’t think anyone else would be here at this hour.”

“uh—yeah,” you clear your throat, trying to make yourself sound casual while fumbling with your laundry bag. you’re not sure why you feel the need to justify your laundry schedule. “me neither. it’s, um, my only free time this week, so…” you trail off, feeling both ridiculous and exposed.

he smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkles. “yeah, i get it. it’s been a week.”

you laugh, a little too loudly, and immediately wish you hadn’t but his quiet responding chuckle makes you relax immediately and makes you wonder whether you actually need clean socks or if you just want an excuse to stay here a little longer. you head toward the nearest free washing machine, trying not to trip over your own feet, while his washer beeps and he starts loading a dryer with neat, deliberate precision.

“you’re a doctor?” you nod at the clothes he’s rushing into the dryer—mostly scrubs—to cover up the fact that the words had slipped out before your brain even signed off on them.

you know he's a doctor, you saw his id badge. are you that desperate to talk to him?

yes.

“yeah,” he says after a beat, like he’s debating whether to elaborate. he shuts the dryer door with a soft thud. “emergency medicine. long hours, weird schedule. hence, uh—” he gestures vaguely at the near-empty laundry room, the unholy time of night, the fact that both of you look like you’ve been gently steamrolled. “—this.”

“cool,” you say, because you’re a linguistic prodigy. “that’s…cool.”

he huffs out a laugh and leans his hip against the dryer, folding his arms loosely. “it’s something,” he says. “what about you?”

you shrug, dumping your dark clothes into the washer with more force than strictly necessary. “grad student. also long hours, also weird schedule, but significantly less life-or-death.”

“still stressful,” he says, like he means it. 

you start the wash, the machine groaning like it resents you personally and you wince. when you turn back, he’s watching you.

“sorry,” he says quickly, a pink flush crawling up the sides of his face. “i’m not staring. i just—are your socks all the same colour?”

you snort, caught so off guard by the question that you nearly drop the detergent cap. “yeah. i do not have the mental capacity to sort socks at 2 a.m.,” you say. “this is me adapting.”

“fair,” he nods. “i have multiple pairs of identical scrubs for the same reason. less decisions, less chances to mess things up.”

the idea of a man who feels larger than life trying to make an everyday task easier in whatever small way he can tugs at your heart and there’s a quiet moment where neither of you move. the machines hum, the overhead lights buzz, and a clean laundry smell begins to take over the room.

“you’re…leaking detergent.”

“oh shit,” you whisper, scrambling to shut the cap fully and wipe the blue trail with the edge of your sleeve.

smooth. very smooth.

he tries and fails to not grin. “you okay?”

“absolutely thriving,” you deadpan, which earns you an actual laugh—loud enough that you feel kinda proud—right up until you shrug off your hoodie and your shirt insists on coming along. by the time you free yourself, hair sticking up like you’ve been electrocuted, he’s staring at a dryer sheet like it holds the secrets of the universe, jaw tight, ears pink at the tips.

you toss your sweater into the small pile of lighter-coloured laundry and lean back against the cold metal of the machine. you toy with the drawstring of your ex’s sweatpants, suddenly hyperaware of how you must look; sleepy, messy, not particularly put-together. michael doesn’t seem to care. why would he? you don’t really know him, and he doesn’t really know you. he’s picked his book back up, and you regret not bringing one of your many paperbacks, but your fingers find your phone instead, and you lose yourself in candy crush until the sudden ding of his dryer jolts both of you out of the quiet bubble you’ve found yourselves in.

when he opens the dryer door, the warm, fragrant air hits your face and makes you want to inhale it like oxygen. he pulls out the clothes and sets them on the counter, moving with effortless precision, despite his obvious exhaustion.

“uh…need a hand?” you offer, really trying not to sound like you would try anything to get a little bit closer to him. or smell his laundry. in a not-creepy way.

he glances at you, eyebrows raised, and then shrugs. “sure. if you want.”

you step closer and start folding alongside him. your hands fumble at first, tugging at the sleeves of a scrub top that seems determined to resist. he watches, amused but patient, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him as you work side by side.

“you fold differently than i do,” he says, and it’s not accusatory, just observant.

“yeah?” you ask, trying not to laugh as a warm, clean shirt stubbornly bunches up in your hands. “i worked a lot of retail and this is how the experts do it.”

he snorts, and you steal a glance at him and his hands as he stacks a pair of scrub pants onto another. the two of you work in silence for a while, folding, stacking, passing clothes back and forth. occasionally your hands brush, and each time it’s like a lightning bolt strikes you through the heart. 

“you’re good at this.”

“i’ve had lots of practice,” he says, smirking. “and i’m good with my hands.”

he flushes immediately, and you laugh, feeling your own cheeks heat up. 

2 a.m. makes people weird. 

thankfully, your washing machine dings and forces you to move before you do or say something you’ll regret.

you start moving the heavy clothes into the dryer and michael watches with those dark eyes, leaning against the machines with that half-smile tugging at his lips, and before you can say anything, he says, “want me to stay and help you fold?”

you shake your head. “no, no you should really get some sleep,” you say, trying to sound casual, though your voice comes out a little higher than intended. a cow-eyed, competent, good-with-his-hands guy, speaking around a yawn just to offer to make your life easier? someone should pinch you.

“sleep?” he says, mock disbelief in his tone. “i’ve got four hours before i have to be back at the hospital.”

“exactly,” a small smirk tugs at your lips. “go get those four hours. you need them more than you need to see me beat my folding-as-much-as-i-can-until-i-feel-dead-on-my-feet record.”

he chuckles, shaking his head, and you notice the faint pink on his ears again. “alright, alright,” he says, stepping back to gather his folded laundry.

“thanks,” he says quietly. “for this.” he gestures awkwardly around the small room, understated but sincere.

“yeah, anytime,” you reply, your voice low, a little breathless, because somehow folding laundry with michael robinavitch is the most intimate thing you’ve done in months.

he gives you a small, soft nod, and heads toward the door. you watch him go, the muscles of his back moving under his thin t-shirt, the fluorescent lights catching the curve of his shoulders, the rumple of his hair, the faint scent of detergent and warmth and man lingering in the air behind him.

── ୨ৎ ──

michael’s night routine is methodical. it was a long day. long in the way only a saturday er shift can be, the kind where friday night’s party casualties dragged themselves in, suddenly shocked to discover that drinking like a frat boy has consequences. the kind of day that stuck to his clothes and sunk into his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed his hands up to the elbows.

he moved through his apartment on autopilot: keys down, scrubs off, shower on. it’s the closest thing he gets to a reset button, a moment where the noise of the day fades a little bit under the heat of the water, the rawness of freshly scrubbed skin, the sting of shampoo slipping into his eyes. he even manages to delude himself for a bit, convinced he’ll hop out and start making a hot dinner as soon as he’s done, maybe even manage to tidy his apartment a bit. but the hot water feels really, really good, and he can feel his muscles go lax under the steady stream and you smiled at him the other day when he was getting on the elevator and you were getting off and the metal box smelled like your perfume and it had clung to the air for all of five seconds and somehow lodged itself in his memory, and now it’s all he can think about, even with the woodsy scent of his own shampoo filling his nose.

the first wrap of his hand around his cock has him hissing through his teeth, skin hot in his palm, the tight grip of his hand a blessed relief. his cock is hard enough it almost hurts and when he slides his hand up to squeeze over the head he can’t tamp down the breathy “ah!” that shoves itself out of his lungs when he digs his thumb into the slit. the tension eases from his body and all he can focus on is the heat in his stomach and the movement of his hand.

a sigh escapes him. his body loosens. it’s been a little over a week since michael has had enough time on his hands to enjoy himself, which he now realizes is criminal. 

he stays like that for a while, stroking himself and letting little noises out. his mind flashes with imagery, unbidden. he imagines small, perpetually cold hands on his body. it’s hard, what with his massive hand tugging at himself, but the memory of your scent and the way you were eager to offer help folding and the insistence in your voice when you told him to get to bed pushes itself to the front of his mind. he knows how gross this is; you’re so young, and pretty, and you move through the world like its weight hasn’t even tried to settle on your shoulders yet. shame curls in his stomach, fighting with the heat that has been steadily building since he got a hand on himself. 

his abdomen tightens, and keeping up the punishingly slow pace he’d forced himself into becomes impossible. he barely has time to shove away the thought of how you might sound if he actually got his hands on you—or your hands on him, stroking him the way he’s stroking himself now, fast and desperate, or what he could do to you with his mouth alone—before he’s coming hard, groaning, his head thudding back against the tile.

── ୨ৎ ──

you’ve lived in apartment 505 for four months, which is long enough to take many, many showers. good showers, quiet showers, with reliable water pressure and great acoustics. for four months, the vent beside your shower has been nothing but a vent: a rectangle of metal that has never so much as whispered. completely unremarkable. which is why, when you’re well into your whole nighttime routine, maybe a minute after stepping into the steam of the shower, you freeze. a door closes on the other side of the wall, followed by some very off-key humming, a thump, and a string of curses. the water starts running and you can hear the rattle of shower curtain rings as someone gets in. then the humming resumes. you really try to ignore it; folding laundry with him had been one thing, but now, practically showering with him? that’s a whole new level of accidental intimacy.

it must be one of those stupid little quirks of the building. sometimes you can hear your upstairs neighbours vacuuming, or the couple next door with the dog they are definitely not supposed to have; the walls might as well be made of damp cardboard. so maybe, you tell yourself, this is just another item on the long list of oddities that come with living in an ancient building. pipes that groan at random hours, radiators that click like they’re bats trying to echolocate, ceilings that transmit every footstep with the intimacy of a heartbeat monitor. totally normal. totally ignorable.

except you can’t ignore this.

you’ve just gotten back into the groove of your shower, halfway through rinsing the conditioner out of your hair, when when the sound comes again—low, very distinctly not-plumbing—you freeze, hands tangled in your split ends mid-rinse, suddenly hyperaware of your own breathing. that? that’s definitely not the usual groan of pipes. and it’s definitely not quiet. it’s softer this time, and strained in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with hygiene. your stomach drops straight through the tile and you blink water out of your eyes, standing as still as a soap-slick statue, and that’s when you hear a low exhale, shaky and muffled but unmistakably human. unmistakably him.

ignorance only gets you so far, and the second you hear him, your brain does the absolute worst thing it could do: it provides you with a mental image of michael in his shower. you’d love to pretend you’ve never checked him out, but you have eyes, and he has…all of that. so of course your mind fills in the gaps; long, freckled limbs, salt-and-pepper hair pushed back and going damp at the edges, maybe a curl falling over his forehead while he touches himself slow and focused, like he’s got nowhere else to be.

heat crawls up your neck, blooming across your face, mixing with the steam until you feel borderline feverish. you shouldn’t be listening. you really, absolutely shouldn’t. but the universe has wedged the vents of your showers together and now you’re trapped here, drenched, blinking at metal slats that suddenly feel like a confession booth.

by the time the water that hits your skin is cold, the noise on the other side of the wall has stilled and the water has been turned off, leaving only the rush of your own pulse in your ears. you stay under the spray a little longer than necessary, partly to collect yourself, partly to let the cold shock the heat that has gathered under your skin.

when you finally shut the water off and fumble your way out of the shower, the apartment feels too quiet, too bright, too aware of what you absolutely did not mean to overhear. you wrap yourself in a towel and quickly blow-dry your hair, trying to will your heartbeat back to normal. 

── ୨ৎ ──

you weren’t planning to bake. you really weren’t. you got out of the shower, put on pajamas, and fully intended to go to bed like a normal person. but then your brain, traitor that it is, started replaying everything you definitely should not be thinking about: michael’s laugh in the laundry room, the shape of his shoulders, the sounds he made in his shower that were definitely not for you to hear and you feel really bad about still thinking about it so naturally, instead of sleeping, you decided to stress-bake.

except stress-baking turned into regular baking, which turned into your hands doing that thing where they operate independently of logic, and suddenly you’ve doubled the flour and tripled the chocolate chips and now your kitchen smells like a bakery that has absolutely no concept of portion control.

you stare at the mountain of dough in the bowl.

“oh my god,” you whisper to it. it's enough to feed a small village.

a small village, or one emergency doctor.

you try to will the thought away. you fail magnificently. which is how you end up rolling out tray after tray of tablespoon-sized balls of dough, muttering to yourself like someone who definitely has their life together.

the first batch is in the oven when you hear the faint squeak of hinges. your window is cracked open to let the heat out and through it you hear the unmistakable slide of a fire escape window. then the flick of a lighter and the inhale-pause-exhale of someone taking that first deep drag of a cigarette after a truly catastrophic day.

your kitchen window looks out onto the same narrow fire escape as his. you’ve never actually heard him use it, but tonight is apparently full of surprises.

curiosity wins before your dignity even gets a vote and you wipe your hands on a dish towel, march to the window before you can overthink it, and open it more to accommodate your head poking out.

he’s sitting on the grated steps, hoodie thrown on over a t-shirt, hair still damp from his shower, forearms braced on his knees, cigarette between two fingers. the glow of the ember paints his cheekbones in warm orange, and he looks small. tired. soft. unfairly gorgeous. 

he glances up at the sound of your window, blinks like he can’t quite believe you’re real, and gives this crooked, exhausted half-smile that hits you somewhere inconvenient.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice a little rough. “i’m sorry—is the smoke drifting your way? i can stop, or move, or—”

you hold up a hand to cut off his ramble.

“it’s fine,” you say. then, before you can stop yourself: “i made too many cookies.”

michael huffs a soft laugh, smoke curling from his nose. “too many?”

“yeah.” you nod at the mess behind you. “do you want some?”

he hesitates. not in a “stranger danger” way, more in a “is it acceptable to accept cookies from the person i just jerked off to the thought of” way. then he huffs a soft laugh, snuffs out the cigarette with the toe of his sneaker, and stands, stretching slightly as he steps closer to the divide between your windows. 

“sure,” he murmurs. “yeah, i’d love one.”

your heart does a catastrophic flip in your ribcage.

“cool,” you say, because every time you talk to him your perfectly functional grad-student-level vocabulary collapses into something closer to “just learned words today.” “uh—give me like five minutes? they’re almost done.”

he nods, leaning lightly against the railing, the dim light catching in his still-damp hair. “i’ll be here.”

the oven timer dings behind you.

you nod like an idiot, shut the window, and immediately have to grab the counter because your knees are genuinely considering giving out. you pull out the tray, the cookies golden at the edges and molten in the middle, and for a second you just stand there, gripping the oven mitts, trying to remember how breathing works.

you put more than a few on a plate, because offering a single cookie feels ridiculous, and then hover, debating whether to add a napkin, or another cookie, or just crawl out the window and fling yourself off the fire escape altogether.

instead, you wipe your palms on your pajama pants, and head back to the window.

michael’s still there, standing in the exact same spot, fiddling with the edge of his hoodie. he looks young in this light. he looks up the moment your window opens, and there’s something about the way his face softens—like you are, inexplicably, a good thing—that nearly knocks the air out of you.

“that was fast.”

“yeah, well,” you say, totally casual except for the part where your voice cracks in the middle, “they were basically done already.”

his lips twitch, amused. “can i—?”

you extend the plate through the open window, your hands doing an excellent impression of someone who has never held a plate in their life. he takes one, then hesitates, then takes a second.

smart man.

he bites into the first one, and the sound he makes—low, pleased, involuntary—goes straight to the bottom of your spine.

“holy shit,” he says around a mouthful. “these are good.”

“thanks,” you mumble, gripping the windowsill so you don’t float away into the night sky. “it’s a, uh. an anxiety hobby.”

he nods like that makes perfect sense. maybe to him it does. 

he reaches out and takes the plate from you. “sit with me?”

you crawl out onto the metal grate before your brain catches up with your body, like climbing through a window to talk to a boy (a man! a doctor!!)  is something you do all the time.

“rough night?” you ask.

he exhales through his nose, sitting back down onto a rusted step.

“yeah,” he says, taking another bite of the cookie. “one of those shifts where the world feels a bit worse than usual.”

you shiver, the warm kitchen air at your back contrasting with the cool outside breeze at your front.

“cookies help,” you say lightly.

michael nods, gaze flicking between you and the plate like he can’t decide which is the more comforting sight.

“that they do,” he says, voice quieter. “you help.”

your heart lurches in your chest.

he seems to realize what he said at the exact same moment you process it, because he immediately clears his throat and turns tomato-red and looks away, suddenly fascinated by a brick on the far wall.

“sorry,” he mutters. “that was—uh—a lot. and inappropriate.”

“it’s okay—” you start, but he’s already shaking his head, already retreating inside himself like he’s afraid he’s stepped over some invisible line.

“no, i just…” he lets out a strained breath, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “i’m tired. i should, uh—” he gestures vaguely toward his window, the plate of cookies suddenly held like it's radioactive. “i should let you get back to…sleep. or baking. or whatever you plan on doing at—” he checks his watch and winces, “—one forty-five in the morning.”

you blink. “michael, you don’t have to—”

“no, i know, i just—” he takes a half-step backward toward his apartment, trips slightly on the uneven grate, catches himself, and turns even redder. “jesus. okay.”

you almost laugh, but it’s too endearing.

“i didn’t mean to make things weird,” he says quickly, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “i appreciate the cookies. they’re—they’re really good. you’re really—” he cuts himself off.

“michael—”

“goodnight,” he blurts, gentle and rushed and apologetic all at once, already ducking into his apartment, pulling the window shut behind him with a soft click.

you’re left standing there, plate in hand, heartbeat loud in the empty space he left, and all you can think is: you help.

After returning Bandit to his stall, he spots you near the entrance of the stables feeding Dakota. When he first rode in, he’d seen other volunteers milling around, but none of them were you. 

Much like the trees, your skirt catches the wind, revealing the boots you wear beneath. Joel’s cowboy hat shadows his eyes, but you feel the heavy weight of his gaze even before you cast your glance his way. You pass Dakota her last carrot as the gentle thunk of his footsteps quiets several feet away. He tips the brim of his hat when you look up. 

“Howdy,” he rumbles. “Figured you’d gone home early or somethin’.” 

“So you were looking for me, huh?” Your smile is teasing. 

You stroke Dakota’s neck when she presses towards you, though your attention remains on Joel. He clings to the grace of your movements. “How was it out there today?”

Your interest makes him straighten. “Good.” You nod for him to continue when he stops himself. “Looks real nice this time of year with the trees and all. Those forest routes are somethin’ else.”

“Oh, I bet.” There’s a wistfulness to your tone. 

You weren’t a part of the patrol team, so it’d been two months since you ventured beyond the wall. Joel had been the one to take you, but the Clickers you encountered dissuaded your eagerness thereafter. He shot each one before they posed any real threat to your lives, but the prospect of what could’ve been was a blemish that lingered in the back of your mind. Only now, as Jackson creeps towards dormancy, had the desire to leave begun to bud anew. 

“I can take you.” Joel’s eyes flick across your features. “Whenever you’re ready to get back out there.” 

“I’d like that.”

Silence settles in the space between you as he nods. Laughter carries from the near distance. Horses shuffle through hay in their stalls, puffing breaths from their noses. Joel lingers as you grant Dakota your undivided attention, petting her while cooing the whole while. He doesn’t realize he’s begun to smile until the pull in his cheeks has grown too great to ignore.

“You’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you?” you ask her. “My best girl.” 

The way you pitch your voice to be airy and saccharine stirs warmth in Joel’s stomach. He could stand around and watch you for hours, which is how he knows it’s time to go on about his way. If it wasn’t so easy to be around you, he’d be a more disciplined man. 

“Did Ellie mention I’m helping her out this evening?” you ask. 

Joel sets his hands on his hips. “With paint night for the kids?” He thinks a few extra seconds to ensure he doesn’t make a liar out of her. “No.” If she’d told him, he would’ve already planned to be in attendance as opposed to making the decision ten seconds ago. 

“That one hardly tells me anything these days.”

You hum in amusement, studying him. There’s a faint rosiness to his cheeks, flecks of gray in his beard. His hair is long enough to peek from beneath his cowboy hat like Tommy’s. He’s rugged. Handsome. Joel studies you in turn. There’s endless life in your eyes along with that discrete sparkle of mischief. 

“Guess I’ll see you this evening,” he says. 

“You’re coming? Yeah, no, great. Guess I will then,” you ramble. “Should be a lot of fun.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Should be.” 

With a parting tip of his hat, he turns to leave. He figures he’s said all that’s left for him to say. If you two weren’t in different stages in your life and it wasn’t the end of the world, he likes to believe he would’ve been braver a long time ago. 

There’s a buzz beneath your skin as you dare to call out to him again, “Wanna see something cool before you go?” 

Once upon a time, you wished you knew Joel well enough to call him back to you. To enjoy more of his steady presence. To watch the way his lips moved when he spoke. To see those matured quirks of his up close. Time has granted you access you once dreamed of. Yet, every night when you go home to your uncle’s house and fall asleep alone, it still isn’t enough. These days you cling to every second with him. 

Joel starts back your way with that slow, easy stride you’d always rather see coming than going. Curiosity lifts the corners of his lips in a smile you never have to work hard to earn. 

When he’s close enough, you pluck his cowboy hat off his head and place it on your own, backpedaling a few paces away with a grin. 

Joel pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek to tamp down his instantaneous smile. There’s magic etched into the crinkles by your eyes, the glint of your teeth. He takes a few steps in your direction before he’s decided whether or not he wants his hat back or wants to be closer to you. A squeal as giddy as they come breaks into the air. He stops then, not because he wants to, but because he can feel the curious eyes that have settled on the two of you. If he were a few decades younger, he wouldn’t mind an audience. 

“Ain’t gonna chase ya.”

“What if that’s the whole point?” 

When Joel starts your way again, you become all the more aware of how broad he is. How much longer his legs are. How many years he’s had to be torn down and strengthened by the world. There’s no chance you’re making it far, but the spark within you dares you to try. 

It’s snuffed seconds after it ignites. 

A misstep over an uneven plank sends you backwards. Air punches out of your lungs the moment your butt hits the ground. 

Joel’s above you in seconds. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, gaze filled with concern. “You okay?” 

He extends a helping hand, but all you can think to do is hold his hat secure to your head so he can’t snatch it back.

“Ain’t thinkin’ about that,” he says. “Here, c’mon.” He wiggles his fingers. 

Joel pulls you to your feet like you’re light as the air. Embarrassment rises to your cheeks with the warmth of a summer’s day. 

“Gotta be careful.” Then, softer, “Didn’t hurt anything, did you?” 

“Yes.” Joel frowns at that. “My pride.” 

A gruff chuckle sneaks up on him. Even then, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort. You still aren’t convinced he can’t see straight down to your marrow. It’d be easier to feel less seen if his gaze wasn’t always so tender. 

Like everyone else in Jackson, there was a period when you only ever saw the intensity. Something had changed towards the end of last year, and you haven’t had the courage to acknowledge what. 

“If that’s the only thing, I reckon you’ll be okay,” he says. 

“I’ll take your word for it.” You place his hat back on his head, pushing it down to cover his eyes, “Cowboy.”

“Good.” Joel readjusts his hat. “Cause I’m gonna need you to be okay.”

He doesn’t backtrack or spin the sincerity of his statement into the fabric of a joke. Both of you are forced to stand there as it lingers in the air and cements into an invisible truth bound to endure. He eventually clears his throat and pushes his hands into his pockets. 

“Is that what you wanted to show me?” 

All there is to do is offer a shy nod that somehow remains unashamed. 

•••

The memory of the night lives in him after it passes. Joel can still hear the chatter, the laughter, paint being squeezed out of tubes, and brushes swirling in water. He can feel your thigh against his, and the sensation of your finger smearing a cool dab of white paint on the tip of his nose. 

A little boy named Thane had dared you, and Joel would never shy away from your touch. Not when you were as delighted as the kids to mess with him without consequence. That’s what happens when you make people feel safe. 

Three knocks sound at the front door as he makes it to the bottom of the staircase. 

It’s you. 

“Hi.” Your voice is small like you hadn’t just spent the evening by his side. “You left this masterpiece behind after clean up.” 

You hold up a small canvas that features the landscape painting you’d convinced him to do. It teeters towards abstraction, but nonetheless features the Teton Mountains and the colorful trees at their feet. 

“Ain’t nothing special.” He opens the door wider, closing it after you step inside. 

“It’s not bad.” 

“Ain’t good either.” 

“I don’t think any of us gave da Vinci a run for his money,” you amend. “I like it, though.” Your sincerity isn’t lost on Joel. “The kiddos loved it.” 

“Alright, alright.” Joel chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. 

You pass the canvas to him. “Gotta find a good place for it.” 

He walks it to the entryway table for now. The hardwood creaks beneath his feet. He’s already changed into his pajamas, plaid bottoms and a gray t-shirt. You’re in jeans and a cable-knit sweater. The stillness of his house washes over you. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. 

As his back is turned, you say, “I’m really glad you came.” 

There’s a weight to his gaze when he faces you again. You had a habit of saying things that forced him away from the easy out of neutrality. 

Instead of overthinking, he opts for honesty. “Me too,” he decides. “Probably wouldn’t have if you weren’t gonna be there.”

“Guess a little incentive never hurt anybody.” Sparkles dance in your eyes. 

“No,” Joel agrees, glancing down to his feet. “Were you, uh, plannin’ on staying over a while?” 

You lift a shoulder. “If you’ll have me.”

“You’re always welcome.” It’s the most earnest he’s sounded all evening. “Could use the company.” He can’t read the look that flickers across your face. 

“Drink?” 

“Water’s fine.” Your small smile eases his nerves. 

Joel pours two glasses and joins you on the couch. Pictures of the great American West adorn the living room walls—Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon. A few faded Polaroid photos are also peppered around the space. 

“When was that one taken?” You point to a picture of him on the fireplace mantel. 

Joel wets his lips and squints because his vision isn’t the same these days. However, the sway of your hips is crystal clear as you spring up to retrieve it. 

You sit closer to him than before upon your return. He drapes an arm across the cushion behind you as you assess the photo in silence together. He looks tired and a bit disheveled in the light of the flash, but wears that signature closed-lipped smile packed with fondness. From what you can make of the background, he’s indoors. The dark walnut cabinets suggest a kitchen. 

“That was before Jackson. Before all of this.” Reminiscence is thick in his voice. “Had bought Sarah a camera for her thirteenth birthday.” He starts to smile. “Don’t think I’d ever heard her scream that loud.” You smile too. 

“She was so over the moon, I thought I’d never be able to outdo myself again.” 

Drawn in by the warmth of Joel’s voice, you begin to trace absentminded shapes on his thigh. 

“Never did like bein’ in front of the lens, but those puppy eyes got me every time.” A host of other memories ride palpably on his words. 

You share a hushed laugh that wanes into a comfortable silence. Joel’s focus drifts to your hand when your palm stills on his thigh to deliver a soft squeeze. He can feel you everywhere. In his head, beneath his skin, consuming him whole. On New Years Day, you’d hugged him for the first time—properly—and there was only ever after that moment. It’d been a freefall since then. 

“You still look the same,” you murmur after a while. 

Time has etched its passing in some of his features, but it hadn’t completely erased the man he used to be. 

“Think so?” 

Joel holds his breath when you reach out to run a gentle finger along his hairline, then venture down to follow the curve of his jawline. Your touch is so featherlight, it tickles. His lashes flutter when you trace a finger down the bridge of his nose. When it slides off the tip and lands in the divot of his Cupid’s bow, you proceed to line his lips. Then you pull away. 

“A little different,” you amend. “But the same.” 

His cheeks are flushed now. 

“Think I might’ve been a bit braver back then.” His voice comes out thick. 

“I’m sure a few gray hairs haven’t changed much.” 

“Think it’s a bit more than a few.” 

You shrug. “I don’t mind.”

Months worth of tension expels out of him in the only way his body knows how. A laugh. Even though you join in, he’s convinced he’s the only one who feels laid bare and wanting. He was done for the moment he asked if you intended to stay. You, with all your heart, warmth, and charm. Another hush falls over the room. 

For the first time in his life, he can no longer hold your gaze. 

“Y’should probably head back home before it gets too late.” Joel’s posture doesn’t match his words. Nor does the warmth in his gut or the pressure in his pants. He forces himself to look at you. “Can walk you, if you’d like.” 

 “Did I say something wrong?—” 

“Listen, sweetheart.” Joel looks sorry for interrupting, but his dark eyes are nevertheless imploring. Even after he has your attention, he takes a few extra seconds to gather himself. 

“I’ve taken a liking towards you.”

Time stills. You blink at him. 

“I keep tellin’ myself it’ll pass.” He continues when the ghost of a furrow forms between your brows, “But I can’t shake you.”

Your voice comes out quiet but sure, “I feel the same way.” 

Joel doesn’t let himself accept your words quite yet. 

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you,” he says. “I promise you don’t wanna get wrapped up in whatever the hell I’ve got going on.” 

“Is that your decision to make?” It’s a soft question with a hard punch. 

“‘Course not, s’just,” he straightens up and runs a heavy hand down his beard. “You being here like this, touchin’ me… it’s makin’ it difficult for me to keep minding my manners.”  

“And that’s my fault?” 

That stumps Joel long enough for the corners of your lips to lift just so. Maybe it is a bit funny, all this dancing between the lines when the whole ballroom lies open. He gives you a helpless look that makes him appear years younger, less like a man with all the answers. 

“Jus’ don’t wanna ruin a good thing,” he finally says. 

You stand to your feet. 

“Is me walking out that door the solution?” 

His heart sinks like it’s attached to a millstone. Fear, longing, regret, and hope flicker across his face like changing seasons. 

“Don’t want it to be,” he murmurs hoarsely. 

He peers up at you when you move to stand between his legs. As you run your fingers through his graying curls, his brows furrow and his eyes close like it pains him. It’d been too many moons since someone paid him this much mind. He stops himself from reaching for your hips. 

“You can touch me.” 

Joel tells himself it’s your permission that drives him to place his heavy hands on your waist. That makes him guide you down to straddle his lap. That makes him press a steady palm to your back so you’re forced to lean forward into his kiss. The permission. Surely not the undercurrent of need in your voice that made him realize he couldn’t let you go without. Surely not his own reservations being thrown to the wayside. 

All that exists is his lips, the brush of his beard against your skin, his grip on your waist that you’re certain is the only thing holding you together. Not God or science, just a man. There’s nothing hurried about the way your lips tease and taste, heavy breaths passing between you. Joel kisses with the same steadiness he’s known for everywhere else in his life. 

His body is solid beneath you like he’s a new creation who’d never known doubt a day in his life. You’re soft, and warm, and still smell of the fresh mountain air. A small groan catches in the back of his throat when you roll your hips. 

Joel hasn’t run this hot in a long time. 

He takes the opportunity to catch his breath when you pull away to press kisses along his jawline. Then down his neck where his pulse point flutters with life. He feels like an exposed wire. Left to do nothing but spark and crackle as you scoot to the floor between his legs. 

When the smoke clears, the sight before him robs him of his breath again: you on your knees, lips curled upwards in the coyest smile. Him with his legs spread wide, desire proving itself in the bulge at the juncture of his thighs. 

To reclaim a semblance of modesty, he adjusts himself and rests a hand over his crotch as a shield. You don’t let him get away with it, grasping his hand to kiss over his scarred knuckles. Joel huffs a flustered sound, caught. 

“Lemme take you upstairs,” he insists. 

You nuzzle the inside of his knee in feigned objection. 

“Upstairs, babygirl,” he doubles down. “I’ll take real good care of ya.” Then he grows even more forthcoming, “Won’t last if you get those hands or that pretty mouth on me.” 

“You won’t?” You palm him and he shudders. 

You clench around nothing when he cups your cheek. There’s hopefulness in his big, brown eyes. You turn your head to lazily kiss the meat of his thumb. It feels like an act of mercy when you stand, extending your hand to him so he can get up and lead the way. 

•••

Dim lamplight fills the bedroom. Moonlight peeks through the curtains. Joel’s lips are even gentler when they find yours after stripping you bare and bracing himself overtop of you on the matress. One calloused palm slides up your ribcage to gently cup your breasts, thumbing over your pebbled nipples. You keen into the warmth of his bare chest because there’s nowhere else to go. Joel strains into the confines of his briefs. 

At your whimper, he parts from your lips with a final peck before he begins his descent. Your chest rises and falls with deep breaths as he kisses down your throat. Across your collarbones. Down the valley of your breasts, and to your midsection. Arousal pools between your legs as he bypasses where you need him most. 

It’s him who now lowers himself to the floor. He grunts as his knees pop, but he gets there in the end. The muscles of your inner thigh twitch at the plushness of kiss paired with the scratch of his beard. His breath fans over your core and, for a brief moment, that’s enough. Patience is a virtue. Then he stops. On weak arms, you push yourself to sit upright, peering down at him with fawn eyes. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he rumbles. 

Your cheeks grow warm. “I feel that way when you look at me.” 

“You are.” He tugs you closer to the edge of the bed. “Every part of you.”

More hot kisses are dotted along your inner thighs. Closer and closer to where you need him until he parts you open with a careful finger. For a moment, he observes. You’re already a mess. 

“Mind if I have a taste?” His question leaves him bashful. It’s been a while. For all his confidence, you still knock him off his feet and he wants to make you feel good. 

“You can have whatever you want,” you lilt.  

A shaky exhale escapes you when he leans forward to run his tongue alongside either side of your seam. Then straight up the middle as you clench. Each time, his tongue stops shy of your clit. 

“Joel,” you whine. 

Your fingers don’t know what to do when you place your hands on his head. 

He kisses and licks through your slick with a languid, exploratory sort of ease, aquiline nose just barely bumping the swollen bud that aches for his attention. That whisper of contact makes you writhe. Joel soothes his hands over your thighs. You tug his hair. 

His mouth and chin are wet with you when he lifts his head to meet your pleading gaze. 

“What’s wrong?” The tenderness of his voice makes your stomach flip. “You needin’ me somewhere, is that it?” 

At last, he presses a light kiss to your clit. Then another, suckling it between his lips on the tail end. It’s enough to make your walls contract. As he begins to lap through your folds again, he nurses that swollen part of you after every few drags of his tongue. 

You don’t realize he’s suspended you on the edge until you notice how heavily you’ve begun to breathe, how much you’ve begun to squirm, how quivery your thighs have grown. It’s enthralling, the helplessness and desperation he’s invoked in a matter of minutes. And he hasn’t uttered a single word, just hummed along to your pretty sounds.

“I-I’m close.” 

“You close, sweetheart?” he echoes.  

You hum a frantic sound of agreement. 

Devastation strikes when he stands. Your dazed eyes sweep over his bare chest, the pudge of his belly, down his strong legs. His body is a canvas, bearing scars, and moles, and the lot. You swallow when Joel tucks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pushes them down. His flushed cock bobs upwards as it’s set free. 

The air of the room is cool where it meets the pearly bead along his slit. Veins ribbon along his shaft. The line of hair beneath his navel leads to the wiry curls surrounding the base. Just below, his balls hang with a heavy fullness. 

He has the nerve to blush, but doesn’t subject himself to your gaze for long. “Scoot back.”

You shakily scramble up the bed. The mattress dips as Joel joins you. Broad-shouldered and longing, he crowds into your space to prop himself overtop of you with care. Electricity buzzes through you as he reaches between your legs to gather your arousal, using the moisture to stroke himself a few relaxed times. 

You’re so turned on, a breath of laughter escapes you. Joel’s cock twitches at the sweet sound, the way it makes your chest shake. 

“What?” He smiles. 

“I really need you,” you murmur.

 Joel runs himself through your folds. Each methodical drag taps your puffy clit. Already, he’s worked you back up to the cliff he left you on. 

To your dismay, he trades his cock with his fingers. They slip through your slick with ease. There’s no resistance when he pushes one into your warmth, humming when your mouth falls open. After a few steady pumps, he adds another, both curling into you with skillful reverence. 

“Feeling good?” he asks, eyes warm. 

“I still—” your breath catches he rubs firm, steady circles over your bundle of nerves. “Still need you.” 

Joel’s stomach flutters. “M’right here.”

Your face prickles with the beginnings of frustration. “Please?” 

He eases his fingers out of you. “Said I was gonna take care of you, right?” 

“Yes,” you croak. 

“So let me.”

Joel grabs his base and runs himself through your folds. Tears prick in your eyes. You’re frayed around the edges, every nerve at alert.

“Know you’re aching,” he purrs. “I’m achin’ too.”

With a steady push, he eases into the warmth of your cunt. 

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

The ridge of his plump mushroom tip is as far as he gets before your climax catches you by surprise. Joel groans as you whimper, fluttering around the head of his cock. 

“You’re welcome,” he manages, pressing in further. 

There’s hardly any distinction between the pleasure of your release and the pleasure of him filling you. It’s a continuous swell that you tremble through. 

“That’s it.” 

“Almost there.” 

“There you go, babygirl.”

Joel’s reassurances sound unreal and far away. When your eyes open, he’s fully sheathed. He swipes your tears away as you adjust. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers.

You nod. 

“You trust me?” 

You shake your head, but a wobbly smile pulls at your lips. 

Joel’s chest shakes with a low chuckle. “Yes you do.” He slips a hand between your bodies to rub a few chastising circles where you’re most sensitive. 

Your gasp is cut off with a slow kiss. When you shift your hips to encourage him to move, Joel stills you with a strong hand and sets his own rhythm. It’s better than whatever you were attempting to spur. There’s no helping the way your back arches, how your hands grip along his arms like they’re your tether to Earth. 

One of your hands strays to his chest, fingertips brushing through the sparse hair. Then your palm flattens against it like you’re debating pushing him away. 

“You can take it,” Joel assures. Then his voice softens, “Know it feels good.” 

There’s so much of him. Everything about him is so much, you knew that before tonight. Heads turn towards him in every room he enters. When he speaks, people listen and things change. 

“So good,” you sigh.

The lewd squelch of your bodies fills the room. Joel makes the mistake of looking to the place where you’re joined, and curses himself for it a million times over. He glimmers in you. Even though you’re tender and swollen, there’s a greed to the way you continue to suck him in. Stars shine in your eyes when he meets your gaze. Sweet, and gone, and bright. 

Maybe this is what the stories of old warned of when they spoke of flying too close to the sun. Here he was in the midst of the flames, enveloped in your warmth so wholly that the two of you were one. After tonight, everyone in Jackson would see the mark you left behind. It was haughty to think he ever stood a chance.  

“M’close,” he groans.

You look directly into his eyes and say, “Fill me up.” 

Your voice sounds too caught up in the clouds for you to have realized the gravity of your request. Yet, with his hand to God, he can’t deny the surge of eagerness that courses through him. 

He gives you a second chance, “Where do you want me?” 

You hold his gaze because you’ve already given your answer. Dizziness strikes him. It starts in his head and works its way down to his gut. Joel makes to pull out before he does something unwise, but you hook your legs around the backs of his thighs to keep him near. 

Sweat dots his hairline, glistens in the divot of his sternum. “Can’t say stuff like that, babygirl.” 

A lopsided smile stretches across your face. “I hope it’s a girl.”

Every rational inclination in Joel’s body dilutes to a whisper. Then he sees it. Rogue flashes. His hands cradling your rounded belly. A baby girl with your eyes, your smile, your joy. A family. More laughter within these lonely four walls. He loses himself to the fantasy.

“Goddammit.” He touches his forehead to yours. “Me too—fuck. Me too.”

Joel’s thrusts deepen like he’s taken your words to heart. An unashamed moan falls past your lips. You guide his face down for a clumsy, loving kiss. His thumb works clit until you arch beneath him, falling into the thralls of another release. One clamp after another, you pulse around him as he sees you through the relentless waves of pleasure. 

“Christ, I’m comin’.” 

The fantasy begins to fade. 

Your legs have fallen from around him, lax with pleasure, so there’s no resistance as he slips from your warmth like he was never really there. 

All that’s left to attest that he was is your swollen folds, the shine of his cock. He strokes himself with a firm fist until his stomach tenses. Until his balls draw upwards, and he surrenders to the inexplicable tug of outward-rushing pleasure. A restrained grunt accompanies each strong rope of his release onto your skin. Low on your tummy, the top of your mound. You admire the scrunch of his face as he shudders through the aftershocks. 

The soreness in his biceps registers as he comes down. He kisses your forehead, your cheek, then rolls to collapse alongside you. Trembling when you reach over to take him in your hand, stroking him a few knowing times before you move to massage his balls. 

“I’m all done, sweetheart,” he rasps, tucking his nose into your shoulder, kissing you there. 

You pull away, but not without letting a lone finger sneakily grace along his shaft one last time.  

“Wanted you to come inside,” you murmur after a few quiet moments. 

And you truly did, a two minutes ago when having his baby didn’t seem like as big of a deal. You repeat it now as a temperature check more than anything. 

“You think you did,” he corrects. 

“I did.”

He believes you a little more this time. 

“‘Member what I said about not wanting to ruin a good thing?” 

“A baby wouldn’t—”

“That ain’t what I’m suggestin’.” Joel props himself on his forearm and tenderly traces along the underside of your breast. The furrow between his brows lets you know he’s deep in thought. 

“Let’s get to know each other. Truly.” His fingers move to the other side of your chest. “No more of this dancing between the lines.” 

He pauses to make sure you’re still with him. “Lemme take you to dinner—hell, all the things. Start over and do this right.” 

Joel’s fingertips brush down to your tummy, avoiding where his spend is gathered. “Then I’ll come wherever you want me to.” 

A shiver runs down your spine at his touch, his words.  

He finally lets his fingers pass through his sticky spend, running them down between your thighs. Your legs startle closed as they bump over the swell of your clit and drag through your folds.

“Joel.” Your hips shift, oversensitive but his touch still feels good. “Okay, okay, okay.”

He pulls away and kisses your temple. “That was just payback,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice. “You alright?” The question is much kinder. 

You nod, entirely too satisfied. Entirely spent. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” You watch as he gets up on shaky legs to head to the bathroom. 

“Joel?” 

He stops, faces the bed again. 

“Everything you said,” you start, taking all his nakedness in. “I’d like that too.” 

To begin again; what a lovely gift to come about in the night. 

-

Thanks so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST 

You knew your best chance was when he was at his most…pliable.

That slow-breathing, skin-sticky softness that only came in the after. When both of your bodies were loose and lazy with release— oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin still thick in the bloodstream. Joel’s soft hazel eyes were warm and drowsy, blinking slowly beneath the fall of his thick lashes. How unfair, you always thought, that he got to have such astonishingly beautiful lashes. Men often did, didn’t they? His cheeks were still flushed pink, his chest rising steady beside yours. You watched the corner of his mouth lift into a crooked smile as he burrowed into the pillow, a bullish breath releasing from his lungs.

Your hand found his hair, dark and streaked with silver, damp at the nape. You pushed your fingers through it, nails scraping gently as he purred beneath your touch.

He pulled you in, tucking your body against the broad wall of his chest. His chin came to rest at your shoulder, and you felt his breath as it moved across your skin—slow, heavy, hot. You let out a small sigh and traced the length of his arm, following it down to where his fingers splayed wide over your hip. He was still inside out from it all. Both of you warm and bare, still slick with the sheen of sweat and the fading intensity of the post-coitus high. 

You brought his hand up in front of your face, holding it in both of yours like something precious. You traced the creases in his palm, the coarse curls of hair on the back of it. He was such a big man, all of him thick and solid and heavy. You loved it so deeply about him. How he could be so big and scary and yet so tender all at once.

That was the thing about Joel Miller. He was the most dangerous man you'd ever met. But in your home, in your bed, in these quiet moments, he was gentle. So, so gentle.

You made your move.

Guiding his hand slowly, you carefully set it down to your neck. You knew he was watching out of one squinting, peering eye. Always watchful, always aware of your movements.

“What’re you doin’, young lady?” he asked, voice like honey and gravel on asphalt.

You settled his palm against the sensitive flesh of your throat, pulling his thumb to one side and resting his fingers on the other. Just gently letting the broad stretch of his hand rest under your jaw.

God, he was so warm.

And even though his expression had softened in this post coitus high, even though his breath moved gently against your skin, this kind of calm didn’t come easy to him. When he was like this—sated, warm, still wrapped around you—all you could do was hope he’d stay there in it. You hoped he wasn’t going to bark or bristle or retreat behind that rough voice he used when his chest got too tight.

Because Joel’s anxiety didn’t come in skittishness or shaky hands. It was silence, stillness. It was the way he watched everything, how fast he could go from soft to sharp, always ready to protect. Even when there wasn’t a threat. Even when he thought the threat was himself.

You felt him stiffen as he realized what you were doing. 

He tried to pull his hand away, and you let him—again, not wanting to spook the big, terrifying, yet sweet and sorrowful creature you’d come to love. 

“How would you feel if I asked you to choke me?” you asked, voice calm, your tone low and careful. Coaxing the beast within.

His answer came quickly and without hesitation: “Ain’t happenin’.”

Whatever softness had still lingered in him was gone now. His voice was flat, and his whole body had gone still beside you, his heart hammering through his chest and against your skin.

“Joel, baby, I’m sorry—” you whispered, reaching for the calm you’d just shared, trying to soothe what you’d stirred.

“There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, and his tone wasn’t cruel, but it was set. Final. He wasn’t angry, he was afraid, you knew that. Knew him. “I just ain’t doin’ that.”

You turned towards him, wrapping your arms around him, nuzzling your nose into the thick, wiry hair of his chest. You waited as his heart settled, kissing his chest, interlaching your fingers behind his back, tracing gentle circles into his damp skin.

And maybe it was because you knew him. Knew how to coax that big, nervous animal in him into gentleness, into calm. Knew how to read the quiet tension in his body, how to recognize the moments when he pulled away. Because he was never angry at you, that you’d come to realize long ago. He was afraid. Full of gut churning fear and worry. He was just a man who had seen too much, done too much, and lost even more. And now, he was trying, so hard, to be good. 

That’s why, when you answered, you didn’t push. You pursed your lips against his thick chest of hair and said, “Okay.”

“I promise you won’t hurt me, baby,” you told him softly, your voice slow with wine and warmth as you laid back on the bedspread, still smelling like smoke and sugar from the community bonfire. You’d been out with Tommy and Maria, drinking too much under the string lights, and Joel had come home handsier than usual—emboldened by the night, maybe, or just finally brave enough to give you the thing you’d been asking for.

He was already hard and thick and stretching you open, your body split in two around his cock, your hips cradling his breadth of a body. Your thighs hooked tight around his waist as you tried to pull him in even deeper, closer than skin would ever allow as his hand rested against your throat.

“Don’t you think it makes a pretty necklace?” you teased, breathless already. Just the weight of his hand there was enough to have your hips rolling up in search of more, desperate for that aching stretch and the sweet pressure you craved.

He hesitated, voice thick and low. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you reached up, took the hand at your throat into both of yours, and guided him to press his digits to your skin. Just his thumb, just the fingers on the other side of your throat.

“Right there, daddy,” you whispered, eyes fluttering. “Just pinch. Don’t push.”

His brow was furrowed, his hazel eyes swallowed up by the black of his arousal. You circled his thick wrist with your nimble fingers, grounding him, showing him how safe he was here. He was always so god damn warm, your personal furnace, all heat and weight and steady flame. The fire in the hearth of your chest, your soul, your heart. His chest pressed down against yours, his cock buried so deep you could feel him in your ribs, your arousal slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and onto the bed beneath you.

You whimpered, high and needy.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

That seemed to loosen the shackles he kept tight around himself. The ones forged in fear, in longing, with a want too big and too dangerous to trust within himself. He exhaled, sharp and tight, and gave the faintest, featherlight squeeze. Not even enough for your head to go light, but enough for your cunt to flutter helplessly around him. He sucked in a tight hiss, the sound breaking in his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” 

His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, blown black and flicking from his hand on your throat to your face and back. Your mouth was slack, your head tilted back, eyes rolling in ecstasy. Your pussy clenched hard around him again and he groaned.

“Again, again, again,” you pleaded, rocking up into him, your hands urging his wrist to hold you tighter.

He did it again.

And your walls seized around him.

“Christ, baby—Jesus fuck,” he choked out. “You’re—she’s— grippin’ me—chokin’ my cock while I hold your pretty little neck—”

And thus, it was the start of something wholly beautiful and euphoric and filthy. 

He had you prone on the bed, your legs spread wide and stretched beneath him, back arched, ass pressing and pushing back greedily into every stroke. His weight draped heavy over your spine, chest slick with sweat as it laid across your back. The room was thick with the sound of skin, the slap of his hips meeting the swell of your ass, again and again and again.

“I love you, baby,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his voice rough with breath and effort. Every word was broken by a grunt, by the slap of his pelvis slamming into you.

You moaned helplessly, drool slipping from your parted lips, soaking into the thick muscle of his arm where it curved around your throat. Your chin was tucked to his elbow, held snug in the crook of it, his bicep pulsing as he held you close. His forearm pinned you in place, tight and possessive. Your anchor, just how you’d begged for it.

“Got you all cock drunk now, huh?” he muttered, low and smug, the bastard, dragging the words across your skin like velvet. You could hear the grin in it, even feel the curl of his mouth as he pressed a kiss into your ear, “Can’t even talk while I’m fuckin’ you, baby?”

You mewled in response, the only sound you could manage as his thick cock punched into you, each thrust stealing another breath, another thought. He was deep, impossibly deep, stretching you to the edge of your limit and keeping you right there, stuffed full and shaking.

“So pretty like this,” he groaned, voice pitching low in his throat. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so good, princess. So fuckin’ good.”

You tried to answer, tried to give him something back, but what came out was a garbled, wet sound as your tongue dipped out to collect the spit dribbling out on your slack lips. You were trembling beneath him, wrecked and ruined and still asking for more.

“You know,” he rasped, his breath warm against your ear, “I’ve killed men by doin’ this. You know that, right?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered around him, involuntary and tight.

“Oh, yeah, she loves that. Killed ’em easy, baby, just my arm to their neck. Watched their lights go out. That turn you on?” His voice was rougher now, throatier, but still careful, still asking. Still watching you.

You pushed your ass back into him with a sob, wordless, every nerve in your body crying yes.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, thrusts slowing in their tempo. “Tell me. Use your big girl words.”

“I love it,” you cried, the words torn from your throat. “I love it, I love it, I love it—” You were close, almost there, your voice climbing higher with every breath, every roll of his hips, every squeeze of his arm.

“I know, sweet angel,” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you as your walls clenched tighter. “My nasty girl loves when daddy chokes her, huh?”

You could barely nod, could barely think. He just kept fucking into you, the drag of his cock thick and slow, then sharp and deep, until your body curled and tightened beneath him. He was everywhere—his chest on your back, his balls slapping your clit, the heat of his breath against your cheek, your pussy leaking down his shaft and onto the sheets in creamy slick. His weight pressed you into the mattress like he could mold you there and never let you go.

“But I love my girl,” he said, softer now, almost like a confession. Maybe to remind you, to remind himself. “Love her so much. I’d never hurt her, you know that, right?”

You nodded, jaw slack, lips kissing the sweaty skin of his arm as you forced your mind to work, for your tongue to follow orders, “I know d-d-daddy, I know—I love—oh fuck—I love you too…oh oh, ah!…hmmmppphhh—”

“Oh, good girl, that was hard, I know. That’s alright. That’s it. Right there,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, erratic, desperate. “I feel her chokin’ daddy’s cock back. Feel how much she loves it. C’mon, baby girl. Come for me. That’s it. Fuck—”

Your body seized beneath him, a full-body tremor that started at your core and rippled outward, your vision going white as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You sobbed through it, breath stuttering, your cunt fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses that had him growling through his teeth.

“Good girl,” he grunted, barely hanging on. “That’s my goooood fuckin’ girl.”

He followed you down a moment later, groaning raggedly against your shoulder, his cock twitching deep inside as he spilled into you, thick and hot, his weight sinking heavy over your back. You breathed there together for a long moment, lost in that same fuzzy cotton haze.

And then his arm loosened around your throat, sliding down to your sternum to shift the both of you. His cock slipped out of you with a wet drag, still heavy and shining, your slick clinging to him as your body clenched around the sudden emptiness. The loss made your limbs tremble, thighs twitching where they rested against his. He moved you onto your side, then onto your back and settled beneath you, his own back pressed to the sheets, your spine stretched along his chest.

He sighed in relief before shifting slightly, just enough to reach and press his lips against your temple.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, still catching on the edges of his breath.

You nodded, face softening as you tilted your head toward him. He reached down and kissed you, slow and warm, and you hummed against his mouth.

“Perfect,” you whispered.

You both sighed then, content and drowsy, riding the soft haze of afterglow. The hormones still moved thick through your bodies, warmth blooming in your limbs as you looked up at him. Your fingers slipped into his hair and you held him close.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

“Don’t need thankin’, honey,” he said, his voice low, eyes soft and steady on yours. “If anything, it’s me who oughta thank you—for keepin’ me here. For trustin’ me.”

“I do trust you. With everything,” you said. “And I love you.”

He kissed you again, and you kept your eyes open, watching the furrow of his brow, watching his mind whirr with the thoughts and big feelings he once was so afraid to say.

“I love you too, baby,” he whispered when he finally released your mouth, voice rough at the edges. “So much.”