Need Friends

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to keep it a secret, he did, his only fear was that you looked at him differently once you knew that he was the feared Red Hood of Crime Alley. He was worried beyond belief that you would view the relationship that you built together- the one he treasured more than anything in this world- as one built on lies.

And while that couldn’t be further from the truth, he still couldn’t stop the way his lungs seized and practically collapsed in on themselves whenever he even thought about letting you in his nightlife secret.

How would he even start that conversation? ‘Oh, hey, babe. You know that Red Hood guy? The one that everyone fears- the one that kills people? Yeah? Well, that’s me! Plus, and my dad is Batman! Anyway, what do you want for dinner?’

Yeah, fat chance.

Jason grumbled inaudibly under his breath as he attempted to shed himself of his gun holster, that appeared to pick that specific time to get slightly tangled and stuck, and therefore inconvenience the man who wanted nothing more than to slip into bed discreetly beside you.

Just as he went to pass the kitchen and make his way to the bathroom to rid himself of the rest of his ensemble, however, a soft clattering had him freezing directly in his steps.

The man swore his heart stopped beating all together in his chest as he slowly turned his head- still with his red helmet over it- to face you, standing innocently with your back towards him, clad in nothing but one of your boyfriends old sleep shirts as you filled up a glass of water at the sink.

Before the vigilante could even attempt to move out of your line of sight- his fight or flight instincts all of a sudden completely nonexistent, apparently- you shut off the tap and turned to him calmly, sipping gingerly on your drink.

“Hi, baby,” You greeted quietly, giving the man a small smile as you padded forwards against the hardwood floors.

It was pathetic, really, how every thought completely vanished from the man’s mind right then and there. As if the mere sight of you had stolen away any ounce of common sense he may have had clanging around in his head.

Jason was rendered completely useless, frozen with his mouth hanging open and pupils blown wide as he stared directly at you. You continued to approach him, undeterred by his whole getup.

You stood on your tiptoes, placing a quick, chaste kiss to the side of his helmet, “Come to bed soon, I missed you.” Is all you said before taking your glass of water and disappear back into your room as if you had just had the most normal exchange in the world.

As if this were just an average night for you.

“Uhh…” Jason stuttered out into the empty space, breaths coming out as nothing more than practically a wheeze at this point, “What?”

He had to have been hallucinating. He must’ve been, right? After all, there was no way you had just acted as if you knew the Red Hood, had just kissed him on the cheek as if he were Jason.

Which, to your knowledge, he wasn’t.

Sleepwalking. You had to have been sleepwalking. That was the only way possible he could even begin to explain what the hell had just taken place.

You had slept-walked into the kitchen to pour yourself a late night glass of water and in your hazed mind, had seen a man in your apartment that you could only assume to be your boyfriend, and then went on your merry way back to bed.

Todd quickly shook his head, ridding himself of all thoughts of anything other than the possibility of you having just been sleepwalking in front of him. True, you had never done so before, but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there?

Quickly slipping out of the rest of his suit and into nothing but a pair of low hanging sweatpants, Jason timidly made his way to your bedroom, peering inside as if fully expecting a bomb to be chucked directly in his face if he stepped in too fast.

“Hey, Jay.” You greeted softly, causing the man’s green eyed gaze to snap directly to you, where you sat propped up against the headboard, smiling welcomingly at the man.

You, who was very much awake, and very much not sleepwalking.

The cup you had fetched now sat discarded on your bedside table, and you held your open arms out to your boyfriend, a silent invitation if Jason had ever seen one.

He shuffled into the room awkwardly, hand coming up to tug slightly at the back of his dark hair as he eyed you wearily, “Hi, sweetheart,” He mumbled back, almost as though he were testing the waters as he approached you, “Havin’ a good night?” He asked when he came to a stop in front of the mattress, gulping.

Humming in response, you reached over and gently but firmly tugged your boyfriend down onto the bed beside you, making yourself comfortable snuggled against his chest without further delay, “Very. It was nice and relaxing. How about you, baby?” You asked, tracing idle shapes against his bare chest while you allowed your eyes to flutter shut.

Jason swallowed harshly once more as his arm came to wrap itself around you unconsciously, unsure of how exactly to bring up what had just gone down in the kitchen. How you had seen him in his vigilante getup and hadn’t even batted an eye.

“So, about what you just saw-” He started, unsure of what else he could even say, but you swiftly cut him off as your head popped up and your serious gaze met his.

Whatever lingering sleepiness that had been clinging to your expression vanished in and instant, a sense of alertness coming over you.

“Oh, Jay, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” A small frown was pulling at your lips as you spoke.

He blinked down at you once. Twice. “I-what?” He tripped over his words, a jumble of syllables falling out in turn.

You sighed, dropping your chin against his pec so you could still gaze up at him with a soft pout now adorning your features, “I know you don’t like to talk about the whole Red Hood thing, so I’m sorry if I made you upset by talking to you while you were still- what? In costume? Suited up?” You shook your head softly, “Sorry, baby, I don’t know the correct term.”

The words rolled off your tongue so casually, as if you were merely discussing the weather. Not the possibility of your boyfriend of a few months being a vigilante.

Jason practically leapt to his feet, though he was careful to gently move you off of him before he did so, “I- you knew?” He spat out, complete and utter bewilderment overtaking his features.

He didn’t know what was happening. Everything was so confusing and he felt as though the walls of your bedroom were spinning around him suddenly, trying to knock him off kilter.

You rose to your knees on the mattress in front of your boyfriend, confusion mirroring his own spreading throughout your face, “Knew about what, Jay?” You asked as gently as you could manage at exactly 4:24 in the morning.

Pacing commenced before your very eyes as Jason ran his hands repeatedly through his hair, “Red Hood! You- you knew about Red Hood?” It sounded more as though he were speaking to himself, trying to wrap his mind around such possibilities that seemed so far fetched from him a mere twenty minutes prior.

“About… you being Red Hood?” You asked so slowly, eyebrows furrowing as what he was questioning you about finally processed in your head, “Of course I knew, I’ve known since the second week of us dating.” You said it slowly, gently, as if speaking to an unstable toddler.

Jason froze for what felt like the tenth time that night, “What?” He asked, completely horrified, “You- knew?”

You shook your head back and forth, “Of course I knew. I thought you… knew that I knew?” The more you talked, the less certain on the topic you seemed, “I mean, you’re not exactly slick about it.”

If it was even possible, his eyes had just been blown wider than they had been, “What- what’s that supposed to mean?” He sputtered out.

“I mean how you leave your vigilante suit in the closet.” You explained slowly.

“In a duffle bag!” He defended, mind reeling as he went over any single moment that he could’ve tripped up on the whole ‘secret identity’ thing in the last few months of you dating.

“That you often leave not only opened, but flipped upside down.” You continued, “I swear it spends more time across the closet floor than it actually does on you at night. And speaking of, you keep very odd hours, Jay. Even by Gotham standards. There’s only so much detective work that could possibly go into figuring something like that out.”

Jason dropped his head into his hands, “I thought I was careful.” He all but groaned, words becoming muffled through his fingers.

Gently, you reached out and took his hands into your own, pulling them away so he would look you in the eyes as you soothingly ran your thumbs across his wrists, “Not to mention the fact that I saw you changing into your suit on our second week of dating. I think you thought I was asleep so you were trying to be quiet, but you actually bumped into the dresser pretty loudly and started cursing like a sailor.” You giggled slightly under your breath at the thought, “It was kinda hard to miss.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes now taking in every inch of your face, scanning for those signs of fear and regret he had dreaded looking upon the moment you knew about his Red Hood life, “So… you knew all along?”

Nodding gently, you squeezed his hands once, “Well, I kind of assumed you knew that I knew and just didn’t like to talk about it.” You shrugged almost bashfully now, as if realizing that you very poorly misread the situation, “I always just thought you liked to keep that life and this life with the two of us separate. I thought I was respecting your wishes by never bringing it up.”

“And you’re not…” He searched for the right words, “Scared of me- of Red Hood?”

Your eyebrows shot up at the suggestion, as if it were the most unhinged and improbable thing he could’ve possibly asked you in that moment, “Scared of you? Of course not, Jay, you keep me- and so many other people safe- each and every night. I have nothing to be scared of from you.”

Jason had not realized until that moment just how much he had needed to hear those exact words fall from your lips. He all but deflated as what felt like the weight of a thousand burdens lifted from his shoulders and were obliterated before his very eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He sighed, somewhat dreamily, sweeping a piece of hair away from your eyes, “All this time, I saw so worried about you knowing and… and looking at me differently. When, in reality, you knew all along.”

You leaned into the man’s touch without thinking twice, eyes fluttering shut as you planted a soft kiss to the inside of his hand that gingerly cupped your cheek now, “Nothing you could do could ever make me look at you differently, Jason.” You assured him, “Now, get in bed, it’s late and I’m tired.” You teased, tugging him down alongside you once more.

He allowed you to do as such to him and he stayed still for a moment, with you curled up at his side and letting out a content hum when he began moving his fingers through your hair.

“Sweetheart?” Jason asked after a few moments of silence, “…I can be subtle right?”

“On me,” Jason grunted behind you. He took hold of your now messy hair and pulled you up to look at them in the mirror. 

You let out a loud, strangled moan as you watched him continue to roughly take you from behind. 

His dark eyes met yours in the mirror. “Focus on me.”

You dug your nails harder into the smooth surface for a stable hold as your body kept lurching forward from his hard thrusts. 

Your legs shook each time he shoved his cock deep inside you as if it were his life’s mission to rearrange your guts. He only began to fuck you after he was satisfied with burying his face between your legs, licking and sucking at your pussy and clit until he came away with his face completely soaked in your cum.

His clothes were undone haphazardly to allow him space to feel your naked back and backside pressed to his. His dark curls stuck to his head as he thrusted and his mouth fell open to let out his soft moans and pants. 

Jason had only lifted your skirt and yanked the upper half of your dress down, inadvertently trapping your arms to your sides before he ripped your pantyhose apart. 

Your hands scrambled for a hold, and you could only grab onto him. A choked sob of pleasure left you when he angled his cock to resume abusing that little spongy spot inside you that made you see stars. 

Tears streamed down your face as you cried out for Jason. You were getting closer, and your mind was falling apart way too quickly. A sudden fear came over you that if you came again, you’d actually go insane and only be addicted to sex with him. 

Your knees were buckling, and your heels hit the floor as you tried to upright yourself. It didn’t help that he was trying to shove his thick cock deeper into you. 

He twisted your skirt tighter in his fist, as if using it as his reins to keep you close to him. “If you’re going to say my name,” Jason whispered, “You should say it louder. So everyone can hear how good I make you come.”

Your eyes rolled back into your skull, and you nearly slammed into the mirror in front of you. You hung your head as you continued to moan and whine helplessly. 

He bent forward and slowed his frantic thrusting to grinding against you. Jason kissed your cheek and then your neck before he spoke. 

“Need something, princess?” He asked so sweetly it made your burn with wanton humiliation because of his thick cock still trapped inside your aching cunt. 

You turned to him and were met by a soft kiss on your lips. “‘M— ‘m ‘bouta c-come…” You whispered, carefully pushing on his hips. “‘M gonna come…”

Jason kissed you hard again and then began to move again. “Then come for me,” he said right before he dragged himself back, nearly taking himself out, and then burrowing back inside you. “Come for me, princess.”

Jason made quiet shushing sounds in your ear and moved his hand from your jaw. He even stopped moving, letting you gasp for air. 

Your legs were shaking so bad that you had to stand on your toes to not let your heels clatter around on the floor. 

Before you could ask him what he was doing, he slipped a piece of fabric between your parted lips. You made a small and confused sound, looking up at the mirror. It was your pair of panties. 

Jason pulled out of your pussy slowly, and you keened a loud, but mercifully muffled, moan. You could still taste the tang of your cum and his spit stained in the fabric, and you bit back a heated whimper as more drool pooled in your mouth. 

He turned you around and lifted you up so you were sitting on the sink. You let out a louder sound of concern, but he just held your thighs and kissed you around your panties.

Jason wore a sloppy smirk on his face and winked. “I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, okay, princess?”

You made an incredulous sound, but it died away when he let go of one leg to take hold of his cock, stroking it carefully in his hand. 

Jason even slapped the tip against your swollen clit a few times, punching out a soft whimper with each wet slap and making you blush darkly. 

You tried to close your legs, hiding the way your pussy clenched at the sensation, glistening in the dim light. He just laughed smugly and kissed your burning cheek. 

“Aw, don’t act shy now, princess,” Jason cooed in a faux honeyed voice. He bumped his nose against your cheek, and you hesitantly looked at him under your lashes. 

“You weren't like this when you were on your knees choking my cock down your pretty throat the other day,” he hummed and batted his lashes at you. He even dared to lick his lips as he smirked wider. 

“God, you tasted so sweet after that,” Jason moaned. “Makes me want to let you take my cock like that every day.”

Your entire body felt like it was on fire. You avoided his eyes and tried to pinch your thighs harder together to hide how your pussy began to drool at the memory. 

Jason wouldn’t let you hide from him as he took his free hand and wrenched your legs open. He squeezed your thigh in his other hand tightly. He spread your puffy folds with his fingers and rolled his thumb on your swollen clit, forcing a muffled squeal out of you. 

He rubbed it faster, and you dug your nails into his jacket, curling into him. 

You couldn’t move your hips freely and just continued to make desperate sounds behind your panties as he slid his fingers in you, fucking your hard with his calloused digits. He cruelly angled his fingertips into your sore sweet spot, instantly making your legs shake again. 

You pulled on his jacket and looked up at him tearfully, begging around your soaked panties between your teeth. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Jason asked. You nodded urgently. “Yeah? Do you want me to fuck your pretty pussy with my cock? Hm?” 

You were close to genuinely crying out of frustration as you nodded again. 

“You want me?” Jason asked, leaning close to your lips. 

You nodded again and choked up a broken “Please!” behind your panties. 

“Come on my fingers then,” he ordered softly. “If you come now on my fingers, I’ll pick up where we left off. I’ll fuck you on my cock.”

His fingers began to curl and scissor your velvety walls, and he wasn’t stopping. He sucked on your neck and bit at your skin, whispering hotly in your ear every single obscene fantasy he had of you. From fucking you on every surface of his apartment to fucking you in his Red Hood gear.

Your head spun wildly, and your stomach fluttered even harder than before. You screamed behind your panties as you came hard on his fingers when he rubbed his fingertips frantically into your sweet spot. Clear liquid squirted out of you as he ravaged you on his fingers.

You barely caught yourself on the sink and panted heavily behind the soaked fabric, your breaths leaving as broken whimpers. 

Jason pulled his fingers out, moaning as he licked every inch of them clean. He kissed your lips before he lined himself up and pushed in without any more preamble. 

Jason ruthlessly fucked you as if his sole mission was to fuck you or die. He held onto your thighs and began to fuck you at the same brutal pace as before. 

His thick cock was stretching your pussy open, and forcing you to accommodate every inch of him. The veins traveling along his cock were grinding into every sensitive part of your pussy, and you started to sob with how dizzying your ecstasy was. 

You grabbed onto the front of his shirt, and he pushed back inside you. You clawed at his chest and whimpered from how full you were again, your toes curling in what was left of your torn stockings. 

He resumed his animalistic pace, and you didn’t have room to protest as more wanton moans escaped you. You scratched up his chest, and sounds that resembled his name rumbled from your lips alongside soft sobs of pleasure. 

Jason drank up all your sounds and moaned as if it were the finest wine he’d ever had. 

You cried and mewled his name before your pussy clenched around him, coming hard on his cock. You nearly ripped his shirt with how hard you were pulling on it, and your vision flooded with stars. Your entire body felt like it was a rubber band stretching to its absolute limit and then snapping. 

The wild look in his eyes made your entire body burn with molten arousal. His hair fell onto his face, and his cheeks were flushed with his exertions. His mouth dropped open with his own moaning and panting, drunkenly babbling about how good you felt around him. 

You prayed to God that you’d make it out of here alive as you were getting railed. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you came again with a pitiful whine. 

His hips stuttered, and it took a few more harsh thrusts for him to come as well, slamming his hips so hard into yours that the wall behind you shook. Jason buried his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder and moaned loudly as he came inside you. 

Jason was breathing raggedly as he pulled out. He shakily helped you down and had to pin his body against yours so you both wouldn’t fall. Your legs were completely useless to you now. 

It took a few staggering breaths for you to settle back down. 

You felt a calloused thumb wipe your lips, and you looked up to see Jason, smiling so triumphantly. 

His entire mouth was still covered in your lipstick. His brilliant smile still lingered on his face as he thumbed your mouth off. 

“Had fun, sweetheart?” Jason asked. 

You clung to him as he took your ruined panties out of your mouth. A thick string of drool clung from your tongue to the fabric, and he wiped your lips delicately, smearing your lipstick all over his thumb. 

Jason kissed you sloppily, missing your mouth most of the time and just kissing your face. 

You kissed him and hugged your arms tight around his neck. Jason kissed your back and smoothed his hands up and down your back, massaging your hips when they trailed down. 

“I love you,” you said. 

The problem was that Jace was always home. He worked from the apartment most days, and even when he wasn't, he had a habit of appearing at the worst possible moments, like the universe had personally assigned itself to ruining your surprises.

So you'd recruited help. Cregan, his best friend/Manager, endlessly loyal and endlessly incapable of being subtle. Your neighbour, who had access to the apartment building's spare storage room. And Baela, on standby, for whenever Jace needed to be lured out of the apartment for an hour or two.

It should have been simple. It was not simple.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

You heard his key in the lock and your whole body reacted before your brain caught up. You'd been mid sentence in the chat, typing out a question about whether the bakery could do a fondant vinyl record on top of the cake, and the second the lock clicked you fumbled the phone so badly it nearly slid off the counter. You caught it, snapped it face down against your chest, and by the time the door swung open you were standing there with the guilty, too straight posture of someone who has just hidden something and wants very badly for that fact not to be obvious.

It was, of course, obvious.

"Oh," you said, a full octave too bright. "You're home already?"

Jace paused in the doorway, jacket half off one shoulder, keys still dangling from two fingers. Something flickered across his face, not suspicion yet, just the small confusion of a man noticing a chair has been moved an inch to the left without being able to say why it bothers him.

"Already?" he repeated slowly, glancing at his watch like he needed to check. "I live here. It's six."

"Right," you said, way too fast. "Obviously. I just mean, time. Where does it go."

He didn't answer that. His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the phone still clutched to your chest, screen down, and then to the way you hadn't moved from that spot at the counter to greet him as you would, like you were physically blocking something. He didn't say anything about it. He just held your gaze a beat too long before heading toward the bedroom, and you exhaled like you'd been holding your breath for an hour.

You didn't notice, because you were too busy sagging with relief, that he paused just past the doorway, out of sight, and stood there a second longer than necessary before continuing on.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

It didn't get better from there.

A few days later Cregan wouldn't stop texting you, a rapid fire string of questions about balloon arch delivery times, and you'd made the mistake of leaving your phone face up on the couch cushion while you went to grab snacks. Jace was sitting close enough to see it light up, over and over, his own show forgotten on the TV in favor of the little rectangle of light flashing insistently beside him.

He told himself not to look, that he trusted you and yet he looked anyway.

Got it.

Don't let him know.

I'll bring everything Friday.

Three messages, three fragments, and his mind, against his own better judgement, began stitching them together into something far more damning than balloons. He was still staring at the screen, jaw tight, when you walked back in with the chip bowl, and he didn't even try to hide that he'd seen it.

"Everything?" he asked, holding the phone up slightly, not accusing exactly, but not nothing either.

Your stomach dropped. You crossed the room fast and plucked the phone out of his hand a little too quickly, a little too much like you were snatching evidence off a table.

"It's nothing," you said.

Jace didn't push, not out loud. But something in his face had gone carefully blank, the blankness of a man deciding not to react in front of you, and you, in a small flash of panic at the silence stretching between you, did the only thing you could think of to shut the moment down before it went any further.

You leaned over and kissed him.

It worked, in the sense that he kissed you back, hand coming up to rest at your jaw like it always did, easy and familiar. But when you pulled back, smiling, hoping the topic had been successfully buried, you missed the flicker that crossed his face before he smoothed it over. Because to you the kiss was just a kiss, a way of saying let's not do this right now. To Jace, in the tender, paranoid corner of his mind that had started quietly building a case against you, it read like something else entirely. Like a distraction. Like something you did because you didn't want him thinking too hard about what he'd just seen.

He told himself that was insane. He kissed you back anyway, and smiled, and said nothing, and hated himself a little for the thought that had crossed his mind in the first place. But it stayed there. Small, and quiet, and rooted.

That night, lying beside you with your back turned to him and your breathing gone slow and even in sleep, he found himself staring at the ceiling, turning the word everything over and over like a stone in his palm, trying to sand it down into something harmless and failing every time.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

The third incident happened at Cregan's apartment, and it was, without question, the worst one yet.

You'd gone over after work to help unpack the last of the party supplies, boxes of fairy lights and folded banners and a cardboard cutout of a DJ booth that someone had ordered as a joke and that had somehow become extremely important to the whole event. Cregan's living room was a warzone of half opened boxes, packing paper, and extension cords by the time you arrived, the low evening light through his blinds throwing everything into long amber stripes.

"Careful," Cregan said absently, not even looking up from the box he was elbow deep in. "I haven't moved the boxes by the table yet."

You did not, in fact, hear this warning in time.

Your foot caught the corner of a box jutting out from under the coffee table, and you pitched forward with a sharp, startled gasp, arms flailing for something, anything, to grab. Cregan moved fast, faster than you expected, catching you by the waist just before you face planted directly into a box of tissue paper pom poms.

"Whoa, hey, easy," he laughed, both hands steady and firm at your sides, holding you upright while your foot found the floor again.

You laughed too, breathless and startled, one hand flat against his chest for balance, and your ankle, which had twisted slightly in the stumble, throbbed enough that you stayed there a second longer, leaning into him while you tested whether it would hold your weight. Cregan, oblivious to anything but the practical matter of keeping you upright, murmured something like "you good? don't put weight on it yet" with his head bent close to yours, which, to anyone walking in cold, looked a great deal like something it was not.

Neither of you heard the front door.

Jace had come by to drop off a spare charger Cregan had been texting him about all week, and he never bothered knocking at Cregan's place, hadn't in years, so the door swung open without warning onto a tableau that, stripped of all context, looked exactly like the thing his brain had been quietly thinking for days. His best friend's hands at your waist, your palm against his chest and Cregan's head dipped close to yours, murmuring something too low to catch. You leaned into him, cheeks flushed, close enough that there was no space between you at all.

The silence that followed lasted only a second, but it stretched inside Jace's chest like something tearing.

You saw him first and the laugh died in your throat, you shoved back from Cregan so fast you nearly caught your bad ankle a second time, stumbling slightly before catching the arm of the couch. Cregan's hands flew up and away from you at the same moment, palms out, like you'd suddenly turned red hot, and the two of you separating that quickly, that guiltily, did more damage than if you'd simply stayed still and let him see the box on the floor.

"You're not supposed to be here," you blurted, and you meant it about the party, about the secret, about anything other than what it must have looked like, but the words came out all wrong, defensive and too fast, like a confession instead of denial.

Jace stood frozen in the doorway, the spare charger still in one hand, rain just beginning to fleck the shoulders of his jacket from the walk over. "...What?"

"This isn't what it looks like," Cregan said, which is, of course, the single worst thing anyone can say in that exact moment.

"I didn't say it looked like anything," Jace said, far too evenly, his eyes moving slowly from Cregan's raised hands to your face to the overturned box at your feet and back to Cregan again.

"Right. Good. Great. Because it's not," Cregan said, in the exact tone of someone who has just made things worse.

You tried to explain, gesturing at the box, at your ankle, but the words tangled and came out half formed, and Jace only nodded slowly, set the charger down on the counter with far more care than the object warranted, and said he had to get back. He was gone before either of you could finish a sentence, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet, deliberate sound that somehow felt louder than a slam.

You and Cregan stood there in the sudden hush, surrounded by fairy lights and collapsed cardboard, both arriving at the same realization at the same moment.

"...That was not great," Cregan said.

"No," you agreed, staring at the door. "It really wasn't."

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

What you didn't know, what you couldn't know, was the war being fought quietly inside Jace's chest every single day that followed.

Because Jace remembered exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of this. He remembered the hollow, sick feeling of being accused of something he hadn't done, the way your own doubt had curdled into something loud and hurt before you'd had all the facts, the long, careful weeks it had taken afterward to rebuild what had cracked open between you. He had told himself, back then, lying awake while you slept with your back to him, that he never wanted you to feel that way. He hadn't expected to be the one standing in it now, on the other side, with the same ugly feeling clawing up his throat.

So this time he told himself he would be different. He would not accuse. He would not spiral out loud where you could see it and be hurt by it, the way he had been hurt by it. He would wait, patiently, rationally, for the obvious explanation to present itself, the way he wished someone had waited for him.

She's not like that, he told himself one night, lying awake with the ceiling for company. There's obviously another explanation. There has to be.

But the universe, cruel and endlessly inventive, kept handing him more evidence instead of less.

You started dressing nicer some mornings, a little more effort in front of the mirror, lipstick you didn't usually bother with on a weekday, because you had a meeting with the bakery about the cake design and wanted to make a good impression on people who took your crazy vinyl idea seriously. Jace only saw the dress, the mirror, the extra five minutes you spent that you never used to spend, and filed it away next to everything else.

You started leaving earlier some mornings and coming home later some nights, because there were florists to negotiate with and printers arguing over banner dimensions and a rental company that could not, for the life of them, confirm a delivery window. Jace only saw the empty side of the bed when he woke, and the tired, oddly luminous smile you wore when you finally did walk through the door, the kind of smile that looked, to his increasingly unreliable eyes, like the smile of someone who had somewhere else she'd rather be.

You whispered on the phone in the hallway, hand cupped around your mouth, because Cregan had called about seating arrangements and you didn't want your voice carrying through the apartment and ruining the surprise. Jace only caught the hushed tone, the way you angled your body toward the wall whenever he passed, the way the call ended abruptly the second you heard his footsteps. You deleted notifications the moment they lit up your lock screen, because half of them said things like cake tasting confirmed for Thursday or Cregan: got the lights, don't panic. Jace only registered the practiced, instant flick of your thumb, the phone going dark before he could so much as glance at it.

Your neighbour, in on the secret and terrified of blowing it, started being strangely, overly friendly to Jace whenever he was around, complimenting his shirt, asking about his day with an intensity that bordered on interrogation, laughing a half second too hard at things that weren't funny. To Jace, it read exactly like guilt wearing a smile, like someone trying too hard to compensate for something.

Worst of all, conversations seemed to die the second he entered a room. You and your friend, mid laugh over a text from Cregan, would go abruptly, suspiciously silent the moment his footsteps sounded in the hall, both of you suddenly very interested in the contents of the fridge.

He noticed every single detail that he would have brushed off without a second thought a year ago, and now each one lodged itself under his skin like a splinter, small, constant, and impossible to leave alone.

Then he noticed Cregan.

Cregan, who was suddenly busy every single time Jace suggested getting a drink, always with some vague excuse about errands he wouldn't elaborate on. Cregan, who kept stepping outside mid conversation to take calls he wouldn't explain, phone pressed close to his ear, voice dropping the second he crossed the threshold. Cregan, who wouldn't quite meet his eyes over dinner one night, laughing a little too loud at his own jokes, filling silences that didn't need filling. Cregan, who Jace had last seen with his hands on your waist and your palm flat against his chest, murmuring something too soft to hear.

Something in Jace's chest went cold and strange.

Not Cregan, he told himself, almost desperately, lying awake yet again. Fourteen years of friendship has to count for something.

A beat.

...Would he?

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

The thought festered for days before Jace finally tried to dig for the truth the only way he knew how, casually, carefully, like a man defusing something he was terrified would go off in his hands the second he touched it.

You were curled up together on the couch one evening, controllers in hand, some racing game throwing colored light across both your faces, when he asked, in a voice he'd practiced sounding indifferent, "You and Cregan been hanging out a lot lately?"

You smiled without looking away from the screen, utterly, blissfully unaware of the way his entire body had gone rigid waiting for your answer.

"Yeah," you said easily, thumb tapping the controller. "He's been helping me loads with some stuff."

Something in Jace quietly died.

You kept smiling, kept your eyes on the road ahead of your little pixelated car, thinking about seating charts and cake flavors and how surprisingly good Cregan had turned out to be at untangling string lights. Jace, beside you, was busy reading an entire tragic betrayal into the shape of your smile, into the warmth still lingering in your voice, into every innocent, ordinary word.

"With what?" he asked, too quickly, before he could stop himself.

"Party stuff, for a mutual friend." you said, which was, of course, entirely true and told him nothing at all. "It's kind of a whole thing right now. I'll explain soon, I promise."

"Right," Jace said, something in his stomach twisting at soon, at the vague, deflecting shape of that sentence. "A whole thing."

He didn't say anything else. He just gripped the controller a little tighter, let his car crash spectacularly into a wall he'd been dodging successfully for the last ten minutes, and when you laughed and told him he seemed distracted tonight, he agreed, hollow, that he must be.

You leaned over and kissed his cheek, quick and easy to comfort him and went back to the race. To you it meant nothing at all, a reflex, an afterthought. To Jace it felt, absurdly, like being handed a consolation prize.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

The night of the party arrived wrapped in the same grey rain that had been threatening all week, finally falling in earnest, streaking down the windows in long silver lines as Jace trudged home from a long, draining day, one he'd spent mostly failing to concentrate on anything other than the low, constant hum of dread sitting behind his ribs.

He'd spent the better part of a week convincing himself, minute by minute, not to think the worst. It had cost him. He felt it in his shoulders, in the tight, tired set of his jaw, in the way he'd barely eaten at lunch because his stomach had been in knots since morning.

He let himself into the apartment. Everything was dark, silent, still.

He dropped his keys onto the little dish by the door, the sound sharp in the quiet, and let out a long, shaking breath that seemed to carry the whole week with it.

"Need sleep," he mumbled to no one, rubbing a hand down his face.

The lights exploded on.

"SURPRISE!"

For one full second, Jace simply stopped existing as a functional human being. He stood frozen in the doorway, rain still dripping steadily from his hair onto the floor, mouth slightly open, staring at the impossible scene unfolding in front of him.

Music was already playing low in the background, something warm and familiar, one of his own old mixes, he realized distantly. Streamers hung from the ceiling in loose silver arcs. A banner stretched across the far wall bearing his DJ logo, the one he'd designed himself in secret over a hundred late nights, blown up huge and glowing under a string of fairy lights. A cake sat on the table with tiny fondant headphones balanced carefully on top, and beside it, unmistakably, a small fondant vinyl record. Photographs were pinned along the wall in a careful, curated line, grainy shots from his very first gig, the one where his hands had shaken so badly he'd nearly dropped the headphones twice.

Everyone was there. Cregan grinning like an idiot by the speaker system, one arm raised in a triumphant wave. Baela laughing openly at the look frozen on his face. Your neighbour holding up a phone, already filming, already capturing the precise moment his brain short circuited.

And you, standing in the middle of it all, glowing, delighted, utterly pleased with yourself.

Jace just stared. Rain dripping steadily onto the floor. Absolutely, completely frozen.

You crossed the room to him, unable to keep the smile off your face. "Happy one year of DJing, DJ Jxce."

His eyes moved slowly around the room. To the banner. To the photographs. To Cregan, standing right there, grinning, entirely innocent, entirely his best friend and nothing else. Back to you.

"...Wait," he said finally.

A long pause.

"...This..."

Another pause, longer this time, like his whole brain was still trying to reboot from scratch.

"...THIS is why you've been sneaking around?"

You laughed, delighted, entirely missing the storm that had been quietly building behind his eyes for a solid week. "...Yeah?"

Jace slowly dragged a hand down his face. Then the other hand joined it, both palms pressed against his eyes as if he could physically push the last seven days out of his skull through sheer pressure. He let out the single biggest sigh of his entire life.

"Seven hells..."

You blinked, your smile faltering just slightly at the edges. "...What?"

He lowered his hands, and there was something so raw, so sheepish, so thoroughly caught out in his expression that it made your stomach flip.

"I thought," he started, then laughed at himself, short and disbelieving, shaking his head slowly. "God, I actually thought you were cheating."

Your smile vanished instantly. "...What?"

Jace pointed, almost helplessly, at Cregan across the room. "With him."

The room went dead silent. Even the music seemed to hold its breath.

Cregan, drink halfway to his mouth, nearly choked on the spot. "WITH ME?"

You stared at Jace. Then at Cregan. Then back at Jace, waiting for the punchline that clearly was not coming. And then you burst out laughing, so hard and so suddenly that actual tears sprang to your eyes.

"Jace." You had to stop and catch your breath. "You thought." You pointed weakly at Cregan, wheezing. "Him?”

Cregan looked deeply, personally offended. "Oi."

Jace groaned, dragging both hands down his face again. "Stop laughing."

You could not. You were bent over now, one hand braced on your knee, laughing so hard your ribs actually ached. "YOU THOUGHT I WAS CHEATING WITH YOUR BEST MATE?"

"In my defense," Jace muttered, ears going faintly red, "you two were doing a lot of very suspicious hand holding at his apartment. And whispering. And you kissed me literally right after I saw his texts, which, by the way, felt very deliberate."

"That was because I panicked, not because I was guilty!"

"I didn't KNOW that at the time!"

"I have known you since we were nine," Cregan said, deeply wounded, to no one in particular. "Nine, Jace."

Eventually, through the tears and the wheezing, you noticed the way his ears had gone properly red now, how he stood there looking somewhere between mortified and miserable despite the party unfolding cheerfully all around him. Your laughter softened. You crossed the last bit of space between you and took his face gently in both hands, tilting it so he had to look at you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked, quieter now.

Jace shrugged, eyes dropping to somewhere around your collarbone. "Because after last time..."

He exhaled slowly, the words coming harder now that the joke had drained out of the room.

"I didn't want to accuse you over nothing. Not after what happened to me. I remember exactly what it felt like being on the other end of that, and I didn't want to do it to you, even quietly, even just in my own head. I kept thinking I'd wake up tomorrow and realize I was just being an idiot, and it would all sort itself out if I just waited it out."

You smiled, a little sad now, a little fond, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "...You were being an idiot…but your feelings are justified. Cregan and I were a bit suspicious."

"...Yeah," he admitted, and the word came out low, almost a laugh, almost a sigh, all the tension of the last week finally leaving his shoulders in one long breath.

You tapped his forehead lightly with one finger. "You know what would've solved this?"

He winced, already knowing exactly where this was going. "...Communication?"

"Communication," you confirmed, tapping his forehead again for emphasis.

He caught your hand before it could tap a third time, lacing his fingers through yours instead, holding on like he needed the anchor. "...Communication," he repeated softly, like he was trying to make the word stick somewhere permanent this time, somewhere it wouldn't slip loose the next time his imagination got ahead of him.

Then you kissed him, slow and warm despite the rain still clinging to his jacket, despite the party noise swelling happily around you both, despite Cregan loudly announcing to the room that he required an apology in writing.

"Next time your brain starts writing soap operas," you murmured against his mouth, "you come to me first."

He laughed against your lips, the sound finally, fully relieved, all the coiled dread of the last week unspooling at once. "...Deal."

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

He did not get to live it down. Not for a long, long time.

Weeks later, Cregan sauntered into the kitchen while Jace was pouring his coffee and draped an arm over your shoulders, entirely too pleased with himself. "Morning, love."

You leaned into it instantly, batting your eyelashes up at him. "Morning, darling. Sleep well?"

Jace, mug halfway to his mouth, went very still. "...What is happening right now."

"Nothing," you said sweetly, patting Cregan's chest exactly the way you had that day in his apartment, watching Jace's eye twitch in real time. "Cregan was just saying how he doesn't know what he'd do without me."

"Couldn't function," Cregan agreed solemnly, resting his chin on top of your head. "She's been such a comfort to me. All those boxes. All that bonding."

"Stop it," Jace said.

"I brought everything Friday, remember?" Cregan continued, entirely too innocent. "Very intimate logistics, that was."

"I will end both of you."

You gasped, clutching a hand to your chest in mock offense, and turned to Cregan like you needed comforting from the sheer trauma of the threat. Cregan, rising to the occasion, immediately wrapped both arms around you and pulled you into a full, dramatic hug, patting your back consolingly while looking directly at Jace over your shoulder with a grin that could only be described as shameless.

"There, there," Cregan said. "He's just jealous he doesn't appreciate you like I do."

"That's it," Jace said, setting his mug down with a decisive clink. "Cregan. Out. Get out of my house."

"We're bonding, Jace."

"Get out of my house," Jace repeated, already crossing the kitchen, and he peeled you bodily out of Cregan's arms with both hands on your waist, hauling you back against his own chest instead like he was retrieving stolen property. "And as for you." He turned you around to face him, eyes narrowed, fighting visibly against the smile threatening to break through. "Missy. You are coming with me."

"I was just giving him a hug, I don't see the problem, JACE,"

You didn't get to finish the sentence, because he'd already caught your wrist and was hauling you, laughing and stumbling half out of your socks, straight down the hallway toward the bedroom.

"This is emotional abuse!" Cregan called after you both, absolutely delighted, coffee mug (that Jace had abandoned) raised like a toast. "Some of us are just trying to spread love in this household!"

"Find your own household!" Jace shouted back, not stopping, not slowing down, dragging you the entire way with a grip that was somehow both irritated and completely unwilling to let go.

The bedroom door shut with a soft click, and a beat later his voice carried through it, muffled, trying very hard to sound stern and failing completely, something about I swear! You and that man exists purely to make my life difficult dissolving quickly into your laughter and then, a moment after that, into something quieter and warmer, all the mock outrage draining right out of him.

Out in the kitchen, Cregan poured himself a second coffee like he owned the place, thoroughly satisfied with his morning's work, already composing the next round in his head.

⬩➤ Want to read more? Check out my MASTERLIST!

You snorted, trying, and so failing, to hide a laugh behind your hand. "You're not shrinking H”

"You're laughing," he said, turning his head at a red light to look at you with deep, tragic betrayal written across his face, “my spine is disintegrating and my own girlfriend is laughing at me, cold-blooded, wow“

"I am accompanying you to a private doctor's appointment at eight in the morning on my day off," you pointed out, reaching over to pat his knee. "If that isn't true love, I don't know what is"

Harry’s face softened instantly, his dramatic panic melting into that soft, dopey smile he only ever saved for you. He leaned across the center console, catching your hand and pressing a quick, loud kiss to the back of your knuckles. "I know I know you're a saint, genuinely a gorgeous,” he kissed your cheek “perfect saint” he kissed you again “but if the doctor says I need a full back brace, im  not getting out of the flat”

"Deal" you grinned.

Moving Harry through a waiting room was always an event, mostly because he couldn't sit still when he was nervous. While you sat comfortably on the leather sofa scrolling through your phone, Harry paced the length of the room, adjusting his oversized hoodie, bouncing on his heel, and periodically stopping in front of an anatomical poster of the human skeleton to glare at it like it had personally insulted his family.

"Look at that" he whispered loudly, pointing at the poster's spine “straight as an arrow, mine's probably shaped like a bendy straw."

"Harry, sit down before you give me an aneurysm" you laughed softly, pulling him down by his sleeve until he collapsed onto the couch beside you.

The moment he sat, the clingy boyfriend kicked in. He immediately slid his arm around your waist, resting his head heavily against your shoulder, inhaling deep and burying his nose into the crook of your neck.

"Harry, we're in public" you teased, though you automatically ran your fingers through his soft hair.

"Don't care, I need emotional support," he mumbled into your collarbone. "If I'm dying, I want to be cozy."

"You're not dying, you dramatic idiot"

"Harry Collett?" a nurse called out from the doorway, holding a clipboard.

Harry jolted up, his eyes widening. "Right, this is it. If I don't make it out, tell Ryan Condal to give Jace a heroic off-screen death."

You rolled your eyes, pulling him up by his hand. "Come on, dramatic, let's go"

The consultation room was bright and clinical, dominated by an older, exceptionally patient-looking doctor named Dr. Evans. He greeted you both warmly, clearly recognizing Harry but remaining entirely professional as Harry sat on the examination table, looking like a nervous golden retriever at the vet.

"So… Harry," Dr. Evans began, clicking his pen over a chart. "What seems to be the issue today? Lower back pain? Sciatica? Any numbness?"

"Well, doc," Harry started, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, ironically hunching over completely as he spoke. "It's not really pain, It's more of a... structural integrity issue"

Dr. Evans blinked. “Sorry structural integrity?"

"Yeah," Harry said solemnly. "I think my posture is permanently ruined. I've been getting... feedback, thousands of people, actually. They've been making side-by-side edits of me standing next to a shrimp. And I laughed at first, right? But then I looked in the mirror, and I was like, wait?"

You had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it bled just to keep from bursting out laughing. You covered your mouth with a hand, pretending to cough.

Dr. Evans looked from Harry's dead-serious, deeply concerned face over to you, catching the absolute hilarity in your eyes. The doctor's lips twitched slightly, but he kept his composure. "I see, so, social media feedback has led to a concern regarding spinal curvature?"

"Yes" Harry exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “exactly that, look, I'll show you." Harry stood up abruptly, stripping off his heavy hoodie to reveal a plain black t-shirt. “okay, so when I'm relaxed, I stand like this..." He slouched forward, rounding his shoulders dramatically until he looked like a medieval peasant carrying a sack of potatoes, “and when I try to stand straight, it feels so weird, like what's wrong with me?"

The doctor chuckled softly, standing up from his chair. "Alright, Harry, step over to the wall for me, let's give you a look"

For the next ten minutes, you watched in utter delight as the doctor performed a series of basic physical exams. He had Harry bend over to touch his toes, tilt his head from side to side, and stand up against a height board. You took out your phone and discreetly filmed a three-second video of Harry standing completely rigid against the wall, his eyes darting around nervously like he was being processed into prison.

"Well, Harry" Dr. Evans said finally, washing his hands at the sink and grabbing a paper towel "I have the official diagnosis."

Harry held his breath, looking genuinely tense. "Give it to me straight, doc, am I getting a back brace?"

"You have…” the doctor  said, turning around with a dry smile, “…a perfectly normal and healthy spine, excellent mobility, zero signs of scoliosis, and perfectly aligned vertebrae."

Harry blinked. "Wait, for real?”

“yes” the doctor said, smiling. "What you have, Harry, is what we in the medical field call... bad habits. You slouch when you're relaxed, likely because you're tall (lmao he wishes) and comfortable, and you probably spend too much time looking down at your phone."

You couldn't hold it in anymore. A loud, ringing laugh escaped your chest, and you fell back against your chair, shaking your head. "I told you, I literally told you!"

Harry turned to you, his face going a bright, furious shade of red, though a cheeky grin was already tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay, alright, simmer down over there will ya?”

"A shrimp, Harry?" you teased, wiping a tear from your eye. "You made me come here at eight in the morning because TikTok made you think your spine was collapsing, and the doctor just diagnosed you with slouching?"

"It was a legitimate medical concern" Harry insisted, though he was giggling now, rubbing the back of his neck in deep, adorable embarrassment. He turned back to Dr. Evans. "So... no physical therapy? No crazy back harness?"

"Maybe just do some basic core exercises and remember to pull your shoulders back when the cameras are rolling," he advised, chuckling as he handed Harry a summary slip. “…and perhaps stay off TikTok for a bit."

"Yeah, definitely doing that" Harry mumbled, his ears burning as he grabbed his hoodie, “thanks, doc, really appreciate you not throwing me out."

The walk back to the car was a victory lap of absolute roasting.

"I can't believe this," you said, walking side-by-side down the sunny street. "The Harry Collet defeated by bad posture"

"Listen to me," Harry said, catching your waist with one arm and pulling you tightly against his side as you walked, dropping a heavy, affectionate kiss right on your temple. "If you ever mention this to anyone, I will personally leak all the embarrassing videos I have of you singing in my trailer"

You gasped, “you wouldn't dare" looking up at him.

"Try me love" he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked so relaxed now, all that dramatic anxiety completely gone, replaced by that warm, infectious energy that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. He squeezed your hip, pulling you even closer as you reached the car, “seriously though, thank you for coming with me, even if I looked like a massive idiot."

"You always look like a massive idiot," you hummed, turning in his arms once you reached the passenger door, you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning up on your tiptoes. "But you're my massive idiot, now with an officially certified, perfectly healthy spine.

Harry chuckled, his hands settling warm and heavy on your waist, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours for a quiet, sweet second before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“You know I love you," he whispered against your mouth, sweet and genuine, all the joke dropping away for a fraction of a second.

"Love you too, Harry” you smiled, kissing him back lightly. “now, stand up straight and drive us to get breakfast, you owe me an iced coffee for this."

"Yes ma'am," Harry said, instantly pulling his shoulders back into a hilariously exaggerated, overly rigid military stance. “as you wish”

Botantis!Valarr

Content: fluff, nervous/shy valarr Word count: 700+

Valarr has always loved plants. They're easy and don't talk back. He can talk to them to his heart's content, tell them of his day without hearing sighs of boredom or disappointment. He loves them, has been fascinated by all things floral since he was a child, to the point that at his university graduation, after studying botany, was gifted with the keys to his own flower shop. A flower shop you now stood in.

You had been coming once a week, every Thursday, for the past three months; each time Valarr would swear it would be the day he finally worked up the courage to speak to you, and if you weren't bored by his love for all things floral may even agree to go on a date.

Valarr would spend every Thursday, staring out the window waiting for your arrival, and when the door would chim open he would blush fluorescent red, and hide in the back, biding his younger brother Matarys deal with her, only ocming out with your order, which he knew by heart at the end and would stutter a sentence that he would replay on repeat, reveling in his embarrassment, long after you were gone.

But today, all that would change. Or at least he was determined to. He had spent the whole morning standing in front of his mirror saying words of affirmation, his sentence already written a dozen times, preparing for you. He had even given Matarys the day off, knowing that without him as a buffer, he would be forced to speak to you.

But when you walked through the door, looking as radiant as ever, the blush and replay of all his previous embarrassing attempts to speak to you came flushing back.

"Valarr!" you greeted excitedly, coming straight to the counter, your eyes drawn to the magnolias beside the counter. "How are you today?" you asked nicely, your smile never once wavering even as Vlarr blushed and stuttered.

"I'm good, how are you?" he managed to say, entirely red from the whole interaction.

"Wonderful, well, know that I have seen you," you said, and if Valarr hadn't been so nervous, he would have noticed the obvious flirting, though had he not run and hid most weeks, he would also know that the sole reason you came to this shop, which was about 30 minutes out of the way from everything in your day to day life, compared to the dozens of over floral shops, it was to see him.

"I have your order all ready for you," he managed to say, his voice quiet. "I assumed you wanted the same as previously," he muttered out, suddenly feeling embarrassed and praying today was the day you didn't waver in your usual.

"oh your perfect! Thank you, Valarr!" you beamed. "Whatever would i do without you?" you smiled, your hand brushing his as you took the bouquet.

Valarr, if it was possible, went more red. "Oh well, I-"

"You grow such beautiful flowers," you interrupted, "I would like to thank you."

"Thank me?" he repeated, his back straightening at your attention, "what for?"

"For the flowers and being so kind," you smiled, your hand reaching for your phone, "I want to take you out on a date," you stated, unlocking your phone, "give me your number, and I'll text you the details."

"A date?" he repeated shocked, shocked. You liked him back? You, the perfect, most beautiful creature Valarr had ever seen, wished to ask him on a date?

"Of course!" you smiled, watching as Valarr nervously took your phone and input his number. "I've been meaning to ask you since my first visit here; I had just been too nervous." You nervous? Valarr could have scoffed; he was nervous, he was so wrong for you, perfect confident you.

You smiled as you took your phone back from him. "Are you free tomorrow night?" you asked, sliding your phone back in your pocket.

This time Valarr did scoff; he was always free, he had no life, friends seemed to disappear once they realised the plants were everything to him. "Yes, I am," he smiled, feeling his nerves begin to fade away the longer you smiled.

"Perfect," you hummed, reaching across the counter to plant a kiss to Valarrs check. An action that caused his red blush to become near permentant.

loserteacher!Daeron

Content: Daeron being a perv teacher, drunk sex/drunk reader so dub con, smut. oral (M receiving), fantasised somophilia. referenced spiking (it does not happen ) Word count: 400+

Daeron's classes were boring. Most took it for an easy A or for a good hour to nap. And in truth, Daeron used it to sleep off his hangover. Sure, he loved psychology, loved studying what your dreams meant and interpreting them, but after so many years of it being his speciality, he began doing everything he could to prevent his dreams- to prevent overanalysing every single one and each detail of them.

But then you took up his class and his dreams. And suddenly he stopped drinking and started dreaming, just for the hope that he could live the fantasy he thought of as you sat in his class, writing down his words, entirely fascinated with him and his teachings. Imagine the pen you chewed on in class was his cock sinking into the wet warmth of your mouth.

His fantasies took up his lessons, using you and your dreams for every example and exercise, dropping things by your desk or near you so that you would bend over and pick them up, giving him the perfect view of your arse.

He dreamt of you every night, bent over his desk, fucking you as the rest of the class watched. dreamt of taking you in his car, you riding his cock without a care in the world. dreamt of pushing his cock into your wet warmth as you slept, waking you up with a moan on your lips.

His dreams and fantasies crossed over into his day-to-day life so badly that when he arrived at one of the endless university parties he was invited to (having been known for his drinking habits), and saw you there drinking and smiling, flirting with a guy that wasnt him, he had thought about slipping you something, of taking you home and having his way with you. But then you looked his way and smiled. And suddenly his fantasies came to life without him even having to force it.

"Daeron", you moaned into his mouth, loving ht e way his hands grabbed you messily, eager to touch you in case you slipped around and he woke up, and this was all a dream. He could taste the alcohol coursing through your veins. Drunk boldness allowed him to touch you, kiss you, and fuck you, to be as dirty as he dreamed of.

And you let him, let him fuck you, let him fill you with his cumand spit in your mouth. Let him live out his every fantasy.

After that, his fantasies of you in class only grew worse, and you would taunt him, taking your pen deeper into your mouth, letting him fuck your face as he marked the essays, letting him bend you over his desk, door unlocked, loving the thrill of the risk of being caught.

Valyrianhistoryprofessor!Aerion

Content: Smut, aerion is always a warning, obssesed aerion, spanking. Word count: 400+

Aerion had always been obsessed with Valyrian history, to the point it controlled his entire life. Not a single decision in his life was made without considering how his ancestors, the dragonlords of old Valyria, would do and whether they would approve.

It controlled him, to the point where the only sensible job for him was to teach it. To be a professor at Dragonstone University and uphold the teachings and knowledge of the greatest empire the world had ever known.

He was one of the strictest teachers at the university; no mistakes were tolerated, and students were expected to honour his teachings, and any disobedience would be punished.

So when he heard you, his favourite and best student. The one he knew would always know the answer, gave the most detailed recountings of his lessons, whose essays read like history books that had Aerion devouring and begging for more. When he heard you had sat at a party disrespecting the tales of dragons and dragon riders, it was safe to say he stormed from his apartments and dragged you back home with him.

"How dare you disrespect your betters!" he spoke, delivering a clean smack to your arse, a smirk on his lips as you moaned, "telling the stories of a dragon losing, of a dragon being killed by the likes of the common man," he spat, delivering another swift smack to your arse, "the dragon ought never loose," he spat turing you over and tearing of your clothes, pinching your nipples before pulling your legs apart, his cock pressing into your cunt in one swift movment.

"Tell me, tell me I'm a dragon," he demanded, his hips dragging through the walls of your cunt with a sense of possession.

"You're a dragon, Aerion, the dragon of legends," you moaned, your hands desperately reaching for him as he fucked into you with an unrelenting pace.

"Tell me you were wrong, the story you made was made up," he insisted, staring into your eyes with a fire that would have scared anyone else, but you, who had grown so used to this, to him. You knew him, had studied him better than his classes, who knew how dragon lore was Aerion, was who he was and made him the man fucking into you with such raw passion anyone else would have run screaming.

"I made it up," you moaned, "I just wanted you to fuck me, i life i swear," you insisted, relishing in the kiss he gave you as a reward as his cock continued to enlessly fucked into you.

conservativebusinessman!Maekar

Content: conservative values? he is a perv. Reader wears short skirts/dresses, and Maekar objectifies her. smut, p in v. power imbalance, spanking word count: 400+

Maekar was boring. He had little use for hobbies. All he did was work, complain about work and then complain about not working. He never wished to do anything and had opinions on everything and everyone. would sneer at how some people dressed and mutter about how simple things had been when he was younger. Complaining how complicated today's society was.

Being boring is what caused his first wife, Dyanna, to leave him, for his kids would only visit once a month, if that. And it was a fact he had long come to terms with.

It, however, was not a fact you seemed to have noticed or come to terms with.

He had met you at the office, hired to be his brother's assistant. A pretty little thing who wore skirts too short, heels too high and loud for the office, and whose giggle either made or ruined your entire day.

At first, he sneered and avoided you, choosing to believe his brother had had some kind of lapse in judgement, but Baelor, boring Baleor, who even if he noticed the sluttly little clothes you wore would never do something about it. In truth, the man never looked up from his desk to notice who you were, let alone what you did or wore.

It's why he decided to take matters into his own hands, calling you into his office, reminding you of the dress code. And you, thinking you had hurt his feelings, felt so bad you began dressing more modestly. Though most of your clothes were still entirely too short, Makear grew to enjoy the view. Especially when you bent over. You had even started bringing him coffee and lunch, effectively becoming his assistant rather than Baleors.

And one day you, sweet little you who messed with his morals entirely, decided he should be more fun. Maekar had refused, saying he was nothing but a "Boring old man", but you had insisted, dragging him to see some movie, where you talked the whole time. To the point where, to shut you up, Maekar dragged you to his house, bent you over his knee and spanked you for your lack of manners and insolence.

After that, you thoroughly refused to believe he was boring, and definitely weren't as conservative as he insisted, and decided to twist his buttons. Your clothes went back to being short, and he could have sworn you were buying clothes too small for you. And Maekar was never one for supporting insolence, would spank you until you apologised. And when spanking wasnt enough, he would bend you over his desk, slide your slutty little panties down, stuffing them into his pocket, before sliding his fat cock in your cunt and fucking your insolence out of you.

Safe to say to you, he was definitely not boring.

boringbusinessman!Baelor

Content: fluff? impliede sexual content. Word count: 200+

Baelor was boring. He never wanted to do anything but read. Not that there was anything wrong with that; he simply had no desire to try anything new.

So when he meets you, a new intern at his company who is always doing something new on weekends. Always speaking about new trips and holidays.

You had a bucket list for every month. u lived a life where you treated every day like your last, the exact opposite of him.

So when you ask him if he wishes to join you, all but getting on your knees and begging for him to join you, he relents. Trying something new one time can't be too bad, right?

Well, it was; he hated leaving the comfort of his own home and doing something outside of the box. But one thing that he did not regret was spending time with you, happy to hear your stories, and you happy to hear the stories he had read.

His life became a little less boring after meeting you; hearing your stories gave him enough thrill.

And in truth, he wasn't entirely boring; his hobbies were more homely, sure. But when it came to the bedroom. Baelor was hardly boring. he put the Kama Sutra to shame.

“Dick please. I can’t baby. Need your cock” you whine. You weren’t even exactly sure what you wanted, for Dick to stop or to give you more. Your nerves were fried from the overstimulation. Dick curls his fingers just right causing you to tug particularly hard at his hair. This is what causes him to look up at you and see the tears rolling down your face. He smirks pressing a kiss to clit and speeding up his movements.

“Oh there she is, there’s my pretty girl”

JASON TODD

Jason’s head was buried in your neck as he pounded into you. Your nails digging into his back as he hit the deepest spots inside you. Your moans bouncing off the walls

“Jace. God Jay, it feels so fucking good” you moan. Jason groans and pulls away from your neck so he can see your beautiful, wrecked face. Instead her sees the tears that soak your skin and immediately stops his assault on your pussy. You whine pathetically as the pleasure leaves you and open your eyes to look at Jason.

“Baby, did I hurt you? Why didn’t you stop me?” Jason asks hands cupping your face and voice dripping in concern. You watch in real time guilt take over his features. Before he can pull away you wrap your legs around his waist locking your ankles. Now Jason is looking at you confused as you begin to grind up into him, desperate for stimulation.

“Jace please don’t stop. It feels so good. I’m ok I promise I’m okay. Just please, please, keep going” you whine doing your best to reassure him but your brain clouded by thoughts of lust.

Jason says your name softly still not entirely convinced. He can feel the way your walls are squeezing him, and your attempt at grinding into him shows how bad you want it. However, he couldn’t stop the fear in the back of his mind that he was hurting you. He doesn’t know how he would live with himself if he was ever the cause of your pain.

You take a deep breath trying to slow your brain down. You grab Jason’s face forcing him to look at you.

“Jason, I promise I’m fine. I swear to you. But I really need you to keep fucking me because I’m losing my mind here baby,” you plead desperately for him to keep going. Jason must be satisfied with that answer because he allows a small smile to take over his features before beginning to slowly fuck back into you.

BRUCE WAYNE

You had been bratty since the two of you got into the limo for the WE charity gala. You of course understood why you had to go, and of course you supported the cause. But tonight you really just wanted a quiet night at home with your husband. Instead you were in a tight, very expensive, gown and shoes that cost more than most people’s rent. Since you had to go, you decided to be a menance to Bruce all night. Teasing him at every possible occasion until eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. That’s how you ended up here. Back at the manor on all fours with Bruce drilling into you from behind.

“This is what you wanted huh? Tease me all night just so I could bring you home and fuck you. Dirty girl” Bruce tsks as he pumps his cock in and out of you. Your moans are muffled by the expensive bedding under you. Bruce leans over and grabs your jaw forcing you to look up into the mirror that was, conviently, placed across from your shared bed. You were a mess. Lips swollen and lip combo gone from your passionate makeout session on the way home, mascara running down your face from the tears that leaked from your eyes.

“Look at my pretty girl. Nothing to say now huh?”

Wally West

The way Wally fucked you was honestly unfair. No man would ever compare to the way Wally used his super speed on you in the bedroom. Whether it was his tongue, or fingers, or now with his dick moving in and out of you.

“So tight for me. Feel so good baby” Wally moans. He looks down and notices your tear stained face looking up at him. Your eyes bigger than ever and lashes wet with fresh tears while he shows no signs of letting up on you. “Feel good?” He asks. His convert attempt at making sure you were okay. You nodded your head

“Yeah Wals. It feels so good. Soo good” you moan, clenching around him for emphasis. He shudders and begins pressing kisses up and down your jaw. His tip hits a particularly deep spot inside of you that has you letting out a strangled cry and clinging to him.

Jason groans, low and hungry, fingers spreading you apart so he can see how ruined you already are. Slick pooling at your entrance, thighs trembling, the broken vibrator still half-buried inside you and buzzing uselessly against your walls. He hooks two fingers around it and drags it out slowly, watching the way your cunt clenches around nothing the moment it leaves you. “Oh, couldn’t even hold it?” He lets the vibrator drop to the mattress, soaked through. “I came as soon as I broke the remote. What’s your excuse?”

His fingers drag through your folds, slow and deliberate, collecting the mess there before he lifts them to look at them in the low light. Slick strings between his fingers. He clicks his tongue. “Impatient little thing.”

You can’t look away from him. That’s the whole reason you spent the afternoon being a brat. Mouthing off right before patrol, wearing his patience down until it snapped, only to see him come home looking exactly like this. Green eyes gone dark, jaw tight, the smirk on his mouth mean and satisfied. He knows it, too. He always knows it.

He drops to his stomach between your thighs and licks a slow, flat stripe up through your folds, from your entrance all the way to your clit, tasting every orgasm you’ve had in the last few hours. His tongue works through the slick methodically, like he’s in no rush at all, pressing in soft circles before pulling back to mouth at you with his lips. You feel every ridge of his mouth. The ropes at your wrists creak against the headboard when your hips jerk up.

“Jay—”

He pulls back just enough to speak against you, breath hot. “Look at this mess.” His thumb presses flat against your clit, not moving, just resting there while he surveys the state of you. Sweat-damp sheets. Thighs shaking. Arousal smeared across your inner thighs. “Pathetic.”

The word hits you low in the stomach. Your hips roll up uselessly, chasing his thumb, and he lets them; just watches you grind against nothing with that same mean smirk.

“Jay, please.”

“Oh, now you remember your manners.” He tilts his head, thumb still unmoving. “Where were they this afternoon?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, sealing his mouth over your clit and sucks, two fingers pressing inside you at the same time, curling up and finding the spot that makes your vision white at the edges. You’re so sensitive that it almost hurts, walls fluttering around his fingers, thighs trying to close around his head before his free hand comes up and shoves them back open. He holds you there, pinned and spread, eating you out with focused, relentless attention until you feel the orgasm building fast and sharp—

And then he stops.

He pulls his fingers free, lifts his head, dragging his thumb across his lower lip to catch the slick there, then licks it off. His eyes stay on yours while he does it. “But then my sweet little brat’s fun would have been ruined.” He sits up on his knees between your thighs, and his hands go to his belt. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you’ve actually been waiting for.”

The clink of the buckle is loud in the quiet room. He strips efficiently—belt, pants, shirt—and you push up onto your elbows just to stare at him. His cock is already hard, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precome welling at the slit. Thick enough that you feel your mouth go dry.

He catches you staring and his expression shifts into something worse than the smirk. “Hungry little thing,” he says, crawling over you, knees bracketing your hips, hand coming up to grip your jaw and tilt your face up to his. “Been thinking about this dick all night, haven’t you?”

You nod, lips parting, and he gives you the kiss you’ve been asking for—open and wet and filthy, his tongue pushing into your mouth, teeth catching your lower lip and tugging before he releases it. When he pulls back, there’s a string of spit between your mouths.

Then he reaches down, wraps a hand around his cock, and lines up against your entrance. The blunt head catches and pushes in, and he doesn’t ease into it, choosing to push forward in one rough thrust, seating himself fully, groaning against your lips when your cunt clenches tight around him. The stretch burns in the best way, walls gripping him, still swollen and sensitive from everything that came before.

“Fuck.” His forehead drops to yours. “Still so wet.”

He pulls back to the tip and drives in again, setting a pace immediately; hips snapping forward hard enough to rock the headboard against the wall, every thrust punching the air out of your lungs and replacing it with a moan. The ropes bite into your wrists when you pull against them. His hands find your hips and grip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you in place so you can’t squirm away from the force of it.

“That’s it.” He watches your face as he fucks into you, jaw clenched, sweat starting to gather at his temple. “Been edging yourself for hours. And now you’re gonna take it properly.”

The orgasm builds fast, too fast, your body wound tight and oversensitive, walls already fluttering around him. It crests and breaks in a wave, your back arching off the mattress as far as the ropes allow, cunt squeezing rhythmically around his cock. You hear him curse, feel him groan, his pace stuttering for just a moment—

And then he keeps going.

Same brutal rhythm. Hips snapping forward, the wet sound of him fucking through your orgasm obscene in the quiet room. You gasp, oversensitive and overwhelmed, and he leans down so his mouth is at your ear.

———————

You were curled up on the chaise by the fire with a book in your hands. This was your nightly routine. After shedding your heavy gowns, hair pins, and other jewels you would sit and read while in your thin night shift. You would typically do this until Jacaerys joined you in your shared chambers even though he had told you many times that you need not stay up for him.

You had just finished your chapter when he entered the chambers looking exhausted.

“Long day?” you ask as you close your book, standing up.

He nods, rubbing his neck, “I called for the maids to bring water for a bath.”

You make your way towards him before chuckling, “You need it. You smell like Vermax...”

Smiling, he tilts his head at you, “Yes, I was patrolling today.”

There was a knock on the door and maids filtered into the room with buckets of hot water, quickly making their way to the connected bathing room. They were gone just as quickly as they arrived. Jace never liked or wanted the maids washing him. He was perfectly capable of cleaning himself. Not to mention the fact that you had offered to help him many times after you had been wed, just as he would help you.

You sat beside the tub, taking turns telling each other about your day. You told him of your readings and research in the library, he told you of his conversation with Daemon. Jace did not remain in the bath for long, he never did unless you were bathing together, he didn’t find it relaxing and when the water cooled even the slightest bit he began to complain.

As he got dressed for sleep, you made yourself comfortable on your side of the bed. Jace groaned as he walked across the room, one hand clutching his lower back.

“You sound like an old man,” you say teasingly.

He rolls his eyes, groaning more as he sits on the bed with his back to you, “I feel like one. My back aches and my neck is so stiff…”

You sit up, scooting across the bed until you can rest your hands on his shoulders and your knees are touching his lower back. You tilt your head to look at him, a small frown on your face, “Well my love…”

“Well what?” he turns his head towards you.

“I believe it is from your posture.”

“My…posture?”

“Yes, you stand hunched over and sometimes you walk with your head jutted out.”

He looks offended, “I do no such thing.”

“My love,” you run a hand down his back til you reach the center, “you’re even slouching right now,” you push against his back, forcing him up straight causing his back to curve.

Then you return your hands to his shoulders and pull back slightly, putting him in a more proper sitting position. He looks at you again, only this time he appears shocked, horrified, and also relieved.

“How’d…”

“One of the very first things us ladies learn with our septas is how to stand proper. I don’t believe they teach such things to princes and lords. No, the first thing they teach you is how to swing a blade. Standing straight for me is subconscious but for you… it’s something you need to focus on.”

“You mean to tell me that I have been walking around hunched over my entire life and no one has said a thing?” he asks, exasperated.

“Not many people would dare question a prince… although I will say that Luke seems to stand properly, as well as Joff but he’s still little so that could change! Daemon is… well, sometimes I believe he stands with his shoulders too far back and his chest puffed out.”

Jace sighs, rubbing his temples, “My little brothers stand better than I do? What kind of example am I leading…”

You hum and scoot away from him, back to your side of the bed, “It can also come from stress, you carry a great weight on your shoulders Jace. No jest intended. Your back will likely ache for a while even as you adjust to the new posture… but I know something that will help for now, lay down on the bed.”

He gives you a startled look, his face flushing, “My love I don’t think that would help…”

You gasp, “You’re perverted! No! I meant… lay on your stomach, not on your back!”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

He complies, and moves to the center of the bed, resting his head in the crook of his arm. You click your tongue, “Put your arms at your sides.”

Jace does and only then do you move. Slowly, you move to straddle his lower back just above his tailbone. You start up by his shoulders, your hands working at tight muscles near the neck.

He immediately lets out a groan and hides his head in the pillows. You smile to yourself, biting your lip to suppress a giggle.

You hum a song while massaging his back, you can feel the tension leaving his body as you work your magic.

It seems as though he is going to fall asleep, completely relaxed as your hands are getting lower on his back. But that would be too easy. His hips began to rock into the bed, subtly at first and then more obvious, before he lets out a quiet moan.

“Love,” he croaks out, “I’m… sorry,” he hides his face entirely, “wait, please…”

You shush him before whispering, “It is natural Jace,” your hands fall to the bed on either side of the man beneath you as you lean forward til you're laying entirely on top of him, breasts pressed against his back.

“Do you wish for me to continue?” your lips brush his ear and he shivers letting out a noise that sounds like a whimper.

“Hm?” you hum, playfully biting his ear making him shudder, “I can not hear you with your face hidden in the pillows.”

Jace turns his head to look back at you. His eyes are dazed and his cheeks red, “Please…”

You smile, pecking his cheek before leaning back and continuing your work. You can’t help but feel pride every time he moans or groans or whimpers when his hips jerk into the bed. You were just about to stop and offer a proper solution to his current predicament when you felt him tense up harder than before.

“Fuck,” he mumbles your name, “‘m sorry…”

You slip off of his back and onto the cool furs on your side of the bed. He attempts to shimmy down the bed but you shake your head and pull him into your arms. Unable to hide his face between your legs, he hides in your breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, “You’ve made a mess of your trousers,” you tease.

He nips at your skin through your shift and you tug at his hair in response. Jace looks up at you and pouts.

“How does your back feel?” you ask, him being in pain being the main thing on your mind.

“Better, much better.”

“Good, we’ll work more on your posture tomorrow okay? I can begin to remind you if you’d like?”

“Please do,” he mutters, still embarrassed by the situation.

You laugh and pull him back to your chest. Just as you’re about to drift off Jace comes to a sudden, horrifying realization. His voice is muffled due to his face being buried in your breasts, “When I asked you to allow me to court you, to be my wife… I was walking like that? Standing like that?”

You giggle, “Yes Jace, I’m afraid you were.”

“And you still agreed?!”

“You have a pretty face.”

Since he caught a stray during this I must add…

He should be dead.

The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.

Vermax.

The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.

Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.

What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

—

He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.

Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.

“You shouldn’t move.”

The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.

You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.

You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.

“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”

Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.

You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”

The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.

“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”

You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”

He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.

“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”

Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.

He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.

“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.

“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”

Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.

“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”

You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”

He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.

“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”

Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.

“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.

—

The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.

You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.

He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.

“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”

You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”

He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.

He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.

His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.

“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.

“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.

“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”

Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.

“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.

“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”

“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”

There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”

“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”

Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.

His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.

“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”

“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”

“But you did it.”

He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”

—

The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.

And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.

In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.

He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.

You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”

“I was very proud of myself.”

“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”

“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”

You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.

You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.

He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.

He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.

So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.

—

The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.

It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.

“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”

Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”

“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”

“I knew how to walk.”

“Then today you will remember.”

It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.

“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”

He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.

And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”

The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.

The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.

“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.

You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”

“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.

“I had time.”

That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.

The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.

Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.

It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.

The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.

But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.

The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.

Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.

“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”

“I have never seen anything like this.”

“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”

He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.

And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.

Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.

And you.

—

He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.

And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.

He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.

And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.

You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.

“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”

“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”

He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.

“Where are the other people?” he asked.

Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.

“What other people?”

“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”

He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.

“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.

He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”

“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”

The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”

“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”

“That is impossible.”

“It is simply true.”

Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”

“I did not say I chose it.”

The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.

“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”

Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”

“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”

“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.

“I have been here ever since.”

“How long?”

You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”

Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.

“Who is your brother?” he asked.

Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”

“A lord of what? Where? What house?”

“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”

Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.

Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.

“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”

“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”

“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.

And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.

You were lonely.

Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.

He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.

—

In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.

"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.

"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."

You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."

The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.

"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."

Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.

"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."

"I've done labor."

"Name one example."

He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."

"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."

"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.

You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."

The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.

But you were always there, always nearby.

He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.

"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.

"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."

"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"

He stopped.

The war.

What war?

The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—

Vermax.

His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.

But what was the war about?

"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."

You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."

"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."

He picked up the axe and got back to work.

—

One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."

He stopped, the name wouldn't come.

"Viserys," you said quietly.

"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."

You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.

"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."

Dead.

The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.

"He's what?" you asked.

Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."

You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."

"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."

Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.

But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.

—

The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.

The waterfall, for one thing.

It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.

You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.

"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were staring."

"I was... appreciating the scenery."

You opened one eye. "The scenery."

"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."

You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.

Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—

You looked beautiful.

He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.

"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.

Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.

Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.

"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.

—

"I was betrothed," he said one evening.

You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.

"Was?" you asked.

"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."

"Before the battle."

"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."

"What is her name?"

Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.

"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."

He trailed off.

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"

"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."

"That is not the same as love."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.

—

He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.

—

The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.

What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.

But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.

He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.

The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.

The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.

The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.

The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.

He loved you.

He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.

He loved you.

And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.

—

The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.

The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.

He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.

He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.

He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."

Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.

"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."

"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."

"Swimming is work. It builds character."

You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"

"Come in and find out."

You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.

Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.

The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.

You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.

You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.

"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.

"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.

"Very refreshing."

"I had not noticed."

"No?"

"No."

His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.

"Jace," you whispered.

That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.

He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.

You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.

"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"

"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."

"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.

He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.

"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."

"Then do not wait any longer."

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.

In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.

"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."

He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."

Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."

He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."

Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."

He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.

"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."

"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."

He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.

He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.

"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."

He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."

Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.

"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.

"I love you," he said.

The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.

Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."

He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.

They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.

He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.

He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.

After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.

When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.

You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.

After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.

He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.

You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.

You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.

You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.

He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.

"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"

"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."

He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.

He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.

Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.

He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.

And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.

In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.

And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.

—

The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.

Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.

Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.

"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"

"A ship."

The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.

He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.

A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.

Velaryon.

The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.

The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.

"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"

The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.

"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."

Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"

"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."

The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.

Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."

He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.

"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."

The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."

You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.

Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.

"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."

Your eyes widened. "Jace..."

"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."

For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.

"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."

Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."

That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.

Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.

"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.

You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."

The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.

You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.

"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"

"To the Prince!" the others roared.

Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home

—

He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.

The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—

He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.

The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.

There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.

"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.

The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.

"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"

He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.

"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"

You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.

"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."

Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.

"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."

"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"

He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.

"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."

Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."

"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"

The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.

"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."

You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.

"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."

Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.

But the beach was empty.

"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."

You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."

He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.

That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.

Perhaps.

He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.

The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.

The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.

Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.

—

Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.

A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.

He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.

The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.

Armor.

Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.

And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.

Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.

His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.

He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.

The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.

He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.

"What are you doing here?"

He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"

"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"

Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.

"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.

"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"

You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.

"It does not matter."

"It matters to me."

"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"

"Because I need to know the truth."

"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."

"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."

You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"

Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.

"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"

Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.

"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?

"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"

The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?

"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."

"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"

"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."

"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."

"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."

He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.

"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."

For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.

"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."

You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."

Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?

"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"

You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.

"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?

"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."

"The pigs," Jace said.

"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"

Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"

"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."

The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.

"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"

"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"

"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"

"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."

"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."

You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.

"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."

"How do I break it?"

You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.

"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."

"Then I will break it."

"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."

"I am not them," he said.

"You are. You are exactly like them."

"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."

"You cannot promise that."

"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."

You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."

"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."

"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."

You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.

He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.

—

The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.

You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.

"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.

"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."

Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.

"I will come back," he said.

You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."

"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."

"I am not everyone."

He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.

He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.

The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.

But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.

Then he turned and walked into the darkness.

—

The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.

The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.

And in the center of the chamber was the statue.

It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.

And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.

No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.

They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.

Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.

He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.

He took a step toward the pedestal.

"Are you quite certain about this?"

Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.

"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.

No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.

"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."

Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.

"I said who is there?"

"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."

Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."

"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."

"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."

"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."

Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.

"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."

"You do not know anything about her."

"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"

Jace did not answer.

"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.

"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"

"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."

"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."

Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.

"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"

"She saved my life."

"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."

He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"

"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."

"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."

Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.

"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."

"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"

He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.

"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."

"You are lying."

"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."

"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.

"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."

"Stop."

"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."

Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.

What if the voice was right?

What if none of it was real?

What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?

What if he was just the next fool in line?

"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."

—

You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.

Anything. Please, anything.

Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?

"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."

You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"

"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."

A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.

"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"

"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."

He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.

You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.

A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.

Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.

But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.

"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"

Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.

He raised his own arm.

The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.

"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."

"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"

"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."

"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"

"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"

"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."

"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."

You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.

"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.

"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."

The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.

"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"

"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."

"You trapped me."

He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"

"You bound me to you!"

"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."

"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"

"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?

"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."

"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"

"You have made me your prisoner."

"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."

"The voice. He told you to do this?"

"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."

You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.

"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."

"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.

"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"

"You are insane," you breathed.

"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."

He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.

"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."

You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.

"You are a monster," you whispered.

“She is a daughter of Lord Tyrell,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice low, sharp with an exhaustion that had settled into her very bones since Lucerys’ death. "And her father spoke highly of her sight before he passed."

Daemon Targaryen leaned casually against a stone pillar in the shadow of the vaulted ceiling, a thin, dangerous smirk touching his lips. He ran a thumb over the pommel of Dark Sister. "Her sight, my Queen? Or her tongue? The Reach is famous for its sweet-smelling flowers, but beneath the petals, you usually find a thorn dipped in poison. If the Hightowers wished to plant a whisperer in our halls, they could not have chosen a more convenient package."

Melara did not flinch. She felt the stark white streak at her temple tingle—a faint, icy reminder of the toll her magic exacted—but she remained silent. She had learned in Asshai that when dogs bark, you do not bark back; you wait until they tire themselves out, or until you need to burn the kennel.

Sitting near his mother’s right hand was Prince Jacaerys. Alongside the countless others in her court. It seemed no one was missing out on the meeting today. Jacaerys remains silent amongst all of this, his gaze unable to find a singular point it seemed. Melara’s heart sank. Her unwanted presence was clear, even Rhaenyra who seems slightly more welcoming than the rest seemed to falter.

Jacaerys’ dark brows are drawn tight. He was dressed impeccably in black velvet, the three-headed dragon embroidered over his heart in crimson thread, yet he looked strained. Melara could read the quiet, suffocating conflict written across his young face. He wanted desperately to support his mother, to maintain the dignity and order of the Black Council, but every instinct he possessed was screaming that Melara was a threat.

Baela sits next to him, just as silent, but her eyes are searching Jacaerys’ face, as though trying to decipher him. However, it seems she is desperately failing to figure out his opinion on the matter.

From the corner, Maester Gerardys coughs furtively “If i may, your Grace” he mutters before Rhaenyra nods “I do not agree that Lady Flowers is not to be trusted, for there has been no word of House Tyrell providing any support to the Greens. However, i do believe they are trying to be rid of the girl as blood magic is not reputable nor honorable.”

Rhaenyra’s head turns towards him, her eyes raising as if to say proceed. He does, much to Melara’s dismay. “Blood magic is reviled as an abomination- a primitive work of charlatans, shadowbinders and madmen. What would your supporters say if they caught wind of a witch in your ranks?”

If Melara wasn’t trying to make a good first impression, Maestar Gerdarys would be finding himself rather unwell the following morning. Instead, she plasters on a smile and imagines how amusing he’d look while bleeding out.

Rhaenyra scans the faces in the room, the faces of those who do not seem overly present. Her eyes land back on Melara and her features falter from desperation. She is outnumbered, but the fate of her sons- of her lineage- matter more. 

“Then she is to pose as Prince Jacaerys’ betrothed until further notice.” Rhaenyra decides. The council room erupts with roars of protests, including Daemon’s, whose dissent seems particularly dominating in the room, and expletive. “Any word of Lady Flowers' true position here that leaves this room will be considered an act of treason and thereby punished as such.”

Rhaenyra’s words are barely audible over the rising volume of the small court.

"My lords," Rhaenyra commanded, raising a single hand to cut through the rising murmurs. "Lady Melara will remain on Dragonstone as a ward of the Crown. She is not a prisoner, nor is she a member of this council. She will be housed in the Sea Dragon Tower. That is my decision."

“This is absurd-” Ser Alfred Broome roars, before quickly being cut off by Rhaenyra.

“That is enough, Ser Broome.” she snaps, “My decision is final. Unless you are questioning the crown, i suggest that you remain silent.”

A sullen silence fell over the room. Daemon merely hummed, turning his gaze back to the sea, while Ser Broome scowled and adjusted his sword belt while Lord Corlys leaned heavily on his cane, his weathered face carved from stone as he looked upon the decision with grim acceptance.

Rhaenyra stood taller, her regal chin raised, effectively suffocating the last dying embers of the council's outcry. "You are dismissed, my lords. All of you. Leave us."

There was an agonizing delay before anyone actually moved. Boots scraped against the black stone, heavy armor clanked, and whispers—sharp, biting, and dangerous—were exchanged in hushed tones as the lords and maesters began to file out of the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daemon lingered the longest. He passed Melara slowly, his shoulder nearly brushing hers, his cold eyes dropping to the pale skin of her neck as if measuring where Dark Sister’s blade would fit best. He offered no parting words, only a low, dangerous chuckle before sweeping out through the grand arched doors.

Baela was the last of the court to rise. She cast one final, deeply concerned glance toward Jace, her brows furrowed in utter bewilderment at his total, unnatural silence, before reluctantly following the others out into the gallery.

“You two, stay.” she orders. No one questioned who she was beckoning to. 

The heavy oak and iron doors groaned as the guards pulled them shut, leaving only three people in the vast, torchlit hall: Queen Rhaenyra, Prince Jacaerys, and the bastard witch of Highgarden.

The sudden absence of the council did not relieve the pressure in the room; it only concentrated it. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the pitch torches and the rhythmic, hollow roar of the Narrow Sea battering the basalt cliffs far below.

Rhaenyra let out a long, shuddering breath, the regal, impenetrable mask of the Queen slipping just a fraction to reveal the shattered, grieving mother beneath. She walked around the Painted Table, her soft leather slippers making almost no sound, until she stood at its head, looking between her eldest son and the quiet girl wrapped in black silk.

"Jacaerys," Rhaenyra said softly, her voice strained. "Speak. I can feel the thunder in your chest from here."

Jace did not move immediately. He remained rigid at his mother's right hand, his fists clenched so tightly against the carved edge of the map that his knuckles were stark white. Slowly, he lifted his head. His dark eyes—usually so full of earnest warmth, so desperate to prove his noble birth—were completely hollow, shadowed by the horrifying nightmare that still echoed in his mind from the night before.

When he looked at Melara, there was no longer any trace of the polite, welcoming prince who had offered her formal apologies in the corridor. The atmosphere between them had turned entirely foul. It was sharp, cold, and laced with an unyielding paranoia. He stared at her as if she were a viper coiled in the center of his mother's hall, a creature that had breached the sanctuary of his own head and laid claim to his deepest fears.

"A betrothal, Mother?" Jace’s voice finally broke the quiet, but it was raspier than usual, stripped of its courtly cadence. It was flat, devoid of emotion, yet burning with a quiet, furious desperation. "You bind my name—our family's name—to a shadow-binder? To the very thing the realm already reviles?"

"I bind your name to a cover, Jacaerys," Rhaenyra corrected, her tone sharp, though her eyes softened with maternal concern as she studied her son's unusually pale, haunted face. "The councilors are fools if they think we have the luxury of honor right now. If the Greens learn we harbor an Asshai-trained blood-caster, they will paint us as monsters to every septon from Oldtown to the Wall. But a betrothal to a daughter of Highgarden? Even a bastard? It explains her presence. It forces the realm to see an alliance, even if her coward stepmother refuses to march her knights."

"It makes us look desperate," Jace spat out, his eyes snapping back to Melara, accusing and lethal. "It makes me look like a fool who can be chained to a witch."

Melara did not flinch beneath his glare. She kept her posture unyielding, her dark eyes meeting his with a quiet, agonizing stillness. She could feel the ghost of her own magic clinging to him—she knew why he looked at her with such visceral disgust today.

"The Prince prefers the illusion of safety, Your Grace," Melara said smoothly, her voice a low, melodic purr that seemed to make Jace’s jaw clench even tighter. "He believes that if he wears fine velvet and speaks the proper names, the war will respect his chivalry. He does not wish to be lied to, yet he despises the truth when it is laid before him."

"Quiet, Lady Melara," Rhaenyra commanded, though there was no real heat in her voice, only a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. She stepped closer to her son, placing a gentle, trembling hand on Jace’s velvet-clad shoulder. "Jace. Look at me."

Jace tore his gaze away from Melara, looking at his mother. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced briefly by the raw, bleeding grief of a boy who had lost his little brother.

"I have lost Lucerys," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she pressed her thumb against Jace’s cheek, right over the spot of skin that had burned so unnaturally warm after his nightmare. "I will not lose you. The fire is coming for this family, Jacaerys. The Greens have Vhagar. They have the Iron Throne. If this girl’s sight—if her dark….magic—can give us even a fraction of a second's warning to save your life, I will lie to the entire realm. I will crown her myself if it keeps you breathing."

Jace swallowed hard, his throat working tightly. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell his mother about the nightmare—about the black water, the drowning, the feeling of Melara’s burning fingers branding his mind, and the absolute certainty that this girl was a walking harbinger of his doom. But he looked at the dark, hollow circles under his mother’s eyes, saw the crushing weight of a fractured kingdom resting on her slumping shoulders, and choked the words back down.

He could not break her further. He could not tell her that the "protection" she was forcing upon him felt like a death sentence.

"I understand, Your Grace," Jace said softly, the word Mother dying on his tongue, replaced by the hollow formality of a prince obeying his Queen.

Rhaenyra searched his face for a long moment, clearly sensing the deep, fractured rift between the two youths, but she was too tired to untangle it. She withdrew her hand and turned back to Melara.

"The betrothal is a lie for the court's ears, Lady Melara. You will not share the Prince's chambers, nor will you wear our dragon's crest until you have proven your visions are worth the dishonor we carry for harboring you," Rhaenyra stated, her voice hardening once more into that of a sovereign. "You will remain in the Sea Dragon Tower. You will be provided fitting clothes—black and dark red, as suits a ward of House Targaryen. You will eat in your rooms unless summoned. And you will speak of what you see in the flames to no one... save my son, and myself."

She pauses, taking one last long breath “This is not final, it is temporary. Until we have no proper use of you Lady Flowers, you are to act as his betrothed.”

"As you command, Your Grace," Melara bowed, a slow, graceful dip of her head that carried no true subservience, only a cold acknowledgement of their bargain.

Rhaenyra sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "Go then. Both of you. Jacaerys, escort your... fiancée to the lower gallery before the guards see fit to start spreading more rumors."

"Yes, Your Grace," Jace muttered.

He turned on his heel without waiting for Melara, his heavy boots echoing sharply against the stone as he marched toward the grand exit. Melara fell into step a few paces behind him, her dark silk robes whispering against the floorboards, a silent, beautiful shadow trailing in the wake of a prince who now utterly loathed her.

The walk back to the Sea Dragon Tower was conducted in an agonizing, suffocating silence.

Jace kept his posture straight, his chin set at a rigid, unnatural angle as they passed the lingering guards in the damp stone corridors. He was a prince of the realm, the heir to the Iron Throne, and he refused to give the whispering servants or the smirking sentries the satisfaction of seeing him falter. But beneath the polished black velvet of his doublet, his blood was boiling, thick and bitter with a rage he could barely contain.

He didn't offer Melara his arm. He didn't speak a single word to her. He simply marched three paces ahead, his heavy, iron-shod riding boots striking the damp basalt floor like sledgehammers, leaving the bastard witch of Highgarden to trail behind him like a quiet, unwelcome phantom. When they finally reached the heavy oak door of her assigned chambers, he halted, stepping aside just enough to let her pass without their sleeves brushing.

He didn't bid her good day. He didn't even meet her dark eyes. The moment the heavy iron latch clicked shut, Jace turned on his heel and strode away, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles along his cheeks throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

He needed to get off the ground. He needed to escape the damp, suffocating walls of Dragonstone, the claustrophobic council chambers, and the sudden, hideous weight of a fake betrothal that felt like a spiked collar chained around his neck.

In the high, cavernous heat of the Dragonmont, Vermax was waiting. The young dragon let out a low, chirping roar of welcome, his pearlescent green scales gleaming in the dark, volcanic heat of the cavern as sulfurous steam hissed from his nostrils. Mounting him was second nature, a sharp, familiar rhythm that usually brought Jace a sense of absolute clarity.

"Soves!" Jace barked in High Valyrian, his voice echoing off the scorched rock.

Vermax launched into the air, bursting out of the mountain's jagged mouth and plunging directly into the cold, wild squalls battering the Narrow Sea. The ocean wind whipped viciously against Jace’s face, stinging his cheeks and tearing the breath from his lungs as they climbed above the thick, dark clouds. Up here, wrapped in the deafening roar of the gale and the rhythmic, powerful snap of dragon wings, Jace usually felt untethered from the crushing weight of his life. Up here, he was a Targaryen. A dragonlord. Master of the skies.

But today, even the clouds offered no sanctuary.

Every time the wind howled through his hair, he heard the whispering voices of his mother's court. A bastard witch. An Asshai spellcaster. A Reach whore. Every time he looked down at the pitch-black ocean churning below, his mind violently yanked him back to the Chamber of the Painted Table—to the exact moment his mother had bound his name, his blood, and his political future to a girl who didn't even carry a noble surname.

His sudden, burning hatred for Melara Flowers wasn't just about her dark, unsettling magic, nor was it simply about her cryptic warnings of Luke's death. It was far deeper, far more personal than that.

Jace had spent his entire life living under the crushing weight of a single, lethal accusation. He knew what the realm whispered about his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. He knew that every lord in Westeros, from the Wall to Dorne, scrutinized his dark hair, his pug nose, and his every action, searching for definitive proof that he was an illegitimate fraud unworthy of the Iron Throne.

Because of that suffocating burden, Jace had forced himself to become the absolute ideal of a Westerosi prince. He mastered High Valyrian until his tongue bled over the syllables. He memorized ancient histories and war tactics. He adhered fanatically to courtly honor, chivalry, and noble customs. He wore his perfection like an unyielding suit of armor, believing that if he followed every rule, spoke every formal cadence, and acted with absolute nobility, no one could ever strip away his right to rule.

And then she had arrived.

Melara was a bastard who simply didn't care. She made no effort to blend in, no effort to play the delicate political games of the court, and no attempt to dress up her illegitimacy in polite lies. She used forbidden blood magic, spoke with a terrifyingly blunt disregard for Westerosi honor, and looked at the highborn lords of his mother's council as if they were squabbling, pitiful children.

To Jace, she was an insulting, terrifying mirror. She stood for everything he fought so desperately not to be. She was shameless in her illegitimacy, wild and untamed in her power, and utterly contemptuous of the noble rules Jace bled to uphold. And now, his mother had stripped away the prestige he had spent his whole life building, forcing him to play the devoted suitor to a girl who treated his precious "chivalry" like a childish illusion.

By the time Vermax spiraled back down toward the courtyard, landing with a heavy, bone-rattling thud on the blackened stone, Jace’s temper was at a ragged, knife-edge peak.

He unbuckled his riding leathers with harsh, jerky movements, his chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with salt water and ocean spray. He marched into the lower keep, wanting nothing more than to retreat to his private quarters, lock the door, and drown his rage in a pitcher of unwatered Arbor red.

Instead, Maester Gerardys was waiting for him at the base of the serpentine stairs, nervously clutching a thick leather scroll.

"My Prince," the old maester said, bowing hastily, his robes rustling against the stone. "Her Grace requested that you attend Lady Melara in the lower gallery. The seamstresses have brought the fabrics for her new wardrobe—"

Jace stopped dead in his tracks. He turned on the maester, his eyes dark with an uncharacteristic, dangerous fury that made the old man flinch. "The wardrobe?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low, vibrating in his throat. "The realm is on the brink of a bloody civil war, my brother's blood is barely cold in the waters of Shipbreaker Bay, and my mother expects me to approve gowns?"

"It... it is a matter of courtly appearance, Prince Jacaerys," Gerardys stammered, adjusting his heavy chain. "If she is to be presented as your betrothed to the visiting envoys, she cannot wear the plain, unmarked robes of a Highgarden exile. Every fabric must reflect House Targaryen. Her Grace insists you oversee the selection yourself, to project unified intent—"

"Enough," Jace snapped, cutting him off with a harsh, dismissive swipe of his hand.

He didn't wait for the maester to finish stammering. He turned on his heel and strode toward the lower gallery, his jaw set, his heavy boots echoing off the vaulted stone walls like thunderclaps. He was thoroughly, violently sick of playing along with this humiliating farce.

When he threw open the heavy arched doors to the gallery, the scene inside only made his blood run hotter.

The long room was littered with endless bolts of expensive cloth—crimson silks, deep black velvets, and silver-embroidered damasks. Two seamstresses were flitting about, holding up swatches of fabric against the light, while Melara stood on a low wooden pedestal at the center of the room. She was still wearing her simple, fitted black dress, her arms folded tightly over her chest, looking at the colorful silks with an expression of profound, bored detachment.

"Leave us," Jace commanded coldly, stepping into the room.

The seamstresses froze, looking between the prince's stormy, wind-swept face and the girl standing on the pedestal. They didn't need to be told twice. Dropping brief, frantic curtsies, they gathered their shears and scurried out of the room like rats, pulling the heavy oak doors shut behind them with a muffled thud.

Melara didn't jump. She slowly turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto his. The stark white streak at her temple gleamed like frost beneath the torchlight.

"My Prince," she purred, her voice carrying that maddening, calm cadence that made Jace want to put his fist through a stone wall. "Have you come to ensure my sleeves are cut to proper Valyrian standards? Or did your mother send you to check if I am secretly sewing Hightower banners into my hemlines?"

"Do not play games with me," Jace growled, pacing toward the pedestal like a caged dragon. He gestured sharply at the scattered bolts of velvet. "What is this ridiculous spectacle? Is this what you bargained for when you came crawling to Dragonstone? Fine silk and red thread to play the princess while my family bleeds?"

Melara stepped off the wooden pedestal, her dark silk skirts sweeping the floor with a soft, whispery rustle. She didn't shrink away from his hostility; if anything, she seemed amused by the sheer magnitude of his rage. "I asked for none of this, Jacaerys. It was your mother who decided my plain black dress was an eyesore to her grand council. I would happily remain in my old robes, but it seems your noble court is far too fragile to look upon a bastard without a velvet wrapping to make her digestible."

"Do not speak of my mother," Jace snapped, stepping aggressively into her space. He towered over her, his eyes blazing with a dark, suffocating heat. "And do not pretend you are above this. You came to Dragonstone seeking safety because your own house cast you out like rubbish! You manipulated my mother's grief with your dark tales, and now my family's name is dragged through the dirt to shelter a witch who bleeds on braziers!"

Melara’s eyes narrowed, the cool, untouchable mask slipping for a split second to reveal a sharp, lethal heat beneath. "I gave your mother the truth. Something no one else in your precious, cowardly council has the spine to speak. If your pride is wounded because my presence stains your precious reputation, then that is your own weakness, Prince. Not mine."

Jace let out a harsh, bitter laugh, stepping even closer until there were barely two inches between them. "My reputation? You stand there in your dark robes, looking down your nose at rules and traditions that have held this realm together for centuries. You play with shadow magic, spit on courtly manners, and laugh at honor because you have none!"

"Honor?" Melara took a step toward him, her chin rising, her gaze locking onto his with terrifying, unyielding intensity. "Honor is a luxury for men who die young in pretty armor, Jacaerys. You sit on your high horse, reciting your Valyrian verses, polishing your armor, and bowing to old men, desperate to prove to the world that you are a true prince. You hate me because I do not hide what I am. I am a bastard, and I do not pretend that a velvet coat or a royal title makes my blood any different from the mud beneath my boots."

The words struck Jace like a physical blow, hitting the exact, raw wound he had spent his entire life trying to protect. The color drained from his face, replaced instantly by a dark, furious flush.

"You know nothing of my blood," Jace hissed, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his dagger, his knuckles turning stark white as he leaned into her space, his breath coming heavy and ragged.

"I know you are terrified," Melara whispered back, not backing down a single inch, her dark eyes flashing in the firelight. She looked down at his hand gripping the blade, then dragged her eyes back up to meet his furious glare, her voice dipping into a low, dangerous murmur. "You are terrified that no matter how many Targaryen banners you wear over your heart, no matter how many dragons you fly, the realm will only ever see what you try so desperately to hide. You hate me because when you look at me, you see the truth of what you are—a boy playing at being a king."

"Silence," Jace spat, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated rage, his body rigid as steel.

"Make me," Melara challenged softly, tilting her head, her dark silk robes rustling as she held her ground against his looming frame.

For several long, suffocating seconds, neither of them moved. The air in the gallery crackled with a violent, toxic tension—a heavy, suffocating hatred forged from bruised pride, secret fears, and the terrifying realization that they were now bound together in a lie that neither of them could escape.

“Jace.” You said his name with such certainty that he couldn’t help but smile before you had even reached him.

He was still sitting on the couch when you made your way over, carefully navigating through the crowd with a drink still in your hand, your cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol and the warmth of the room. You looked far too pleased with yourself, and Jacaerys knew from experience that meant trouble.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to regret whatever happens next?” he murmured as you stopped in front of him.

You ignored the question completely, instead looking down at him with a small smile before deciding there was no reason to stand there any longer.

The next thing he knew, you were lowering yourself into his lap.

Jace let out a quiet laugh, his hands immediately moving to your waist to steady you when you nearly knocked the both of you backwards. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, completely comfortable as you settled against him. “Would you have moved?”

He thought about it for a moment, his expression already giving away the answer, “no.”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head, but the smile on his face gave him away. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you’ve won an argument before I’ve even answered.”

You smiled proudly, resting your chin against his shoulder. “Because I know you.”

And unfortunately, you were right.

Jacaerys could never stay annoyed at you for very long. Not when you were looking at him like that, not when you were curled into him like you belonged there, not when you were humming along to the music while completely ignoring everyone else around you.

After a moment, he glanced down at you and noticed the way your eyes were starting to droop slightly. “How much did you drink tonight?”

You immediately looked offended. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re sitting on me.”

“I always sit on you.”

“Not usually when you’re struggling to keep your balance.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look serious, but it didn’t quite work when you were already smiling.“I’m fine.”

“I know.” The softness of his answer made you pause.

“You do?”

Jace brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, his expression fond despite himself. “Yeah. You’re just a little more affectionate when you’ve been drinking.”

You considered this carefully before nodding. “That’s true.”

He laughed quietly, slightly surprised that you actually agreed, “you admit it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you said, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric of his shirt. “I like you.”

The simplicity of it caught him off guard. You said things like that so easily when drunk. With no hesitation, no embarrassment, no second guessing yourself. You just simply looked at him and told him exactly what you were thinking.

The confidence in your voice made Jace laugh, his hand resting comfortably against your waist as he looked down at you. “You like me?” he teased, raising an eyebrow as though he couldn’t possibly believe it.

You stared at him for a second, genuinely confused by the question. “Jace.”

“What?”

“I’m literally sitting on your lap.”

He tried to hide his smile, but you could already see it forming. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

You looked at him like he was being ridiculous. “It does.”

“How?”

Your answer came immediately, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I don’t sit on just anyone’s lap.”

That was what finally got him.

He shook his head fondly as he pulled you a little closer. Somehow, you could make the simplest things sound like undeniable proof, and he didn’t have the heart to argue with you.

“There it is,” you whispered almost cooingly, smiling as soon as you heard him. “I like when you laugh.”

Jacaerys looked at you for a moment, his expression softening almost instantly. “You spend a lot of time trying to make me laugh.”

“Because I like seeing you happy.”

And that was the kind of thing you said that always ruined his ability to tease you.

Because underneath all the playful comments and the drunken confidence, there was still just you. The person who noticed when he was tired, who remembered little things about him, who made him feel loved without even trying.

His thumb brushed gently over your cheek. “You know you’re very sweet when you’re drunk?”

You immediately frowned. “Only when I’m drunk?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I think you’re sweet all the time.”

Your expression softened, and for a second all the teasing disappeared. “You’re my favourite person.”

Jace smiled slightly. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

He looked away for a moment, trying to hide how much that affected him, but you caught it anyway, cheekily following his gaze.

You noticed the way the corners of his mouth lifted and immediately caught the slight warmth creeping across his cheeks.

“You’re blushing,” you say, looking far too pleased with yourself.

Jacaerys shook his head, trying to deny it even though the smile he was fighting only made it worse. “I’m not.”

You only gave him a knowing look, your fingers still absentmindedly playing with the fabric of his shirt. “You so are.”

“It’s warm in here,” he argued, glancing away once more as if that would somehow make his excuse believable. The way he avoided your eyes only made you smile more. “You’re lying.”

And he knew you were right, which was the most frustrating part.

After a while had passed, you had finally settled down against him, your head resting comfortably against his shoulder while his hand moved slowly along your back.

“You know you’re very clingy tonight?” Jace murmured, though there was no real complaint in his voice.

You immediately shook your head, refusing the accusation. “I’m not?”

He looked down at you, amused, because the evidence was quite literally sitting in front of him. “You haven’t moved from my lap in half an hour.”

“Because it’s comfortable.”

“You could sit somewhere else.”

The words were playful, almost automatic, and the teasing look on his face gave away the fact that he didn’t mean them for even a second. He was far too content with you exactly where you were, curled against him like a sleepy cat that had decided his lap was the only acceptable place to be.

You looked up at him suspiciously, as if you were trying to figure out whether he was serious. “But I don’t want to.”

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, but his hand only tightened slightly around your waist.

You smiled, already knowing you had won.

“You love it.”

And unfortunately for him, you were right.

He did.

Jace could pretend to be bothered by your clinginess all he wanted, but the truth was he liked having you close. He liked the way you reached for him without thinking, the way you always seemed to find him in a crowded room, and the way you trusted him enough to completely relax in his arms.

So Jacaerys didn’t tell you to move.

He didn’t tell you to go drink water or that you were being ridiculous. He just pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let you stay exactly where you wanted to be.

❀ Principal Dancer → The highest rank in a ballet company. Principals perform the leading roles and are typically the company's most established artists.

❀ First Soloist → A rank below Principal Dancer. First Soloists often perform major supporting roles and may dance leading roles as first or second cast, depending on the production.

❀ Ballet Master → A former professional dancer responsible for rehearsing the company, coaching dancers, maintaining choreography and artistic standards, and acting as the link between the artistic director and performers.

❀ Barre → The handrail fixed along the studio wall, and by extension the first part of every ballet class. Dancers begin each class at the barre to warm up, strengthen technique and prepare for centre work.

❀ To 'mark it' → To rehearse choreography without performing it at full physical intensity. Dancers indicate the movement, spacing and timing while conserving energy and reducing injury risk.

❀ Pas de deux → Literally 'step for two.' A duet between two dancers, usually involving partnering work, lifts and coordinated choreography. Often the emotional centrepiece of a ballet.

❀ Marley → The specialised vinyl flooring used in most dance studios and theatres.

❀ Cast / Second Cast → Most productions have multiple casts for the same role. The first cast usually performs opening nights and the majority of performances, while the second cast dances selected performances and serves as cover.

❀ Partnering → The technical work between two dancers, including lifts, supported turns, weight-sharing and assisted balances.

❀ Corps de ballet → The ensemble of the company. Corps dancers perform in groups.

❀ Arabesque → A classical ballet position in which the dancer balances on one leg while extending the other behind them.

❀ Promenade → A partnered movement in which one dancer slowly turns the other while they hold a balanced position. Common in classical pas de deux.

Jason cut the engine when you arrived home. The two of you were just coming home from a date. He had taken you to an upscale restaurant to make up for all the time he has had to spend away from you recently due to missions and patrols.

He got off of the motorcycle before helping you off of it as well, helping you with your helmet. Your hair was messier now due to having to wear the helmet, your black heels in your hands since you couldn't wear them while he was driving. Your red dress hugged your curves, cutting off mid-thigh.

"If I had known you were going to take us to the restaurant on your motorcycle I would have picked out a different outfit." You chuckled.

"I'm glad you didn't." Jason said as a smirk tugged at his lips. "Seeing you on my motorcycle in that little red dress does things to me." His gaze swept over your body. Before you could respond, he spun you around so your back was facing him. He bent you over his motorcycle which caused a gasp to escape past your lips.

He hummed as he let his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress up as his hands trailed upwards, the fabric bunching up at your waist. "Jason, what are you doing?" You questioned as you looked back at him before looking around at your surroundings. "Someone could see us."

"No one's gonna see us, doll." He murmured, landing a slap on your ass. You jolted, a sharp gasp tumbling from your lips. "All you need to do is spread those pretty legs and keep quiet. You can do that for me baby, can't you?" He asked as his fingers lightly brushed over your clothed pussy. You let out a shaky whimper as you nodded.

"Good girl." He cooed as he tugged your panties down your legs. You stepped out of them before he shoved them in his pocket. He kicked your ankles apart and ran his hands up the backs of your thighs, his hands squeezing your ass. You whimpered quietly as he spread you open, displaying your pussy.

"Fuck, look at that pretty pussy. She's so wet for me already." He growled as he squatted down before licking a long strip up your center. You let out a shaky breath, your cunt clenching around nothing as he licked up your core slowly again. "God, you taste so good baby. I could eat this pussy all night." He said as he stood up straight and unbuckled his belt. "Although I can't wait any longer. I need to be inside of you."

You herd the sound of fabric rustling behind you as he tugged down his slacks and boxers. You gasped as he slid the tip of his cock between your folds, collecting your arousal on it. He slapped the tip against your clit before sliding into you, bottoming out of you with the first thrust.

"Oh my god," you gasped, a moan tumbling from your parted lips as you gripped the set of the motorcycle tighter. He gripped your hips as he continued to thrust into you, keeping his pace slow, causing you to feel every inch of him dragging against your walls.

"That's it." He groaned and picked up his pace, his hips slapping against your ass. "Take my cock, pretty girl. Just like that." He murmured.

Your pussy clenched around his cock as he slammed into you. One of his hands left your hip, sliding up your side and into your hair, gripping the strands. He tugged you back, pulling you up so your back arched, your hands still gripping the seat of the motorcycle. He leaned in and licked a long strip up your neck before nipping on your ear. "J- Jason!" You cried out as his cock hit your g-spot over and over again.

Jason slapped a hand over your mouth. "You know I love it when you make those pretty noises for me but, I need you to be quiet. I need you to be a good girl for me, okay?" He murmured as he shoved two of his digits past your lips. You nodded, whimpering around his fingers.

You lightly sucked on his fingers as he fucked you, moaning around them. "Fuck, sweetheart." He grunted into your ear, his thumb tracing over your jawline while his other hand kept his tight grip on your hip. "You're squeezing my cock so tight."

He pulled his fingers out of your mouth, wiping your saliva on your lips before swapping his fingers for your lips, his mouth drinking in your desperate, helpless moans. His pace transformed from steady to relentless and merciless. The motorcycle beneath you shook faintly as he slammed into you, the only sound filling the night air being the sound of skin slapping against skin.

You could feel the tight coil in your stomach pulling taut as you got closer and closer to your orgasm. He gripped your jaw tightly, tilting you head to look back at him as much as you could. "Look at me." He demanded, his voice low and rough. "I want you to keep your eyes on me when you cum." He growled as his other hand left your hip to slide between your thighs, his fingers toying with your swollen clit. "Cum for me, doll. Milk my fucking cock."

Your brain went fuzzy, thighs shaking, stars exploding in your vision as you came all over his cock. You bit your lower lip roughly to hold in your cry, the taste of copper hitting your tongue. Your walls squeezed his cock, fluttering around him as your rode out your high.

The feeling of you pulsing around him sent Jason over the edge. He bit your shoulder, his groan vibrating against your skin as he drove himself inside of you with one more frantic thrust before stilling inside of you, painting your walls with his release. His whole body shuddered as he held onto you tightly while his orgasm washed through him.

He let out a long sigh, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades. You let out a shaky exhale, your legs trembling so much that you had a hard time standing up. He stood up, tucking himself back into his pants before scooping you up, planting a kiss to your temple. "You did so good. My good girl." He whispered into your hair as he carried you into the house.

For the rest of the night he made sure to take good care of you. He cleaned you up gently and made you up a bath, insisting on washing your hair and your body for you. Then he made you some tea just the way you liked it before settling into bed with you, holding you close to his chest until you fell asleep snuggled in his arms.

❀ end note: thank you again to my bestie for the request! ily 🤍

When your previous rooms on the other side of the castle had been deemed unsafe due to its proximity to a crumbling brick tower, you had been moved to the ones you currently resided in about nine moons ago. The view was rather magnificent, overlooking Blackwater Bay and its fleet of ships, and the wardrobe was larger than the one in your old rooms. The only complaint that you had was with the occupant of the rooms adjacent.

You had never had any issues with your cousin Jacaerys, aside from a few spats during your childhood. He was always cordial to you at feasts, made you laugh occasionally during dinner, and would dance with you every so often at balls. But ever since you moved in next to him, you have grown to hate Jacaerys.

Tonight was a particularly bad one; sleep was rather impossible due to the sheer amount of noise coming from Jacaerys’ chambers. You tossed and turned in your sheets, trying to position a pillow over your head in an attempt to block out the sound of repeated moaning. Lady Stokeworth had entered his rooms nearly two hours ago, and you had hoped that their dalliance would have been completed by now. She was one of the louder ones; rather than just the sound of the bed banging against the wall or skin slapping against skin, you also had to endure a rather vivid image of what was taking place.

Once upon a time, it had made you flush, hearing Jace’s affairs in bed and imagining what such a thing was like. Although you would never admit it, you had even slipped your hand between your legs on occasion and pretended it was you sharing your handsome cousin’s bed. But now that this pattern of disturbance had increased in frequency to every single night, your sleep was being affected and you had grown rather angry. 

After a few minutes of particularly loud moaning, swearing, and even screams, the noise finally subdued. You waited until you heard Jacaerys’ door open with a creak, then waited several more moments before you could be certain that his companion had departed. You pulled on your dressing gown, stormed out of your room, and banged your fists against his door.

“Did you forget something?” Jacaerys mumbles as he opens the door, mistaking you for Lady Stokeworth. Once he realizes his mistake, his head cocks to the side and he raises a brow. “Oh. Cousin. How may I be of service to you at this late hour?” He has had the decency to re-dress, although sweat still beads along his forehead and his cheeks are reddened from the physical exertions he was just engaging in. 

“Yes Jace, it is rather late. How many more sleepless nights will I be forced to endure due to you entertaining guests?”  He should be embarrassed, ashamed even to be called out on his behavior in this fashion. But the prince shrugs his shoulders coyly as he glances over you to examine the empty corridor.

“As I told you the last time you pounded against my door, and the time before that, you are more than welcome to find new rooms if you are so inconvenienced by my recreational activities,” Jace tells you smoothly, as if you are simply discussing something benign such as tax records. His eyes are cold against your skin, noticing that your dressing gown was haphazardly thrown on in a way that leaves your left shoulder bare. Feeling his gaze, you quickly yank it over your exposed skin and cross your arms across your chest.

“I do not want to request new chambers, Jacaerys! The only other ones available are either crumbling or currently flooded! Why don’t you move into one of those?” You snap at him. 

“I was here first,” he tells you plainly, to which you reply with a loud groan and a stamp of your foot.

“Why can’t you just go visit a brothel? Why must you subject me to your promiscuity, night after night? It is improper to expose a princess such as myself to acts of depravity and lust!” You hiss at him. Peeking out from his collar is a bright red mark, blooming into what will certainly be a purple bruise come morning time. 

“Gods, do not act the part of an innocent maiden now! Have you forgotten it was I who discovered upon your dalliance with Lord Darklyn three moons ago?” His smug smile has faded away, revealing a frown as he recalls the memory. He had in fact seen you with Lord Darklyn that time in the library, but it had been the first and only incident of such occasion. “Oh please My Lord! Take me now, fuck me with your big cock and make me scream your name! Hurry, before someone notices we are missing!” His imitation of your voice is rather poor, but it irks you all the same. 

“Fuck you, Jace! You’re such a prick!” You raise your voice slightly, but are careful not to shout loud enough to alert any guards that might be patrolling nearby. “That was one time, not a nightly performance! I have not slept properly in weeks because of you and the excess of noise being produced in your chambers!” This is all true, but it seems to make no difference to your stupid, smug cousin. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between the two of you and making you all too aware of the way he currently smells, strong and musky and dizzying.

“Is it truly the noise that brings you to my door?” He questions, his eyes meeting yours with a new intensity.

“What other reason could I possibly have for disrupting my evening? I have gotten so little sleep this week that I can barely make it through the morning meals without collapsing from exhaustion!” 

“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced. “I do not think that is the reason.” Jace holds your gaze, luring you into speaking once again.

“Enlighten me, then, since I am apparently too stupid to know my own motives.”

“I think—” He pauses, shifting his hand slightly so that his fingertips lightly brush against your arm. “—my dear cousin, that you wish it was you in my bed receiving my attentions.”

Quickly, almost too quickly, you scowl and step away from him. Yet, you are unable to conceal the flush that is creeping across your face.

“You think much too highly of yourself, Jacaerys,” You tell him with as much restraint as you can muster.

“Perhaps I do. But that does not change the fact that you are here, speaking to me during the hour of the owl, wearing your sheer little nightdress.” He glances down at said nightgown, which you had not realized had been revealed by your dressing gown having slipped to the floor when you pulled away from him. “You know, if you are curious about what causes all of these noises you hear, all you need do is ask me nicely.”

One of his dark curls has fallen out of place, draping over his forehead and sticking to his skin. He is right; it is the hour of the owl, and therefore it is much too late for you to have a reasonable conversation without being overcome with strange emotions. You bend down to retrieve your dressing gown, balling it up in between your fists before rising.

“Fine. You wish to taunt me, cousin? You underestimate my determination in getting what I want,” you tell him. 

“And remind me what exactly it is that you want?” His brow is raised and the corners of his lips have turned upwards into a testing smirk.

“Sleep.” You tell him as you turn on your heel and stomp back into your room, slamming the door loudly behind you. 

Although you cannot see his face, you know exactly what it looks like as you hear him laugh, before the sound of his own door closing follows. 

As you try to sleep, your mind races with the examination of past moments that you previously thought had gone unnoticed by Jace. The way your eyes lingered on him a beat longer than was proper, how you instructed your maids to lace your gown tighter for events that you knew he would be in attendance, and how you had once bribed a visiting lady to switch seats with you during a feast. Surely Jacaerys would have said something earlier, right? 

Moments before you finally drifted into sleep, a sudden idea struck you. What if the increase of visitors to his chambers was because he had noticed? What if he was trying to make you jealous? Clearly, he believed you to be. Jace was a Prince of the Realm who always seemed to get his way, but you were a Princess of the very same Realm, and you would not allow him to think that his tricks had worked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you awoke determined. Although you did not have a restful night, it had certainly been a revealing one. Your eyes were heavy and your limbs stiff, but you instructed your maids to dress you in one of your more extravagant red gowns and braid a portion of your hair into a thick circlet. You chose a short necklace to accentuate the low neckline of your dress, and applied rouge to your cheeks and lips.

“Has a new suitor come to court, Princess?” One of the maids asked as she placed pins into your hair. Lucy was her name, she had beautiful auburn hair and was rather sharp of wit. You laughed at her remark, but shared a knowing smile.

“No, I simply mean to catch the attention of one I may have overlooked in the past,” you admitted to her. 

“Did the Prince’s visitors keep you up again last night, Princess?” She lowered her voice so as to not be overheard, but you were certain most of the staff also knew about Jacaerys’ activities. 

“Oh, this has nothing to do with him,” you tell her quickly, a partial lie. “I have simply decided that I need to reconsider some of the lords at court.” 

Lucy nods but says nothing else, straightening out your necklace before finishing with your hair. You hope that her inclination about Jacaerys is not due to a disheveled appearance on your part. But nonetheless, you are sure that you will be able to achieve your means even if you do appear to be slightly under-rested.

The morning is a rather dull one, seeing as everyone is busy preparing for the feast tonight. A host from Highgarden and the Eyrie have both arrived, a marriage between the heir of the latter to a daughter of the former that hopes to receive the Queen’s blessing before the wedding in a fortnight. You have always found the young Lady Tyrell to be dull and uninteresting, but you have heard some interesting tales about her older brother, who you had met a handful of times throughout your life. Knighted at five and ten, winner of countless tourneys, and the heir to Highgarden, Laurence Tyrell was your target for the evening. 

You could only hope that he was not so honourable that he would refuse a visit to your private chambers. If Jacaerys would not listen to reason, then he would be forced to endure a fraction of what he had put you through as of late. If he could have loud guests in his room at strange hours of the night, then what was preventing you from doing the same?

When the sun finally dimmed and members of court gathered in the Great Hall, you remained behind in hopes of making a grand entrance once the cups were heavy and the dancing had begun. You paced around your chambers for nearly two hours before you finally decided that enough time had surely passed. But to your great disappointment, the feast was so lively that no one noticed your arrival. Over a hundred casks of wine were scattered among the hall, likely a gift from the Tyrells. The music was loud and the sound of roaring laughter flooded your head. 

The first person who caught your attention was Jacaerys. He was dressed in black and red, wearing a sword on his hip and a charming smile on his face. Standing next to him was a Vale girl with thick blonde hair and plump lips, laughing as your cousin leaned down to whisper something in her ear. You scowled, and to your great disappointment Jacaerys’ line of sight was in the perfect position to notice this. He smiled boldly at you, his eyes staring into yours as he said something to the girl that made her shriek and playfully swat at his arm.

You forced yourself to turn away, remembering the plan that you wished to set in motion. You moved through the hall quickly, finding a glass of rich Arbor wine that you drained as you scanned each table and the Lords surrounding them. When you finally noticed a young man with chestnut colored hair and green eyes wearing a golden rose at the fastening of his cloak, you smiled and continued in the direction of where he stood, speaking to a group of knights. 

Right as you stepped in front of him, you purposefully kicked your foot against the leg of a chair, faking a stumble to the ground and allowing the empty wine glass to loudly drop. As any chivalrous young lord would, Lord Tyrell immediately rushes to your aid, stooping down to offer you assistance.

“My lady, are you alright?” You take his arm and rise slowly, trying your very best not to grin. Once he sees the dragon insignia on your dress and recognizes your face, he awkwardly clears his throat. “Apologies, Princess. Have you been hurt?” 

“No need for that, my lord,” you tell him as you straighten out your dress, pretending to examine it for any rips or tears. “I believe I am quite fine, but I thank you nonetheless. It is a pleasure to see you again. Please tell your mother that I congratulate her on making such a fine match for your sister, for I do hope to be invited to the wedding.” You smile at him sweetly and bat your eyelashes. 

“Well, it is to be a lavish affair. I am sure my sister would be honored to have a Princess in attendance on such a special day.” You are unsure if he is aware of how much said sister dislikes you, but nod your head nonetheless. “Your gown is quite beautiful, but I am sorry to say that this is the first time all evening I have noticed it.” 

He continues to flatter you with compliments and you receive each one gracefully. Laurence is quite handsome, with his emerald color eyes, broad shoulders, and deep laughter. But what is most attractive to you is the fact that he seems to be enamored with you, unaware that the ridiculous fall was a ploy to catch his attention.

You spend the next few hours on his arm, accepting every dance and cup of wine and joke that is offered by Laurence. He tells you stories of Highgarden and tourneys as you glide along the dance floor, charming him further with every bite of your lip or bat of your lashes. Although you try your very best to keep all distractions to a minimum, you are unable to stop yourself from noticing that your cousin seems to also be succeeding in his pursuit of the opposite sex.

Every time you glance across the hall, you spot Jacaerys with his fingers brushing against a Lady’s arm, standing closer than he should, tucking hair behind her ear, or running his fingers through his own as he tosses his head back in laughter. He does not stay with any one girl for long, he seems to have made it a mission to speak to every young woman in attendance.

But worst of all, is the fact that he always catches you staring. Even when it is only for a moment, his dark eyes capture yours and force you to look away. It is maddening, but you cannot stop yourself from repeatedly searching for his head of dark curls amongst the crowd. You grow furious at his noticing, becoming even more determined to ensure that Laurence Tyrell leaves with you.

When the night has grown late and guests begin to depart, he is still at your side. He is telling you something about his sister’s intended’s prowess with lance, your hands pressed into his as you giggle. 

“Oh! It almost slipped my mind, but you must see my new map of the Reach. I had it commissioned by the finest painter in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” you tell him as you squeeze his hands. No such map exists, but you need some excuse to lure him back to your rooms. 

“I will most certainly call upon you tomorrow, Princess. I would be delighted to see it,” he assures you. Your smile falters for a moment as you pout your lips. Hours of plotting will not be ruined by a falsehood of chivalry. 

“Come tomorrow, I may have lost all interest in maps. Allow me to show you now,” you insist, squeezing his hands and pushing your bosom forward. “My chambers are in a well-secluded branch of the Keep. No prying eyes would disturb us.” 

Laurence immediately catches your line of reasoning, his eyes widening as he gulps rather awkwardly. He nods, and allows you to lead him out of the ballroom and into the darkened corridor. Your heart is beating as you race through the Keep, breath catching in your throat as you ascend the two staircases leading to your chambers. 

When you enter, you see that Lucy is scrubbing down your windows. She turns to look at you, noticing Laurence in the doorframe. Grinning at you with excitement, she quickly excuses herself and exits the room. You lock the door behind her. 

“Your chambers are lovely, Princess,” Laurence tells you as you approach him. He is unfastening his cloak as your hands reach around his neck. 

“Yes, and the walls are completely soundproof,” you lie before bringing your lips to his in a hasty kiss. He tastes like perfume and his tongue presses against yours too firmly, but you moan loudly as his fingers tangle in your hair. 

You are rather impressed by how little time he wastes, quickly reaching around your midsection to begin unlacing your dress. Your own fingers tug at the hem of his shirt and start to lift it upwards.

But both of your movements come to a sudden halt when a fist begins to bang against the door.

“Cousin! I need to speak with you!” Jacaerys’ voice is immediately recognizable. Laurence attempts to pull away from you, but you grip his shoulders tightly. 

“Go away Jace! I am pre-occupied,” you shout back at him. The man in front of you has turned a shade of deep red, and you can feel your own pulse racing. You had not expected Jace to confront you until after your time with Laurence was finished. 

“Open this door at once!” The handle of the door rattles wildly, giving you almost no time to decide your next move. Within seconds, Jace has pried open the door and you have pushed Laurence away from you. 

“There is a matter of importance that we need to discuss,” he tells you rather gleefully, completely unbothered by the fact that there is a man in your chambers in a state of undress. “How dare you barge into my rooms like this? Have you no decency?” You snarl at him. “Decency?” He chimes snidely, eyes narrowing on the part of your gown that has been unlaced. Jace reaches for Laurence’s discarded cloak, folding it up neatly as he meets your gaze.“Save me the performance, cousin. Surely you are not so naive to think that no one would notice your sudden departure? An unmarried Targaryen Princess leading a young Lord into her chambers is certainly quite the scandal.” You wish more than anything that you had some sort of smart remark to snap back at him, but silence lingers its place. Jace knows that he has you beaten, an air of smugness surrounding him. You notice the reddish mark peeking out from his collarbone, a reminder that these sort of rules do not apply to him.

“Lord Laurence, I suggest that you leave now. I require a private word with my cousin,” he tells him as he hands him back the cloak. Laurence glances at you pitifully, to which you sigh in frustration. 

“Apologies, my prince. Princess,” he excuses himself with a quick nod, and practically sprints out of your room. The door creaks as he exits, and the sound of his racing footsteps can be heard for a mere moment afterwards. Furious, you turn to face Jacaerys. 

“Where do you get the nerve to act as if you do?” You approach him angrily, making no effort to conceal how distraught he has made you.

“Dear cousin, what were you expecting? That your pursuits would go unnoticed?” Jace has taken off his cloak, draping it across the back of your chair as if it was his own. 

“I expected that you would be too preoccupied with luring that Vale girl into your rooms to be concerned with whom I chose to invite into mine,” you snap back at him. There is a slight chill in the air, seeing as you forgot to close your window earlier in your haste to arrive at the feast. 

“It seems as if you spend far too much time worrying about who I keep company with. Are you jealous, Princess?” He is staring you down now, his deep brown eyes piercing into yours, his smug grin setting you aflame. 

“Is it unfair for me to wish for peace and quiet during the deepest hours of the night? I have not had a full sleep in months because of you!” You shout at him, throwing your hands up in frustration. Jace laughs, brushing a stray curl off of his forehead as he straightens his shoulders.

“I have needs, cousin, ones that I will not begrudge me of because you have put up a facade of being a prude,” he tells you rather dismissively as his fingers trace over the back of your chair. The shift of his posture has once again revealed the red mark on his neck, a reminder of the start of your quarrel. 

“Have you never considered the idea that I also have needs?” You take a step closer to him, and you immediately notice the heat that is radiating from him. “Wants and desires that I have been forced to push aside due to the nature of your nighttime activities! Do you imagine how difficult it is for me to entertain suitors, when they must be subject to the sounds of a Prince having his way with half the women in the castle on a nightly basis?”

 Jace’s gaze becomes steadfast as his demeanor shifts entirely. Rather than smirking at you, he stares with curiosity. 

“You should have come to me. If it was truly desire motivating your actions, why not cross the hall and ask for my assistance?” 

You are speechless for a moment— he has brought to surface a feeling that has long been nestled deep inside of you. Jace is the handsome Prince of Dragonstone, of course you had desired him, just like all the other ladies of court did. You had always believed him to be taunting you with his thinly-veiled offers and crude jokes. But what if he truly wanted you as you wanted him?

“Such a thing would scandalize all of King’s Landing, Jacaerys. You are the heir, and I your cousin. We will both be betrothed to others sooner rather than later,” you tell him, an attempt to re-direct. 

“But dragging Lord Tyrell into your bed is not a scandal? Do not lie to me, cousin.” He steps closer to you, pressing his palms into the table as he lowers his face to meet yours. “Will you finally admit that you desire me? Or will you allow petty grievances and little embarrassments to get in the way of taking what you want?” 

He has posed a challenge, one that he knows you are unable to back down from. Jace’s jaw clenches as he gazes upon you, his face sculpted by the gods of Valyria themselves. You glance downwards as his hands, thick and hardened by hours in the training yard. Imagining the way that his fingers would feel against your waist, around your neck, and in between your thighs makes your mouth water. Why does it feel so wrong to want him so badly?

Before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between the two of you and press your lips to his. Immediately, he kisses you back with the maddening hunger of a starving man. You latch your fingers onto his dark strands of hair, closing your eyes as he claims you with his mouth. 

The kiss is sloppy and desperate, his spit mixing with yours as his hands find your waist and pull your torso flush against his. As expected, he is quite skilled with his mouth. A few minutes of kissing leaves you practically dripping, your fingers stumbling for the buttons of his doublet. 

Rather than allowing you to undress him, Jacaerys breaks from the kiss and swivels you around, positioning your back to face him. He begins tugging at your laces, removing your gown with ease and allowing it to puddle at your feet. His intentions are clear in the way that his hands now trace against your skin and lips nip against your ear.

“Tell me, how many unassuming lords have you let have you? Was Darklyn the only one?” His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You should lie— tell him that there have been dozens, if only to provoke him. But he has seen through your earlier fib, and you are certain that he would know if you were to do so again.

“He has been the only one,” you tell him truthfully. Jacaerys brushes your hair over your left shoulder, giving him full access to the bare skin of your neck. A soft caress of his fingers against the divot of your neck causes your breath to catch.

“How many times?” His other hand remains steady against your waist, the ruby ring on his index finger pressed against the fabric of your petticoat. 

“Once. If you do not count the time in the library.” Jace hums in response, blowing hot air against your neck. You feel incredibly vulnerable in this moment as he holds you, your usual sharp wit seeming to have vanquished completely. 

“Was he good?” His voice seems to drop a full octave as he raises this question, and you pray that he stays positioned behind you, not wishing for him to see how deeply your face has flushed. 

“I suppose so,” you tell him quickly, thinking back to the night that you had given your maidenhead to the young lord. In truth, it had been rather painful, the affair only lasting a few minutes and leaving you rather disappointed. 

“You suppose so?” Jace’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers firmly pressing your midsection backwards so as to rest against his chest. His other hand leaves your shoulder and begins to trail down the front of your undergarments. You nod your head slightly, biting your lip as he begins to bunch up the fabric of your skirts, exposing your legs to the breeze that sweeps through the room.

“Well, that means you have much to learn.” His lips finally press against the skin of your neck as his hand slips between your thighs. When he feels you stiffen, he gives you a softer peck. “Do not fret, cousin. I promise I will take good care of you.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but all that leaves your lips is a gasp. Jace drags the pad of his finger across your entrance, tracing your outline before firmly pressing against your bundle of nerves. You feel his teeth scape against your ear, nibbling it in a way that practically makes your spine twist. 

“Jacaerys— “ You start, but are silenced by the sudden sensation of his finger drawing circles against you. Your body instinctively presses deeper against his chest, and you can feel his growing erection prodding at your lower back. The air has become thick with the smell of Jace, a mix of smoke and pine that lingers whenever he is near.

His mouth begins to trace your neck as two of his thick fingers enter you swiftly. The whimper that leaves you is pathetic, and you practically mewl once he begins thrusting them in and out of you. Wanting to preserve a bit of your dignity, you bite down on your lip in an attempt to stifle the sounds leaving you.

“Poor little Princess, all alone in her room at night. How many times have you wished for me to slip into your bed during the hour of the wolf?” His voice is deep and raspy, yet it feels like honey against your ear. Jace’s fingers continue to stroke your insides, making you twitch and mewl against him.

You suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to kiss him again, turning your head over your shoulder so quickly that it pains your neck. His eyes have darkened greatly since you last looked upon his face, and one of his brows raises as your hips pull away from him. 

“You don’t like what I’m doing?” He asks, a curiosity taking control of his sharp features. His fingers now drum against the inside of your thigh, and you have begun to clench at the loss of sensation.

“No, I just wish to kiss you as well,” you admit. Without missing a beat, Jacaerys  brings his lips to yours and kisses you hungrily. Both of his hands abandon their posts to grab the edges of your hips, and he guides you several paces backwards so that you are pressed to the wall, kissing you all the while. 

Jace uses his body to re-direct yours, pushing against your inner thigh with his knee to raise your left leg. His fingers are inside of you in an instant, causing you to cry out as he begins to pump them once again. Your noises are swallowed by his wet mouth and strong tongue. Instinctively, your hands steady themselves onto his shoulders as he begins to nibble at your bottom lip.

The pleasure is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The Daklynn boy certainly had not made you feel this way, nor had your own fingers. Jacaerys seemed determined to make you explode beneath his touch. When his thumb starts rubbing circles in tandem with his other fingers stroking the inside of your walls, you cry out his name.

“Gods, I have wanted to fuck you for so long,” Jace mutters in between kisses. “Saw you watching me all night, Princess.” He bites down on your lip and you whimper at the sensation. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me, could you?”

Unable to form a coherent sentence, you whimper in response and desperately try to kiss him once again. Your mouth lands just below his ear, and you quickly begin kissing and sucking the spot fervently. Jace seems to like this, a low growl forming in his throat that causes every hair on your arm to stand up straight.

 The pleasure has begun to build rapidly, a burning in your stomach that makes your thighs shake. You are so close to rolling over the edge when Jacaerys suddenly ceases his movements, drawing his fingers away from you slowly.

You pout at him, tears threatening to spill from your eyes at the sudden loss of content. Jace presses a kiss to the side of your jaw as one of his hands gropes at your backside.

“It’ll feel even better if you have to wait a bit,” he assures you. “Go lie on the bed,” he instructs as he begins to unlace his trousers. You quickly obey, wanting to have his fingers inside of you again as soon as possible. Jace peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor as he approaches you. Expecting him to lay down next to you, it comes as a shock when he instead kneels at the foot of the bed. 

You sit up, giving him a rather puzzled look. Does he wish to take you on the floor? You go to plant your feet on the ground, but Jace quickly presses a hand to your lower belly. 

“Stay on the bed. But take this off,” he tells you as he tugs at what little clothing remains on your body. You quickly pull the layer up and over your head, exposing yourself completely to him. His hands trace your bare skin, fingers running against the curve of your breasts and your hips. Although it is a chilly night, you are overwhelmed by the heat of his touch.

“Please, Jace. I need to feel you inside of me,” you plead with him, lips pouting as you do so. The corners of his lips turn upwards, his hands find your thighs once again.

“Patience, Princess. It would be rather unfair if I do not taste you first.” His eyes burn into yours as he suddenly lowers his mouth to your center, planting a kiss against your bundle of nerves. 

The sensation causes you to jolt, and Jacaerys chuckles. Fingers squeezing your thighs, he pries them further apart and brings them to rest on his shoulders. He drags his tongue against your folds, the wet muscle eliciting an entirely new type of pleasure. Your left hand grips the sheets tightly, your right one gripping Jace’s curls in the same fashion. His tongue continues to flick against your most sensitive area, making you cry out his name as your legs tremble. Jace’s eyes remain fixed on yours for a moment longer, before he slips a finger inside of your cunt. 

It is sinful, the way that your cousin is bringing you a type of pleasure that you had only ever imagined. When you glance down at him, you see that Jace’s thick hair has become quite disheveled, dark ringlets cascading down his forehead and over his ears. A second finger joins the first, causing your back to arch as you begin to moan his name. 

You are desperately kicking at his shoulders, the sensation becoming too much to bear. Expertly, Jacaerys remains steady as his free hand presses down on your lower stomach, pinning you to the feather mattress. His tongue continues to circle your core as his fingers fuck you steadily, the low grumbles he is making sending shivers through your entire body. The pleasure coiling in your stomach threatens to bust as tears begin to leak from your eyes.

You finally are struck with an intense wave of pleasure that causes your toes to curl and your cunt to clench around Jace’s fingers. The moans you make are certainly loud enough to be heard across the hall, if not the entire Keep. Dutifully, Jacaerys continues to lick at you until you roughly yank his head away, the aftershocks of your peak becoming maddening. He nibbles at your thigh for a moment before finally raising his head to address you.

“I gather that Darklyn did not manage to please you in such a way?” He is smiling again, like a child on their name-day who has just received a grand present. His lips are wet with a mixture of your slick and his spit, puffy and pink. The sight of him is rather addictive, and you cannot bear to imagine that this will be the only time you get to see him in this way.

“I grow tired of speaking of him,” you whine as you tug at his arms, attempting to direct him off the floor and into the bed with you. Jace obliges, stripping off his final article of clothing before climbing on top of you. He immediately nudges your thighs open with his knee, eyes trailing up and down your body as he does so.

“How do you want it?” He asks you sweetly, fingers tracing the divot of your hips. Now that he is fully naked, you take note of two additional marks that have been placed on his collarbone and chest. Just last night, another woman had her lips against his skin and her hands all over his body. The idea of such a thing would fill you with rage, if not for your distraction at the sight of his large and leaking cock.

“How do you usually fuck the girls that you bring to your bed?’ You dare to ask him, ensuring not to look away from his ember-rimmed irises. 

“Mmm, that is a question meant to trick me,” he tells you with a chuckle. “I have yet to fuck you, Princess— or any, for that matter.” Wisely, Jace re-directs by lowering his mouth to yours, kissing you deep and slow. You can taste on his lips and tongue, and he hums in delight as you press your fingers into his shoulders. One of his hands reaches between your bodies, grasping his cock and guiding it towards your entrance. But just as his tip begins to press against your folds, you break away from the kiss.

“No. I wish to be on top.” 

Jace raises a brow, but releases his manhood and shifts his hips away from yours. He lays on his back and releases the tension in his legs, allowing you to notice the V-shaped outline that runs between his pelvis and stomach. 

You position yourself on top of his lower half, straddling his pelvic bone and steadying yourself by gripping his hips. Jacaerys lets out a noise that reminds you of a dragon’s growl as you finally lower yourself onto his cock. The intrusion is sharp, causing you to wince as you attempt to take him. You remain still for a moment, then begin rocking your hips in order to slide down his length.

Jace watches without movement, although a smirk tugs at his face when he realizes how you are struggling. Leaning forward and placing your hands on his hardened chest, you are able to feel him fully inside of you. 

You set a slow pace, bouncing up and down on his cock and grinding your hips against his. The stretch is a considerable one, but any discomfort is quickly forgotten by the sound of your skin slapping against his. Carefully, Jace places his hands against your hips.

“Fuck, you are irresistable,” he mutters as you ride him. His face is tinged pink and the veins in his neck are pulsing. 

The tip of his cock enters you at an angle, stroking at a particularly sensitive spot inside of you that causes your entire lower half to quiver. You desperately try to seek out that same sensation, but struggle to do so. Jace immediately picks up on this, and begins to thrust into you. His pace is much faster than yours, and you find yourself quickly unable to keep up. Rather than allowing you to fall behind, Jace pushes himself forward and flips your positioning in one fluid movement. 

Your breath is caught in your throat for a moment as your head dangles from the bed. Jacaerys yanks your hips down lower, doing so without allowing his cock to slip from you. 

“Please, Jace!” You moan, and he responds by taking hold of your legs once more and lifting them into the air, pounding into you with a newfound fervor.

“Yeah? You love taking my cock, don’t you?” He teases, his voice gravely and thick. The only response you are able to give him is yet another whimper. He begins to suck viciously at your neck, surely leaving a mark that will begin to bloom and bruise come morning time.

Quickly, you reach your second peak of the night. Even more intense than the first had been, you scream Jace’s name and claw at his biceps as your core pulses and clenches. The smell of him has become even stronger, his sweat dripping onto your skin as he ravishes you.

Soon, his thrusts become sloppy and his breath comes in pants. Jace grips your thighs so hard that finger-tip shaped bruises begin to appear. He closes his eyes before cursing once and allowing his hips to stutter against yours.

Immediately, you feel the warmth of his seed inside of you. This takes you aback, as you had assumed that he would spill onto your stomach or sheets. You wait a moment, taking in the view of him enjoying his bliss before raising a rather important question.

“How is it that you have not sired a hundred bastards, if you do that?” You ask, as he withdraws his cock from you and his spend begins to trickle down your thighs. 

Jacaerys smiles at you, running a finger down your thigh and through the mess that he has created. Then, he takes your hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

“None of the others have ever taken my seed. You are family though, so why shouldn’t you?” 

“I will need to drink Moon Tea on the morrow,” you tell him, and he shrugs.

“If you wish, cousin.” He pauses for a moment, as if the thing he wishes to say next rests somewhere on the tip of his tongue. 

“In the meantime, want me to lick it out of you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The floor hummed with the vibration of the bass, a reverberation you felt up to your eardrums. The music enveloped you and urged everyone to dance to it's high intensity rhythm, as the neon lights flashed around erratically.

It wasn't odd for you to find yourself in the middle of a dance floor in the weekends, sweating the stress of the week away, and if you were lucky enough, you would end up enticing a man right between your legs to relax you further.

That was your mission this week. Seduction. Hence why you were wearing your sluttiest dress, that barely covered your pretty little ass, and you'd done your make up with cutting edge precision. No man around you would be safe from your bedroom eyes, the generous cleavage accentuated with tasteful jewelry, and the most lethal smirk painted in a shade of glossy, maroon red.

And you had been approached by many, which meant part of your mission had been successful. Now all that was left to do was to find someone that was appealing to your eyes.

You had been pulled away from the dance floor by your friend, as she spoke about getting some much needed refreshments. You couldn't blame her: the stifling heat of the summer was only accentuated by the press of bodies against each other.

And so you found yourself in the bar, reunited again with the rest of your friend group. They were talking and laughing animatedly with some other group. One of your friend's caught your eye, and she grinned. "Hey, don't you know Jason?"

She gestured to a hunk of a man you failed to see how you'd failed to see. But when you did see him, it was impossible to notice anyone else, he occupied your entire field of vision, with his broad shoulders and big arms that strained against a simple black t-shirt, the cargo pants he wore that he was filling pretty nicely, and a face that seemed to be carved by the angels in heaven themselves. Target acquired.

It wasn't until you met his eyes, deep, intense, ever-consuming, that something tugged in the depths of your memory. High school days, that now seemed so far away, and those same eyes staring straight through you, at your very soul in the crowded hallways.

He had been a scrawny kid then, with his knobbly knees that always had scratches on them, and his quick wit in class that made everyone envious. And you? You'd been what some would call a mean girl (you would now call it being a pathetic kid that took out her own insecurities on others. Therapy did that to you). Not something you were proud of now, but you couldn't erase the past. But you could hope that Jason wouldn't remember your meanness towards him.

Except that intense way he looked at you, the flush of his cheeks in the pallor of his skin, the furrow of his thick brows… yeah, he definitely remembered.

White-hot shame filled your cheeks, flooded your being, and suddenly the summer felt even more unbearable.

The conversation around you shifted to other topics, something you weren't paying much attention to. Instead you were left to ponder on your mistakes ten years ago, materialized as a Greek god of a man. You watched as he took just two wide steps to collapse the distance between you.

You swallowed hard, hand finding purchase on the bar top to stabilize you now that Jason had entered your life. Re-entered. "I don't know if you remember me," you said in an uncharacteristically meek tone.

"Hard to forget you." His voice had changed. Once squeaky and filled with cracks, it was now deep, and rumbly. You didn't know if it was that sexy quality to his timbre or the words themselves, but you now felt all that heat that had presented itself as shame shifting inside your body, rushing, with the speed of dripping honey, down to your lower belly.

"Yeah, well… this would be easier if you had," you murmured. He seemed to hear, even over the music that played way too loud. You saw his lips curve into a smirk, lopsided and almost cruel in it's attractiveness. You supposed you deserved all that cruelty.

"What would be easier?" Fuck. He'd drawn closer, and the words were whispered straight to your ear, his full lips brushing the shell of your ear. You wondered were else you could lead those lips. If they would feel just as silky soft, or it he'd be rough with his mouth? How would his teeth feel, nipping at your own lips?

You swallowed hard, feeling as if you were swallowing on nails instead of air. "Apologizing."

"Now that's something I never thought I'd see in my life," he said, his eyes coming into view. Had they always been this sparkling green color? Or was memory playing tricks on you? "Thank god I got a second chance…"

Again you felt the uncomfortable heat of shame washing all over you. What did it say about you if it only served to make you wetter?

"I mean it," you said, shaking your head. "I was a lonely, stupid girl who thought she could be cool or some shit by being mean to people. Not something I'd like to be remembered as, and I know words mean squat in front of all the damage I did, but I still feel like it's my obligation to apologize. So, I'm sorry."

Jason considered you for a few seconds that stretched too long. At first it was his eyes boring into yours. And then his searing gaze shifted. To the bare skin of your decolletage, to the silken dress that draped delectably over your body, to your legs, almost entirely bare thanks to the length of the dress —or lack there off. Slowly, his gaze made the path back to your eyes, and you were sure that a different expression had entered his eyes. Something akin to hunger. You felt your mouth dry up, anticipation of his next words hang over you like a guillotine waiting to be dropped.

"You're right, words mean squat. But there is a way you could make up for it all…"

And that's how you ended up in his apartment. Your softness under his hardness as he pressed you against a wall. It was as if it had been his turn to be mean after all these years: his rough hands were demanding over your soft skin, his full mouth harsh against yours.

He was as greedy with his actions as he'd been with his gaze in the club. He took your mouth in quick swipes of his tongue, silken against your own. His teeth made delicious friction with your lower lip, gathering the gloss there and tasting it slowly.

His tempo varied: he started slow, got increasingly fast, and just when you'd start to moan and whine, the lack of oxygen making you dizzy, he'd slow down.

Everything combined… well it was making you feel woozy. You felt yourself melt against the wall, against his chest, as if you were made of nothing more that beeswax and he was the brightest flame.

His hands were just as restless. He pressed them against your waist, wide and warm even through the silk of your dress. He bunched the flimsy fabric, and the dress lifted to his whims. Not once did his mouth leave yours as his hand wandered down to feel the skin newly exposed. Rough callouses against the supple skin of your stomach made you shudder against his chest, a soft sigh escaping your mouth and slipping past his lips.

When his knuckles dipped lower and he noticed the lack of fabric, he pulled away. "No panties?" he spoke, his voice no more than a rough rasp. He smirked, his tongue peeking between his lips to swipe at the shared saliva that had gathered on his lower lip. You watched the movement, all to enticing in its simplicity. "Such a slut, hmm?" The degrading words only served to get you more hot and bothered.

His hand slipped between your leg, and he found exactly what he had been hoping for. You were dripping, a wetness that gathered and became borderline uncomfortable. He swiped the tips of his fingers through the wetness, humming in appreciation.

You bit your lower lip, the moan that rose in your throat muffled. He found your clit expertly, and flicked it once, then twice, observing you as if you were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. He gathered your reaction, your little sounds that slipped against all resistance. The shame and arousal that came from his intense look.

When you tried to look away, overpowered by his gaze, his free hand came up to your jaw and angled your face so you kept looking at him. And as he maintained that eye contact, his fingers, now all wet and slippery thanks to your desire, slipped right into you.

You gasped, unprepared by the intrusion of two thick digits. He wasn't kind with it, even if he must've known that he wasn't slender by no means. He pushed them in completely, and without giving you time to adjust, he started to scissor you open.

You were rendered stupid: all you could do was moan out some variation of "oh, Jason…" over and over again.

His warm hand was still cupping your face, and he switched his gaze from your heavy-lidded eyes down to where his hand was working you without mercy. You were dripping even more wetness all over his fingers and palm, and you could see the reaction that it incited in Jason. You saw his pupils dilate and contract several times, the way his breath became in short, labored puffs against your own lips, and the way his pants seemed even more tight than they'd already been.

It didn't take much for you to get pushed down the edge, just a well placed swipe of his broad palm against your clit, with enough pressure, and an expert curl of his mean fingers. And the damn broke. It felt overpowering, the high that took over you. Waves of pleasure crashed over the shore of your body, and in their wake, you felt like a shell, wrung out of all energy. You had to grip Jason's beefy arms to keep yourself upright, a fact that didn't help his smugness.

He retracted his hand, covered with your essence, glinting in the warm light of his apartment. "Look at what I did to you… all this from scrawny little Jason, huh?"

You flushed even more than you already were. You shook your head, lowering the hem of your dress. "Not my fault you got so… hot." He probably didn't need the ego boost, but this was atonement, right?

And if you thought that this had been enough pay back for Jason… you soon realized you were sorely mistaken, because this had been nothing more than just the beginning. You watched as he licked his hand clean, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. You wondered when he'd gained all this sex appeal.

"Fuck, doll," he said, his lips glinting with some of your cum. He swiped it clean with a flick of his tongue. "You taste divine. I think you need to taste yourself, hmm?"

With none too gentle pulls of his hands, you found yourself being thrown on his bed, a small squeak escaping your lips. You watched as he loomed over you, watched as he shrugged his shirt off with a quick and graceful movement. Some day, you'd ask about all the scars that littered his muscular torso. Some day, because you knew this wasn't going to be a one time thing. Some day, because right now, your eyes were too busy taking him in. Too busy tracing the movement of his fingers as they nimbly undid his belt.

Your mouth dried up as he pushed his pants down, and with it went his boxers. And lord, were you blinded by the sheer size of him. His cock was heavy and hard, already flushed a pretty pink color at the tip and leaking. It was some forbidden fruit you were too eager to taste. So you reached for it. Only to be swatted lightly by him at the wrist.

You looked up at him with doe eyes, and his chest stuttered with his breath. "Relax doll, you'll have your go at it," he cooed. "But it's not reward mean girls day, is it? It's punish mean girls…"

He lowered himself over you, his mouth coming over yours demandingly. You responded with reciprocal fervor, your hand coming up to thread in his silk soft hair. His hand came down between your legs once again, as if he couldn't resist your pussy. You moaned against his mouth when he brushed against your folds.

"Still so eager," he murmured against the corner of your mouth. You panted in response. "Once isn't enough for this doll, hmm?"

You shook your head, chasing his mouth with yours. He pulled away, not very far, but far enough to be out of reach. Your hazy and muddled mind, silly with desire didn't register his lifting hand until it was too late. You felt a sharp slap against your clit, making you mewl and reach for him in desperation.

Your response must've pleased Jason greatly, because he didn't hesitate to flip your position and make you get on his cock. You struggled to take him, and he showed no mercy, his hands demanding at the plush flesh of your hips, pushing himself in with an expert thrust of his hips.

You whined and scratched at his chest, your sharp nails digging into the hard muscle there, leaving angry red marks. "Jay…" you protested against the fullness, the uncomfortable feeling.

You felt him press his lips against your cheek, a sneer curling them. "I know, doll. But you were so wet and eager for this cock, yeah? So you got to bounce on it."

You were still adjusting, blinking away the tears of pleasurable pain, so you didn't move just yet. His hand came down your ass, hard and fast, pushing a gasp out of your mouth.

"Baby, ride," his words were sweet, but his tone was anything but. So you complied, and the fast pace you set made him grip your hips tighter, his head thrown back in pleasure as you squeezed him inside you.

The angle, the girth of him, the length… it all made you hit a delectable spot inside you every time you bounced back down. It didn't take long before the uncomfortable feeling became pleasure, growing inside your body exponentially, threatening to break some limit inside you.

He watched greedily as you bounced, the ripples it made on your body, obscured by the dark fabric of the dress. So he took it off desperately, throwing it aside somewhere in his room.

When your pace started to slow down, he spanked your ass again, and his merciless ways only made your desire heighten.

He probably saw the way your body was starting to tense, so he slid his fingers between your bodies, finding purchase on your puffy clit. He drew relentless circles around the bundle of nerves, determined to wring out every drop of pleasure from inside you.

You let out a lewd moan of his name as the pleasure reached crescendo, and it all came crashing down, your hips stuttering as you came all over his cock, squeezing him greedily.

"Oh fuck, doll," he grunted, his brows furrowed in concentration. "If you squeeze me that hard, I'm going to come…"

You were deaf to his words, your limbs twisting with pleasure as he kept going at it on your clit. Until the euphoria burned you, and the pleasure melted into pain. You pushed at his chest and got off his cock, a feat made easy by the slippery mess you'd made.

Your breath was labored as you tried to come down from your high and down to earth. You let out a sigh, and knew that you were probably going to be ruined by him forever.

Jason still wasn’t done with you. “Here, have a taste of yourself.” He grabbed you by your hair and pulled your mouth down on his cock. You let out a surprised sound, not contraire at all.

You eagerly licked off all the mess you’d made over him, the sweet tartness of your own body mixed with the saltiness of his pre, before he pushed you down by the nape of your neck. Your jaw hurt as you tried to take him in entirely. He hit the back of your throat repeatedly, fucking your mouth with fervor. The tears in your eyes, smearing the mascara down to your cheeks didn’t deter him, only served to propel him more.

As your head bobbed and you struggled to take him, your throat contracting over his tip, he made a guttural sound. You knew he was close. And he’d been so mean to you all evening, so you decided to use your teeth too. Literally.

As soon as he felt the slight pain on his cock, he started to push you away by the hair.

You watched as he came, spurts of it hitting your chest. Watched as all his meanness melted away when he came, leaving only a deliciously flushed man who was tried to regain the upper hand.

You moved up his body, your mouth slanting over his. “Was that apology enough?”

He let out a chuckle. “I don’t know doll. I think you’ll have to start apologizing more frequently.”