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Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time. 

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.  

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.  

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.  

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls. 

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

You turn sideways, tugging your shirt aside just enough to see the shadows under your skin. Love marks. Power marks. Proof of something you would rather pretend never happens. You scoff at your reflection, a quiet sound in the empty room.

“Get it together,” you murmur, then yank your shirt back into place, strategically covering yourself and heading for the door.

The tower is already awake, and quite loud. The hallway hums with distant voices and the clatter of plates. When you step into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee hits you first. You scan the room, smiling at your friends gathered. Your smile falters however when it lands on him.

Bob.

He sits at the far end of the table, hunched over his mug like it is the only thing tethering him to reality. His shirt is rumpled and crooked. His hair looks like he dragged a hand through it too many times. He does not look at you, and do not look at him, a regular routine you’ve created each morning. Walker, unfortunately, looks at everyone. He squints the second he sees you, eyes tracking the way you move like he is trying to piece together a puzzle.

“Wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you got into a bar fight with a freight train, or you really need to ease up on whatever sadistic training routine you’re on.”

“Good morning to you too,” you reply flatly, already reaching for the coffee pot.

Alexei appears at your side like a human wall, sliding a plate into your hands before you can refuse it.

“You are too small,” he declares. “Always too small. Eat more. You fight like angry kitten but bones are like little breadsticks.”

You tilt your head up and kiss his cheek just to watch him blink in surprise.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you say sweetly, then pivot away before he can recover.

Your gaze flicks, traitorous, toward the far end of the table.Bob finally looks up. It is a mistake. His eyes sharpen the second they land on you, like he is bracing for impact. You wonder if he fully remembers coming into your room night after night and doing…What you both did. Something bitter rises in your chest and you lean into it before you can stop yourself.

“Staring again, Reynolds?” you ask.

“Careful. People might think you’re obsessed.”

His jaw tightens. “Hard to ignore a walking health violation.”

You smile thinly. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your posture.”

Walker lets out a low whistle. “And the award for most emotionally constipated morning exchange goes to-“

“Shut up,” you and Bob say in unison.

You drop into the chair beside Bucky, deliberately turning your back on Bob like he does not exist. Across the table, Yelena is watching you with a look that is far too interested.

“You two are like married couple who despise each other,” she says. “It is very entertaining. Also very loud at night.”

You choke on your coffee.

Bucky does not look at you, but his shoulder bumps yours just enough to steady you. He does not say anything while you eat, which somehow feels louder than any lecture. You focus on your plate, chewing without tasting, aware of Bob’s presence in the room like a static charge. When you stand to rinse your dish, Bucky is already on his feet.

“Come on,” he says, hand closing around your wrist before you can protest.

He does not stop walking until the kitchen noise fades behind heavy walls. Then he turns to face you, eyes dropping immediately to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised, split in a way that tells a very specific story.

“Training,” you say before he can ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “You trying to punch the building down?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst renovation idea.”

His gaze drifts, careful and brief, to your collar where your shirt has slipped just enough to reveal the edge of one of those marks. His expression does not change. That makes your throat tighten.

“Those too,” he says quietly.

You scoff. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he replies. “I just don’t like when you look like you’re losing a fight with yourself.”

For a moment, you almost tell him. Almost let the words crack open in your mouth. He was truly your best friend, and not telling Bucky what goes on at night between you and Bob felt like lying. Instead you roll your eyes and tug your wrist from his grip.

“I’m fine. You worry too much.”

He studies you a second longer, then sighs and steps aside.

“Alright,” he says. “But I’m not buying it. Not today, not ever. You’re a bad liar.”

He lets it go, but the concern in his eyes follows you all the way back down the hall until you disappear from his sight.

————-

You take your seat near the far wall of the briefing room with Bucky and Yelena, folding your arms and fixing your attention on the tablet in Ava’s hands like it contains the secrets of the universe. You do not look at Bob, per usual.

Across the room, he sits beside Walker, shoulders tense, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. You are not in his line of sight, but you exist in every other way. In the echo of his pulse. In the way the air feels too warm in his lungs. In the quiet reminders that do not care if he is awake or asleep. He does not hear Ava explaining entry points or tactical formations. He is busy remembering pinning your wrists above your head last night, the way you had said his name like it was a challenge instead of a plea. He remembers the smell of your pillows, something clean and soft that makes no sense with the way you treat each other when the sun is up.

He hates that he remembers. He hates that it was him and also not him.

Walker nudges his knee with his own. “Earth to Reynolds.”

Bob blinks, slow and heavy. “What?”

Walker glances toward Ava, who is still mid-sentence, then back to Bob. “You with us, or should I start taking notes in crayon?”

Bob exhales through his nose and stares at the table. “I’m fine.”

Ava says your name, and the sound hits Bob like a slap to the face. His shoulders jerk, breath catching before he can stop it. For half a heartbeat the room disappears and all he can feel is the memory of pinning your wrists down, of your pulse jumping beneath his thumbs like he was holding something fragile instead of fighting someone who claims to hate him. From across the room, you notice. Not the memory, obviously. Just the flinch. The way his body reacts to your name like it is a wound instead of a word.

Walker notices too.

He leans closer, voice low enough that it does not carry. “What the hell was that.”

Bob swallows. His mouth is dry. His hands will not stop shaking.

“Nothing,” he says.

Walker studies him, jaw tightening. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Bob almost laughs. It comes out as a breath instead. “Feels like longer.”

Walker doesn’t pry any longer as Ava finishes the briefing and closes her tablet. Chairs scrape back. The room fills with the sound of people standing, talking, moving on like nothing inside Bob has just splintered.

“You need to get your head straight before we go out there,” Walker says quietly. “Whatever’s going on, it’s bleeding through.”

Bob nods because it is easier than answering. Around you, the team filters out of the room, already shifting into mission mode. You pass his row without looking at him, close enough that he catches the faintest trace of your shampoo, clean and impossible. Then you are gone, and the mission drags him with it whether he is ready or not.

————

Smoke clings to the ceiling of the research wing like a low storm cloud. The corridor you are in narrows into something barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere ahead, a warning alarm pulses in an uneven rhythm, the random building complaining about injuries it never had time to heal.

You had been right behind Bucky pretty much the whole mission until the floor shuddered around you. Not violently, just enough to shift the debris piled against the walls. The path you were supposed to take collapses inward with a sound like a held breath being released. Concrete and wiring drop between you and the rest of the team in a choking plume of dust.

“Seriously,” you mutter, coughing. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The comms crackle. Bucky’s voice cuts through the static, filled with panic. “You guys okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately. “Just stuck with Reynolds. Living the dream.”

Bob steps up beside you, scanning the blockage with an unreadable expression. He holds his hand out to help you up but you ignore it. “We go around,” he says. “There’s a service stairwell off the west wing.”

“Oh, now you’re taking charge,” you reply.

“Thought you were still in zoning-out mode.”

He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t zoning out.”

“You flinched when someone said my name,” you say. “That’s not exactly locked in.”

His jaw tightens. “Drop it.”

“Why,” you press, brushes pieces of rubble and dust from your gear. “Hit a nerve?”

“Can you just focus,” he snaps. “For once.”

You push past him into the narrow passage without waiting for an answer. “I am focused. On not babysitting you.”

The stairwell is worse than the hallway. Lights flicker overhead, and the metal railing rattles every time the structure shifts. You take the first step two at a time just to get it over with.

Bob grabs your arm. “Slow down.”

You jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”

“You don’t get to run into a collapsing building like it’s nothing,” he says. “You are not invincible.”

“I never said I was,” you shoot back. “But I don’t freeze every time something goes wrong either.”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not freezing. That’s thinking.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You think I don’t notice how you hover. How you look at me like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”

“Because you keep trying to,” he snaps.

The stair beneath your boot groans.

Then it gives. Your foot slips into empty space, heart lurching as your weight pitches forward. You grab for the railing and miss, the world tilting too fast to make sense of it.

Bob catches you. His hand clamps around your harness and rips you backward so hard you slam into his chest. For a breathless second, everything stops.

You shove him away immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

“No, what is wrong with you,” he fires back. “You almost fell!”

“I had it,” you snap.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You were one bad step from breaking your neck.”

“So now you’re my personal safety briefing,” you say bitterly. “I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m made of glass.”

“I am trying to keep you alive,” he says, voice rising. “You act like you don’t care if you come back from these things.”

“Maybe I just don’t need someone breathing down my neck every second,” you shoot back.

“You don’t stop,” he says. “You don’t slow down. You push harder every time like you’re daring something to happen. You might not care but either people do! What about Bucky? Yelena? Everybody else?”

“Stop pretending you know me.”

“I know you’re destroying yourself,” he snaps. “And I’m sick of watching it.”

Footsteps echo at the top of the stairwell.

Bucky rounds the corner first, skidding to a halt when he takes you in, breathing hard, eyes bright with worry. Yelena follows, gaze flicking instantly between you and Bob. Walker lingers behind them, already shaking his head at hearing the arguing.

Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you back from Bob. “Enough,” he says, planting himself between you. “This is not the time.”

At the same moment, Yelena steps directly into Bob’s space and presses her hand flat to his chest, firm and unmoving. Not aggressive. Just a wall. Bob freezes under her touch.

“You are both being very dramatic,” Yelena says calmly. “But you are about to get someone killed.”

Walker exhales. “Can we maybe not have the meltdown in the collapsing stairwell.”

You rip your arm from Bucky’s grip and storm past them down the corridor.

“Don’t,” Bob calls after you.

It is not angry, it is scared.

You do not answer.

————-

The jet hums steadily beneath your feet, a low vibration that usually lulls everyone into sleep or sarcastic commentary. Tonight it does neither.

The cabin is wrapped in a strange quiet, the kind that settles after something goes wrong in a way no one has words for yet. Yelena and Walker are the only ones breaking it, arguing in hushed tones over whether Walker tripped over a cable or whether the cable was clearly trying to assassinate him. It should be funny. It barely registers.

You sit with your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s arm, the way you have since the moment you boarded. He had not asked. He had simply taken the seat beside you and stayed there like it was the most natural thing in the world. You drop your head onto his shoulder, trying to keep yourself from glancing up the aisle.

Bob sits alone near the back, head bowed, hands clasped together between his knees. He has not looked at you once. That almost hurts more than if he had. Bucky notices your glances. He always does. He does not say anything at first, just shifts a little closer, like he is reminding you he is there.

After a few minutes, he murmurs, “You okay?”

It is not a question that expects honesty.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He waits. You can feel the weight of it, his patience, his refusal to let things slide when they matter.

“Those bruises,” he says quietly. “And your hands. That’s not from today, they’re old.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the floor between your boots. “It’s nothing.”

He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. You don’t budge off of his shoulder. In fact, you wished he would just be quiet so you could nap, but you knew that would never happen. “You’ve been saying that since we met.”

You huff a small laugh. “Guess I’m consistent.”

“Guess you’re miserable.”

You finally look at him then, ready with a retort, but it dies when you see his expression. He is not annoyed. He is not judging you. He is worried.

He lowers his voice even further. “I’m not stupid. I see the way you two look at each other. The way he freezes when you talk. The way you won’t say his name anymore.”

Your pulse thuds in your ears. “Bucky, don’t.”

“Is it Bob,” he asks gently. “Or is it something else?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. You glance down the aisle again. Bob is still staring at the floor.

“It’s not technically Bob,” you whisper.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “What does that mean.”

You hesitate, then lean closer so your shoulder brushes his. Your voice drops until it is almost lost in the engine noise.

“A few weeks ago I thought he came into my room. We were arguing like usual. And then I realized it wasn’t him.” You swallow. “It was the Sentry.”

His jaw tightens. He does not interrupt you.

“It’s been happening since. That’s where the bruises come from. He remembers. Bob doesn’t act like he does, but I know he does.”

Bucky leans back slowly, eyes on the ceiling now, like he is trying to steady himself. When he looks at you again, something protective flashes through him that makes your chest ache.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t want to admit it out loud,” you reply.

He reaches out and squeezes your knee, brief but grounding. “Just be careful. I don’t care what version of him it is. I care about you.”

You nod because it is easier than arguing.

Later, you leave the jet without looking back.

You feel Bob’s eyes on you anyway, burning between your shoulder blades like something unfinished. It makes your skin crawl, makes your chest tight with a mix of anger and something you refuse to name.

The tower is too bright when you get back, the world below completely alive. You curse it, begin to wish you could be the last person on earth as you trudge towards your room.

You strip off your gear in your room and drop it in a heap by the door. Your clothes smell like smoke and sweat and dried blood that is not all yours. You do not shower, that sounds like too much work for your energy level. Instead, you plant your feet in front of the punching bag and hit it. Once. Twice. Again and again until the impact rattles the chain in the ceiling. Your knuckles sting almost immediately, skin splitting open where it was already raw, but you welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain does not pretend to be anything else.

You picture his face when you swing, like you do every night. Not the one he shows everyone else, the one everybody seems to love. The one that looks at you like he is waiting for you to give him permission to exist. You hit harder. The door opens behind you, and you don’t bother to turn.

You know the sound of him entering your space. The way the air changes, the way the room feels suddenly too small. Normally he would already be behind you by now, crowding you, stealing your focus with sheer presence alone, running his hands slowly up your sides until they’re pressing your body against him. Tonight he does none of that.

The silence stretches until it feels like something is going to snap. You finally stop throwing punches, breathing hard, sweat sliding down your spine. You reach for your water bottle without looking at him, taking a long drink just to buy yourself another second.

“What do you want,” you say, voice sharp. “You come in here and then just stand there like you’re waiting for applause.”

He still does not answer. You turn then, slow and irritated, ready to tear into him. He is clean. Fresh clothes. Hair still damp. He looks nothing like the version of him that usually finds you here, all heat and static and barely contained violence. He looks controlled. And he’s wearing that t shirt you mentioned liking him in that one time, and you mentally curse him for it.

Your stomach twists. “Don’t do this,” you warn.

He takes a step closer. Then another, measured, careful. Not the way he usually moves when he is here. You feel smaller under his stare, not physically, but emotionally, like he is peeling something open without touching you. You hate him for it.

“Say something,” you snap. “Or get out.”

He stops a step away from you, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and steady.

“Take your clothes off.”

You don’t know how to react to this. You stutter, ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead you swallow, suddenly feeling a bit more confident. You take a few steps back, not breaking the eye contact from him. Your skin shudders as you reach down and pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the corner.

The rest of the night was a complete blur.

———

Morning does not feel like a relief, but instead feels like a hangover you cannot remember earning.

Your room is quiet when you wake, too quiet. The space beside your bed is empty, sheets cold where something enormous and impossible had stood only hours ago. Bob is gone. Of course he is. He always is by the time the sun comes up. You sit up slowly, muscles screaming in protest. Your knuckles are worse today, swollen and split open, dried blood dark against your skin. The punching bag looms in the corner like it is daring you to start again.

Instead you drag yourself into a hoodie and pad down the hallway, the tower barely awake. The common room is empty except for the hum of lights and the faint smell of coffee, and Bucky is already there. He is perched on the arm of the couch with a first aid kit balanced on his knee like he knew you would come looking for him. He looks up when you shuffle in, taking in your posture, the way you cradle your hands.

“Morning, trouble,” he says softly. “You look like you fought a lawnmower.”

You drop onto the couch beside him. “It started it.”

He gives you a look that says you are not funny, but there is a hint of a smile there anyway. He takes your hands gently, inspecting the damage like he has done this a hundred times before.

“You know,” he murmurs as he cleans the cuts, “most people don’t wake up bleeding.”

“You hang around the wrong people then.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like them too much.”

His touch is careful, grounding. You watch him work, the lines around his eyes softening when he is focused like this.

“You sleep at all?” He asks.

You shrug. “Some.”

He does not press you, but he knows you’re lying. For being such an expensive place, the tours walls are incredibly thin. He tapes your knuckles, then sits back, studying you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says finally. “Even when you act like you are.”

Your throat tightens, but you do not trust yourself to answer. From the hallway, footsteps echo faintly. You do not need to look up to know who it is. Bob passes the doorway, moving too quickly, not glancing in. His shoulders are drawn in, posture tight like he is trying to make himself invisible in his own home. Your gaze follows him before you can stop yourself, and Bucky notices.

He squeezes your knee once, grounding you back in the room.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”

———

The gym smells like metal and sweat and something burnt. Bob has been there a while. You can tell by the dark patch spreading across the heavy bag, by the way his breathing is already too loud for the empty room. He isn’t training. He is trying to erase something. You stand in the doorway longer than you mean to, watching the way his shoulders hitch with every strike, how there is no pattern to it anymore. Just anger.

“You’re going to rip it off the ceiling,” you say at last.

He doesn’t answer. The bag takes another hit, the chain shrieking in protest. You step farther in, irritation crawling up your spine.

“Did you hear me,” you snap. “Or are you just planning on punching your way through every problem now?”

That gets his attention. He turns so fast you almost flinch. His cheeks are flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes burning with something that looks too close to panic.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t pretend nothing is wrong all the time,” he shouts.

You blink. “Oh, I’m the one pretending now?”

“Yes,” he fires back. “You walk around like yesterday never happened. Like I don’t exist unless it’s convenient for you.”

Your laugh is loud and ugly. “You think this is about convenience? You think I’m choosing when you matter?”

“I don’t know what you’re choosing,” he says. “But you don’t talk to me. You glare at me. You shut me out like I’m already gone. And then at night time it’s a completely different story! And it’s not even really me..”

“Maybe because every time I try to let you in, you disappear. You Bob, not the other guy.”

His mouth opens, then closes again, like the words are stuck somewhere painful.

“I don’t disappear,” he says hoarsely.

“You do,” you yell. “You’re here one second, gone the next, and I’m left picking up whatever mess you leave behind. You use me!“

He steps closer, hands shaking. “You have no idea what it’s like in my head.”

“Then explain it,” you demand. “For once in your life, explain it instead of hiding behind that sad, confused look.”

The bag swings behind him, forgotten, the chain clanking like a warning.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, voice cracking through his anger. “Every time I get close to you, everything in me locks up. I don’t know what to say without making it worse.”

“So you just stop trying,” you shout. “You think silence is safer than honesty? You think being constantly mean to me gets you anywhere?”

“You’re just as mean back! I think I’m going to lose you either way,” he yells back. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Your chest heaves, tears threatening despite how furious you are.

“You already are losing me,” you scream. “You don’t get to act surprised about it now.”

The gym door slams open. Yelena stands there, eyes wide as she takes in the two of you, mid-explosion.

“What is happening in here,” she asks sharply.

You don’t even look at her. You jab a finger over your shoulder at Bob, hands shaking with adrenaline.

“Ask him,” you shout, then storm past her, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the frame.

The echo of your footsteps hasn’t even faded when Yelena turns back to Bob.

He is still standing in the middle of the gym like the floor might give out under him.

“You do not sleep,” she says, softer now but no less direct.

He drags a hand down his face. “I’m fine.”

“You look like ghost that forgot how to die.”

He lets out a broken laugh. “That bad, huh?”

She steps closer. “You are breaking yourself. And she is breaking herself. So tell me why.”

His shoulders slump. “Because I hate her,” he says. “And I can’t stop thinking about her. Because I want her even when I’m furious with her. And I hate that it isn’t me. And I hate that I don’t actually hate her.

Yelena’s eyes narrow. “Not you?”

“I don’t have the courage to go to her as myself,” he whispers. “I keep letting the strongest part of me make the choices.”

She places her hand over his chest, grounding him. “You cannot keep splitting yourself in half and expect love to choose the part you abandon.”

His eyes close. “She said I was already losing her. I didn’t even know I had her to lose! What if it’s like that forever?”

“Then you lose her as yourself,” Yelena replies quietly.

Yelena does not move her hand from his chest right away. She watches his face like she is reading something written too faintly for anyone else to notice.

“You think you are protecting her,” she says. “You think keeping distance is kindness.”

Bob lets out a humorless breath. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” she replies simply. “It is fear wearing better clothes.”

He looks at her, eyes rimmed red, exhausted down to his bones. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You stop letting power do your living for you,” she says. “You stop waiting for version of you that is not scared.”

He shakes his head. “She hates me.”

“She hates that you hide,” Yelena corrects. “There is difference.”

Silence settles between them, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the tower a door slams, faint but unmistakable. He knows without being told that it is you.

“She is not angry because you do nothing,” Yelena continues. “She is angry because you almost do something. Over and over again.”

His jaw tightens. “What if I make it worse?”

“You already are,” she says gently. “At least this way you will be honest about it.”

Bob closes his eyes. For a moment he looks like he might fold in on himself, like the weight of everything is too much for one body. Then he straightens, and without another word he turns and leaves the gym.

He does not remember the hallway.

He remembers the way his heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out of his chest, the way his palms keep going slick even though the air is cool. He changes in his room without really seeing what he is doing, stripping out of damp clothes and into something clean, something that feels like him instead of like armor. By the time he reaches your door his breathing is unsteady again. He stops with his fist raised, knuckles hovering inches from the wood.

He cannot knock. He leans closer instead, forehead pressing lightly against the frame, like he is afraid the door might vanish if he does not anchor himself to it.That is when he hears it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a faint, broken sound from the other side, like you are trying very hard to keep something contained. His chest tightens as he opens the door and steps inside.

Inside, your room is too small for everything you are carrying. Once the anger burns off, it leaves behind something sharper. Confusion. You sit on the edge of your bed with your hands knotted together, staring at the floor like it might give you answers if you look hard enough.

You cannot tell where the hatred ends and the wanting begins anymore. You have spent weeks convincing yourself that Bob is the problem, that you cannot stand him, that every fight is proof that whatever lives between you is poison. But now you cannot ignore the other questions that have been piling up quietly in the back of your mind.

Does he even want you? The real you? Or does he only want you when he is not really himself? Like when he comes in your room at night, is it just to get off? You assume so.

Your body complains when you stand, a dull chorus of aches from the mission, from overtraining, from nights Bob would come in here as the sentry. You told yourself you liked it, and for a while you truly did. The rough, careless, hate sex. You didn’t care if you woke up sore, or if you both woke up with bruises the next day because it proved how much fun you had having sex all hours of the night. But after weeks of it happening, weeks of bruising and being tired, the feeling got incredibly old. And now? All you felt was used. Hurt. Tired.

You shake the thoughts away tug on a pair of worn pajamas, wincing when the fabric brushes against bruises you try not to look at. As you sit down, the first tear falls down your face and surprises you. It lands on your hand and suddenly you are crying in a way you cannot remember starting, shoulders curling inward as you sink back onto the bed. Usually you never let yourself cry, and you just take it out in training instead. But this time you just let it happen. You press your palms to your face, embarrassed even though you are alone.

The door opens behind you. You do not look up. You know the routine too well, as it was happening pretty much every night now. You couldn’t do this tonight, you needed rest. And not only that, but you do not want him to see you like this, not the version of you that is tired and small and hurting. He always sees the angry, sexy, ready to go side of you. So you stay exactly where you are, head in your hands, waiting for the usual shift in the air that comes with him taking over the room.

It never comes.

Instead, the mattress dips beside you.

Carefully. Hesitantly. Nothing happens for a moment until you feel a hand settle at the center of your back. It is warm, uncertain, nothing like the overwhelming presence you have come to expect. You tense, ready to pull away, but the touch does not demand anything from you.

You lean into it before you can stop yourself.

Your breath stutters. The crying eases, turning into quiet, uneven inhales against his shoulder. He does not move, does not rush you, just lets you exist there like it is allowed.

When his thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a stray tear, you finally understand.

This is Bob.

You lift your head slowly. He is close enough now that you can see the fear he never lets anyone else notice, the way he is trying to be still so he does not scare you away.

“I’ve wanted to come here like this for a long time,” he says after a moment. “But I didn’t know how to show you any of this without hiding behind something stronger than me.”

Your voice is rough when you answer. “It feels like you’re using me. Like you only want me when you’re not really you. Like you can only tolerate fucking me when it’s a different version of you.”

His eyes close briefly, like the words hurt. “That isn’t it. I want you so much it scares me. So I let the part of me that isn’t afraid be the one who reaches for you.”

The room feels heavier with every truth laid between you.

“All those fights,” you whisper. “All that hate.”

“They were never just hate,” he replies quietly. “They were the only way I knew how to feel this without falling apart.”

His hand is still on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye like he is memorizing the shape of you. He is breathing shallowly now, like he is afraid a deeper breath will make you disappear.

“You don’t hate me,” he says, not as a question but a realization that scares him.

Your chest aches. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Something in him finally gives. He leans in, not careful this time, not asking for permission with his eyes. The space between you collapses like it was never meant to exist. His mouth finds yours with a desperate kind of relief, like he has been holding his breath for months and only now remembers how to breathe.

It isn’t gentle. It isn’t neat. It is all the words you threw at each other finally running out of places to hide.

You grip his shirt like you might lose him if you let go. And when you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, you are both shaking in exactly the same way. Bob's breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged, his blue eyes locking onto your gaze with a vulnerability you have never seen before. No more snarls or glares between you two, just this raw honesty that makes your chest ache.

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as if you are something precious he fears breaking. "I love you," he whispers again, the words still fresh and trembling on his lips, and you nod, tears pricking your eyes because you feel it too, this shift from fury to fire to something deeper.

You lean in, kissing him slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that speaks of forgiveness and need. His hands roam your body with care, peeling away your clothes layer by layer until skin meets skin. It feels incredibly different from his usual rough and needy touch. This was so much better in a way. You felt cared for, like you were a real person and not just a warm body for him.

He lays you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated flesh, and you pull him down with you, legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Bob settles between your thighs, his weight a comforting press, his cock growing hard and throbbing against your clothed core.

You arch up, spreading your legs wider, but he takes his time, kissing along your neck, your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer.

"I want to make this right," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion, and you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him back to your lips.

He reaches for your hands, interlacing your fingers, and pins them gently above your head against the mattress. This was reminiscent of your sex with the other version of him, but again it felt so much better. The hold is firm but not forceful, a promise of trust rather than dominance, his grip warm as he uses his other hand to gently tug down your pants. They come down easily, your panties going with them, and you’re impressed by the skill he has with just one hand.

You never pictured Bob this way, taking charge but in a gentle way. He nibbles on your neck as you feel him slowly position himself at your entrance. You didnt even notice him strip himself out of his own clothes. You gasp as the thick head of his cock nudges your folds, parting them slowly, and he pushes in with a deliberate thrust, filling you inch by inch.

It's not the frantic hate you knew before; this is measured, intense. He waits awhile before bringing to move, just enjoying the feeling of you wrapped around him. Soon he began to move, each roll of his hips driving deep and hard but lingering, savoring the way your pussy clenches around him. You moan into his mouth, the stretch exquisite, his length hitting that spot inside you that sends sparks through your veins. Bob groans low, his forehead resting against yours again, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure.

He thinks about all the time he’s missed with you. All those nights he could’ve spent actually doing this instead of just seeming to watch it from afar. He never knew it could be this way. Bob thrusts again, harder this time, but unhurried, grinding against your clit with each press forward, building the heat between you like a slow-burning flame.

Your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and trembling, his hands squeezing yours in rhythm with his hips. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he buries himself to the hilt, pulling back just enough to tease before slamming home once more, the impact jolting pleasure up your spine.

“You feel so good," he breathes, lips brushing your ear, and you whimper, legs tightening around him to pull him deeper.

The tenderness in his touch contrasts the power in his thrusts, his free hand sliding down to caress your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks under his attention.

Tension coils tighter in your belly with each sensual drive, his pace steady and relentless, fucking you with a loving ferocity that makes your heart swell. You rock up to meet him, the friction igniting every nerve, your pussy fluttering around his thickness as the edge approaches. Bob's breaths come in harsh pants now, his control fraying but never breaking, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Come with me," he urges softly, thrusting harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force.

The world narrows to his cock pulsing inside you, your hands locked in his, the shared rhythm pushing you both toward release. You shatter first, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your walls milking him in tight spasms. Bob follows seconds later, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills hot and deep, his hips stuttering through the climax, filling you completely.

He collapses gently onto you, still holding your hands, both of you panting and spent.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks. The room feels like it is catching its breath with you, the earlier chaos reduced to the soft sound of his heartbeat where it presses against your palms. You stare at the ceiling, suddenly afraid to move in case the moment breaks. When you finally look at him, his glasses are crooked again and there is the faintest, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

“Guess we’re really bad at hating each other,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that surprises you by turning into relief instead of tears. Your fingers tighten around his like you are making a promise you do not have words for yet. Outside your door, the tower hums on like nothing has changed.

Inside, everything has.

————-

You had never seen much of the prince before he had left for war, as your Septa had kept you in the nursery, and when you weren’t enjoying the indoor activities fit for a lady of your station, the gardens were your only distraction.

You had of course heard the rumors, and the occasional complaint from your father at dinner, and you knew quite well to avoid the man’s company.

You could not deny you were curious, and there was an appeal to the Rogue Prince. Returning from the war with a mock crown and short-cropped hair, he had surprised everyone, even the king. The man had the silver hair of the Targaryens and their fiery temper, and for a young, sheltered lady as yourself, it was a welcome novelty.

Still, you knew better than to get caught in idle thinking, or worse, fantasizing about the man. You also knew that any passing fancy you might have had would be put to rest soon, as you were expecting to find a husband soon.

You were in a fine dress with delicate trimmings and embroideries, alone and loathing the prospective tea that awaited you in the gardens with the ladies Redwyne and Lannister. Both women were eager to introduce you to their young nephews, certainly hoping that as sister to the Queen, that you could secure them a lasting position in attending the king.

As you rounded a deserted corridor, hoping to find a moment of silence in a secluded alcove, you gasped as you almost collided with someone in your hurry.

Lifting your eyes from the ground, you realized the figure you had almost walked into was that of Prince Daemon. The man was grinning, visibly amused, and you couldn’t help but flush at your own clumsiness.

His piercing purple eyes creased at the corners as he greeted you, falsely deferent. “Lady Hightower,” his smooth voice resonated under the low ceiling of the alcove. 

“Prince Daemon, my apologies,” you replied, less assured, with a trembling nod. Still, he did not step aside as would have been appropriate, but you knew the man was not known for his chivalry. 

“Well, well, my lady, what has you in such a hurry?” he asked, lips parting to reveal white teeth.

“Nothing that concerns you, my prince,” you replied, pinched but polite. You forced your way past him, your hands lifting your skirts slightly as you made your way to the rounding staircase.

“I would have thought you’d have run back to Oldtown with your dear father,” Daemon crooned as you walked past him, the scent of your hair lingering in the air.

“My father has left me in the care of my sister, the Queen,” you replied, stopping to respond to him, chin raised in defiance. 

He admired your fire, and the harsh way you always addressed him, self-righteous and defensive—he knew who had fed you this poison, and that if he were to ask how he had offended you, your father’s words would come out of your mouth.

“He also thought the court would be the best place for me to find a good match,” you continued proudly, hoping to convey the image of a noble lady with good prospects, rather than a frightened girl for him to mock.

“It is true, then, you are of marrying age,” he answered, and your show of pride didn’t seem to lessen his amusement in the least. If anything, he seemed delighted. 

“Yes. I came of age during the spring,” you confirmed. “However I do not see how that concerns you, my prince. Good day,” you said curtly as you moved up the steps, but a large hand around your arm stopped you in your tracks—as perched as you were on the third step, the prince was barely taller than you, and it felt somehow even more intimidating to be in direct line with his piercing eyes.

“Not so fast, little mouse,” he said with a grin, and you couldn’t help the blush that rose to your cheeks. 

“Remove your hand, please,” you commanded, but your voice wavered and your composure faltered. 

You had learned to keep your interactions with the prince short and to the point, and he had never shown any interest in you as you were a mere child the last time he had seen you. Now you were a lady of marrying age, dressed to attract the most handsome suitor, and womanhood had carved your figure in the most enticing manner.

Daemon wasn’t one to look past a beautiful figure, or to ignore the freshest lady in search of a husband—those were always easy to make blush, easy to fluster and play with, and after four years of war, he longed for the crisp taste of fresh fruit. 

There was also a perverse pleasure in putting his hand on the youngest daughter of the man who had plagued his existence at court. It tasted like a sweet revenge, and he wondered whether your lips would carry that taste—the sticky sweetness of retribution, and the satisfaction of plucking a fresh flower from a garden in first bloom.

“You will be married soon to the handsome son of a lord, or perhaps that lord himself will want your youth and beauty for himself…” he said, his other hand rising to your face, only to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

The gentle gesture troubled you, especially from a man that never displayed any tenderness—you didn’t know if you could trust it, but part of you relished it in anyway. 

“Many lords have come for the Princess’ wedding, I’m sure many of them have already set their eye on you,” he continued, and this time it sounded like a warning, almost like a threat.

It was true a few had asked for dances, but none had caught your attention nor pleased you in any way, and you shivered at the thought that one of them might ask for your hand.

“What do you suggest?” you asked despite yourself, your curiosity getting the best of you. Even though you had had limited interactions in the past, you knew the man wasn’t one for idle talk, and his words always had an endgame.

“Better your first taste of it be with a prince, rather than an old lord, don’t you think?” he asked, delight curling in his stomach at the way you obviously flushed down to your chest.

He ran the back of his knuckles from the hollow of your throat to the crease above the collar of your dress, your corset bringing your chest up. His little finger dipped into the valley between your breasts and you gasped, your flesh rising in goosebumps.

“This is inappropriate,” you gasped, and the hand retracted—instead he made a wide gesture to the staircase, silently inviting you to leave his company. 

You remained where you were standing, and soon he was climbing the steps after you, forcing you to retreat. He backed you slowly into a small alcove in the wall, a dent where vases were sometimes put; he pressed you to the shelf carved into the stone, and soon you were the flower on display for his pleasure.

“What is inappropriate is an old lord lusting after such a sweet, young creature,” he said, his face dipping close to yours until the air around you was saturated with the scent of him. “Would you allow me a taste of your sweetness, little flower?” he crooned, his lips curling in delighted amusement.

Your voice had left you, and you could not deny how enticing the prince was. You felt slightly ridiculous, falling for a tale many ladies had before you, but the idea of kissing a prince exhilarated you. Your eyes fluttered as his mouth lingered over yours, barely touching you, and you made a soft sound in the back of your throat.

Your next sigh was swallowed greedily as he pressed his lips to yours fully, not wasting more than a second before dipping his tongue and tasting you. You allowed the kiss with trembling clumsiness, shivering as he pressed your mouth open.

So entranced as you were by his kiss, you barely noticed how his hand had reached down for your skirts, pulling them up until his warm palm was running up your thigh until it found bare skin above your stocking. You gasped as his hand wrapped around your leg, his thumb tracing half-moons dangerously close to the crease of your hip.

“What are you doing?” you asked, looking down at his wrist where it disappeared under the layers of muslin and linen.

“Showing you what you will not find in marriage,” he replied, self-assured, pressing his grin into the divot behind your jaw. His voice so close to your ear made you shiver and your hands came up to his chest, curling into the thick fabric of his doublet. “Just say the word, and I will let you go.”

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you shook your head, mesmerized as his wrist pushed up and soon his hand slipped under your smallclothes. 

Your mouth dropped open as he found your core easily, and he wasn’t surprised to find you warm and slightly wet already. Your cheeks were flushed the loveliest pink and your eyes closed for a moment as he pressed his thumb where your folds met.

You shivered visibly under his hand, a soft moan rising from your throat—Daemon felt himself harden, victorious at being the first to please you. The darkest part of him wished for your father to be present at court, so that his little birds could chirp in his ear the terrible rumor that his enemy had defiled his own little girl.

Daemon instead found satisfaction in the way you rocked back against him, slowly at first, then more assuredly as you grew more familiar with the warm pressure at your core. The nub under his thumb hardened and swelled at his touch, a testament to your pleasure.

Your eyes were still fixed on his wrist where the fabrics of your skirts bunched, making a soft sound each time you ground up. He allowed you a few minutes of bliss, watching you raptly, taking in every minute flinch, every flutter of your eyes, every silent gasp.

“How lovely you are, little lady. How wet and pliant,” he hummed, and you flushed furiously as the indecent words.

To your shame, his praise only served to incense you further, a sharp lick of heat running down your pearl and setting your core on fire—an ache had lodged itself deep within you, and you didn’t quite understand it.

“Tell me, little mouse, do you ever touch yourself?” he asked, and you would have been outraged if you were not so entranced.

You shook your head despite your furious blush, biting your lip as he pressed harder, making you squirm under his thumb. You felt your flesh part around his finger as he prodded, spreading your wetness along your folds.

“No,” you replied feebly, and it only served to amuse him.

You were the most delicious creature under his hand, your obvious inexperience fueling your eagerness as you rocked back against his touch. It was obvious you had told a lie, and he wouldn’t allow you to get away with it, not since you were pinned under him.

He made a tutting sound, taking his thumb away as he continued to follow the crease of your folds, taking away your pleasure and leaving only a tease. “Please,” you whined.

“Tell me the truth, little mouse, and I will give you what you need,” he said, an edge of darkness in his tone, his eyes a deep purple as they bore into yours. You could tell he wouldn’t be pleased if you refused him, and that taste of danger only served to tighten the coil of arousal in your core.

“I touch myself sometimes,” you rushed to reply in one breath, stumbling over your words with your impatience, and he hummed, his lips twitching in the shadow of a smile.

“Only sometimes?” he pushed, but you couldn’t blame him for his insistence, as it came with a few firm presses against your pearl.

“It is unbecoming of a lady,” you breathed as he resumed a slow rhythm, his thumb drawing tight circles against your nub while one of his fingers circled your entrance. You clenched around the desperate desire to feel him press inside, but your virtue was still intact, and the prospective sting intimidated you. 

Your eyelashes fluttered as you struggled to keep your eyes open; your entire body felt like it was floating above the ground, your knees weak and unsteady, your center of gravity dropping down to where the prince was touching you. 

You were a lovely sight, and even though he hadn’t been chaste since returning from the Step Stones, he felt exhilarated at the prospect of taking your purity. You mewled as he pressed forward, teasing your entrance more firmly; you were wet, coating his fingers with your growing pleasure.

“I could take your virtue, right here and then,” he taunted in a murmur. “Or leave it for your husband to pierce it with his cock on your wedding night.”

“Please,” you pleaded, tears coming to your eyes, because the prince had been right—there was a frightening possibility that your match would not be harmonious, and you would rather be breached by a prince who was asking rather than a simple lord taking it as his right. “Please take it.”

Daemon’s mouth crashed against yours as he pushed his finger forward, the sensation as foreign as the sting was brief. He curled his knuckle inside, his thumb pressing slow and sweet against your pearl, his tongue prodding yours passionately.

If you had been floating before, you were now soaring, clinging to Daemon’s shoulders desperately as he kissed you, swallowing your moans.

“That’s it, little one, give it to me,” he breathed, his lips hovering over yours, and you were not certain of what he wanted from you—still you nodded and followed the pace of his hand, rocking up against him as your pleasure crested, the pressure inside your core mounting until it was unbearable.

You were speared to the spot, caught between his two fingers slowly pulling you over the edge, pressing on your pearl and curling against a sensitive place inside you. Unable to resist, to do anything but feel the wave of heat crash through you, you shook and trembled as your core pulsed.

Daemon chuckled against your neck as you peaked, your knees giving out. His hand on your thigh propped you up against the shelf, and you were grateful for the solid line of his shoulders under your clenched fingers. 

“It’s done, little mouse. Your virtue fully belongs to me, now,” he crooned against the sensitive spot behind your ear, sucking a kiss into the soft skin.

You chuckled despite yourself, feeling free like never before, relieved of a burden you didn’t even know you were carrying—your limbs felt light and loose, your core clenching in aftershocks that spread a delicious weightlessness down to your very bones.

He slowly let you go, and you sagged against the wall, your hands coming to catch yourself on the stone shelf. You looked away in embarrassment as the prince wiped his fingers on the inner layer of your dress before releasing it. Your skirts fell back into place and he stepped away, hips and shoulders swaying slightly, his lips pulled into a satisfied grin.

You smoothed your clothes almost nervously, breathing out a sheepish chuckle, wondering if he was expecting you to return the favor somehow—instead he turned to make his way up the stairs, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Prince Daemon,” you called, slightly panicked, the reality of what you had just done crashing down on you.

“There is more of that where it came from, if you were so inclined,” he replied, throwing you a knowing glance over his shoulder, and as he disappeared down the corridor, you swore you heard his dark chuckle echo under the high ceilings.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics, Daemon pictures by @child-of-three

Beta read by the wonderful @arcielee ♡

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

-

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

-

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

-

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved.  Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

-

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly.  For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time. 

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you. 

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful. 

You stood on the pavement outside the restaurant and looked at the entrance - the kind of entrance that had a person standing at it, a person in a jacket whose entire job was to hold the door, a door that was heavy, and dark, and framed in something that might have been brass, or might have been something more expensive than brass - and then you looked down at yourself.

You had done your best. Genuinely, sincerely done your best, and you wanted that noted somewhere, even if only internally. The nicest dress you owned was the dress that you had bought for your college graduation and worn twice since, and it was a perfectly good dress, and it fit you well, and the problem was not the dress. The problem was that the dress existed in a world where restaurant entrances did not have their own personnel, and the restaurant in front of you existed in a different world, and those two worlds were, as of tonight, briefly overlapping in a way that made the seams very visible. 

Good shoes - heels, low ones, the only pair you owned that qualified - were already making the balls of your feet aware of their feelings. Your coat was presentable from the outside. You had done your hair for forty-five minutes, and Julia had sent back a string of voice notes telling you to stop it and go, and here you were, and here the restaurant was.

He was out of touch.

The thought arrived plainly. Not unkindly - not as a judgment, just a fact, the clear simple fact of someone who had not had to think about whether a restaurant was within reach for a very long time, possibly ever. He had suggested it the way you might suggest a coffee shop, a known quantity chosen on the basis of quality, and the thought of whether it was the kind of place that might make you feel small had simply not entered the picture. Not from indifference. Just from the particular blindness of never having needed to consider it.

You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and went in.

He was already there, of course - he was always early, you had noted this across twelve Monday evenings, as consistent as his rolled sleeves, and his reading posture, and the way he held a wooden spoon. 

He was standing near the host's desk rather than sitting, because he had arrived and declined to be seated without you, which was correct and very him, and you registered it with a small, complicated warmth alongside the nervousness rather than instead of it.

He was wearing a suit. A very good suit, dark charcoal, with a tie that was deep burgandy, and a pocket square folded with apparent care, and he looked - you processed this with the slight remove of someone trying to see something clearly - extraordinary. 

The suit fit the way expensive things fit when they have been made for a specific person and worn enough times to settle into the shape of them. The dark hair, the mismatched eyes, the correctness of his posture, all of it read differently here than it had in an amber-lit kitchen with flour on the counter and Rowan's voice cutting through the noise of several working stoves at once. 

Here, he looked like what he was - a very successful fifty-year-old man who had arrived early and was waiting. And here, in the nicest dress you owned, you looked like what you were, and the distance between those two things was something you were going to spend the next hour and a half being quietly aware of.

He saw you, and something shifted in his expression - moved through pleased and settled into careful, deliberate, the expression of a man managing himself, which you recognized because you were also managing yourself, and because it was genuinely strange to see him standing here when every memory you had of him involved chopping boards, and saucepans, and twelve Monday nights in the same warm kitchen.

"Hi," you said.

"Hello," he said, and offered you the flowers.

You had not expected the flowers. He was holding them with a slight self-consciousness that suggested he had made a decision some days ago, and was now committed to following through on it regardless of how it felt to stand in the entrance of a restaurant holding a wrapped bouquet while waiting - which was, you thought, simultaneously very formal, and very earnest, and entirely, specifically him. 

They were white and pale pink, ranunculus or something close, simply wrapped, nothing excessive. 

"They're beautiful," you said, and meant it, and took them, and the host appeared and said ‘right this way’, and you followed with the flowers in your arms into the restaurant, already working out that you would be holding them for the rest of the evening because there was simply nowhere to put them.

—-

The restaurant was the kind of place where the menus had no prices on your side.

You discovered this when you opened yours and scanned the left column with the practiced efficiency of someone who always checked prices first, and found that the left column said things like pan-seared halibut with a citrus beurre blanc and slow-braised short rib with truffle pomme purée without any numbers attached. You looked at it for a moment. You looked at Baelor, who was reading his menu with the same focused attention he gave everything and appeared entirely untroubled.

You looked back at your menu.

There was a small, uncertain beat in which you were not entirely sure whether to be offended. 

There was something about the menu-without-prices that felt like a particular kind of assumption - like the restaurant, and by extension Baelor, had decided on your behalf that numbers weren't your concern. You turned this over for a moment, fairly. 

It was the kind of restaurant that still did things this way because it had always done them this way, and Baelor had probably not chosen it because of that detail, had probably not thought about that detail at all. He had chosen it because he knew it, because the food was good, because when you had been on approximately no dates for however long it had been and you were trying to do this correctly, you defaulted to the version of correct you already had a template for. Which was, you suspected, the client dinner version.

The client dinner version. 

You sat with that for a moment - the suit, the menu, the careful correctness of the evening, the way he had been holding himself since you walked in with the slight tension of someone executing a procedure they had memorized and were determined to get right. 

He wasn't being dismissive. He wasn't being condescending. He was being the only version of a first date he had available to him, which was formal, and correct, and out of practice, and that was a different thing entirely.

"The halibut is very good here," he told you, over the top of his menu.

"Is it?" You asked.

"I've been here before. For a client dinner, some years ago." He set his menu down and looked at you with the same attentiveness - the full, direct kind. "I should have asked what you preferred. I defaulted to somewhere I knew, which wasn't -" he stopped. "I apologize, I should have asked your preference."

You looked at him for a moment, at the slight compression around his expression that was his version of discomfort, and you said, "It's a beautiful restaurant. I'm glad to be here." And you meant it - not as performance, just as the honest fact of where things stood. He had made a miscalculation with the restaurant. He had also noticed the miscalculation and said so, without being prompted. That counted.

He nodded once and picked up his menu again, and the waiter came, and you ordered the halibut because he had recommended it and because it seemed safe, and Baelor ordered the short rib, and the waiter disappeared, and you were left with each other, and the white tablecloth, and the quiet, ambient sound of a full restaurant on a Saturday evening.

"How was your week?" You asked him, because it was the conversational equivalent of a fire escape - functional, unglamorous, available in emergencies. 

In the kitchen it would never have been necessary; conversation had always found its own shape, driven by the task at hand, by the natural rhythm of working alongside someone toward something specific. 

Here, there was no task. Just the two of you, and a white tablecloth, and twelve weeks of Monday evenings that had apparently not prepared either of you for Saturday night.

"Busy," he said. "The new client -" a pause. "You don't want to hear about the new client."

"I do," you said, honestly.

He looked at you with a slight skepticism that was almost funny. "It's not interesting."

"You find it interesting."

"I find most things interesting," he said. "I'm not a reliable measure."

"Tell me about the new client," you said.

He told you about the new client. It was - well, it was not inherently interesting in itself, a complex estate dispute with multiple parties and a poorly drafted will being read three different ways by three different sets of lawyers - but the way he talked about it was interesting, the same way it had always been interesting, the way he organized a problem out loud with clean precision. 

You listened, and you asked questions, and he answered them, and for about eight minutes it was almost like the kitchen. The register was right, the ease was almost right, and you could see the shape of the person you knew underneath the suit and the careful posture.

And then the food arrived, and the conversation broke, and when it resumed it had lost the thread again.

The food was extraordinary, and you noted this with genuine appreciation alongside the helplessness of knowing that meals like this existed entirely outside your normal life - the kind you'd had maybe twice, at other people's expense, at occasions that required dressing up. The halibut dissolved. The beurre blanc was exactly what a beurre blanc should be, which you knew now, specifically, because of class, and that small knowledge sat pleasantly in the middle of the rather formal evening.

"The sauce," you noted.

Something shifted in his expression - a small, recognizing warmth, the kind that appeared when something from the kitchen surfaced here. "Yes," he agreed.

"We could make this."

"Something close to it," he said. "The technique would be the same. The fish would be less exceptional."

"Rowan would be proud."

"Rowan would take the credit," he said, with a dryness so entirely him that you laughed - a real one, not the polite kind - and he looked quietly pleased, the way he always looked pleased when he made you laugh, without making anything of it.

But then the laugh settled, and the restaurant reasserted itself around you, and the slight stiffness was still there in the set of his shoulders, still in the careful way he was handling the conversation. You thought about what he had said on the phone when you'd finally spoken, working out the date - it's been some time since I've done this - and what some time meant when translated from his particular register into ordinary language.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked at you. "Yes."

"When was the last time you went on a date? Before tonight."

The pause was brief but real. He looked at his plate for a moment, then back at you, with the expression he had when he was choosing the true answer over the more correct one. "Before Jena died," he said. "We were together from law school, so the last time I dated anyone was before I was married." A pause. "Which was a while ago."

"How long?" you asked.

He considered it. "She passed nearly eleven years ago, and we were married for… well, for thirteen years before that, and we had dated a while before getting married.” 

You sat with that for a moment. His last first date would have been more than twenty-four years ago. He had put on his best suit, and brought you flowers, and chosen a restaurant he associated with the kind of occasion, and had been sitting across from you all evening trying very hard to do this correctly by the standards of a version of dating that was more than two decades out of practice, and the whole picture of it - the too-formal posture, the careful orchestration of the evening, the menu without prices - rearranged itself in your understanding into something that was not out of touch at all. 

It was just nervousness. 

It was just a man who did not know what he was doing and was covering it with the best tools he had, which were precision, and preparation, and the knowledge of where to find a good halibut.

"Okay," you said, because what else could you say?

He looked at you.

"I was just wondering," you said, mildly, "because you've seemed a little -" you looked for the right word. "Tightly wound."

Something moved across his face that he very quickly composed. "I'm not tightly wound."

"You've been holding your fork like it might combust if you set it down," you said.

He paused. He looked down at his fork. He set it down with a deliberateness that was somehow funnier than the original offense, and you pressed your lips together and looked at the tablecloth.

"I'm a little tightly wound," he admitted.

"It's okay," you told him. "I'm nervous too."

He looked at you with a faint surprise, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him - as though he had been so occupied with the propriety of his own side of the evening that your nervousness had simply not entered the picture. It was both very funny and unexpectedly endearing. 

"You don't seem nervous," he said.

"I'm very good at seeming like I'm not nervous," you smiled. "I learned it somewhere along the line."

The look he gave you was different from the other, careful expressions of the last hour - quicker, unguarded, the kitchen look, and it lasted only a second before the restaurant settled back around you, but it was enough.

You finished dinner. The food was excellent throughout, and the conversation found a better rhythm in the second half - helped by the frank exchange about nerves, by the loosening that always came from naming a thing. It was not the effortless current of the kitchen, not quite, but it was better. More honest. He made a dry remark about the dessert menu. You told him something that had happened at work that made him press his lips together in the way he did when he was trying not to smile. 

It was good, genuinely good, and underneath it you were aware of the thing that was still slightly off - the production-of-a-date quality of the evening, the white tablecloth between you - and you were thinking about how to address it.

The waiter returned, and Baelor asked for the bill with the quiet skill of someone who had been planning to do so for the past several minutes, and when it arrived he positioned it on his side of the table with a naturalness that made very clear the conversation was not going to happen.

"Let me -" you started.

"No," he said.

Just that. Pleasantly, with the finality of a person who had already settled this question internally some time ago and saw no reason to revisit it. You looked at him. He looked back at you with a  mild steadiness, as though he were waiting for the objection to resolve itself.

"It's a very expensive restaurant," you protested.

"I chose it," he said. "So it’s only fair that I pay."

You could have pressed it. You looked at his expression and decided not to, and he signed the receipt without letting you see the total, which you appreciated, and put his card away, and that was that.

You were quiet for a moment, watching him, thinking. The evening had been good in parts and stiff in others, and you were not going to let it end on the stiff parts. Not when you knew - with the certainty of twelve Mondays behind knowing - that the Baelor from the kitchen was in there somewhere underneath the suit and the careful posture, and that what he needed was not a better restaurant or better conversation topics but simply something to do with his hands. A task. A shared, unstudied thing that neither of you was performing. That was what had always worked.

"We should get ice cream," you suggested.

He looked at you.

"There's a place two blocks from here," you said. "I passed it on the way."

He looked around, briefly, at the restaurant - the other tables, the candlelight, the dessert menu sitting unopened between you - and then back at you. "It's December.”

"I know."

"It's quite cold."

"I'm aware of the temperature."

"We're in a restaurant," he said, as though it were mildly absurd.

"A restaurant without ice cream," you replied. "I checked the dessert menu. They have something called a deconstructed opera cake and something called a warm valrhona chocolate fondant."

"Both of which are -"

"Fine," you said. "But I want ice cream."

He looked at you for a long moment, and the corner of his mouth did the thing it did. "Alright.”

—

The cold outside was sharp and immediate, the December kind that made itself known in the first breath and stayed known. You had your coat and your flowers, and he had his coat, and the street was quieter than the restaurant side of things - mostly offices, one late-closing stationery shop, the pavement lit at intervals by the street lamps. 

It was immediately better than the restaurant. Not because the restaurant had been bad - it had been, objectively, excellent in every way a restaurant could be excellent - just because this was unrehearsed. There was no tablecloth. There was no ambient propriety. There was just the cold, and the street, and him walking beside you.

You had noticed this about him over twelve Mondays. He was always more himself when he was moving, occupied with something with an end-goal. The best conversations had happened when there was a task - when the hollandaise needed watching, or the dough needed kneading, or the sauce needed reducing - the talking always easier when neither of you was thinking about the talking. 

Out here with the restaurant was already behind you, and with it the suit's particular weight, the stiffness of the evening began to ease from his shoulders in the way things eased when a person stopped performing a version of themselves.

He walked beside you with a distance that was careful and slightly formal, and you smiled into the cold air ahead of you.

"You're going to tell me it was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," you said.

"It was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," he said.

"And that ice cream in December is -"

"Inadvisable," he said.

"And yet."

"And yet," he agreed, dry and easy, and you felt something in your chest settle - the tight anxious note of the evening beginning to release.

The ice cream shop was small, and warm, and lit with the slightly excessive cheerfulness of a place that had committed fully to an aesthetic of aggressively cozy - string lights, a chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, the smell of sugar and waffle cone so thick in the air you felt it physically when you pushed through the door. Two other couples, a group of teenagers in the far corner. No white tablecloths.

Baelor looked around the room, eyes flitting around it as he made a rapid assessment. "Welcoming," he decided.

"Very," you said. "What do you want?"

He looked at the chalkboard. Read it with the brief comprehensive attention he gave menus. "Vanilla," he said. "One scoop."

"Just vanilla?"

"Is there a reason it shouldn't be just vanilla?"

"There are forty-three options on that board."

"I know," he was looking up at the board. "Vanilla."

You got two scoops of something involving salted caramel and brownie pieces, which he looked at with the polite neutrality of someone choosing not to comment, and you took the mismatched chairs by the window because that was clearly the right place to sit, and he tasted the vanilla with the focused attention he had brought to everything else both tonight and during classes, and was quiet for a moment.

"That's good," he said, with what sounded like genuine surprise.

"Of course it's good."

"I didn't say I doubted it."

"Your face said you doubted it."

"My face," he said, "is perfectly neutral."

"Your face," you said, "said ‘I am a fifty-year-old man eating vanilla ice cream in December and I have reservations about this’, both literally and figuratively."

A pause. And then he laughed - not the small, quiet exhale that was his usual concession to amusement, a real laugh, brief and genuine, the laugh of someone who had been caught and was not unhappy about it. The sound of it in the warm, bright little ice cream shop after the careful orchestrated evening was so unexpectedly good that you felt it from your chest to your fingertips.

"To be fair," he said, composing himself, "the reservations were about the temperature, not the ice cream."

"And now?"

"The temperature remains inadvisable," he said. "The ice cream is very good."

"High praise."

"I'm selective with my compliments," he said. "Not stingy."

You ate. The teenagers in the corner were loud and cheerful about something on someone's phone. The couple nearest the door were sharing a sundae with the practiced ease of years. The string lights threw a warm, uneven light over everything, and the cold outside the window was visible as a darkness and a faint mist where the warm air from the shop met December.

"Tell me something," you said. "Something you haven't told me."

He considered it with the seriousness he gave most things, and you watched the slight movement of thought cross his face - the brief assessment, the selection. "I've been thinking about getting a dog.”

You looked at him.

"Matarys has been advocating for it for years," he explained. "When the boys were young, I always said no - impractical, hours too long, nobody home. And then they left, and the logic became that it was even more impractical." He turned the small cup in his hands. "But I made soup last Sunday, ate it alone in the kitchen, and thought about it."

"What changed?" You asked.

"The kitchen is different now," he said. "Since October." Simply, without emphasis, in the way he said things that were just true. "I'm in it more. It feels like a different room."

You sat with that for a moment and chose not to read into it too much. "What kind of dog?"

"Something medium-sized. Something that can keep pace when I run."

"Do you know anything about dogs?"

"Less than I knew about cooking in October," he said. "Which was very little."

"So your plan is to read several books and proceed methodically."

"That is generally my plan," he agreed.

"Has it worked out for you?"

He looked at you. The look had the quality of the one from the kitchen - unguarded, the kind that didn't bother composing itself first. "It has," he said. "On balance, fairly well recently."

"Does the dog have a name?" You prodded. "In your head."

He looked briefly surprised, as though this was a step he had not yet arrived at, and then the slight tell of someone disclosing something earlier than intended. "Arthur.”

"Arthur," you repeated.

"It's a good name."

"It is," you agreed. "For a very dignified medium-sized dog who runs."

"Exactly," he said, with a dry completeness. He had committed to this bit and was not backing down from it, and you laughed, and he looked at you the way he looked at you when he had made you laugh, which was quietly and without making any fuss of it, and the rest of the evening opened up from there.

You talked about nothing in particular and everything in general - the dog, Rowan, whether twelve weeks was enough to actually learn to cook or whether you were both just competent beginners with a certificate. Baelor maintained that Rowan would have strong opinions about the restaurant's halibut preparation. You maintained she would simply be pleased that someone was cooking. Neither of you was entirely wrong, and the argument was easy, and warm, and entirely without the stiffness of the restaurant, and at some point during it you became aware that this - the ice cream shop, the string lights, the cold outside the window, the easy back and forth of it - was the date you had actually wanted.

"You're different here," you said, eventually.

"Different from what?"

"From the restaurant." You turned your now empty cup in your hands. "At the restaurant you seemed like you were following a procedure."

He was quiet for a moment. "I wasn't sure what the right register was," he admitted, with a straightness. "I wanted to get it right. So I defaulted to what I knew, which was -"

"The client dinner version," you said.

He looked at you. "Yes," he agreed. "That's about right.”

"The right register," you began, "is just the one from the kitchen. That's the only one I wanted."

He was quiet for a moment, receiving this. "I wasn't sure it would be appropriate," he said. "For a first date."

"Why not?"

"Because in the kitchen we were - partners," he said. "Working toward something. I wasn't certain that translated, or whether you'd come tonight expecting something else entirely."

"It translates," you said.

He nodded, once, slowly. "Good," he said - which was, from him, as close to relief as the register allowed, and it was enough.

"Was that so hard?" You asked.

"Moderately," he said. "Yes."

You laughed, and he smiled - the real one, the one that changed his face briefly and completely - and you stayed in the ice cream shop until your cups were both empty and there was no particular reason to stay longer, and even then neither of you moved immediately. There was something about the evening, the way it had settled into itself in the second half, that neither of you seemed quite ready to close.

Eventually you got up, and the cold outside was a shock after the warmth of the shop, and you both pulled your coats closer and stood on the pavement for a moment while your eyes adjusted to the dark and your lungs adjusted to the temperature.

"The car's back this way," he told you.

"Ah," you said. "I came from the station."

You walked. The street was quiet in the way of Saturday nights that had passed their peak - a few other people here and there, a bar further down with music coming faintly through its walls, but mostly just the cold, and the lamps, and the pavement. Your shoes had made their feelings about the evening known since the restaurant, and you were walking with a slightly careful gait now, and at some point, without announcing it, he slowed his pace to match yours, which you noticed and said nothing about.

You still had the flowers. They had survived the restaurant and the ice cream shop and were still more or less intact, which felt like its own small achievement.

"Thank you for the flowers," you said, because you had said it when he gave them to you and meant it, and you still meant it now, differently - with the full weight of the evening behind it rather than just the surprise of the gesture.

He looked over at you. "You've been carrying them all night."

"I know. I don't mind."

"I didn't think about the logistics of -" he paused, with the slight compression of someone acknowledging a gap in their planning.

"It's fine," you nearly giggled. "They're ranunculus. They're hardy."

"You know what they are."

"I took a botany elective in my second year," you said. "Largely useless, but occasionally applicable."

He was quiet for a moment, an amused look on his face. The street lamp above you cast its yellow ring of light, and the cold was dry and still, and the walk back to his car was, you realized, one of the better parts of the evening - unhurried, unrehearsed, nobody performing anything.

"I had a good time," you said. "Tonight. The second half of it."

"The ice cream," he said.

"And before that. The restaurant improved."

"It had a low point," he said, plainly.

"You recovered," you said. "The deposition exhibit line was a low point."

"You asked me about that," he defended, and then thought for a moment. "I take your point."

"You set your fork down very deliberately afterward."

"I was recalibrating," he said.

"Is that what that was?"

"That is what that was," he said, and there was something in the way he said it - unbothered, not defending himself, just stating the case - that was so precisely the kitchen Baelor that you smiled at the pavement ahead of you and did not try to hide it.

His car was where he had left it, in a side street off the main road, and he unlocked it and looked at you before he opened the passenger side door to let you in. "I'll drive you," he said. Not as an offer exactly - more as a statement of what was going to happen, delivered in the same register as the temperature remains inadvisable and that is generally my plan, a settled thing that had already been decided.

"You don't have to," you said, though in truth the idea of the metro in December with an armful of ranunculus had limited appeal.

"I know," he said. "I'd like to."

You got in.

His car was warm, and quiet, and clean in the way his things seemed like they would be - the kind of car that had been maintained rather than just owned. He drove the way he did everything else, without rushing, with full attention, and you gave him the address and watched his face in the ambient light of the dashboard as the navigation resolved. 

He said nothing. The streets became narrower, the shops smaller, the general quality of the neighborhood shifting in the way it shifted when you crossed the invisible line between the parts of the city that were expensive and the parts that were not. He drove. He said nothing, and you were grateful for it, and you looked out the window at the streets you knew and thought that you were not ashamed of where you lived, not exactly, just aware of the metaphorical distance between where you were and where he came from, which had always been there and was simply more visible tonight.

He found parking without difficulty, which was more than you ever accomplished, and you were already getting out by the time he came around, which he registered and said nothing about.

The building was what it was. A converted Victorian terrace, imperfectly divided, your studio at the top of a narrow staircase with a window that leaked cold air around the frame in winter and a kitchen the size of a generous wardrobe. 

You had made it as nice as you could, the way you made everything as nice as you could with what you had, and you were not ashamed of it - not exactly. You were just aware of it, the way you were always aware of the other things that marked the distance between where you were and where he came from. The restaurant had made that distance very visible, and standing on this street, in this neighborhood, with him beside you, it was visible again in a different way. 

He looked at nothing in particular. Said nothing. He simply walked beside you toward the door, and if the neighborhood registered in any notable way in his internal accounting, his face gave absolutely no indication of it.

He walked you to the front door of the building, and you stopped on the small step under the shallow overhang, and the cold was close, and the street lamp behind him put his face in a half-shadow, and you stood there with your flowers.

He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, and neither of you said anything for a moment. The evening sat between you - the restaurant, and the ice cream shop, and the car, and the walk, and twelve Mondays before all of it, the whole accumulation of how you had arrived at this doorstep on this particular night - and it was very quiet, just the cold, and the lamplight, and the dark beyond it.

You looked at him.

He was looking back at you with an expression that was not any of the restaurant expressions, not the careful, restrained versions from the white tablecloth, not the unguarded ice cream shop version either. Something newer. Something with fewer edges. The direct, fully present quality was there - it was always there, it was one of the most consistent things about him, the thing that had been doing something to your chest since approximately week three and had not stopped - but underneath it was something that was not managed at all, something that had not decided yet what it was going to do with itself.

He was very still.

You were aware of his breathing in the cold air - visible, very slightly, each exhale a faint cloud in the lamplight - and the way it had slowed to something careful. You were aware of your own, which had done something similar, a quieting, a particular attentiveness, the body's involuntary response to proximity and something it recognized even when you were still deciding what to call it.

The street was very still. The cold was very still.

He had not moved. He was looking at you with an expression that held everything it had been holding for twelve weeks and was not, you thought, going to do anything about it on his own. 

That was simply not how he was built - he had told you as much, without saying so directly, in all the ways he had held himself back over the Mondays, in the careful control over every look that had lasted a beat too long, in the word alright said from somewhere that had finally stopped arguing rather than anything so active as a decision. 

He would stand here in the cold until the heat death of the universe before he reached for something he was not sure he was allowed to reach for.

That was all right. You had always known it would come to you.

You looked at him for a long moment, one beat, two, the length of a decision being made from somewhere past the arguing stage, somewhere simple and clear on the other side of all the weighing of it.

Then you leaned up, and kissed him.

It was deliberate - not sudden, not accidental, the product of a long pause, and a clear choice, and the knowledge of exactly what you were doing. His mouth was warm against the cold, and he was very still for just a moment, the stillness of someone receiving something unexpected and carefully not fumbling it, and then his hand came up from his coat pocket and rested at your jaw - just rested there, light and certain, the way he did things - and he kissed you back.

It was not a long kiss. It was not a complicated one. It was the kind of kiss that was a beginning rather than an arrival - careful, and real, and honest in the way he was honest about things, without embellishment, without anything unnecessary.

You stepped back.

He looked at you, his hand coming down from your face slowly, and his expression was the one you had no name for yet, something you had not seen before tonight, quieter than anything from the twelve weeks and very still.

"Goodnight," you said.

"Goodnight," he said. His voice was very precisely even.

You went inside. The door closed behind you, and you stood in the entry for a moment in the warm and the quiet, with the ranunculus in your arms, and you were smiling, and the cold outside was very cold, and you did not mind it at all.

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a/n: i posted this from my phone, so if there are mistakes... no there aren't