— jeonsa

There was something that immediately unsettled you the first time Michael Jackson walked into your office after the pepsi accident and it wasn’t the security trailing behind him, or the sunglasses hiding half his face, or even the visible damage near the side of his scalp hidden beneath carefully styled curls.

It was how normal he tried to make all of it sound.

He spoke about the pain the same way someone would speak about the weather. soft voice. polite smile. hands folded carefully in his lap while he explained the headaches, the burning sensation that still lingered across his scalp, the trouble sleeping, the dizziness from some of the medication. and the entire time he kept apologising for “rambling” whenever he answered your questions too long like he was worried about inconveniencing you by describing his own symptoms.

And you hated that immediately.

Because you could tell right away this was a man who had already grown used to minimizing his own pain for the comfort of everybody around him.

You remember asking him quietly if he could remove the sunglasses so you could properly examine him and the hesitation that crossed his face for a split second before he obeyed. Almost shy about it. Like he was embarrassed.

And when you finally examined the damage to his scalp up close, your chest tightened.

Because the injury itself was serious enough, but what angered you more was how exhausted he looked overall. dark circles beneath his eyes barely concealed beneath makeup. How sluggish some of his reactions were. How he kept rubbing at his temples whenever he thought you weren’t looking. Even the way he sat told you enough , stiff posture, subtle tension in his shoulders, somebody constantly bracing for discomfort.

And the moment you asked to see his medical records and the list of medications his doctors currently had him taking, everything only got worse.

You still remember sitting there in your office flipping slowly through paperwork while michael watched you carefully from across the room. And the quieter you became, the more nervous he started looking.

Because your expression kept changing the further you read.

Sedatives stacked on top of pain medication, sleeping aids, medications to counteract side effects from other medications. Temporary solutions instead of long term healing, almost no focus on actual recovery beyond making sure he remained functional enough to continue obligations.

You could physically feel your irritation growing.

“ Mr Jackson…..they have you rehearsing already?” you asked finally without looking up from the file. Michael shifted slightly in his seat before nodding.

“Some rehearsals,” he answered softly. “not too much.”

You looked up at him then, one glance at the exhaustion written all over his face and you already knew that was a lie told out of habit rather than malice, because somewhere along the line people had taught Michael that overworking himself was normal.

You think what bothered you most was how unsurprised he seemed by your reaction. Almost like he was already preparing himself for another doctor to throw more medication at him and send him back out to work. Instead you closed the folder slowly and leaned back in your chair with the kind of controlled anger that made michael straighten slightly without realizing it.

“This won’t do, you need proper recovery,” you told him plainly, “not just enough treatment to keep you standing. With all due respect Mr Jackson , these doctors your seeing do not seem to care about healing you, all I’m seeing is them throwing anything at you to keep your mouth shut from complaining about the pain.”

You took a deep breath and softened your gaze, “leave this to me Mr Jackson, I’ll get you sorted out straight away, properly……I’ll make sure those scars and pain heal”

The way he looked at you after that…quiet. confused. almost cautious. like nobody had phrased it that way to him before. After that first appointment you completely took over his treatment plan. The deeper you got into it the angrier you became.

Because once you started paying attention to him properly it became painfully obvious how neglected his overall wellbeing actually was beneath the image management. Yes, people cared that Thriller was successful. Yes, people cared that michael could perform. But very few people seemed concerned with whether michael himself was actually healthy.

So you started changing everything slowly.

Cutting back medications carefully after realizing half of them were worsening his exhaustion. Introducing herbal teas and natural sleep remedies because michael admitted one afternoon in an almost embarrassed voice that he hated how groggy the pills made him feel. Focusing on healing the damaged scalp tissue itself instead of just numbing the pain surrounding it.

And michael noticed every single thing you did.

He noticed that you actually listened when he described symptoms instead of interrupting him halfway through. Noticed how detailed your notes were during appointments. Noticed how you explained every medication change thoroughly so he understood exactly what was happening to his body, how serious you became anytime he casually admitted to skipping meals or sleeping only a few hours.

And slowly, without either of you realizing it at first, your office became one of the only places where michael actually relaxed. There would be afternoons where he arrived visibly exhausted from interviews or rehearsals and the second you looked at him you already knew. “ Micheal you didn’t sleep, did you?,” you’d say before he even sat down. His name rolling naturally from your voice, he told you to call him by his name once he started getting comfortable with you.

Once you said that your eyes gazing at him disapproving but concerned and tender michael would immediately glance away because somehow it still surprised him that somebody noticed things like that. And he still not used to someone this caring for him ,even though you’re a doctor and it’s your job, he still sometimes finds himself drawn towards your care. Sometimes you’d catch him quietly watching you while you worked too. Sitting patiently on the examination table while you checked over notes or prepared treatments, his tired eyes following your movements around the room with this strange softness to them.

Or when he subconsciously leans into your soft hands, and completely relaxes whenever you touch his skin

Because you weren’t looking at him like the rest of the world did. You weren’t staring at Michael Jackson the global phenomenon. You were looking at Michael……just Michael…..who is somebody clearly in pain. Michael didn’t know how to handle that at first.

He was so accustomed to people pushing him past his limits that your strictness almost caught him off guard. the first time you firmly postponed an appointment because he looked too exhausted to continue working afterward, michael genuinely stared at you in disbelief.

“but Frank already scheduled—”

“Micheal, sweetheart” the pet name just spilling out like it was normal. “ I don’t care what Frank DiLeo scheduled,” you interrupted flatly while continuing to write in his chart. “you can barely keep your eyes open.”

The silence afterward was almost funny because michael looked completely stunned someone had spoken over management on his behalf instead of the other way around including how you also called him sweatheart though he won’t admit it comforted him deeply & made him slightly flustered coming from a pretty doctor.

but after that?

He started trusting you frighteningly fast. Because you became one of the only people around him willing to say no. The only one willing to argue with staff when schedules became ridiculous. The only one willing to tell him directly when his body was reaching its limits. The only one who seemed more concerned with him surviving all of this than maintaining the machine surrounding him.

And sometimes, during late appointments after long rehearsal days, you’d catch him looking at you with this quiet unreadable expression while you adjusted bandages near his scalp or handed him another cup of herbal tea. soft. exhausted. almost vulnerable. Like he still couldn’t fully comprehend why somebody was finally taking care of him without wanting something in return.

When you had first been told who was coming for a visit that night, you thought someone was pulling a joke.

It was no secret that Michael Jackson often visited hospitals, you just didn’t think he’d ever visit the one you worked at. The possibility of actually seeing him seemed so outlandish, as if he was a figure from a daydream you could never quite settle the tangibility of.

Yet as you pushed the door open with your shoulder, you stopped short at the sight of a man slightly bent over a hospital bed. Hands clasped politely behind his back and smiling softly as one of the kids told him an animated story.

You blinked, your mind stumbling to rationalize that Michael Jackson was just shy of twenty feet from you.

Then you heard a quiet mutter of your name, turning to see one of your patients smiling tiredly at you. The young boy had circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes and your heart ached for him in that long drone you would never quite get used to.

You knew how important compartmentalization was in a profession like this, but when the hour ran late, it caught up to you sometimes. Your throat getting tight as you helped administer medication or drew some blood. Listening intently as a child went on a rant of a dream they had and laughing even though you felt like crying.

“How are you feeling?” You asked him as you neared his bed, brushing some hair out of his eyes.

“I’m okay, just sleepy.” He muttered, eyes a little weary as he saw you arranging the tray with a needle. But the moment he caught you looking at him, he straightened up. Pushing out his chest a little bit. “Those don’t even hurt, you know?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Oh, really?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I don’t like needles very much.”

His mouth popped open in surprise. “Really? But aren’t you a grown up?”

You raised a brow at him, placing a hand on your hip. “Grown ups can be afraid of a lot of things.”

The boy hummed, seeming to genuinely relax at this information. “That’s silly.”

“Alright tough guy.”

The night went on in a blur, being so caught up in tasks and logs that you had actually managed to forget the most famous man on the planet was in the same building as you.

Only remembering because you practically slammed into him after turning a corner. Feeling warm hands steady you at the arms and a slightly sweet smelling cologne swirled around you.

“Sorry—“

“It’s okay.”

Your eyes shot up at the voice. Everyone in the world knew that voice, and your breath caught in your throat as your gaze caught on his.

Jesus, he was even more stunning up close. Could eyes be that brown and doting? It was like he was a baby deer who was looking at a butterfly for the first time.

Since you were an idiot, you muttered another sorry and side stepped him, disappearing down the hall without so much as another glance behind you.

The next week you had been kicking yourself over the fumbled interaction. Getting annoyed every time you thought about it, chewing on a cinnamon toothpick a bit harder than usual as you worked on some of the new doodles for the kids.

You had a slight knack for drawing, an abandoned hobby of yours given it didn’t pay bills, but the kids here seemed to love them. Cheering up a bit when you’d tape a new one at the edge of their bed.

“Those are lovely.”

You froze, toothpick wedged tight between your teeth and eyes flicking up. Briefly wondering if your embarrassment had come back to haunt you given your lack of sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time you thought you slipped into an insomnia driven psychosis.

Michael was leaned over the counter at the nurses’ station, his elbows rested on the ledge and peering down at the papers covered in marker and crayon.

“One of the kids was telling me you do those for them, that’s really sweet.”

You continued to stare at him, hand slowly coming up to take hold of the toothpick.

“It cheers them up,” was all you managed to come up with.

Good lord, all this man had to do was exist and suddenly you were bereft of all social conventions.

His eyes flicked down to your name tag, muttering it quietly to himself as if to commit it to memory before holding out his hand. His long fingers slender and so, so much bigger than yours.

“I’m Michael.”

A string pulled slightly at the corners of your mouth, amused at the idea of him introducing himself because of course you knew who he was.

He practically radiated politeness.

You shook his hand once, fighting back a juvenile shiver at his touch.

He let you be after that, his smile a little bashful as he drummed a quick rhythm into the counter with his hands before stepping back.

Your coworker rolled their chair over to you after he disappeared from view, leaning over and looking at you with a slight gleam to his eye.

“I think he likes you.”

You choked on a disbelieving laugh. “No he doesn’t.”

“Mm, pretty sure that was flirting.”

“That was Michael Jackson and he would not be flirting with me.”

He scoffed. “I’m pretty sure that man would flirt with a brick wall.”

“Thanks, that’s really reassuring.” You rolled your eyes as he continued to laugh, drawing your attention back to the doodles.

There were more small moments sprinkled across weeks and shifts that ran too long into the early hours of morning.

Somehow, he always managed to find a small window to talk to you even if it was a few sparing sentences. Vague and base line polite interest. How was your day? Any plans for the holidays? Your hair looks nice like that. You’re a great artist. Practically bursting into flames when he said You’re very pretty, y’know?

You blushed furiously anytime he complimented you but the moment was over before you properly had time to process it, not even getting to mutter a Thank you because he was already gone.

One night though, he stayed.

All of the kids in the ward had fallen asleep, the clock ticking towards one in the morning and you padded quietly back into the hall.

The moment the door shut behind you, you heard your name.

Turning, there he was, leaning against the counter again and waving a hand at you in greeting.

You paused for a moment, you could’ve sworn he left hours ago.

“What are you still doing here?” It didn’t come out as an accusation by any means, but you still cringed at the wording.

He shrugged a shoulder, his smile warm as you neared him. “Couldn’t sleep and didn’t think there was anything better to do with my time.”

“So you landed on antiseptic and fluorescents?” You teased, chest blooming in warmth when he laughed.

“No, I don’t know.” He began, fingers tugging at the edge of his jacket. “I feel like I need to be here. See and talk to them, so they know there’s people outside of these walls that care for them.”

You felt your heart tug in affection for him, how doting he was. You tried not to lurk, but you loved to watch him interact with the kids. Seeing the way their faces lit up and how excited they were to talk to him. Michael hanging on every word with great interest and bringing so many gifts that the parents didn’t know what to do with them all.

Without thinking about it, your hand gently rested against his arm, feeling his muscles shift beneath your touch through the fabric. “They know it, I promise you that. You should hear them after you leave, goodness. I swear I can still hear it when I try to go to sleep, but they really love you.”

Michael smiled, looking at you intently and his expression unreadable, though you could tell he was turning something over in his mind carefully.

“They talk about you too.”

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“The kids,” he nodded his head in the direction of some of the rooms. “First thing they do when they see me is show me the new drawings you made. They adore you.”

You turned slightly away from him, feeling a little overwhelmed by the new information and not liking how tight your throat felt.

“That’s nice of them,” you hated how shaky your voice sounded and hated it even more that Michael picked up on it.

Of course he did.

“Hey,” he said softly, gently taking hold of your arm to turn you and he had a crease between his brows. His pretty eyes being shaded by his lowered lashes as he looked at you. “You okay?”

Nodding, you smiled, though it was a bit tight.

“It’s just late, is all.”

He didn’t look like he believed you, and he very clearly didn’t considering within the next breath you were suddenly being pulled into his chest and his arms settled around you in a hug you didn’t know you needed.

Freezing for only a moment before you melted into him. Squeezing your eyes shut and pushing your head up underneath his chin as he rested it on top of your hair. The gentle and comforting scent of his cologne settling over you and you felt your heartbeat ease into something gentle.

Michael adjusted his hold on you. One hand cradling the back of your head as if to anchor you to him while the other wrapped around your shoulders. Your own arms fastened securely around his middle and you two stood there for who knew how long, but the sound of his heartbeat made your mind go a quiet. A lulling hum that made the world go fuzzy and soft at the edges.

The next time you saw him, he didn’t waste a breath. Walking right up to you while you were in the middle of putting on a makeshift puppet show to distract one of the kids from getting her blood drawn.

Your lips were parted mid sentence, staring at him in surprise as his hands settled on his hips and he looked at you with enough force of will to move a mountain.

“Let’s get dinner.”

Your eyes darted to the young girl, who of which was blinking at Michael a little dazed, distracted enough by him that she didn’t even feel the needle prick her arm as your coworker lunged at the opportunity.

“I— what?”

“Dinner. I want to take you out to dinner.”

Your arms fell to your sides, the sock puppets looking pathetic.

“Like a date?”

“Yes.”

Your tongue worked around a million different words you couldn’t quite land on before you eventually sputtered out a “Why?”

Michael looked at you like it should’ve been the most obvious thing on earth.

“Why not?”

“I…” your head was spinning. It was one thing to be near him. Another to talk to him. Hugging him had sent you into a school girl crush daydream type of high that lasted three days and it still made your breath hitch just thinking about it.

Michael asking you out?

It seemed so… absurd.

He took a step closer, hands finding yours and it was absolutely ridiculous as he squeezed your fingers through the socks. There was a muffled voice in the back of your mind telling you take the puppets off already but you had apparently lost all your motor functioning abilities.

His voice was quiet and a bit shy, though there was a desperation laced beneath the cadence as he spoke. “Please say yes.”

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, not missing how his eyes latched onto the sight and you felt a tug low in your abdomen that was wholly inappropriate.

“Okay,” the word left you in an exhale and you weren’t going to catch a break anytime soon as a grin stretched his lips and his perfect teeth and dimples gleamed at you.

“Great, thank you.”

You laughed slightly at that. Of course he would say thank you.

Your common sense slowly caught up with you and you slid the sock puppets off, gesturing for him to follow you out of the room.

“When are you wanting to—“

“Tonight.”

His eagerness made you blush. “I don’t get off till four a.m.”

“That’s fine, We can do breakfast.”

“Michael, that’s hours from now.”

He shrugged like it truly wasn’t that big of a deal, his hand catching yours again and your heart stumbled over itself.

You really did love his hands.

A calloused thumb ran over your knuckles before he brought it to his lips, eyes meeting yours as he pressed a chaste kiss to your skin.

“I’ll be here at four.”

“But—“ your mouth was terribly dry all the sudden. “You need to sleep.”

He waved you off as he started to walk backwards, hands in his pockets and looking absolutely devastating. “I’d rather be up with you.”

michael jackson masterlist

Alicent sat beside you, dressed head to toe in deep, unmistakable green. The color of her father’s house. The color of challenge. It was a statement, and every soul in the hall knew it.

You took a slow sip of wine, then leaned slightly toward her with a smile that was all teeth and innocence.

“The young lords are rather handsome tonight, are they not?” you mused. “It is a pity how quickly some ladies are expected to surrender such sights. One day they are maidens, and the next... wives to men old enough to have watched those young lords be born.”

Alicent’s spine straightened so subtly most would never have noticed. You did. Her smile remained perfectly composed but her eyes flashed colder.

“Some girls are fortunate enough to choose,” she replied. “Others understand that duty asks more of them.”

You laughed, the sound bright and unbothered, and waved a hand as though brushing the entire exchange aside.

“Oh...Alicen—” You blinked as though only just realizing your mistake. “Your Grace.”

A small laugh escaped you, light as birdsong.

“You must forgive me. I forget that not everyone enjoys a jest.” You lowered your gaze to your goblet, swirling the wine lazily before looking back at her through your lashes. “Perhaps it is the wine. It has an unfortunate habit of loosening my tongue.” You smiled, all sweetness. “I shall endeavor to be more... dutiful.”

You lifted your cup in a delicate toast. “To duty.”

Before she could retort, King Viserys turned from his conversation nearby, his voice carrying that familiar note of paternal expectation.

“Why don’t you join the dance, my dear?” he asked, gesturing toward the floor with a genial smile. “The night is young, and there are plenty of fine young lords who would be honored to partner with you.”

You scoffed and said in High Valyrian, “You know I can’t dance, Father. Unless it is a swordfight.”

Viserys chuckled, though the sound held little true mirth. He was not deterred. “Cannot or will not?” he returned gently, still in the old tongue. “You are of an age where these things matter. You will be wedded soon enough. There are alliances to consider, matches to be made. You cannot hide behind your sister’s shadow forever.”

He continued on, listing names and houses in a well-intentioned flood. You rolled your eyes and let your gaze wander across the hall with deliberate disinterest.

“I don’t want a dance with any of these men,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

Alicent spoke pointedly, the jab landing with perfect timing. “A second ago you were gushing about how handsome they are.”

You turned your head slowly, one brow arched. “I take it you do not speak sarcasm, Your Grace?”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Oh! And who is this fine young lad with you, Otto?” Viserys’ voice carried over the music.

“Your Grace, if you would allow me to introduce my eldest son, Ser Gwayne Hightower.” The name barely registered before you turned at the sound of Otto’s voice and laid eyes on the so-called ‘son’.

Gwayne stood beside his father in dark green, torchlight catching the strong line of his jaw and the quiet confidence in his dark blue eyes. He was handsome, obscenely so—handsome in a way that made thoughts scatter like startled birds.

You straightened so sharply your goblet rocked. Suddenly you were aware of every inch of yourself—the drape of your gown, the loose strand of hair that had escaped its pins, the heat rising along the back of your neck. You lifted your chin the way Rhaenyra did when she wished to appear unmoved, and offered a silent prayer to the gods.

Do not let Father take ideas from this. Otto Hightower is a cunning little rat.

But Viserys was already leaning forward, eyes bright with that well-meaning enthusiasm that so often spelled trouble for you.

“Come now,” he urged, waving a hand toward the dancers. “You’ve sat there all evening. Go on—let someone spin you about before the night is done—Why not… young Ser Gwayne then? You might as well since he is here. Otto’s son has a fine step, I’m told.”

Otto inclined his head. Before you could form a proper protest, Gwayne stepped forward and offered an opened hand. His smile was small and genuine, free of the calculation his father wore so easily.

“Princess,” he said, “would you do me the honour?”

Your gaze dropped to his hand, then sideways to Alicent. The look you gave her was clear enough: A dance with your brother?

You caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Whether irritation or reluctant amusement, you could not tell.

You looked back at Gwayne. Then, after a breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours. When he helped you rise, the simple contact sent a clean spark straight up your arm.

As he led you toward the floor, you glanced back once more. Alicent was still watching. You gave her the smallest, most wicked smirk you could manage.

The dancing itself was simple enough. Your feet knew the steps; your body followed the music without demand. It was the rest that proved the true trial—the weight of Gwayne’s hand at your waist and that gaze of his that refuses to wander was another matter.

From the first turn he had studied you openly, eyes tracing the line of your cheek, the downward sweep of your lashes each time you tried to look elsewhere. Every time your eyes lifted they met his, and each time your stomach gave an unwelcome, traitorous lurch.

Does the man not know it is rude to stare? you thought, irritation sharpening. And of all the men in this hall, must it be a Hightower who makes my blood behave so poorly?

Gwayne, either oblivious or deliberately cruel, tilted his head. That small, charming smile still curved his mouth.

“I must confess,” he said quietly, “I have noticed you seem most eager not to look upon your partner. Should I be insulted… or flattered that I make the princess so unsettled?”

Your gaze snapped to his. “How bold of you. You do not provoke such emotions in me,” you answered too quickly, the words tasting of denial. “I simply find it rude to stare.”

His smile deepened. “Is that so? Then you have my apologies. It is… remarkably difficult not to look at you.”

You gave a short, thin laugh. “Oh, please. Why don’t you admire the tapestries instead? Your sister is so very fond of them.”

“The tapestries,” he repeated, glancing toward one with clear amusement as he guided you through a turn so smooth your skirts brushed his legs. “An interesting choice, considering they have not moved in a hundred years… and are, if I am honest, rather obscene.”

Your eyes drifted almost against your will to the great Hightower banner hanging along the wall. You looked back at him, one brow arched in deliberate disdain.

“We Light the Way,” you murmured. “How very modest. One might think the rest of the realm stumbles about in darkness without the shining beacon of your house to guide our poor, lost feet.”

For a moment Gwayne only stared. Then, to your surprise, an unrestrained laugh burst from him. It startled the dancers nearest to you, and odd satisfaction unfurled in your chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time the polished mask slipped.

You hated that you noticed.

“Better than ‘Fire and Blood,’ I should think,” he countered, still smiling. “Though perhaps your house prefers to keep its blood… within the family.”

Your mouth fell open in mock outrage, but the laugh that escaped you was real. You recovered quickly, narrowing your eyes even as your lips threatened to curve.

“Careful, Ser Gwayne,” you warned. “Some might take such words as offensive.”

His hand shifted at your waist as he turned you again, the pressure light yet impossible to ignore. “Only if they lack a sense of humour, Princess. And from what I have seen this evening, you seem to possess one in abundance.”

“As do you,” you conceded, forcing the words past the tight coil in your chest. “Though I confess… I misjudged you, Ser. I thought the son of the Lord Hand would be as rigid and humourless as his father. It is… disarming. And I do not know what to do with that.” 

Nor do I wish to know, you added silently, furious at the way your pulse answered him.

Gwayne chuckled.

“You could keep dancing with me for a while,” he suggested simply. “And perhaps… decide for yourself who I am. Not who you expected me to be.”

The final notes of the song faded into silence.

You stepped back first, a teasing smile curving your mouth even as your pulse thundered like war drums in your veins.

“Tell me, Ser Gwayne,” you said lightly and edged, “where exactly does your family find the audacity? It seems like an endless well.”

His eyes lit with amusement. “We keep it stored in the same vault as our humility, Princess. Next to the family tapestries.”

You almost laughed. Instead you tipped your chin, all cool composure, and delivered the rest like a royal decree.

“You may dance with me next time, if you insist. But do not look forward to it, for it will not happen again.”

Gwayne’s smile didn’t falter. He only inclined his head, the picture of perfect, infuriating compliance.

“As you say.”

You curtsied gracefully. His eyes followed the movement, burning with open fascination, but you turned before that look could root you in place.

Three steps.

That was all you managed before your traitorous gaze flicked back. He remained watching you, openly and without shame. Your mind was so consumed you nearly missed a step. You forced your eyes forward again, cheeks burning hotter than the nearest torches, and walked on as though your knees were not currently made of water.

By the time you reached the high table and slid into your seat beside Viserys, you seized your goblet, took a sip you did not taste, and ordered yourself to stop being ridiculous. You lasted all of ten seconds before your eyes drifted across the hall in search of him.

The corner of his mouth lifted the moment your gazes met again, as though he had been waiting for you to look. You looked away first, scowling and thoroughly inconvenienced by the entire affair.

—

From then on, you kept seeing Gwayne around.

You did not know what business had brought him to court, nor how long he meant to stay. Yet whenever you found yourselves in the same room, he greeted you with the same propriety. Sometimes he took your hand, pressed his lips to your knuckles, and held your gaze a moment longer than was proper. You answered with the barest politeness—a cool smile, a murmured “Ser Gwayne”—and told yourself the quickening of your pulse was only irritation at his presumption.

It was likely some scheme of his father’s. Another careful thread in the web Otto Hightower was weaving. So you kept your expression neutral and your answers brief, unwilling to give anyone—least of all yourself—reason to read more into it than there was.

Yet the telling did little good.

Your gaze sought him of its own accord. Across the training yard at dawn you would catch the flash of his sword and scowl at the strength in his form. In the throne room, through the press of courtiers, you would sense him before you saw him—and hate that you had sensed him at all. Even in the silence of the godswood, when he walked alone beneath the red leaves, your steps would slow without permission.

The rest of the world had grown strangely dull beside him. Conversations drifted past half-heard. Even the sight of your own dragon circling the bay could not hold you the way the mere turn of his head could. And every time you realised it you wanted to scream.

The thoughts were worse. They came unbidden, and persistent. You would be reading some dry account of the Conquest and find yourself wondering whether he preferred the yard or the library—then slam the book shut for the folly of it. At supper you would lose entire courses imagining the shape of his smile when no one watched. You could not help the brief, unwelcome relief that flickered through you when he laughed easily with the other knights. Relief that he was settling among them. And the moment the feeling registered, irritation followed hard upon its heels. 

Why should you care whether Ser Gwayne found favour? 

Why should the way he spoke with the other men leave you both soothed and strangely bereft? 

You had no answer that did not shame you.

This time, you found him near the godswood.

The hour was late enough that the corridors had emptied, and the red leaves beyond the archway whispered in a thin evening wind. 

Gwayne stood alone before a long tapestry set into the stone wall, head tilted slightly as though studying some great mystery. The torchlight caught the pale strands at his nape and the line of his shoulders, and for that unguarded moment your treacherous gaze lingered.

Again? you thought, irritation flaring sharp and familiar. Must every empty hall contain him?

You drew closer than you meant to. “What are you doing?”

He straightened and greeted you properly. Then one hand lifted in a lazy gesture toward the woven scene.

“Well,” he said mildly, “someone once told me to look at the tapestries.”

A startled, incredulous laugh escaped you and immediately you clapped a hand over your mouth a moment too late, eyes wide with the sheer gall of him.

Gwayne’s mouth curved, but he did not turn fully. Instead he tilted his head farther, studying the tapestry with the solemn air of a scholar confronted with an especially baffling text. The woven figures were impossible to misinterpret.

“I cannot imagine my sister taking any particular joy in this sort of work,” he murmured, almost to himself. “What, precisely, am I even looking at?”

You looked as well.

Your face twisted at once in pure, undiluted disgust. For a heartbeat you could only stare, appalled that anyone had ever thought to hang such a thing so near the godswood.

You looked back at Gwayne, who was still regarding the scene.

“Your sister’s favourite tapestries,” you said, voice dry as dust, “are in another gallery.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “That would explain a great deal.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes with open disdain, and turned on your heel. Let him stand there staring at filth if it pleased him. You had better things to do than linger in empty corridors with Otto Hightower’s son.

“Would the princess mind showing me where that is?”

The question stopped you mid-step.

You turned back, incredulous. “You have been at court for months, Ser Gwayne. And you still do not know the way to the eastern gallery?”

He considered this with exaggerated thoughtfulness, one brow lifting just enough to be insolent. “I am a rather busy man…”

Busy.

As though that single word could excuse a Hightower wandering the Red Keep like a lost pageboy. You glanced about—half hoping some dutiful servant or idle knight might appear and spare you the task. The gallery remained empty save for the two of you and the godswood’s distant whisper. 

A long, suffering sigh left you.

“Very well.” You turned away again, setting a brisk pace. “Follow me.”

—

You led him into the gallery without ceremony, then found yourself trailing a few steps behind as Gwayne moved along the line of tapestries. He paused before each one with the attention he had shown the indecent piece outside, but his gaze never truly settled. He looked without seeing—eyes gliding over hunts and battles and long-dead kings as though the woven scenes were little more than an excuse to keep walking.

You walked.

And walked.

And grew thoroughly bored.

The scenes blurred into one another while Gwayne studied each with unfocused attention, hands folded behind his back. He glanced over his shoulder matched with a small, knowing smirk that touched his mouth.

“Oh,” he said mildly. “You’re still here, princess?”

You blinked and felt heat climbing your throat. “What do you mean? You asked me to show you where the gallery is.”

“Indeed and you are right, you have.” His gaze returned to the nearest tapestry—a rather dull depiction of a stag at bay. “However I hadn’t expected you to continue to walk at my heels as though the boring sight of these walls somehow holds you captive.”

You stopped walking as the realisation settled. You had followed him. Mindlessly. From one tapestry to the next. You lifted your chin, grasping for dignity that felt suddenly thin.

“If you find them so dull, Ser,” you said, “why do you linger before them at all?”

Gwayne turned fully then.

The smirk softened as he regarded you instead. When he spoke, his voice had dropped, low enough that it seemed meant for no one but you.

“I have not been looking at the tapestries for some time now, Princess.”

Your brows furrowed deeply. “Then what are you looking at?”

He said nothing and only held your gaze with those blue eyes soft in the low light—softer than you had ever seen them. The silence stretched, thick and humming, until you felt the weight of it against your skin.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked on.

You stood frozen before your feet betrayed you once more. You followed him. Again. “I asked you a question, Ser Gwayne.”

“The hour grows late, Princess. These corridors are poorly lit after dark. I would not see you lose your way returning to your chambers.”

“I should be the one saying that to you,” you retorted, lengthening your stride just enough to keep pace. “I have walked these halls since I could stand. You have been here mere months. If anyone is in danger of losing their way, Ser, it is not I.”

A low, genuine chuckle came from him. 

“Right again,” he said, the amusement warm in his voice. He glanced sideways at you. “Tell me, Princess… Do you enjoy arguing with me this much? Or is it simply that you cannot help yourself?”

“I do not!” you said too quickly, the words sharp with denial. “I find you insufferable. And presumptuous. And far too fond of your own cleverness.”

He only hummed softly, as though your protests were little more than confirmation.

That was enough. So you stopped walking.

“Good night, Ser Gwayne,” you said cool and final. You turned on your heel. “I hope you get thoroughly lost.”

“If I do,” he called after you, the faintest thread of humour still woven through the words, “I shall take comfort knowing the princess of the realm cares enough to hope for my misfortune—and I shall endeavour to lose myself somewhere you might find me again, Princess.”

You kept walking, chin high, heart beating far too hard against your ribs. And gods help you—you were smiling before you even realised it.

—

Where once you had kept to your chambers with a book or taken to the sky on Vaelys for hours at a stretch, you now found yourself inventing errands that led you through the corridors and gardens at the hours when Gwayne might be about. A forgotten book. A message for the master-at-arms. A sudden need to feel the sun upon your face. Each excuse felt flimsy even to your own ears, yet you offered them without shame for the chance of a glimpse—the turn of his head, the flash of his blue eyes across a crowded space, the way the light caught in the strands of his hair when he moved.

Rhaenyra was not so easily deceived.

One afternoon she caught you returning from yet another circuit, with a smile from ear to ear, skirts still dusted with the fine grit of the yard path. She arched her brow, looking sharp with sisterly suspicion.

“You have grown fond of walking of late,” she said, falling into step beside you. “Strange. I cannot recall the last time you left your rooms without either a book or a saddle. And yet here you are, out again. Has the Keep suddenly become so fascinating, or is there some other attraction drawing you from your usual haunts?”

You dropped your smile in an instant, though heat crept up the back of your neck. “The air grows close indoors. I find I prefer the open walkways.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was small and thoroughly unconvinced. “Of course. The open walkways. How fortunate that they seem to lead so often past a certain knight of the Reach.”

Your smile returned at once, bright and deliberately foolish. 

“A knight?” you echoed, tipping your head in wide-eyed wonder. “And which knight might that be, sister? There are rather a great many of them about these days.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glittered with pure mischief. She let the silence stretch before answering, soft and oh-so-innocent, “Why, Criston Cole, of course. Who else could so thoroughly capture a princess’s interest?”

You recoiled as disgust flashed across your face, unable to school it. Your lip curled. You turned on her with a full scowl, the expression so pure in its revulsion that Rhaenyra nearly laughed aloud.

“Do not be vile.” you hissed.

But before either of you could speak another word, a familiar voice carried from the far end of the gallery. You felt your chest clench when Gwayne rounded the corner a moment later, walking beside a dark-haired knight of the Kingsguard. The afternoon light caught in the auburn of his hair and turned it briefly to copper.

Panic flared hot beneath your ribs.

You forced a laugh and reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You are so terribly funny, sister,” you declared, still laughing, the sound bright enough to ring off the stone. “Truly. I shall never recover.”

The laugh did its work. Gwayne’s head turned at the sound. His gaze found yours across the short distance, softness lighting up in his eyes. 

Then both men inclined their heads in polite acknowledgement as they passed before continuing on their way down the gallery. You kept the smile fixed on your face until their footsteps faded. Only then did you risk a glance at Rhaenyra, who was no longer looking at you. She had turned her head and followed Gwayne’s retreating figure with a thoughtful gaze that held far more than simple curiosity. 

—

At dinner one evening, Viserys turned to you between courses, wine cup in hand.

“How do you find Lord Matthos Tyrell?” he asked, the question light but not without intent. “He seems to have made a favorable impression in court.”

Your knife paused against the meat on your plate. For a moment you simply stared at your father, then your eyes flicked first to Alicent, then to Rhaenyra. Both women watched you with carefully neutral expressions, though you caught the faintest tightening around Alicent’s mouth.

You set your knife down with deliberate care.

“Why do you ask?” you said.

Viserys smiled across the table with that slightly vague smile he wore when he believed himself to be doing a kindness. 

“It is nothing, my daughter,” he said, his voice gentle, as though the matter were already settled in his mind. “Only that your nameday draws near, and a match is important. These things cannot be left to chance in times such as these...”

He spoke of it so lightly, as though your life were a thread to be woven into some greater tapestry of his design. Rhaenyra had scarcely been bound to Laenor before the court’s eyes had turned to you, and already he spoke of matches and alliances as though the stability of the Seven Kingdoms rested upon nothing more than the rings upon his daughters’ fingers. 

You felt the spark of irritation flare in your chest, hot and bright.

“You seem in a great hurry to marry off your daughters, Father,” you asked, and hated how vulnerable you sounded. “One might think the realm would fall to ruin should we remain unwed a moment longer than necessary.”

Viserys blinked, the smile faltering for the briefest instant, as though your words had caught him off guard. Before he could answer, Rhaenyra leaned forward from her place a little farther down the table, her eyes bright with that familiar glint of mischief and loyalty.

“What of young Lord Blackwood?” she suggested thoughtfully. “Samwell of Raventree Hall. He is near our age, and the Blackwoods have ever been stout friends to our house. A match there would bind the riverlands more closely to the crown, and he is said to be a fine young man—brave in the lists, true to his word. It would be a solid alliance, sister.”

A grimace flickered across your face at the thought of being sent to Raventree Hall, bound to some earnest young lord whose face you could not even picture, stirred nothing in you but instinctive recoil. Not when your mind kept drifting to the memory of another man.

Rhaenyra’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile, though she said nothing more. Alicent’s gaze flicked between you and your father, cool and assessing, while Viserys looked faintly disappointed, as if he had expected more enthusiasm for his well-meant meddling.

You reached for your wine, the taste of it suddenly too rich, too cloying on your tongue. Your thoughts were a tangle you had no desire to unravel here, beneath the weight of so many watching eyes, so you forced a small smile, though it did not reach your eyes.

“A generous thought, Rhaenyra,” you said, your voice light. “But I find I have little taste for being matched like a broodmare at present.”

You pushed your chair back with a soft scrape of wood against stone. “Father,” you said, rising with a graceful incline of your head, “I find I have lost my appetite this evening. The wine sits ill with me. If you will excuse me.”

Viserys looked up, concerned flickering across his face, but you did not linger for his reply. You felt Rhaenyra’s eyes on your back as you slipped from the hall, and you did not look toward Alicent at all.

Your father’s haste to see you matched and wed still prickled beneath your skin. Rhaenyra’s suggestion of young Lord Blackwood had been kindly meant, yet the thought of it had made your mouth twist. And beneath it all, Daemon’s dry, mocking voice lingered ever present in your mind since he had taken it upon himself to whisper truths and warnings into your ear whenever the opportunity arose.

Do not be a fool, niece. The Hightowers play the long game. Otto sends his son to smile and charm and bind you with pretty words while his father counts the dragons on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tightening briefly on the fabric at your side. You weren’t some girl to be led by flattery or a handsome face. You had seen the way Gwayne looked at you, felt the spark that had passed between you like lightning before a storm. And that was precisely why you could not afford to trust it.

You rounded a corner too quickly near the entrance to the godswood and nearly walked straight into the solid wall of his chest. A startled sound escaped you as you stumbled back a step. Strong hands caught your elbows, stabilising your feet before you could fall. 

Gwayne stood before you, close enough that you could see the faint sheen of exertion on his brow, the way a few dark strands of hair had escaped to cling to his temple. He wore a simple dark tunic and breeches, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, as though he had come straight from the training yard. Then he released you at once, as if the brief contact had burned him as much as it had you.

You jerked back as soon as he let go, your cheeks heating up. “Ser Gwayne.”

“Princess. My apologies. I…I did not see you.”

“Don’t fret, I am fine.” For a moment you were going to turn on your heel and walk away but your suspicions made you stop and turn right back around, “Ser Gwayne, may I ask the true reason you were brought to court?”

Gwayne blinked, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face. He studied you and you saw the moment he registered the edge in your voice. Then he straightened and met your eyes without evasion.

“My father asked that I remain at court a while longer,” he said plainly, carrying that same warm timbre you remembered from the dance. “To represent Oldtown’s interests in certain matters, and to learn what I may of the realm’s workings. Nothing more than duty, my princess. I am to be of service where I can.”

The suspicion that had coiled in your chest like a serpent loosened its grip. He studied you again, head tilting slightly, that perceptive gaze seeing more than you wished him to. The torchlight gilded the strong planes of his face, and when he spoke again there was a thread of gentle curiosity.

“Why do you ask?”

You swallowed, the words coming too quickly, “Nothing. Good night, Ser Gwayne.”

“Good night, Princess—”

You turned and walked away quickly, heart fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird. You did not look back, though you felt his gaze on you until the corridor curved and took you from his sight.

Only then did you allow yourself to breathe. You pressed a hand to your sternum as you walked, willing your pulse to slow.

× × × × 

The dreams have been coming more often lately. Always the same man, always turned away from you toward the daylight. And the more you saw Gwayne, the more he began to resemble the man in your dreams. Or perhaps it was only your own wishful thinking that stitched the two together.

The nameday feast had spilled from the Great Hall into the torchlit courtyard of the Red Keep, where the night air carried the scent of roasting meat and spiced wine. Banners of red and black stirred in the breeze. Music drifted from a gallery above, and a singer had spun tales of old Valyria, but the crowd’s attention had turned to the cleared circle marked in the center of the yard. A ring of honor had been defended through the evening with blunted steel and friendly contest, the current holder a young Reach knight whose boasts had grown louder with each victory.

You sat upon the raised dais with Rhaenyra at your side, gifts of silk and silver and dragon-carved trinkets piled at your feet. The weight of eyes upon you was familiar, yet tonight it felt heavier. 

Gwayne stood among the knights and courtiers near the edge of the ring, his posture easy yet alert. As if he felt the weight of your attention, his head turned. Your gazes locked a moment too long. The same pull that had stolen your breath in the corridor after you had collided with him, stirred again in your chest. 

You looked away first.

Rhaenyra’s shoulder brushed yours. Her voice was low, threaded with amusement. “You fancy him.”

“Who?” You kept your eyes on the ring, where the young knight was boasting again.

A soft laugh. “Do not play the fool with me, sister. I have eyes.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted pointedly across the yard. Gwayne had turned back to the contest, but even as you watched, he stole another glance toward the dais. To you specifically. It was quick, almost careless, but it landed all the same. 

You hit Rhaenyra’s arm with the back of your hand, but enough to make her stifle another laugh. “Stop looking at him,” you hissed under your breath.

“Then do not act so obvious,” she murmured, still smiling. “Or so blind. You have been dancing around each other for months.”

“I do not fancy him.”

Rhaenyra turned her head just enough to give you a long, knowing look, the kind only an elder sister could manage. “You invent errands that somehow always lead you past him. You linger in galleries and yards and corridors the moment he appears, then act as though the walls themselves have suddenly become fascinating.…yet your eyes seek him out the instant he is gone. I have watched you lose entire conversations simply because he is across the hall. And I have heard you sigh more times than a lovelorn maid when he smiles at another lady or takes his leave. Do not tell me you ‘do not’ fancy Ser Gwayne. Your body has been telling the truth even when your tongue will not.”

You opened your mouth to deny it again but the words died on your tongue as cheers rose from the yard. The current ring holder had been challenged. Gwayne caught the top rail with one hand and vaulted over it, landing lightly within the circle. He accepted a blunted sword from a squire, tested its weight once, and turned to face the ring holder. The yard silenced in anticipation.

Before the bout could begin, Gwayne addressed the gathered spectators, his voice carrying clear and strong across the courtyard.

“I claim the right to be the last challenger for the ring tonight.” He paused while his gaze lifted unerringly, to the dais where you sat. “And should I prove victorious, I shall place the victor’s token in the hands of the Princess, in honor of her nameday, as the occasion deserves.”

Rhaenyra made a small, delighted sound beside you as her fingers found yours and squeezed triumphantly. 

The Reach knight laughed, too confident to be troubled by the announcement, and the fight began.

Steel rang against steel again in the night. Gwayne did not waste movement. He let the other man press, let him tire himself with showy swings, then answered with precise, economical strikes that forced the knight back step by step. There was no brutality in it, only skill and patience and intensity that made the crowd fall hushed.

You found yourself leaning forward without meaning to when he took a hit, your fingers tightening around Rhaenyra’s. Each clash of blades sent a jolt through you. The way he moved, the line of his body, the focus in his dark eyes. 

The Reach knight overextended. Gwayne pivoted, hooked the man’s blade with his own, and sent it spinning into the dirt. A clean disarm. The yard erupted in cheers and applause.

Gwayne stood in the center of the ring, chest rising and falling, the blunted sword still in his hand. The herald stepped forward, but Gwayne did not wait. He turned, lifted the blade in a brief salute to the dais, and for one suspended second his eyes found yours across the torchlit space.

He accepted the token of the ring—a simple wreath of laurel and ribbon—from the herald. Then he crossed the yard toward the dais with unhurried steps, the crowd parting before him. When he reached the edge of the platform, he stopped, lifted the token, and offered it to you with a small, formal bow.

“For the Princess,” he presented, “on the day of her nameday.” Your fingers brushed his as you took the wreath. The contact was brief, but it burned.

“Thank you Ser Gwayne.” You said breathlessly. Your fingers were still curled tight around the laurel wreath. Gwayne inclined his head once more, the small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth, and stepped back into the press of the crowd.

—

Most of the lords and ladies had drifted back inside the Great Hall for more wine and music, the sound of it drifting faintly through the open doors like a distant tide. The courtyard was quieter now, the torches burning lower, their light softer and more golden. A cool night breeze stirred the banners.

You had slipped away without drawing notice, the laurel wreath still cradled in your hands. You turned it slowly between your fingers, tracing the curve of the leaves, the smooth ribbon that bound it.

You felt the weight of a gaze before you saw him.

Gwayne leaned against one of the pillars a little distance away, half in shadows, arms loosely crossed. He had removed the practice armor he had worn; only a clean dark tunic and breeches in their place. He straightened but did not move when your eyes met his. He simply watched patiently, waiting to see what you would do.

When you remained unmoving, he took it as permission. He pushed off the pillar and came toward you, stopping a careful distance away. His gaze dropped to the laurel wreath still held in your hands.

“I hope it does not displease you, Princess,” he said quietly. “The ring was only ever meant to be offered to you.”

You wanted to ask why. Why he had claimed the challenge before the entire court. Why he had looked at you the way he had when he raised the blade in salute. The questions tangled behind your teeth.

“It is… very fine, Ser Gwayne.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth when you said his name. Something shifted in them—subtle, but unmistakable. Heat unfurled low in your chest and began spreading.

You looked away first, clearing your throat.

“Did your father ask you to do this?”

You searched his face for the calculation you had been bracing for. Part of you wanted the answer to be yes, so you could step back behind the safety of suspicion. Part of you dreaded it.

Gwayne exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh, but gentler.

“No, Princess,” he said plainly. Without flourish. “He did not.”

You nodded. The wreath felt heavier in your hands.

“And my father?”

He took a single step closer as he answered. The respectful distance narrowed.

“No.”

You drew a breath while the courtyard seemed to shrink around you. The music from the hall had grown distant, as if the night itself had drawn a curtain between you and the rest of the world.

You opened your mouth again, but he spoke first—soft, certain, as though he had already seen the next question forming.

“Nor your sister.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any of the words. A loose strand of hair slipped free and brushed your cheek. His gaze followed it. His hand lifted, fingers hovering for the briefest heartbeat as though he meant to tuck it back… then curled into a fist at his side instead.

You felt the denial of that touch like a physical thing.

You lifted your chin anyway, forcing stilness into your voice even as your pulse raced.

“And I am meant to believe a Hightower knight would single out a Targaryen princess before the entire court for no reason but his own?”

Gwayne’s mouth curved, soft and almost rueful. He closed the last of the distance between you until you had to tilt your head back to hold his eyes and you could feel the warmth of him now.

“You may believe whatever you wish,” he said. “But if this were only my father’s game, I would have pressed my advantage long before tonight. I would not have contented myself with stolen glances across crowded halls. I should have been far more persistent… and far less patient.”

His eyes searched yours intently.

“I see,” you whispered. “I think I have decided who you are, Ser Gwayne.”

His head tilted slightly. The curve of his mouth deepened, though his gaze remained serious—hungry, almost, for the truth of whatever you would say next.

“Who am I, then?” his voice dropped an octave as he murmured. “Who have you decided that I am, my Princess?”

He did not move. The choice remained entirely yours—to step back into safety, or to close what little space still remained.

The silence stretched thickly. Your gaze dropped to his mouth for the briefest moment before lifting again. Still he waited, utterly still, even as every line of him seemed drawn tight with the effort of restraint. You were royalty. Until you chose—or until the king gave leave—he would not presume.

Your fingers loosened on the laurel wreath. It slipped lower in your grasp. You leaned in, just slightly, the movement small and trembling with a courage you had not known you possessed. Your breath caught. The space between you was nothing now—a single heartbeat from vanishing entirely.

His expression softened further. His own breath hitched, but he remained motionless, giving you every chance to pull away.

You were going to kiss him.

The realization hit you at the same moment your body began to act on it. Your chin tilted higher, your lips parting on a shaky inhale—

“Oh—am I interrupting something?”

You and Gwayne stepped apart so quickly it felt ungraceful. The laurel wreath nearly slipped from your fingers before you caught it. Heat flooded your face. Gwayne’s expression closed at once, though the faint flush at the base of his throat and the tight line of his jaw betrayed him.

“Your Grace—”

Viserys stood a few paces away, blinking at the two of you with the vague, slightly glazed confusion of a man who had walked into a moment he had not meant to find. His gaze moved from your flustered face to Gwayne’s rigid posture and back again. Something like belated understanding flickered across his features.

“Ah,” he said, already beginning to retreat toward the archway, tipsy. “I was only… seeking a bit of air. The hall grows rather warm. But I see you are… otherwise engaged. Carry on. Or do not. Whichever you prefer.”

He gave a small, drunken wave of his hand, already turning as though he could outpace the embarrassment of the moment.

“Ser Gwayne. Daughter.”

And with that, the king all but fled back toward the light and music of the Great Hall, leaving the two of you alone in a courtyard that suddenly felt far colder than it had a moment before.

The careful distance between you had returned, as if the nearness of the almost-kiss had never existed. Yet the air still felt charged with it.

Gwayne was the one to break the silence. His voice was polite again—achingly so.

“Would you have me escort you back inside, Princess?”

Part of you wanted to refuse. Part of you wanted to remain in the cooling dark and see whether the courage that had nearly brought your mouth to his would return. The rest of you was still burning with the knowledge that your own father had nearly witnessed you close the space between yourself and a Hightower knight.

You lifted your eyes to him at last.

“Of course.”

He inclined his head. You walked in silence at first. The music from the hall grew louder as you approached, yet it felt distant, muffled beneath the quiet roar of your own thoughts.

“I am to return to Oldtown within the fortnight, Princess.”

The knowledge that he would soon be gone pulled taut in your chest. “So soon?”

Gwayne glanced at you, his step never faltering. “You think it is so soon?”

You forced your spine straighter, gripping the wreath a little tighter as you tried to gather the threads of nonchalance that had slipped through your fingers. You lifted one shoulder in what you hoped looked like a careless shrug.

“I suppose your stay here has already extended beyond what was intended,” you said, aiming for light and missing by a noticeable margin. Your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. “Oldtown will no doubt be glad to have their knight returned.”

The words tasted false on your tongue. You were dying inside, the almost-kiss still burning at the edges of your thoughts. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look at him again, as though that might keep the truth from showing on your face.

You felt rather than saw the small nod he gave, “As you say, Princess.”

—

The hour of the wolf found you at the window of your chambers, heavy curtains drawn aside so the cool night air could wash over your face. Blackwater Bay stretched dark and endless below, the water catching faint glimmers of starlight and the pale moon. In the distance Seasmoke wheeled and dove, his silver-white form cutting slow arcs against the black sky.

You watched him for a long time, and the sighs came unbidden.

Every time you closed your eyes you saw the courtyard again—the way Gwayne’s gaze had followed the loose strand of hair across your cheek, the way his hand had risen and then curled away as though the act of not touching you had cost him something.

He was everything a true knight was meant to be. Honourable. Measured. Courteous even when the air between you had grown dangerous. And yet the shadows of his house clung to him whether he wished it or not. Otto’s ambition. Alicent’s green. The long game the Hightowers played so well. You knew better than to ignore those things. You had been raised to know better.

Still.

An unwilling smile touched your mouth as an older memory surfaced. Weeks ago in the training yard you had overheard him speaking to a young knight who had been boasting loudly of his own skill, swinging at a straw dummy as though it were a living foe. Gwayne had watched in silence for a time before offering, “A fine display, ser. The dummy is most certainly impressed. Perhaps next time you might try striking something that can strike back.”

The memory should have made you laugh. Instead it only made the ache sharper.

You pressed your forehead to the cool stone of the window ledge and closed your eyes. Within a fortnight he would be gone. Returned to Oldtown. And whatever had nearly happened in the dark of the courtyard would remain unfinished—an almost that would linger long after the sound of his footsteps had faded from the Red Keep.

Seasmoke cried out once more over the black water. You watched him until the sky began to pale, and the sighs still would not leave you.

—

The next day you woke in better spirits. A long flight atop Vaelys had done much to clear your head. She had carried you high over the bay until the wind stole every thought from your mind, and you returned to the Red Keep with peace settling in your chest.

That peace shattered the moment you were summoned to the small council chamber.

You entered expecting another discussion of duties or appearances. Instead, a young lord waited near the table. He bowed when you stepped inside—handsome enough in the way of well-bred sons, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and his posture carried the stiff certainty of a man who already believed the matter settled.

Your gaze moved across the chamber.

Gwayne stood near the wall, expression perfectly neutral. Yet his attention was fixed on you the moment you entered. 

Your father sat at the head of the table, looking more weary than pleased.

“Daughter,” Viserys began gently, “House Tyrell has come to put forward a suit for your hand.”

“A suit?” you chuckled as if it were a joke.

The young lord stepped forward and began the practiced words of a man who had rehearsed them many times. You barely heard him. Your attention remained half-caught on the silent figure near the wall.

“No.” you shook your head.

A ripple moved through the chamber. The lord’s father smiled indulgently at first, the expression faltering when he looked to the king for support. Viserys opened his mouth, but you spoke before he could.

“How is it that you gave Rhaenyra the right to choose her own match, yet I am to be handed one like a bone tossed to a hound?” Your gaze swept over the young lord from head to toe, cool and unimpressed. “I do not even know this man’s name.”

Viserys shifted in his seat, discomfort plain. “You have made it clear, daughter, that you would not choose. Time and again you have turned away every proposal—”

You met his eyes without flinching.

“But what if I have chosen?” Your voice carried clearly. “Is the right of choice only for one daughter and not the other? May I speak the name now, before this council, and have it heard?”

A startled sound left Viscerys, edged with the irritation of a king who had not expected open challenge before his lords.

“You grow bold,” he said. The faint smile faded. His gaze moved across the chamber, lingering on the assembled men as though weighing the cost of what he was about to allow. “Very well. Who among those present—or any other you might name—do you desire to be matched with? Speak plainly, if you are so certain.”

Your eyes found Gwayne again, unbidden. Across the chamber, Otto turned his head slowly, gaze narrowing as it settled on his son. Gwayne met his father’s look with the same neutrality he had worn all morning, though a muscle tightened once along his jaw.

You drew a breath and spoke the words before fear could take them from you.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower.”

Silence held for a moment…then the chamber erupted.

You did not remain to hear it. You turned and walked out while the first shocked murmurs rose into outrage, while Otto’s voice cut sharply through the noise demanding order, while your father called your name. The heavy doors closed behind you with a resounding clank, shutting away the rising chaos—the careful web of alliances and expectations tearing at the seams because you had refused, at last, to play the part they had written for you.

tags: @claerysa @chuiisi @raccoonintheforest @hardpaperbagelthing @arrozyfrijoles23

five months had passed since y/n had first turned up at the stadium, portfolio in one hand, and camera in the other.

she’d been at every match since, capturing the players post-match celebrations, their victory poses, candid shots mid-game.

her ‘office’ was a small room tucked in the corner of the building, a desk with a computer, and a chair.

her eyes scanned across the screen, moving the mouse to click across various snaps she’d taken of jobe in the match earlier.

it wasn’t the first time y/n had caught herself staring, her cursor hovering over the picture for a second longer than the others.

he was mid-run, weaving the ball past the opposing players in a way that made her heart speed up watching it live.

being the team photographer, she’d developed a close bond with all the players but there was something…different about jobe.

y/n could’ve sworn she’d felt him staring a few too many times when she was photographing matches.

and she was almost a hundred percent sure he’d make sure to run past her whenever he scored, so she could capture his wide grin.

“y/n?” 

the sound of her name made her gaze dart up, quickly closing off of the picture, almost suspiciously fast.

luckily for her, the staff member standing by the door to her office didn’t think anything of it, a coffee in one hand, leaning against the oak.

“yeah?” y/n swallowed, clearing her throat, looming over the top of her computer.

“we’ve finished up in the media room,” he said, “you all good to lock up?”

y/n nodded, her gaze darting down to the time in the bottom right of her screen. 23:16. it was later than she thought.

“cheers,” he nodded, turning to leave as y/n looked at the rest of the photos she still had to process - forty eight.

the number was almost annoyingly high as she sighed. she couldn’t stay too late at the office either, she’d have to finish the rest back at the hotel.

with a sigh, she pulled her usb from the side of the computer, gently placing her camera into its case. she pocketed the little stick, collecting the polaroids she’d taken into her hand.

the hotel was a short walk - five minutes - from the place as y/n twisted her key into the lock of the front door.

the crisp, cool air blew gently on her face as she buried her hands into her pockets, the yellow light of the hotel lobby shining through the glass doors.

the warmth greeted her as she stepped inside, smiling to the receptionist, holding up her key to show she already had a room.

the woman nodded, returning her smile.

the elevator hummed as it carried her three flights up, a little ‘ding’ signalling she was on her floor as the doors opened.

she hummed lightly under her breath as she sorter through the polaroids, pausing at one of them.

jobe, in his practise bib, dribbling past one of the defenders, a look of concentration on his face.

and, well, he looked good.

y/n hadn’t even realised she’d stopped walking, her finger hovering over the little photo.

“Is that me?” 

she gasped, the pictures almost tumbling out of her hands at the voice as her head shot up.

of all the people she wanted to see in that moment, jobe was the last one.

well, he did look kinda good.

he had a plain black t-shirt on, and grey joggers that hung low on his hips, face shining from his shower. he smelt good too, the same cologne he always wore.

“uh…” y/n looked down to the polaroid in her hand, “yeah,”

“good shot,” he took it gently from her hand, examining it closely. it was hard to ignore how close he was to her.

“you’re good at scoring,” y/n said, adjusting the strap of her camera on one shoulder as jobe looked down, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“thanks,” he buried his hands into his pockets, “but i meant your camera work,”

ah. shit. 

“oh right,” she said, shaking her head, “thanks,”

“y’came back late,” jobe commented, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, “they keep you in that office all night?”

“no,” y/n laughed, “had a few more photos to process. gonna finish the rest in my room,” 

his face lit up.

“yeah? you could finish it in my room,” he shrugged, “i have a laptop. and besides, wanna see how that works,” he nodded to the camera.

y/n opened her mouth, any excuse she had dying on her tongue as he flashed her his typical, bright smile,

“alright,”

she followed him quietly to his room, a few away from hers, as he pressed his keycard to the handle.

why had he even been walking down the corridors?

y/n pushed the question to the back of her mind as he pushed the door open, holding it out for her.

it looked pretty much the same as hers, the tv playing on low volume, his bed a little crumpled from being laid on, and his phone plugged in on his bedside table.

“make yourself at home,” he pulled his laptop from his bag, placing it on the edge of his bed for her as she nodded.

“cheers,” jobe smiled, accepting the camera case gently, laying it out on the duvet as y/n opened the laptop screen.

“just be careful with the lens,” she said as he unzipped the case, flipping the lid.

he hummed, lifting it gently.

“yes ma’am,” he muttered, half serious, half joking, “like a girl who knows what she’s on about,”

y/n swallowed, thankful for once in her life that she had her back to him, so he couldn’t see the way her face burned at the compliment.

“pinch and twist,” she made a motion in the air, looking over her shoulder, directing him how to take the cap off the lens.

jobe did what she said as y/n pushed the usb into the port on the side of the laptop.

“y/n,” he held the camera up to his eye, “smile,”

she turned, the flash exploding from the lens before she even had a second to register what he was doing.

“jobe, no- delete that!” she groaned as he pulled the camera down, a wide grin on his face.

it was a half-candid shot, her lips parted slightly, eyes wide, mid gasp.

“y’look pretty,” he held the camera up again as y/n shrieked, holding a hand to cover her face.

“stop being a dick!” y/n whined as he pulled her hand down, snapping another picture, and grinning down at it like he’d taken the photo of the century.

“let me work or i’m going back to my room,” she huffed, opening the file of her usb.

“sorry,” jobe said, camera still in his hands as he moved down the bed, watching over her shoulder.

y/n swallowed as he rested his chin on her, watching her scroll through the photos.

they’d never been this close before.

“which ones your favourite?” 

“of you?” y/n asked, her mouse hovering over each photo as she scrolled through the hundreds she’d taken that day.

“any,” he hummed, voice softer in her ear as she moved down through the pictures, her heart thumping faster in her chest.

“this one,” y/n said, stopping on one of jobe, the ball against his right foot, about to be kicked into the goal.

“you’ve got a lot of me,” he commented, a smile filling his face as she looked down to the keyboard, and then back to the screen.

“you’re around the camera the most,” 

“yeah, maybe i am,” he moved back, so his lips brushing against her neck for a split second.

y/n shivered, her breath catching in her throat at the contact.

“show me how to take good photos,” jobe picked up the camera again, “i wanna learn,”

all hesitation melted from her mind as he leaned forwards again, lips dragging down the side of her neck, “got a real pretty muse too,”

“jobe, this isn’t a good idea-,”

“shhh. who’s gonna know?” he hummed against her neck, sucking gently against her pulse point as she gasped, unconsciously tilting her head to the side to give him better access.

the nod of her head was all jobe needed, placing the camera down on the side and pushing himself off the bed.

y/n watched with baited breath as he took the laptop from her lap, placing it on the side.

his breath was hot as he leaned down, lips pressing to hers, pulling her into his arms, her legs wrapped round his waist.

it felt like fire, where his fingertips brushed the skin of her thighs, his tongue pushing between her lips.

y/n moaned into his mouth as he pulled her down, jumping her against his growing bulge, becoming more and more obvious in the material of his thin joggers.

“jobe,” she whined into his mouth, the cool metal of his chain under her hand as she dragged her fingers down his chest.

he kept one hand on her thigh, the other coming to her face to pull her closer, fingers grazing her jaw.

jobe only pulled away when y/n needed air, his lips working overtime along her neck.

“so pretty,” he mumbled into her, voice almost raspy.

he lowered her down onto the mattress, making quick work of pulling her sweater off over her head.

y/n could feel her face heat up as he moved back, groaning at the sight beneath him.

before she could say anything, he leaned over her, grabbing the camera from the side.

“jobe,” y/n’s arms instinctively came over her chest, not because she didn’t want him to take the photo, because god, she did.

it was more that she’d never really been in a situation like that. she felt vulnerable.

“its just for my eyes, okay?” jobe leaned down as y/n thought over his words. then, she nodded.

“okay,”

jobe was gentle with her, pulling her arms softly from her chest, the black lace of her bra cupping her breasts perfectly.

he moved back, holding the camera to his eye as he’d seen y/n do countless times, a flash blooming from the lens as he snapped the photo.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at the little screen on the camera, a mini version of the sight before him, as he leaned down, pressing a hot kiss to the top of her breast.

“need you s’bad,” y/n whined, a sudden boost of confidence surging into her as she pushed herself to sit up, her hands coming to the waistband of his joggers.

jobe’s hand came to her cheek immediately, cupping her face.

god she looked so pretty, eyes blown wide with need, lips swollen from his own.

“do it,” he nodded, camera still in his shaking hand as she pulled the material down past his thighs, letting it pool round his ankles.

jobe was already semi-hard, a low groan escaping his lips as she wrapped her hands round his base, leaning forwards to press a kiss to his tip.

his dick twitched in her hand at that as y/n looked up at him through her lashes.

jobe raised the camera to his eye again, snapping the hottest picture he’d ever seen, as y/n wrapped her lips round his tip.

“that’s it, pretty,” he cupped her cheek again, feeling where his dick bulged against her, “nice an’ slow,”

y/n did what he said, swirling her tongue round his throbbing tip before pushing more of him into her mouth, bobbing her head slow, up and down.

“so big…” she whispered, tongue gliding from his shaft, right to his tip, tracing the vein on the underside of his dick, looking up at him through her lashes.

his hand reached down her back, unclipping the little hooks of her bra as he groaned, letting it fall away from her body.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” one of his hand’s came to the back of her head, fingers splayed across her hair, the other cupping one of her breasts, “need t’fuck you,”

y/n nodded, pulling him out of her mouth with a wet pop as jobe lifted his arms, tearing his shirt off with surprising ease.

“hands and knees,” jobe said, voice low as y/n did what he said.

“jobe, mm, fuck,” she moaned as he stood behind her, leading forwards to press hot kisses down her back.

his hands came to her waist, undoing the zipper on her skirt and letting it fall, hooking his fingers under the waistband of her panties.

“let me take care of you, beautiful,” jobe moved his hands between her thighs, her core burning with need.

“fuck,” y/n moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as his fingers spread her lips apart.

“so wet, this all f’me?” he hummed, voice low as he collected her arousal on the tip of his finger, “or you this wet from lookin’ at the other guys?”

y/n shook her head, a shiver going through her as his finger ghosted over her clit.

“you,” she whined, “j-just you,”

“yeah?” jobe pressed down on her clit, “me? all this is just f’me?”

y/n nodded again, desperate. “all f’you,”

“good,” he hummed, standing behind her as he took himself in his hand.

jobe pumped himself slowly, spreading her salvia from his tip down to his shaft, running his tip between her pussy lips.

“jobe, please, put it in,” 

he did exactly that, pushing his tip against her hole as she moaned.

he was thick and long, stretching her pussy out round him. 

“shit,” y/n gasped, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes at the stretch, it felt like he was splitting her in half.

“you can take it, baby,” he leaned down, arm wrapping round her neck so her chin rested in the crook of his elbow, “just relax, alright?”

jobe’s other hand reached forwards, rubbing sloppy circles into her clit as she moaned again, her pussy loosening round him.

he kept going til he bottomed out inside of her, his dick twitching inside of her.

“jobe,” y/n whined, pushing her hips back against him as he fumbled for the camera beside her, moving back.

“just one more picture, alright?”

the sound of the flash going off echoed in the room again, before he dropped the camera beside her, wrapping his arm round her neck again.

her back arched into him, lips parted. 

jobe’s chest was hot against her back as he leaned forwards, his breath quick.

y/n felt the air from her throat pause as he squeezed, pulling almost all the way out, before burying back inside of her.

“ah- fuck,” jobe groaned, sinking back into her warmth as she moaned, the sound tight from him choking her.

he repeated it again, sinking back into her before he started a steady rhythm, rocking his hips back and forth.

“fuck, jobe, feels s’full,” she gasped, eyes fluttering closed.

“i know baby, you can take it,”

y/n pushed herself back into him, his hips snapping into her ass with every harsh thrust as she whined, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

“that’s it, pretty, just like that,” jobe swallowed, his other hand on her waist, squeezing at the soft flesh.

he slammed into her, his thrusts deep and long, letting her gasp for air as he let go of her neck.

jobe’s rhythm never faltered, his tip slamming against her cervix, filling her up again and again.

“fuck- yes, yes, yes-,” y/n gasped, his hips snapping against her ass.

“‘s alright,” he said immediately as y/n gasped, eyes wide when he pulled out.

jobe’s hand came to her waist, guiding her to lay on her back before he pushed back in, filling her up once more.

y/n moaned, head pushed back into the duvet as he did, eyes closed.

“y’feel so good, pretty,” he moved back, angling his hips so he could push deeper into her, “so fuckin’ good,”

“‘m so close,” y/n gasped, his fingers tight on her waist, almost bruising.

at her words, he let go immediately, keeping his rhythm snappy as he fumbled for the camera.

“i know, pretty,” jobe groaned, voice low, “come apart f’me,” he held the camera to his eye again, shaky as he plunged in and out of her.

“jobe, ah- fuck!” 

one more thrust and a loud moan from y/n, and she finished, her toes curled, back arched into him as she moaned his name like a prayer.

flash.

the camera snapped the sight before him, her eyes screwed shut in pleasure, his dick buried to the hilt inside of her, her lips parted and glossy.

“gorgeous girl,” he dropped it back down, pushing harder against her.

jobe wasn’t far behind, his hips snapping into her, more sloppy as he kept going.

he fucked her through her orgasm, fingers back on her waist as he got closer.

“gonna cum, pretty girl, ‘m so close,” he moaned, words slurred and choppy as his hips stuttered against her, thick, hot cum filling her sweet pussy as she moaned, eyes closed.

he stayed inside of her for a split second, his dick twitching in her warmth before he moved back, gently inching out of her.

y/n whimpered, her body sore from the ordeal, eyes fluttering open.

“y’okay?” jobe stepped back, giving her space as she nodded, shaky.

“water,” he poured her a glass, letting her sit up as he held it to her lips, “just a small sip, that’s it,” he watched her take a few drops into her mouth.

“‘m okay, jobe,” y/n swallowed, nodding.

god, that was insane.

“you sure?”

“positive,” 

he nodded, once he was satisfied with her answer, moving the camera onto the side, not before catching a glimpse of the last photo.

what a sight.

y/n stayed laid on the bed as he returned with a towel, having cleaned himself up, and then her, wiping the remnants of their activities from her sensitive pussy.

“thanks,” she mumbled, heartbeat returning to a normal pace.

“‘course. got a few t-shirts if you want any,” he nodded to his cupboard.

y/n nodded, moving to stand up as he returned to the bathroom with his own clothes.

she stayed sat on the edge of the bed when he returned, a small smile on her face.

“you gonna stay the night?”

“if you want,” she chewed on her lip, unsure if she was overstepping. but jobe, he just smiled.

“i’d like that,”

that was how the two of them ended up asleep, tangled in each other’s arms, the tv still on in the background.

jobe had a leg between hers, one arm thrown over her waist. y/n had nothing beneath her shirt, which ended mid thigh, her ass peaking over whenever she wriggled.

their chests rose and fell in harmony, her cheek pressed against him.

it wasn’t until 10am that y/n awoke, realising firstly, that she was late to work, and secondly?

all the photos on her camera uploaded straight to the dortmund photo folder.

“jobe, wake up! give me your laptop!!”

“wha- huh?!”

“give it!”

select tags here

got a bit of a love-hate relationship with this one :(

The crowd was screaming your name, but you could barely hear your own heartbeat

The camera flashes were blinding and the dress, though beautiful suddenly felt way too heavy. You took three stiff steps forward smiling mechanically at the lenses, when you suddenly felt your heel catch in the tulle of the lining

Your worst nightmare was coming true as you lost your balance for a fraction of a second, but before any of the photographers could even notice Jobe was already by your side. He appeared next to you like a shadow sensing the exact moment you needed him

His large hand slid firmly yet gently under your elbow stabilizing your body “Easy, I've got you” he muttered quietly, leaning down as if he were just adjusting the lapel of his suit jacket, so no one would think you were panicking

With his other hand efficiently and in one smooth motion, he untangled the fabric from your shoe

You looked down at him breathing a sigh of relief

Jobe raised his head and your eyes met. In his dark eyes, there was none of the flashes' glare. There was only a soft, warm focus on you

“better?” he asked. His thumb starting to slowly trace small circles on the exposed skin of your forearm

That touch was so familiar, so detached from this whole Hollywood circus that it instantly forced your lungs back into a normal breathing pattern

“Yes, thank you. I thought I was about to faceplant big time right here” you whispered, relaxing your tense shoulders

Jobe laughed quietly under his breath and that low, vibrating sound brought the first fully genuine smile to your face tonight

“No way. I won't let you fall” he said with absolute certainty in his voice

He stood up straight but didn't step back right away

He pulled out his phone holding it at chest level “Now stay just like that. You look incredible when you laugh, I need to catch this before you put on that 'official actress face' of yours again”

“Jobe stop, everyone is watching us” you huffed playfully but obediently turned slightly toward him and allowing him that small, private photo in the middle of all the chaos

“Let them watch. They have something to look at” he replied snapping as many pictures as his phone allowed

However instead of putting the phone away he stepped even closer. So close that you caught the scent of his cologne, a blend of cedar and something fresh that always had a calming effect on you

He turned the screen toward you, his shoulder almost brushing against yours “Look” he showed you the display

In the picture despite the split-second timing and the crazy lighting you looked beautiful and natural, your eyes shining with amusement

“My favorite. I'm sending it to my mom, she’s already texted me like five times asking for pictures”

“Let me see” you reached out to pull the image closer and Jobe automatically covered your hand with his helping you hold the phone

Your fingers intertwined naturally and effortlessly

You stood leaning against his side completely ignoring the shouts of the photographers behind the barricades who were now mass-snapping photos of the two of you

Not as celebrities, but simply as a pair of kids who had forgotten about the whole world

“You are incredibly beautiful, you know that?” you heard his whisper right by your ear while you were still staring at the photo

His voice suddenly grew more serious, deeper

You turned your head so much that your faces were just a few centimeters apart

He was looking at you with such an intense amount of tenderness and love that it made your stomach flip. There was no artificiality in that look, no posing for the public

This was the same Jobe who always made you breakfast in his sweatpants in the morning and now he was looking at you as if you were his greatest victory in life

“I know you're stressed” he continued softly

His free hand traveling up to gently barely perceptibly brush your cheek and being so careful not to smudge your makeup “But look at all of them. They came here for you, I'm here for you and I'm not going anywhere”

You laced your fingers through his tightly drawing every drop of courage from him. “Don't let me go, okay?” you asked quietly

He smiled. this time widely showing his teeth with joyful sparks appearing in his eyes

He lifted your joined hands and pressed a long, warm kiss to the back of your hand “I wouldn't dream of it. Now come on, let's go show them why you're taking that golden guy home to your shelf tonight”

©loudmissy this story is my original writing. Please do not copy, translate or claim it as your own without my permission. Thank you for respecting my work ♡

You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.

But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!

Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.

The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.

“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”

Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.

In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.

Bingo!

You knew exactly how to get out of this one.

With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.

A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!

You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.

“Licence and registration, please.”

Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.

Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.

He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.

“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.

“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you had clenching your thighs together involuntarily.

“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.

“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”

You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”

“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.

“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”

Fuck.

“I—um—“

“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.

“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.

He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.

“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.

“I didn’t, Sir.”

“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”

Shit—what?

“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”

“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”

You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”

He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”

“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!

With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.

“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”

“ …Uh—“

“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”

Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.

You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.

“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”

You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“

“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”

“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”

“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”

“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“

“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”

You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.

And you were more than into it.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”

Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.

“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”

“Turn around.”

The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.

“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”

“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.

“Good girl.”

He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.

“Oh!”

The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.

“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.

“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”

God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.

Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.

In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.

“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”

Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.

“Officer, I—“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.

“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”

“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.

“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.

Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.

You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.

“This better, Sir?”

“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”

“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.

He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.

His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.

“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”

“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”

He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.

“Consented, right, sweetheart?”

You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.

That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.

“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.

A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.

“Officer!”

“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”

You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.

“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.

You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.

“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”

You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.

“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.

You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.

“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”

“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.

A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.

“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”

“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”

Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.

And that’s exactly what it did.

With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.

“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”

“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.

“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.

The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.

“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”

Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.

“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“

With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.

For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.

“Here.”

You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.

“Leg.”

His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.

Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.

“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”

“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”

He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”

You giggled, “I understand.“

You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.

He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”

Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

OFFICER MICHAEL JACKSON

BADGE NUMBER : 4389

MOBILE NUMBER : (213) 555-1***

And scribbled underneath in messy black biro—

—Call me ;)

was this too crazy …?

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

An ear-piercing whistle cut through the air, bringing the session to a temporary halt. Groans and relieved sighs spread across the pitch as the players slowed to a walk and made a beeline for the coolers lined up along the touchline. The coaches called out a few last instructions, though most of it was drowned out by the chatter that came with a well earned break.

Your attention remained fixed on the pitch, eyes following Jobe as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his training top before reaching for a bottle of water. He took a few long swigs, scanning the sidelines absentmindedly.

Eventually, he spotted you on the far end. The tiredness on his face disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a bright grin as he excused himself away from the group and started jogging over.

“You’ve been sat there the whole time?” he called, jogging over with a happy grin. He leaned against the barrier, still catching his breath. “Getting bored yet?”

You blinked, pulled back from your thoughts. “Hm?”

“I asked if you’re bored.”

“Oh! No, no.”

Jobe studied you for a second, eyebrows knitting together. “You sure?”

You nodded absentmindedly, your gaze drifting somewhere over his shoulder. Jobe turned to follow it, squinting across the training ground before looking back at you with a puzzled frown.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“… You sure?”

Before you could answer, Jobe closed the remaining distance between you. He swung past the barrier with a tired huff before casually throwing an arm across your shoulders, still warm from training. The material of his shirt brushed against your cheek as he shifted closer, completely unaware of how much of his weight he’d rested on you.

“There’s something else on your mind, c’mon love,” Jobe said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “What’s up?”

The feeling of Jobe’s strong, muscular bicep tucked snugly under your jaw while he hugged you made the syrupy heat in the pit of your stomach spark and flutter with nerves.

That’s what’s up, Jobe.

You stiffen when he places his hand across your collarbone, your skin prickling beneath your tactical pants as he caresses it in an attempt to comfort you. It does the opposite—comfort is the furthest thing from your mind.

Remembering where you are, you wrinkled your nose, nudging him away with your elbow.

“Nothing. Now get off me.” you retort, averting your gaze. You try to shift your body away from Jobe’s grasp, but his strong hold keeps it in place.

Jobe’s brows lifted and he smacked his lips, eyes peering down at you. “Aye, What!?”

“You’re sweaty.”

He glanced across the field before letting out a short chuckle. “I’ve had a hard session!”

“And now you’re making it my problem, shoo.”

“Pssh, whatever. You’ll live.” Jobe then softly sighed, chuckling to himself while he shook his head. Then, his grip around you loosened slightly as he leaned down, close enough that only you would hear him over the noise of the training ground.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Jobe’s voice was so soft, gentle. So different from the teasing tone he’d been using moments before. He was always so attentive and sure when it came to you. Unlike what most people expected, Jobe had to mature more quickly than most. He was always analysed, and not to mention the rumours and comparisons that happened with being a Bellingham. You always admired how well Jobe took such teasing, and how it made him so much more mindful—you thought others could take some pointers from Jobe.

You stared ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just drop it, J.”

So, he did. Jobe always listened to you. Though you didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed at you the moment the words left your mouth; he was thinking of something. A shudder ran through you at the dangerous look passing over him.

You honestly barely remember how you ended up here, face down, being relentlessly pounded into the mattress. Your body was numb, and after two orgasms, all you could do was lie there and take it. You were too fucked out, too dumb to even try to do anything else.

It was like Jobe read your mind sometimes. He knew you were distracted by him while he practised; he knew you were all but drooling over his arms. Jobe tried to squeeze it out of you at practice, though when you got snippy with him at the bleachers, he realised he needed to get creative. He had spent the whole car ride home teasing you, playing dense, acting like he had no idea what he was doing to you.

The moment you got home, though, Jobe had had enough. He was a man, after all, and could only take so much deprivation, especially when it came to you and the way you make him feel.

Jobe all but dragged you out of his car. You could barely keep up with him, albeit the iron grip he had on your hand. The moment he frantically unlocked the door, you found your back being pushed somewhat aggressively against the door to close it.

Then, suddenly, you were pressed against the closest hard surface, face squished, and your shoulders tense as his hand grips the nape of your neck. His other hand finds its way into your pants, making quick work of unbuttoning them and slipping his fingers under the band of your underwear.

Jobe finds you positively wet; a groan leaves his lips, “Fuck me… already so wet for me, darling.” His voice sends shivers down your spine as he whispers straight into your ear. “Did I really get you this riled up? Hmm?”

His pointer and middle finger slide down your folds, going past your clit and finding your soaking wet hole. Middle finger circling it, spreading the wetness around before dipping inside, three knuckles deep almost immediately. Your eyes roll back while your head droops down to lean on his chest.

Suddenly, with wide eyes, a light bulb went off in your head. You thought about the way you felt when Jobe’s arm hung around your neck casually earlier, his firm, muscular biceps slithering around your neck. The way your underwear soaked, the way you tried to play it off, and the way in your hazy state, considered asking him to do it again. Well, it doesn't hurt to ask, right?

“J—Jobe,” you breathlessly spoke, dopily smirking up at him in your fucked out state. His eyebrows were pulled together tightly, perhaps slightly too focused on making you feel good. “Oh, fuck—hey, hey.”

However, the last words that left your lips made him snap from his trance; his plunging eyes darted to you immediately. Jobe’s movements immediately stopped, which made you whine and whimper at the loss of friction.

“Yeah, baby? You alright?” Jobe leaned down to kiss the side of your head tenderly. Jobe always listened to you—and sex was never an exception. He always made sure you had cummed multiple times during sex before even thinking about himself, no matter how badly he needed to get off. And neither was making your fantasies and desires come true.

“W—wrap your arm around my neck. Please,” you hushed out quickly. You'd been embarrassed by this had it been any other scenario, but by this point, you and Jobe were far past the honeymoon stage of your relationship.

“Are… are you sure?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, y’know—”

“Jobe—ngh—I will be fine. I promise. Just please…C’mon...” you practically begged, peering up at him with hooded eyes. You didn't feel like chit-chatting logistics with him, and you trusted Jobe. He'd never do anything to hurt you; he always listened.

Jobe licked his lips, and that was enough confirmation he needed from you. Slowly, his hand moved around from the back of your neck to your throat. He spun you around, making your torso face the wall. His headlock on you was just tight enough to make it slightly harder to breathe. A hoarse gasp escapes your throat as you feel him in and on you, another finger joining quickly as he pumps the digits at a slow pace. At every thrust into you, he presses against that pleasurable spot that only he can reach. His thumb is quick to join the motions, making tight circles around your clit as he fingers you slowly.

If you weren’t so caught up in the pleasure, you’d be mortified by how fast you came. It came washing over you like a tidal wave, Jobe holding you up with his other arm wrapped around your waist. The hand that had been choking you was now wrapped around your torso as he hugged you from behind.

When you manage to catch your breath, you relax back into Jobe’s embrace. He lets you rest a moment before grabbing you. Unexpectedly, his bicep is back around your neck, the clasp tight as he starts to guide you to the bedroom, “Didn’t think I was done with you already, did you?”

Once you get to the room, he pushes you towards the bed, positioning you in front of the floor-length mirror before he throws you down on the bed and pulls your shorts fully down. You gasp as the cold air hits your warm center, and you try to bring your hands up to support you, yet Jobe has other plans. He grabs your arms and puts them behind your back, one hand covering both your wrists, “Come on, hands behind your back. That’s it. Keep ‘em there, yeah?”

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and all you can do is nod. Your need for him is literally running down your legs at this point. You could tell he was relishing in this as much as you were, just so quick to mock and coo at you. It made your mind whirl—just what else was Jobe capable of? What else would he get off to? The possibilities felt endless.

You hear his zipper being pulled down, and he positions himself at your entrance, teasing the tip of his dick there. Letting your wetness coat him as he keeps a hand between your shoulder blades, making sure you stay down. “Tell me what you want, love.”

His eyes find yours again in the mirror, the intense contact almost burning you, and your mouth is open as you breathe laboriously. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to his request. “Please, Jobe.. please, please fuck me! I need you inside me now.” You whine out, making sure to sound extra pathetic as you wriggle your ass back on him, making his dick slip in an inch.

Jobe growls at the feeling before pushing in all the way in one go, “Good fuckin’ girl, eh? Begging so pretty for me.” You see him bite his lip as he gets lost in the feeling of your heat wrapped around him. His gaze is fixed on the point of your connection as he slowly starts to pump into you. “Fuuck, love, you feel so good for me. Always taking me so well.” You moan into the bedsheets, the feeling of Jobe’s cock filling you up is always too much for you. Muffled words resembling pleas and his name comes out in gasps and puffs of breath as he picks up his pace.

Jobe is seemingly not satisfied with your head in the sheets, he bends down over you, covering your body with his. Pressing against you entirely and stopping his thrusting while he’s deep within you; “Come on, pretty girl. Look at us, yeah?” The arm that was previously holding you down now snaked around your neck. Your throat slots into the crook of his elbow, and he lifts you up a bit so you can look in the mirror. The move makes your head rest on his bicep as he holds you up. “Look at us, love. Could anyone else make you feel this good?” He tightens his arm muscles a little, constricting your airflow as he starts fucking into you again. His hips are smacking into your ass as your vision starts to blur.

“No! No, no one, only you; all I need is you, Jobe.” Gasping out with the little breath you have left.

He’s panting with exertion, his words being gasped out over the sound of skin hitting skin. “That’s right, sweet girl. Only I can satisfy you, you were made to take my cock. Only me.” His other hand goes from gripping your hip to rubbing fast at your clit. “Come on my cock, darling. Make a mess on me.” As he says his final line, he also lets up the pressure on your throat.

The walls of your pussy are fluttering around his dick as your second orgasm crashes into you at the same time as you inhale the sweet air. Your gaze has not left Jobe’s since he lifted you up, and you fight to keep your eyes from shutting as he fucks you through it. Your hands have left their place on your back and are now helping to hold you up as your body trembles.

Both of Jobe’s hands have gone to hold your hips now, his focus on his own orgasm. Still keeping the intense eye contact as his hips start stuttering as he spills himself deep inside you. Eyes finally shut as he slowly comes to a stop. His forehead is resting on your back now, and both of you are trying to catch your breath.

“Fuck me… I reckon we should do that more often,” Jobe breaks the silence, speaking into your back, trailing kisses over your sweaty skin. You just groan into the sheets. You knew he would never shut up about this, bastard!

© SINFULPETAL. // all rights reserved. do not copy or repost any original content from this blog.

tags: @agirlwholovestoread, @sophiaehernandez, @yunakwi, @wehatesophia, @ronanpakes0, @writtenbylolo, @shuzcis, @dollettetimes, @laminesgirl, @dianazyb, @jupitereleven, @sleepysidcros, @sia840, @11sp4des, @bia-n-t-d, @laylaysanangel, @ichigonator, @coolswaggyunicorn, @heuaxtales, & @ant1fr4gile

You looked up. He didn't. "I don't know." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I just..." The sentence dissolved before it ever reached the end.The mirror suddenly seemed much more interesting than you.You closed your planner.Walked over without saying anything. He kept his eyes on his reflection.You kept yours on him.Then, with all the gentleness in the world, you reached up and rested your hands against either side of his face.

He finally looked at you. "I like your nose." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to." Your thumb brushed lightly across his rosy cheek. "I'm saying it because it's true." He searched your face as though expecting to find the joke somewhere hidden inside your expression.He didn't.

Before he could think of another reason to disagree, you leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss against the bridge of his nose. Just one. When you pulled away, Michael blinked at you in complete silence. "...You kissed my nose, minnie."

"I did."

"...Why?" You smiled. "Because I like it." The room stayed quiet for another moment. Then, almost shyly, his hand drifted back to his face.

Not to hide it this time. Just to touch the place you'd kissed. "You are..." He looked down at the floor, still smiling to himself. "...You're somethin' else." You only shrugged. "Just for you, mr jackson." Without another word, he leaned his forehead against yours, his smile lingering this time.

you avert eyes, you clear your throat. you feel the heat, looking down at your hands, so you finally blurt it. halfly.

"i actually think about riding you. your nose..." you mumble so clear to his ears. your tummy flips, and you clench your thighs so embarrassingly stupid you slam your face into your palms. "f-for how long?" he blurts, biting his cheek while his hands creep up to your sides. "h-how long have you been thinking like that? about me? minnie-"

"since forever. fuck- shit-" you blurt, pushing him away, "i-i'm so sorry Michael i don't wanna be a weirdo but-" Michael reaches for your waist, as his body lowers to meet you, dominating, peering. "say it again. minnie, say you want to ride my nose. i'll give you everything you ever wanted, pretty lady."

"Don’t call me that.. Michael, let’s just-"

"i will call you whatever i want, baby." he's mean. a new found confidence lies under his smug grin when he forcefully plops you onto his lap. he even had the audacity to shrug off your cardigan to reveal your white shirt that tightly wrapped around you. "say it, baby."

you look away from him, and in that moment, he lowers his face down, trying to catch your shy eyes while his nose grazes your cheeks, your jaw and your lips. "c'mon baby, say it," he whispers desperately. "please.." you look at him, warmth creeping onto your cheeks. you feel his length against you. "i wanna ride your nose," you mumble softly.

the confession was enough for him to shuffle his body flat on the bed and palm your bottoms, and your begging made it worse. he growls, literally growls and gropes your tits until you gasp. "sorry sweet girl, please.. just sit on me i-- please-" his mouth agapes when he sees your cute brows twist up while he pants with desperation.

"i wanna make you cum on my face.. please."

"Shit!" you cry, feeling your panty slicken as he dry humps your core through your frilly undergarments. he can't hide it. the way he's smiling through his bitten lips and creased brows. he can't fucking hide it the way he's been wanting it. "mm. shit- pretty girl." he groans, "so wet, all for me." you knew Michael was a fucking pervert, you felt his eyes only on you way before you began to deny it. you squirm under his touch, still anchoring on his lap while a finger catches your slick to lick.

"Michael..." you whimper, and he melts, cock still hard, now irritated. he clamps you down until the zip goes undone on itself from him rubbing you on his crotch. "s-wanna make your dreams come true." he grottles. "pretty girl. please. shit- just." he mutters.

"sit on me." he begs.

and so you do, lowering down slowly still in your panties as he clamps you down himself, "please, baby... sit." he begs, pushing your weight down onto him as you feel the vibrations of his moans against your core. his nose digs into your clit, rubbing against the fabric, rubbing against you as you slowly tilt your hips to grind on him. he slaps yours ass before ripping your panties to the side. "s-so eager.." you mumble, and he grips your thighs until you yelp in response. you're moaning through his fucking noises, his lips sloppy, slowly licking long strides against your folds while his nose catches your slick and rubs figures on your clit. "s-slow down! mike- I’m sensitive."

"S-sorry baby." his muffled response got you twitching with ease, perky tits and hard nipples rubbing against the headboard as you look down at the view, his brows peaking out and creasing in the way that which you know, he's enjoying it.

your hips shift slightly rough, tentative, testingg the waters. the weight of his hands on your thighs doesn’t falter, digging into you, holding you just firm enough to remind you he’s still there, still sloppily exploring your folds before your own mouth. still looking at you like you’re some kind of divine miracle; like he’s been starving for years. you shiver. his breath fans across your skin, uneven and warm, and your fingers rest against his soft curly hair, tangling, tugging when he nudges deeper into your clit. he pauses, pressing the slightest kiss to the inside of your thigh and you gasp, not because it surprises you, but because of how gentle it is. He looks at you as he stops, cock throbbing in his undone pants, hands unwaveringly still on your thighs as he gropes them, wanting more. waiting, for you to respond.

"Michael." you whisper, breathless, not knowing what you’re asking for. not knowing if you’re asking him to stop or to keep going or to never move again.

from beneath his lashes, cheeks flushed and lips parted, your tummy churns at the sight of his soft features, eyes eager and submitting at your body. you've never seen this perspective of him- and to feel it? so hot your breathe unevens. even with the way his grip tightens, even with how wrecked his breathing sounds, even with how his eyes are glazed over like you’re the only thing he sees. "You’re doing so good, f’me baby." your chest tightens at your own words, and you try to breathe through it. you try to stay focused, but the room feels too hot, your head too light, and all you can feel is the press of his fucking mouth and the tremble in your own legs.

you then try to form a sentence. something. anything.

but all that slips out is a broken moan and his name again, breathier this time. more vulnerable. more undone when he pushes you off of him, landing you on your back as as towers over you. he peppers kisses on your stomach, and you see his face glisten under the soft lights, painted in your own clumsy wetness. he kisses your thighs, whispering filthy praises as he bites the side for a while. he lifts your thighs onto his shoulders, you pant. "yes mike, please... you're so hot."

he hums at that, clearly pleased, clearly affected, and it sends a sensitive vibration through you that makes your thighs tighten instinctively around his shoulders. he doesn’t move. if anything, he pushes his rough tongue in further, lets himself sink into it. "been dreaming about this beautiful pussy." he groans against your walls, his soft eyes tearing up at the side of his hands and lips kissing your beautiful core. "let me be yours, please."

"i'll be so good. let me make love to you, let me eat you. shitt! i’ve got you. i promise." Michael practically begs while he laps at you. you clench around his head, tugging onto his curls while he deliberately uses his bridge to rile up your swollen clit. your moans only power him, your hands move down to his cheeks, cupping him gently, and you tilt his face up. he looks dazed, wrecked, so far gone, and yet, completely focused on you. the momentum starts to cave at a pace that makes you tremble, and Michael’s getting confident. way more confident.

you breathe in, eyes starting to sting at the corners from the intensity of it all, from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. like this moment is everything. you whimper.

"Mikey-," you say again, trembling. "i think i’m gonna-"

he nods like he already knows, like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s been holding himself back just to let you fall apart the way you need to. not rushed. not forced. he continues to lap onto you, through your shaky breaths and broken moans, your hips stuttering into his face while he precums into his briefs.

your fingers coil tighter in his hair. your back arches. and you let yourself break loud, you cum with a guttural moan that shakes your whole body to jerk up while sweet Michael moans into your core, feeling your heat wash up against him. he continues to rub circles with his tongue, kissing the sides of your folds as you try to calm down. Micheal’s hands left imprints on your thighs and waist, and he reclaims those mouldings again when you look at him like you've reached nirvana. "i just came. in- baby- i just came in my pants." he slightly chuckles, breathless as you reach for his warmth.

quieter, Micheal kisses the inside of your thighs before reaching your chin. he tilts them to his face, and you see his nose, lips and chin glossy with your mess. he's awkward, smiling, rosy cheeks and his eyes are pleading, hungry but, pleading. "You did so good f’me pretty, c-can i get a kiss?"

"you..let me sit on your nose, ride your face til i came in your mouth but you're shy to kiss me now?"

"i-i..just wanted to ask baby,"

Michael whines playfully, brows knitting as he nuzzles closer into your neck, kissing your jawline before he reaches your lips. he looks at them with thirst, looking back into your eyes. "i want my kiss..please.." and so you kiss him relentlessly, years of tension finally unsettling like the first wave of climax sent to shake down your body. you feel heat pool again when you straddle him, legs still a little firm to control. your slick panty gets thrown off to the side, and you strip your thin white shirt, watching Micheal’s eyes dart to your tits and flushed face.

"mike," you pause, eyes daring to look up at him dangerously, "now let me ride you." you watch his brows spring up, smirk on display as he lowers down to kiss you, deep and rough. "shit..that's my good girl..using her words." and the night was longer than it seemed.

m.list.

❤︎ © 888latte.

all he wanted... was five minutes with you. so the second the elevator doors close behind the two of you, something changes. the smile he'd been politely wearing all night softens into one that's completely different. the one that belongs to you.

it's almost funny how impatient he gets.the hotel hallway isn't even that long, but somehow he's already reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like he'd been waiting hours to do it. you laugh because he's practically dragging you toward the room. "mike..."

"hold on..."

"we're almost there." except he doesn't. the key barely makes it into the lock before he's looking at you again, grinning so hard you can't help smiling back.the door swings open. he doesn't even wait to close it properly before stealing a quick kiss.then another. you laugh into the next one. "baby..."

"what?"

"the door."

"one second."

he says it without looking away from you. eventually he reaches behind himself, blindly pushing it shut with his foot.

there. better.

the suite is finally quiet. just the distant hum of london outside the windows and the soft lamp beside the enormous hotel bed. he lets out the biggest sigh. the kind that sounds like he's been holding it in all evening. "c'mere." you don't even think about it. somehow the two of you end up sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket long forgotten over the back of a chair, his bow tie hanging crooked after hours of being tugged at. you're tucked comfortably against him, one hand finding the soft curls at the back of his neck, gently running your fingers through them.his eyes close immediately. "mm..." he practically melts. "feels nice, applehead?"

"don't stop." it's so automatic that you smile. all night people had been fixing his jacket, straightening his collar, touching his shoulder to congratulate him.

but this... this is different. this is home. you brush one small stubborn curl away from his forehead. "you did really good tonight, baby." his eyes open. he looks at you with that shy little smile that somehow survives every sold out show and every standing ovation. "oh yeah, angel?" he asks quietly. "yeah."

"you really think so?" you almost laugh. "michael..." your thumb brushes his cheek. "i've never been more proud of you." he looks downfor a second. then back up. like he wants to believe you. like hearing it from you somehow means more than hearing it from an entire ballroom full of people. "i was nervous." he admits so softly you almost miss it. "i know baby."

"thought maybe..." he shrugs. "i don't know."

"you were amazing baby." another tiny smile. "thanks, angel." he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. just breathing for a moment. letting the night settle.

after everything... after all the applause...

after all the noise... this is the part he'll remember. eventually you nudge his shoulder. "alright."

"what?"

"go brush your teeth." he groans dramatically. "do i have to?"

"yes."

"five more minutes baby."

"michael."

"two." you laugh."one." he sighs like you've asked him to climb a mountain, finally standing up before reaching a hand back toward you. "c'mon."

"Huh, where?"

"if i gotta get ready for bed..." that crooked grin appears again. "...you're comin' with me."

so the two of you end up standing side by side in the big marble bathroom, taking turns at the sink, bumping elbows, laughing over absolutely nothing while his tuxedo jacket hangs forgotten over a chair and tomorrow's schedule sits unopened on the desk. because the world could have michael jackson for a few hours. but at the end of the night... he always came back to being just your boy. ❤︎

his hands were large on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin to hold you still as he snapped forward again, grinding so deep into your sweet spot that your vision went spotty. you let out a high, broken noise, your palms slipping against the glass.

"tell me," he whispered, his lips trailing hot up to your earlobe. he hitched your thigh up higher over his hip, burying himself to the hilt and holding you pinned right there. "say 'i'm pretty.'"

"michael, please—"

"shh, no," he soft-talked, his thumb rubbing over your hip bone even as his lower body stayed relentless, setting a rhythm that had you trembling from the inside out. "c'mon baby, y'gotta say it. tell the mirror."

"i'm... i'm pretty," you choked out, watching his eyes track your flushed face in the reflection.

"yeah y'are. you're so pretty," he hummed. he tugged gently at your hair, tipping your head back until your eyes locked onto his in the glass.

you looked wrecked — chest heaving, skin slick, hair sticking to your forehead, your lips were swollen and parted.

"now say 'i'm beautiful.'"

"i-i'm beautiful," you sobbed, arching back into him as his hand slipped down between your legs, fingers finding your clit and circling it until your legs shook.

"that's right. an' what else?" he commanded softly, driving into you hard enough to make your knees buckle, his voice dripping with sweetness. "say 'i deserve this.'"

“michael, please. enough,” you whined, your face flushed from the words he was making you say.

you tried to turn your head, desperate to break contact with your reflection, but his hand came up instantly, fingers gently gripping your chin keep it in place.

“c’mon, sweet girl. you're doin' such a good job f'me, jus’ one more time."

"i deserve this," you cried out.

"yeah, y'do," he muttered against your jaw, his breath ragged as he pounded into you, his eyes glued on the mirror. y'deserve feelin' so good, don't you? deserve the way i'm makin' y'feel."

you nodded frantically, choking on a sob as he kept hitting that exact spot. "yes—yes—"

"y'deserve my cum too, don't you? tell me y'want it."

"yes, yes, i want it," you sobbed, your thighs shaking, almost giving out on you if it wasn't for him holding you up. "i want you to fill me up, michael, please—"

"good girl," he rasped, smiling behind you. "listening so good f'me... 'm gonna give y'whatever y'want."

and that he did.

with one last snap of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name into the crook of your neck as he flooded you, his dick pulsing and spurting deep inside you until you could literally feel it overflowing, trickling warm down the inside of your thighs.

inspired by a tiktok i saw this but i lost it</3

if yk what im talking abt or have seen it pls send the link