Nilou

his hands were all over you , feeling you up as you devoured his lips . in less than a couple minutes all clothes were off and you were riding his cock , moaning with every single contact he made with your skin . he was mouthing your tits , biting your nipples in hopes of his own moans not being heard . it only made you feel more aroused , leading you to just increase your speed and aerion to continue biting in places he honestly should keep untouched , your collarbones , your arms , he left bruises and teeth marks and in some places blood tricking down but you didn’t mind . by the time you were about to finish you pushed off of him and just sat beside him , neither of you spoke , a new line crossed between acquaintances but you two did feel better . definitely less stressed

. . .

and so every time you two felt even a little stressed you always found your way to each other . but it wasn’t sweet , anything but sweet , it was always hardcore sex , sex that could make your brain turn to mush and aerion feel on cloud nine . it was like being burned alive whenever his cock entered your folds , the way you two allowed the usage of each others body’s for pure pleasure

but things like this don’t go unseen , the tension starts to rise in the heat of it all and everyone is able to notice it . because when does a lead guitarist , who’s reputation is to fuck women only once and move on to the next suddenly take interest in the bassist ?? although to them it’s not interest , it’s purely sexual desires but of course the fans don’t know that

what they see is two band members up on each other during performances , almost kissing , always touching and sometimes singing to each other . it was all the headlines could talk about ‘ aerion targaryen and his bassist slut ? ’ well , it wasn’t like you had a nice reputation as well . the headlines should’ve stopped you two but it only added more fuel to the fire , more crazed sex , no longer in the quiet spaces of the tour bus or the hotels but now everywhere . in bars , in crowds , in bathrooms , wherever the press were you two ended up doing it right there

mayhaps the band was furious , seeing the way you two brought down the spotlight from them and only on to the two of you , perhaps they didn’t care because it was your lives but only when it got bad they intervened . by that i mean ; aerion started to get possessive over you , but it wasn’t sweet it was scary in a way . he wouldn’t allow anyone to speak to you , no band member , manager , tech crew , not even a fan could get a picture . because once aerion claims someone , there’s no turning back

. . .

what was a stress relief turned into something even worse because now he was using you for his own pleasures , forcing you down on him and punishing you whenever you didn’t do something right . every time you said you were too busy or too tired he would growl in your ear and say ‘ you asked for this remember , you started this ’ and so you would give him what he wanted because you in fact did start this or so he manipulated you to believe so

oh and the manipulation went to so far that he was able to make you fall in love with him . it was never sincere , it was always whenever he was about to finish inside of you that he would tell you things that seemed like he was love ‘ fuck - you feel so good ’ . literally that’s it but your brain is foggy and your eyes are closing due to his roughness that you can only think he means all of you is good , not just the way your cunt wraps around his cock

it’s embarrassing honestly the way you would act so in love on stage and he would dismiss you , wouldn’t look at you anymore the way he used to , wouldn’t even talk to you . and now it was just you . in love with a manipulative guitarist who’s stress has seemed to disappear in less than a month while he left you , the poor bassist , with even more pain . because who could love the bassist ?

the tavern was a cesspool of noise and stale ale. you sat in a corner, cloaked and hooded, trying to make yourself invisible while dunk saw to the horses. the journey had been long, and the promise of a hot meal and a soft bed was a siren's call you couldn't ignore, even if it meant enduring the company of leering merchants and boisterous sellswords.

dunk returned, his broad frame blocking out the light from the fire as he sat down opposite you. he slid a wooden plate of bread and cheese towards you, his expression weary. "eat, princess. we'll be on the road at first light."

you nodded, too tired to argue with the formal address.

at the next table, a pair of sellswords had been watching the two of you since dunk crossed the room. one nudged the other with his elbow. "big lad like that," the thinner one muttered, not nearly as quiet as he thought. "must've done well for himself."

"aye," the other snorted, eyeing you openly. "pretty little wife tucked in the corner..."

"careful," the first man laughed. "you keep staring like that and her husband'll knock your teeth out."

dunk's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. he simply tore off a piece of cheese with deliberate calm, though a faint line had appeared between his brows. he shifted slightly in his seat just enough that his shoulder angled toward you, broad and solid, subtly blocking their line of sight. the movement was casual. protective. intentional.

"should not call me that here to be safe," you murmured softly after a moment. "princess...i mean" you whispered to him.

his eyes flicked to you.

"they think i'm your wife."

a faint, embarrassed heat crept into his ears. "aye, better that than something worse."

across the room, the noise swelled again as the fat merchant slammed his tankard down. "...and i tell you," he bellowed, "the secret to a happy wife isn't gold or jewels. it's between her legs!"

laughter erupted. you felt the heat climb your neck as before, but this time something else lingered beneath the embarrassment. dunk went still again, quiet, watchful, but his knee had shifted closer to yours beneath the table.

"no, i'm serious!" he insisted, leaning in conspiratorially. "you get down there, you use your mouth on her, and she'll be putty in your hands for a week. they all love it. every last one of 'em. squeal like a stuck pig, they do!"

you felt a hot blush creep up your neck, and you stared down at your plate, wishing you could melt into the floor. but dunk didn't laugh, his focus narrowing in on the drunkard's words as if they were the most important instructions he'd ever received. he took a long, slow swig of his ale, his eyes thoughtful, contemplative. the rest of the evening was a blur. you ate in silence, the merchant's crude words echoing in your mind.

dunk found a small inn on the edge of town, securing a single room with two narrow beds. the silence between you was heavy, charged with a new, unspoken tension. you sat on the edge of your bed, unlacing your boots, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he was watching you. you could feel his gaze on you, intense and unwavering.

you swallowed and forced yourself to keep working at the laces, though your fingers had gone clumsy. the fire in the small hearth crackled, throwing restless shadows across the walls. the beds were narrow enough that your knees would nearly touch if you both lay on your sides.

"princess."

the word was quieter now. rougher.

you looked up despite yourself.

dunk was leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, big hands hanging loose between them. he looked almost troubled.

"those men," he said slowly, like he was picking his way across uncertain ground, "they speak like women are something to be handled."

your breath left you in a shaky huff. "they were drunk."

"that's when men say what they truly think."

you didn't know what to say to that.

he shifted, the bed creaking under his weight as he stood. the room felt suddenly too small for him. he crossed it in two long strides and crouched in front of you, close enough that the heat of him bled through the thin fabric of your skirts.

"i don't like it," he muttered. "the way they spoke. as if... as if a wife's happiness were some trick. some lever to pull."

your pulse was a frantic thing in your throat. "it was crude tavern talk."

"aye." his jaw flexed. "but i was listening." his eyes had a look of painful curiosity that made your stomach twist.

"i don't know much," he admitted. "about... that. courtship. marriage. what women want." a faint flush crept up his neck, barely visible beneath the firelight. "but i'd not have it be like that. i'd not have you think—" he stopped himself.

you blinked. "me?"

he exhaled, long and slow, as if the word had slipped out before he could stop it.

"aye. you."

silence stretched between you, taut as a drawn bowstring.

"i would not want it made small," he continued, voice low. "not made into something to be managed." his big hands flexed on his knees. "that no woman should have to endure a fool bragging about her like that. and that if a man is lucky enough to win a wife's affection, he ought to earn it every day. not boast of it over ale."

your heart thudded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. you forced a shaky smile. "you would make a very serious husband."

a corner of his mouth twitched. "i'm serious about most things."

"i've noticed."

his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he caught himself and looked back to your eyes. that tiny, fleeting slip of attention made warmth bloom low in your stomach.

you cleared your throat. "ser duncan the tall," you said lightly, though your voice wavered, "defender of women's honor everywhere."

he huffed a quiet laugh. "someone ought to be." he didn't move away and neither did you. careful. he was so careful with you. but even as he rose and stepped back, giving you space, the room felt irrevocably altered.

whatever the drunken merchant had meant as crude instruction had done something else entirely. it had made dunk think. and the way he looked at you now, thoughtful, protective, and achingly unsure, made your heart and stomach do flips.

"princess," he said, his voice a low rumble,

"yes?"

"those men in the tavern...what they were saying." he paused, and you could hear the hesitation in his voice. "was there any truth to it?"

your face burned. "i...i wouldn't know, ser."

"dunk," he corrected gently. "and you don't have to...i just..." he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, a gesture of frustration. "i want to make you contented. and if that's something women enjoy...something you would enjoy, i would do it...for you."

the sincerity in his voice was your undoing. he wasn't thinking of his own pleasure. he was thinking of yours, guided by the drunken wisdom of a tavern fool. it was the most romantic, most chivalrous thing you had ever heard.

you stood up, your legs trembling slightly, and crossed the small space between you. you knelt in front of him, taking his large hands in yours. "thank you" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. "then...will you let me? i do not mean to dishonor you i just—"

"dunk, it's quite alright. i do want to...try it, i mean." you stood up, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your gown, your body thrumming with a nervous, exhilarating energy. he watched you, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as you let the dress fall to the floor.

you lay back on the bed, your heart pounding. he hesitated for only a moment before joining you, his large body hovering over yours. he didn't kiss you, not yet. he just looked at you, his gaze a physical touch.

"show me," he whispered, his voice raw with need.

you guided his head down, your fingers tangling in his soft hair. he settled between your thighs, his warm breath a ghost against your most sensitive skin. he was hesitant at first, his movements clumsy and unsure.

"if you do not enjoy it dunk we can stop—" you whispered, but he only shook his head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, his exploration slow and reverent. then, remembering the merchant's words, he leaned in and gave you a long, slow lick.

you gasped, your back arching off the bed. it was a tentative, experimental touch, but it sent a bolt of pure pleasure through you.

he froze. "did you like that...?"

"yes," you breathed, your hand tightening in his hair. "again. please."

he obeyed, this time with more confidence. he began to explore you with his tongue, learning your body, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. he was a diligent student, his focus absolute, his only goal to please you.

and then, he found your clit.

he circled it with the tip of his tongue, and you cried out, your hips bucking against his mouth. a new fire lit in his eyes. this was it. this was the secret the merchant had been talking about. he felt almost guilty, ashamed for it, touching you in such a way only a husband would, and he would never forgive himself for taking away your purity before you could wed a man of real status...but all these thoughts clouded away each time you would mewl and whine sweet things at each lick.

he dove in, his clumsy hesitation vanishing, replaced by a determined hunger. he wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he began to suck, hard and relentless.

"gods above... you taste like honey. like the first taste of summer wine after a long winter."

it was overwhelming. the pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. he was no longer just learning; he was claiming. he was obsessed, he loved you, and your sweet dripping pussy so much, his heartbeat was heard in his own ears, devouring you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.

the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on you, the rough scrape of his incoming stubble against your sensitive skin, the desperate, hungry sounds he was making deep in his throat.

"dunk," you sobbed, your hands fisting in the blankets. "i can't... it's too much..."

at your cry, he froze instantly. he pulled back just enough to look up at you, his mouth and chin glistening, his eyes wide with alarm. "am i hurting you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "princess, tell me. am i hurting you?"

you shook your head frantically, tears of pleasure streaming down your temples. "no," you gasped, trying to catch your breath. "no, you're not...it feels so good...it's— don't stop!"

"oh," he rumbled, the sound vibrating against your core.

and then he dove back in. he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with a force that made your vision go white. your back arched off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as the pleasure became a sharp, exquisite agony. your hands flew from the blankets to his head, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, trying to push him away, to ground yourself, to do something to survive the onslaught.

your squirming only seemed to spur him on. he held you tighter, his arms like iron bands around your thighs, refusing to let you escape the pleasure he was determined to give you.

in one fluid, impossibly powerful motion, he moved. he lifted his upper body, his hands gripping your waist, and with a strength that stole your breath, he flipped you over. the world spun, and suddenly you were no longer on your back. you were straddling his face, your knees on either side of his head, your weight settled firmly on his mouth.

he was buried beneath you, his nose pressed against your mound, pressing open-mouthed, hot, wet kisses on your wet pussy. the new position was devastating. you were completely at his mercy, spread open and exposed, every sensitive part of you pressed against his hungry mouth. your hands flew out to brace yourself against the wooden headboard, your body trembling uncontrollably.

"there," he growled, the vibration a shockwave through your entire body.

"dunk! i could hurt you— let me off—" you mumbled worriedly, but his hands gripped your ass, holding you down. there was no escape, no respite.

"m'strong enough m'lady, i could die happy right here." his words muffled, he sucked harder, his tongue flicking against your clit in a rapid, merciless rhythm. the tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a white-hot knot of pure sensation, until it finally snapped.

"gods w-wait!"

"no...no i want it princess," he growled against your quivering flesh, his voice a low, possessive command. "give me all of it." he lapped at you, his tongue stroking you through your spasms, prolonging the ecstasy until you were a whimpering, overstimulated wreck. "that's it... that's my girl. so sweet."

you came with a strangled scream, your body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing over you so hard you saw stars, creaming all over his mouth. he held you through it, his mouth never leaving you, drinking in your release as if it were the finest wine.

when it was over, you were a boneless, trembling mess. he finally pulled away, his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes shining with a triumphant, possessive pride. he lifted you off his face and onto his lap and kissed you, a deep, messy kiss.

you could barely manage a response, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic, holding him there as if the world might tilt without him anchoring you. you could feel him, impossibly hard and straining against his breeches beneath you. it seemed your pleasure had become his own.

your head fell against his shoulder, breath still shaky. the rigid, demanding pressure of his cock against your thigh had eased into a warm, heavy presence. a flicker of self-consciousness washed over you, and you reached for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed, tugging it up to cover your waist. the soft wool was a small shield against the intensity of his gaze.

he pressed a kiss to your temple this time. then your brow. then the corner of your mouth, gentler and gentler still, as though easing you back from the heights he'd drawn you to.

"stay with me," he murmured, arms tightening just slightly around you.

you shifted in his lap, the hard line of his erection still an undeniable presence beneath the blanket. a new kind of courage, born from the intimacy of the moment, stirred within you. you met his softened gaze, your own eyes clear. "let me help you, ser," you whispered, your voice still raspy from your cries. you let your hand drift down from his chest, over the blanket, until it rested directly over the straining fabric of his breeches. you gave a gentle, questioning squeeze. "please?"

"you don't need to-"

"i want to..."

a low groan rumbled in his chest, his hips pushing up slightly into your touch. he took your hand in his, his large, calloused fingers dwarfing yours. without breaking eye contact, he brought your palm to his lips and spat into it, a hot, wet, shockingly intimate gesture. your breath hitched.

"s-sorry..." he murmured, guiding your slickened hand back down before pushing beneath the waistband of his breeches and bringing his cock out. "like this..." he guided your hand to his length. your fingers brushed against coarse hair and then, finally, against hot, silken skin.

he was massive. your fingers couldn't even close around his thick girth, and you could feel the heavy weight of him in your palm as he guided you down his impressive length. you had felt him press against you, but holding him like this, feeling the sheer size and power of him, was something else entirely. the sounds were slick and obscene. you wanted to worship him, to make him feel as utterly wrecked and cherished as he had made you feel.

you began to stroke him harder. he let out a harsh breath, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. you watched his face, mesmerized by the way his brow furrowed in pleasure, the way his jaw clenched. you swiped your thumb over the slick head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathered there, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your fist.

"gods, just like that," he gritted out, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his grip tight. "your hand...so small...feels so good."

you redoubled your efforts, your movements growing bolder as you learned what he liked. you twisted your wrist on the upstroke, squeezed gently on the down. you wanted to see him fall apart, to hear him cry out your name. you wanted to be the one to make him lose control. and as his breathing grew ragged and his thrusts became more erratic, you knew you were close.

"so big dunk...are all cocks this big?" you whispered in awe.

he shook his head, mind in a haze. "dunno pretty girl..." the words were a choked, honest confession.

you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his jaw, your hand never ceasing its steady, slick rhythm. "just yours then," you murmured against his skin.

his control finally snapped. with a guttural groan, his hand flew from your thigh to cover yours, not to stop you, but to guide you, to force your hand to move faster, harder. his hips surged up off the bed, fucking himself into your tight grip with a desperate, primal need.

"look at me," he commanded, his voice a ragged snarl. "please please look at me..." you obeyed, lifting your gaze to his face. his eyes were wild, burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "watch what you do to me. watch me."

and you did. you watched as his face contorted, as his mouth fell open in a silent cry. you felt the thick vein on the underside of his cock pulse violently against your palm. with a final, brutal thrust, he came, spilling himself in hot, thick ropes over your hand and his own stomach. he cried out your name then, a broken, hoarse sound that was more prayer than profanity, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.

he collapsed back against the headboard, utterly spent, his chest heaving. for a long moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing. you slowly withdrew your hand, slick with his spend, and looked at the mess you had made of him. a fierce, feminine pride bloomed in your chest.

he opened his eyes, which were now soft and hazy with satisfaction, then tucked his softening cock back into his breeches.

for a moment, he simply looked at you. not at your hand. not at the disarray of sheets. at you. a quiet huff of laughter left him, his head tipping back briefly against the wood. "you have no idea what you do to me."

"i think i do..." licking up the cum on your fingers as he lazily wiped his hand on the discarded linen at your side, entirely unrepentant.

you shifted closer, crawling up his body slowly, deliberately, until your knees completely bracketed his hips. he watched every inch of your movement now. your fingers slid up his chest, tracing the rise and fall of his breath, the steady drum of his heart beneath your palm.

"i like seeing you like this," you confessed softly.

his brows lifted faintly. "spent?"

"no." you giggled. your thumb brushed over his collarbone. "relaxed..."

his hands came up, settling on your hips, not gripping, just holding you there. you leaned down, brushing your mouth against his to give him a sweet kiss.

he tilted his head, brushing his nose lightly against yours.

"sleep now, princess" he murmured at last, "we ride early."

Spencer doesn't know why he's here.

That's the lie. The one he tells himself every fortnight, when he gets that text.

Two words: come over. Sometimes followed by a coy question mark as a facile imitation of timidity, of care. More often than not, your words aren't caged by punctuation, leaving them to sit somewhere in the liminal space between open request and direct order, and Spencer has always treated it as though it's the latter.

His phone chimes, he glimpses your message, and he drops whatever pointless thing he's doing. He starts rummaging around for his best clothes, his favourite lucky socks; he even sprays the expensive cologne that he bought himself for his birthday years ago that has since sat, scarcely used, on his shelf. You pop back into his life by means of a single message, and everything outside of you loses its colour.

On the unfortunate instance where he's been out of town, he's crammed messages with apologies and stuffed his phone into the depths of his messenger bag, leaving it to burn holes into the leather as he's awaited your response in silence-clad agony. He's presented profiles whilst tearing itself to pieces over the prospect of you hating him for having to reschedule and forgetting, momentarily, that to be hated by you is a privilege which he is not, nor likely ever will be, afforded.

Hate is visceral. It seizes the body, the mind, with flames. Every thought is made kindling. Hatred burns; it requires fuel, feelings to ignite and add to the blaze. But what you feel toward Spencer is cold to the touch; there's no room for fire in your heart.

He isn't important enough to be hated by you, that's the conclusion he's arrived at following almost eight months of slow, clinical asperity. He takes up no space in your mind, not unless he's right in front of you, kneeling at your feet, offering parts of himself for you to take. Humiliating himself week after week for a fleeting glance, a chaste kiss, a premature orgasm.

At times, he finds himself wishing that you did hate him—that you cared enough to hate him. Wishing you felt anything that extended beyond cool indifference; maybe then there'd be some way of changing your mind.

His reality is a simple one: he's Astrophil, chasing his beloved star that hangs, out of reach, in the night sky. Doomed to want what he cannot have, to disdain the very disdain which you feel for him, to let himself be damned to misery by his own want.

He's read Sidney, he's aware of what a fool he is, yet he'll still answer your every beck and call. He'll still crumble under the gaze of his Stella, wondering when exactly he decided to forsake his own liberty.

—

He remembers meeting you in the art gallery, deep into the Winter of 2002. You, pen pressed to your lips as you stood scrutinising one of the older paintings, and him, across the room, too busy studying you to care for the rest of the art around him—both of you anointed with the remnants of melted snow. He remembers scouring his mind, thinking of a million ways to start a conversation and scrapping them all.

You were too peaceful. Too pretty. And he never learned how to talk to pretty girls. He always had it in his mind that they'd bite him. Not literally—hopefully not literally—but verbally. Sharp tones. Harsh words. Glossy lips twisted into mocking smiles.

He vowed to keep his distance. If not to save you the discomfort, then to save himself the humiliation; it was better to be safe than sorry.

You were so far out of his league it was laughable. The kind of girl who wouldn't look at him twice, if you looked at him at all. You were his North Star, Polaris, bright and beautiful and sacrosanct. It wouldn't have been right to approach you, not when you were so at ease and he was so…not.

Spencer Reid, freshly twenty-one and looking even younger, was not calm, or confident, or anything that would have typically classed as "desirable" to a girl like you. He wasn't what you wanted; he couldn't have been. He decided that the moment he laid eyes on you.

Which is why he almost burst into tears when you approached him. You asked for his name, his number—both of which he could no longer remember—with a smile that left him paralysed.

There was an acute kind of assertiveness about you; sharp and smug as all hell, but not mocking. You didn't bite him, verbally nor literally, but your teeth had an almost inviting quality to them, and he found himself, without rational explanation, imagining how it would feel to have them sink into his skin.

How he managed to go on a date with you is beyond him. He can't chalk it up to his totally-real-and-not-at-all-imagined charisma, or a sudden increase in his confidence, because it was you who decided the two of you were going out for dinner. All Spencer did was say yes and try not to collapse when you told him all he had to do was "sit there and look pretty".

You called all the shots, from where you'd go to what time you'd meet, and he let you. You could have ordered his food for him, told him what to eat and when to eat it, and he would have gone along with it. Licked the plate clean. It felt nice, not having to think for once.

He did however have the brains to at least give you his card and offer to pay, but even that gesture was a flimsy one, one that could have been easily dissuaded by a single wave of your pretty hand, or a single brush of your foot against his leg—an action he believed was innocent, if not accidental, until the third time you did it.

Conversation was a feat he could barely manage; his tongue felt too loose, too big, mouth too crowded with teeth to produce anything of sense, let alone substance. He wanted to speak with meaning, to impress you with words that he knew he possessed but could not find, so that you'd like him. He was (is) somewhat comparable to a lost puppy, in that sense; always begging for love, pawing at anything that so much as glances his way.

As pretty as it was, Spencer wasn't convinced that your smile was anything other than polite, cordial, forged to hide the regret that started seeping in as soon as you sat down. And there was something artful in the way you spoke to him, and in the way you acted in general. It wasn't exactly disingenuous, but it was…sharp, again.

He remembers the way you looked at him, how your eyes bore holes into his, engraving your initials into the squishy, impressionable part of his brain that hadn't yet solidified. He left that date certain of one thing: that his very molecular structure, in a fantastic defiance of natural law, had been rearranged to spell out your name.

Your foot touched his leg every time he stammered. It took him too long to notice that.

—

Agent Morgan thinks you're his girlfriend.

Spencer has been persistent in his avoidance of discussing his personal life at work, no matter how many times his coworkers probe him about the unexplained messages and the subsequent shifts in his behaviour, and apparently this means he simply must have a secret lover. He's never had the heart to deny it, nor the stomach to tell the truth; he's the BAU's freshest face, and Morgan had seemed genuinely impressed by the thought that he was (in his words) "getting some action".

He values honesty, of course he does, but if the shadow you've cast over his life can do a little bit of good, make him seem a little more normal, then he can live with the guilt of misleading the team. They'd only pity him—look down on him, as you probably do—if he were to come clean about your relationship.

They'd think him naive, so starved of affection that his self-awareness withered away, too, but that isn't the case.

Spencer's sense of self-respect has crumbled to dust, blown away in the wind, but his self-awareness has remained in tact. He often finds himself wishing, selfishly, that you had been cruel enough to crush them both under your pointed heel, maybe take a couple dozen IQ points with them; this would be easier if he were a complete idiot, rather than half of one. He'd be able to live in blissful ignorance, if he lacked the sense to feel his misery.

Self-awareness is no saviour. Simply knowing what a fool he is isn't enough. For all of his brains, and for all the years he spent pretending he isn't one, Spencer Reid is painfully, fatally human.

He comes here for the same reason you seek him out: pleasure. Quick, reliable catharsis. Because the BAU's genius, regardless of what people may think, has needs not unlike everyone else, gaps in his self that need filling—that you fill, even if it's just for one night. It's a viscerally human trait, something too ingrained in his biology for his brain to correct; that thick-rooted, innate desire for intimacy, for connection.

Spencer, like any other mammal, is driven by an intrinsic, insatiable hunger. And he's attracted, he supposes, to what he fears most: someone cold, someone not too dissimilar to the popular, pretty girls who stalked his high school hallways like predators. He's always had a habit of picking at scabs.

—

"You still don't drink, right?"

"No, um— no. I don't. Not really."

He's standing in your kitchen, looking like a cornered animal with his back pressed to the counter top, already feeling the heat in his cheeks, the perspiration collecting on his forehead.

You drum your fingers against the slim neck of the wine bottle, deliberating. The quick, rhythmic click of your nails on the glass has his hairs standing on end. Goosebumps. Philoerection. Often brought on by intense emotions like awe and excitement, or by a perceived threat triggering the sympathetic nervous system, activating the fight-or-flight response—it could be both; maybe attraction and terror are one in the same.

He wants to tell you that it's fine, that he doesn't not drink; he's willing to have a glass of wine, or two, maybe three (something to calm his fraught nerves before he becomes the first confirmed case of spontaneous human combustion), but his mouth has run dry, and you're already moving both wine glasses to the sink, filling them with water.

"Good." You offer him a glass, lips curled into a calm smile. "It's probably best for FBI agents to keep their wits about them." 

Spencer clears his throat. He cradles the glass with both hands, holding it close to his chest like he's afraid he's going to drop it. "I suppose," he says, "and—um—statistically speaking, federal agents are more likely to develop an alcohol dependency as they age."

You pause, glass pressed to your lower lip, and raise an eyebrow.

"Not that I think I'm—" he shakes his head. "I don't think I'm…at risk, or anything, I-I have my own ways of coping with—um—stress, and I—"

Both of your brows are raised now. Your smile has sharpened, morphed into a smirk.

"…I do prefer to keep my wits about me," he adds in a quieter voice before bringing his glass to his lips, ensuring he drowns whatever humiliating words may want to come spilling out next.

"Sure," you murmur, taking a small sip of your own water.

Your voice is honey. Thick and sweet, but laced with something tart; an addictive edge that Spencer has never been able to name, but something he's sure would be lethal if he were given too strong of a dose.

"I hope I'm not just your stress toy, agent."

Spencer almost chokes on his water. He spits it back into his glass and shakes his head like you've just accused him of murder. "No! No, that's— that's not what I'm saying at all, I was just…"

His voice trails off, defeated, and he stares down into his glass as you bite back a laugh. The sound makes his stomach churn, full of nauseous embarrassment and something…warm. A hoard of butterflies brought on by a single, stifled little chuckle.

You've taken to calling him agent since he joined the BAU. He's told you several times now that "doctor" (what you used to call him) technically outranks his special agent title, but you responded by informing him that "agent" was cuter, and that was all it took for him to drop the matter completely. It still twangs that obsessive, anal-retentive part of his brain, echoes like the strum of an out of tune guitar string, but he keeps his mouth shut.

He used to worry you'd forgotten his name completely, given how little you used it. He wouldn't have been surprised if you had; most people he knew at the time resorted to calling him "doctor" in lieu of the name they never cared to remember. To think that you were any different would be to cling to false hope.

Three dates in, he had brought you back to his apartment. It wasn't a choice made out of naivety (he was inexperienced, sure, but not stupid); he knew what to expect, what he was asking of you, even if he never voiced the exact request out loud. He was desperate, there's no sugar-coating it, and whether or not you remembered his name didn't matter to him—it never really had to begin with. Respect was something he had learned not to expect, not from anyone outside of his circle, and certainly not from anyone like you; it made no odds, what you thought of him, as long as you said yes.

To say he was nervous would be an understatement. He still is nervous whenever he's around you, drinking water in your kitchen, pretending not to know what will become of the evening. Even now, his veins still light with a burning electricity whenever you're together, like he's trapped in that permanent state of fight-or-flight, but nothing compares to that first time.

He thought he was going to die. He thought he was dying when you climbed into his lap, straddling him. You moved so slowly, so carefully, as though he were something fragile—and he was, he supposes.

Spencer, far too starved of the right kind of touch, had finished in his pants. He likely would have held on longer if it hadn't been for you murmuring his name in that soft, intoxicating tone, mouth so close to his ear he could feel your steady breath against his skin. 

You remembered his name when he had forgotten it, and you taught it back to him, repeating each syllable until they were so embedded in his debauched mind he'd never dare to forget them again.

Maybe that was what got him hooked. Maybe that was when you went from out of reach to right in front of him, when you became the drug he'd never be able to wean himself off of.

—

DC weather is never on his side. It always seems to rain whenever he's summoned to your apartment (that first rendezvous at his apartment ended up being the only one. From that point on, you decided that further hookups would be held at your place, exclusively. Spencer wasn't sure whether he should take this as an insult to his home or not—was his personal library not to your taste?).

Or maybe it's you. Maybe you sit by your window, waiting for the first droplets to his the glass before you send that text. It's possible you get some kind of enjoyment of making him walk in the rain (because yes, he does walk), be it minor sadism or the simple fact that you just like it when he shows up at your door looking like a wet dog.

"You know, your hair has a slight curl to it when it's wet."

"Wh-what?"

It is exceptionally difficult for Spencer to process what you're saying when your hand is where it is. It's hard for him to process anything, period, other than the feel of your palm against his crotch.

He sinks back into the couch cushions, blinking long and slow—but he isn't closing his eyes; you don't like it when he closes his eyes. You're kneeling beside him, sharp eyes studying his expression with one hand nestled between his thighs and the other reaching out to brush some hair from his face. East of Eden is playing on your TV, James Dean reduced to nothing more than background noise.

"Your hair," you repeat, softly, "do you straighten it?"

"Um—" he stammers, searching for the simplest words in the vast, barren expanse of his mind. "N-no."

"Blow dry?" you ask.

Spencer hisses softly, leaning his head back. "Yes."

You make quick work of his belt, nodding along thoughtfully to his answer (which, in truth, sounded more like a moan than anything) as you undo his fly. "You should try using products, or something," you say, keeping your voice light and casual as you dip your fingers under the waistband of his underwear, "you'd look cute with curly hair."

If you keep teasing him, he is going to die (can a person die from teasing? Will he be the first?). It's one thing to mess with him as you pretend to watch a movie older than both of you, but to make such mundane conversation whilst doing so is nothing short of cruel.

"You…you think so?" he asks. He tries not to react as your fingers graze his shaft, but his body is quick to give him away; his cock twitches, already uncomfortably hard, against your hand.

"Mhm." You nod. "I'm sure you'd get loads of girls."

Somewhere in the back of his rapidly melting mind, Spencer makes a note to keep his hair straight.

"Of course, I'd like it, too," you add, running your free hand through his hair. Your nails drag lightly along his scalp, sending shivers shooting down his spine. "I'm a sucker for a guy with curls."

And he's correcting that note, declaring that he'll stop and buy all the hair products in the world on his way home—if he survives this, that is.

He forgets how to breathe when you pull his cock from his pants. He shifts, trying to suppress the urge to whine and buck up into your hand, to show you just how badly he needs this as you stroke him, keeping your movements so purposefully slow it's almost painful.

"I thought you liked this movie," you say.

"I-I do." He chokes on a moan, forces himself to breathe. "Kazan is a brilliant…director, and— um…the cast are— they're all…good."

"Hm." Pressing your lips into a thoughtful pout, you let your thumb circle the head of his cock, smearing precum across the sensitive tip as you say, "It's just…you don't seem to be paying very much attention."

Biting his tongue, all Spencer can manage in response is a low hum. He knows you're asking— no, telling him to focus on the movie, but he doesn't. He can't. His gaze remains glued to your face, watching with poorly concealed desperation the way you narrow your eyes.

"Am I distracting you, Spencer?"

He nods.

"Do you want me to stop?"

He shakes his head.

He might cry if you stop. Epididymal hypertension, "blue balls" is real. Rarely serious, often overdramatised, but real—and uncomfortable. If you stop, he'll for sure have to pay a conspicuous visit to your bathroom, and there's no way you'd let him do that; no, you'd make him watch the rest of the movie, sit in the discomfort, and you'd enjoy every torturous minute of it.

"Please."

The word jumps from his tongue in a whisper, saturated with a need that mounts almost to genuine distress.

"Please what?" You tilt your head, smiling. "Tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen."

Your gentle, breathy tone does little to ease the unbearable heat raking through him, not when your hand continues to tease, focusing on his sensitive tip. A whine escapes him as his composure steadily crumbles away under your touch.

"Pretty little noises won't get you anything," you murmur. There's a mocking edge to your voice now, one that threatens to pierce his brain, deflate it like a balloon. "Be good, and use your words. You can do that for me, right?"

His head moves of its own accord, jerking up and down in a frantic nod as his words continue to fail him. When you raise an expectant brow, all he does is give a weak little whimper. You're killing him. 

"You— please…you know what I want," he eventually manages.

Disappointment washes over your expression, and your smile vanishes as you give a helpless shrug. "I can't read minds, agent. But…" You sigh, click your tongue before giving the flushed head of his cock a gentle, but nonetheless firm, squeeze. A warning. "I can always make you talk. Is that what you want, Spence? You want me to be mean?"

"Nonono—"

"Then what do you want?"

"I—" His throat closes around the words, breath stuttering as he teeters uncomfortably close to orgasm. Your hand stills, allowing him room to breathe, to recuperate, and to really hear his own voice as he whispers, "…wanna be inside you."

Your response is preceded by a gasp, over-dramatic and sarcastic, the kind that makes his stomach do somersaults, curdles nausea with arousal, burns him in the best possible way.

"Good boy. That wasn't that hard, was it?" Your lips curl into a grin he can only describe as sinister; one that may appear innocent out in the sun, but in the half-light of your living room is all pointed teeth and sharp edges. It acts as a counterweight to your praise, throws him off balance.

Spencer wilts in the absence of your touch as you lean back. Your hands are cold, they always are, yet they imbue him with a kind of paradoxical warmth; the embers continue to pulse in his core even after you've pulled away.

"I'll go grab a condom—"

"Wait."

He's already rummaging in his pockets, pulling out condoms—five of them—before you can get up. He gives them to you without thinking, like you have any use for them, and curses himself when you gently press them back into his hand.

"As prepared as always," you observe, biting back a smile as you watch him fumble with his collection of condoms, "and…optimistic."

—

"A girl gave me her number today."

He isn't sure why he says it. To fill the silence, maybe; to poke you with his flimsy, proverbial twig that he seems intent on using as a bridge, forever trying to broach conversations it cannot bear the weight of. He wonders whether he'll spend the rest of his life circling the elephant in the room, if he'll always be too scared to address it out of fear it'll trample him.

All his statement earns from you is a hum; a dull sound, void of any substance, produced only to confirm that you heard him.

Spencer never talks about other women, mostly because there aren't any. Even if there were, he wouldn't bring them up; neither of you discuss relationships outside of this one, sexual or otherwise. 

Keeping each other in the dark wasn't something you agreed upon; there was no conversation, no discussion—but when is there ever? Your life outside of him is none of his business, and his isn't any of yours, no matter how badly he wishes it were. The silence was never introduced; it was already there.

It's easier for him not to question it, it would only cause problems. He'd have to question this, you, himself, re-evaluate all the things he's been ignoring, all the factors that led him to you—his complexes, his insecurities, the things he tries to keep stowed away in their little boxes. He doesn't want to do that; he'd much rather just lay here.

And that's what he does, most of the time. In the lull between your moments of passion, Spencer's gaze is usually glued to your ceiling, counting the bumps in the popcorn texturing, re-spooling the parts of himself that unravelled in the heat.

You're lying on your stomach, face pressed into the pillow. He worries, sometimes, that you might suffocate like that. So, when he isn't studying your ceiling, he's watching the rise and fall of your naked shoulders as you breathe and counting the moles on your back, wishing you'd let him connect the dots, cover your body in constellations—and he chides himself for getting too carried away.

Thankfully, he's still staring at the ceiling when you raise your head. "Are you gonna call her?"

Being able to infer meaning from nonverbal elements of speech—pitch, pace, volume, inflection—is a key aspect of profiling, of communication in general, and it's something that Spencer should be good at by now. He can get by in most cases; reading people's emotions through speech patterns and word choices is something he's become quite proficient in since joining the BAU, though sarcasm can still throw him for a loop, especially when it's directed at him.

He is good at reading people, he just isn't any good at reading you.

Maybe it's your neutral tone, your blank slate of an expression, or the fact that his head is still foggy from sex—whatever it is, Spencer has no idea how to interpret your question. Is it intrigue? Jealousy? Do you want him to call her? Is this another social game he doesn't know the rules of?

"I, um— I don't know," he says quickly—too quickly—before adding, in a quieter voice, "…maybe."

He couldn't sound more unsure if he tried, and he really, really shouldn't be trying to talk about this when you're lying, naked, barely two a foot away from him. You're watching him with this unreadable expression, and he can almost feel you picking him apart piece by piece, dissecting him like a frog in a high school biology class. 

Something heavy settles in his stomach, and he recognises it as guilt. 

Guilt. What does he have to feel guilt over? You don't care if he talks to other women—do you?

You nod calmly. "Just let me know if you do."

"Okay." He's averting his gaze before your words register, and then he's turning back to you with a slight frown. "Why?"

"Well, if you're gonna start…dating her," you mutter, shrugging, "we won't be able to keep doing this."

"I know that," he says. He sounds almost defensive.

"Same goes for me, obviously," you add, "but, you know…"

He feels his chest tighten as your voice trails off. Heart muscles contracting, holding their breath.

"Are you looking to start dating?"

Damn it, now he sounds hopeful.

The dry chuckle that escapes you causes him to flinch, as though you've just spat in his face. "No," you say, shaking your head. With a sigh, you lower your gaze, and he thinks for a moment that you're about to bury your face in the pillow once more, putting an end to the conversation before he can derail this evening further, but then you raise an eyebrow. "Are you?"

It's the obvious question, yet it still catches him off guard. He stares at you, wide-eyed, like a computer stuck in a buffering loop; he isn't sure he's even asked himself that question.

"I don't know," he says, truthfully. "If the right person came around, then…maybe. I-I haven't really thought about it."

Well, it isn't entirely truthful; Spencer has put a lot of thought into the idea of dating, it's just that his list of potential partners begins and ends with you—and that, for obvious reasons, isn't a fact he wishes to share.

"'The right person'?" you repeat the phrase with a quizzical frown. "What are you, twelve?"

"You don't believe in finding the right person?" he asks.

"You do?"

"I don't mean—" He shakes his head, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. "I'm not talking about soulmates, or anything like that—it's a nice sentiment, but it isn't realistic. However, it is proven that— that some people are more compatible than others. It's science."

You don't look at all convinced. "Is there a metric for this? Do you have a spreadsheet?"

Spencer purses his lips. His gaze drops to the bedsheets, and he gives a vague shrug before muttering, "I don't have much data to work with."

He's fast realising that this conversation was a mistake. He never should have brought this up; not only has he essentially admitted that you're the only person he's sleeping with (least obvious fact of all time), he hasn't even been able to gauge your reaction at all—as always, all he sees when he looks at you is quiet indifference, tinged with a slight awkwardness (or amusement, he can never really tell) in the wake of his words.

"…well." You press your lips into a thin smile, and Spencer begins mapping his escape route, calculating the most efficient path out of here without leaving his lucky socks behind. "I wish you luck on your adventure: 'Spencer Reid and the search for the lost soulmate'."

He shoots upright, frowning. "I just said—"

"Are you gonna call her?" you ask.

His shoulders slump, deflating under the weight of an answer he's known from the start—an answer that you've likely known, too.

"…no," he says.

He was never going to call her. 

Words rise like lava in his throat; he wants so badly to tell you how he threw away the note with her number on it, how he never even glanced at it, because that's how serious he is about this, about you, but he doesn't. He bites his tongue, the last dregs of his self-respect saving him from complete humiliation.

That girl, as pretty as she had been, wasn't what he wanted—nor were any of the girls who have flirted with him over the eight months he's spent under this spell. None of them ever stood a chance, because they weren't you.

Loyalty is a virtue. It's praise-worthy, commendable. Everyone wants a loyal man.

Everyone but you.

You give another vague hum; an acknowledgement, nothing more. If he could stomach looking at you, he'd see that you're smirking, just barely.

Your fingertips skim along his arm, tracing his freckles and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Break's over," you murmur. "Come here."

To Spencer, loyalty feels a lot more like a vice. A metal rung that sits heavy around his neck.

You don't want a loyal man; a loyal man carries a suitcase of baggage, leaves his belongings in your apartment, promises commitment and expects it in return. A loyal man is a boyfriend, and you want a lapdog.

And that's exactly what Spencer has allowed himself to become. You didn't shackle him against his will, you didn't trick him into this; he threw himself at you, offered his neck for your collar whilst his tail wagged behind him.

His skin burns under your touch the way holy water scalds a sinner. He's forever torn, in still moments like these, between tearing himself away, before you can burn any more holes into him, and giving into the heat; he can nurse his wounds, his pride, upon his return home. Wake up to burn scars in the perfect shape of your hands.

In all the time he's spent with you, he's never once found the strength to pull away. He's sure he'd rather let his skin melt under your touch, have his body become a canvas for your scorching palms, than be without you—without this.

Maybe he's grown accustomed to the pain. Maybe he doesn't know how to accept anything else. 

He remembers high school, the sharp-tongued girls, the brutish boys. He was quick to learn what it meant to be weak, exploitable; a cheat sheet when he was needed, a punching bag when he wasn't.

He never told you about the bullying. He supposed it wasn't necessary; anyone with half a brain can see it, the lingering insecurities, the stench of a life-long lack of self worth, all of it too embedded in his bones to grow out of.

He figured, at the very least, that his experiences would make him stronger, wiser; he'd see the patterns, know the signs, learn to avoid situations that end with him hurt and missing pieces of himself he'd never recover. He wishes he could say he was right, but he wasn't, and you weren't the first person to prove him wrong.

Repeated exposure builds habit. Habit builds familiarity. You get hit too many times, you stop feeling the pain. You let yourself be used too many times, it starts to feel like your purpose. Eventually, you start to seek it out, gravitate towards people you know will find some use in you: failing classmates, pretty girls in art galleries, FBI agents who'll never be your fathers. 

He never learned how to form relationships that weren't inherently transactional, never learned to see himself as anything other than a tool. He wouldn't know where to start, if he tried.

So he's fine, really, with being a lapdog. It satiates his base desire for sexual pleasure, and it allows him to pretend, for a night, that this might be something more. That you might pull him back in and never let go. That you might one day want him, all of him.

But Spencer's heart is a black hole. He'd drain the life out of any meaningful relationship he tried to nurture; he's too anxious, too needy. All the love in the world wouldn't be enough to fill the cavities in his self. It would flow straight through him, he's sure of it.

It's probably for the best, then, that you don't want him; he'd only find a way to ruin it, if you did.

At least he gets something, this way. Closeness is closeness, however temporary. It may not be real, but it doesn't have to be; it's not like he knows the difference.

—

You always make a point to offer him a cigarette once you've had your fill of each other.

You curl up on your windowsill in a shirt two sizes too large, shoulder pressed against the glass, knees pulled to your chest, and you hold it out to him like he might take it—like he hasn't told you a dozen times that he doesn't smoke, and that he has no intention of starting. You assume the role of the devil, the snake hanging from the tree, lips twisted into a coy smile.

He lights it for you, encourages your bad habit without inheriting it. But he'll still breathe in the smoke, and he'll act as though he isn't choking on it as he tries to force into gear a conversation that won't start.

He'll spend a long time staring at your face, your reflection in the glass, the way the cigarette sits perfectly between your lips. They'll always be a little chapped. Kissed and bitten raw.

The cigarette will burn out, and you'll leave it abandoned in the ashtray before lighting another. On occasion, he'll try to chastise you for chain-smoking, read off the list of risk factors all while pondering what he feels most for the still-hot cigarette but: kinship or jealousy.

—

Your mouth is heaven, or the closest thing to it. 

Faith is something he's always found himself to be lacking. He'll idolise anything that's tangible, get on his knees for anyone that glances at him twice, but he's never had much of a relationship with God. He's read every version of the Bible, memorised the holy word in a dozen languages, but no amount of scripture could awaken any long-sleeping disciple within him—that's what he tells people, at least.

Reality isn't as black and white. It's human nature to look to something bigger than yourself, to find solace in divinity. It's a hell of a lot easier to believe “He's got the whole world in His hands” than it is to reconcile with the alternative. Spencer isn't immune to that kind of thinking, not entirely; his science-driven mind prevents him from any overt religious zeal, but nothing's truly impenetrable. Somewhere along the line, he managed to adopt the guilt without adopting the faith.

He's never felt any reverence for any god, never knelt at any altars. He's never understood latria as the Catholics do, but when you're on top of him like this, divine in your own right, he's sure there can't be much of a difference.

It's idolatry, plain and simple; you're his false god, and his worship of you will damn him to Hell, if such a place exists—if his soul wasn't already forsaken from the start.

If divine punishment is the price he pays for being with you, then so be it. The sight of you in just a shirt and underwear, and the feel of your bare thighs straddling him, is worth a hundred lifetimes in Hell.

His fingers curl into your sheets, white-knuckling the fabric without you needing to move; the weight of you against him, the thin layers of clothing between you, is already enough to flood his brain with dopamine, adrenaline, all the things that turn him to mush. He isn't even touching you, isn't sure he can; the feel of your skin under his palms might just kill him, or make him finish far too soon—he thinks he'd actually prefer the former.

And when you do move, he's fucked. There's no polite way of phrasing it. He jolts like he's been shocked, whines like he's been kicked, and he watches in awe the way your hips move against his, dimly aware of how the wet patch in his boxers has almost doubled in size since he took his pants off, and he considers saying a prayer.

What he says instead is please. Pleasepleaseplease. He hears his own voice break, and he concludes that he's going to come and die. 

"What is it?" You lean down, one hand braced against the mattress, the other trailing along his jaw. "What do you want?"

"Any— anything," he whispers. He's on fire. Hell is inside him already. "You could do anything, I-I don't care. I promise I don't…care—"

An awful little strangled noise escapes him as your hand moves to his neck. His throat bobs under your palm in anxious anticipation, but you don't put any weight on him.

"Please. Please you— you know I'm not very recept—" He shakes his head. "Well, no, I am very receptive to t-teasing…and that— that's the problem. I can't— oh God, I can't last—"

"Spencer."

"—with you…doing this, I-I'm sorry. Please, I'm begging— oh crap…shit, 'mgonna—"

Your hips stop moving the same moment you squeeze his throat, and Spencer swears he feels his soul leave his body. He stops breathing, not because you're preventing him from doing so (you aren't choking him, not yet), but because his brain has completely ceased function. He whimpers, and his hips buck up against yours in unconscious search of an orgasm he was so sure was about to wreck him.

You tilt your head to the side with a frown. "You can't handle it?"

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't think any of that babbling's doing you any good, Spence."

He twists his face into a tight, painfully self-conscious smile. "I-I talk a lot when I'm…nervous."

"Aww, poor baby. How about we put that mouth of yours to good use then, hm?"

You'd think you'd just offered him a million dollars by the way his eyes almost pop out of his head. He's nodding before you finish your question, quick and eager, and completely void of shame.

You lean down, levelling your face with his. He flinches when your breath hits his skin, and the contact turns to static, shooting sparks through his veins. Your lips ghost over his, and he tilts his head up, hoping—praying—for a kiss.

"You gonna make me come, Spence? Yeah?" you murmur. "You gonna take care of me?"

"Please."

His hands finally anchor themselves on your hips, something to keep him grounded as you press a kiss to his jaw, then another as you murmur "you're so fucking eager" before dismounting him.

Spencer, if he weren't missing so many brain cells, would argue you're both eager; you're shimmying out of your panties before he can sit up to help you, and you always let him help you. He doesn't think to complain—hell, he doesn't think at all—he just settles between your legs, and he moans louder than you do when his mouth finds your swollen clit.

For all his unending nervousness, there's nothing careful about the way Spencer handles you when you're like this. The self-consciousness that defines so much of his being vanishes, replaced by something free and uninhibited—something unapologetically animal.

He searches for God in your cunt, finds something better: soft gasps and intoxicating moans, and praises—God, the praises. He'd have each wholly depraved word tattooed onto his body if he thought it would preserve the feeling that racks through him every time you tell him how good he's being or, Heaven forbid, how pretty he looks with a mouth full of pussy.

At some point, he shifts so he's lying on his stomach, erection pressed flat against the bed. If past experience has taught him anything, it's that pleasing you is a sure-fire way to get him to finish hands-free (he's just that devoted), but he's horny and desperate and a little too drunk on the taste of you to think straight, so when his hips start grinding against the mattress, he doesn't try to stop them. 

He's pretty sure he blacks out, achieves nirvana, glimpses Heaven. Your voice turns hymnal as his tongue circles your clit, fingers working your cunt like he has something to prove, like if he fucks you good enough you might just let him stay. He'll sleep on your floor, if that's what you want; he isn't picky.

He knows you're close when your words lose their edge. Your thighs clench around his head, canting your lips like you're trying to pull him in, and his efforts are rewarded with a tumble of angelic curses and a gush of warmth that soaks his chin.

When he raises his head, he's crying. Red-faced and dizzy. The tears are barely distinguishable from the slick mix of sweat and arousal that coats his poor face.

"…fuckin' perfect," you breathe, reaching down to brush some hair from his face as you sit up. "Such a good boy for me, making me feel so good. Shh, come here, let me see how pretty you are."

As Spencer pulls himself up, your gaze trails down his body, admiring him with such hunger it makes him feel a little sick—the good kind of sick, if that's even a real feeling; he may just be losing his mind, at this rate. But your expression shifts, hardens, when you notice his lack of an erection. The new stains in his boxers. The matching ones on your sheets.

"You couldn't wait?"

It isn't a question.

He actually shrinks back, covers himself with his hands. Humiliation burns in his veins as he makes himself smaller, cowers like a frightened animal.

"Is that how desperate you are? Come here."

Your voice is soft. Soothing. Deceptive. It ignites that impulse to curl up in your arms, relax his body against yours as you run your fingers through his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear—but he knows that isn't what he's going to get.

"Spencer, come here."

He shuffles forward anyway, head hung in shame like a puppy waiting to be kicked. Your fingers are like ice against his cheek, but he leans into your touch all the same.

"And to think I was gonna reward you for being so good— shh, don't speak. You think I wanna hear your excuses?" You press your thumb to his lips, silencing him as you cradle his face with both hands, guiding him to look at you. When he sniffles, you pout. "Oh, I know. Poor baby. You're sorry, right? For being so dumb? I know, hon. I know it's hard when that big brain of yours stops working…"

"I-I didn't mean to—" He stumbles over his words like he's never spoken before in his life. His mouth feels foreign, tongue working against him as he tries to choke out an explanation. "This— this kind of…thing, it doesn't happen. Only…only with you. I can't help it, you've— …I don't know." He can't look you in the eye. "You've…done something to me. I can't—"

"Look at me." You're nodding along with his words, expression full of false sympathy. Your thumbs trace halos over his flushed skin as you pull him close. "Come on, princess. It's okay…there we go. So pretty…"

Whatever's been holding him together shatters when your lips meet his, and the pieces burst into flames when your hand trails down to his sodden crotch. He whines into your mouth, tries to drag you back in when you pull away.

"You wanna make it up to me? You wanna show me how sorry you are?" you murmur, breath hot on his face.

"Sorry…" he repeats the word under his breath, nodding like he's caught in some kind of trance. He's already getting hard again, or trying to; his cock presses weakly against your hand, his body responding to your touch even when it's spent. "Yes. Please."

"That's my boy."

Your boy. Your perfect, pretty, stupid boy. Your devoted Astrophil, bound to you by the chains of an unrequited ardour. It's what Sidney knew as courtly love, but the Romans had a different term for it: servitium amoris, slavery of love, and Spencer thinks that is far more fitting. 

and he didn’t know exactly when it started, but after years and years of the only touch he received being hits, punches, the cold feel of steel from a knife or the heat from the barrel of a gun—he craved something gentle.

he needed it.

and goddamn, he was getting desperate.

at first, he usually just sought it out with one-night stands. whether it be holding their hand during it, or sticking around for longer just to lay in bed with whoever the fuck he’d met that night— that kept him at bay. that’s how he got the touch he needed.

but then he got greedy.

it had been a particularly rough hunt. you, dean, and sam were lucky to get out alive. you’d pulled into a town that had a vamp nest terrorizing its inhabitants, and when you saw the familiar hot faces of the winchester brothers at the only decent bar in a 30-mile radius, you’d decided to work together— as you’d all done a million times before.

but still, it was rough. you three each took a floor of the abandoned farmhouse— you on the highest, dean in the middle, and sam on the ground floor. you clambered down the stairs after you had finished clearing your floor, only to be met with two snarling vampires— which you quickly ganked with a schwing of your machete.

after verifying that no threats were coming your way, you started looking for dean— and the panic that flooded through your chest when you saw him crumpled over on the floor in one of the rooms almost made you freeze.

almost.

years of experience and split-second decisions snapped you out of it, immediately falling to your knees by dean’s side, turning him over on his back.

your hands were gentle but swift as you quickly flipped out the sides of his jacket, making sure there were no large gashes or wounds— and the sigh with the feeling of pure relief you let out when you realized he was just knocked out was a little more intense than you had expected it to be.

and you told yourself that was definitely normal.

right?

right.

“dean,” your hand had gone to the side of dean’s face, the other remaining on his shoulder as you shook it gently, trying not to startle him completely as you masked your worry. “come on ya lug, rise ‘n shine.”

despite your efforts, dean still woke with a start— but you caught his arm with the hand not on his face before he could do anything.

“hey— hey,” your voice was quieter, softer. because despite being one bad mother when you were hunting, your soft side came out frequently when it was needed, without fear of judgment and with absolutely no shame. it was one of the things dean wished he could do as seamlessly as you. “it’s jus’ me, alright? come on—”

you then proceeded to stand all six feet and some change of dean up with you, keeping a hand on his back and shoulders and giving him another once over when he stood over you again.

“you all good?” you murmur quietly, your hands resting on the sides of dean’s arms as you stood back, your eyes continuing to rake over him for a moment before looking up at his face— and the expression you were met with wasn’t anger, or even frustration from being knocked out.

no.

dean looked almost… sad.

you’d never been exactly ‘close’ with dean. of course you considered him a friend— for years now, but in all honesty, even that was a stretch sometimes, too. because he was a very closed off and mistrusting person.

but hell, you respected that. especially in this line of work. he did talk to you once in a while, though— on those lulls during a hunt or a case, or when he dropped some crazy lore about himself or his childhood, then going right back to his usual behaviors afterwards.

that being said, you knew dean better than he thought you did— because he didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was going through. despite what he thought, his emotions were always kinda just… written on his face.

but now, back to the farmhouse. back to the look dean had on his face right now. it was a look you saw only after he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant, which is why it threw you off and made your usual easygoing attitude with him falter.

“dean,” you voice had gotten quieter, even softer, “w—” but before you could say or even do anything else, sam called from the floor below that it was all clear, snapping dean out of it, his expression hardening again.

in the days coming after, you didn’t ask dean to explain himself, or push about what had happened that night. you knew if he wanted to, he’d come to you about it— maybe not right away, but when he was ready.

little did you know how soon that would be.

you’d been living in the bunker for probably only a couple months at this point after the apocalypse world had opened up, and a bunch of hunters were living in the bunker too— but less than a week later after the vamp nest, both sam and dean embarked on solo hunts, sam in maine, dean in nevada. both brothers had warned you not to ‘burn the joint down’.

come on. like you would ever do that— on accident. besides, you had the bunker all to yourself.

which was fun—

for all of five minutes.

now, almost six days after sam and dean had left, you’re sitting in the library, surrounded by a scattered array of books, papers, and weapons alike on the tables in front of you— another late night of research and catching up on lore.

because there was always lore to catch up on.

you’d been lost in the words in front of you when you heard the unmistakable noise of the bunker’s door creaking open. you stiffened slightly, instincts on alert, lifting your gaze from where you were standing— but relaxed and went back to scanning the page when you realized it was just dean.

because here’s the thing: over the years, you’ve realized that it’s not a good idea to talk to dean after he’s fresh off a hunt— and especially knowing that he’s probably just drove almost or even over 24 hours straight to come home?

yeah. no way were you about to be running up to dean as he trudged down the stairs, doting on him. to your knowledge, he hated touching people, especially other people touching him.

besides, usually after a hunt, dean would just go to his room, the infirmary, or immediately hit the showers— and not look once in your direction while he did it, much less talk to you.

it hurt, but you understood that the reason he does it wasn’t exactly anything you were doing wrong— it was just what dean did.

but tonight was different.

dean was on his way to his bedroom (or actually, maybe the infirmary might be better so he could patch himself up)—

but then he saw you.

you were still stood at one of the tables, eyes scanning through books of lore you dug up from the bookshelves, illuminated by the golden lamps lining the wooden tables. god, you were pretty. even though you weren’t looking at him, he didn’t blame you. he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful after a hunt.

especially this one.

and because of that, dean’s feet were moving before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

you’d glanced up from the book you’d been completely engulfed in— and was a little surprised to find dean looking right back at you as he walked up the few steps to the library.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could even register what was happening, dean had already made it to you— and without warning, wrapped you in a tight embrace, slamming against you and holding you like you were the only thing that would keep him upright.

your eyes widen slightly at the feeling of dean’s arms around you before you could register the fact that he’d even crossed the threshold of the bunker— a little ‘oof’ sound escapes you completely involuntarily.

“hey,” dean let out a shaky breath against some strands of your hair and shoulder, his voice slightly raspy with…was that relief?

despite how caught off-guard you were, you don’t reject dean’s unexpected hug, though. you let your body adjust to him and your arms wrap around him too, returning the gesture right back. the faint smell of baby’s exhaust, something earthy along with the familiar scent of dean fills your lungs as your fingers ever so slightly grasp onto the back of his jacket, keeping him against you.

the muscles in dean’s shoulders relax the second your arms gently wrap around him. and oh god, he just really missed you—

“hi,” your voice is just as quiet when you greet dean in return, chin resting on his own shoulder. “how did it—”

you’re trying to ask how his hunt went, but before you finish, dean’s pulling you closer to him and squeezing the words from you. his hands slip more around your waist to hold you against him tighter, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he just wants to feel you. you’re so warm, so soft— and goddamn, you smelled good, too. you always did. it was a little infuriating, actually.

dean knows he should probably let go, or at least respond, but he can’t find it in himself to let go yet— so instead he just holds onto you tighter. he still doesn’t respond to your unsaid question, simply standing there, holding onto you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

you assumed something had happened on his hunt for dean to be acting this way— but you don’t press or force him to tell you what. you just wanted to be there for him right now.

“oh,” is what you end up softly replying with a little nod of your head against dean when he simply doesn’t answer your unfinished question. but you don’t let him go. hell no. you just pat your hand on the back of one of his shoulders, tightening your own grip on him in return. “sorry, de.”

and dean lets out a slow breath of… was that relief at your voice, at the nickname you’d had for him since the second (or was it third) hunt you’d ever worked on together? who the hell knows. he’s just so thankful you’re here, you’re hugging him, not pushing him away, you’re holding him— that you’re so close.

“no, it’s okay,” dean’s unusually soft voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“it— it was rough, that’s all," he mutters after a even longer while, his words tinged with a mixture of fatigue and… something else that you can't quite place.

you and dean were so close and pressed together with your combined tight grips— so much so that you swore you could almost feel his heartbeat. but it wasn’t uncomfortable. and it didn’t feel awkward. it never seemed to be with him. besides, by his (few) words, you could tell he needed this a lot more than he was letting on.

in all honesty, you were just glad dean was finally letting himself seek comfort for once in his goddamn life—

in you.

“yeah, i get it,” is what you reply with, just nodding against dean’s shoulder while tightening your own grip on him. without really thinking about it, you start to gently run one of your hands up and down his back while still wrapped up in him, palm and fingers trailing on the material of his jacket. “just glad you’re back.”

you can feel dean’s breath hitch at your touch— and for a moment, you hesitate your motions of your hand tracing along his jacket, but his grip on you unconsciously tightened, like he was clinging to you. so you continue doing it after that.

“yeah,” he murmurs, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “me too.”

and for a long while, dean just stands there wrapped up in you, his face still buried in your hair and part of your shoulder as he lets himself lean into that touch, absorbing its comfort. he grips onto the back of your shirt— and he could feel the tension start to melt away, the warmth mixed with the scent of you filling his senses and working magic on him.

dean stays quiet for several more moments, his face still buried deep in your shoulder, as if he was trying to hide himself from the outside world. his grip on you doesn’t loosen as he stands there, his body against yours. every breath he takes is deep, steady— like he’s grounding himself in this moment with you.

his words break the silence as a whisper against you after a while, the vulnerability clear in his low voice, his words almost like a confession.

“i… missed you.”

a small exhale you didn’t know you were holding releases when dean says that— and your hand falters. dean winchester, king of bottling up feelings and keeping them to himself just said he missed you. this was completely different than how he usually acted around you, but you didn’t mind.

“i missed you, too,” your own voice also quiet when you respond. it was only a few words, but you had understood what dean meant— in more ways than most would. which is why you don’t even attempt to tease him about it, replying with something between a sigh and a laugh at the realization. “like, a lot.”

dean’s grip tightens even further at your response, as if your words had a more profound impact on him than you could've ever imagined. he pulls you closer against him, the hardness of his body against yours should’ve been more uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

there’s a moment of silence as dean just holds you, face still hidden, his chest rising and falling right against yours. each breath he takes is deeper, almost shaky, and for a moment, you can feel the slightest tremble in his grip.

his voice are soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen from him. like he almost didn’t believe you.

“really?”

and you don’t falter your own grip for one second, despite the fact that this was completely out of character for him. you return the action, tightening your arms around dean before resuming running your hand up and down his back.

“yeah, really,” you nod against dean to confirm, letting out a soft exhale into his jacket. “i dunno, it was just… quiet here without you guys. always is.”

your words seem to soothe him— almost as much as your touch, your hug does. despite being strong both physically and mentally, dean seems to need this— and he doesn’t even really know why. he relaxes even more at your words, his body slumping against yours. it’s almost like he’s seeking every bit of comfort and warmth he can get from this— from you.

dean lets out a small, soft scoff, tinged with weary amusement. “yeah, i bet it was,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your . “must’a been like a vacation for you, huh?” there's a note of sarcasm there, like he’s trying to mask the intensity of the moment with something familiar— like he always did.

and you could have played along with dean’s attempt at lightheartedness— but honestly, you were too tired to make that effort right now. so you just shake your head a little against dean, voice much quieter than before.

“first day was nice,” you admit to dean, hands grasping the back of his jacket to keep him close to you before you close your eyes. “the rest were just…”

there’s a beat of silence as you trail off, and dean’s grip on you— if possible, tightens even further at your unfinished sentence, as if he was hanging on your every word, waiting for what you were going to say.

he lets out a small, soft breath, warm against your hair. “just... what?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours. there’s a hint of subtle unease at what you were going to say.

your arms don’t loosen when you feel dean’s grip grow just that much tighter— but you weren’t about to complain. you don’t answer right away, because the rest of your sentence was almost too embarrassing to admit.

but then again, you remind yourself: this was dean who you were talking to. he didn’t judge you for a lot of things you had once assumed he would judge you for. so you just huff out a quiet laugh into his shoulder that wasn’t really one at all— containing no humor and mostly self-deprecation.

“lonely.”

your admission hangs there between you both. it’s a simple word, but it hits dean harder than any blow he’s ever taken in a fight. because you get it. there’s a hitch in his breathing— the kind that gives away more than mere words ever could. he goes still for a moment, just letting your confession sink in, the quiet of the bunker feeling even more pronounced in that moment.

“yeah,” dean finally breaks the silence with a soft exhale against you, pulling you even tighter against him. “me, too.”

you relax a little after dean says that. it meant more than he knew. you weren’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like you and him… kind of supported each other, in a way. like the burdens you both carried separately, your own issues that you had, they seemed to be less overwhelming whenever you were even near each other. even if you and him didn’t actually know each other’s burdens.

there’s always been an understanding between you, a silent knowledge that sometimes words didn’t need to be said for the other to know what that person is thinking.

the atmosphere in the room feels different now, the silence less heavy than it was before, but the intensity and weight of the moment still weighs heavily in the air between you. it must be an interesting sight from the outside looking in— a six-foot hunter clinging onto you like you were the last thing on earth. but you didn’t mind. hell, it was comfortable.

dean’s grip on you remains just as tight— almost like he’s afraid to let go, afraid that you’ll slip away like some dream he only has once in a great while. he takes a deep breath, chest rising against you as he inhales, then exhales slowly. before he’d realized it, his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with a strand of your hair.

this level of closeness between you two was unfamiliar. of course, you’d hugged each other before and spent numerous times in close proximity—whether it be in the backseat of the impala when sam had to drive that one time or when you had to hide in a not-so-big broom closet from a wraith.

but this... this was different.

and you knew the uncomfortableness of seeking comfort better than most— but somehow, you never had an issue when you were the one who was comforting others. but still, this was new territory. you certainly hadn’t expected dean to hug you for this long tonight. truth was, you didn’t really didn’t want to let go. but you couldn’t say that to him. that would be too weird.

the library is silent, only the soft tick-tock of the old clock on the wall filling the air. there’s a vulnerability, an understanding greater than words in this moment that neither of you are used to— but strangely enough, it's also the most comfortable you’ve both felt in a long time.

and then, dean breaks the silence again— his voice so low, so quiet, that you almost miss it.

“don’t wanna let go.”

your gaze softens when dean says that— but you don’t loosen your grip on him. you weren’t sure exactly why he was so adamant on not letting go, or why he’d been hugging you like you’d almost died. but you don’t ask questions.

besides, dean’s been more vulnerable with you tonight than i’d ever seen or heard in all the years you’d known him. and when he admitted that? you knew you had to be there for him, in whatever way he wanted. so when you reply back, your words are just as quiet as his.

“well, you don’t have to.”

the words feel like a weight being lifted off dean’s shoulders. he clings to you even tighter, burying his face even deeper into your shoulder, like he was ashamed. he doesn’t say anything for a moment— instead, just taking deep breaths. because he’s struggling to keep his emotions intact.

finally, he mumbles into you again, his words muffled by your shirt.

“you promise?”

“yeah,” you echo back quietly, nodding your head against dean’s buried into you. “promise. we can stay like this as long as you want to.”

there’s no malice hidden in your words, or any hint of teasing— because it was nothing but the truth. you’d stay with dean for as long as he wanted you to. and you bury your face a little more into him when he does the same to your shoulder.

there’s another long moment of silence as dean holds onto you, his face still buried in your shoulder. normally, he’d be making some smartass comment by now, acting like his usual self— but he can't seem to find the words. or the energy.

dean huffs softly against your shoulder after a moment— the closest thing to one of his usual snarky remarks. but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice when he speaks.

“what if i wanted to… all night?”

you’d half been expecting dean to brush off your words with a joke or at least something, but the tone of hesitation told you that he was being anything but that. you hesitate, but ultimately lift your head off of his shoulder— you don’t pull away fully, though.

and dean’s body visibly tenses when you pause and pull away slightly to look at him, and he’s almost immediately on the defensive— but relaxes a little when you don’t go far.

your gaze silently searches dean’s as you scrunch your eyebrows slightly. you knew that what he’d just asked you for was… different. and you didn’t have to ask him for clarification. you knew what he meant, why he was so hesitant. because this wasn’t going to be just hugging him anymore.

this would be all night.

and there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes when he lets his guard down just enough as you let your gaze linger on him. dean almost looks like a wounded dog right now, the exhaustion, the weariness making him drop his typical persona in favor of honesty— maybe even desperation, just this once.

from that look on dean’s face, he was not kidding about what he asked. the expression he had was one you hadn’t seen this intensely in a long time. you knew he wasn’t one to just ask something like this, either. not unless he needed it.

the thought of being so close to dean all night makes you a little nervous, but not as much to outright say no. so keeping his gaze, your voice is just as quiet as his was when you nod, breaking the silence of the library once again.

“then i’d say ‘get your pj’s on’.”

the way dean’s body relaxes in relief at your words is almost overwhelming. he’s still staring right into your eyes, the vulnerability almost raw. he manages to nod, searching your gaze. he’d been expecting a boatload of teasing with a side of humiliation— but he’d been proved wrong.

“yeah?” he almost whispers as he holds your gaze, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s unable to determine if this is real. if you’re real.

“yeah,” you nod in return, a pang of warmth hitting you again as you look at dean right back. you’re both still standing so close together— and the air felt different, thicker when you take another breath. “s’long as you don’t kick me.”

dean appreciated the break in seriousness, more than you would ever know. something resembling a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“no promises,” he murmurs back, something softer in his gaze as his eyes continue to rake over your face. “but i’ll try.”

“good,” you nod a little again, your own smile tugging on your face as your hands almost absentmindedly trail on dean’s arms— and his eyes literally almost flutter shut at the contact. “and you’re comin’ to my room. and you’re showering.”

dean raises an eyebrow and tries to ignore the warmth that stirred in his chest when you said that all authoritative-like— he swallows before he talks again.

“yes, ma’am.”

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

dean knocked on your door before he entered your room not twenty minutes later— don’t ask him, but he showered faster than he ever did in his entire life. he wasn’t too keen on the why.

your head perked up from your pillows when you heard the knock, already under your blankets and— well, let’s be honest here: waiting for him you’d even already moved to the left side of your bed, so dean would have a spot.

a stupid, small part of you had doubts that dean would actually ultimately show up, but it was a little embarrassing how much relief you felt when you call out a soft “yeah”, signaling him to come in.

dean stepped into your room, the only light being from your barley-lit desk lamp. it doubled as a night light, so you didn’t trip over yourself after a midnight snack break.

dean might as well have been in heaven. or something pretty damn close.

of course, he’s been in your room before— but this felt much different than all the other times. because he was going to be sleeping here tonight.

everything felt heightened, more intense— but as dean shut your door, he also had an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. of home. like this is where he was supposed to be this entire time. he pushed those recurring thoughts and feelings he always felt when he was around you, but without first reminding himself that you had agreed to do this. the thought alone was almost enough to make dean’s heart do that thing it always did whenever he was around you.

he’d been lost in his own thoughts, barely even registering the fact that he’d made it to the edge of your bed. your bed. not his, not some old, dingy motel’s. it almost made him chicken out. until—

“as much as i’d like to see you stand there all night, i think you should probably lay down.”

there it was. your incomparable capability to snap dean out of his head, back to reality. he didn’t know how you did it— and to be honest, you didn’t really know, either. but you always could, even giving sam a run for his money.

dean doesn’t hesitate again. you’d already peeled back your covers for him, so he just lifted them up and got under them. like he belonged. as if he’d done so a million times before. 

your bed, your sheets, your pillows— it was warm. and it smelled like you, tenfold. an equal blend of your fabric softener that only you used because dean said the teddy bear on the bottle looked at him weird and your shampoo that was way too expensive and you had to go to a separate store for. 

dean knew you smelled good, that was no debate— but this was like he was wrapped in it. like he’d been earlier when he hugged you. and so close to how he’d always wanted to be wrapped up in you. yet he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

besides, when was the last time dean winchester got what he wanted?

the answer?

right now.

your eyes hadn’t left dean’s figure when he finally lays down next to you, both now facing each other— it was strange actually seeing him in your bed after years of restless nights wishing he was.

and you could smell him, too— the faint scent of the soap you’d gotten him for his birthday, along with the tea tree shampoo sam kept hidden in the back medicine cabinet (but not well enough, apparently). you decided right then and there that the pillow dean’s head was currently resting on was the one you were going to sleep on after tonight, just so you could smell him after he was gone.

“how you wanna do this?”

dean’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke your thoughts, and you met his eyes when he spoke. his expression looked softer, too— almost hesitant. like he was uncertain. it was a look you rarely ever saw on his face. to see it now, in this way, was bittersweet. then it clicked. 

he was nervous.

“however you want to,” is what you reply with, voice just as quiet as his. you reminded yourself that dean had asked for this. in your mind, it was only fair that he get a say. “whatever you need.”

whatever you need. well, dean needed to kiss you silly if it was the last thing he did, but not tonight. not here. he wouldn’t be able to take it if you rejected him in that way. 

but he had to take some sort of risk right now. he couldn’t deny himself of it— of you any longer.

so before dean can talk himself out of it, he wraps an arm around you, closing the remaining distance— and to your surprise, he buries his head right into your chest, nuzzling against your shirt.

your breath hitches, and you hope to god that he didn’t hear that. but you don’t reject him. you just wrap your own arms around him, accepting him and his touch just as you had done earlier in the library. 

dean would’ve made some joke about basically burrowing his face into your boobs. he didn’t really mean to— but his eyes had fluttered shut already, because you letting him, and you were warm, and you smelled good, and you were so soft.

he’d always loved that about you. from a distance, of course. it didn’t matter how many hardships you’d gone through; you were soft in every sense of the word, both physically and emotionally. and once when he’d taken a shower in your bathroom since sam was hogging the main one in the bunker, the whole damn place smelled like you. he found himself wanting to drown in it.

and hell. he wouldn’t even complain.

your free hand went into his hair at some point, and it took everything in him not to let out a noise. dean sighed a little into your shirt, his breath warm on your chest— he finally let himself relax. go slack.

and he was so grateful that you didn’t tease him, or point out the fact that all six feet and one inch of him was in your grasp and snuggling into you like some damn koala. like a little kid who had a bad dream. but then again, his life felt like a never-ending bad dream most of the time.

you were his one exception to that.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

you weren’t sure how long you both stayed like that, wrapped up in each other before dean breaks the warm blanket of silence— it could’ve been hours or seconds. but his voice is so low, so soft, you almost didn’t hear it.

“thanks.”

the word was spoken against you, dean still remaining unmoving. he didn’t necessarily think himself as weak at the moment, even though he thought he should— and he dared not to say it out loud, knowing that you’d immediately shoot his insecurities down. 

but dean was finally letting himself get comfort. warmth.

something he’d had for a fleeting moment, then lost. something he had deemed too precious for a man as ragged and as sinful as him a long time ago. he didn’t deserve this. you.

he’d never be one to just take something like this, to ask this of you, without any regard for how you felt. but you showed— all you ever showed to him was the love he thought he’d never receive. the love he’d given so much away, but it never got returned back to him.

because you made him feel like he actually meant something. like he was the hero people he’d saved described him as. like he wasn’t some piece on a chessboard, a punchline in someone’s story, a puppet on a string, or a cog in some eternal machine. 

truth was? the big secret?

you made him feel normal. human. 

it was almost overwhelming, how safe, comfortable he felt right now. the last time he felt this safe, he’d been a child. the last time he felt this comfortable in himself— damn. it was before hell.

when it was just monsters of the week, the only big goal being finding his dad. staying at bobby’s. you had visited that summer. he can still remember your laugh echoing off of the wallpaper and the piles of books. it was before demons.

and the only angel he saw daily was you.

it was in the way the light shone in through the stained glass of one of bobby’s kitchen windows and hit your face, you making him coffee without being asked. when you smiled at him just because.

you treated him like a real friend. like family. like an equal.

sometimes, when everything in his head was too loud, dean missed it. when the only thought of lucifer he had was when he saw the cartoon on the bottle of the devil’s hot sauce at that barbeque place in texas. when everyone he loved and cared about was still alive. when the world wasn’t ending. when you kissed his cheek after not seeing him for a while.

you still did that last one, though.

“anytime, de.”

dean had flinched a little, but didn’t open his eyes after you replied—he had been too lost in the comfort. in you. he could die right now instead of sleeping, and honestly? it’d be a good way to go out. he’d prefer it over going down swinging any day, he decided. 

dean got most of what he wanted tonight. maybe someday he’d get it all. but for now, he’d just dream of it, like he always did.

the only difference?

he was actually in your arms this time.

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you have one ( 1 ) more new message from the author ! ↓

i know i said it already, but i need to hold this man so so so BADDDDD 💔💔💔 he deserves everything and more like that’s my shayla ☹️ my baby my world my everything (he’s a murderer and monsters fear him)

but even so, he’s got his ways of getting deep inside of you, cunt clenching and spasming around him like it’s nothing. taunts of how “no man could do you better than this, baby,” whilst he’s fucking you raw, “not gonna let anyone else touch you, not even sam, y’hear?”

you make some pathetic noises as your back arches off the sticky sheets, incoherently begging for more. like it’s everything you could ever want and need. like it’s not wrong. 

“gonna keep you with me, forever, ‘kay? don’t give a fuck if you’re my sister or what– you’ll always belong to me.”

and he’s so aware of it all. it definitely gives him some sort of fucked-up high, that adrenaline-fueled euphoria of knowing he can treat you better than any other man can. the only man who knows how to treat you right. sure, he’s not perfect– far from it– but fuck, he gets you. both outside and in– literally. he’s seen you go on countless dates, where you always end up crying because those asshole just don’t care. hell, he would– will be the first to put that diamond ring on your finger, show you off to the world. fuck what anyone else thinks.

“gonna give you want you need, yeah?” he pants in your ear, wet teeth grazing your skin. the words cut deep, sticking to your bones like glue; a reminder that he’s all you need. “pretty girl need her brother to do her right?”

“i– yes,” you whimper. guilt threads itself into your obscene noises, quickly satiated as he fucks into you just a little bit harder. “please– i need you–”

he’s a man– brother of his word.

dean's brow quirked as he heard the soft noises coming from his bedroom. he sped up his footsteps and arrived at the door, slowly pushing it further open to peek inside.

his lips grew into a smirk and he leaned against the doorframe, watching you grind your bare little cunt into his pillow. he watched as your chest rose and fell with every little pant. he felt himself begin to harden under his jeans.

“damn, baby,” he began after silently watching you for a few moments, “is this what you do when i'm out on a hunt? ride my pillow like that?” he tilted his head, the smirk remaining on his lips.

you looked at him with wide eyes, blush slowly rising to your cheeks as the embarrassment clenched at your chest, a feeling you were still trying to get used to in your human vessel.

“dean!” you gasped, “you’re home! i— i didn't know you’d be back tonight,” you muttered sheepishly, embarrassed you'd been caught riding his pillow. you were frozen on top of it as you stared at him.

“hey, it’s okay. i just wanted to surprise you,” he responded softly, stepping into the room and closing his door, “but i guess my little angel's gone and done that for me already,” he let out a quiet huff of a laugh, “s'okay, baby. it was hot, so hot, i promise. keep going for me, yeah? i wanna see my girl cum on my pillow.”

your cheeks heated up even more at the idea of continuing to please yourself in front of him. you'd only just gotten comfortable with having sex with dean in these past few months, the idea of doing this felt almost sinful.

dean sat down on the edge of the bed, a gentle smile on his face. he brushed his hand over your cheek, noticing the apprehension on face, “go on, angel. please?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. he searched your eyes, almost pleadingly.

you let a small shy smile spread across your lips, enjoying the warmth and familiarity of his touch. you looked into his green eyes. you couldn’t help but see his love for you. you felt that funny feeling in your chest again, pulling at your heartstrings. you knew you could trust him to watch, to see you this vulnerable.

with a nervous little sigh, you settled your legs and hips back into the pillow, “mmph, fine. just don't— don't say anything. i feel silly, dean.”

he chuckled and let his eyes trace over you, almost reverently. “don't. don't feel silly. you look incredible, baby. it's hot to see my girl making herself feel good... especially on my pillow in my zeppelin shirt,” he smiled and tugged at the shirt you had mindlessly thrown on earlier that evening.

“mmm, okay…” you looked down, trying to hide your sheepish smile, and began rolling your hips over the pillow again. you let out a soft hum of pleasure and avoided his gaze, looking down at your hands as they squeezed the end of the pillow.

“baby, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face... please?” dean asked, his voice just above a whisper. he watched as you slowly lifted your head, your eyes finally meeting his gaze. he smiled softly, watching your cheeks flush again. “you look so beautiful, angel. my pretty baby,” he cooed, his eyes watching you in awe as you rode his pillow, your bare pussy drooling at the friction.

you let out soft little whimpers as you dug your heat further into the fabric, drenching it with your arousal. dean's jeans grew tighter and tighter and he shifted uncomfortably on the bed, keeping his gaze on you, taking in the sight of his angel looking so pretty and pathetic.

it was a side of you that you didn’t allow him to see very often. he was infatuated with you, his angel letting her guard down and being so vulnerable in front of him. he was used to your firm demeanour and sometimes odd, but endearing little comments you’d make about the world as you learnt more, seeing it all through your angel eyes.

as he watched you hump his pillow and let out sweet little whimpers, his heart thudded in his chest. he was watching you become more human. become more like him. and it made his heart swell, knowing it was all from watching and learning from him. and maybe his brother.

he grinned as your soft noises became louder and louder, enjoying the way you were becoming so shameless and wanton as you rode the pillow. he leaned back on the bed, trying to find relief for his aching cock, trapped by the denim of his jeans.

“that’s it, sweet girl. let me hear those pretty little whimpers. you’re so damn beautiful.” dean said, his words making your head spin a little as you mindlessly humped his pillow.

dean chuckled, watching your legs shake and muscles tense as you neared your orgasm. you felt the tightness in your stomach grow, obscene words and grunts flying out of your mouth, dean's name leaving your lips like a prayer.

dean couldn't get enough of this. of you. you looked so little and beautiful, his own little angel pleasuring herself on his pillow. he considered himself the luckiest man in the world, blessed even. blessed that a heavenly little thing like you would want an old, damaged hunter like himself. in moments like this, he really felt his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

you were heaven sent. you were his girl. his angel. and he was so damn proud about it.

his eyes stayed locked on you as you drove your pussy into the pillow harder, leaving a little wet patch just below you. dean smiled even wider and his tongue shot out, wetting his lips as he noticed it, a soft groan escaping his mouth.

your face scrunched and a loud whimper left your mouth as your hips jerked on the pillow. “gonna-- mmm, dean... gonna cum... please, can i?” you asked innocently through breathy little groans. the sight of your soft, innocent eyes almost made dean melt right there on the bed.

dean nodded, his voice a gentle tone, “yeah, baby. let go. show me how good it feels.”

you cried out and bit your lip as your release washed over you, your soaked little cunt clenching around nothing and drooling onto the pillow even more. your eyes were squeezed shut as little moans and sighs left your mouth. you sounded like a pathetic whiny mess, gushing all over your boyfriend's pillow.

dean's cock strained against his jeans, aching to be freed. his words were deep and rumbled straight out of his chest, “that's it, pretty baby. cum for me. you’re such a good little girl. my perfect angel,” the praises left his lips like a soft hymn, buzzing through your empty little head as you rode the high of your climax.

as you tried to catch your breath, you blinked slowly up at dean. your eyes met and his smile widened, noticing the flushed look on your face, “did so well. sounded like heaven, baby. you're so beautiful.”

you let out a satisfied sigh and rolled your eyes tiredly, “heaven doesn’t have much of a sound, dean,” you commented, sincerity in your voice.

dean laughed as he sat up, adjusting the bulge in his pants, “it's an expression, angel. it's a good thing. means you sounded incredible.”

you smile grew softer at his words, the feelings of shame and embarrassment leaving your chest as he looked at you with such loving eyes. you could feel the adoration in his stare.

“felt incredible,” you mumbled in response. you tilted your head and studied him for a moment, “dean, i— i think i liked you watching me. made it feel better. harder... maybe,” you commented again, the regular factual tone of your voice returning.

dean smirked and tilted his head in return, “oh, yeah? felt better with me watching?” he tutted his tongue against his teeth playfully, “my angel's secretly a dirty little girl. god, what have i done to you?” he said teasingly and chuckled.

you rolled your eyes with a sheepish grin as you sunk down tiredly into the pillow, “i am not filthy... or unpure, dean. and please, refrain from speaking about my father when i’m naked and coming down from an orgasm.”

dean chucked, shaking his head in amusement as he scooted closer, wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling you against him.

he was always entertained by your literal interpretations and how seriously you took things, though he couldn’t deny you were getting better at recognising his jokes and phrases. and he was proud of that.

he squeezed you against his chest, soaking up the feeling of you in his arms again after so many days, “sorry, baby, accident. no more god-talk… but you are filthy. my dirty little angel,” he grinned and kissed the top of your head.

dean looked down at you for a few moments, his green eyes sparkled as they travelled over your features, appreciating your beauty post-orgasm. he carefully laid you back against the mattress, “i'm gonna ruin you to filth, baby. you won't remember a damn thing, but my name when i’m done with you.”

but even so, he’s got his ways of getting deep inside of you, cunt clenching and spasming around him like it’s nothing. taunts of how “no man could do you better than this, baby,” whilst he’s fucking you raw, “not gonna let anyone else touch you, not even sam, y’hear?”

you make some pathetic noises as your back arches off the sticky sheets, incoherently begging for more. like it’s everything you could ever want and need. like it’s not wrong. 

“gonna keep you with me, forever, ‘kay? don’t give a fuck if you’re my sister or what– you’ll always belong to me.”

and he’s so aware of it all. it definitely gives him some sort of fucked-up high, that adrenaline-fueled euphoria of knowing he can treat you better than any other man can. the only man who knows how to treat you right. sure, he’s not perfect– far from it– but fuck, he gets you. both outside and in– literally. he’s seen you go on countless dates, where you always end up crying because those asshole just don’t care. hell, he would– will be the first to put that diamond ring on your finger, show you off to the world. fuck what anyone else thinks.

“gonna give you want you need, yeah?” he pants in your ear, wet teeth grazing your skin. the words cut deep, sticking to your bones like glue; a reminder that he’s all you need. “pretty girl need her brother to do her right?”

“i– yes,” you whimper. guilt threads itself into your obscene noises, quickly satiated as he fucks into you just a little bit harder. “please– i need you–”

he’s a man– brother of his word.

He probably wouldn’t need to touch his sword again. 

On the off chance he would need it, he would be more than ready. 

“Your Majesty,” the guard abruptly says, coming to a halt and then bowing. 

Aki tunes back in to notice the King standing in front of him, his attendants on either side of him. He looks exactly as Aki remembers. Tall and muscular, with deep smile lines. It’s been years but he still commands the same presence he did back then. 

“Sir Hayakawa, it’s wonderful to see you again.” The King begins, voice deep and all powering. “How was the journey?” If he’s feigning interest, Aki certainly can’t tell, but then again he’s never been one to fully understand royals. 

“It was pleasant, Your Highness.” Aki bows, keeping his eyes trained at the King’s feet before he stands back up straight. 

“That’s wonderful to hear. We were starting to get worried about you, you know.” The King starts walking, looking over his shoulder to wait for Aki and the guard to follow. “We haven’t heard much about your ventures as of late.” 

Communication has been slow between the army and the crown for the past several months. There had been no major battles to report, which was a good thing. Sometimes Aki wondered if the royals wished there to be more blood shed - if it would be more entertaining for them. 

“Nothing to report Your Highness, everything has been calm on the ground, more or less.” Aki trails after the King, walking throughout the halls. The King is bringing him back outside, he’s noticed. 

Isn’t he supposed to meet the Princess first thing? 

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” The King adds. “How do you feel about Sir Denji taking over for you?” 

“I fully believe in his ability to lead the military. He’s more than capable,” Aki responds, images of the younger man pushed into a mature role at far too young flashing through his mind, briefly reminding him of himself. 

The King looks over his shoulder at Aki again, a knowing glint in his eye. 

Aki may as well be fully honest. 

“He’s a bit impatient, but that will dissipate with age I’m sure.” Aki admits, one hand dangling at his side, with the other resting at the hilt of his sword. 

The King hums and chuckles, agreeing quietly. “I’m sure no one could compare to you Sir Hayakawa, but alas I have a more important task for you.” 

The King reaches a large door leading to the courtyard, sun blinding Aki’s eyes as he follows shortly behind. There’s a gaggle of guards training in the yard, wood swords being thrust in the air with low grunts filling the space. He’d trained here too once, long ago. 

Several guards bow at the King, and remained bowed for Aki. He has some of the highest respect in the castle, save for the immediate royal family. It never feels normal, even if it has been for the past few years. Once acquainted with guards or fellow knights he quickly assured them that he doesn’t require such pleasantries. 

He was wondering where the King was leading him, though. 

“Your Highness-“ Aki begins walking slightly forward, ensuring not to stand directly aside the King. He knows his place. 

“There she is, the important task I have for you.” The King nods forward, Aki’s eyes following the direction. 

The Princess. 

You’re standing in the courtyard, with a guard beside you. You’re wearing a long red dress, the color deep and rich and surely meant to be beautiful, but the color reminds Aki of only one thing. You have a small grin on your face as you watch the guards spar, with your hands neatly folded in front of your waist. 

“You’ll be assigned to her until further notice, I sure hope she doesn’t cause you too much trouble.” The King bellows, catching your attention. 

You glance towards the King, noticing your father and his entourage. Your eyes find Aki and he would be a liar if he said his lungs didn't stop for just a moment. 

The rumors were true. You’re stunning. The light catches your hair perfectly, giving an unnatural glow to your face. Aki has heard his comrades mention before of your appearance, but he thought it was all heresy. Now he can most certainly attest that it is not. 

You walk up slowly to your father, the guard beside you following closely. The castle grounds are the safest place in the nation, but you can never be too sure. That’s most of the reason Aki was reigned in here. 

“Father,” you say, curtsing deep. “I thought you had a meeting right now.” You stand up tall, shoulders squared back as you look at the King. 

You’ve spared Aki one glance since he’s arrived, but he finds himself craving it once more. 

“Darling, I was. We finished and I was on my way back to my chambers when I noticed Sir Hayakawa in the halls.” The King looks over his shoulder at Aki. “He is to be your new Knight.” 

Once his presence is announced, you finally give Aki your full attention. He keeps his head high for a moment before dropping to one knee, rehearsing the dance he learned long ago. 

For the King and Princes, a bow. For the Queen and Princesses, a knee. For other members of the court, nothing. 

You lift your hand up as if on cue, offering it to Aki. He takes it, delicately holding your palm in his hand. Truth be told, he’s not sure the last time he held something so dainty. 

Aki raises his mouth to your hand, kissing the back while looking up at you. A small smile tugs at the side of your lips, polite and vague as Aki does so. 

“Princess, it’s my honor to meet your acquaintance.” He means it. 

“My honor to meet yours as well. I’ve heard many stories.” Your eyes follow him as he stands up once more. “I certainly look forward to hearing if they’re all true.” 

Aki would never tell you the stories of his ventures. They were far too gruesome for a lady of your stature. Whether or not the tales told were accurate or not was to remain a mystery, at least as long as he could control it. 

The King inhales deeply, eyes darting back and forth between the two of you. “Now that that’s all taken care of, I must depart.” His attendants and the guard who escorted Aki stand back. “If you need anything Sir Hayakawa, do not be afraid to ask.” An offer that Aki is sure he won't take. 

He would never dream of taking something from the King. 

The King excuses himself along with his entourage, and in the mess of people Aki notices the guard standing near you leaves as well. It’s just the two of you now facing each other. 

“I was just out here to watch practice,” you start, facing the guards once more. 

Aki lets his mind wander. He notices you aren’t standing on the parapet, which would have been more common. Royals tend to keep themselves above others in order to gaze down upon them. Yet here you are, standing on the same ground as the guards. 

He watches you smile at the sparring. It doesn’t make him angry per se, but he does wonder if you know what they’re practicing for. They’re here to train to be a part of the royal guard or knights. Knights being on the front lines of war, while royal guards were the last line of defense for the crown - putting their life on the line should it require it, and sometimes it does. Both roles are incredibly dangerous, with many lives already having been lost. 

Is this all entertainment to you? 

It wouldn’t be the first time a royal has thought so. 

“Do you come here often, Princess?” Aki inquires, walking to your side. “Does it not frighten you?” 

“I like to stay up to date with what our subjects are doing,” you answer. “Plus, it looks like they’re having fun, does it not?” 

Aki looks back at the guards and notices laughter flowing throughout the air. They’re all young, innocent from all the harm that may befall them in the future. Aki supposes he must be cynical; he’s been in the game for far too long and yet somehow not long enough. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like that. 

“Yes, I suppose it does.” He replies, though he’s not sure if you were truly looking for one. 

You look out of the corner of your eye and grin at him which he misses. 

“Princess, you must return to your chambers at once!” A feminine voice yells, each syllable more frazzled than the last.  

Aki and you turn in sync, watching as a short brunette woman rushes over. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere Princess-“ she catches her breath. “Your lessons are well passed due.” 

You give a tight lipped smile and nod. Aki doesn’t interject, knowing it’s his place to only provide assistance when needed, and when he isn’t needed he plans on just being a quiet fly on the wall. 

“My apologies Kobeni, I was only taking a short recess. We need to go over details of the dance, correct?” 

“Yes. There will also be dress fittings.” Kobeni’s eyes slide over to Aki. He can tell she’s wondering who he is, and if he’ll be attending the dress fittings. 

It’s not his place to introduce himself, so instead he waits like a dog, patiently and quietly. 

“This is Sir Hayakawa, he is to be my knight.” His name slips off your tongue so easily, Aki finds himself wondering if you had ever uttered it before. 

“I see, well, follow along then.” Kobeni turns around and rushes forward, not even glancing back to ensure the two of you are following. 

You give a soft smile and walk after her. Aki trails behind you, going at a slower pace than his limbs are normally used to due to his height. He keeps in mind to stay right behind you. 

“There’s a dance to be had in two months time - the largest of the season.” You explain. 

Aki doesn’t know much of dances, but he supposes this is what his life is going to be like going forward. A far cry from battle. Although, maybe it’s a battle in its own right.

“I have to practice for it. Dressings, etiquette, dancing,” 

Aki listens intently. You don’t sound as though you’re complaining, which is a bit of a shock to him. He could never imagine having to prepare for something like that. 

“Do you practice with the other royals?” He asks, looking at the back of your head. 

You’re easier to talk to than he would’ve imagined. He doesn’t feel as though he needs to hold his tongue as much. 

“No, this dance is for me.” Your voice echoes in the halls of the castle once you enter. 

The rock encasing the castle ensures the inside stays nice and cool, perhaps a bit too cool, and it would have been considerably darker if not for the candles hung on every wall along with the large windows. 

“It’s for suitors.” You finish, and Aki detects a hint of emotion in that sentence, more emotion then he’s heard from you thus far, even though it was barely anything. 

“Sounds exciting,” Aki isn’t quite sure how to respond. 

He doesn’t know too much about the process of marriage for royals. He knows more often than not it is for military gain, joining two kingdoms together in peace. Less than rarely is it out of love. Aki isn’t sure he knows of a case where it is. 

There are a long list of men your age (just a few years Aki’s junior) in the nearing kingdoms, all of different statuses. As there is no other heir to succeed the position in this kingdom, sexism be damned, you were more than likely to be wed to a Prince for his kingdom. Unless your father and mother could produce another heir, a male heir (which was unlikely) you would be tasked with producing two male heirs. One for this kingdom, and one for the next. Aki didn't want to think about what would happen if your body wasn’t up to the task. 

“You think so?” Your tone is calculating in the way royals usually speak, trying to find a hidden meaning. Royals are good for one thing and that’s the art of communication. They excel at discussing topics without outright saying them. 

Aki knows they are trained from a young age to navigate tough discussions, to use their words to disarm others. It’s a talent Aki can admire, he was never particularly good with his words. Awkward and stilted, conversation was never really important for battle. 

“I suppose so. I imagine dances are fun,” he says, never having attended a formal royal one. 

You faintly smile and agree softly, leaving Aki to wonder what your hidden agenda was. 

“What do you think of Kobeni?” You ask. 

“She seems nice, perhaps a little frazzled.” 

You chuckle at that and there goes Aki’s lungs again, stalling as if he’s forgotten how to breathe, as if his endurance built up over all of these years has amounted to nothing. 

“Yes, well, she’s been that way for quite some time. She doesn’t look it but she’s much older than me. She raised me for most of my childhood, she was my wet nurse in fact. Mother was far too busy.” 

That surprised Aki as he would not have guessed her to be your senior by that many years. When the two of you finally reach your room, much to Kobeni's impatience, Aki takes a good look at her face once more. There’s wrinkle lines around her eyes and mouth where there would not be otherwise.

The normal code would suggest Aki follows you unless you dismiss him, but he does find the back of his neck getting hot at the idea of being here for a dress fitting. He’s not sure what that entails, but it sounds like it would be immodest for him to attend, the sight most likely reserved for your future husband. 

“Sir Hayakawa, you can stand guard out here while I change. Once we’ve found the dress you may enter.” You walk into your room, “thank you for your service.” 

Aki keeps his face neutral even though the compliment surprises him. He had hardly done anything thus far, aside from guiding you to your chambers. He had fought numerous wars without hearing a peep of gratitude, so the feeling is foreign to him, yet not entirely unwelcome. “Of course, Princess. Call out if you need anything.”

Kobeni shuts the door behind you, leaving Aki to guard your door alone. If he listens closely he can hear faint talking in your room, various handmaidens assisting you in changing. 

Though this job was much safer than his last, it was also much more boring. He’s halfway through counting the stones beneath his feet when the door behind him opens. Aki turns around and looks into your room, finding you in front of a mirror, adorned by a gown. It was a deep blue, the length of it nearly swallowing you whole. You’re admiring the dress when you meet his gaze reflecting in the mirror, which causes you to sheepishly look away. 

“It’s not entirely fitted yet, although this will be the dress I’m going to wear.” You tell him, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“You look lovely, Princess.” Aki murmurs, his attention drifting from your jaw, to your collarbone, to your dress. 

It’s a compliment he doles out without even thinking. You really do look like a Queen, even if you currently weren’t one. 

You bite your lip and dip your head, your fingers starting to pull at the dress in a sign of embarrassment. 

Once the moment is over you watch Kobeni talk with the two handmaidens, giving instructions on what they need to do next. “Kobeni, was that all for the day? I'm quite tired.” 

Kobeni stops mid sentence with the handmaidens. She looks as though she’s running on fumes, her mouth pulled downward in a frown. “Yes Princess. Let me assist in changing your clothes first, then I will take my leave so you can rest.” 

“No, it’s fine Kobeni, I think I can manage. Thank you. Why don’t you take a break?” You offer, turning towards her. 

Kobeni looks like she wants to argue but refrains from doing so, instead ushering out the other girls while you watch. You thank her and the other handmaidens before they take their leave, leaving the two of you alone. 

“Well, I suppose I will give you some privacy then.” Aki says, excusing himself. 

“Yes, it shouldn’t take me very long.” You agree. 

Aki steps out again and closes the door, knowing you must change before he can lay his eyes on you once more. 

The sight before him even just now was a treasure, the presence of the Princess wearing such fine clothing. It was a sight most would only dream of seeing. 

He begins counting the stones again, nearly forgetting where he had ended off last time when he hears your voice. 

“Sir Hayakawa, will you help me for a moment?” 

Aki turns around again and opens the door, peeking his head in. He assumes you’ve finished dressing, perhaps needing help to put the dress away. The sight before him is far different. You’re still standing in front of your mirror, arms bent behind your back while you attempt to unbutton your dress. Aki quickly looks away as soon as he sees a hint of skin. 

“I can’t reach the last one,” you sound clipped, patting behind you to reach the final button. 

Aki flicks his gaze up to you once more before peeking his head out into the hallway again, making sure no one is around. He’s not doing anything wrong necessarily, his job is to help you with whatever you need. Even if that was the case, it still felt so scandalous. 

He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him before he strides up to you. He notices how small your hands look compared to his. Aki locates the final button, noting there were still ribbons to be undone as well. 

“They make these difficult, don’t they?” He murmurs, unbuttoning the final button, noticing how the dress becomes looser. 

You're holding it up with a hand on your chest, watching in the mirror. 

“Yes, they honestly do. I was hoping I could take it off myself but that seems to not be the case.” You let out a soft laugh at that, a poke at your own foolishness.

Aki’s fingers skillfully pull the ribbon loose, catching a glimpse of your bare back before he looks away. Under any other circumstance the sight would not be considered out of the ordinary. He’s seen his fair share of royals before and on occasion their dress will reveal their backs more. Even so, this does not feel the same.

“Thank you Sir Hayakawa, you’re dismissed. I will call for you once I’m done.” 

He turns around and waits in the hallway, recounting the sight of your small hands and soft skin until he hears your voice through the wood. You open the door before he has a chance, once more wearing your red dress. 

“I thought you were tired, Princess?” He expected that you would want to rest in your room for the remainder of the day. 

“Quite. Let’s wander, shall we?” 

You’re confusing. You’re nothing like the previous royals he’s met so far. You have some traits that are typical, such as the way you seem to speak in riddles. Other than that you’re different. You’ve thanked multiple staff since he’s arrived, and you’ve let him touch you, even if it was innocent. 

Aki follows you out, unsure where the final destination is but knowing he’ll protect you nonetheless. 

You walk outside, waving at the children who pass by, their parents certainly working for the crown. He wants to ask where you’re going but holds his tongue, still unsure of what he can say. You’re easy to talk to, sure, but you’re still above him in ranking. He would never want to overstep. 

It isn’t until you are far out of the castle's bounds, feet navigating through long grass in a field when you speak again. 

“I used to come out here all the time when I was a child,” you say, walking slower until you near a large oak. “Still do sometimes, though I’m much more busy.” 

Aki understands why you liked the field. The area is quieter than the castle, not another soul in sight. He thinks it might be dangerous due to it being deserted but assures himself that if an attacker were to come then they would most certainly be located quickly. 

“It’s nice.” Aki stops by the tree, watching as you walk several feet forward until you come to a stop, lowering yourself to sit on the grass below. 

You’ll get your dress dirty, perhaps Aki should have come more prepared to offer you clothing to lay upon. Next time, he thinks. 

“Princess, your dress-“ He rests a hand on his sword, looking over the field slowly. 

“I know, it’s okay.” You run your hands through the grass as your shoulders sag. “Sir Violence said the same thing every time I came out here. I do miss him.” 

That’s a shock. Sir Violence was your previous knight. Rumor has it that you were the one who fired him, although the action seems almost out of character now that Aki’s met you. Still, royals have their reasons, and their temperaments can be finicky at best. 

Aki remains quiet, looking forward as though he hasn’t been granted to look at the sight below. 

“You’re wondering where he is, aren’t you?” You ask, and Aki can feel your gaze on him. 

Aki was. Sir Violence had been one of the higher up knights, responsible and kind. From what he heard he liked being your knight, so Aki felt bad when he heard the news that you had fired him. 

“Yes, but it is none of my business.” Aki answers honestly, as doing so has gotten him the furthest. 

“I fired him.” Hearing the words come from your mouth was even more shocking. 

Aki feels a strike of anger, knowing Sir Violence enough to know he wouldn’t have done anything to warrant such action. It’s the first time he’s felt the emotion towards you, and he doesn’t like how it lays on his shoulders, heavy and wrong. 

“Did he offend you, Princess?”

“No, not at all. His wife became with child.” Oh. Aki did not know that. “My knights have to be with me from sunrise to sun down. It seemed rather cruel to have him with me for that long, knowing he had a wife and babe waiting on him.” 

Aki did not expect that. He looks down at you, finding you already looking up at him. He quickly moves his eyes back forward again. 

“I set up a job for him in the city. He’s to be the next chief.” That job paid handsomely. 

“That was very kind of you,” Aki murmurs, sheepish from how he jumped to conclusions. There would have been no ulterior motive for you to do that for Violence. 

“I felt awfully selfish,” you mumbled, tucking your legs beneath you. “However, I am glad that it led me to meeting you.” 

Aki fidgets with the handle of his sword. He’s not used to upfront compliments, not used to the way it makes his forehead sweat as if he was just in battle. 

“Thank you, Princess.” Aki knows he shouldn’t let his feelings get too close to the job, but you’re making it awfully difficult. 

“You know, you can call me by my given name.” You say your name as if it isn’t common knowledge in the kingdom. “I would be okay with it.” You hesitate for a moment like you have more to say. “Can I call you by your name as well?” There’s the greediness Aki half expected when he started the job, but he finds that it doesn’t turn him off. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, after all.” 

“That would be immodest, Princess.” He stands his ground, though he knows he isn’t too strict on the situation, and would give up if you pushed him enough. He half expects you to, half wants you to. 

He wants to set clear boundaries. He knows that all he is is your knight, and that is all he will ever be.

Still. 

Would you press the matter further?

Why does he want you to anyway?

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” You fold in on yourself a bit. Aki can taste the disappointment in the air, thick like blood. 

He clenches his jaw, unsure how to navigate the situation. When he doesn’t say anything back you drop the conversation, choosing to watch the field and the sun above.

You spend the next hour or two telling Aki about the upcoming dance, and all that it entails. There were bound to be countless people, which meant countless opportunities for harm to befall you. Aki would rather die than let that happen. Whether you preferred him or not, your safety belonged to him now. It was not a decision that came lightly to Aki. 

The two of you lose track of how long you’ve been out here, but he knows you can’t remain here forever. 

“Ready to return, Princess?” 

You flick your eyes up to him, facial expression dissatisfied but wordless. He thinks you probably want to stay out here for even longer. Aki doesn’t know how strict the King and Queen are with you yet. He imagines a little due to the fact you felt the need to sneak out here. 

You stand up, stretching you arms up far above your head. “Thank you for coming with me,” you say, a small grin on your face. 

Even though he was only here because it was his job, he still feels his heart flutter nonetheless. Aki follows silently as you walk back to the castle. 

“I’ll have more lessons for the dance,” you murmur, giving him the details of what your day would look like. “I hope it won’t be too terribly boring for you, Sir Hayakawa.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” he reassures, giving a small smile as a way to return the kindness you had given him.

~~~

He has no idea how he got here. One second ago he was bidding you good night, then the next he was following you down the dark hall with nothing but a tiny candle in your hand to lead the way. You had asked him if he wanted a treat but he had no idea what that meant.

Aki was standing outside your bedroom keeping watch, about ready to leave for his chambers when you poked your head out of your door, a mischievous grin on your face. You wore only a thin nightgown and it made Aki’s skin hot. You offered no further explanation, only a promise that he wouldn’t regret it as he followed you in the halls. 

He’s been your knight for a month yet you still find new ways to surprise him every day.

“Princess, I’m sure we could find some castle workers if we need to.” Aki starts once you reach the kitchen. 

It’s empty, the remaining chefs having gone home for the day. Aki almost feels like he shouldn’t be here, like he’ll be caught any second doing something he shouldn’t be doing. 

You are the Princess though, and short of the King or Queen reaching out to you then the two of you would be okay. 

“No! I know a recipe,” you chuckle, digging around for a bowl. “Plus, isn’t it more fun this way?” You flash a dangerous smile towards Aki and he has to force himself to look away, lest he stare for too long. 

Once you’ve gathered all the ingredients you need, you finally tell Aki that the two of you are going to be making chocolate chip cookies. 

“It’s one of Kobeni’s recipes. Used to make them when I was a kid.” You tell him, tossing flour and eggs into a bowl. 

He hasn’t had cookies in ages. The memory of them is like a whisper in the back of his mind. Images of a stool beneath his feet and his moms gentle hands guiding him, her voice soft as she tells him what he needs to do next. 

“Are they your favorite?” He asks, eyes drawn to the way you mix ingredients. 

You ponder for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I would say so. When I was little I would sneak bites of the dough too.” You say. “Do you like them Sir Hayakawa? I hope you do.” 

“Yeah, I like them.” He thinks he does anyway. 

“Great!” You smile before looking back down at the table. 

You’re beautiful. No doubt in his mind that you were meant for royalty. 

“Would you mind cutting the chocolate? I’m sure you’re much better with a knife than I.” You chuckle, the sound like a cool glass of water on Aki’s ears.

Aki smiles and agrees, beginning to chop up the chocolate into tiny pieces. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, with you instructing Aki on what to do next. The sleeves of your night gown are rolled up clumsily and there’s a dash of flour on your cheek. Aki isn’t quite sure how that ended up there. 

“Do you sneak down here often to make these?” Aki asks, watching as you get the flame ready. 

It makes him a bit nervous, his fingers starting to itch wanting to stop you so he can take over. He thinks you should depend on him a little more, but he supposes that will come with time. 

“I used to do it more often. Kobeni would come with me, but one night we got caught and it freaked her out so bad she refused to do it again. We didn’t get in any trouble but still…” you turn back towards him. 

He can’t help but let his eyes flick down to your mouth as you talk. Aki notices how plush your lips look, how they curl around each syllable when you speak. 

He’s a fool, he thinks as he pulls his eyes away from you. 

You are the Princess. 

Aki stirs the dough around, the final step before placing them on a pan to bake. He’s about to take the spoon out to put in the sink before you quickly stop him. 

“Wait!” 

He raises his brow, waiting on further instruction. 

“Is it alright if I lick the spoon first?” You ask, as if he could ever say no to you. Partly for his duty, but also due to something else. Something much more hot and tingly that curls in his body if he thinks about it for too long. 

Aki lifts the spoon up, holding it sideways for you to take. You don’t do that. Instead, you walk up towards him and stick your tongue out, allowing it to trail along the side of the spoon. Aki sees the way dough covers your tongue before you bring it back inside your mouth, a smile on your lips. A feeling bubbles inside his gut and he can’t look away. 

“It’s so good, Sir Hayakawa! You must try it as well.” 

He can’t say no to that. 

Instead of getting a new utensil like a reasonable man would do, he nibbles on the opposite side of the spoon, watching you as he does it. There’s a grin on your face and the sight is sweeter than the dough on his tongue. 

“That is really good, Princess.” 

“I know right!” 

Everything after that happens in a flash. He’s still stuck on the moment between you when the two of you form balls on the pan, before you place it into the wood stove. 

You sit across each other at the table while you wait for the cookies. 

“Thank you for doing this with me, I’m sure you’d rather be in bed.” You murmur, looking away from Aki. 

He really cannot think of anywhere else he’d rather be. 

“Of course, Princess.” He wants to tell you that he’s having fun, but the words fail him. 

Once the cookies are done the two of you plate them, and share them beside candle light at the table. They’re warm and they’re tasty, the chocolate melting in Aki’s mouth as he chews them.

When he accepted the job offer he was not expecting midnight rendezvous with the Princess, but that’s what he's got, and so far he is more than happy with the arrangement.  

~~~

It’s the night of the dance and light fill the ballroom, laughter and conversation bouncing off the walls. There must have been a few hundred people on the castle grounds already, which caused Aki’s nerves to tingle. He didn’t want to be too stingy, he knew it was one of your only times to truly socialize. Aki could be patient. He was good at that. 

Aki waits at the bottom of a large staircase, a plush rug filling out the space below him. He was instructed to wait here while Kobeni gave you finishing touches. You had been getting ready for what felt like an hour. It seemed like an awful lot of prep in order to meet one man. The event was held specifically for Prince Kurose. He was of a neighboring nation, just as Aki had suspected. There was no animosity between your kingdom and his, but a union between the two of you would only strengthen the bond. 

It had only taken a few weeks for the King's advisors to decide on which suitor would fit best. Aki was under the impression this dance was to meet all of them so you could decide, but he supposes that was wishful thinking. Unless tonight goes terribly, you were to be wed to Prince Kurose. Tonight was just a formality. 

Aki notices the room get significantly quieter. There could be only one reason for that. As he turns around he notices you walking down the steps, Kobeni in tow as she holds the bottom of your dress. Stunning. Aki doesn’t blink as you descend from the stairs, your gaze locked on the crowd below. He holds the hilt of his sword tighter, admiration flowing throughout his blood stream. If he had it his way he would rush up the staircase and offer help immediately, but he needed to wait. 

He’s grown fairly fond of you over the past two months. He would never admit it out loud for it would be out of place, but he quite enjoys your presence. He likes knowing he gets to protect you every day. It’s an honor. Not only that but he likes knowing he gets to see you every day. You’re more talkative than he would have figured. You’ve told him many stories since he’s arrived, and he’s memorized each and every one, locking them away in his brain to tell himself late at night when he goes to bed. 

Aki’s become something more of a confidant, a friend even, although he would never say so in front of the King. First and foremost he is your knight. He knows this. Even so, he’s gotten attached. 

The two of you would go to the field often. You’d take a break and sit on the grass while Aki stood several feet away, always by the tree to give you distance. Over time he slowly started inching closer and closer so he could hear you better. He reasoned he would be able to protect you more that way, but he knew it was a farce. 

After a month and a half you asked him once more, “Sir Hayakawa, what’s your name?” 

He looked up at the branches on the tree, only standing three feet from you now, knowing you would only keep asking. There’s no harm in telling you his name. It was more scandalous to help you undress and he had done that within hours of meeting you. 

“Aki. My name is Aki.” 

After speaking he looks at you once more, your eyes already glued to his form. Your fists are clenched in the grass below and there are stars in your eyes. 

“Aki.” You repeat. 

His name has never sounded so good before. He knows it. 

“That’s correct.” Aki clears his throat, already sure that if he doesn’t he’ll ask you to repeat his name again and again. 

“Could I call you that instead?” A kind Princess. A greedy Princess. 

“I will not stop you.” He hopes you do.  

He’s dancing a thin line between what’s appropriate and what’s not. He’s your knight. He also cares about you. It only took you forty-five days to crawl inside of his brain. 

“Aki,” you say, looking up at him once you reach the foot of the stairs, dragging him back into the present.

He allows himself to smile at you. He’s only given you a handful (he tries to be serious, he really does), but each time he gives you one he means it. He means it from the bottom of his heart. 

“Princess,” he greets you back, raising an arm up as an offering. 

You look beautiful, he wants to state. You look more beautiful than the moon, his throat asks him to speak. I wish it was just the two of us, alone, like on the field. Don’t you wish that too, his mouth almost says. 

He doesn’t utter a word. 

Remember your place. Always remember your place. 

You take it, gratefully and greedy, holding him close to you. Aki guides you further into the party, where you greet others as they bow to you. Aki brings you to the food tables, where drinks and treats line the area in large amounts. He hadn’t allowed himself to indulge, of course wanting to be of sound mind, but he urges you to do so if you wish. 

You grab a glass, filled with what is Aki’s guess, and tilt your head back slightly to take a drink. The two of you stand there and people watch as you finish your glass, before you pick up an hor d’oeuvre. Aki stands silent as you eat, watching anyone who’s gaze lingers on you a bit too long. 

“Have you heard of Prince Kurose’s arrival?” You question, passing your dirty dishes to a servant waiting to the side of a table. 

“No, I have not.” Aki answers honestly. He should be here by now. “You know how the trails can be, perhaps his carriage is arriving late.” 

You look uncertain when you nod. Aki notices you clenching his arm tighter in your hold. He feels a bit satisfied in the way you’re seeking him for comfort, but the feeling quickly turns to acid when he realizes how painfully selfish it is. 

“You look handsome, Aki.” You say before immediately casting your gaze to the ground, as if the words fell from your mouth before you could stop them. They didn’t sound rehearsed or even elegant, they sounded real. 

Aki’s cheeks tint pink and he hopes that no one can tell in the yellow light. “Thank you, Princess.” 

Aki is wearing something of higher caliber. A satin shirt with matching pants with straps around his chest and thighs, along with a long black cape at his back. It took him an hour to get fitted for it, all the while Kobeni telling him he must look decent beside the Princess.

It seems a bit of a joke to him now. He knows he could never measure up to your beauty when standing next to you. 

You fidget with your dress as your eyes dart about. He thinks you get nervous around loads of people, which should be ironic considering your stature. 

“Are you okay?” He lets himself ask. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” You reply quickly. Aki doesn’t believe you, and he thinks you don’t believe yourself either. “I’m going to do a lap of greeting people. I should be alright, there are guards everywhere. You’re free to take a break, if you would like.” 

“I’ve hardly been here long, all I've done is stand over here.” I don’t deserve a break, he thinks. 

I want to be near you more. Let me be near. 

“How long were you waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs?” True. “Surely you must need a drink, or the bathroom.” 

He lifts his arm up, letting you tug yourself away from him. “I’ll be fine, Aki.” You reassure him. 

“If you insist. I will be here though.” 

“I’m sure you will.” You tease, locking eyes with Aki before you slip away into the crowd. 

You intended on greeting other royals. There may even be some more suitors here as well, intent on swooping you up should Prince Kurose fail. Aki tries not to dwell on the thought for too long. He tries not to dwell on the sour taste that sits on the back of his tongue at the thought of your suitors. 

Aki says hello to those that pass him and make conversation. No matter how impolite, he keeps his eyes moving across the room while talking, searching for any sign that you may need help. 

“Did you hear?” A voice near him says. He strains his ears to listen. 

“They’re saying the Prince is a no show,” someone else responds. 

Aki finds two women talking a yard from him. They look rich, heavy gowns on their bodies while they sip something powerful. 

The Prince was a no show? 

That couldn’t be true, right?

That being said, it is awfully late. 

“I know, I feel so bad for the Princess.” The first woman murmurs. 

Aki’s feet move immediately, taking him around the room. It's crowded in some areas, so he has to squeeze by. His mind starts to race the longer he can’t locate you. Surely you were still in this room, right? Perhaps he should walk up the stairs to get a better vantage point- 

Aki passes by a table with seats, noticing all but one is empty. You sit alone, eyes glued to the floor. Anger flares in his gut at the sight. Just where was Prince Kurose? Had he had something better to do? 

“Princess,” Aki says softly, although part of him wanted to say your name, if only to see a smile pop up on your face. 

You quickly find him, your eyes wide as saucers. It’s almost as if you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have, but you haven’t done anything wrong. All you’ve done is wait up for a sorry excuse of a Prince. 

“Hello, Aki.” You stand up, walking close to him. 

He can smell the scents Kobeni had doused you in prior to the dance. Something sweet and delicate, just like you. 

“I was looking for you.” He admits. 

“I’m sorry. I was just taking a break,” you gesture to the table beside you. “Have you heard?” You ask. “They’re saying he’s not going to show. Prince Kurose, I mean.” 

There’s an unrecognizable emotion on your face. 

“I have. Are you okay, Princess?” 

He knows the answer to that. Of course you aren’t. The Prince has made a fool of you tonight. 

“Yeah. I’m…” you look over the people in the ballroom. Some are talking, others are eating, and there’s a small group in the middle swaying.

You spent all of those hours practicing for a pathetic excuse of a man. 

Aki makes up his mind. He offers up a hand, eyes on yours until you hesitantly take it. 

“Would you like to dance?” He asks, forcing the nerves inside his body to simmer down. 

Your eyes light up and Aki decides he’s going to continue doing whatever it is he needs to in order to make it happen again. 

“It would be a shame if you didn’t get to, don’t you think?” Aki says, reasoning that it’s less selfish this way. “You still should have a good night.” Princes be damned. 

You smile and follow him through the crowd, allowing him to lead you. Your hand is much more softer than his in his grip, so he tries to loosen himself. Once the two of you make it to the middle, he faces you, holding his arms out in a traditional waltz position. 

You eye him closely, grabbing onto him, waiting for him to lead as the man typically does. 

“You know how to dance?” You question, disbelief appearing on your face. 

“I may be a commoner, but I’m not a beast.” He replies, teasing. 

It’s partly true. If you’ve seen half of what Aki’s done on the battlefield he wonders if you’d see him as a beast. Would you still let him near you if you knew of the damage he’s caused? Would you still let him hold you softly if you knew what his hands have done? Would you still say his name just as tenderly if you knew what he was capable of?

You laugh anyway, because you don’t know the half of it. 

The music guides the two of you, and you dance. You dance. It’s easy to get lost in it, lost in the strums of music and in your smile. Aki can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. His heart thrums, but instead of fear in his veins he finds something else. Something sweeter, something softer. 

The Prince never shows, and Aki is partly upset by the fact. He’s also glad that he gets this chance with you. No other suitor dares to step forward while Aki has his hands on you, and a surge of pride douses his system. 

If it weren’t for all the stares Aki could delude himself into thinking this was like any other night, where statuses didn’t matter. You were just a kind beautiful woman in a dress, and he was just a man who couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.  

~~~

You’re quieter today. Aki wonders if it’s a result of the dance, if Kurose’s refusal to show up affected more than you led on. He wouldn’t be surprised. There were discussions happening if Prince Kurose was off the table for marriage. His reason for not showing had never been revealed. The Queen said they should look for different suitors, while the King argued that a stronger relationship with Prince Kurose’s nation was too important. 

You’re sitting near him, head low as you pick at the grass. Aki can’t take his eyes off you cause he feels like he should say something, knows he should say something. 

He tries to decide what would make you feel better when you speak before he gets the chance. 

“Can I tell you a secret, Aki?” 

Uncharted territory. This is one of those situations where he’s leaning less towards being your knight and more towards something else. He reminds himself that he’s already crossed over the line from just being your knight. Though up until now you’ve never told him a secret before, and he’ll have to decide if it’s something he must report to the King. 

You’re waiting on a response. 

It’s harmless by itself, and he really wants to know what you have to say. 

“Of course, Princess.” 

You sigh, looking forward intently as if you see something he doesn’t. 

“I don’t wish to be wed.” 

For all the things you could have said, he wasn’t expecting that. He hated the idea of being forced into a marriage, so he understood. Aki remains quiet to give you room to speak. 

When you don’t, he opens himself up. “Now?” 

“Now. To Prince Kurose.” 

It made sense. 

Aki wants to sit beside you to offer some form of comfort, but your safety is more important. He remains standing. “Have you talked to the King? Could they choose another suitor? I don’t think it would be unreasonable.” 

“I don’t want to be married under the crown.” You answer. “I don’t want someone to choose for me.” Your voice is soft, a tinge of shame in your words. 

He bites his lip because he isn’t sure what to say to that. It was custom to have the King and Queen choose a husband for their daughter. There wasn’t a way around it. 

“It’s for the good of the country, I know that…” You go on. He wants you to be more selfish. “I don’t want to be shipped off to another kingdom where my voice doesn’t matter.” Where you’ll be forgotten. 

Aki wonders if you might be crying, but when he looks down at you, taking a peek at the side of your face he notices that you aren’t. You have a blank stare. He realizes you do see something he doesn’t see, and that he can’t understand. You’re looking at your future. 

A future where you have no bodily autonomy despite being the Queen of a nation, because you’re the Queen of a nation. Aki’s stomach feels queasy. Any words of encouragement he may have had prior to this conversation die on the tip of his tongue as he watches your shoulders deflate. 

The rules of this game were set in motion far before the two of you were even conjured into existence. You were a Princess, soon to be Queen, whose duties depended on the needs of her kingdom and Aki was a knight who would return to war in one year's time, name surely to be forgotten when someone eventually gets the best of him. 

“I’m sorry, Princess.” He was. He truly, truly was. 

“It’s alright,” you reply, looking up towards him, a small smile playing on your lips. “I just wanted to get that off my chest. Thank you, Aki.” 

“Of course.” He wishes he knew how to respond better. There must be something he can say to you. 

“Is it okay if we stay out here a little bit longer?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” he would give you the world and everything in it if he could, but he is just a man so he cannot, but he can stand beside you in the field for as long as you want. 

~~~

It’s the middle of the night. 

Aki was excused of his daily duties two hours ago, and it took him awhile to rest fully. The conversation the two of you had earlier in the day had been replaying in his mind. 

He had been resting for the past hour when the screaming started. He wakes up with a jolt, reaching for the sword beside his bed in a blind panic. His room is dark, but he can see torches from outside run by his window. 

Something is wrong. 

He throws on a loose shirt, fumbling on his shoes while reaching for his door. 

“What do we do?” Someone yells just outside Aki’s window. 

Something is wrong. 

He thinks he hears your name being shouted outside. 

Something is wrong. 

Aki can’t breathe as he runs down the hall, straight to the doors leading outside. There's a black hole where his lungs normally are as he scans the area. It’s the same area where he first met you, where the guards train. Normally it’s empty this time of night, but right now it’s filled with various castle workers and torches. 

“Somebody get the King!” A handmaiden yells. 

Aki’s eyes fly around to see what the commotion is about. Stay calm. It’s what he’s good at, he’s been able to stay calm during numerous wars but he can’t get his body under control right now. 

He needs to find you. 

Aki’s gaze follows where everyone is looking, their heads tilted back as they yell. 

There you are. 

You stand on the parapet, hundreds of feet up in the air. You’re wearing only your thin nightgown, a sight that would normally make Aki’s cheeks pinken but now it only causes concern because of how frigid the temperature is. 

Your hair is blowing in the wind and your feet are on the edge and fuck, what the hell is going on? 

Servants are trying to yell up at you but you don’t respond, your eyes in a trance as you stare at the ground below. 

“Princess!” Aki yells, not a drop of sleep in his voice. 

He runs closer, mind already racing with what he can do. 

“Why isn’t anyone stopping her?” Someone asks beside him. “We should be able to drag her back from behind!”

“She blocked off the door!” Someone responds. 

Fuck. 

Could Aki scale the building in time? 

There's no way. 

Could he catch you? 

Does he trust himself enough to catch you? 

Aki swears he can see tears in your eyes as you work up the courage. He has no idea what’s going through your mind right now, but all he can focus on is the need to stop you. He makes a split second decision, turning around to run back into the castle. Castle workers run the opposite way, wanting to make a spectacle out of your decision. 

Just as he had overheard, there are several guards banging on the door leading to the parapet. Once Aki rushes up the steps he sets his sword down. 

“Move!” He yells. 

The three guards step back with wide eyes, watching as Aki throws his whole body against the door. The side of his shoulder burns once he makes contact. You really did block it well. Aki rams himself into the door again, ears picking up on the sound of wood splitting. 

He needs to get to you. 

It takes two more tries before the door breaks down and Aki sees your back. It’s so high up here. This area was meant to keep watch over the entire grounds and then some. Aki runs, your form getting closer and closer. He doesn’t have time. He thinks he overhears himself shouting your name, not Princess or any form of honorific but your name. 

He isn't going to make it. 

As soon as he’s a foot away from yanking you back, you step off the ledge. A crowd of screams come from below. By some miracle, Aki’s able to reach out and grab your arm in time. The bricks below crush his chest as he falls forward, putting all his strength in his upper body, and he’s holding onto your arm as tight as he can while you dangle from the wall. 

“Why did you do that?!” You yell, the first time Aki had ever heard any hint of anger in your voice. 

There's a mixture of cheering and yells from below as the castle workers hold their breath, unsure if he’ll be able to pull you back up. 

Aki would rather die than let go. 

He doesn’t answer, instead choosing to focus all his power on pulling you back, ignoring the way the brick scraps at his skin. 

Aki manages to lift you up, falling backwards onto his ass with you between his legs. He wraps his arms around you tight, closing his eyes as he counts his lucky stars. 

You’re struggling against him, and even though his arm feels weak from holding you over the wall, he’s still strong enough to hold you down, and he takes every shove and push easily. 

“Let me go!” You yell, tears flowing down your face now. 

“No!” He replies, body stiff until a group of guards come rushing up the steps. 

Why were you going to do that? Why did you wish to die so badly? Aki was missing a piece of the puzzle, he’s sure of it. He needs to find out just what happened to you.

~~~

It’s been several hours after your attempt, the sun having finally come up and Aki hasn’t seen you since. You had been locked in your room without visitors, only allowed to see the King and Queen along with the castle doctor. He examined you over and over to look for what was wrong, but there was nothing. You were in clean health. A sickness of the mind, he murmured to the King and Queen, voice just loud enough for Aki to hear. Aki had known all too well what that meant. He had seen others go through it multiple times over the years. He went through it himself when his family passed. 

Aki’s been right outside your door the entire time, waiting on further instruction on whether or not he’s allowed into your room. 

Once he finally gets permission, he can’t believe his eyes. 

The King and Queen stand in your room, frowns filling their faces as they stare at you. The King is touted as being a kind man, but Aki has been hearing him yell at you for the past hour. 

Something about shame, something about royal duties. 

“Sir Hayakawa, we wanted to discuss the situation with you.” The King acknowledges his presence so Aki straightens his back. 

“You understand that the news mustn’t get out, correct?” He goes on. “People must not find out what she tried to do.” 

“It would make us look crazy.” The Queen murmurs. 

Aki nearly flinches at that. She spits the word like it’s poison. 

“Others will think we don’t know how to manage our daughter, and if we don’t know how to manage our daughter then how are we to manage a kingdom?” The King says. His eyes dart to you, where he lets out a sigh. “Why would you be so reckless?” He asks, the words uncaring. 

It’s clear that they aren’t worried for your sake, but more for the sake of your image. They’ve never been unkind parents to Aki’s knowledge, never striking you or speaking vitriol. 

The kingdom always comes first, though. 

“Keep watch over her, Sir Hayakawa. Her handmaidens need a break.” The Queen speaks, looking at Aki as if she doesn’t see you in the room at all. 

“Surely, Your Highness.” Aki bows as the King starts to make his exit, remaining in the position until he hears them leave the room. 

You’re laid up on your bed, face devoid of any emotion as you stare at the ceiling. Your window that used to be open constantly to allow fresh air in was now sealed shut, a counter measure to ensure you didn’t make the same mistake again. 

The handmaiden who had let Aki in leaves, eyes stuck on the floor as she quietly shuts the door. It’s like no one wants to look at you. Aki knows he should be the one to speak first, but he finds himself at a loss for words. What can he say? You tried to kill yourself. If Aki hadn’t been there, and he nearly wasn’t, you would have hit the ground. 

“It’s good to see you again, Princess.” He decides on, because it’s true. 

You turn your head slightly and look at him, and Aki has to force himself to remain still. You’re looking through him. Your face looks lifeless, almost like a painting in front of him. 

“Why did you save me?” You question after awhile, your voice almost too quiet to hear. 

There were many reasons. 

He couldn’t stand to see another person die. 

It was his job. 

But above all else, because he cared for you. 

He cared for you in a way he could have never seen coming. 

“Because I wanted to.” He answers.

“For the kingdom?” 

“For myself.” 

You look distrustful at that. You look like you want to argue back, but the words just won't come to your mouth because you’re too exhausted. 

It’s just the two of you, so Aki steps over and sits on a chair beside your bed. He says your name for the first time, which causes your lips to twitch. Not a smile, not by a long shot but close enough for Aki to consider it a win. 

“Why did you do it, Princess?” Aki questions softly. He needs to know why so he can help you avoid it in the future. 

“I knew the dance would be the last time I would fully enjoy myself.” You reply. 

The dance. Where you spent nearly the entire night together. 

Aki looks at you and doesn’t blink.

He should have known you were not well after hearing you talk about your secret. Hours later you stood atop the parapet, wanting to end it all. 

He should have realized. The way you were talking yesterday should have tipped him off. He’s a fool. He’s supposed to be your biggest protector yet he couldn’t save you from one of the biggest threats. Yourself. 

“Princess…”

“You don’t have to say anything.” You talk over him. “I know I’m being dramatic.”

He wants to tell you that you aren’t being dramatic. Every feeling you have no matter how fleeting is valid. “I don’t think you are.” Fuck, why can’t he be better at this? 

You look away from him, refusing to argue but also not fully agreeing with his opinion. 

Aki stays at his post beside your bed for hours, and hours turn into days. He stays by you while the doctors try nursing your mind back into health, or at least healthy enough to be concealed. 

He talks more often than you do. The roles are reversed now. Instead of the field, vast and empty except your voice filling the air, it is now your room, claustrophobic with people coming in and out constantly while Aki makes conversation. He tries his best to talk as often as he can, even when you don’t respond, which you usually don’t. 

“Why did you become a knight, Aki?” You ask one night. 

Your eyes have a little bit more light in them. It’s been two weeks since the fateful night, and you seem to be almost on the mend. 

Aki wants to say ‘I don’t know.’ It would be much easier if he did. He wouldn’t need to explain his life story, but he realized he didn’t mind if it was to you. 

“When I was a child, my family got killed in a war.” He says, looking at your floor. “I never found out who did it, but I wanted to join the military to try.” It was his life’s mission in fact. “I wanted revenge.” 

He didn’t admit that part of him feels like he has to. He wanted to, of course, but it also felt as though there were no other choices. He was a prisoner to it, locked down until he was able to satiate the monster inside of him. Aki realizes the two of you might be in similar situations. You’re sealed off in your room, the Princess of a nation who must attend to her duties, chained to your family name. Aki understands he’s chained to the past, a slave to his own decisions. 

“Have you found it, Aki?” You ask. “Revenge.” 

That’s the thing. He hasn’t. 

“You must have, or else you wouldn’t have accepted the offer to be my knight.” 

Why did he accept it? He’s glad he did now, of course. However, he could have easily denied the King, told him the ground needed him much more. It would have been a risky move, but the King had granted him his wishes up until this point. 

If he stayed on the ground he could have continued seeking revenge for his family. Was that what he still wanted? Did he subconsciously reach a hand out when accepting this offer, his inner thoughts telling him that enough was enough? 

“No,” He takes a gulp of air. “No, I didn’t find it.” 

You avoid meeting his eyes and he knows he must have made it awkward. He needs to fix the situation. He needs you to know he doesn’t regret coming here. 

“I’m glad I left though.” He’s being honest when he says that, even though he never thought that idea would be possible in a million years. “I’m glad I met you.” 

“Don’t do that.” Your voice is soft, sadness leaking from your words. 

“Do what?” He inches closer, kneeling beside your bed now. 

You sit up, finally looking his way. Your brows are creased, and it looks like you have a million things to say. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.” 

Aki murmurs your name and he would have thought you took a knife to the chest with the expression you make. 

“I do mean it. I’m glad I became your knight.” He wants to say ‘friend’ instead, but knows he shouldn’t. 

Truth be told, he saw you in a different light than just the Princess since the night the two of you shared in the kitchen. 

“Have I gone Mad?” You ask. “Am I the only one who doesn’t see you like that?” 

It feels like Aki is free falling. 

“Do you only see me as your Princess, Aki?”

He doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know how to tell you that he's been in love with you since he saw you in your old nightgown with flour on your face.

Aki whispers your name like it might slow the situation down. The two of you shouldn’t be doing this. It will cause you so much trouble. 

“Aki, I’m in love with you!” 

It’s just the two of you in the room. Your words bounce of the walls. If Aki had any sense left in him he would worry that someone outside would have heard your confession. He doesn’t, though. He only cares about what you said because they’ve been on his mind for months. 

He’s never been good with words, so he lets his body do the talking for him. 

Aki reaches over, letting his hand rest on your cheek. He brings his lips to yours and kisses you so softly it almost feels like he hasn’t made contact. Your lips taste of tea, with a hint of salt. Maybe from dried tears. You’re stunned at first, remaining still before you push into him, deepening the kiss. It’s everything Aki has wanted. He communicates his feelings to you through the seam of his mouth. 

I love you. 

I don’t want anyone else but you. 

I would rather die than see you jump off the ledge, or marry another. 

Aki spoke of your greediness to himself, even though he wanted to drink it all up. But perhaps he was more greedy than any royal, more greedy than even you.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes he finds you staring at him. “Why did you do that?” You ask, surprise etched in your features. 

“I love you.” He murmurs back to you. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

You begin to cry, reaching forward to grab at him. He slides into your bed beside you and holds you against his chest, even though he knows it must be uncomfortable. 

“Aki, I cannot marry Prince Kurose or anyone else.” 

“I know,” He wants you to be with him instead. 

“What are we going to do?” Your sobs fill the room. “We should be together,” you whisper before pulling back to look up at him. “Aki, do you want to be with me?” 

“Of course I do,” he says your name softly.

“Would you run away with me?” Your eyes are filled with hope at the new idea.  

Do you know what you’re saying? It would damage the rest of your life. Aki would be a traitor and his head would be wanted by the entire kingdom, but that he does not care for. He only cares for the image of you in a small house with no warm water, and an uncomfortable bed. 

He wants you to have the best of the best. 

Except you aren’t happy here. 

He isn’t sure what to do. He wants so badly to help you and save you from this situation.

Life outside could be treacherous. 

No. He can make it work. He will make it work. He will work as hard as he must to provide for you. 

“Are you sure you want that?” He questions, breathless as he looks at your sparkling eyes. 

“I am.” You reply. “Run away with me.” 

~~~

Aki says your name when he gets to your room, each letter lighter than the last. It’s nice, saying your name. It flows off his lips so easily he would swear that he was born to say it. Not because you were the Princess of his kingdom, but because you were his. 

It’s been two days since the night you decided to leave the kingdom together. Once you made up your mind your entire demeanor changed. You smiled again, more talkative with all of your handmaidens. The doctor even said you might be ready to leave your room soon. 

They had no idea. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, his gut telling him to turn around to ensure no one was near by, but his brain telling him not to. 

He doesn’t want to look. It would be safer to check, but if he doesn’t look then no one is there. It’s not how reality works, but Aki can hope. 

A giddy smile plays on your lips, your eyes lighting up. There's that smile that Aki swore he would do anything for. There’s a ratty dress on your body, a little too short but it covers all the necessary areas. He also gifted you a thick jacket to keep you heated during the night. Aki had bought both from a castle worker who had no idea they were aiding in betrayal. He wanted you to be wearing something that wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb, even though you truly ought to be wearing only the finest of clothes. 

If the King were to find out what Aki planned to do, what the two of you planned to do, then he surely would have Aki’s head. 

Nothing fun ever came without risks. 

“Yes,” you carry nothing, Aki having told you it was better to pack lighter. 

He carries several rations of food and drink, heavier on his back than any metal sword. His hand grips yours tight like he’ll lose you, even though there are torches lining the castle walls. The light dances off the two of you as you make your way into the night.

It wouldn't take the guards long to notice your absence. Aki was grateful that he knew all of their schedules, as it had greatly helped him in plotting your escape. 

He hears a shuffling noise before you do, quickly yanking you back around a corner and sliding his hand over your mouth. Now he really felt like a criminal. There was no way he would risk either of you being seen. 

Once the coast is clear he rushes forward, hand holding yours as he hugs the wall while making his way closer and closer to the exit. The two of you had mere minutes to do this. The plan was to slip out the back, cross over the field where you spent many hours together, and you would be free. You would have to exit the kingdom first, but once you left the field and entered into the streets neither of you would have to worry about weary eyes. The both of you would be long gone from the country before the guards even thought that you may have left the castle. 

He’s looking out into the darkness, waiting to see if any torches pass by. It’s the shift change. Once he decides that it’s now or never, he holds your hand and runs out the castle, through the back door. The night is cold as it kisses Aki’s skin, perhaps to jolt him back to reality. Is he sure he wants to do this? Is he really sure he wants to do this? Once the two of you left there would be no turning back for him. 

He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. 

Somewhere along the way, between lush grass and whispered discussions Aki found himself deeply and irreparably in love with you. It didn’t matter that he was a knight who grew up on the streets, groomed for a life of hardship. It didn’t matter that you were a Princess, destined for a life of delicacy. 

Perhaps it’s because of who you are that led the two of you to a life of love and betrayal. Not because you were wealthy and he was not, but because you taught Aki more things in the several months that he's known you than he learned his entire life. You taught him how to smile again, how to love again. He’s worth more than a life of revenge. He wants to be good for you. 

It would be a more exciting tale had there been a guard who caught the two of you right as you were about to make your great escape. If guards pulled you apart from each other, where you would never see the other again. 

That isn't what happened. 

Instead, you and Aki are able to slip from the castle door, no one around to see your choice. 

Aki’s heart is loud in his ears as the two of you travel further and further, past the field of green, not even a bird in sight. 

“How are your feet?” Aki asks, looking at your side profile, your face mostly covered by the large hood you wore. He wanted to get a horse, he could not bare to see you walk the far distance he knew was ahead, but he didn’t want to draw too much attention. 

“I’m okay,” he can tell you want to say his name but you don’t want to risk it while you’re still in the city, even though everyone is fast asleep in their beds. “We haven’t been walking that long.” 

The shops surrounding you both are closed for the night, but Aki knows they will open up in several hours, with guards eventually walking through to warn them of the Princess’s status. All hands would be on deck, so the two of you really needed to make it out of the city before morning's first light. 

On the edge of town there’s a family who raises horses for a living. You just need to make it there and it would be alright. Sure it would be a life on the run, but Aki trusted himself to be able to keep you out of the King's eye as long as you left the city. 

The two of you are silent as you walk through the empty roads, knowing the kingdom isn't the largest by any means, but feeling as though the road ahead of you will never end. You keep a tight grip on Aki’s hand which calms his nerves a little, a way to show him that you want this. 

His other hand keeps close contact with his sword should he need it, even though he really hoped he wouldn’t. 

You finally reach your destination after an hour of walking. It’s a small house on a hill, the city looking tiny and faraway in the distance. Aki speaks in hushed tones as he exchanges a bag of gold coin for a large horse, one big enough for the two of you. Her coat is brown, and her hair is soft as silk. 

Aki grins when he notices you patting her head, promising to give her an apple as soon as you’re able to get your hands on one. 

You did it, you really did it. 

“Are you ready?” Aki asks, his shoulders light now that the two of you have made it free. 

“Of course.” You smile back. 

He helps you mount the horse with ease before jumping up to get on himself. The man who sold him the horse was not able to get a good look at your face, thanks to your coat. Aki bids him farewell before taking the reins on the horse, letting her guide you both down the path away from the kingdom. 

The dawn arrives, the sky’s colors muted as the horses' hooves clack against the road. It had been several hours since you escaped. Surely the guards were searching for you and Aki by now. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you made it. Even though you two were bound to face hardships going forward, Aki knows he will keep you safe and happy. He vowed to. 

Aki has never broken a promise before, and he doesn’t plan on doing it now. 

You ride off into the rest of your lives. 

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