They’d chosen the cafe. A cute place in midtown, just outside of the business district. You’d circled it twice out of caution and once out of nerves — snagging an expensive-looking gold watch off a distracted salary worker during the final lap just to calm yourself down. You spent twenty minutes watching the doors from a measured distance, as if trafficked weapons or prohibited substances would be carted through the front doors. You checked your phone twenty-seven times.

Finally, you forced yourself to actually enter the building you now knew better than your own apartment. You considered counting exits or scoping the perimeter, but at that point, further distractions were useless. Your eyes found them as soon as you crossed the threshold, which might’ve been more impressive if Dick hadn’t already been looking directly at you.

It was a testament to your self-restraint that you didn’t turn around and run immediately. He was smiling that big, golden-boy smile — the one that used to be reserved for reporters and police detectives and Bruce, after the two of you had broken something expensive. He was sitting in a corner booth on the far side of the cafe and waved you over with a level of excitement only a touch too suppressed to be called childish. Barbara sat across from him, her wheelchair pulled up to the quarter of the table the rounded bench didn’t occupy. He didn’t have a drink, but she was nursing two separate cups of coffee. A binder-thick laptop sat closed to her left, which hurt to see. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself leave the house with less than three disparate pieces of technology.

Dick greeted you with a bone-crushing hug. Barbara, a pursed-lip frown.

“Where is it?” she asked.

You laughed. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond, only holding out an open palm to you. Dick nudged your side, pointing to your bulging pocket. “She’s been watching you reached your station,” he explained, his grin taking on a more sheepish note. “To make sure you didn’t get lost.”

You glowered, but fished out your stolen watch and handed it to Barbara, who turned it over in her hand analytically. “I’ll get it back to the owner tonight,” Dick went on, already playing damage-control. “Babs already has their details, and you can come with me to say—”

“Don’t bother,” Barbara cut in. She drew her nail along the back of the timepiece. The gold flaked away like nail polish — the cheapest gilding you’d even seen. “It’s worthless.”

Dick grinned. “Should’ve guessed. No one would be—”

“—stupid enough to wear real gold in Gotham,” you finished, leaning forward to snag one of Barbara’s mugs. “Not with people like me in town.”

You and Dick broke into obnoxious, irrational laughter. Barbara scoffed — her equivalent to your hysteria.

And just like that, you were home again.

The afternoon passed quickly. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t stay for long — one, two hours tops — but the sun sank low in the sky and suddenly, getting out of the city before dark didn’t seem to matter. Dick prattled on about Bludhaven’s many woes and the newest job on his every-expanding carousel of careers. Barbara buried her face in her arms as she complained about Bruce’s newest fledglings and swore that three of you had never been so incompetent. When it was your turn, you made up a pleasing, if not entirely true story about a young woman in the big city with a steady office job and only the occasional bout of kleptomania. It was hard to tell if either of them really believed you, but they were kind enough to let you pretend.

When you were done, Dick moved to the edge of his seat, laying his hand over Barbara’s. Somehow, you’d failed to notice the matching silver bands on either of their ring fingers before then. The sight alone was enough to make you choke on your coffee. You spent a few humiliating seconds hacking into your elbow before managing to spit out something halfway intelligent. “You’re married?”

“Two years ago,” Dick explained. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There wasn’t really time to send out invites.”

“He got me drunk and carried me to a courthouse.” Her tone was chiding, but she was smiling more brightly than she had all day. “Didn’t even get a honeymoon.”

She leaned back, pecking her husband’s cheek. The word seemed incomprehensible. Husband. The last time you’d seen Dick and Barbara in the same room, they’d been half an inch away from tearing out each other’s throats. The time before that, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to tell you whether or not they gotten back together. ‘Marriage’ seemed like an ill-suited title for their on-again-off-again, love-to-hate-and-back-again relationship. You’d never pictured them falling into such a permanent state of being. You’d never pictured them doing something you so clearly weren’t a part of.

But they were happy. They looked happy, at least. Dick pulled Barbara into a more substantial kiss and you stared at your drink, desperate to focus on anything else. Finally, they separated, both giggling like teenagers. You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I get it. You invited me back to bask in your matrimonial happiness. Can I go home now?”

They exchanged a glance. Dick’s grin took on a softer undertone. “We, uh— There was something we wanted to ask you for, actually. A favor."

You hummed. “A threesome?”

“Well, that’s not far—”

“Shut up, both of you.” She looked to you, resting both elbows on the table and propping her chin on her clasped hands. “We’re looking for a surrogate.”

It abruptly seemed much, much later. You really should’ve gone home when you had the chance.

Twelve years ago, you would’ve climbed over the table to hug them. Ten years ago, you would’ve still been overjoyed, if a little more skeptical. Five years ago, part of you might’ve been flattered. Now, though, after so many years of so little contact, the only thing you could seem to dredge up was ice-cold dread. You did what you could to hide it behind a sheepish smile, a light drumming of your fingertips against the tabletop. “A baby’s a lot of work. Especially for two parents on the night shift.”

Dick was almost too fast. “You don’t have to worry about that. Turned in my resignation last week. Barbara’s too valuable to lose so suddenly, but I made her promise to slow down before the baby gets here.” Your disbelief must’ve been apparent. He shrugged and added, “What can I say? You set a good example.”

The dread deepened into a frigid, bottomless pit. You shook your head and began to stand up, but Barbara caught you by the wrist before you could so much as get your feet underneath you. “Look, we’ve been taking it over, and neither of us can picture it being anyone but you. We want a family, obviously, but—” She paused, letting out an unsteady breath. “—not unless you’re part of it.”

It was unfair, really. In all your time apart, you’d forgotten how cruel she could be. Of course you were going to say yes, if she pulled that card.

The only thing you’d ever wanted to be was a part of their lives.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you didn’t try to. You nodded wordlessly, and Dick laughed — the sound like wedding bells and sunshine and cloudless sky. To your surprise, Barbara reacted just as strongly. She hauled you closer, dragging you into a bone-crushing hug. It squeezed the air out of your lungs and bruised your ribs, but a quiet, selfish part of you hoped that she would never let go again.

~

Dick insisted that the three of you go about the insemination in the traditional way. You and Barbara spent the better part of an hour berating him for being a filthy pervert before she admitted that it would save you all a lot of time (and you, in particular, a mountain of paperwork) and the idea began to seem much more reasonable.

Arrangements were made swiftly. They wanted you close, but you made it clear that you wouldn’t be spending the worst nine months of your life in the hallowed, haunted halls of Wayne Manor or moving back to Gotham. A travel schedule was made, a small fleet of doctors assembled using Bruce’s name, and about a week after your initial conversation, Dick and Barbara invited you over to their uptown apartment for dinner and a few drinks. What would follow was left implied.

Your anxiety was mitigated by Dick’s surprisingly edible cooking and Barbara’s insistence that your wine glass never be less than half full, even if you could’ve done without the muttered reminders that this was the last drink you’d have in a long, long time that accompanied every refill. You could only be glad you’d quit smoking when you were sixteen. All it’d taken was Selina mentioning that she’d been able to smell it on your clothes from a block away and you’d kicked the habit overnight. You doubted having to store your best friends’ baby for a few short months would have served as such powerful motivation.

As you savored your last drops of freedom, Dick and Barbara celebrated the beginning of theirs. They’d been pawing at each other all night, too giddy to remember how to act like adults, but it was only as dinner wrapped up and you sipped your nth glass of wine that their too-bright eyes turned to you. Dick pushed forward, more brazen in his eagerness. Barbara, as always, was more than happy to sit back and watch the love of her life make yours that much more difficult.

“It really hasn’t been the same since you left.” His words were slurred at the edges, blending together at the breaks. You hadn’t seen him drink anything, but he must’ve been drunk. You had to believe he was drunk.

You nodded sagely. “You wear pants now, for one.”

“Hey. The robin shorts were sick as fuck.” He sighed heavily, his head dipping low. “I just mean— I miss having you on the field. Barbara’s in my ear, which is great, but since Jason—”

He caught himself, breaking off immediately. Barbara grit her teeth. You let your eyes fall to your lap. You loved Dick. You loved Barbara. But there were some things you just couldn’t stand to talk about, even with them. Jason Todd would always be at the very top of that short, terrible list.

It was a small mercy that Dick, for all of his failings, knew when to change the subject. He forced a smile, letting out a breath of a laugh. “It’s probably for the best. You must be so out of practice — you probably couldn’t even keep up with us, now.”

This topic, you liked. You offered a demure shrug, emptying your glass with one more long swig. “I don’t know. Ten years isn’t that long.”

“It’s long enough.”

“Wanna test that out?”

Barbara sighed. “If you two do this in my dining room, I swear to—”

But it was too late. Dick was already vaulting himself over the table and into you. You let him take you to the floor, locking your arms to the side with an iron-clad bear-hold around your midriff. Once you’d landed, you jerked back and drove your knee into his stomach. Dick let you go on reflex, and you rolled to the side, using the momentum to spring yourself into handstand then cartwheel onto your feet. Your back ached from the rough landing, your muscles throbbing from disuse, but that was fine. If Selina had taught you anything, it was how to ignore the parts of you that valued comfort over survival.

Dick was stammering to his feet. He was acrobatic compared to the average civilian, sure, but years of training under a man more muscle than not had left him your inferior in all-but raw strength. You pounced on him before he could fully regain his balance, catching him under the shoulder and swinging upward so that your thighs locked around his head. You twisted and, sure enough, Dick went down hard. You unlatched at the last second, pulling away just far enough to land with a knee planted on either shoulder — pinning him underneath you. He grunted as he hit the floor, only just managing to keep his head from cracking against the tile. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, then another, both panting shallowly. Then, you cracked a smile. Dick grinned back, and a second later, both of you had dissolved into drunken laughter.

The room spun. You shut your eyes, letting your head dip low as you tried to catch your breath. At the same time, Dick reached up, grazing over your cheek and cupping the back of your head. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you down, his mouth crashing into yours.

It wasn’t that you’d never kissed him before. No, you and him and Barbara had spent too much time together as hormone-addled teenagers not to have awkwardly pecked each other during rounds of truth-or-dare once or twice. But he’d never kissed you like this. Hungry and messy and deep. His tongue was in your mouth before you could think to draw back, his nails digging into your scalp when you flinched away on instinct. He was warm against you — too warm. Suddenly, their sprawling apartment felt too small, too stiffing. You would’ve given anything to be somewhere. Outside, walking the empty city streets at night, or better yet, on a rooftop, safe in the knowledge that you were the only person around for miles.

Except, you weren’t somewhere else. You were kissing Dick Grayson. And you were supposed to be enjoying it.

You glanced towards Barbara through your eyelashes. If she was jealous, you couldn’t tell. Her shoulders were relaxed, her smile fond and self-satisfied. With her unspoken blessing, you melted against Dick, moaning absently as his lips moved against yours. You let your knees slip off of his shoulders and a moment later, he was sitting up, looping an arm under your thighs and hauling you against his chest. Barbara was hauled onto his free shoulder with the same easy strength, laughing as she batted at his back. You let the world around you blur and fade as he began to move.

You really were drunk. Reality only came back into focus as your back hit a cloud-soft mattress. You moved reflexively to burrow into the sheets, but a pair of delicate hands corrected you — Barbara’s, taking you by the underarms and hauling you towards her. She was sitting against the headboard, drawing you close so that your back rested against her chest. Your head lulled to the side, but she caught your chin, tilting it up so that you faced her properly. She kissed you as Dick settled between your open legs. Your panties were torn off at the waist, your dress irreparably wrinkled as he pushed it up to your waist. Two minor inconveniences, better off discarded quickly.

Your vision swam. Blearily, with no real understanding of what was going on, you watched a head of dark hair dip low, felt warmth and wetness drag over your cunt. It took you a long moment to realize it was Dick’s tongue and even longer to realize that your best friend (and your best friend’s husband) was eating you out. You tried to close your legs on reflex, but Barbara caught your knee. “Calm down,” she whispered, her voice as strict as it was patronizing. “You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to do this.”

Dick moaned in agreement. The vibration shot straight to your core, drawing a warbling noise up from the base of your throat. The pleasure was there, but it was hot, alien. You’d never quite lived up to your mentor’s femme fatale reputation. Taking off your clothes around anyone, ally or enemy, had never come naturally to you. Somehow, even with the two people you trusted most in the world, it still didn’t feel right.

If Dick sensed your discomfort, he didn’t seem to care. His tongue traced aimless patterns over your pussy, always finding its way back to your clit. You shut your eyes, burying your face in Barbara’s shoulder as his attention dipped lower, his tongue slipping inside of you and curling. You writhed, bucking into his face, and she cooed, running a hand over your hair. You had the brief and nauseating thought that, one day, she really would make a good mother. The only tragedy here was that she needed your help to be one.

The flat of Dick’s nose ground into your clit, and suddenly, it was all you could do not to think at all. Your vision burnt white. Your legs twitched by means beyond your control, your hands finding his hair and tearing. Dick only groaned, leaning into your touch. That was fair. It wasn’t like you could hurt him, not now, not like this. That kind of strength — the resolve it took to do real, lasting damage to another living thing — was beyond you. And that scared you more than anything.

You forced yourself to blink, to breathe. Barbara was still cooing at you, stealing kisses from unresponsive lips. Dick heaved himself up to your height, catching your chin and pulling away from Barbara. There was a long, shallow kiss, and then he kneeling in-between your legs, dragging his shirt over his head and shrugging his pants low on his hips. It hadn’t occurred to you that both of them were still fully dressed. You were the only one exposed.

“Can’t wait any longer,” Dick said, as he pulled away from you. Barbara clicked her tongue, but he only grinned. You could feel the head of his cock pressing into your entrance, his breath on your skin. “Can’t wait to knock you up, kitty.”

Your skin crawled. He shouldn’t call you that, not here. He should say he was going to—

Oh, god.

What were you doing?

The panic set in all at once. You kicked and thrashed, trying to get away, but your body felt so weak and Barbara’s arms were so strong and Dick was so heavy on top of you. He hummed, beginning to ease into you, and you shook your head violently. “No, no, I changed my mind, I don’t want to—”

“Hey, now, we don’t need to do that.” Dick’s voice, smooth and easy. You could feel him inside of you, now, spreading you open. It hurt. “We’re taking it slow, alright? We’re— fuck—” His hips stuttered, thrusting too far too quickly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Barbara’s hand fell past your stomach, rubbing quick circles into your clit by way of apology. “We’ve been needing you for years. Can’t make it without you. So you’ll be good for us, right?”

“Don’t talk to her like an animal.” Barbara let out a huff of a laugh. “An animal would be able to respond.”

“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” With a groan, Dick bottomed out. He was too deep, too big, filling in parts of you that you hadn’t known were empty. You felt his cock twitch inside of you as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture might’ve been sweeter — nostalgic, even — if you hadn’t wanted him to get away so badly. “You want this, don’t you, kitty? Go on — that’s all you have to say.”

You didn’t. You didn’t want to be pregnant. You didn’t want to ruin your body. You didn’t want this.

But Barbara was so warm against you and Dick’s smile was so wide where it cut into your lips. They were so happy. And you wanted them to be happy more than anything.

You could barely nod. Your head hardly moved. But Barbara kissed your temple and Dick began to move — pulling away from you as far as he could without slipping out of you cunt entirely.

You could only be thankful that you were far, far away by the time he thrust back in.

~

You took your first pregnancy test three weeks later. In their apartment, again, with the most expensive kit you and Dick could find at the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They waited outside the bathroom door while you struggled to stop crying long enough to piss on the goddamn stick.

Selfishly, you didn’t run back to them as soon as you were finished. Instead, you sat in a corner and counted out the seconds until the test had processed your results. Even then, you spent another precious minute hyperventilating before you could bring yourself to pick up that stupid plastic wand and find what you knew you would: two thin red lines, terrible and feeble and certain.

You were pregnant.

It went without saying that Dick and Barbara were overjoyed.

~

The first three months were the worst of your life.

You’d been beaten, broken, burnt, drowned, electrocuted, forced to go to a karaoke night with Dick and Titans, and yet, no form of torture you’d ever endured compared to morning sickness. You gained ten pounds, then lost fifteen. Your boobs hurt. You were tired all the time. All food smelled terrible, and you weren’t even allowed to eat half of it anymore. Your boobs really fucking hurt.

But Barbara and Dick’s legion of doctors had assured you that your symptoms, while unbearable, were completely run-of-the-mill. Most of your time was spent in Gotham, letting Barbara take you to obstetric appointments or helping Dick set up the nursery or generally trying to keep your head while they both fawned over you like a blue-ribbon breeding sow. You insisted on staying in Metropolis, but after your bump started to show, Dick made it clear that you wouldn’t be using public transit after dark. You tried to laugh off his paranoia, but for once, he wasn’t joking.

“You’re giving us everything we’ve ever wanted,” he told you, waving to Barbara as he grabbed his coat and started for the door. “Let us give something back, every now and then.”

Of course, you’d given in. As if you’d even stood a chance against him.

The drive was long and quiet. You stared pointedly at your lap as he passed through the sparkling sky-scrappers and shining storefronts of downtown, past the tranquil sprawl of uptown and midtown, and into the decaying residential district that didn’t get featured on tourist-trap billboards and brochures. Shame formed a knot in your throat as Dick’s shiny new sports car idled in front of the crumbling concrete corpse that was your apartment complex. He eyed the bars over the front door wearily, then asked, “You said you were on the top floor, right? Do you want me to walk you up?”

You shook your head. “I’m good, I just— The outside makes it look worse than it is. Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s no trouble.” He was already throwing the gear shift into park, easing his key out of the ignition. “Like I said, we want to—”

You didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. You were out of your seat and rushing towards your building before he could convince you to make any more bad decisions for his sake.

The inside was, in fact, not a lot nicer than the outside. Cheap grey paint peeled off cheaper grey walls. The lobby stunk of cigarette smoke and mold, and the elevator had been broken since the day after you moved in. You had long, agonizing minutes to contemplate the depths of your embarrassment as you hiked up the stairs, even longer to wallow in your own self-loathing as you undid the three rusted deadbolts on your apartment door (none of which had been installed by the landlord). By the time you stepped into your flat and found Dick riffling through a drawer in your kitchenette, you almost didn’t have it in you to feel betrayed. Almost.

It was pointless to ask how he’d gotten in. The window on the far wall was cracked open and Dick had always been a good climber. Besides, even if you wanted to play detective, he was faster. Angrier.

“You don’t have an office job.”

“I’m on maternity—”

He pulled the drawer out of its socket, letting its contents scatter across the tile floor. It was jewelry, mostly. Pearl chains, diamond rings, earrings studded with gems that would’ve paid your rent twice-over for the next year — if only the money you’d get for selling them to your broker was clean enough to use so recklessly. “Stolen art in the closet, antiques under the bathroom sink…” He exhaled shallowly. “What happened, kitty? You used to fight crime.”

Only so there’d be less competition for you and Selina. Protecting Gotham’s innocents had never been as important to you as it had been to the Bat’s fledglings. You’d only ever really cared about yourself.

Well, yourself, Dick, and Barbara. But they didn’t need anything you could give.

“I don’t have a lot of other options,” you said, eventually. “I was raised in Crime Alley, Dick. I’m a middle school dropout. I had a record longer than Selina’s by the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I’d even be able to get a real job, if I wanted one.”

“That’s not the problem.” Of course it wasn’t. Not from his perspective. He’d never had to work a day in his life. “If you were going to stay active, you could’ve been active in Gotham. Bruce would’ve helped. You could have—”

“And end up like Jason?”

His expression hardened, then broke open into raw hurt. It was a low blow, but it was true.

Things had already been getting bad, but Jason’s death had been the final nail in the coffin. Dick and Bruce had always argued, but at the time, they couldn’t say two words to each other without getting into a screaming match. A bullet to the base of her spine had paralyzed Barbara from the waist down less than a year before, and she was still swinging wildly between fits of mania that saw her locked in her clocktower for days at a time and depressive episodes so intense, she might as well have been comatose. Jason reminded you of yourself — pulled out of a bad neighborhood, dressed up in a costume he’d never quite grown into, and made to feel as if he could earn the love he was suddenly being drowned in. You used to beg Dick to let him patrol with the two of you, sneak him candy under the table while Barbara lectured you both about the importance of an upcoming mission. Jason was a balm. Jason was the light at the end of the tunnel, just bright enough to make you actually believe it might all get better for your little family.

And then, Jason was dead and the world was dark again. You got out of Gotham about a week later — permanently, this time. Between Barbara’s frustration, Dick’s anger, and your own grief, there just hadn’t been room left for anything else. Anything worth living for.

The wound was a decade old, but time had done little to heal it. The pain on Dick’s face was proof enough of that. He held onto it for a long moment, then another before letting his shoulders drop and stepping towards you, resting a hand on your arm.

“I can’t do anything to bring back Jason,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I can make sure we don’t lose you again.”

A knot formed at the base of your throat. You did your best to speak around it. “I’m doing fine on my—”

“Please, kitty,” he cut in. “You promised to let us take care of you.” And then, letting his hand slip from your bicep to the curve of your stomach, “Besides, you’re not exactly on your own anymore, are you?”

You swallowed dryly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay.”

Dick’s smile was too quick, too wide. “That’s alright. Just stick around for the next few months. Until the baby’s here.”

“Just until the baby’s here.”

By the time you got back to their apartment, Barbara had set up the guest room. She pulled you down to her height for a lung-flattening hug as soon as you stepped through the door, the few possessions you had worth keeping in a duffle bag on your shoulder. Dick stood behind you all the while, his smile bright enough to blind.

~

Living with Dick and Barbara was, admittedly, comfortable. You perched on their marble counters while Dick cooked and argued with Barbara about reality dating shows. You went shopping in a real, honest-to-God grocery store and didn’t mug anyone in the parking lot on your way out. One night, about five months in, you fell asleep on the couch while Dick was at work and Barbara was in her clocktower, and woke up in Dick’s arms as he carried you to the master bedroom. The next morning, you woke up tucked between the two of them, safer and happier than you’d ever been before.

At seven months, you were no better than a spoiled housewife. It felt like your stomach was ten times the size of the rest of you. It’d been weeks since you’d last cooked, cleaned, stole, or done anything remotely productive. On a particularly hospitable Gotham evening, half out of boredom and half out of domestic delirium, you decided to visit Barbara’s favorite coffee shop and waddle down to the clocktower to surprise her. Dick was working late that night, so there was no one home to talk you out of it. Had there been, you might have been able to save yourself a lifetime’s worth of devastation.

You arrived about an hour or so after sunset, carrying a tray of four black coffees with three shots of espresso each. Her workroom was a testament to the Bat Clan’s paranoia. Monitors formed grids of static and surveillance footage across three out of four walls. A holographic map of Gotham was projected into the center of the room, color-coordinated dots of light tracking the active vigilantes in the area and their movements — whether or not they knew they were under Bruce’s management. Barbara sat in front of one of two dozen keyboards, glaring at a black screen filled with incomprehensible code. Her headset was pulled down to her neck, but you could hear voices buzzing faintly on the other side. She nodded by way of greeting as you stepped out of the elevator, gesturing to a relatively empty patch of desk next to her. You did as you were told and leaned onto the back of her chair. “Slow night?”

“It’s not about to be.” She sighed, leaning back. “There’s an arms shipment coming into the port in a couple hours. Tim thinks he can handle it alone, but Damian—”

You chuckled. She pursed her lips.

“And you aren’t taking this seriously.”

“It’s not that,” you assured her. “I just can’t wait to be out there again. I haven’t done a backflip in, like, three months.”

Her frown deepened. “That number should really be—”

“An eternity, Babs.” You sighed dramatically, bowing your head low. “It’s too bad. I was thinking about staying in town for a little while after the baby’s taken care of, but B probably won’t even want the help. Not when I’m so out of practice.”

She grinned. “You’re already thinking about how to leave us?”

“Oh, absolutely. You should tell your kid that I went out for cigarettes and never came back. It’ll be kinder than the truth — that I died trying to jump between rooftops three days post-natal.”

Barbara threw her head back as she laughed, and you were abruptly aware of just how close her face was to yours. If the proximity made her uncomfortable, the way her smile widened as she stared up at you did very little to communicate it. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know,” she said, reaching up and tracing a thumb over your cheek. “You could just stay.”

You hummed. “And what? Live in your guestroom for the rest of my life?”

Something moved across Barbara’s expression — not amusement, but close. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but it was already too late. Barbara tugged you down another inch, pressing her lips softly against yours. You froze on reflex, but this wasn’t anything like Dick drunkenly shoving his tongue in your mouth, wasn’t at all like the way either of them had touched that night. She was being gentle. She was being loving.

It almost hurt more.

The moment was mercifully cut short. Something chimed on one of her many screens and Barbara pulled away, sending you an apologetic smile as she pulled on her headset and began to bark orders. Wasps stung the inside of your stomach, their wings beating against the inside of your throat. She loved you. Dick loved you. That was all you’d ever wanted. You were a part of their family and they loved you.

Why, then, did it feel so wrong?

In a daze, you retreated back to the elevator. On your way, you passed a monitor unlike the others — set to a passcode rather than left blank or idle. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tapped Dick’s birthday into the nearest keyboard, only half-expecting it to work, and when that failed, another date. The day the three of you met. You used to celebrate it annually with gas station ice cream, then later on, cheap drinks at whatever dive bar was open late enough to hit up after patrol. To your surprise, the code was accepted and the monitor flickered to life. After a moment of squinting at the grainy security camera feed, you realized you were looking at Dick.

Except, that wasn’t right.

You were looking at Nightwing.

He was in an alleyway, his suit torn. Several unmoving bodies littered the ground around him. He was bleeding, but that wasn’t the part you were worried about. You’d been told that he was at his office. You’d been told that Nightwing had retired.

Come to think of it, you’d been told that they were both retiring. Another glance towards Barbara, as deep into the Oracle as she’d ever been, was enough to prove that on its own.

The inside of your mouth was abruptly dry. The parasite in your stomach suddenly felt a great deal heavier than it had before.

You hauled yourself into the elevator without saying goodbye to Barbara. Panic formed a thick fog over your mind, blurring your vision and softening the edges of your conscious thoughts. A single, desperate idea clawed its way to the surface, rooting itself at the forefront of your mind. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to stamp it back down.

You needed to get to Wayne Manor.

~

Your initial plan was to vault the wrought-iron gate, scale the west-facing side of the main house, and let yourself in through a balcony door on the third floor. After realizing Bruce’s security measures might’ve changed in the past ten years, you briefly entertained the idea of tracking down one of the tunnels littered across Gotham and hiking back to the Bat Cave on foot. Finally, you looked down at your incredibly pregnant body, bit the bullet, and called Selina.

Half an hour later, you were in the passenger seat of her violently red convertible, watching the lights of Gotham fade as the distant specter that was Wayne Manor grew ever-taller. Beyond the initial pleasantries, you both had yet to speak. It wasn’t until you were out of the city that she looked at you and sighed.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, her lips pursed in the smallest possible pout. She looked older, but not by much. It was hard to imagine Selina as anything other than what she was — selfish, sharp and beautiful. It was hard to imagine anything in Gotham ever changing, no matter how much time you spent away. “What have they done to you?”

You sank into the leather of your seat. “I’m just the surrogate.”

“The acrobat and the ginger?”

You nodded. She clicked her tongue. '

“Those two were always so clingy. Don’t you remember how many times I told you to make better friends?”

“I remember you ditching me mid-heist to seduce their father.”

“Oh, no, I forgot that they’re practically siblings. No wonder adoption was off the table.” She batted her hand against the wheel in mock-frustration. Another time, you might’ve laughed. Now, you only bit your cheek and glared into your lap.

Selina, for all of her many flaws, was not one to rub salt in the wound. Her shoulders fell, her voice taking on a more somber note as she went on. “I didn’t raise you to sulk.”

“You didn’t raise me at all.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful.”

“I think I’m being lied to,” you admitted, finally. “They keep talking about— about what it’d be like if I stayed. I just don’t know if that’s what I want.”

Her answer came automatically. “Then leave.”

“I want to, but I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “I couldn’t do that to them. Not after Jason.”

Selina cocked her head to the side. The manor’s gates came into view. They opened automatically while you were still a mile away. She didn’t even have to slow down.

You watched the tangled gardens of your childhood drift past. Too quickly, you arrived at the end of the driveway — a flight of white marble steps looming cold and callous in front of you. Selina held her tongue as you fumbled with the handle and hauled yourself onto your feet. She only bothered to say anything once you were out of the car and no longer her problem.

“East wing, third story, first bedroom on the left,” she dictated. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, kitten.”

You couldn’t be sure what she meant, but her tone was warm, affectionate. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. “I always do, thanks to you.”

She spared you a glance, a barely-there smile, then peeled off — disappearing in a cloud of dust and diesel. You were still beating the gravel out of your coat when you made it to the top of the steps and, against your better judgment, rang the bell.

The door swung open in less than a full minute. Bruce Wayne stood on the threshold, dark eyes wide and mouth open. He blinked at you several times, then seemed to recover. “(Y/n),” he managed, clearing his throat and stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You did as you were told — following him silently down the long, narrow entryway. The manor was just as you remembered it, all bare stone and cathedral ceilings and strange, ebbing shadows. As a child, you’d been in awe of it, still too happy to be anywhere but Selina’s crowded apartment to mind the cobwebs. As a teenager, you’d found it mysterious. Romantic, even. The perfect place to spend your downtime whispering secrets into Barbara’s ear or hiding from Dick in the rafters. Now, it was hard to feel anything but caged-in.

Eventually, you reached the parlor where you had spent more hours than you could possibly count playing terrible board games and stitching up wounds and watching Dick and Barbara do their homework, pretending all the while that you were grateful not to have the obligation. Bruce helped you into an overly plush lounge, then retreated to an armchair on the other side of the room, never one to hover over what he would rather keep at arm’s length.

Once settled, you spared a glance in either direction. Bruce nodded sympathetically.

“Alfred passed last year. Natural causes,” he tacked on, because you were both unfortunate people who led unfortunate lives. And then, more delicately, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

You paid him your best sheepish smile. “Why’s that, Mr. Wayne?”

It seemed to catch him off-guard — being asked so directly. But Bruce wasn’t the type to lie, not in his own home, not to the woman pregnant with his son’s child. “Dick let me know early on that you wouldn’t feel comfortable at the estate. Of course, I asked him to make it clear that you were always welcome here, but—” He laughed, shrugged. “Admittedly, I wasn’t ecstatic to find out that you’d taken up Selina’s line of business. I suppose it would be hypocritical to get all high and mighty about a little petty theft at this point, though.”

So Dick and Barbara had known you were still stealing. Early enough to warn Bruce away before he could reach out, at that.

“He’s been a little sensitive. They both have.” You rested a hand modestly over your bump. “It’s restlessness, I think. Now that he’s given up the mantle and all.”

Now, there was a lapse. Not a long one — half a second at most — but long enough. You could see him doing the math, weighing the options, before finally coming to the sum you knew he would. “Of course,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “The restlessness. Gotham needs protection, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”

Right. Because Bruce Wayne would never lie to the woman pregnant with his son’s child.

Not unless he was doing it to help his son.

You opened your mouth as if about to speak, then closed it again, letting your expression fall as your head lolled forward. Bruce was at your side in a moment — a calloused hand on your back and the other braced against the arm of your chair. You rallied with a ragged inhale, waving him off. “I’m sorry, it’s the dizzy spells — They’ve been getting worse, lately.”

Panic flashed across his expression — there and then gone in the space between seconds. Of course. You were the vessel carrying his grandchild. Had that not been the case, he likely would’ve watched you collapse and left you there to suffer. As a lesson in discipline, if not merely out of petty spite.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, instead. Like you knew he would.

You smiled softly, feigning bashfulness, before wincing, shutting your eyes, and performing surrender. “Water, please,” you mumbled. “If that’s alright.”

There were a few words of muttered assurance, and then he was off — disappearing into the endless halls of his labyrinthine home. You waited five more excruciating seconds, then pushed yourself out of your seat and started for the east wing.

You followed Selina’s directions like your own misplaced north star. Up four flights of stairs and down the third hall. Recognition sparked as you made your way through the manor — slowly, then all at once. Even before you reached the first room on the left, you recognized the furniture, the carpeting, the tear in the wallpaper where you and Dick had once gotten too confident while juggling pocket knives. You knew where you were going.

Jason’s room.

Anger overshadowed horror. Why was she doing this to you? You knew what you would find — a shine, a tomb, the remnants of a boy who had been dead longer than he’d ever been alive. Or worse, there might be nothing at all. Four blank walls and a bed Jason had never slept in. Emptiness where Bruce’s resolve hadn’t left room for grief. Your chest was tight by the time you reached the door, your vision fogged with tears as you took up the handle. With the last of your loyalty to Selina, the last of your love for Dick and Barbara, the last of your patience with Gotham, you took a deep breath and shoved inward, stumbling across the threshold and finding—

Finding Jason.

All the warmth, all the fight left you at once. Jason — except, this wasn’t your Jason. This was a grown man, mid-to-late twenties, more scars than not. His bare chest was covered with bandages, and he sprawled across not the Wonder Woman-themed twin cot of your memories or the white-sheeted placeholder of your nightmares, but some terrible, unknown middle-ground. There was a shock of white in his dark hair, and his nose looked as if it had been broken, healed, and broken again. Still, reality was undeniable. You were looking at Jason Todd, all grown up and very much alive.

He must’ve heard your footsteps. He was propped on his side, facing the door, his jagged features contorted in horror and disbelief and so, so much pain. You could only assume that you were mirroring the same expression back at him.

There was a long beat of silence, then another. Somehow, he was the one to break it — his voice deeper but agonizingly familiar. “(Y/n).”

“Jason,” you echoed back. “Shit, man. You’re alive.”

He coughed out a laugh. “And you’re—” His eyes slid from your face to your stomach, and any levity there might’ve been drained out of his tone. “Jesus Christ. They actually fucking did it.”

Your heart dropped. You opened your mouth, started to ask what he meant by that, what everyone except you seemed to know, but his eyes widened and a second too late, you heard those padded footsteps, remembered just how many security cameras Bruce kept in every corner of his home. You lurched forward, but a hand caught the collar of your jacket and hauled you back against a broad chest. There was a flash of silver in your peripheral, a prick to the curve of your throat, and then you were gone.

~

You woke up to Dick’s mouth on your chest and a bluebird mobile spinning slowly above your head.

Somehow, in your confused state, the latter seemed like more of a concern. You couldn’t seem to turn your head, but you could make out the baby blue walls of the nursery — the room you deliberately hadn’t stepped foot in since starting to show. Stuffed birds and plush bats filled the empty crib in the far corner. A rug you didn’t recognize dominated most of the floor space — toting a pattern of black cats chasing balls of yarn in a series of concentric rings. It was that last part that turned your stomach — the break in motif, the implication that you had anything to do with this. That you were anything more than the host of an obligation you would abandon as soon as it no longer needed you.

…as if you could really do that. With your luck, Dick and Barbara would be as good of parents as they were older siblings. In another decade, you’d still be in Gotham and there’d be a new Jason to—

Jason.

The thought of him was sobering. Slowly, you started to come back to yourself. You were on a bed, which was strange because you couldn’t think of a single reason why a nursery would need a bed, or why that bed would have a pair of handcuffs draped neatly over its headboard. Dick was behind you, holding your body in his lap, his head bowed to better latch onto your nipple while his free hand massaged your other breast. He’d hauled your shirt up to your neck and shoved your bra down below your tits, clearly prioritizing efficiency over elegance. You could feel something shifting inside of you — not lactation, it was too early for that, but not far from it, either. The same pressure, the same rhythm, the same suction. He was trying to nurse.

Barbara, at least, had a little more dignity in her perversion. She was lying on her side next to you, her face half-hidden in a mess of red curls as her hand skirted over the curve of your distended stomach. Her palm pressed against the taut skin above your naval, a smile spreading across her lips. “I felt a kick,” she whispered, looking toward Dick. “She gets that from you. Probably won’t sit still a day in her life.”

You felt Dick’s grin bite into your chest, then the reverberation of his voice as he spoke into your skin. “Me or kitty.”

“Or both.” Her hand drew back. Through your eyelashes, you saw her check her watch, then heard a sigh. “Elevated heartrate. Abnormal breathing pattern. You awake, sleeping beauty?”

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want any of this. But then Dick was pulling away and nestling into the side of your neck, his hand drifting from your chest to your stomach to the space between you—

You jerked away, gasping. The inside of your lungs suddenly felt solid, as if you were trying to suck air into a concrete block. You might’ve scrambled off the bed and found some tight, dark space to hide in had it not been for the strong arm barred across your midriff, the lead weight that was Dick’s body underneath yours. He groaned as you writhed on top of him. Barbara clicked her tongue, reaching past you and flicking Dick’s forehead. “Give it an hour, at least. The poor thing’s still in shock.”

“But she’s so sweet like this,” he whined, rolling his hips against your ass. You could feel his cock pressing into, already hard. Shockingly, the sudden awareness did little to calm your panic, not that Dick seemed to care. “You didn’t see her in the manor. She was so cute — storming around, sulking like she used to when we caught her cheating at hide n’ seek. She even lied to Bruce. I didn’t know she knew how to do that!”

“You don’t think he actually bought it, do you?”

“Hell if I know. Alfred always used to—” You felt him tense. “Hey, what if we named the baby—”

“Stay focused.” Barbara sat up, propping herself on her elbows and coming to sit at eye-level with you. You tried to look away, but she brought a hand to your chin, gently easing you back in her direction. As always, you melted into her palm in an instant. “I’m sure you have questions,” she started, slowly, as if talking to a very young and very poorly behaved child. “This wasn’t how I thought we would have to do—”

“How long?”

Your voice was hoarse, frail. Barbara’s smile broadened. “More specific, please.”

“How long have you known that Jason was alive?”

“Oh.” She seemed unimpressed. “He came back six years ago. We’ve known it was him for five.”

Five years. The timeline was sickening. You’d been letting guilt over nothing eat you alive for half a decade when a phone call, a text, god-forbid a visit could’ve put an end to your self-inflicted penance. Your devastation must’ve shown through. Dick cooed, rubbing his cheek against the crown of your head. “Don’t be mad, kitty. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have felt so bad for us. You wouldn’t have come back.” He paused, laughed. “And you definitely wouldn’t have let us knock you up.”

“That’s not—”

“—fair?” Barbara finished. She let out a breath of a laugh, leaning towards and pecking your lips. You felt Dick’s cock twitch against your ass. “We didn’t have another choice, baby. We had to bring you home.”

“I would’ve come—”

“For a while, maybe.” She was barely listening to you. Her eyes fell to your exposed chest, to the way her husband’s saliva glistened on your skin. “But you would’ve left again. Found an excuse, caught a bus, moved onto another town where you could rob museums and steal jewelry from single mothers. We had to wait a little longer, sure, but—” Her gaze settled on your stomach. You braced yourself for another platitude on family, on how much she and Dick both loved you — even it could never be the same way they love one another. Somehow, what actually made it off of her tongue was so, so much worse.

“It’s better this way. You were never really going to make it on your own.”

Dick’s head lulled forward, his cheek pressing into your temple. He let out a long, pitchy whine, only partially muffled by his closeness. “You’re killing me here, Babs.”

She sighed. “Can you believe what I have to do with?” The question was directed to you, but clearly rhetorical. Even had it not been, your only answer was a wide-eyed look, a pleasing shake of your head. Barbara drank down your panic, then shot Dick a brilliant smile. “Be gentle. And keep her off her stomach.”

You felt him pout into your scalp. “I’m not stupid.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re both insane.” Whatever sense of defeated resignation you might’ve been overwhelmed by was immediately replaced with raw, jagged panic. You dug your nails into Dick’s forearm, thrashed your legs in a clumsy effort to kick Barbara away, but his arm was an iron bar across your torso and all she did was laugh — placing her hand on your knee and pinning you down with as much effort as she might’ve used to swat a fly or brush the hair out of her eyes.

Any other time, you would’ve been able to think of a million ways to escape. Any other time, you would’ve driven your heel into her nose, twisted around, and scratched his eyes out. Any other time, you wouldn’t have let yourself fall into this trap at all, but you were so groggy and so fucking pregnant and so scared of the lunatics that you used to think of as friends that it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut and choke back a mangled sob as Dick lifted you just high enough to turn you in his lap and slot your hips against his. Barbara was behind you in a moment, a pair of toned arms wrapping around your midsection as her forehead came to rest against the nape of your neck. Like her husband, her hand gravitated to your chest on instinct, cupping and groping at your swollen breasts. Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

Dick’s satisfaction was not so meditative. He grinned up at you, messy hair partially obscuring his bright, burning eyes. You realized with a wave of revulsion that he was still wearing his Nightwing suit — or most of it, at least. The mask and gloves had been removed, the upper half unzipped and allowed to pool around his waist. Dick and Barbara’s betrayal, you could process. Nightwing and Oracle’s, Robin and Batgirl’s — that was more difficult to grapple with.

But it was happening. He ground into you once, twice before freeing his cock, already stiff and leaking underneath layers of Kevlar and vinyl. Barbara took care of your skirt — dragging it up and out of the way before slipping a hand into your panties. Her clever fingers rubbed quick, repetitive circles into your clit until your self-control lapsed and your hips jutted into her hand. She let out a breath of a laugh and drifted, dipping lower to drag the seat of your panties to the side. Immediately, Dick was there, dragging the fat head of his cock over the length of your slit, smearing arousal over your entrance. Even now, you couldn’t help but admire how fluidly they worked together. You’d always assumed that you were the odd one out, the unnecessary competent, the self-aware third wheel to their otherwise claustrophobic relationship. Now, it seemed glaringly obvious that they’d never mistaken you for a part of their double act at all. The only reason Barbara and Dick had ever kept you around was to fill the role of victim.

And yet, Dick was cruel enough to look at you like something more precious than a scared, bloodied thing they’d found in an alleyway and decided to take home. He held your stare as he thrust into you — moving slowly, drawing it out for seconds longer than it would’ve been kind to. Once again, your body betrayed you. The combination of your wrecked hormones and the sudden overdose of smothering affection had left you wet and malleable, too needy not to welcome their abuse. Warmth you didn’t want flooded your system, pooling in your core and eating away at the inside of your throat like acid. The only mercy was that you were already too far gone to moan.

Dick wasn’t suffering from the same malady, though. He let his head roll back, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you. The wrongness — of seeing him this way, of hearing him make that kind of noise, of finding yourself in this situation at all — was sickening, but your disgust alone wasn’t enough to stop it. There was a moment of stillness, and then Barbara’s hands were cupping his on your waist. It was less an attempt to guide you and more a feat of puppeteering. Your body was unable, your spirit was unwilling, but for all that you lacked, she was there to make up for it. She pressed open-mouthed kisses into your neck as she bounced you on Dick’s cock, muttering nearly incoherent praise every time some small, pathetic noise slipped past the veil of your dissociation. When she bothered to speak out loud, it was to him. Of course. As if you would be worth the effort.

“Maybe we should retire,” she said, nipping at the tender flesh above your jugular. “Imagine spending every day of the rest of our lives like this.”

Dick laughed. “‘d be easier for you than for me. The way it feels to be inside of her— I can’t even—” His voice broke off. His eyes never left you. “Promise, Babs. At least for a few months. At least until the baby gets here.”

You could feel her hesitation. She stilled for a second, but no longer. There was a shallow sigh, a loose smile pressing into your skin. Acquiescence and fond exasperation. This was not a new request. “Of course,” she whispered. And then, squeezing your hip, “We have a new housecat to train.”

Her voice was low, the words barely audible, but Dick moaned and bucked into you. He bit down hard on his lower lip, then reached up and dragged you towards him. Flush against you, he came hard, filling you to bursting. Barbara’s hand fell back to your clit, forcing you to the same end seconds later. There was a blissful moment of detachment, exhaustion and over-stimulation blending together to form a perfectly thoughtless climax, but it was only a moment. When you recovered, you found yourself still trapped between them just as inescapably as you’d been before.

Even in your own mind, your voice was despondent — far away and badly faded. “After the baby comes,” you started. Barbara all-but purred behind you. “Do I get to leave?”

Barbara cooed, but Dick answered. “Oh, kitty,” he sighed, the pity in his voice thick enough to choke.

Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.

Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.

Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.

Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,

But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.

When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.

And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-

"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."

"Yes, princess."

"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.

An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"

"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."

Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."

"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."

The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."

"You've never had morning relations?"

"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."

"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"

"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."

"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."

Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"

Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.

"My prince," you say in greeting.

"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"

Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."

"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."

His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.

"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."

"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."

"What happened?"

Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."

"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.

You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."

Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.

"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."

"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.

Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."

"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"

You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."

He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."

"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."

Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.

"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."

He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.

Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.

"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."

"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.

"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"

"Never, my love."

Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.

"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.

"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."

He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.

He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.

Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.

"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."

He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.

"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"

"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."

"But you've already...finished."

"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."

He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.

"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."

He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.

"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"

He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.

He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.

You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.

You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.

"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.

He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"

"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.

"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.

"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."

"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"

"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."

"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.

You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"

Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

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The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

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Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

As always, he’s snapping away with the creaky little film camera he refers to as his ‘old lady’. As you lead your group of kids closer to the shore, he lifts it to his face, presumably to take a candid snap of you mid-row. It’s hard to tell if he caught you catching him, but you keep your eyes ahead and your posture as elegant as the violent heat will allow. For the sake of the photo, of course. 

“Looking good,” he calls down to you, before helping you out onto the lake’s short pier. You accept the compliment, even though you’re sure you look anything but. 

He sticks around to help you haul kids out of kayaks and make small talk. His voice stays measured and his expression errs on the side of slightly bored, though when the last few campers are wandering off to archery with Aerion, he’s still there. Still there, even as you trudge in the direction of your cabin, in desperate need of a change of clothes. He sticks by your side the whole way, talking less now because ‘by your side’ actually means a few paces behind, probably still with his camera glued to his face. 

“You alright back there?” 

“Yep,” he answers too fast, voice cracking. You chuckle, then almost as quickly, all humour dissolves as the simmering temperature of your blood rises to a boil. The sweat lathering between your thighs has brought you past the point of chafing and now your legs are just sliding together as you walk. Back on the lake, you’d run out of bottled water and had to resort to Mother Nature herself to cool yourself down. Probably, your underwear is visible through your shorts, soaked both in sweat and a few sloshes of lake water. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Valarr hurries to catch up, nudging your shoulder with his and fidgeting with the buttons on his camera. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, uh–” You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, casting a frown around the camp. Towards the woods, the shade, or back to your cabin to change? “Just thinking.” 

Valarr nods, not quite following. “Do you…want me to go?” 

“What? No, no you’re fine.” You start walking again, hopeful that our body will pick whichever option gets you out of the dry, raging sun quickest. “Oh, hey. Do you know if they still have those fans in storage?” 

Valarr’s lips quirk. “The ones with all the rust?”

Still walking, you grab his shoulder and shake. “I would kill for a breeze right now. A little rust doesn’t scare me.”

For a split second, you notice his mouth agape as if he’s in the middle of saying something. Then, nothing. His mouth clamps shut and he wrangles his face back into mild and aloof. You jostle his shoulder again. 

“Are you with me, or are you with me?”

You just about manage to knock him out of his head. He chuckles, nods, runs his finger along the leather strap keeping his camera around his neck. “Yeah. Let’s go and get you your breeze.” 

Inside the storage shed, it’s fucking baking. Dust swirls with every step and trickles down your throat. You break out into a coughing fit, wafting your hand in front of your face and hanging back as Valarr treads deeper. Shovels, pliers, hammers and wrenches hang from a far wall, casting long, slanting shadows over a workbench. Tiny windows permit only thin slats of light, otherwise among the maze of shelves, it’s simply more shadows. 

After only a few minutes of aimless wandering, you’re leaning on the workbench and trying to fan air in through your vest, to little avail. Something about the shadows feels heavy, ever-tightening and only adding to the muggy viscidity swirling around under your clothes. It’s all you can focus on, along with the faint wooziness humming in the back of our head. You should’ve had a bigger breakfast, you should’ve brought out an extra bottle of water.

Valarr hefts a fan onto the counter, panting and leaning on it while he looks at you expectantly. He’s standing so close you can feel his breath fanning warm on your skin. Just as you suspected, it’s covered in coppery blots that will absolutely slow it down, yet you still react as if a miracle has occurred. 

“You must really need to cool down, huh?” 

“God, you have no idea.” You lift your vest to wipe away sweat and notice Valarr’s eyes flit downwards. “I could use your help bringing that to my room, too.” 

Valarr falters, damn near drops the fan on his feet. “O–Of course. Yes. Yeah, I’ll–I should probably keep an eye on you, yeah.”

His phrasing only strikes you as odd for a split second, because as soon as you try standing, your heat-stricken legs start shaking. Instinctively, you lean on Valarr and he has to balance both you and the fan the entire walk back to your cabin. 

You do try helping him, but the second you get indoors, Valarr will barely let you stand up. 

“It’s too hot,” he insists. If the sweat seeping through his t-shirt in patches is any indication, he’s right. Still, you argue, it doesn’t seem right to let him do all the work. 

He waves it off. “I like doing things for you. It’s fun.” 

“Fun?” 

He huffs out a laugh and busies himself with the fan. As its blades cut through the air, wafting a mild but welcome coolness from the corner of the room, you sprawl out on the bed, sighing with relief. His gaze trails towards you, nervous at first, then unabashed. You don’t trust your judgement in this heat but you struggle to think of a word to describe the look on his face, other than longing. 

“Valarr,” you whisper, flashing him a taunting smile. “You’re staring.” 

He steps towards the door, then doubles back, mouth flapping open and closed. “Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “You’re good.” 

Just as he’s about to walk out, you shift in bed, beginning what you know is about to be a painstaking changing process by peeling your vest up from the bottom. Only enough to let a sliver of torso breathe, but apparently enough to stop Valarr in his tracks. 

“What,” you joke, “do you still wanna keep an eye on me?” 

His jaw ticks but he manages to keep his expression stoic, at least relatively. For a moment he remains stationary, one hand on the doorknob. He stares into space with his jaw ajar, eyes vacant as if he’s sleepwalking. When you snicker at his sudden stillness, he blinks rapidly, suddenly awoken.

“No,” he says. Too abrupt for the long silence he just let pass and oddly defensive. Even he seems to notice this, tries brushing it off with nervous laughter. “Sorry, I just mean–I should probably give you a minute. I don’t want…You know, I should–If you’re gonna change…”

You’re laughing again. Brazen this time, giddy in the heat and at his nerves. 

“Oh, uh–Sorry,” he says again. “You were kidding.” 

“I was,” you say, smile at once broadening and softening as you gesture to the fan. “But all jokes aside, thank you. You’re the best, I owe you one.” 

He’s in the middle of dismissing your thanks, promising it was nothing and that he’d do it any time, when you blow him a kiss. Already pulling your vest higher as he pulls the door open, you’re laughing again. You don’t notice the manic glint in his eyes as he smiles back at you, or that when the door shuts behind him, a shadow flits past your window soon after. As you peel off your clothes and stand directly in the fan’s measly breeze, you don’t notice anything going on outside this room at all. 

You kissed him. From a distance, through the air. As a joke, probably. But you kissed him. 

Towering pines line the entire perimeter of camp, thinning as they get closer to the centre of camp. Outside the senior cabins, the trees have been allowed to remain, imposing and casting vast blots of shade. Probably, it’s because these cabins are the oldest, the smallest and least tended to throughout the year. An Ashford of years long passed seems to exist among these cabins, something almost haunted about the way they’re cloaked in shadow. 

Valarr is only trying to catch some shade back here. It is, he swears, entirely a coincidence that the coolest, most consistent patch of greenery is directly parallel to your cabin’s back window. He’s not going to climb in again; it’s the middle of the day. So really, what harm is there in just–hanging out? Just looking. None, he decides, sliding down the trunk with the most lush array of branches. 

You’re taking your time changing. By now, there’s music playing and you’re still half-naked, twirling and bopping in front of the fan, singing along with a faint smile on your face. Valarr doesn’t think about lifting his camera, it just happens. He doesn’t think about it when his index finger is click, click, clicking the camera’s shutter button, his ears so accustomed to the minute, explosive sound that signals yet another photo that it doesn’t register. 

When you start actually changing, his brain just about slips from his skull and starts oozing out of his ears. Your back, the expanse of skin as you peer into the closet and pull out a new shirt. Legs, underwear riding up your ass as you pull down your shorts. Your bare chest–God. His camera stays glued to his face and his mouth stays agape. It’s almost as if he can taste you, the air’s thick heat as good as your warm, perfect body pressed against his lips, his tongue. 

Busy drooling over you, he still isn’t really thinking about the fact that you’re practically naked and that he’s capturing it from damn near every angle, totally without your knowledge. Eventually though, he has no choice but to pay it attention, when he blinks and realises he’s wandered right into the light. 

Both of you freeze. Valarr’s fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, pulling it to his chest as if it might shield him from vision. Yours fly over your chest, eyes wide and then instantly narrowing. 

“What the fuck?” 

“I–” 

You give him no time to respond, repeating yourself with a more vicious hiss in your tone. “Valarr, what the fuck?” 

Finally, he lets the camera drop. Its weight at the end of the leather strap tugs his neck forward, makes his head dip in a way that he hopes comes across as deferential. Eyes still narrowed and one hand still covering your chest, you reach for the window. Before slamming it shut, you poke your head out and hiss at him again. 

“Get in.” 

He does as he’s told and once inside, stands shifting from foot to foot with his back against the door. When he opens his mouth to speak, you shush him and gesture to the camera. With a flannel acting as a robe, you no longer seem at all self conscious about how scantily clad you are. Valarr, of course, can be conscious of absolutely nothing else. 

“Show me,” you bark. He blinks, busy gawking. What’s left of his brain only congeals into something solid enough to croak out a desperate, pained sound. He means for it to communicate guilt. It just sounds like he’s moaning. 

You scoff and reach for him, wrangling the camera from around his neck without any more words. Valarr is half-certain you’re about to beat him over the head with it but instead, all he can do is watch as you fiddle with its buttons, scowling. 

“How the fuck do you work this thing?” 

“You–” He flinches when your searing gaze meets his. “You can’t, uh–It’s film.” 

“So?” 

“The, uh–” His breath catches and he has to wipe his palms off on his t-shirt. “There’s kind of a whole process, it–”

“Whatever,” you snap. Sidling over to the bed, you gesture in its direction, still messing with his camera. “Alright, it’s your turn. Sit down.”

Valarr’s eyebrows raise. “What–” 

“Get on the bed.” Your tone hasn’t gotten any friendlier, so Valarr scrambles to sit, pushing back towards the headboard on his hands. “Clothes off.” 

He follows your orders more immediately this time, tossing his t-shirt, shoes and jeans to the floor in a careless heap. In just his boxers and socks, he looks up at you with wide, awe-filled eyes. His mouth hasn’t stayed totally shut since he got inside and when he closes it now, it’s only so he can swallow deeply and wet his lips. 

You circle around him like a shark surrounding its prey, continuing to frown down at the camera in your hands. “Were you touching yourself?” 

Despite himself, his nerves instantly dissolve. His posture straightens against the headboard and he struggles to keep the look on his face sane. “No ma’am, I haven’t. Not ever.” 

“Ever?” You look down your nose at him with disdain. “But you wanted to, right?” 

He shakes his head. You don’t buy it for a second. 

“So you were just gonna, what? Take these pictures and look at them?” 

To Valarr, this seems like the greatest gift in the world. It’s hard to imagine how much more he could hope to want. Chest still puffed, he shakes his head again. 

“I wanted to wait. For you.” 

“For us to fuck?” 

He flinches, perhaps at the vulgarity, in both your words and tone. You cross your arms over yourself and half-heartedly fight through a smirk. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“We don’t have to–”

“No shit, we don’t have to. From what I recall, I’m in charge.” 

“Yes ma’am.” His response is immediate, shaky and hoarse. “Anything you want, I’ll do.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Anything.” 

Your expression remains unimpressed but you kneel on the opposite end of the bed and hold the camera to your face. “Alright,” you mutter again, “your turn.” 

Valarr is suddenly hyperaware of the bulge in his boxers that glaringly outlines is dick, straining with need against the waistband. “Are–Are you sure?”  

All you give him is a nod, and then a flinch backwards as you take a practice shot and the flash catches you off-guard. Giggling, you line up for another one, biting on your bottom lip and tilting your head. The rest of Valarr’s brain turns to mush and of its own accord, his hand runs up his thigh. 

He’s still braindead as he toys with the waistband of his boxers, watching you study him through the lens, just like he’s been doing to you for weeks. With his head leaned back against the headboard, he rubs a hand over his crotch slowly. He lets out a low moan of relief and closes his eyes, hips rolling forwards to gain him more friction. You sit back and watch, enthralled, as he palms himself as languidly as if he was giving a massage, letting out long, breathy moans. His lips are twitching into a satisfied smile when, eyes still closed, he speaks again. 

“Ah, God, can I look?”

“Hm?”

“Can I–Mm–Can I look at you?”

You giggle. “Of course, what?” 

His hand slips beneath the waistband and his eyes crack open, just enough to see you. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“I had no idea you were so…”

“Devoted,” he gets out through a stuttering moan. 

“Obsessive.” 

“I–Oh my God.” His hand moves quicker and his hips jut further upwards. It may have something to do with the way you’ve slipped off the flannel, and are now slowly running your fingers lightly across your chest, nipples hardening under your own touch. You pretend not to notice what it’s doing to him and another click-flash startles his senses. 

Eyes squeezed shut again, he swears the overwhelm might just make him pass out. “Shit, shit, oh shit.” 

“Everything okay there?” 

“Can I taste you? Please?” 

“Taste what?” 

He whines. “Anything. Anything, please. A kiss. Your–Anything. God, I wanna put you in my mouth, please.”  

“You think you’ve earned it?” 

“I–uh,” he whines. Probably not, but he keeps begging anyway, spurred on by the giggles bubbling out of you and the flash that goes off every time he bucks up into his hand. 

“Hang on, hang on,” you interrupt. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of you crawling forwards, straddling his leg with your flannel in tow. You lean forward to tie it around his head, making sure the sleeves are wrapped tight over his eyes. Then, he doesn’t really know what you’re doing. 

Your warmth on his leg disappears and returns changed. Wetter, warmer. A bundle of fabric is pushed into his palm. 

“Alright,” you whisper, tugging lightly on his new makeshift blindfold. “You gonna be good and keep this on for me?” 

“I will,” he answers in a rush, chest heaving. He brings the bundle in his hand up to his face, shoving his nose into it and inhaling, only to let out a moan so obscene, his whole body erupts with heat. Your smell, straight from the core of your body, pressed flush against his face. Before he can help it, he’s tangling his tongue into the fabric, swirling your panties between his teeth to suck. He’s still sniffing, cupping his balls with his other hand and gyrating against the torturously empty air. Every cell in his body is static with desire; he hums with it. Figuratively, then literally, deep longing purrs coming from the back of his throat. 

The flash goes off again, though all he can really interpret is the button clicking and the rush of the shutter opening and closing. Much closer to his face this time, as your seeping warmth stays on his thigh. He whines into your panties and lets his longing come out ragged, shredding his throat to pieces. 

“Please.” 

“Mm,” you moan. “What’s that?” 

“Your–Ah–On my thigh. Can I see? Please, let me watch you.” 

This time, your laugh isn’t coy and giggling. It’s a dark chuckle, breathed right into his ear. The vibration and your warm, sudden breath sends a shiver through him. “Oh, I think you’ve done plenty of that.” 

He whines and strains his hips forwards, though there’s only so far he can do that now that you’re on top of him. 

“Ngh, God, baby.” Beneath his boxers, his hand pumps faster. “Can I–Ah–More. Please? More.” 

“Getting a perfect view of my tits through the window isn’t enough?” You tease, leaning forward so your lips brush his neck. “You need to see them up close, too?” 

He groans and then whimpers, letting his voice drop low. “Please, baby. Please, please, please.” 

You can absolutely understand how Valarr ended up like this. It’s addictive. Index finger on the shutter button, eye squinting through the viewfinder. Up close and in his lap, you probably have a better view of Valarr right now than he’s ever had of you, and the thought has you dripping all over his thigh. 

“God,” you whisper, “you look so good like this.” 

His face flushes as he bites down on his lips, which are rosy pink and puffy with how much his tongue and teeth have been swiping at them. He’s rubbing your panties against his cheek and whining mindlessly while you grind against him and pretty soon, the camera isn’t doing your real view nearly enough justice. As you rub yourself on his clenched, shaking muscles, one of your hands slips down to circle your clit. 

“Fuck, Valarr.” A moan hums sweetly from the back of your throat and Valarr lets out a groan so pained it turns into a growl. He says your name and bucks his hips, thigh clenching  deliciously under you with the strain. 

“Please, let me see you. Please, I’ll–Ah–I’ll make it worth it, I’ll–” he gasps, “fuck you so good, be so good for you. I’ll be good, feels so good, baby, please.” 

You let him keep babbling, periodically humming, “yeah?” just to spur him on. Eventually, you’ve teased him so long that it’s even starting to drive you crazy, so you lift off him for just a second, cradling his face before padding away from the bed. After rifling through your clothes piled together on the floor, you set your phone up on the bedside table. With the front facing camera, it’s angled just right to watch yourself climb back into Valarr’s lap, this time taking his dick in your hand to slide onto it, nice and slow while he whines for you. 

“Baby, oh my God,” he splutters. “So good, oh–So good, fuck.” Likely to avoid gripping you without permission, he tangles his fists into the sheets, biting his lip and moaning in short, desperate bursts. He can’t steady his breathing the entire time you ride him, and you can’t help but reach for your phone to train the camera on him. 

You pan down his body to capture his heaving chest, squirming torso and the dark, swirling happy trail that rises and falls just as desperately with each breath. For a moment, your hips still so you can steady yourself, to take two fingers and trace them over the spritz of white hair that streaks through said happy trail. Of course, Valarr responds with a sudden upwards thrust and a broken moan, his dick burying deeper into you and hitting a spot that has you gasping into his mouth. 

You hold the phone out to film you making out, tongues sliding against each other as you work up a sweat in his lap. Finally, he seems to have built up the bravery to touch you, and his hands squeeze your hips with a pinching pressure. 

“Baby,” he moans into your mouth. “Please, I–Oh my God.” 

“What?” 

“I’m–I’m gonna–”  

You lower the phone to cradle his face in both hands, holding him tenderly as he rambles his way into orgasm. “It’s okay, honey. Go ahead.” 

“Can I–”

“Uh uh, baby. You’re gonna cum just like this,” you taunt. “Surely you’ve seen me enough times to remember what it looks like.”

You expect more arguing but he wails and bucks upwards again, nodding as a spurt of warmth fills you. He keeps pulling you down, fucking himself through it until all he can do is twitch inside you. Already, his breaths are slowing in anticipation of a gentle, permissive come down. But that’s not what you’re here to give him. 

While he’s gasping and pawing at your body, you untie the flannel from his face. He looks up at you with downturned brows and a faint, exhausted smile. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, letting his head fall back on the headboard. 

“That was good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“So good.” 

“So, we’re gonna go again, right?” 

“Uh–” 

Hips rising and falling to make lewd slapping sounds when your bodies meet, you lean in. This time, it’s not to mutter into his ear, but to be inescapable in his line of vision. You clutch his jaw for good measure, smirking when the downward turn of his eyebrows only gets more pronounced. “This isn’t what you wanted?” 

“I–” he gasps. “Baby–I can’t.” 

“Oh, but you can.”

“I can’t, I–Oh, shit. It’s–God, it feels…” Once again, his words devolve into moans and you taunt him further, insisting he be good, that he’s earned this, that if he can take it, maybe next time you’ll be nicer to him. Phone forgotten in the messy sheets, you ride him ragged yet again, this time purely chasing your own pleasure. His pained, broken moans fill your ears as his weeping, sensitive cock pumps you full, and you cum around him so hard that your bitten lip starts to bleed. 

On the come down, with your sweaty bodies pressed together, you’re already thinking about watching the video back tonight. About the embarrassed flush he’s sure to greet you with, the next time you see each other around camp. Of course, you keep the video a secret. Seems only fair and besides, you start opening the window extra wide when you change in the mornings, take your time bending to pick things up when you know Valarr’s around, and even when it seems certain that he couldn’t be. 

What you keep totally secret is the folder in your phone full of camp photos. That night, after watching the video with your legs pressed together and your bottom lip between your teeth, you scroll through a seemingly innocuous array of memories. Wildlife and selfies, group lake pics and sunsets. It just so happens, that in the background of every other picture, you can catch a glimpse of Valarr’s lean arm raised candidly in the distance, or him in profile, jaw sharp and right behind Tanselle striking a peace sign. Or the most recent, of his shirtless back at a campfire, pretending he might join in as all the boys took turns jumping over the flames. 

You drift off to sleep with a faint smile on your face and a fresh sprout of lustful sweat across your whole body. At one point you might’ve called yourself crazy, but after this afternoon, how much of an issue could a few candid photos really be? You’re just looking. 

with a little shrug, you lean forward. you're eye level with him, where he leans back against the vanity, sulking up at you.

he's pretty: mismatched doe eyes and messy dark hair.

you can't resist the temptation to reach out, card your fingers through it. you start at his temples, pushing up, away from his face. his hair is sweaty from his helmet, and it sticks straight up. he huffs, clearly unamused, trying to glare at you from under his lashes. it's unconvincing, moreso when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure. you smooth his hair back down, rubbing the back of his neck as he relaxes. his head tips back in surrender to the feeling.

"you still won," you offer gently. "you came out a champion. your father only does it in your best interest. your reputation is important for your future position in the realm."

you work in tandem with him to get the armour off. gloves first, and when his hands are bare he uses them to cradle your jaw and pull you close. his mouth slots against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss.

"what would i do without such staunch support?" valarr murmurs into your mouth. "i would never ride again — i would never again enter into the lists."

you giggle at his dramatics, abandoning the pursuit of disrobing him in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck.

"i'm sorry that i didn't ask for your favour," he continues between kisses.

"lady ashford deserved it," you reply diplomatically. "she is the birthday girl, after all."

he hums, nipping your bottom lip, "but you are my girl.

valarr pulls back, one hand braced on the curve of your waist, as he fumbles with the buckles on his breastplate. he disregards the clatter of it as it falls, full focus back on your mouth as he haphazardly steps over the steel.

"look," he says between kisses, coralling you backwards towards the chaise in the center of the room. "i wanted something of yours while i rode, so i took this." he fishes a thin lace scarf from where it had been tied just below his sword belt.

you gawk, reaching for it. "did you take this from my trunk?'

he grins, pulling it back before you can get a hold of it. "so what if i did?" he pushes you back by your shoulders, onto the sofa, "i couldn't have your favor, i needed something from my lady."

his hands, soft and bare of leather, push your gown up as he spreads your legs to settle between them. "my lover," he whispers, fingers dancing up your thigh, massaging the soft spot where leg becomes hip. "i grow restless waiting to confess my devotion."

"to confess your devotion?" you ask, lacing fingers into his thick hair. holding him in place, guiding him up.

"to the courts," he clarifies, propping himself up on one arm to gaze into your eyes. "i tire of catering to the whims of lords who think that i may perhaps marry their daughters, all while my lady sits in wait."

before humoring whatever you have to say in reply, valarr lowers himself to kiss you again. slow, but intense. his area of expertise.

with very little willing, he slips one hand under your back and eases you atop him.

riding armour is different from that worn in proper battle. with his chestplate left behind, there isn't anything to obstruct your access or poke uncomfortably into you as you straddle his hips.

his hands roam your body, up the back of your thighs, coming to rest against the bottom of your ribcage. he supports you like that, keeping you steady against him.

"terribly improper to sully each other before we're wed," he whispers, encouraging your body downwards. "but i presume that you wish for it as i do."

he watches you nod, one hand coming to your face. he cradles your jaw, thumbing over the line of your lower lip. "beautiful, darling girl," valarr hums. "i promise that we'll be wed as soon as we return to king's landing." he guides your head down, his thumb on your chin easing your mouth open as his lips meet yours.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮 lets talk about valarr more !

Valarr writes the best poems, no questions asked. He often has to write them on different topics for home assignments, but he is even better at writing poems for and about you. Whenever you go on a date, you will find a piece of paper with yet another poem amongst the red rose bouquet

when you go out, Valarr is always the one to pay. That goes without saying, as he also knows that you yourself count every penny, while he could throw the money away just like nothing. But the main reason for it is that he wants to spoil and take care of you

Valarr spoils you with his cooking as well. His parents taught him the basics, but he has recently started coming up with recipes himself. The kitchen is another palace of free creativity, and he does not hesitate to use it as such, often inviting you for help, but mostly as a taste-tester

if you ever text Valarr about feeling unwell, he will buy you a big chocolate and flowers before heading over to your place. You might watch a movie in bed together, and if need be, he will stay for the night to make sure you will feel better

as a hobby, Valarr tutors school children in English and Literature. He thinks that if he has the ability and time to help struggling children with learning, then he should do that, as it benefits them and Valarr sometimes even learns something new about his major subjects

another of his hobbies is tennis. Every Saturday Valarr has practice, to which you are invited, of course. Valarr chooses his hobbies very thoughtfully, not picking up something that would end up being a waste of time. Tennis keeps him active and boosts his coordination. And, of course, it's the one place where he lets out his aggression moderately.

it is very important for Valarr to go to your hobby activities as well. No matter if it is a musical instrument you play or a sports you do, he wants to understand and appreciate your passions as well to make you feel supported and loved. He cares deeply about what you do and even has suggested taking up a hobby together

he wears his glasses like an accessory, not as a disability. To him, the glasses are more of a fidget to him. When he is deep in thought, he will constantly be fixing his glasses with his index finger to come up with the right idea

during summer, Valarr often likes going to meadows to have a picnic with you, obviously with something you two made yourself. You would most definitely feed each other strawberries, and maybe even try a few tricks, laughing with, not at, one another when one of you missed

Valarr didn't stop by the next day to drop your things off. The following day, a package arrived at your door with a note attached: "Wear this tonight." Inside was a simple but elegant black dress, one you recognized from your favorite boutique—the one you always looked at but never bought because it was too expensive.

You called him immediately, excitement bubbling in your chest. "What's this for?" you asked when he answered.

"I'm taking you out," he said, his voice carrying that familiar warmth that made you feel safe. "If you still want that future with me, I want to start proving you made the right choice."

"I do," you assured him, running your hand over the soft fabric of the dress. "I really, really do."

"Good," he said, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. "I'll pick you up at seven."

It felt almost like it used to, the anticipation building as you got ready. You put extra effort into your makeup and hair, wanting to look perfect for him. When the doorbell rang, your heart raced the way it always did when you knew he was on the other side.

He looked breathtaking as usual—his hair perfectly styled, that silver streak catching the light, his suit tailored to perfection. The bouquet of roses he handed you made you laugh.

"You're spoiling me," you said, inhaling their sweet scent.

"I plan to spoil you for the rest of our lives," he replied, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

The restaurant was your favorite, the one with the private booth in the back where you could talk for hours without interruption. Over dinner, you felt yourself relaxing, the tension of the past few days melting away. Valarr was attentive, charming, and completely focused on you—just as he always had been.

But then, over dessert, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Your breath caught in your throat as he opened it to reveal the most stunning ring you'd ever seen.

"Before you say anything," he began, "I want you to know this isn't me rushing you. I just... if you meant what you said, about wanting to marry me..." He looked nervous, which was so unlike him it made your chest hurt. "You... well, just... you should have a ring on your finger."

Tears sprang to your eyes as you looked from the ring to his beautiful, earnest face. "Valarr, I..."

"It's okay if you want to wait," he rushed to say. "I just wanted you to have it, to know that I'm serious about—"

Your hand shot out to cover his mouth, stopping his nervous rambling. "Of course I meant it, Valarr. Stop talking before I throw myself at you in this restaurant."

His eyes widened, and then he laughed, the sound so genuine it made you want to hear it every day for the rest of your life. He took your hand from his mouth and kissed your palm before sliding the ring onto your finger. "You're sure about this?"

"More sure than anything," you promised, leaning across the table to kiss him. "I want to be your wife."

He kissed you back, his hands framing your face with such reverence it nearly brought you to tears again. "I'm going to make you so happy," he whispered against your lips. "I swear it, my love."

As you left the restaurant with your hand in his and the ring sparkling on your finger, you allowed yourself to believe it could all work out. That you could have this—have him—without looking back. You told yourself that the ache in your chest wasn't longing for someone else, but just the remnants of guilt for a mistake you'd never repeat. You were starting over with Valarr, building the future you'd always wanted. Everything else would fade away in time.

You repeated this to yourself all the way home, and once more as he kissed you goodnight at your door.

The two of you had set a date for the wedding. Six months away, giving you time to plan and adjust to the idea of being his wife. Your parents were thrilled, of course. They had always liked Valarr, mostly approved of his family, and wanted nothing more than to see you settled with someone so clearly devoted to you.

Everyone was happy. Everyone except Aerion, who you hadn't seen or spoken to since that night at your apartment. Valarr had mentioned their relationship was strained, that Aerion was avoiding family gatherings and barely responding to messages, but you tried not to let it bother you. You were committed to the choice you'd made.

Three weeks after Valarr gave you the ring, you were at his apartment helping him sort through some old photos for the wedding album when you noticed him becoming unusually quiet.

"What's wrong?" you asked, setting down a handful of pictures and moving to sit beside him on the couch.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing. I... sometimes I just worry."

"About what?" You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

"About whether you're truly happy," he admitted, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. "Whether this is what you really want."

"Of course it is," you insisted, squeezing his hand. "I love you, Valarr. I'm so happy with you."

He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of hope and doubt. "I believe you, but... sometimes I remember seeing you with him, how you looked at each other." His jaw tensed slightly. "And I wonder if you're just trying to do the right thing by staying with me."

"Stop," you said softly, moving closer. "I'm not doing this because it's right. I'm doing it because I want to be with you. Because I love you."

He was silent for a long time. Too long. You could see the wheels turning in his head, the questions he wasn't asking. So you gave him time, pulling one of your hands free to stroke his cheek gently. Despite everything, you knew this man better than anyone. You knew how his mind worked, how he needed reassurance, how he would rather suffer in silence than demand something from you. But you couldn't bear to see him doubting.

After a while, you realized that doubting wasn't the only thing he was doing. His eyes had a look to them that you knew very well. He was thinking, calculating, considering something. His brow was furrowed slightly, and his lips were pressed together in that way they did when he was wrestling with something difficult. You started to see his jaw clench and unclench repeatedly. The hand that wasn't holding yours was gripping his knee tightly enough that his knuckles were white.

"Valarr? Baby—"

"You let him finish inside you."

He said it so low you almost missed it. But once the words registered, the blood drained from your face. You pulled your hand away from him as if burned, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.

"What?" you whispered.

"When I walked in on you," he continued, his voice still eerily calm. "I didn't see a condom. And his fingers were... and you've never let me—"

"Stop," you cut him off, the panic now rising. "Stop. This isn't... we don't need to talk about this."

"How long?" he asked, and now there was a tremor in his voice. "How long were you sleeping with him without protection?"

"Valarr, please don't—"

"Was it the whole time? Did he ever use protection with you?" His eyes were wild now, the hurt and anger he'd kept so carefully contained finally breaking through. "Tell me the truth!"

You couldn't look at him anymore; all you could do was avert your gaze to your lap. "It was just... a few times. At the end."

"So you let him," he said, his voice cracking. "You let him do that, but not me. Not me, when I've loved you for years, when I've asked you for nothing."

"It wasn't like that," you protested weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounded even as you said it.

"What was it like, then?" he demanded, standing up suddenly and pacing the room. "Explain it to me, because I'm trying to understand how the woman I love could let my cousin come inside her when she's never even let me touch her without a condom!"

You flinched at his words, the harshness of them making tears spring to your eyes. "I don't know! It just... happened. It wasn't planned."

"Unfuckingbelievable," he laughed bitterly, running his hands through his hair. "So it was spontaneous for him, but with me it requires discussion and planning and—"

"It's different!" you cried, standing up too. "You're different, Valarr. You're the one I want a future with."

"The one you want a future with," he repeated, turning to face you with so much hurt and betrayal in his pretty eyes. "But apparently, he was the one you wanted to be reckless with. The one you trusted with your body in a way you never trusted me."

"It wasn't about trust," you insisted, though you weren't even sure you believed that anymore. "It was stupid, it was a mistake, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough," he said, his voice breaking. "Do you have any idea what this feels like? Knowing you gave him something you've never given me? Something I've wanted for so long but was too respectful to push for?"

You were crying openly now, moving toward him. "I'll fix it. I'll do whatever you want. I just—"

"Don't," he said, holding up a hand to stop you from getting closer. "Don't touch me right now. I need to... I need to think."

The rejection stung more than you expected. You watched helplessly as he walked to the window, his back to you, his shoulders tense. The minutes passed in silence; the only sounds in the room were your muffled sobs and his heavy sighs.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice so quiet you had to strain to hear him. "I tried to be okay with this. I told myself I could move past it, that our love was stronger than what you did. But knowing this..." He turned around, his face pale. "I don't know how to look at you the same way."

"Please don't say that," you begged. "Please, Valarr. I love you."

"I know you do," he said sadly. "But it seems there are parts of you I'll never truly have. Parts you gave away so easily to someone else."

"That's not true—"

"Isn't it? When we're together, am I always going to be wondering if you're comparing me to him? If you're wishing it was him instead?"

"No," you shook your head vehemently. "Never."

"How can I believe that? When you've already chosen him over me in so many ways?"

You couldn't answer. Because the truth was, you had chosen Aerion in ways you'd never chosen Valarr. Not because you loved him more, but because with Aerion, there were no consequences, no future to consider, no expectations to meet. It had been easy to be reckless with him, to give him pieces of yourself you'd guarded with Valarr.

But you'd given it up. You stopped seeing him. You swore you'd stop and you did. There was nothing you were looking forward to more than being Valarr's wife, and now you could feel it all slipping away, and you couldn't figure out how to stop it from happening. When Valarr stepped in front of you, you let him. When his hand came up to brush the tears from your face, you closed your eyes and took the deepest breath. He had always been so gentle, and you took that for granted. You wouldn't do it again.

"Valarr, please," you whispered, opening your eyes to look up at him. "I chose you. I'm choosing you now."

He held your hands in his. He held them for so long you finally started to believe he wouldn't let go again. His thumbs were rubbing soothing circles into your skin, the way he always did when you were upset. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and let yourself breathe.

He spoke into your hair, so softly that you had to strain to hear him. "This is killing me. Every day, I can't stop thinking about how you let him... It's like this poison in my mind. I don't want to feel this way, but I don't know how to stop."

You tightened your arms around his waist, feeling the pain in his voice like a knife twisting in your chest. "I haven't seen him. Not since that day. I swear to you, I haven't even thought about it. You're all I want."

"Are you sure?" His voice cracked slightly on the question. "Because sometimes I look at you, and I wonder if you're thinking about him. If you miss what you had with him."

"No," you insisted, pulling back to look him in the eyes. "I don't miss him. I miss you. I miss us before all of this. I'd do anything to go back and change it."

His arms wrapped around you fully then, pulling you against him so tightly you could only feel the scent of him taking over your senses. You felt him press his face into your hair, taking deep breaths as if trying to anchor himself to this moment, to you. You loved him like this. You loved how much he needed to hold you. You wanted to be the only person he ever reached for like this. He was yours. He was meant to be yours.

"I love you so much," you whispered, your hands stroking his back. "Let me show you how much. Let me prove it to you."

He didn't respond at first, just held you tighter. Then, slowly, he began to press soft kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek. When his lips finally found yours, they were hesitant at first, questioning. You answered with all the certainty you could muster, pouring everything you felt into that kiss. He deepened it, his hands moving to cradle your face as his tongue moved against yours with increasing desperation.

This was your Valarr. The one who loved you despite everything, who wanted you even when he shouldn't. You guided him toward the bedroom, your hands working at the buttons of his shirt as you walked. He let you undress him, his eyes never leaving yours as you pushed the fabric from his body.

Once you had him naked, you pushed him gently to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before him. His breathing quickened as your hands ran up his thighs, your eyes locked on his.

"I want to show you," you whispered, leaning in to press kisses along his hip bone. "I want to show you how much I love you."

He groaned softly as your mouth moved closer to where he wanted you most. "You don't have to—"

"Please," you interrupted, looking up at him through your lashes. "Let me do this for you."

His resistance crumbled at your words. You took him in your hand first, stroking slowly as your tongue darted out to lick beneath the tip. His head fell back with a moan, one hand coming to rest gently on your head. You took your time, wanting to make this perfect for him, wanting to erase any lingering doubts about where your loyalty lay.

When you finally took him into your mouth, his reaction was visceral. His fingers tangled in your hair, simply holding on as you worked him with your lips and tongue. You paid attention to every little sound he made, every twitch of his hips, learning all over again what drove him wild. It had been weeks since you'd done this for him, and you had missed it. Missed the power it gave you, the intimacy of it. How you could turn the most even-tempered man you knew into a mess of need and want with just your mouth.

"Sweet girl," he breathed, his voice husky. "Feels so good."

You hummed in response, the vibration making him gasp. Your hands moved to what your mouth couldn't reach, one caressing his balls, the other stroking in rhythm with your movements. He was getting close, you could tell by the way his thighs tensed under your hands, the way his breathing suddenly changed to short, shallow pants. So you pulled away, ignoring his whimper of protest. You didn't want him to finish like this, not this time.

"Baby, what—" he started, but you silenced him by pushing him back on the bed and climbing over him. You straddled his thighs, leaning down to kiss him deeply, letting him taste himself on your tongue. It was wet, and messy, and he groaned into your mouth the moment you ground against him, his hands shooting up to grip your hips almost painfully.

"Take my clothes off, Valarr," you whispered against his lips.

He obeyed instantly, his hands shaking as he pulled your top over your head and unhooked your bra. You stood just long enough to remove your skirt and panties before returning to your position above him. His eyes devoured your naked body, his hands reaching up to caress your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. You caught his hands, pressing them to the bed above his head as you leaned down to kiss him again.

"Be good and keep them there. Don't touch me yet. I want to make you feel good."

He nodded profusely, his eyes dark with desire as he laced his fingers together above his head. You rewarded him with another kiss, then began to move your body against his, sliding your wet heat along his length without taking him inside yet. His hips bucked up involuntarily, seeking more friction, and you smiled at how desperate he was already becoming.

"So beautiful," you praised, running your hands down his chest. "So patient for me."

"I'd wait forever for you," he breathed, his eyes never leaving your face.

You continued to tease him, grinding against his cock, feeling him become impossibly harder beneath you. When you finally positioned him at your entrance, you both gasped at the contact. But instead of taking him inside right away, you held him there, just barely pressing against your opening. He was so thick and hot against you, the head of his cock nudging at your sensitive flesh. You could feel every throb of his heartbeat in this position, every twitch of anticipation.

"A-Are you going to tease me all night?"

"Maybe a little longer," you smiled, rocking your hips just enough to create friction without giving him exactly what he wanted. "I like seeing you like this."

"Baby, please," he begged, and the sound of Valarr Targaryen begging had you moaning with satisfaction at the fact that you did that. "I need you."

You knew he did. You could see it in the desperate look in his eyes, in the way his arms strained where he kept them above his head, in the way his cock pulsed against you, seeking entry. Finally, you relented, sinking down on him slowly, watching his face as you took him inside. His eyes rolled back, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure as you enveloped him completely.

"Fuck," he sighed when you were fully seated on him. "You feel... sweet girl, you're incredible. Perfect."

You stayed still for a moment, just letting him feel you, skin on skin. The heat of him inside you, the stretch of your body around his—it was almost enough to make you come right then. When you began to move, you kept it slow, torturously slow, rising up until just the tip remained inside before sinking back down again. His hands fisted above his head, clearly fighting the urge to grab you.

"You can touch me now, baby," you whispered, and the relief on his face was almost comical.

His hands were on you instantly, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, pulling you down harder on his next thrust. You gasped at the change in angle, the way he hit that gummy spot inside you that had your vision going white at the edges. You leaned forward a little, bracing yourself on his chest as you began to move faster, riding him in earnest now. His eyes were locked on where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear inside you with each movement.

"Is this what you wanted?" you asked, your voice breathy as you increased your pace slightly. "To be inside me like this?"

"Y-yes," he choked out, his hands moving to cup and squeeze your breasts. "Fuck, I've wanted this for so long."

You let out a soft moan at his words, the idea of how long he'd been fantasizing about this, waiting for you, making you impossibly wetter. You sat up straighter, giving him a better view as you began to bounce on his cock, your breasts bouncing with each movement. His hands moved to your hips, helping to guide you, his eyes never leaving your body.

"You're so good for me, Valarr," you praised him. "So patient, so loving. You deserve everything."

He shook his head, his eyes glassy with pleasure as he watched you. "Just you," he ground out through gritted teeth. I just need you."

You leaned down to kiss him again, swallowing his moans as you continued to ride him. The angle changed, allowing him to thrust up into you more deeply, and suddenly you were both racing toward completion. You could feel him swelling inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he fought to hold back his orgasm.

"Let go, baby," you whispered against his lips. "I want to feel you come inside me."

Your words undid him completely. With a strangled whine, he bottomed out inside you, his body tensing as he came. The feeling of him pulsing and throbbing within you, the knowledge that you were finally giving him this intimacy, sent you over the edge as well. You cried out his name as your orgasm broke through, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

As the pleasure subsided, you collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily. His arms wrapped around you before you could adjust, holding you close as you both recovered. You could feel his heart racing beneath your ear, could feel the slickness between your thighs where his release was already leaking out of you and onto him. It was perfect. This was exactly what you both needed.

"Thank you," he whispered after a long silence while his hand stroked your hair gently.

You lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes all soft and full of love despite everything. "For what?"

"For choosing me," he said simply. "For giving me this."

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly. "I'd choose you every time, Valarr. You're the only one I want."

He seemed to believe you, pulling you down for a deeper kiss. When you finally made it to the shower, he washed you tenderly, his hands lingering on your body as if it were the first time he was seeing you, touching you again. Afterwards, you curled up in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers trailing lazily up and down your spine. It felt like a new beginning, a chance to leave the past behind and build something stronger from the wreckage.

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other's arms, and for the first time in weeks, you didn't dream of silver hair and a wicked smile. There was only the steady heartbeat beneath your ear and the knowledge that you were right where you belonged.

When morning came, the light streaming through the windows woke you before Valarr. You watched him sleep for a while, marveling at how peaceful he looked, how happy you were to be waking up beside him. You pressed a gentle kiss to his bare shoulder, careful not to disturb him. It wasn't until you were about to slip out of bed that you felt the slight stickiness between your thighs, a reminder of last night's intimacy.

For a brief moment, you thought of a different bed, different arms, a different voice whispering filthy praises in your ear as you rode him just as eagerly. You shook your head to clear it, pushing the image away. That was over. This was your reality now, and it was what you wanted.

You were still smiling as you padded to the bathroom to clean up, already planning what you would make for breakfast when Valarr woke up. You had chosen your future, and it was bright and beautiful and filled with love.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself before you actually made it to the bathroom, and the sudden nausea hit you like a brick wall. You barely made it to the toilet before you were heaving, your body rejecting everything in your stomach as you clung to the porcelain.

He cracked on a Friday afternoon. You had both decided to drive out to the coastline, away from the clatter of the city, to watch the waves crash against the rocks. The drive was long, the inside of his vintage black car smelling of leather, his cedarwood cologne, and the faint, sweet scent of your shampoo. You’d kicked off your sandals, curled your bare legs up on the seat, and within twenty minutes, your head had lolled against the window, your breathing deepening into the soft, even rhythm of sleep.

Valarr’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He glanced over. The sun slanted across your face, illuminating the fine, soft hairs on your cheek. Your lips were parted just slightly.

His right hand left the gear shift.

It hovered in the air for a second, trembling. He should put it back. He was a gentleman. His father had instilled in him a code of honor as rigid as Valyrian steel. A man did not take advantage. A man's love was a shield, not a sword.

But the memory of his father’s lectures warred with the roaring in his blood. He placed his palm on your knee. Just a friendly, steadying touch, he told himself. The car hit a slight bump in the road. You stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, it crept higher. His fingers splayed over the warm, smooth skin of your thigh. He could feel the hem of your cotton skirt, the light fabric bunching under his knuckles. He was barely breathing, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead, his peripheral vision consumed by the sight of his own pale hand against your sun-kissed skin.

He slid his fingers inward. The contact was featherlight at first, just tracing the seam of your inner thigh. Your legs shifted, parting slightly in your sleep, an unconscious invitation that sent a jolt straight to his groin. His jeans became painfully tight. He could feel the damp heat of you through the thin cotton of your underwear. He pressed the heel of his hand gently, right there, against the soft mound. He could feel the shape of you, the yielding give.

His fingers curled, rubbing a slow, torturous circle against the fabric covering your core. You made a small, breathy sound in your throat, a sound that wasn't discomfort. It was a sound of sleepy, dreamy pleasure. It shattered the last vestiges of his self-control. He was a monster. He knew it. He was supposed to be protecting you, and here he was, using your unconsciousness to steal a taste of the paradise he craved. The guilt was a cold, sharp stone in his gut, but it did nothing to quell the fire in his hand.

He drove the rest of the way with one hand, the other resting, heavy and hot, on your thigh, his thumb stroking a rhythmic pattern. When you finally blinked awake as he pulled into the scenic overlook, he had snatched his hand back to the gear shift, his knuckles white. He made a joke about the view. You smiled at him, bleary and trusting, and he felt like the lowest creature in the Seven Kingdoms.

The obsession didn't stop. It grew roots, fed by the spring sap. He found himself in your apartment one afternoon when you were in the shower. His excuse was flimsy, he’d come to pick up a book he’d left. Instead, he found himself in your bedroom, his face pressed into the soft wool of the cardigan you’d left draped over your desk chair. He inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezed shut. It smelled like you. Like clean laundry, the vanilla lotion you used, and the indefinable, lovely scent of your skin. He was hard again, just from the smell of you. He felt a wave of shame so profound it nearly made him nauseous, but he stood there, breathing you in like a drowning man gasping for air.

The breaking point came a week later, on a night when the air was thick with the scent of jasmine. You were both in his living room, the windows thrown open to the warm night. You’d just finished a movie and were in a funk, poking morosely at a stray thread on the sofa cushion.

“It’s just…barren out there,” you sighed, gesturing vaguely at the world beyond the window. “I went on that date with the guy from the economics department, the one Daeron said was ‘nice.’ He spent forty-five minutes explaining cryptocurrency and then tried to split the bill down to the exact copper penny.”

Valarr’s jaw clenched. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, your legs dangling near his shoulder. “He sounds like an absolute dullard.”

“They’re all dullards! Or they just want one thing and then they’re gone. I just…I miss it, you know? Not the dullards. But the…the closeness.” You pulled a face. “I don’t want to sleep with a stranger. The whole idea of starting from scratch, explaining what I like, trusting someone not to be weird about it…it’s exhausting.”

This was it. The moment. The words were a maelstrom in his skull. I’m right here. I know what you like. I know you hate the taste of black coffee but love the smell. I know you get cold feet in bed even in summer. I know the exact spot on your back that knots up when you’re stressed, and I’ve dreamed about kissing it until you sigh.

What came out of his mouth was something else entirely. His voice was low, scraped raw. He was staring straight ahead at the dark television screen, terrified to look at you.

“If it’s…intercourse you miss,” he said, the word sounding clinical and absurd in his mouth. “I could…provide that. For you.”

The silence that followed was so thick it seemed to have its own texture. You stopped breathing.

“As friends,” he added hastily, his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could see his shirt moving. “Nothing weird. Just…a physical need. Like…like me rubbing your back when it’s stiff.”

The memory of his last back rub seared through both your minds. His hands working the muscles along your spine, and you’d felt the undeniable, rigid pressure of him beneath you. You had pretended not to notice, just as he had pretended his breath wasn't coming in ragged gasps. You’d both been lying to yourselves for so long you were experts at it.

“Okay,” you whispered. The word was barely audible.

He turned his head so fast he almost cricked his neck. “Okay?”

“Okay. As friends. Just this once.”

Just this once.

His bedroom was cleaner than yours, obsessively so. He led you there, his hand gentle on the small of your back, a gesture he’d done a thousand times. But this time, the touch burned through the thin fabric of your shirt. The door clicked shut behind you. The spring night air drifted in, carrying the sound of distant laughter from a party somewhere.

And then the illusion of “just friends” shattered like a dropped glass.

His mouth was on yours, and it was not the kiss of a friend doing a favor. It was starving. Desperate. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you tumbled down onto the cool, grey linen sheets. He followed, a supplicant.

Somehow, your clothes were gone. The lamp on his nightstand cast a low, golden glow across his body, lean and strong, his pale skin flushed with heat. His eyes were wide, pupils blown. He kissed a path down your stomach. When his shoulders pushed your thighs apart and he settled between them, you gasped.

“Valarr, you don’t...”

But he did. He looked up at you from between your legs, his hair tousled, his expression one of agonized adoration. “I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, his voice a wrecked whisper. “Every night. The way you’d taste. Let me. Please. Please.”

He didn't wait for another answer. He lowered his head, and his mouth found your center. The first touch of his tongue was hesitant, a soft, flat lick that made your back arch off the bed. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure relief, and the vibrations went through you. He was a quick study, his every movement guided by your soft gasps and the way your fingers twisted in his hair. He learned what made you whimper, what made you pull, what made your thighs tremble against his ears. He feasted on you as if he’d been lost in a desert and you were the first spring of fresh water.

And all the while, his hips were moving. Unconsciously at first, then with a frantic, grinding rhythm. He was humping the mattress, his weeping cock trapped against the linen, leaving a damp, sticky smear. The friction was maddening and insufficient. He was overwhelmed, drowning in the scent and taste and sounds of you. The guilt was still there, a specter in the corner of his mind, this isn't what a gentleman does, this isn't what she agreed to, but the pleasure was a hurricane, and the guilt was just a faint, distant bell.

He pulled his mouth away, his lips and chin slick, his eyes wild. He crawled up your body, his weight a welcome anchor. His erection pressed hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Just the tip,” he promised, the words tumbling out in a frantic, breathless rush. “It doesn't count. It doesn't. I just need…I need to feel you. Just for a second. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll stop.”

He positioned himself, the broad, flushed head of him nudging against your entrance. He didn't push in. He just rubbed. He slid himself through your wet folds, coating himself in your slickness. He watched, mesmerized, as his tip glistened with the evidence of your shared desire. He was panting, little whimpers catching in his throat with every pass over your clit.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words a broken litany. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I was raised better than this…my father…I’m ruining it…”

And then, his control, frayed to a single, snapping thread, broke. On the next pass, the angle shifted. The head of him caught, and the searing, tight heat of you swallowed him.

He froze. A long, shuddering groan was torn from his chest. “Oh, gods.”

He had promised just the tip. But his body was a traitor. He pressed forward, an inch. Then another. The feeling was so staggering, so complete, it short-circuited every rational thought in his brain. He watched his length disappear into you, inch by agonizing, blissful inch, until he was seated to the hilt. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered again, the apology muffled against your skin. But he was already moving, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by an inexorable slide back home. He wasn't stopping. He couldn't. The rhythm he found was deep and grinding, his pubic bone pressing against your clit with every thrust. He was whispering your name like a prayer and an apology all in one, his hips working with a desperate, single-minded purpose.

His hands found yours, lacing his fingers through them and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head. He lifted his face to look at you, his eyes wet with a storm of emotion: guilt, ecstasy, and a love so profound and terrifying he’d been hiding from it for years.

The world swam back into focus in fragments. The damp warmth of his breath against your throat. The frantic, rabbit-fast thrum of his heart where his chest pressed against yours. The overwhelming, foreign sensation of being so utterly filled by him. Valarr Targaryen, your best friend, the man you'd watched from across library tables and coffee shop counters for three agonizing years, was buried deep inside you, and he was shaking like a leaf in a storm.

You should've say something. You should've pushed at his shoulders, demanded an explanation, reminded him that "just the tip" had become a spectacular, breathtaking lie. But your body, traitor as well, had already made its decision. Your legs had wrapped around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer, deeper. A soft, surprised sound escaped your throat. It felt like coming home to a house you'd only ever admired from the street, forbidden to enter.

He lifted his head, and the sight of his face cleaved something open in your chest. His eyes were glassy, shimmering with unshed tears of overwhelm. His cheeks were flushed a deep, feverish pink. He looked wrecked.

"I can't," he gasped, the words a broken rasp against your lips. He withdrew a few inches, the drag of him against your inner walls making you both moan, and then he pushed back in, a helpless, instinctive thrust. "I can't stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You feel…you feel heavenly."

His rhythm was clumsy. He was so far gone, his usual grace and composure stripped away, leaving only raw, aching need. He shifted his weight, bracing one forearm by your head, his other hand fumbling between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, and he pressed there, his touch unpracticed but earnest, trying to replicate the rhythm his tongue had learned so quickly.

"Like this?" he panted, his brow furrowed in concentration even as his hips stuttered. "Tell me. Tell me what you need. I want…I need you to…please."

The combination of his deep, shuddering thrusts and the insistent pressure of his fingers was unraveling you. The knot of tension that had been building since his mouth first touched your core tightened, coiling hot and urgent in your belly. You arched up into him, your nails digging into the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders. He was close too; you could feel it in the frantic jerk of his hips, hear it in the high, desperate whimpers that were spilling from his parted lips without any semblance of control.

"That's it," he babbled, his voice cracking. "That's it, please, I can feel you, you're so tight, oh gods, I'm going to...I can't hold it..."

Your climax hit you like a wave crashing. You cried out, your body clenching rhythmically around him, and the sensation tore the last shred of his restraint to pieces. With a guttural, almost pained moan, he buried himself to the hilt and stopped moving. His whole body went rigid as a bowstring. And then you felt it: the hot, insistent spurts of his release flooding you. He pulsed inside you, once, twice, a third time, each spasm accompanied by a wrecked, unabashed sound of pure, animalistic pleasure that seemed to be ripped from the very depths of his soul.

He collapsed. All the strength left his body and he became a dead weight on top of you, his face burrowing into the crook of your neck. He was still whimpering, small, broken sounds that vibrated against your skin. He pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the mantra returning. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I spilled…I didn't mean to…I should have pulled out, I know I should have, I just couldn't, you felt too good, I'm an animal, I'm the worst sort of..."

His hips gave a weak, involuntary twitch. Even now, soft and spent inside you, the sensation sent a jolt through him. His babbling cut off abruptly. His breath hitched.

"It doesn't matter," he said, the words tumbling out in a new rush, trying to fix things, to be the responsible one, the gentleman he'd so thoroughly failed to be. "It doesn't matter, I'll fix it. I'll go. Right now. There's an all-night apothecary on the Street of Silk, I'll get the morning after pill. I promise. I'll get it for you. You don't have to worry about a thing. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you."

He made a weak attempt to push himself up, to pull out of you and make good on his promise. But the motion made him slide against your sensitive, slick walls, and he froze. A shudder wracked his frame. He looked down between your bodies, to the place where you were joined, and a fresh wave of heat flooded his face.

"Oh, gods," he breathed, his voice small and utterly defeated by his own body. "I'm…I'm hard again."

He was. You could feel him stiffening, thickening inside you, the impossible resurgence of his desire. He looked back at your face, his expression a mask of pure, agonized apology.

"Just…just one more time," he pleaded, even as his hips were already beginning to move again, a slow, deep grind. "I just need…I need to be inside you. I've needed it for so long. Please. Just once more."

He took you again, slower this time, with a tender, worshipful reverence that was somehow more devastating than the frantic desperation of the first round. He whispered your name like a litany, his eyes locked on yours, his thumb stroking your cheek. He made sure you reached the peak again before he allowed himself to follow, his own release a long, shuddering groan that seemed to drain every last ounce of feverish energy from his body.

Afterwards, he lay still for a long moment, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Then, with a gentleness that made your heart ache, he withdrew. The loss of him was a physical pang. He disappeared into his adjoining bathroom and returned with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you with meticulous care, his touch featherlight, his brow furrowed in concentration as if this act of service, was the most important task he had ever undertaken. He wouldn't quite meet your eyes. When he was done, he retrieved a soft, worn t-shirt from his drawer, one you recognized, a faded grey thing with the university crest, and helped you sit up, guiding your arms through the sleeves. He pulled the hem down over your thighs, his knuckles brushing your skin.

Then he knelt on the floor by the side of the bed, eyes huge and fearful. He looked like a puppy who had chewed his master's favorite shoes and was awaiting his banishment to the yard.

"Please," he said, his voice hoarse and small. "Please don't kick me out of your life. I know I ruined it. I know I said 'just friends' and then I…I did all that. I'm a liar. I'm a cad. My father would be so ashamed."

He reached out, his fingers hovering over your knee but not quite daring to touch. "But I can be good. I swear it. I'll be the best boyfriend you've ever had. I'll bring you pastries every morning. I'll remember every anniversary, even the small ones. I'll let you pick the movie every single time. I'll rub your back every night, and I won't even complain when you sit on me and I get...well, you know." A faint, miserable blush crept up his neck. "Or…or if you don't want that. If you don't want a boyfriend. I can just be…this. Just someone you sleep with. A convenience. I won't ask for more. I won't be weird about it. I'll just be here, whenever you need…whenever you miss the closeness. Just please. Please don't leave."

He looked so utterly devastated, so certain of his own imminent rejection, that you felt a laugh bubble up in your chest. It was a sound of pure, uncomplicated joy. You reached out and cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

"Valarr," you said, your voice soft but firm. "You absolute, beautiful idiot. I've been in love with you since I spilled that latte down your sweater."

He blinked. The fear in his eyes warred with a dawning, incredulous hope. "You…what?"

"I've been pining," you continued, a wide smile spreading across your face. "For three years. Watching you. Smelling your stupid, wonderful cologne. Pretending I didn't notice when you got hard during back rubs. I want the boyfriend. I've always wanted the boyfriend. I want you."

The tension bled out of his shoulders so completely he seemed to shrink. The fear in his eyes was replaced by a light so bright, so incandescently happy, it was like watching the spring sun finally break through a lifetime of clouds. He surged forward, burying his face in your lap, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"You mean it?" he mumbled against the fabric of his own t-shirt. "You really mean it? You want me to be your boyfriend?"

"I really, truly mean it," you promised, running your fingers through his tangled hair. "Now, about that morning after pill…"

He lifted his head, his smile so wide it crinkled. "I'll get it now. Right now. And then I'm bringing you back a raspberry jam pastry. And coffee. Because you're my girlfriend now. And that's what boyfriends do." He said the words like they were a sacred oath, the most solemn and wonderful vow he'd ever made. And as he scrambled to find his keys, tripping over his own discarded jeans in his haste, you realized with a dizzying, giddy certainty that spring in King's Landing had never felt so warm.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen whose first bite is a sacrament of agony and bliss. he is so, so gentle at first. his cool lips barely brush the frantic pulse at your throat, a kiss of apology. his hands, usually so decisive and strong, tremble as they frame your face, holding you with a reverence that makes you want to cry. “be still, my love,” he murmurs, his breath a cold sigh against your skin. “be so still for me.” and then the sharp, perfect puncture—a lightning bolt of pain so clean and swift it steals your breath. you gasp, your fingers flying to tangle in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world dissolves

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who loses all control when he tastes you. the first pull of your life into his is like a dam breaking. that princely restraint, the discipline, it all shatters. a low groan vibrates against your throat, a sound of pure desperate want. his arms tighten around you, crushing you to his chest as he drinks deeper, his movements turning from reverent to ravenous.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is driven mad by your whimpers. the little sounds of pain and pleasure you make go straight through him like a sword. he’ll growl, low in his throat, a feral sound, and his bite will deepen, not to hurt you, but to feel you more, to drown in you. when you tug his hair, he moans against your skin, he’s addicted—not just to your blood, but to your reactions, to the proof that you are giving yourself to him in the most intimate, devastating way possible.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who would never, ever let you go once he’s started. if you tried to pull away, even weakly, it would awaken something terrifying in him. his arm would lock around your waist, his other hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place with a gentle, unbreakable firmness. “shhh,” he’d whisper, his voice thick, blurred with your essence. “shhh, my darling, my only one. give it to me. let me have it. you are so sweet, you have no idea.” he drinks until he’s drunk on you

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is horrifically, beautifully tender afterwards. when he finally, reluctantly detaches, it’s with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush. he’s panting, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his body shuddering with aftershocks. then, with a devotion that borders on worship, he licks the twin wounds clean, his tongue soothing the sting. he kisses each puncture with a softness that brings tears to your eyes, then trails his lips up the column of your throat to finally capture your mouth. you can taste yourself on his tongue—metallic, vital, yours—and it’s the most intimate kiss you’ve ever shared.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who looks at the mark he left with a mixture of pride and terrible shame. his thumb, cold and gentle, will stroke over the delicate bruises blossoming around the bites. his perfect prince mask is gone, replaced by raw, vulnerable awe. “look what i’ve done to you,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “my darling girl..marked by me. forgive me.”

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who finds you asleep in his bed, curled under the furs, your pulse a soft, steady rhythm he can hear from the doorway. he doesn’t wake you. he simply watches, memorizing the flutter of your eyelashes, the way your lips part slightly with each breath. then he slides into the sheets beside you, cold and deliberate, and drapes himself over your body like a second skin. his nose drags along your throat, inhaling the scent of your skin, the salt and warmth. when you stir,half conscious, he murmurs against your pulse point “stay asleep, sweet one.” and you do, surrendering to the dreamy haze as his fangs sink in. you don’t wake until morning, groggy and strangely content, with two small marks on your neck and the taste of copper on your tongue.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who tastes you slowly, reverently, as if you are the first meal he’s ever been allowed to savor. he doesn’t rush. he traces the line of your collarbone with the tip of his tongue first, tasting the salt of your skin, the faint sweetness of the oil you rubbed into your shoulders. he nips at your earlobe, your jaw, the hollow behind your ear. by the time he reaches your wrist, you’re trembling, half naked beneath his robes, cunt slick and aching. he holds your arm like it’s something precious, turns it over, presses his lips to the delicate blue veins. “here,” he whispers, “i want to drink from here tonight.” and when he bites, he does so with his other hand pressed flat against your lower belly, feeling the heat of your arousal rise as the blood leaves you. he drinks in slow pulls, his eyes closing, a broken sound escaping his throat. when he finishes, he licks the wound clean, seals it with a soft kiss, and pulls you into his lap, your blood still wet on his lips. “you taste like sin,” he says, “and i am never going to be saved”

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who fucks you while he feeds, because he cannot separate the two anymore. you’re on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders,his cock buried deep inside you. he’s leaning over you, fangs grazing your throat, but he doesn’t bite yet. he waits until you’re close—until your walls flutter around him until your breath hitches into that high, desperate pitch. then he sinks his fangs into the curve of your neck, just as your orgasm crests. the pain and pleasure collide so sharply that you scream, your body arching, your hips bucking against his. he drinks through your climax, his own hips grinding, chasing his release inside you. when he comes, it’s with your blood hot in his mouth, your cunt clenching around him, your nails raking down his back. he pulls out slowly, still lapping at the bite mark, still trembling. “you will kill me,” he says, voice wrecked. “but gods, what a way to die.”

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who discovers you’ve tried to hide from him, just for an hour, just to breathe. he finds you in the castle library, tucked behind a shelf, a book open in your lap. he doesn’t speak. he simply stands at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, mismatched eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. the silence stretches. you look up, and your heart stops. he walks toward you slowly, each step deliberate, predatory. he doesn’t grab you. he kneels in front of your chair, takes the book from your hands, sets it aside then he cups your face, tilts your head, and presses his forehead to yours. “if you need space,” he says quietly, “you tell me. you do not hide.” his thumb strokes your cheek. “i will give you the sky if you ask. but i will tear down every wall in this world if you try to run.” he kisses you then—soft, almost tender.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who, after feeding, becomes unbearably gentle. the feral edge dulls into something warm, almost sleepy. he curls around you, one hand splayed over your stomach, nose buried in your hair. he whispers things he would never say otherwise. that he was alone for centuries before you, that he thought love was a mortal lie, that your blood has rewritten his very nature. he traces the bite mark on your neck with his fingertip, over and over, like a prayer. mine, he breathes.mine. and you feel his lips press a kiss to the crown of your head. “when you die, and you will, because you are mortal and i am not. i will find you in whatever comes next. i will tear through the veil itself to reach you.” he says it like a promise, not a threat. and you believe him

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who wakes you in the middle of the night, not with a touch, but with a whisper. “i dreamed you left.” his voice is small, childlike. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. you reach for him, but he flinches. “don’t. not yet. i need..i need to know this is real.” he takes your hand, presses it to his chest where his heart should beat but doesn’t. then he brings your wrist to his lips and bites, shallow and quick, just enough to taste. he closes his eyes. “yes. you’re here. you’re real.” he crawls into bed beside you, wraps himself around you, and doesn’t let go until dawn.

♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who has a habit of hoarding things that smell like you. a ribbon you wore in your hair. the shirt you slept in. he tucks them into a chest under the bed, and he won’t tell you why. but one night, after a heavy feeding, he lets you peek—and you see the collection, neatly folded and arranged like relics. “when you’re not here,” he says, voice barely audible, “i need something. anything. so i don’t forget the shape of you.” you crawl into his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and whisper that you’re not going anywhere. he holds you so tight it hurts. “promise me,” he says, and you do.

𝔅𝔞𝔡 𝔇𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰

⋆ daeron will eat you out while he’s suffocating between your thighs. you’re sat on his face, knees planted on either side of his head, smothering him completely. there’s nothing he loves more than the burning pressure in his chest from the lack of oxygen, his mind clouding as he edges closer to unconsciousness. just when he starts to fade, you lift your hips enough to let him gasp for air — only for his large hands to yank you right back down with a frustrated whimper. his fingers dig desperately into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pussy flush against his mouth. his lips latch on hungrily, tongue fucking deep into your clenching, spasming walls, drinking up your juices like they’re the finest wine in the seven kingdoms.

⋆ maekar will eat you out until you’re crying from overstimulation. this is exactly what you get for acting like a brat earlier that day. with lips, teeth, and tongue, he’ll make sure you understand the consequences of your reckless little whims. he’ll pull orgasm after orgasm from you, forcing you to cum on his tongue again and again until you’re breathless, shaking, and your sweet pussy is swollen, dripping, and clenching around nothing. the inside of your thighs will be decorated with red, itchy marks from his rough beard, a reminder of his unrelenting hunger. he pours every ounce of his frustration into you — not just the irritation you earned, but the deep, permanent anger he carries buried inside him. if you try to tug him closer or grind against his face, he’ll nip sharply at your clit in warning, mixing pleasure and pain until you learn your manners. no matter how unruly you act, when his mouth is on your cunt, maekar has the final word.

⋆ aerion will eat you out like it’s his last meal. his hands grip your thighs possessively, nails digging into your plush flesh and leaving perfect crescent-shaped marks. he holds you spread wide open for him, teasing you with slow, taunting licks and sharp little bites everywhere except where you need him most. he ignores your desperate whines and the way you writhe beneath him, letting you suffer until you’re tugging frantically at his pale hair, begging him to put his tongue on you. only when you’ve pleaded enough does he finally oblige. and he is not gentle. aerion devours your pussy with raw hunger — grazing his teeth over your swollen clit to keep you on edge, spreading your folds with his long fingers, and fucking his tongue deep inside you. he doesn’t stop until his chin is dripping with your juices and you’re trembling beneath his mouth.

⋆ aegon will eat you out with lazy arrogance. like, this man knows exactly what he’s doing. he has your pussy memorized by now. every slow flick of his tongue makes you grind your cunt against his parted, wine-stained lips. his eyes never leave yours — those half-lidded violet pools gleaming with mischievous intent. he deliberately stops just to tease you, savoring your frustrated little moans and the sweet sting of your fingers tightening in his hair. that only makes him smile languidly against your pussy. he’ll happily spit on your already soaked hole just to feel you shudder, then flatten his tongue and drag it obscenely over your cunt, gathering every drop of your mixed juices like he has all the time in the world.

⋆ aemond will eat you out like he's a man in a mission. his tongue is merciless as it plugs into you over and over, lost in your taste and too pleased with your moans to even think of stopping. he'll guide your legs to rest over his shoulders as he chase for your pleasure and your words of affirmation, assuring him he's doing great. his long, slender fingers won't stop stroking your hips and waist, never leaving the softness of your warm body. his eye will drift up to yours with that unhinged stare of his, the one that said ‘see? there's no man on the seven kingdoms with this power over you. only me.’

⋆ baelor will eat you out until the only thing you can think about is him. until all you can focus on is the hot press of his tongue sliding between your wet folds, and the way his lips latch around your clit, sucking gently until a shuddering gasp escapes you. his hands stay firm on your waist, only moving when you try to close your legs in overwhelming pleasure. he spreads you wider, making sure every inch of you is open and available for his mouth. whenever he pulls back to press soft, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, he murmurs the sweetest praises against your skin — purring about how good you taste and what a well-behaved girl you are for him. he mixes tender affection with raw pleasure so effortlessly it leaves you dizzy.