Hey, you look good today.

────────

“Alright, fuckers!” Eddie announces, a wide Cheshire-like grin on his face as he enters Gareth’s garage- a piece of paper in his hand. “I’ve come bearing our greatest fucking hit. You, good sirs, are welcome!”

He waved the piece of paper around proudly, having been excited since late last night to show his bandmates the pure lyrical genius that he had plugged away on- pouring his heart out onto the page and creating, what he was sure to be, the greatest thing he has ever fucking written.

“You wrote a song?” Gareth asks, watching as Eddie beams with pride.

“Indeed, my young liege.” Eddie says “And not just any song. I wrote-“

“The greatest thing to have ever been written?” Jeff asks mockingly as he tunes his bass “You know you’ve said that before, right?”

“And have I been wrong before?” Eddie points out.

“I think the question is, have you ever been right before?” Jeff replies, raising an eyebrow judgmentally as Gareth laughs.

“Oh, come on!” Eddie exclaims “When have I ever written a bad song?”

“Eds, you’re joking, right?” Gareth asks.

“Now I really think the question is, have you ever written a good song?” Jeff challenges, causing Eddie to roll his eyes.

“Whatever.” He huffs, jutting out the paper towards his friends “Just read it and tell me what you think.”

Jeff looks at Eddie skeptically before taking the paper from his hand, holding it out in front of him so that he can read it. Gareth comes up to join him, looking over Jeff’s shoulder as they both skim through the lyrics that were scribbled out in Eddie’s chaotic handwriting. What they were met with was worse than bad. It was downright horrible.

A moment passes where they both just stare at the sheet of paper, too stunned to speak. Gareth swore that his soul left his body for a moment before Eddie’s voice finally breaks through the silence.

“Well?” He asks, waiting for his friend’s review of his so-called lyrical genius.

“It’s…um…” Gareth struggles, trying to find the silver lining while Jeff cuts right to the chase.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head vehemently, a look of disgust on his face “Nope. We are absolutely not playing this shit.”

The harsh criticism takes Eddie aback.

“What? Why not?” Eddie pushes, looking over at Gareth as Gareth refuses to look him in the eyes.

“You’re joking, right?” Jeff says “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking?” Eddie asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation “This is lyrical fucking genius. How are you guys not realizing this?”

“Wait!” Jeff says, eyes scanning over the paper again as it finally clicks for him- making everything ten times worse. “Is this…..Eddie, is this about your girlfriend’s pussy?”

Jeff’s face twists into a look of absolute repugnance while Gareth looks like he had just witnessed a cat get run over by a bus.

“Oh.” Gareth whispers “Oh.”

“Eddie…what the actual fuck?” Jeff says, the piece of paper pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he holds it out like it was covered in flesh-eating bacteria. Eddie rolls his eyes before snatching it back.

“And so what if it is?” Eddie snaps defensively, causing Gareth to rub his temples as if he were developing a migraine.

“Dude!” Gareth yells “That’s my fucking sister!”

“Step-sister.” Eddie clarifies, as if it made any difference.

“Eddie, please just shut up.” Jeff replies, shaking his head disappointedly.

“Seriously,” Gareth adds “It’s bad enough that I had to hear the inspiration for this last night. Now you want us to play a fucking song about it?”

“And, I’ll repeat; what’s wrong with that? Real artists write about their experiences! This-“ Eddie says, waving around the piece of paper for emphasis “Is art!”

“It’s disgusting!” Gareth exclaims.

“And perverted.” Jeff adds.

“Really?! You guys fucking suck!” Eddie argues “Kurt Cobain wrote a fucking song about Courtney Love’s vagina and guess what? It’s classified as one of the best songs that Nirvana has ever written!”

“Courtney Love also isn’t my fucking sister!” Gareth quips.

“Step-sister.” Eddie retorts.

“Look, step-sister or not, we’re not playing this shit.” Jeff says “End of story.”

“This is bullshit.” Eddie grumbles “I swear to god, I’m quitting this band.”

“Fine.” Gareth shrugs “While you’re at it, can you stop porking my sister? I’m so fucking sick of blasting the same CD at full volume every night to try and drawn out the shit that comes out of your mouth.”

“I can only fucking imagine.” Jeff gags, pretending to shiver in disgust.

“By the way,” Gareth adds “I don’t know why you even bother climbing through her bedroom window anymore. Might as well just use the front door, at this point. We all know when you’re here anyway.”

“Okay, this is getting way too gross for me.” Jeff says, holding up his hand, signaling for Gareth to stop.

“Okay, even if it is about my gorgeous sex goddess of a girlfriend-“

“Eddie, I swear to god.” Jeff sighs.

“Whatever.” Eddie says “You’ve gotta admit, though, that the song is great if you completely forget about the fact that it’s about her.”

Jeff turns to stare at Eddie, looking at him as if he were insane. “Again; you’re fucking joking, right?”

“Gare, what did you-“

“Eddie, I swear on fucking Metallica, if you don’t leave me the fuck out of this…” Gareth interrupts.

“I just wanna know how stoned you were when you wrote this.” Jeff berates, snatching the paper out of Eddie’s hand once again as he looks it over “You had to have been fucking obliterated to have written this and thought it was a lyrical masterpiece. Like, seriously? You wrote a song about Gareth’s sister’s vagina and titled it Tunnel of Love.”

“Again, I will reiterate,” Eddie sighs “What is wrong with that?!”

“Eds, I love you, dude, but I’m gonna need you to listen verrrry closely when I say this….it’s garbage.” Jeff states.

“You know what?” Eddie replies, deeply offended “You just don’t understand great sex and lyricism, that’s your problem!”

“Lyricism?!” Jeff laughs “You call this lyricism!? The chorus is literally ‘she’s got me drowning in her tunnel of love.”

“See?! Lyrical genius!”

“‘Submerging myself deep in her tunnel of love!?’ Eddie, come the fuck on…” Jeff judges.

“Why are we doing a poetic reading of this!?” Gareth agonizes “I don’t want to hear about Eddie banging my sister!”

“I mean…I would like to think that ‘making love’ is more accurate.”

“And I would like to think that I’m learning far too much information about you and my sister right now.” Gareth debates.

“Or ‘sailing down the river in her tunnel of love’” Jeff snorts “Oh dear god…listen to this one; ‘The only ride that never ends. Baby, how I’d cry if she ever only wanted to be friends. Come on, baby, she’s my tunnel of love!?’ Yeah…you might just wanna save this one for her, Eds.”

“Or burn it.” Gareth suggests “How about we just fucking burn it?”

“You guys fucking suck.” Eddie grumbles, snatching the paper out of Jeff’s hand as he was still too busy laughing at Eddie’s song.

Suit yourselves, assholes, he thought. They wouldn’t know real love if it hit them in the face.

The door to the garage swings open as you poke your head inside, checking in to see what all the noise was about.

“What’s going on out here?” You question, looking between all three of the boys who were all displaying very different emotions.

There was Gareth who looked like he wanted to shrivel up and die, Jeff who was doubled over in laughter and almost to the point of tears, and Eddie who looked as if someone had just kicked his dog.

“I can hear you guys arguing from all the way upstairs.” You complain before your eyes sweep back over to Eddie “Hey you.”

“Hey dollface.” He winks, causing Jeff and Gareth to begin fake gagging. You look between the both of them before giving Eddie a questioning look.

“Don’t worry about it.” Eddie replies, not even bothering to explain. He didn’t need to. He didn’t care what his friends thought about him or your relationship. All he cared about was what you thought- his muse.

“Why don’t we cut practice short today?” Jeff suggests “I need to go home and bleach my eyeballs.”

“Please take me with you.” Gareth pleads, watching as Eddie saunters up to you- wrapping his arms around your waist as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek.

“I missed you, babe.” He coos “Did you just get home?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, letting him peck sweet little kisses all over your face. He stops as soon as he hears your tone.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns “Who do I need to hunt down?”

“Ugh…” Gareth groans “This is so gross!”

“Shush! My lady is speaking.” Eddie orders, holding up his hand towards Gareth before turning his attention back onto you “Go on, princess. What’s bothering you?”

“Fucking gag me…” Jeff mutters under his breath.

“Just a rough day at work.” You explain “But I’ll be fine.”

“Oh Sweetheart…” Eddie pouts “Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need anything? A hug? Some kisses, perhaps? Maybe a back rub?”

“That sounds nice.” You hum, leaning into him “I could really use some attention. If you know what I mean.” You bat your eyelashes at him to further emphasize your point.

“Oh?” Eddie asks before it hits him “Oh.” A grin spreads across his face as his hands travel down to your ass, giving it an appreciative squeeze. “That can definitely be arranged.”

“Okay! Yup! I’m outta here! Let's go Jeff!” Gareth exclaims hurrying out of the garage as you watch in confusion. Jeff follows behind him, laughing his ass off before stopping in front of you and Eddie.

“Fair winds, Sailor.” He jokes, trying hard to keep a straight face “Enjoy your trip down your tunnel of looooove.”

He cackles even louder as Eddie flips him off, heading to catch up with Gareth who was surely already halfway down the block by now.

“What was that all about?” You ask, feeling completely confused and out of the loop before Eddie laughs, shaking his head.

“Nothing, baby.” He smiles, leaning in close to you “Now, where were we?”

By the time Eddie had unlocked his apartment door, the knot in your stomach had settled somewhere between anticipation and nerves. He cleared his throat as he pushed the door open, the keys jingling softly in his hand before he stepped aside to let you in.

A single lamp had been left on in the corner of the living room, bathing the apartment in a low amber glow that spilled across the dark hardwood floors. It didn’t take long to figure out why when little old Rocco lifted his head from the oversized dog bed tucked beside the couch, his ears perking up at the unfamiliar sound of your boots clicking against the floor.

You immediately crouched down as he wandered over at an unhurried pace, satin fabric sliding up your thighs.

“Well, hello there,” you murmured, offering him your hand.

Instead of sniffing it, Rocco immediately licked your fingers before happily pressing the side of his face into your palm, pulling a warm laugh from you.

“Oh, you’re just the cutest thing, aren’t you?”

Eddie had wandered into the small open kitchen, leaning comfortably against the handmade wooden island as he watched the two of you with an expression you couldn’t quite place when you looked at him from over your shoulder.

“He’s really sweet.”

His expression softened. “Yeah, he is.”

The room settled into another comfortable silence — less nerve-wracking than it had been only seconds earlier — while he pushed his tongue thoughtfully against the inside of his cheek, the corners of his mouth curling into a small smile before he finally turned towards one of the cupboards. Retrieving two heavy-bottomed glasses, he set them down on the wooden island with a soft clink before glancing back over his shoulder.

“So,” he said absentmindedly, “what’s your poison?”

“What’ve you got?”

You gave Rocco one last scratch behind the ears before pushing yourself upright and wandering over to the kitchen. The cool wood of the island pressed against your forearms as you leaned on it, quietly setting your bag down while watching Eddie move around the space with the kind of familiarity that only came from years of living there.

“Sweetheart,” the quiet scoff that he let out was followed by a low chuckle and a shake of his head as he reached into another cupboard. “I’m a musician and a bachelor.” He glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re better off asking me what I don’t have.”

The laugh that slipped from you had very little to do with the joke itself, and everything to do with the nickname.

Trying very hard not to smile like an idiot, you caught your lower lip between your teeth and quietly cleared your throat before releasing it again.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Mr. Bachelor.”

The soft clink of glass bottles filled the quiet as Eddie pulled a nearly empty bottle of whiskey from the cupboard.

His eyes found yours almost instantly when he turned back around. They lingered there for a moment before briefly drifting lower, stopping at the deep neckline of your dress on their way to the empty glasses waiting on the island.

You pretended not to notice — the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, however, immediately gave you away.

Leaning your forearms against the cool wooden countertop, you let your gaze wander around the apartment.

You’d been unsure of what to expect after essentially inviting yourself over, but the reality was a pleasant surprise. There was no sterile, minimalist white-and-grey void there, nor the cliché bachelor-pad aesthetic of crooked Playboy posters and scattered beer cans.

Eddie’s home felt genuinely lived-in. The wall of acoustic and electric guitars was a given, but the framed photos felt more personal than you'd anticipated, making the space feel distinctly his.

Your attention got pulled away by the sight of a pair of glass doors tucked behind the dark leather couch.

“You’ve got a balcony?”

“It was kind of a must when I went apartment hunting a few years ago,” Eddie replied, following your gaze. “Being a smoker, and Rocco having asthma… it just made sense.”

He poured the last of the whiskey into the two glasses before setting the bottle back down with a hollow thunk. Sliding one towards you, he picked up the other and glanced towards the balcony.

“Might as well put that requirement to good use.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you wrapped your fingers around the glass and followed him through the open living room. Rocco, who had joined you in the kitchen for a little while, padded lazily back towards his bed while Eddie slid the balcony door open, letting the warm summer air spill into the apartment.

Somewhere a few apartments over, one song faded into the next. The familiar opening notes of Witchy Woman by the Eagles drifted lazily through the night, blending with the distant hum of the traffic below.

Eddie settled into one of the worn patio chairs, his whiskey balanced on the armrest, while you wandered towards the railing instead. Resting your forearms against the cool metal, you let your gaze drift across the city stretching out beneath the skyline.

Tall buildings rose into the darkness, their windows glowing like scattered embers against the night. Warm streetlights pooled across the sidewalks below, mingling with some of the dark apartment windows while the occasional car rolled through the otherwise quiet neighbourhood.

“This is way better than staring into somebody’s kitchen,” you joked over your shoulder, only to find Eddie already watching you.

A smile tugged at your lips before you turned your attention back to the view, taking another slow sip of your whiskey.

When you turned fully back around, he’d set his glass down on the little table between the chairs. Reaching into the front pocket of his flannel, he pulled out the familiar pack of cigarettes and tapped one free before settling it between his lips. The lighter clicked once, and the small flame danced briefly between his hands before disappearing again, the end of the cigarette glowing a dull orange as he took the first drag.

His gaze remained lowered for another moment as he exhaled, the smoke curling lazily into the warm night air. Only then did his eyes slowly lift to yours. Eddie shot you a small smile from behind the filter of his cigarette before nodding towards the general direction of the song drifting through the night.

“Fitting song.”

You scrunched your nose at him, shooting him an exaggerated look over the rim of your glass.

“Witchy Woman?” you scoffed. “Is this your incredibly subtle way of calling me a witch?”

“I was thinking something more along the lines of…” He tilted his head, exhaling the smoke as he pretended to consider it. “…Mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me since I was, what? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“And yet here you are,” Eddie paused, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. The tip glowed as he took another slow drag, the escaping smoke catching the warm light spilling out from the apartment behind him. “Standing on my balcony and somehow not completely creeped out by all of this.”

His dark brown eyes met yours again.

“Like I said.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Mysterious.”

You looked down into your whiskey, a disbelieving smile finding its way onto your lips.

“You’re about the furthest thing from a creep,” you replied quietly. The thought that crossed your mind caught you so off guard that a soft chuckle escaped before you could stop it. “Mr. Munson.”

“Careful,” he said, glancing back up at you. “Keep calling me like that and I’m gonna start thinking you’ve got a thing for teachers.”

The smile you shot him over the rim of your whiskey glass was small and bashful, bordering on something almost teasingly knowing. When you didn’t answer — merely taking another slow sip instead — something seemed to click behind Eddie’s eyes.

“So you had a crush on me.”

Your mouth immediately fell open at the accusation. Turning your face away with a nervous chuckle, you squeezed your eyes shut for a brief, hopeless moment as you willed the embarrassment to melt away.

Eddie’s laughter only grew warmer. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He shook his head, smoke curling lazily into the night air. “Teenagers aren’t exactly subtle.”

You still hadn’t turned your face back towards him when Witchy Woman faded into Supersonic by Oasis, and from the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you saw the man visibly cringe when the wind carried Liam Gallagher’s voice over to the balcony.

The cigarette he’d been about to lift back to his lips paused halfway there as his head tilted ever so slightly, a fleeting thought crossing his mind before a chuckle escaped him.

“…Wait.” He looked at you, the teasing smile on his lips growing wider by the second. “Don’t tell me you dyed your hair red because you had a crush on me.”

“Why would I dye my hair your favourite—”

Your eyes widened as your brain finally caught up with your mouth, forcing the words to die on your tongue and a horrified laugh from you instead while your free hand immediately flew to your face.

“Oh my God.”

Eddie burst into laughter. It was warm and genuine, his shoulders shaking as he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray resting on the little table between the chairs.

“Oh, come on.” He shook his head, still laughing. “That’s kinda cute.”

“I am so throwing myself off your balcony,” you groaned, dragging your hand down the length of your face before finally forcing yourself to look back at him.

Still smiling, Eddie reached for the glass in your hand and set it down beside his own before quietly pushing himself to his feet. His hand, warm and calloused, found your waist as he came to a stop in front of you, his lips still curled into that same teasing smile.

“Please don’t,” he murmured, his free hand gently wrapping around your wrist before guiding it away from your face. “I’ve only just got you here.”

“You say that like you’ve been waiting a long time for this.” Your heart stumbled somewhere into your stomach as you whispered the words.

One corner of Eddie’s mouth lifted as he gave a small shrug. “Longer than I probably should admit.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, your hand was already reaching for the front of his flannel. The fabric felt soft beneath your fingertips as you curled them into it, gently tugging him the last few inches closer.

Still loosely holding your wrist, he guided your free hand upwards until your fingers settled against the back of his neck. His thumb lingered for a brief moment against your skin before he finally closed the distance between you, pressing his lips softly against yours for the second time that night.

Having Eddie’s lips on yours felt like your entire body suddenly woke up all at once.

Warmth spread quickly from your lips, blooming across your cheeks and trailing down your neck. Your heartbeat quickened with every slow brush of his tongue against yours, each lingering movement leaving you just a little more breathless until you found yourself instinctively leaning closer into him.

The warmth lingered long after he finally pulled away, his hands tightening ever so slightly around your waist as he guided your back flush against the balcony railing.

His dark brown eyes searched yours through lowered lashes while his thumbs lazily traced small circles against the satin covering your waist. His hands drifted down to your hips before finally settling against the small of your back.

A few rebellious greying curls had escaped the loose bun at the back of his head, brushing softly against your cheek as he leaned in. The tip of his nose grazed the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe before his lips followed, placing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck and drawing quiet, involuntary sounds from the back of your throat.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

Eddie’s breath fanned across your neck as he gave your skin a particularly hard suck, one of his hands trailing lower to grab at your ass.

Your pulse quickened as Eddie’s dark eyes stared straight into yours, his body slowly lowering as he trailed kisses against your clothed frame.

Eddie ducked his head, brushing his nose right against where the waistband of your panties sat, all the while he maintained eye contact like his life depended on it. His hands kneaded the soft fat of your ass, holding you close enough to feel the little silver hoop burying into your clothed stomach.

The faint feeling of his lips pulling into a grin made your pulse quicken. His pupils dilated as he trailed further down until finally reaching the hem of your dress. He ducked the tip of his nose under it, dragging his lips against the lacy fabric of your underwear as he pushed the satin fabric up. Eddie groaned almost approvingly, squeezing your ass as he buried the lower part of his face deeper into your soaked panties. Inhaling deeply as he relished in your tangy scent, he slowly began lapping at your clothed pussy with broad strokes of his tongue.

Eddie’s fingers twitched as he hesitantly let go of your ass to hook his thumbs under the lace, slowly dragging it down your legs as he helped you step out of them before pushing your soaked panties into his back pocket for good measure.

“Don’t be afraid to be loud,” he whispered huskily.

Without preamble, he dove in and spread your sticky folds apart with his nose, letting the warm night air hit your glistening pussy. A breathless groan escaped him as his lips sealed around your aching clit, giving you a hard, desperate suckle.

“A-ah!” Your breath hitched at the warm, slick texture of his tongue flicking against your clit.

Your fingers immediately curled tightly around the curls at the nape of his neck. Tugging hard and desperately at his hair, Eddie groaned against your slick folds. The vibrations made you gasp and buck your hips against his face, while his hands trailed up your legs and pushed the soft fabric of your dress away from his eyes. Surging forwards, he speared his tongue deep inside your leaking slit, pulling breathless cries and broken moans as he lapped at your dripping core.

Eddie alternated between thrusting his tongue into your leaking hole and flicking your sensitive clit with sharp licks, eyebrows narrowing in pleasure as he kept his eyes fixed on your twitching face.

Your eyebrows mirrored his, knitting tightly together while you tried to stop your eyes from rolling to the back of your head. Buckling your hips, you gave his roots another hard tug as you rolled your hips against his face, desperate for more.

“F-fuck, mis–”

Eddie chuckled darkly at your garbled attempt to address him, the rumble of laughter vibrating deliciously against your oversensitive clit. He let the bundle of nerves go with a wet pop, dragging the flat of his tongue down your slit in one, slow lick.

“C’mon, say it sweetheart.” He punctuated his words by diving back in, lips and tongue working feverishly as he lapped and suckled and thrusted his tongue in and out of you, coaxing you closer to the edge. “Lemme hear you say it.”

“M-mis–” you groaned and threw your head back in embarrassment. “Fuck. Mr. M-Munson.”

A groan escaped Eddie as he doubled down, alternating between forceful flicks and hard sucks. One hand drifted lower, fingers teasing your leaking slit before plunging knuckle-deep into your pussy, heavy silver ring hitting your weeping hole with every thrust he gave you.

“Let go f’me, sweetheart,” he urged roughly, curling his fingers and rubbing mercilessly at your slick walls.

His free hand pulled your leg over his shoulder, opening you up for him as he prodded your clit with the apex of his tongue. He sealed his lips around your throbbing button and sucked hard, making your thighs tremble and clench against his head.

Your jaw slacked and your lips were parted as you gushed out on his tongue, clawing your fingers and sinking your nails into his scalp. Eddie flattened his tongue against your cunt, nose buried deep into you as he moaned something that vaguely resembled your name.

Eddie shattered you with a choked cry spilling from your lips as you gushed onto his eagerly lapping tongue. He worked you through it, forcing you to keep taking every lick and suckle he gave you as he prolonged your climax until your trembling turned into hard twitching. He placed tender kisses along your inner thighs as he carefully removed his fingers and rose to his feet.

“There you go,” he murmured, pushing his stained fingers between your lips and pressing the digits against your tongue. “Fuck. You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Messy, desperate, and all for me.”

A whimper escaped from the back of your throat as you lapped at his fingers, licking him clean. Eddie wrapped his free arm around your twitching body, pulling you closer.

“Was that what you’d imagined, hm?” He asked slowly, trailing his eyes down to your lips as he hesitantly removed his fingers from your mouth. “What you wanted?”

His dark brown eyes searched your face intently. A smug grin creeped at Eddie’s lips when your teeth sunk into your lower lip.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured teasingly. “You’re a big girl now. Use your words.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him flush against your chest as you slanted your mouth over his instead of answering. He tasted faintly of the whiskey resting on the table behind him, mixed in with the remnants of your release — a heady combination that made your head spin even faster.

Breathless, you broke away and rested your forehead against his. “No.”

“No?” Eddie raised an eyebrow as he slowly pulled his forehead away to get a better look at you.

The brown of his eyes had nearly disappeared around his dilated pupils. Eddie held your jaw with both hands, thumbs digging into the soft plush of your cheeks as he tilted your head back.

“Tell me, sweetheart.” Eddie’s lips were warm and teasing as they trailed up and down your neck.

“I—” A nervous chuckle escaped you as you forced the words out. “I’ve always wanted you to bend me over your desk.”

His breath hitched at the breathless confession, lips frozen against your neck. Then, ever so slowly, the warm touch of his mouth against your silky skin disappeared as his eyes settled on your face. Eddie’s gaze fixed onto yours for a moment longer — overwhelming and heavy.

A harsh scoff escaped him before he abruptly turned you around and pushed you against the railing. One hand grasped your hip, guiding you to stick out your ass, while his other hand pushed your head towards the city lights twinkling below.

“What are you—”

“The railing will have to do,” he murmured as he fumbled with his zipper.

Eddie groaned low in his throat, pushing himself harder against you while the shameless confession echoed in his ears. His hand, heavy and calloused from all the years of playing guitar, held your ass flush against his crotch, hard ridges and desperate cravings at the mere idea of having his way with you.

The metallic sound of his belt clinking and the zipper sliding down were drowned by the erratic heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head when his cock finally sprang free from his boxers. The night air felt chilly against his silky skin, but was quickly replaced by the overheating touch of his hand as Eddie gave his cock a few impatient strokes.

He let go of your head and grabbed your shoulder instead. Then, with his other hand, he brought the thick ridge of his erection towards your slick folds.

Eddie rocked against you, teasingly coating himself in your release. His mouth fell open as he notched his swollen tip against your slit — slow and deliberate — then pulled at your shoulder and forced you to split yourself open on his cock.

Ass flushed against his hips, the blunt pressure of his heavy tip hitting your cervix punched the air straight out of your lungs and forced out a choked sound.

“Fucking hell,” Eddie gritted out, head thrown back and eyes squished shut. “You feel incredible. So fucking tight, like I knew you’d be.”

“F-fuck!”

He leaned down, chest pressed against your back, and nipped at the shell of your ear as he started to move. Withdrawal and entry, setting a steady rhythm that built quickly to a pounding cadence. The slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely in the night air, mingling with your strangled whimpers and cries of bliss.

Eddie’s free hand slid under the deep V neckline of your dress, easily finding your nipple and tweaking it between calloused fingers. The other let go of your shoulder and dipped lower, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Each snap of his hips drove you harder against the railing of his balcony. The cold metal bit into you, a delicious contrast to the heat of his body pressed against your back.

You let out a low whine at his words, pushing your hips back to meet his thrust, grinding against him. One arm dangled over the railing while the other slid around his neck, fingers burying in his unruly curls and pulling tight at the roots.

“That’s it, kid.” Eddie lowered his mouth again, tongue circling over the shell of your ear. “Make me proud, soak this fucking cock, baby—”

“F-fuck, Mr. Munson —”

The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter as he pistoned harder into you. Eddie angled his hips, seeking that perfect spot that would push you over the edge for the second time that night.

Your whole body felt like it was on fire as he kept thrusting his cock into you, fast and frantic.

Eddie felt the pleasure coiling in his gut threatening to snap at any moment, but he held back, determined to bring you with him while a bead of sweat clung at his temple. His hand moved faster over your clit, matching the frenzied pace of his hips.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunted out, voice rough with need. “Be a good fucking girl for me and come on my cock.”

With a final, powerful thrust, Eddie buried himself deep inside you. His release pulsed hot and thick, gushing out of your stuffed pussy while his hips jerked erratically as he rode out the waves of pleasure. Your walls clamped down around him, milking every last drop as your own orgasm crashed over you.

He collapsed against your back, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding against your skin. Letting go of your nipple, his hand reached for your jaw instead, turning your face just enough to capture your lips in a hungry kiss.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with satisfaction, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That was definitely worth the wait,” he whispered as he idly brushed his thumb against your lower lip.

Eddie pulled out after a long moment, a soft curse escaping his lips at the loss of your warm and slick walls engulfing him.

You were still a little dazed when you opened your eyes, blinking a few times to get your eyes used to the amber city lights. A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped you when the realisation finally hit — the ridiculously carefully chosen dress, the balcony railing cold against your stomach, Eddie staring at you equally wrecked and stunned as you felt.

Suddenly unable to look Eddie in the eyes, your gaze landed on your half-drunk glass of whiskey. Your manicured hand trembled as you reached for it, bringing the heavy-bottomed glass to your lips and tipping it back.

His dark brown eyes stayed fixed on you as he pulled his jeans back up over his hips. Eddie’s ringed hand paused at the zipper when he noticed your gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

“Did I— Are you okay?”

The question was gentle enough to make you finally look up at him again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. Your eyes fell back to the empty glass in your hand. “Just… processing.”

Eddie swiped the tip of his tongue across his lower lip as he took a step towards you. his hands reached slowly for your arms, sliding gently up and down them.

“You wanna talk about it over some breakfast?”

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you considered his question for a moment.

You let Eddie gently pull the empty glass from your hand and watched him set it down on the table.

His touch was warm against your cheek when he turned back towards you, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he waited patiently for your answer.

“I don’t know…” you murmured, although the nervousness quickly gave way to an amused smile. “I’m not sure I can face Rocco after scarring him with our… extracurriculars.”

“Extracurriculars?” Eddie snorted. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You shrugged, finally meeting his eyes, your lips still curled into an amused smile. “I’m trying to be classy.”

“Nothing classy about fucking your former high school teacher on his balcony, sweetheart.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“We just had sex on your balcony.” Your gaze drifted towards the railing behind you. “People have balconies across the street.”

“You didn’t seem particularly concerned about that five minutes ago.”

Eddie’s hand slid down your arm and reached for yours instead, linking your fingers together. He gave them a soft squeeze before tipping his head towards the open doors to the living room.

“Come,” he murmured, the smile still tugging at his lips. “I bet you’ve dreamt a few times about seeing my bedroom.”

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smut marked with *

for the complete gross!eddie masterlist, click right here!

for the complete older!eddie masterlist, click right here!

Spring Break & Midnight Campfires* (eddie x f!reader) | 7k+ | a party at Lovers Lake to kick off Spring Break –  crackling firelight, music debates, shared smokes, and touches that don’t feel accidental.

Dubious Pizza Orders & Head Scratches* (bff!eddie x bff!fem!reader) | 6k+ | your best friend eddie hates your pizza order but he doesn't hate you<3

I’m Not Your Buddy* (eddie x fem!reader) | 3.9k+ | You know that TikTok trend where you call your partner a "friend" to see their reaction? Yeah… Eddie wasn't too happy about that

Pool Cues & Crossed Lines* (eddie x fem!reader) | 4.8k | after three months of listening to your best friend brag about the size of his dick, you finally decide to call his bluff |(friends to lovers)

Rituals For The Restless* (apprentice!eddie X witch!fem!reader) | finished please see individual posts for tags/tw's A burned out witch leaves her spiritually stagnant life and moves into Forest Hills Trailer Park, hoping for a fresh start. An unexpected connection with her metalhead neighbour begins pulling her towards something softer, and possibly life-changing. series spotify playlist

Between Yawns & 3 am Confessions (eddie x fem!reader) | fluff | on going Every family has a photo album – and this is how the Munson's filled theirs.

(Do)n't Drink and Add (former!hs!teacher!eddie x mid20s!fem!reader) | on going please see individual posts for tags/tw's In your defence, you had too many birthday shots when you accidentally added your former high school music teacher on Facebook.

Extra Credit: House Calls* (eddie x inexperienced!fem!reader) | finished please see individual chapters for tags/tw's in Hawkins, Indiana, the infamous Eddie Munson is followed by a secret, and girls slip by his place for reasons no one dares to speak about. (loosely inspired by the kissing scene in the 2008 film 'Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging') series spotify playlist

Still Stings, Still Works | coming soon...

Your feet ached from the heels you’d squeezed yourself into earlier that night, your mascara had probably migrated somewhere around your cheekbones, and your fingers hit backspace more than any other key as you stumbled through half-coherent replies to anyone Facebook had reminded to wish you a happy birthday.

By the time you’d made it through the seemingly endless stream of notifications, you decided it was time for your annual reminder on why you never opened the app for anything besides this exact task.

It was nearing three-thirty in the morning, and you’d been telling yourself you were getting off the couch and going to bed for the last ten minutes without making any real effort to move. Instead, your thumb kept scrolling despite your better judgement, your brain pleasantly fuzzy from one too many birthday shots.

And then you froze, thumb hovering over the cracked screen as Facebook loaded another section.

People You May Know

Normally, you would’ve scrolled right past it without a second thought. This time, however, you didn’t when a particular profile made your brain grind to a complete halt.

You had no idea whether it was actually true or just one of those Facebook myths people swore by, but you’d once hear that the profiles showing up under People You May Know had looked at yours recently.

And if that was true, why the hell had your former high school music teacher been looking at your profile?

Your fuzzy eyes narrowed at the tiny profile picture. There was no mistaking the familiar mess of curls, now streaked with silver, or the faint stubble he’d never really grown back when he used to pace the front of the music room with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder.

Eddie Munson.

Or rather Mr. Munson. At least, that’s what you’d spend four years calling him.

For a ridiculous second, you simply stared. Then, before your drunken brain had the chance to think better of it, your thumb tapped the add friend button.

Waking up with a raging headache – the kind you’d never seemed to get back when you were sixteen – was easily the worst gift your twenty-fifth birthday had given you.

Well, the second worst – because the first was the particular notification waiting for you on your lock screen when you reached over to silence your blaring alarm.

God, no.

No, no, no.

Your stomach dropped and the only thing you could do was stare at it until your phone’s screen dimmed and went black. And then you tapped the screen, and stared a little longer.

Yeah, you were never, ever drinking again.

Warm sunlight spilled through the gap in your curtains, illuminating the mess you’d made at four in the morning when you’d finally stumbled into your bedroom before collapsing face-first onto your mattress.

Instead of throwing back the comforter and begrudgingly cleaning up the hurricane that had swept through your room, you let yourself flop back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Maybe if you stared hard enough, it’d crumble into big, heavy chunks and put you out of your misery. No such luck, unfortunately.

Your stomach, however, had decided to punish you instead.

One second you were lying perfectly still. The next, you were bolting upright and sprinting towards the bathroom, shoving strands of hair away from your face with one hand while still clutching your phone in the other.

The few blissful seconds of silence were interrupted by the sound of your buzzing against the tiled floor, and then once again.

“Please, God,” you groaned after flushing the toilet, letting your head fall back against the cool wall. “I am begging you. Just kill me.”

It was fine. Everything was alright.

The buzzing was probably Hayley flooding your phone with blurry pictures of the night before. Or maybe it was the cute guy you’d given your number to a couple of weeks ago finally deciding to text you.

You didn’t actually want to know.

As long as you didn’t look, there was still a microscopic chance last night’s Facebook-induced humiliation had been nothing more than an alcohol-fuelled hallucination.

Your phone buzzed three more times before the screen faded back to black once again, only to light back up when it started ringing. This, at least, was something you could handle. Answering the phone didn’t require unlocking the screen, and as long as you didn’t unlock it, Mr. Munson technically hadn’t accepted your friend request. That was how it worked, right? Probably.

Hopefully.

“Kill me, Hayley,” you whimpered as you swiped to answer the call.

“Only if you kill me too,” she mumbled back, her voice barely audible over the constant rustling on the other end of the line. “I just sent you the pictures, by the way.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please tell me I don’t look cross-eyed in half of them.”

“…The sun is shining today,” she said eventually.

“Fucking hell.” You sighed, already knowing exactly what that meant.

“Listen–”

“I did something so fucking stupid, Hayley,” you groaned before you could stop yourself.

“Oh, no.” You could practically picture her pinching the bridge of her nose even before you told her what you had done. “What did you do this time?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

The line fell quiet for a few seconds before Hayley let out a long, suffering sigh followed by your name.

“Spill. Now.”

Suddenly, the tiny spiderweb tucked away in the corner of the bathroom ceiling looked infinitely more interesting than continuing this conversation.

“I… added my old high school music teacher on Facebook last night,” you admitted eventually.

“The hot one?”

“Hayley.”

Then your phone lit up with a FaceTime request. You briefly considered declining it, turning your phone off, and moving to a different continent. Because you just knew Hayley was going to make you share your screen and open the godforsaken blue app.

Against your better judgement, you answered anyway.

Hayley took one look at you and grimaced. “Jesus, you look like absolute dog shit.”

“Thank you, Hayley,” you deadpanned. “I feel like it too.”

“I told you not to order those extra shots.”

“Yeah, well…” You pushed yourself off the bathroom floor with a groan. “You didn’t exactly stop me either.”

Every muscle in your body protested as you shuffled over to the sink, twisting the tap open before splashing cold water over your face. While you reached for glass and filled it with some water, Hayley dragged you on an impromptu tour of her apartment ceiling as she wandered from one room to the next. The microphone crackled a few times as she propped her phone against something on the kitchen counter before pulling open the fridge.

“Share your screen. I wanna see him,” she commanded, scanning the shelves for something to eat before deciding she had absolutely nothing and swinging the door shut again.

“No.”

“Share. Your. Screen.”

You stared at your phone with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“Or I’m posting one of last night’s pictures on Instagram.” She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. “The one where you’re cross-eyes and practically flashing your panties.”

“I was what–” You squeezed your eyes shut and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Fuck.”

Never in your life had you unlocked your phone so fast.

Screw Hayley for making your life a living hell, screw drunk-you for putting you in this situation, and while you were at it, screw Mark Zuckerberg and his stupid fucking app too.

As the screen-sharing countdown ticked from three, you swiped through your home screen until you found the blue icon.

Facebook opened to an E! News post about the latest celebrity breakup, followed by a collection of AI-generated images people had somehow decided were worthy of sharing on their stories. Your thumb hovered uncertainly over the bottom of the screen, caught somewhere between the Friends and Notifications tabs.

Then your eyes drifted upwards when you noticed a little red bubble sitting in the top-right corner of the screen.

“…No.”

“What?” Hayley frowned. “What happened?”

“Someone messaged me,” you whispered, your eyes glued to the notification as though looking away might somehow make it disappear.

“Open it.” Hayley’s face lit up from the tiny FaceTime window in the corner of your screen.

“Absolutely not.”

“What if it’s him?” she gasped, leaning closer to her own screen. “Come on, open it already!”

“Are you absolutely insane?” you whisper-shrieked, sounding more like a teenager sneaking a late-night phone call after bedtime than a twenty-five year old woman standing barefoot in her own bathroom. “What if it is him?”

“Exactly!” Hayley exclaimed. “Click on it!”

Your thumb slowly drifted towards the upper-right corner of the screen, hovering over the little red messenger bubble for far too long.

“Do it,” Hayley urged.

Biting your lip, you swallowed around the pounding heartbeat lodged somewhere in your throat and tapped the messenger icon.

One new conversation sat at the very top of the list. Your heart immediately sank somewhere into your stomach as your eyes landed on the name.

Eddie Munson

“Holy fucking shit,” you whispered.

“What?” Hayley breathed, immediately perking up. “Is that him?”

You didn’t bother answering. Your thumb hovered over his name for another second before you decided ripping the band-aid off all at once was better than dragging it out any longer. So, before you could talk yourself out of it again, you tapped the conversation.

The first message had been sent a little after eight in the morning.

Happy birthday! Hope you had a good one.

You stared at it for a moment. It was… completely harmless. Friendly, even. Perfectly normal.

And yet, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen just enough for you to take a breath as your eyes drifted to the second timestamp – sent two hours later.

Did you end up going to Arizona after graduation? How’s that treating you?

“There’s…” Your voice caught in your throat. “There’s two.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Hayley replied dryly.

“Shut up.”

“Did you tell him you were going to Arizona?”

“I-I guess?” You frowned. “I don’t even remember.”

Hayley stared at you for another second before pointing an accusing finger at your screen.

“He remembers where you went to college,” she said, a smug, knowing look slowly creeping across her face. “You graduated, what? Seven years ago?”

“I know.”

“And he remembers.”

“Yes, Hayley.” You rubbed a hand over your face. “I can see that.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Had it not been for the occasional crackle in the call or a passing car, you could’ve sworn the connection had frozen. Then Hayley smiled – not just any smile, but that slow, knowing smile that immediately made you suspicious.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“You’re thinking loud enough.”

“So…” she drawled, folding her arms across her chest with infuriating satisfaction. “Are we gonna answer him, or what?”

“We? We aren’t doing anything.” You looked at her as though she’d completely lost her mind. “I’m deleting Facebook, changing my name, and moving to Antarctica.”

Hayley snorted. “Oh, please. Stop being so dramatic.”

“What am I supposed to say?” you continued, exasperated. “‘Thanks! I had a great birthday. nearly drank myself to death and accidentally added you. Arizona was a complete shitshow, but I survived. I’m back in Indiana now, though. Wanna grab a drink?’”

Hayley’s face contorted as an unimpressed expression spread over as your rambling finally came to an end. You took a shaky breath, completely failing to ignore the twitch that had started somewhere around your left eye.

“Well,” she said after a moment, thoughtfully scratching her chin. “Yeah. But maybe not with those exact words.”

The mirror reflected your wide-eyed panic right back at you as you chewed on you lower lip, desperately trying to gather your thoughts. With a quick swipe, you shoved Hayley’s little FaceTime window into the corner of the screen, sparing her from watching you actively unravel in your own bathroom.

Leaving the bathroom light glowing behind you, you hurried down the narrow hallway towards the kitchen. Hayley snorted at your theatrics before mumbling something about coffee sounding good herself.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say?” you muttered, setting your phone beside the grumbling machine before grabbing your favourite mug from the cupboard.

“Just be normal about it.” She shrugged as though that were the easiest thing in the word. “You’re a fully grown woman. Stop overreacting.”

You shot her a look. “Weren’t you the one having a complete meltdown last week because that hot guy spam-liked your Instagram?”

“Well… Yes.” She scratched absentmindedly at her temple, suddenly finding something very interesting on the ceiling. “But that was last week. Besides, we’re not talking about me.”

The porcelain mug clinked softly against the countertop as you set it down before pulling open one of the kitchen drawers and fishing out the emergency pack of cigarettes hidden behind a pile of takeaway menus.

Normally, you’d have been firmly against smoking indoors. It wasn’t the eighties anymore, and your plants certainly hadn’t signed up for second-hand smoke. Today, however, they were just going to have to deal with it.

The stove clicked a few times before blue flames bursts to life. You held the cigarette over the burner for a moment before the tip glowed orange. Turning the gas back off, you took a long drag, letting the bitter smoke settle in your lungs before slowly exhaling towards the extractor fan.

“What do I say?” you asked after a long moment, defeated as you leaned against the small kitchen island.

Your eyes drifted back to the open conversation. Just two, harmless messages, that was all – so why did it feel like you were about to sit an exam you hadn’t studied for?

“Why are you asking me?” Hayley frowned.

“Weren’t you the one who literally just said ‘are we answering him, or what?’”

Hayley glanced off to the side as if she were a character on The Office silently acknowledging an invisible camera before looking back at you and offering an entirely unapologetic shrug.

“Just…” She waved a hand. “I don’t know. ‘Hey! Thank you, Mr. Munson. How have you been?’ Keep it simple.”

“God, no.” You grimaced. “That sounds so lame.”

“Then why did you ask for my help?” Hayley sighed. “Seriously, though. Why are you freaking out so much?”

You let out a long breath, staring down at the cigarette between your fingers.

“Because–” You grimaced at the memory. “I used to fantasise about marrying him when I was fifteen.”

Hayley blinked at her phone before barking out a laugh so hard it made your speaker crackle.

“Damn. Was he that hot?” she snorted, her face twisting into something between disbelief and amusement. “I wish I’d had hot teachers in high school.”

You rolled your eyes, an exhausted sigh escaping you as you flicked the ash into the sink before reaching for your phone again. Without really thinking about it, you reopened Facebook and tapped the search bar.

The first thing you noticed when you tapped on his name was the ridiculous number of followers underneath his name. The second was the short bio sitting directly beneath it.

No, I won’t teach you how to play Wonderwall.

Your thumb drifted to his profile picture before pinching the screen apart.

“…Jesus Christ,” Hayley whispered. “I feel pregnant just looking at him.”

His hair, now threaded with streaks of dark grey, had been pulled back into a messy ponytail while a few stubborn curls framed the sides of his face. A fitted black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, one hand raised in the air with a beer bottle caught between ringed fingers while a cigarette rested carelessly between his smiling lips. The picture had clearly been taken at some backyard barbecue or summer party, all golden evening light and blurry figures in the background, but somehow the camera had still managed to capture the same crooked grin you remembered from high school.

“Imagine how I felt every Thursday when I was going through puberty.”

“Oh, I can imagine.” Hayley leaned so close to her phone that she was practically trying to climb through the screen. “Yeah, no. Don’t send what I told you to send.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence while the coffee machine became the only thing filling the room, steadily dripping dark coffee into the glass pot below.

“Okay.” Hayley finally broke the silence. “Just answer what he asked.”

Your teeth found your lower lip as you swiped back to the messenger app.

Hey! Thanks, I had a great birthday :)

Yeah, I did go to

Your thumb froze when three little dots appeared at the bottom of the conversation.

“Oh, no.”

It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared, but neither you nor Hayley moved, both of you staring at the screen as though willing it to make up its mind. And then it came back.

“Just send it!” Hayley shrieked.

It took your thumbs another couple of seconds to cooperate, but eventually you managed to finish the message.

Hey! Thanks, I had a great birthday :)

Yeah, I did go to Arizona for a few years! I’m actually back in Indiana now. How have you been?

You hit send.

Then immediately locked your phone and tossed it onto the countertop. The screen was already cracked, one more wouldn’t make much of a difference.

“Hey! Did you just lock your phone?”

“I can’t look at it,” you whispered, grabbing the coffee pot and pouring yourself an entirely unreasonable amount into your mug. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

The phone buzzed against the countertop, and you froze all over again.

“Oh, God.”

“Did he answer?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know, Hayley! It buzzed!”

Despite every instinct screaming at you not to, you slowly reached for your phone again.

And Eddie’s name was nowhere to be seen on your locked screen. Instead, an Instagram notification of Hayley tagging you in a picture stared back at you.

“Well?”

“No, it was just you tagging me on Instagram.”

“Oh! Did it finally upload?” She tapped at her own screen. “Can you like it and comment? I don’t want it to flop.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath. “Sure, give me a sec.”

You took one last drag of your cigarette before putting it out beneath the running tap, watching the last curl of smoke disappear down the drain. With a quiet sigh, you tapped on the Instagram notification. Contrary to what you’d expected, Hayley had actually posted a cute picture of the two of you.

It had been taken early on in the evening, long before the three dozen shots you’d somehow managed to split between the two of you and a handful of your other friends. Your hair still looked good, your makeup hadn’t yet started melting off your face, and the smile you’d flashed at the camera was an effortless one.

The dress had done your boobs a lot of favours, too, without making it look like you’d been trying too hard.

“…I actually look pretty cute.”

“I know,” Hayley grinned. “I have an eye for these things.”

You double-tapped the picture without hesitation before typic out a quick ugh!!!! i love you!!!! thank you for the best birthday EVA and shared it to your own story for good measure.

The little black box reading Added to story had barely disappeared when another notification slid onto your screen.

Taking advantage of Hayley being too distracted liking and replying to every comment under her new post, you quickly swiped the Messenger notification away before you had the chance to read it and dwell on it and spiral all over again.

Not long after, Hayley mumbled something about hanging up to run a handful of errands she’d been putting off all week, making you promise to keep her updated on what she enthusiastically dubbed your sexy teacher romance – as though there would be any, but you promised anyway.

The second the FaceTime call disconnected, your apartment fell into a deafening silence.

You spent the rest of the afternoon doing everything in your power to pretend Facebook Messenger didn’t exist.

You folded the laundry that had been sitting in the basket for nearly two weeks, watered the plants lining your windowsill, vacuumed the living room, and even answered the handful of work emails you’d been deliberately ignoring since Thursday afternoon.

Every now and then your phone buzzed, and every time your heart leapt into your throat. Eventually, the constant anticipation became so exhausting that you gave up and switched your phone on Do Not Disturb.

By the time evening rolled around, you’d almost convinced yourself you’d stopped thinking about him.

A rerun of Pretty Little Liars played quietly in the background while you curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs, your phone resting lazily in one hand as you absentmindedly scrolled through Instagram.

You’d been at it for nearly ten minutes before remembering the picture Hayley had posted earlier that morning, and curiosity got the better of you.

Tapping on your own profile, you opened your story and swiped up to see who had viewed it and liked it. The usual names filled the list – your mom, Hayley, a few old college friends.

Then your thumb stopped.

@ metalmunson

There was no way–

He hadn’t actually searched for you on Instagram, had he?

Before you could second-guess yourself, you tapped on the profile, and your breath caught all over again.

The first thing greeting you was a carousel of photos. The opening picture was a black and white close-up of him onstage, singing into a microphone with a guitar slung over his shoulder. Bright stage lights glowed behind him, silhouetting the familiar outline of his curls, tied back into a ponytail, and a silver earring dangling from one ear.

Jesus. You’d completely forgotten about the collection of earring he’d swap between every other week.

Tapping the picture, you swiped through the rest of the carousel. The remaining photos were a mixture of candid backstage moments, blurry concert shots, and moody, artistic pictures that somehow didn’t feel nearly as pretentious as they probably should have,

His profile wasn’t carefully curated in the slightest. Instead, it was filled with pictures of friends, the occasional beer, ironic mirror selfies captioned with things like am I doing this selfie thing right?, more guitars than any one person reasonably needed to own, and an alarming number of photos of the same scruffy dogs.

Apparently his name was Rocco and he’d been adopted from an animal shelter on one of Eddie’s trips back to his hometown, according to a post from 2021.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you continued scrolling.

Then your thumb slipped.

Before you had the time to register what had happened, a bright red heart appeared beneath the blurry concert photo posted all the way back in September of 2020.

“No, no, no.”

Your thumb immediately darted towards the heart before hovering uselessly above it. Even if you removed the like, he’d probably already seen the notification.

“…Fuck.”

You let your hand fall into your lap with a defeated groan. Someone needed to put you in a conservatorship immediately and permanently confiscate your phone before you embarrassed yourself any further.

Dragging a hand down the lower half of your face, you stared at the cracked screen in complete disbelief.

It was fine. Everything was fine. He’d liked your picture first. The picture of you and Hayley. The very one where your dress hugged your boobs just enough to make them look fantastic without crossing into trying way too hard territory. That had to count for something, right?

So, really – you were even. Kinda.

But still, a picture from 2020? Seriously?

Your attention drifted to one of the deeper cracks running across your phone screen, silently wondering whether it was possible to simply dissolve into the couch cushions and never resurface.

Then your phone buzzed.

metalmunson started following you.

You’d already dug your own grave; you might as well climb in and bury yourself at this point.

And so, with a resigned sigh, you tapped the blue Follow back button.

Following

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"I'm sorry!" he cries. "I must've given Spider-Man the cloning vial on accident! I didn't check. Please, please, please don't tell Dr. Banner, I need this lab."

"Well, Spider-Man's panicking at eight a.m. on a Sunday, so you better find a way to get me a contact release for Banner, or you can kiss that letter of rec goodbye," you hiss, too irate to bother with his pleading before hanging up.

And alright, you might've been a little mean, but some RAs would smite his ass on the spot the moment he owned up to it. In the grand nuthouse of academia, giving him a second chance to fix Peter is equivalent to a blanket pardon.

Plus, anyone with common sense would know he wouldn't fire that kid anyway—he'd just read the extra report you're going to write and hum about the mishap being good for science.

The Peter burying his head into your stomach groans, rubbing his face against your shirt for good measure before flicking his eyes up. Tar black. You should've known. "Mm, I like it when you're mean."

"Wha' the fu..." The head on your shoulder lifts up. Relief blooms in your chest at the earnest, brown eyes with visible sclera blearily blinking down at you. A languid smile plays on his lips. "Morning, angel."

Then Human-Peter's gaze slides over to his naked, identical, arachnid self wrapping his entire body around your legs. "Okay, what the fuck—"

//

"Does he have to be...here?"

Peter frowns at the ceiling, where the Arachnid is crouching and peering down at you both, black eyes fixed on what you think is Peter's cereal.

At least Arachnid-Peter has some clothes on, even if he's still shirtless and only opted for a pair of Juicy Couture track pants that you're too tired to ask the origin of.

"He's harmless," you say, turning your attention back to your computer. Dr. Banner's digital research reports run across the screen: cloning trial 112, selective mutual suppression of expressed traits, effects lasted 10 hours before cell fusion, little side effects observed.

What the fuck was he trying to study?

"You heard her, I'm harmless," Arachnid-Peter goads. A smirk threatens upon his lips. "And why am I up here? I think I'm the real Peter, y'know. The one deep inside me."

The man across from you throws his hands up, brow furrowed with indignance. "The hell you aren't—"

"—The hell I am—"

"—Both of you are Peter, alright?" You huff and slam your laptop closed with a little more force than necessary. The two of them clamp their mouths shut, which is the first reprieve you've had all morning. "You're just expressing different traits unique to each body, so if Arachnid can shoot webs, Human-Peter can't."

The Arachnid tips his head to the side, black eyes all glassy and unblinking. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't just a little endearing to see that some behaviors still prevail.

A thin smile gradually spreads over his face. "That just proves I'm the real Spider-Man."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Human-Peter's chair scrapes and stutters against the hardwood floor as he pushes up, jaw ticking.

"If you hit each other, you'll end up with double the bruises when you merge back," you say, not even bothering to gaze upon your headache of a boyfriend.

...Boyfriends? Whatever, they're two halves of the same body, and they will be joined as one sooner or later.

Peter—the human one, because you can differentiate his boyish, earnest tone from the arachnid's more charming, confident one—mumbles curiously, "Wait, would that be like body horror?"

"Don't even go there," you sigh, dragging your hands down your face.

"That's too bad," Arachnid drawls with an audible smirk, "It would've been sick, dude."

And the weekend progresses somewhat normally, if having a pair of clones helping you with chores in your studio while you type up a lab report on the couch can ever be considered normal.

Then again, you live in New York City—aka the number one hotspot for alien invasions and enhanced individuals who can read minds and walk up walls. Nobody is fucking normal here.

"I know he's your Peter," the Arachnid confesses when his human side steps out to grab your things from the laundry room. Carefully, like he doesn't want to scare off some prey cowering in a bush, he moves your laptop away and gently lays his head on your thighs.

Fingers card through his hair, identical to the soft curls you're so familiar with. It's like his spine unlocks at the touch, shoulders visibly dropping as he settles.

Voice muffled by your thigh, he continues: "I was just teasing him. He still lets me out, but I don't get to see you a lot."

The space between your lungs aches. It's one thing when Peter gets vulnerable with you, but it's another when he's raw and honest and out of his body like this. There's a little line you can draw between his human and spider facets, dividing intent from instinct, restraint from reason.

You cup his cheek and tilt his face up. He's glum, dark eyes at half-mast, lower lip jutting out a little in that pout you know so well. Who knew that his sulky side is enhanced by the spider DNA?

"You're my Peter, too." Leaning down, you press your lips to his forehead, scratch your nails behind his ear. He only makes the softest, vibrating sounds from deep in his throat. Against his warm skin, you murmur, "I love you both."

Things get a little hazy from then on. Peter is stealing hungry breaths between open-mouthed kisses, pushing you to lay lengthwise on the cushions, powerful legs caging your hips. Hands wander from shoulders to waist, then back up to your face.

Like he's trying to memorize you for himself. Like he knows he'll be locked away inside the other Peter, and he needs this to tide him through the long stretches of dormancy.

The possessiveness loosens some snarling thing in your chest. Heat crawls up your body, spreading through muscles and arteries, then circling back to coil low in your stomach.

You think he might be purring when he starts blazing a line of kisses down your neck. Chests pressed flush to each other, broad hands keeping you steady so he can suck a mark over your collarbone.

He alternates between licking, pecking, and nipping. As he inhales the scent of your skin, he reaches beneath your shirt, slides his fingers up your back, presses the divots between each vertebrae as if he wants to live there, curled around and around your spine.

"Man, c'mon," he whines, but it's not the one clinging to you like a koala. Human-Peter sets down the basket of clean clothes by the door, pads over, and pulls the Arachnid's head up by his hair. "You couldn't wait until tonight?"

"Don't act like you haven't been thinking about it," Arachnid-Peter grumbles, face twisting in apprehension. Incisors flash, a touch sharper than you remember them being. "Maybe we should say I couldn't wait until tonight?"

They both click their tongues at the same time.

The mutual touché is soon forgotten. Softness yields to confidence, confidence yields to softness. Human-Peter helps you make quick work of your shorts and underwear, while his Arachnid self pads over to the bed and stretches supine across the sheets, all soft and low-lidded.

You climb on top of him, splaying your hands over the smooth skin and rigid muscle of his chest, then trailing down to dip beneath his waistband. Head dipping back, the taut line of his throat vibrates in a low hum.

"Lift your hips, Peter."

Pools of black blink at you. The corners of his eyes soften, and his sharp smile melts into something more pliant, sullen. He obeys, letting you drag the velvety fabric down—over his v-line, the thickness of his thighs.

Knees dip into the mattress. Sit your bare cunt on the bulge growing in his briefs, lay your chest on his. He looses the quietest of moans, twisting his fingers in the hem of your shirt, "Fuck."

"Working hard?" Human-Peter drags his fingertips across your lower back. The touch surprises you, makes your mouth go dry, makes you grind your hips down hard onto cotton. "Or hardly working?"

Your boyfriend scrapes his lips down your nape, across your shoulder. You think he's making some very pointed eye contact with himself (probably communicating something along the lines of behave) before he slips his fingers into the gusset of your panties and strokes through your wetness.

You can't help but to hump your clit against the Peter beneath you, seeking any stimulation, seeking the stretch of his long fingers filling your slick pussy.

"I think she's hardly working," remarks the Arachnid. Miffed, you scoot up and rub yourself over the head of him. Lick a messy stripe up his jugular. He chokes out a moan, cutting off his cocky smile. "Shit, you're mean."

"Wanna work a little harder?"

You falter at the first breach of Peter's fingers. Two of them, more skilled than your own, sliding in with tangible restraint and curling just so.

The loud whine that escapes you would be borderline embarrassing if it weren't for how desperate you are. You know Peter's got some weird mating-pheromonal thing going on with his biology, but you didn't expect it to hit so hard now that you're seeing double.

Burying your face in Arachnid-Peter's neck, you arch your back for a better angle. Slick sounds sync with each rock of his fingers, stretching out your pussy, teasing that sweet spot to make sparks fly up your spine.

He draws out one reaction after another. Trapped between two bodies, time goes viscous and honey-slow. You don't know how long you've been clamping down on his fingers, or riding the stiff tent in his briefs and leaving a pool of shine on the soft cotton.

The Peter beneath you is panting, pawing at the hem of your shirt, rucking it up your back and over your tits so your skin can be flush to his. He holds you close; the softest whimpers grace your temple, and his throat works furiously the more you grind onto him.

"Fuck, fuck," he sighs, fingers digging into your hips, "so wet—'s too much, I can't, baby—"

He's throbbing, warmth blooming beneath your soaked folds. Hips jerking up, head turning to muffle a strangled, wet moan into the pillow. Peter babbles, hiccups around your name like some bastardized prayer as his other self plunges his fingers into you.

You cum like that, but it's gentle and leaves you with a tepid kind of afterglow. It's not the overstimulated burn you still crave. Not the prize to satiate the need gnawing at you.

"Please, please, wanna feel," you moan.

Bunching the collar of your shirt, guiding your tense arms out of the short sleeves, wrestling it over your head. He pulls you back down, the jackrabbit rhythm of his heartbeat naked to you as he grabs two handfuls of your ass and grinds you into the cum soaking his briefs.

"Mm, can smell how wet you are."

And as above, so below. Human-Peter leans close and licks a pearl of sweat dripping down the line of your back. His free hand wanders, finds a path between his other body and yours to roll his callused fingers over a nipple.

You push your hips back with another soft moan. It's not enough. Your stomach is in knots but you just keep getting worked up with no end in sight. You don't think this will be enough, not when he's still hard beneath you, not when you haven't been filled in the way you need.

"Use your words, angel." You can't tell which Peter is saying it. You only know hot breath on your cheek, thick fingers in your cunt, the dampness between your legs.

"Need you," is the whiny hiccup. You're weak for it. "Fuck, Peter—want you, need it so bad."

"What is it?" For a boyfriend who pouts when you're too busy working on a report to scratch his head, he surely has the patience of a saint in bed.

Frustration bubbles beneath your skin as your concentration breaks, orgasm flitting away. "Please," you sob, nails making indents into Arachnid-Peter's biceps, "please, just want you inside, wanna feel you for days—"

Your world, narrowed down to the breathless space between two unyielding bodies, jolts. Arachnid-Peter is shucking his soaked briefs off, blushing down to his fucking chest and muttering, need to feel you, so wet, so soft.

He reaches down and spreads your pussy, so your clit can glide up and down the thick vein running along the underside of his cock. He grips you at the nape, holding your wet, open maw over his to share breaths.

Human-Peter groans at the sight, and the mattress shifts as he prepares himself. Pretty girl, sweet girl is what you make from the dazed mutters pouring out of his lips, just as the hot, slick tip of him runs through your fluttering seam.

You can't help the raw, needy whine you make. Awareness is smudgy except for the feel of sweat and skin and throbbing and the pleasant burn of him stretching you open.

He bottoms out with the softest of grunts in his chest. Still, it echoes and fills your studio. Bounces around your chest for that visceral, snarling thing in you to bat at. You want to keep it. You want to keep him.

Peter must know that you're at the end of your line. "Behave."

You don't wait for him to move. Your baser instincts take over.

Mindlessly, you rut against the length of Arachnid-Peter, twitching clit tracing the pulsing vein and causing your slick walls to drag over Human-Peter's cock.

There's a pitched gasp caught halfway in his throat before his hands fly to your hips and slams into you so hard that you skid up the bed. A whine burns through you at how rough he is, at how it scratches this possessive, feral part of your system.

He fucks you like this: ass arched into the air, skin raw from the harshness of his thrusts, clit jumping with every ragged pulse running through his Arachnid self's cock.

The head of it drags in the tight space between your naked stomachs, where skin is sticky with the remnants of his orgasm. The Arachnid's arms wrap tight around you, unwilling to compromise, unwilling to breathe unless his ribs can feel yours. He's done with restraint, letting out streams of helpless little sounds with each jerk of your hips.

Finally, your gut draws tight. There's a low, helpless keen building between your lungs as you're bullied toward the precipice.

You think you might be saying things, like please, and so close, and god, fuck Peter, don't stop baby (to both, or neither in particular)—

You have one last burst of alertness, and you use it trying to find Arachnid-Peter's mouth and drown your sounds in him. Instead, you find his dark eyes fluttering, brow pinched in that fucked-out expression you know so well.

And then you note the rhythm of his heaving sternum: short inhale, then a long exhale tinged with whiny, sensitive sounds. The tide swells in your nerves, and Human-Peter curses behind you.

It isn't even the pleasure that does you in, or the closeness, or the raw, humiliatingly lewd squelch of your boyfriend driving into you from behind.

It's the sight of tears gathering on Peter's eyelashes. One has escaped already, dribbling down his cheek with a slight glimmer.

You don't think. You just act, and you cum again as the salt of his tears and skin and sweat blooms on your tongue.

The overstimulation scorches so good. You jolt as four hands grasp at you—two gripping your shoulders, another pair at your hips. Tiding you through it, until you gain some sense of lucidity. Enough to feel the way he's twitching, both in you and at your clit.

They finish, almost in sync.

From behind, Peter stumbles through what sounds like an apology mingled with praises (and angels and sweet girls). Floods you with hot ropes, lazily rocks into your spent cunt.

From below, he pulses between your bodies, leaving your skin slippery with fluid. Tears glitter in his waterline, making the black globes of his eyes even more fascinating. His cries have softened to low hums, and he noses your forehead fondly.

"Pretty," comes a quiet mumble from over your shoulder. Peter kisses your back, the gentleness almost giving you whiplash. "Did so good."

Hoarsely, the Arachnid agrees with himself. "Yeah. My angel."

The tension of the situation leaves you in a sigh. You go boneless, dropping your head onto his chest as Human-Peter pulls out and makes for the sink.

"He always does that," Arachnid whispers, smoothing a palm over the sore muscles in your thighs. Faking scorn, "So responsible."

You muffle your words into his skin, "Least I can still cuddle another you right now."

There's the sound of water rushing into the basin in your kitchenette, then a cascade of droplets from a washcloth being wrung out.

"Babe," Human-Peter calls, padding back toward the bed. You peek out to see him in his boxers, holding your laptop in one hand and a damp cloth in another. "Watch a movie, take the day off?"

Arachnid-Peter groans, carelessly throwing an arm over his eyes. He points his finger at his counterpart. "Totally stole that idea from me. He's gonna suggest Empire Strikes Back for the sixth time."

Indignantly, "I wasn't!"

"Okay, then what were you thinking of?"

Caught, his mouth sits ajar. A beat of silence follows the probe before his shoulders bunch up and he says, "Return of the Jedi..."

"Dude, that's not any better."

"Dude, you're me."

Your phone rings, nearly scaring you out of your skin. Arachnid-Peter flings his arm off his face and shoots a web at your coffee table, slinging the device back to bed.

"It's Daniel," he says, and even though he lacks the whites of his eyes, you know he's rolling them.

Your head perks up. "Wait, wait—"

He picks up, and both of them say, "She's busy," before cutting off the line.

//

"Thanks, Doctor, for signing the release. You've read my preliminary report?"

Beside you, Peter—just one now—snoozes in the mess of sheets, brown waves all mussed from the crazy ten hours he just experienced. You didn't see the fusion happen (you turned away because you didn't want to know if his body horror hypothesis was true), but he claimed that it only made him sleepy.

You suppose it has to do with him spending twice the amount of energy.

"Yes," Banner muses over the line. You hear pages flipping. "It's fascinating. Do you think you could work on a solution that lasts longer?"

You frown, fingers drifting down to brush a stray curl away from your boyfriend's forehead. "Doctor, my dissertation is on genome patterns in Mutates, not human cloning."

"Did the arachnid side of him seem more suppressed after fusion?"

"Are you asking me this because you're experimenting on the Hulk again?"

Silence.

"Doctor—"

"Ooh, sorry, talk to you later. Heard they're restocking yogurt for nutrition."

The dial tone blares through your speakers. You huff, tossing the phone onto your pillow and sliding down the mattress, taking your place in the cusp of Peter's body.

He hums when you press close, slings an arm around you. Cracks an eye open, and even though it's low-lidded, you can see that just half of his eye is blooming with that familiar sleek black.

"I dunno," he teases, lips threatening to grin, "maybe you should tell him it's not a great idea."

—

junie's thoughts: lowkey next time they have sex, arachnid takes over and peter's in the mental cuck chair nodding like wait....exactlyyyy....

edit: omfg i forgot but this is dedicated to daisy of @sinsilk for being the one to make me write this ILY MOOTIE

You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to push. That night in the bath you had opened the door—told him you weren’t scared, that you were there for whatever came next. He had held you like he believed it. But in the days after, he never quite stepped through that door again. The distance he kept felt deliberate. Protective. Like he was trying to put the version of himself that had lost control back in a box before it could touch you a second time.

So you pulled away too.

You stayed in your own space. Didn't leave the apartment and risk running into him in public— or worse running into him while he was working. Answered his hallway waves with small smiles of your own and didn’t linger. The invitation you had offered stayed open, but you stopped standing in the doorway waiting for him to walk through it. It was easier that way. Safer. Or at least it felt like it should be.

But your mind never quite left him.

You caught yourself listening for his footsteps at night. Replaying the way his voice had gone soft in the bath when he admitted he’d liked you for a long time. The look on his face when the black had left his eyes and pure horror had taken its place. The bruises on your hips had faded to nothing, but the memory of his hands stayed under your skin like a tattoo.

Sometimes, when the apartment next door went quiet for too long, you wondered what he was working on so late. Whether the arachnid thing was still clawing at the edges of him. Whether he was winning.

You never asked.

You just stayed in your shell, the same way he stayed in his, and tried not to think about how much you still wanted him to knock.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It started the way it had most nights since the distance settled between you.

You were alone in your apartment, lights low, the city humming faintly outside the window. Your mind had drifted to Peter again—his hands, the way his voice had gone rough and mean when the spider took over. It felt shameful in a way. You really did not expect to get that turned on by the thought that he could do whatever he wanted with you and you would just… let him. Wanting him and not being allowed to reach for him left everything sharper.

You didn’t bother with slow build-up tonight.

You were already soaked—slick coating your knuckles, dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Two fingers curled inside the heat of your cunt while your free hand had shoved your shirt up under your chin so you could twist and tug at a nipple the way you kept imagining he would.

You thought about the night the spider had taken over him—the way he’d bent you over the counter and fucked you like he was starving, the filthy praise that had spilled out of him while he used your body on the couch. You thought about the bruises he’d left on your hips and how they’d faded too fast. You thought about the weeks of careful waves in the hallway, the bagels still warm on your windowsill, the late-night sounds of him working next door and never once knocking. The wanting had only gotten uglier with the silence. Your hips rolled up to meet every thrust of your hand, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, broken pants as the pressure coiled low and mean in your belly.

You were right there—fingers buried deep, cunt clenching hard around the stretch—when the crash hit.

Something heavy slammed into the shared wall hard enough to make the plaster vibrate against your shoulder blades. Glass shattered. A raw, strained yell tore through the noise, unmistakable even muffled by the barrier between your apartments.

“—help—!”

Peter’s voice. Tight with pain.

You were on your feet before the last syllable finished. No thought for consequences. You adjusted your underwear, slid your shirt back down and wiped your still glistening fingers across the fabric. You didn’t stop for pants. Three steps across the hall, hand already on the unlocked knob, and you shoved the door open straight into whatever was waiting on the other side.

The door swung open on chaos.

Broken electronics littered the floor—something small and expensive reduced to shattered glass and exposed wiring. Peter stood in the middle of it, barefoot, dressed in an old soft t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His chest rose and fell too fast. And his eyes…

Black. Completely. The reflective sheen was already there, pupils blown wide, the mean, hungry look locked on you the second you crossed the threshold.

You barely had time to take a breath before a thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and wrapped tight around your bare waist. One sharp tug and you were yanked forward, stumbling straight into his space. His free hand caught you by the hip—fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and held you there.

“I heard you.”

His voice was low, layered, already half-gone to the thing under his skin. He leaned in, nose nearly brushing the side of your throat, and inhaled like he’d been waiting for the scent of you.

“You gonna try to play it off? Act like you just happened to be up and racing over here half-naked because you were worried?” A soft, mean laugh left him. “Cute. But I’m smarter than that. And right now my senses are so fucking sharp I can hear your heartbeat from the other side of the wall. I heard every wet little sound your fingers made. Every soft, desperate noise you tried to keep quiet while you were touching yourself thinking about me.”

You opened your mouth—some half-formed denial already on your tongue—but he didn’t let you get there.

“Don’t.” His grip on your hip tightened. The webbing around your waist pulsed once, warm and sticky. “I smelled you too. How wet you got. How close you were. You’ve been aching for weeks and I felt every second of it. You thought you could hide from me? Avoid me? Think again little bug.”

He tipped your chin up with two fingers so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.

“I knew exactly how to get you back over here. One crash. One yell. And look at you—you look like a wreck. You didn’t even stop to put pants on.” His mouth curved into something dark and delighted. “You ran straight to me the second you thought I needed you. Just like I knew you would.”

The arachnid thing looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and amused and completely without apology.

“Missed me that bad, sweetheart?”

Peter’s mouth curved sharper at whatever he saw on your face.

You tried to counter him.

“You’ve been avoiding me since that night,” you shot back, voice steadier than the rest of you felt. The webbing around your waist was warm and tight, his fingers still digging into your hip hard enough to bruise. “You didn’t have to do all this. I told you I could help. I meant it.”

He laughed—low, mean, almost fond in the ugliest way.

“Help” He repeated the word like it tasted sweet and rotten at the same time. “You think I want your help with this?” One sticky hand left your hip to gesture vaguely at himself—the black eyes, the way fresh webbing still pulsed from his wrists in slow, involuntary strands. “The spider problem?”

He leaned in until his mouth was right against your ear, breath hot.

“I don’t want your help with that, sweetheart. I want you trapped. Just like this. Like my little bug that walked straight into the web because it couldn’t stand not being there to help.” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “Look at how easy it was. One crash. One yell. And you came running with your cunt still wet like the desperate thing you’ve been for weeks.”

The meanness landed exactly where he wanted it to.

Heat flooded low and sharp between your legs, fresh slick already threatening to drip down your thigh. Your pulse jumped under his fingers. He felt it—of course he did—and the sound he made was pure, cruel delight.

“There it is,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “That little spark. You can try to look pissed all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that being mean to you gets you dripping. Doesn’t change how fast you dropped everything the second you thought I needed you.” His thumb dragged slowly over the soft skin just above your underwear. “I barely had to try. And you still walked right into it.”

Peter’s black eyes glittered.

“So tell me again how you were going to help me, little bug. While you’re standing here already caught.”

You opened your mouth to tell him off—something sharp, something that might cut through the black in his eyes—but you never got the chance.

Peter moved too fast.

One hard shove and your back hit the wall with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. The webbing already wrapped around your waist stuck instantly to the plaster, thick and warm and greedy. It held you there, suspended just enough that your toes barely scraped the floor. You hung in place, chest heaving, while he stepped in close and looked at you like he’d just caught the most entertaining thing in the world.

Fresh strands shot from both wrists.

One pair snapped tight around your upper arms and pinned them hard to your sides. Another pair wrapped your ankles and yanked outward, forcing your legs apart until the stretch burned in your inner thighs. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—locking you open and helpless against the wall.

Peter laughed.

It was a low, delighted sound, completely without remorse. He tipped his head and studied the way you were spread for him, black eyes glittering with pure amusement.

“Oh, look at that,” he murmured, voice dripping mean satisfaction. “All that fire and you still end up stuck like this. Hanging there because the web decided it wanted to keep you.” He reached out and dragged two fingers slowly up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of where you were already dripping again. “You have no idea how fun this is for me right now.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, the reflective black of his eyes the only thing you could see.

“Where do you think the Peter you knew went, little bug? Buried somewhere under all this?” A soft, cruel huff of laughter brushed your lips. “Maybe. Or maybe this is just what happens when he stops fighting so hard. Either way…” His fingers finally pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear, rubbing once, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going anywhere. And I am going to take my time enjoying the fact that you walked right back into my web.”

He pulled his hand away and licked the wetness off his fingers without breaking eye contact, still smiling that mean, hungry smile.

The real Peter felt very far away.

He started slow on purpose.

Two fingers pressed against the soaked crotch of your underwear and dragged upward in a lazy, deliberate stroke, the wet cotton clinging to every fold. He watched your face the entire time, black eyes half-lidded and mean with amusement as he rubbed tight circles over your clit through the fabric. The pressure was just enough to make your hips twitch against the webbing that held you open, just enough to pull a soft, frustrated sound out of your throat.

“Listen to that,” he murmured. “Already so vocal and I haven’t even touched skin yet.” He pressed harder, the damp cloth dragging over swollen nerves until your thighs strained against the silk pinning them apart. “These are ruined. Completely soaked through. All that time you spent touching yourself next door and you’re still this desperate the second I get my hands on you.”

The teasing lasted maybe thirty seconds before the patience dissipated.

Peter hooked his fingers under the waistband and ripped. The fabric gave with a sharp, wet tear, and the ruined scrap of underwear came away in his hand. He didn’t toss it aside. He crumpled the soaked cotton in his fist, brought it briefly to his nose like he was savoring the scent of you, then shoved it deep into the back pocket of his sweatpants with a satisfied little hum.

“Mine now.”

Then his fingers were back—two of them, thick and unapologetic—sliding into you in one smooth, relentless push. The stretch burned. Your cunt clenched hard around the sudden intrusion and he laughed under his breath, already curling them against that spot that made your vision spark.

He didn’t ease up.

Peter finger-fucked you hard and deep, the wet, filthy sounds of it filling the quiet apartment as he worked you open against the wall. Every thrust of his hand drove a broken noise out of you. The webbing around your arms and waist held you perfectly still for it, legs forced wide so he could watch every time his fingers disappeared inside you.

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and mean and almost fond. “Take it. Look how easy you open up when you’re stuck like this. No fighting. No running. Just my fingers fucking this pretty cunt until you make a mess all over them.” He added a third finger without warning and the stretch punched a cry from your throat. “Gonna keep going until you come on my hand. And I wanna hear you scream.”

His thumb found your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing tight, merciless circles while his fingers kept slamming into you at a pace that left no room to breathe.

The spider looked out at you through Peter’s face, hungry and delighted, and it had no intention of slowing down.

A fourth finger pressed against your already stretched entrance and pushed in alongside the others. The burn was immediate—sharp, deep, almost too much—yet it rolled straight into heat that made your toes curl against the empty air. Your cunt fluttered hard around the thick intrusion, trying to pull him deeper even as the stretch edged into delicious pain. He watched every flicker of it on your face, black eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “Look at that. Four fingers and you’re still trying to suck me in. Greedy little thing.” He worked them deeper, knuckles pressing against your entrance with every slow, deliberate thrust. The wet sounds were obscene—slick and rhythmic, filling the quiet apartment as he fucked you open against the wall. “You’re stretched so wide for me. I can feel you shaking. Does it hurt? Or does it just make you wetter?”

Your answer came out broken. The webbing held you perfectly still for him—arms pinned, legs forced apart, waist stuck to the plaster—so there was nowhere to go when he curled all four fingers hard against that spot and kept them there, rubbing in relentless, grinding circles.

“That’s the spot, isn’t it?” He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “The one that makes you forget how to talk. I’m going to keep pressing it until you break. Until this pretty cunt has no choice but to soak my entire hand.”

The pressure built too fast. Your thighs trembled against the silk restraining them. Every nerve felt lit up, oversensitive, the stretch of four fingers turning every movement into a thick, overwhelming drag that left you gasping. Peter’s thumb found your clit again and rubbed tight, merciless circles in time with the deep thrusts of his hand.

“Come on,” he goaded, mean and soft at the same time. “I can feel how close you are. You’re fluttering around my fingers like you’re already about to lose it. Do it. Squirt for me again. I know you can do it. Make a mess of the hand that’s fucking you open.”

It hit like a wave.

Your whole body locked up as the orgasm tore through you—cunt clenching hard around the thick stretch of his fingers while you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that spilled over his hand, his wrist, down his forearm in messy streaks. The sound you made was raw and animalistic. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept working you through it, fingers still moving, still curling, dragging every last spurt out of you until your legs were shaking and fresh tears of overstimulation pricked at the corners of your eyes.

He finally slowed, but he didn’t pull out.

Four fingers stayed buried deep while he looked down at the mess you’d made of him, black eyes bright with pure, mean delight.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He lifted his free hand and slowly licked a stripe of your release off his own wrist, never breaking eye contact. “You just fucking flooded me. Look at the state of my arm. All because I stretched this tight little cunt open and told it what to do.” A soft, cruel laugh left him.

The fight had already left your body somewhere between the fourth finger and the way he’d licked your release off of himself. Maybe if you just let this version of him burn through whatever was clawing under his skin, the real Peter might surface again. The one who had held you in the bath. The one who had looked horrified when the black left his eyes. You could try to reach him after. You could try.

Peter didn’t notice the quiet shift in you—or if he did, he only found it more entertaining.

He tipped his head, studying the way you hung open and wrecked against the wall, and made a soft, thoughtful sound.

“Where next…” he murmured, almost to himself. One sticky hand stroked up the inside of your thigh, smearing the mess he’d already forced out of you. “Counter was fun last time. Couch too. But you’ve already been on the wall.” His black eyes flicked upward, and a slow, mean smile spread across his face. “Ceiling it is.”

The webs around your waist and limbs released with a wet snap. Before you could drop he caught you, spun you, and launched a fresh burst of silk that stuck hard to the ceiling. Another sharp pull and you were hauled upward, stomach pressed flat to the cool plaster, arms stretched out along your sides and webbed tight, legs forced close together and pinned the same way. Your head fell back, hair hanging, the entire apartment suddenly upside down. Blood rushed in your ears. The world tilted.

Peter’s clothes hit the floor in two careless motions.

Then he crawled.

Hands and feet stuck to the wall with that same unnatural ease, he scaled the vertical surface like it was nothing, sweatpants and shirt left in a heap below. When he reached you he settled between your forced-together thighs from behind, the thick, hard length of him dragging through the slick mess between your legs. The angle was different—you felt impossibly full. Your legs being pinned so close made every inch of him feel thicker as he lined up and pushed in.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat.

Peter groaned like he’d just sunk into the best heat of his life and bottomed out in one slow, deliberate thrust. The position left you completely at his mercy—head hanging, world inverted, cunt gripping him in a vice because there was nowhere for your thighs to open.

“Fuck,” he breathed against the back of your shoulder, voice pure filth. “Even better like this. Look at you. Stuck to my ceiling with your pretty cunt wrapped around me and nowhere to go.” He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room. “I can feel every flutter. Every time you try to adjust. You’re just going to take it exactly how I give it.”

He set a deep, rolling pace, hips snapping forward bouncing off the curve of your ass while the webbing held you perfectly still for every thrust. The inverted angle made everything sharper—the drag of his cock, the way your own wetness dripped upward toward your stomach, the dizzy rush of blood in your head every time he bottomed out.

Peter’s mouth found the side of your throat, teeth grazing as he fucked into you from behind.

“Still hoping the nice version of me shows back up?” he murmured, mean and breathless against your skin. “Keep hoping, little bug. I don't think he wants to play right now.”

Peter fucked into you harder.

Every thrust drove your stomach against the ceiling with a force that made the plaster groan. A sharp crack split the surface right beside your shoulder. White dust sifted down past your hanging face. He didn’t slow. He just laughed—low and delighted—and shot a thick burst of webbing over the fracture, sealing it shut in one careless motion before slamming back into you like nothing had happened.

“Oops,” he murmured against the back of your neck, voice pure mean amusement. “Ceiling’s not built for this. Neither are you, but you’re taking it anyway.”

You let the words wash over you without answering.

Somewhere under the dizzy rush of blood in your head and the thick, relentless stretch of him, a small, stubborn part of you was still waiting. Waiting for the rhythm to break. For the black in his eyes to flicker. For the real Peter—the one who looked at you from afar and left you your favorite bagels and just cared—to claw his way back up through whatever this was. You had stopped fighting for exactly that reason. If you just let this version burn itself out, maybe the man you knew would surface again.

And you didn't exactly hate what was happening to you right now.

The webbing around your hips loosened just enough.

His hand snaked in front of your body, sticky fingers finding your clit with perfect accuracy. He rubbed tight, filthy circles in time with every deep thrust. The dual sensation was almost too much—his cock stretching you from behind while his fingers worked the swollen bundle of nerves that had already been oversensitive for too long. Your body responded helplessly, cunt clenching around him, wetter with every cruel stroke of his fingers. Traitorous. Even now.

“That’s it,” he goaded, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel you getting closer. You’re gonna come on my cock while I’m buried in you, aren’t you? Do it. Take me with you.”

It hit both of you at once.

Your orgasm tore through first—cunt locking down around him in hard, pulsing waves as you cried out, the sound echoing oddly in the upside-down room. The tight, rhythmic squeeze pulled him over the edge a heartbeat later. Peter groaned low and filthy against your shoulder, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, thick heat spilling into you in long pulses while his fingers kept rubbing your clit through every tremor.

For a few seconds the only sound was the two of you breathing hard, still locked together against the ceiling.

In that thin, fragile quiet, hope flared—stupid and bright. The shared finish. The way his body had shuddered against yours like it still knew how to match you. Maybe—

Then he laughed.

The sound was soft and cruel and completely without mercy. He nuzzled the side of your throat like he was savoring the way your pulse jumped under his mouth.

“Aww,” he cooed, mocking. “We finished at the same time. How fucking cute. You were hoping that would bring him back, weren’t you?” His fingers finally stilled on your clit, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried to the hilt, letting you feel every twitch of his cock as he softened just slightly inside you. “Hold on to that hope little bug. Makes this all the more enjoyable.”

He tipped your hanging head further back with two sticky fingers so he could look at your upside-down face.

The black in his eyes was still absolute.

Something in your chest tightened, then went quiet.

The hope didn’t vanish all at once. It just… dimmed. Folded in on itself under the weight of that mocking smile and the unbroken darkness staring back at you. You had wanted so badly to believe the real him was still reachable. That the man who had confessed he liked you for years, who had washed your hair with careful hands, was only buried—not gone.

Peter’s mean, satisfied expression made the truth feel colder.

“Sorry, little bug. He’s not here right now.” A slow, cruel smile curved his mouth. “It’s just me. And I’m not done playing with you yet.”

You closed your eyes against the inverted room and let the last of that fragile hope slip away, as Peter chose the bed next on purpose.

The webbing released with a series of wet snaps. He caught you before you could fall, carried you the short distance, and dropped onto the mattress with you straddling his hips. The position was deliberate—your knees on either side of him, his cock already hard again and sliding through the mess of his own release still dripping out of you. He settled you over him exactly the way he had that first night, when the black had finally left his eyes and the real Peter had surfaced underneath you.

He knew what he was doing.

“Familiar?” he asked, voice dripping mockery as he gripped your hips and pushed up into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch pulled a broken sound from your throat. “This is how he came back last time, isn’t it? You on top. Him underneath. Soft little moment after he finished using you.” He fucked up into you harder, watching your face. “Are you sad little bug? Because your Peter isn't the one fucking you stupid? Spider got your tongue?"

Something in you finally snapped.

“Fuck you,” you bit out, hands bracing against his chest as he drove up into you. Your voice came out rough, meaner than you expected. “You think this is funny? Dragging me around your apartment like a sex doll and then putting me here just to remind me he left?” You rolled your hips down to meet his next thrust, deliberately tight, trying to take some of the control back. “You’re not him. You’re just the thing wearing his face and getting off on how much I still want the real one.”

Peter’s eyes flashed—black and delighted.

“There she is,” he laughed, mean and breathless. His hands locked harder around your hips, fingers digging into the bruise marks from earlier as he snapped up into you with new force. “There’s the little spark. You finally got mean back. Took you long enough.” He thrust up again, deeper, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet room. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate that it’s me fucking this cunt instead of him. Oh you're going to be so disappointed when it's just you and him. Tell me how badly you wish the soft version would climb back out and apologize.”

You glared down at him, even as your body clenched around every upward snap of his cock.

“I do hate it,” you shot back. "I hate that you know exactly how to make me come and you use it like a weapon. And I hate that the second you decide you’re done playing, he’ll have to look at what you did.”

Peter’s smile turned sharper. He planted his feet and fucked up into you harder, using the position to drive the air from your lungs with every thrust.

“Good,” he growled, voice pure filth and cruelty. “Hate me. Fight me. It just makes you hotter.” One hand left your hip to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing at full capacity, just holding you in place while he used your body from below. “You’re soaked for the version of him that doesn’t care if you’re hoping. The version that wants you trapped and dripping and talking back like it might change anything.” He thrust up particularly deep and held there, grinding against you. “Spoiler, little bug—it won’t. He’s not coming back until I’m finished. And I am nowhere near finished with this cunt.”

He kept fucking up into you, mean and relentless.

You kept trying to talk.

Every sharp retort came out broken—half a sentence, a curse, a breathless jab at the thing wearing Peter’s face—only to be punched out of you by the next deep upward thrust. He fucked into you like he was trying to carve space for himself, each stroke stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping against his chest.

“Still trying to run that pretty mouth,” Peter snarled, mean and breathless beneath you. One hand stayed locked on your hip hard enough to bruise; the other shoved between your bodies, nimble fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Keep going. Tell me how much you hate the version of him that’s balls-deep in this soaked little cunt. Tell me while you’re about to fucking squirt all over me again.”

The dual sensation was brutal. His cock stretching you deep from below while his fingers worked your clit with merciless precision. Your thighs started to shake. The words died in your throat, replaced by raw, helpless sounds you couldn’t swallow back.

“That’s it—right there,” he goaded, black eyes locked on your face. “I can feel this greedy cunt fluttering. You’re gonna make a mess of me. Do it. Squirt on my cock like the desperate little fucktoy you are.”

It hit like a punch.

Your orgasm ripped through you hard—cunt clamping down in violent, pulsing waves as you squirted, a hot rush of wetness spilling over his cock and stomach in messy streaks. The force of it left you shaking, breath gone, forehead dropping against his shoulder while aftershocks kept milking him.

Peter groaned like he’d been waiting for exactly that.

“Fuck—yes. Soak me. Just like that.” His hips snapped up harder, chasing his own edge now that you were clenching and dripping around him. “Taking every inch while you come your brains out. Look at the state of you—shaking, dripping, still trying to hate me.” A few more deep, punishing thrusts and his rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and came hard, flooding you in thick, pulsing ropes while his fingers kept rubbing your oversensitive clit through it.

He stayed inside you through every spurt, grinding up against the mess he’d just made.

Then he moved.

He pulled free and immediately shot a thick, precise burst of webbing straight against your entrance. The silk was hot and sticky and sealed you shut in one deliberate motion, trapping everything—his fresh come, your slick, the mess of the orgasm he’d forced out of you—deep inside.

“There,” he said, voice pure filthy satisfaction as he looked at the sealed mess between your legs. “All plugged up. Every drop of me locked inside this pretty cunt where it belongs. You’re going to stay full and dripping on the inside while I use that mouth next.”

Fresh webbing shot from his wrists before you could react.

It wrapped your wrists tight and yanked them behind your back, then looped around your upper arms and torso, forcing your shoulders back. Another set of strands caught your ankles and calves, binding them together. One firm pull and he dragged you off the bed entirely, dropping you hard onto your knees on the floor between his spread thighs. Your plugged cunt throbbed. Your hands were useless behind you. The only thing left free was your mouth.

Peter sat on the edge of the mattress, cock still hard, shiny with the combined mess of both of you. He reached down, fisted a hand in your hair, and tipped your face up so you had no choice but to meet those black, reflective eyes.

“Open,” he ordered, mean and calm. “You’ve been talking so much shit. Time to put that mouth to better use.” He dragged the head of his cock across your lips, smearing them with the slick evidence of what he’d just done to you. “You’re going to suck me clean. Every inch. And you’re going to do it while that webbing keeps my come trapped inside you like a good little toy who knows her place.”

His grip in your hair tightened, not quite forcing you down yet—just holding you there, waiting to see if you’d fight or open for him.

“Go on, little bug. Show me how well you can take cock when you’re already full and sealed shut.”

Something in you finally broke.

The constant mockery, the deliberate cruelty, the way he kept twisting every soft memory into something filthy and mean—it all stacked up until the only thing left was pure, sharp anger. You were done. Done being the little bug. Done hoping. Done letting whatever this thing was wear Peter’s face and use your body like it owned the right.

So you bit.

Hard.

Your teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his cock without hesitation, deep enough to draw a raw, startled sound out of him. Whatever he was right now, he could take it. You wanted him to feel it.

The reaction was instant and violent.

Peter’s hand left your hair. Both palms hit your shoulders and shoved. The webbing around your arms and legs snapped under the force as you were thrown backward. You hit the floor hard, right in the middle of the shattered electronics and broken glass from earlier. Sharp edges bit into your palms, your hip, the side of your thigh. Pain flared white-hot. Blood welled immediately—thin red lines cutting across your skin and dripping onto the debris.

You pushed up onto one elbow, breath ragged, and looked at him.

Peter had staggered back against the edge of the bed, one hand clamped over himself, chest heaving. For a second the black in his eyes was absolute, furious, predatory—

Then it flickered.

A sharp, human sound left his throat. His pupils contracted. The reflective sheen cracked like ice under pressure. He stared at the blood on your skin, at the way you were still half-bound and bleeding on his floor, and something raw and horrified tore across his face.

“No—”

The word came out strangled, half his voice, half the thing still fighting underneath. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t trust them. Fresh webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, but he didn’t aim it at you. He looked sick. He looked like he was drowning.

“I—fuck, I threw you—” His voice cracked, the mean edge gone, replaced by something panicked and familiar. “You’re bleeding. I made you bleed.”

The black tried to surge back. You watched him wrestle it down in real time—jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, every muscle in his body locked in a visible war. When he opened them again the darkness was still there, but it was no longer alone. The real Peter was clawing upward through it, staring at the damage he’d done like it was the worst thing he had ever seen.

“Stay down,” he forced out, voice shaking, still not fully his. “Don’t—don’t come closer. I can’t… I don’t know which one of me is speaking right now.”

Blood dripped from your palm onto the broken glass.

For the first time in hours, the thing wearing Peter’s face looked terrified of itself.

Peter looked like he was coming apart.

He stayed backed against the bed, one hand still pressed over himself, the other braced on the mattress like he needed it to stay upright. His eyes kept flickering—black to brown to black again—like two versions of him were trying to occupy the same body and neither was winning cleanly. Ohh

“This is why,” he forced out, voice raw and cracking. “This is exactly why I stayed away. Why I left the bagels and just waves and left you alone. I knew it was getting worse. I knew the second I let myself get close to you again it would stop being me.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, leaving a streak of silk behind. “I threw you into glass. You’re bleeding because of me. Because I couldn’t keep the darkness down.”

His gaze locked on the red welling across your palm and thigh, and something close to panic flashed across his face.

“You need to go. Right now. Get out of this apartment and lock your door and don’t open it no matter what you hear.” The words came out sharp, almost desperate. “I don’t care if I sound like him when I say it—leave. I can’t trust what I’ll do if you stay.”

You didn’t move.

Blood dripped steadily from your hand onto the broken glass, but you stayed exactly where you were, still half-bound, still breathing hard, staring at the man fighting himself in front of you.

“No,” you said.

Peter’s head snapped up. The black surged hard in his eyes for a second, then receded under what looked like pure, human fear.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t be brave right now. I’m not safe. The thing that just used you and mocked you and threw you is still right here under my skin and it wants—” His voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. “Please. I’m asking you. Go.”

You shifted onto your knees carefully, glass crunching under you, and kept your voice steady even though your pulse was still hammering.

“I’m not leaving.” You met his flickering gaze without flinching. “You don’t get to decide that for me. Not after everything. The real you is still in there—I saw him. I saw the way you looked when you realized I was bleeding. That wasn’t the spider. That was you.”

Peter let out a shaky, broken sound. More webbing spilled from his wrists and hit the floor with soft, wet impacts. He was trembling now, every muscle locked in the effort of holding the darkness back.

“You don’t know what it feels like,” he whispered. “It’s louder every day. Hungrier. And when you’re near it gets so much worse because it already decided you’re mine and I can’t—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. “I don’t want to hurt you again. I can’t live with that.”

“Then don’t,” you said simply. “Fight it. I’m right here. I’m not running. Look at me and come back.”

You stayed on your knees in the glass and the blood, refusing to look away, giving the real Peter something solid to reach for while the darkness tried to drag him under again.

You moved closer.

Glass bit into your knees and the side of one palm as you shifted forward across the debris. Blood ran warmer now, steady lines tracking down your wrist and the outside of your thigh, dripping onto the broken glass and glittering fragments beneath you. You didn’t look at it. You didn’t care. Your eyes stayed locked on Peter’s face—on the war still happening behind his flickering eyes.

He tensed hard when you closed the distance, fresh webbing pulsing from his wrists in a sharp, involuntary burst that stuck to the floor between you.

“Stop,” he rasped. “You’re bleeding and you’re still coming closer. You need medical attention. Pressure on the cuts. I— I don't know. Anything but being around me. Please—”

“It decided I’m its,” you said, voice low and steady even as another drop of blood left your hand. “That’s what you keep saying. The spider. The darkness. It already claimed me. But what about you?” You held his gaze without flinching. “What have you decided, Peter? Because you’ve spent weeks running from me, like the only option was to lock it down so hard it never got near me again.”

His breath hitched. The black in his eyes surged, then receded under something rawer.

You kept going, softer but no less direct.

“What if that’s why it’s so feral when I’m around? What if the constant fighting—the way you keep trying to shove it down and pretend it isn’t part of you—is exactly what’s making it worse every time I get close? Like it’s starving and angry because you won’t let it have any air.” You shifted another inch nearer, close enough now that the heat of him reached your skin. “Maybe it doesn’t need you to lose. Maybe it just needs you to stop treating it like the enemy long enough to figure out how to live with it.”

Peter stared at you like you’d just reached into the middle of the war inside him and touched something vital.

His hands flexed. The reflective sheen in his eyes kept fracturing, brown bleeding through in unstable waves. He looked terrified of the idea and desperate for it at the same time.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me to risk,” he whispered. The voice was almost fully his now—wrecked, shaking, but his. “If I stop fighting it the way I have… if I let any of it stay…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

You kept your voice quiet, almost conversational, like the blood on the floor and the war in his eyes weren’t the loudest things in the room.

“What were you trying to make?” you asked. “All those late nights. The sounds through the wall. What was it?”

Peter blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. For a second the question seemed to short-circuit the spiral he’d been trapped in. His gaze flicked toward the workbench in the corner—scattered tools, half-disassembled devices, notebooks open to dense pages of formulas—then back to you.

“An inhibitor,” he said roughly. “Something that might dampen the arachnid side. Slow the takeover. Give me enough control that I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t become this every time you got close.” He swallowed hard. “I thought if I could just build the right formula, the right delivery system, I could keep you safe without having to stay away forever.”

You nodded once.

“That’s a good idea.”

Then you reached out.

Your bloodied hand settled lightly on his knee. Red smeared across his leg— warm and unmistakable— dripping freely. Peter went rigid under the contact. The black surged hard in his eyes for one sharp, dangerous second—hungry, possessive, furious at the sight of your blood on him—

—and then it cracked.

A broken sound left his throat. The reflective sheen shattered. His whole body seemed to fold in on itself as the last of the darkness lost its grip. He grabbed your wrist like it was the only solid thing left in the world and collapsed forward, forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, arms coming around you with desperate, shaking force.

“I’m sorry—” The words tumbled out of him in a wrecked, continuous stream. “I’m so fucking sorry. I hurt you. I threw you. I said those things and I used you and I watched you bleed and I couldn’t stop it— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

His shoulders shook. Fresh, uncontrolled webbing leaked from his wrists and stuck harmlessly to your back as he clung to you, face buried against your neck, repeating the apology like it might undo any of it if he said it enough times.

The real Peter was back.

And he was falling apart in your arms.

Until he forced himself to pull it together.

The full-body shaking didn’t stop all at once, but he managed to sit back enough to look at you properly. His eyes—clear brown again, red-rimmed and wrecked—scanned every visible inch of you with frantic care. The blood on your palms and thigh. The glass still clinging to your skin. The way you were still half-naked and marked from everything the other version of him had done.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He stood on unsteady legs, scooped you up as carefully as if you might shatter, and carried you to the bed. The sheets were a mess of earlier webbing and come, but he lowered you onto the clearest spot he could find, supporting your head and back the entire way down. His hands never stopped moving—checking, adjusting, making sure nothing pressed against the cuts.

“I’m going to take the webbing off,” he said, voice low and tight with leftover guilt. “Just… stay still for me. Please.”

He knelt between your knees and worked with deliberate gentleness. The silk sealing your entrance had already started to dry at the edges. Peter coaxed it free with slow, patient fingers, murmuring soft apologies the entire time like the removal itself might hurt you. When the plug finally gave, a warm rush of everything he’d left inside you spilled out onto the sheets. He didn’t look away. He just kept apologizing under his breath while he reached for a clean cloth.

He cleaned you with the same careful attention—warm water, soft pressure, never lingering longer than necessary on the places that were still oversensitive. Every pass of the cloth came with another quiet “I’m sorry.” When he finished between your legs he moved to the cuts, picking out the tiny shards of glass with tweezers from the first-aid kit he kept under the bed, then disinfecting and bandaging the worst of them on your palm and thigh.

“I did this,” he said while he taped gauze over the deepest slice on your hand. His voice cracked again. “I let it get that far. I’m so fucking sorry.” He smoothed the last piece of medical tape down with trembling fingers, then sat back on his heels, still staring at the bandages like they were proof of every failure. “I never wanted you to see me like that again. I never wanted to make you bleed.”

Peter stayed kneeling there beside the bed, one hand resting lightly over the gauze on your thigh, continuing to apologize in a soft, broken loop even as he finished patching you up. The darkness was gone.

Only the guilt remained.

Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.

You knew about the man behind the mask.

You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.

Webbing.

It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.

Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.

“Peter—”

His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.

The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.

The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.

“Stay back.”

You didn’t.

You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”

A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”

His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”

“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”

Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.

“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”

You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.

“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.

“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”

He cut himself off, throat working.

Peter moved.

Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.

“Get out.”

The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”

You stayed exactly where you were.

“I’m not scared of you.”

A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.

“Liar.”

Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.

“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”

Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.

Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”

You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”

The admission landed heavy between you.

For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.

“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”

He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.

“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”

His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.

“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.

“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”

The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.

Peter’s control was slipping by the second.

And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.

He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.

“Say it again.”

“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”

Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.

Peter went still.

Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.

“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”

He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”

His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.

“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”

The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.

“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”

You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

Peter’s eyes went completely black.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”

He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.

Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.

A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.

“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”

His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.

Peter Parker was gone.

What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.

He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.

Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.

“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”

The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.

When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.

Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”

He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.

Why would he?

One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.

Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.

“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”

He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.

“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”

The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.

Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.

“Tell me you still want this.”

“I want you.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.

The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.

Then he moved.

He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”

You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.

“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”

The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.

Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.

There was no pretense that you were in control.

Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”

One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.

Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.

“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”

The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.

“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”

His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.

Your strength gave out all at once.

You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.

Then the change happened.

You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.

Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.

“Oh my god.”

His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.

“I—what did I just do to you?”

Peter’s hands were careful now.

He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”

He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.

You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.

When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.

The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.

For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”

The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.

When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.

“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”

His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”

You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.

“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”

Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”

You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.

“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”

Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.

The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.

You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.

The first time he had reservations at a tiny Italian place in the Village. You were halfway through getting ready when the city screamed—something collapsing on the Lower East Side, sirens stacking on top of each other. He kissed your forehead, promised “next time,” and disappeared out the window in the suit. The second attempt was a rooftop movie screening in Brooklyn. He made it as far as the subway platform before the police scanner in his ear lit up with a hostage situation in Midtown. By the third cancellation you stopped letting yourself get fully dressed for the possibility.

So you took what you could get.

Quiet hours on his fire escape with takeout containers balanced between you. Late nights on your couch while he did research with one hand and kept the other resting against your ankle like he needed the contact. Mornings when he crawled back through the window smelling of rain and the distinct smell of the city and still found the energy to pull you into his lap and bury his face in your neck until the residual tension drained out of him. The arachnid side never fully slept during those moments—you could feel it in the way his fingers flexed against your skin, in the low, satisfied sound he made when you stayed close—but he no longer fought it the way he used to. He let it settle around you like a second skin.

And when he wasn’t swinging through the city or trying (and miserably failing) to plan something normal, he was working on the inhibitor.

You started going with him to the lectures and closed-door consultations with Dr. Bruce Banner. The first time Banner raised an eyebrow at your presence, Peter simply said, “She’s part of this,” and that was the end of the discussion. You sat through dense conversations about neural inhibitors, gene expression dampeners, and delivery systems that wouldn’t permanently suppress the beneficial aspects of the spider DNA. Banner was careful, methodical, and occasionally dryly amused by how intently Peter took notes with one hand while the other stayed linked with yours under the table.

Between sessions the two of you would walk the long way back to the subway, talking about half-understood biochemistry and whether the latest prototype might finally give him enough control to finish a single uninterrupted dinner. Peter never promised it would work. He only ever said he was trying—for both of you.

The city still pulled him away more often than either of you liked. But he stopped disappearing without a word, and he stopped pretending he didn’t want you right there in the middle of the fight he was having with his own body.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Peter had been close.

The latest prototype of the inhibitor sat half-assembled on his workbench for days—small, elegant, designed to dampen the worst of the arachnid instincts without stripping him of everything that made him him. Banner had been cautiously optimistic. Peter had started sleeping in longer stretches. The black in his eyes stayed away for almost two full weeks.

Then the telepath arrived.

Someone who could slip past every biometric lock Damage Control owned and leave agents staring blankly at walls while classified files walked out under their noses. The city went tense overnight. Peter started coming home later, quieter, the suit more torn than usual. You stopped asking how the inhibitor trials were going because the answer was always the same: I almost had it. Then this happened.

The night everything tipped, you heard the window.

It wasn’t the usual controlled landing. The frame shuddered hard enough to rattle the glass in your own apartment. Something heavy hit the floor on the other side of the wall, followed by a low, uneven exhale that didn’t sound human.

You were at his door before you’d fully decided to move.

The apartment smelled overwhelmingly like copper and iron. Peter stood in the middle of the living room still half in the suit, the top half peeled down around his waist. Blood streaked his chest, his throat, the side of his face—none of it his as far as you could tell. It was already drying in dark, tacky patches. His hands flexed open and closed at his sides like he couldn’t feel them properly.

When he looked up, his eyes were wrong.

Not fully black yet. But the brown was thinning fast, the reflective edge already creeping in.

“You need to go.” His voice was layered, strained, like two people speaking through the same mouth. “I lost it tonight. The telepath— Scorpion— everything just—snapped. I don’t have it back. Not all the way.” He took a single step back when you moved closer. “Please. I’m asking you while I still can. Leave.”

You didn’t. You never did before, you won't start now.

You crossed the space and reached for him anyway, the same way you had the night he collapsed into your arms. “Peter. Look at me. You’re here. You’re talking. We can—”

His hand shot out and caught your wrist.

The grip was too strong. Too precise. The last of the warm brown drained from his eyes in a single blink, replaced by solid, reflective black. The smile that curved his mouth was slow and mean and completely without the man you’d been trying to reach.

“Too late, little bug,” the arachnid side said, voice low and almost fond. “He’s not driving anymore.”

Fresh webbing pulsed from his wrist and locked around the arm he already held, warm and tight and final.

"Time to play."

Peter Parker was gone for the night.

The black in his eyes was absolute.

Peter tilted his head, studying the way your pulse jumped under the webbing already locked around your wrist. Blood still streaked his chest and throat and the smile that spread across his face was slow, mean, and far too knowing.

“You told me once,” he said, voice low and almost conversational, “that part of you thinks this side of me is hot. At least the sex part.” He gave a soft, cruel little laugh. “I’ve been thinking about that confession a lot. Especially tonight.”

You barely had time to regret ever opening your mouth.

Fresh webbing shot from both wrists in thick, precise strands. He moved with the same unnatural speed that always made your stomach drop— spinning you, lifting you, binding as he went. Silk wrapped your torso in overlapping bands that mimicked heavy rope, cinching tight under your breasts and around your ribs. More strands caught your thighs, forcing them bent and open, then locked your ankles together and pulled them upward. Your arms were drawn and bound at the wrists and elbows until your shoulders strained. The final lengths of webbing shot straight to the ceiling anchors he’d used before.

One hard pull and your body left the floor entirely.

You hung horizontally in the center of the apartment, face-up, suspended like a living offering. The silk held your weight easily— torso supported, legs folded and spread, arms pinned above you. Your head tipped back with the angle, hair hanging, the room inverted from this new vantage. Every breath made the webbing creak softly against your skin.

Peter circled beneath you, black eyes gleaming with pure satisfaction.

“Look at that,” he murmured, reaching up to drag two dirty fingers along the inside of one bound thigh. “All that guilt he carried around, and you still admitted you get wet for this version of me.” He pressed harder, feeling how the position already left you exposed and helpless. “You should see yourself right now, little bug. Tied up in my webs exactly the way you secretly wanted. Nowhere to go.”

He hooked a finger under one of the strands across your stomach and gave it a testing tug, making your whole body sway slightly in the air.

“Regretting that little confession yet?” The smile that curved his mouth was pure mean delight. “Because I’m not. I’m going to take my time enjoying every single thing you told him you liked about me.”

The webbing creaked with every small sway of your body. He moved beneath and around the suspension like he had all the time in the world, bare feet silent on the floor, black eyes never leaving your body.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice soft and mocking as he trailed two fingers along the underside of one bound thigh. “That’s what you told him. More than once. Standing in this same apartment with your heart hammering so loud I could hear it through the wall.” He gave a low, amused huff. “Cute. You said it like it was a promise. Like bravery would keep the darker parts of him from wanting exactly this.”

He stopped near your head, tipped slightly so he could look down into your upside-down face.

“I’m here for you.” The words came out in a cruel imitation of your own voice. “You offered that so easily. Every time the guilt started eating him alive, every time he tried to push you away, you just kept saying it. Like you thought the soft version of him was the only one listening.” His sticky fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek with almost tender precision. “I was listening too. I'm always listening, little bug."

He resumed the slow circuit, one hand skating along the webbing that cinched your waist, testing the tension yet again.

“You like him,” Peter continued, almost thoughtfully. “Admitted it in the bath when he was still shaking from what he’d done the first time. Said you’d liked him for a while.” A quiet, mean laugh. “A while. As if four years of living next door was the beginning of anything.” His palm settled briefly over your sternum, feeling the rapid beat underneath. “Some things settle deeper than that. Some claims are older than the words people use for them.”

He leaned in close enough that his breath warmed the side of your throat.

“And then you told him the spider side was hot. At least the sex. Had you up in that web so easily.” His mouth curved against your skin. “See— that's the thing I’ve been saving. Because you were so careful when you said it—guilt all over your face, like you were confessing something shameful. You had no idea how long that particular truth had already been sitting between us.”

Peter pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again. You could see yourself in the black void of his eyes. You didn't look scared— you looked angry. You looked wrecked.

“You keep giving him soft little pieces of yourself like they’ll anchor him. They don’t. They just teach me exactly where to press.” He gave the webbing at your ankle a light tug, making your whole body rock gently in the air. “And I’ve always known how to press.”

The silk held you suspended and open while he continued to circle, patient and possessive, throwing every gentle thing you’d ever offered the other version of him back at you like a blade.

He finished one last slow circuit and stopped between your forced-apart thighs. One blood stained hand settled on the inside of your knee. The other dragged up the center seam of your pants, pressing the fabric in until it clung to every slick fold.

“Already making a mess,” he observed, rubbing firm, deliberate circles over your clit through the cloth. The friction was muted and maddening. “Hanging here pathetically and you’re still trying to push down into my hand. Greedy.”

He kept the pressure just shy of enough—slow strokes that made your hips twitch uselessly against the webbing. Every frustrated sound you made earned a softer, meaner hum of approval.

His patience snapped sooner than he let on.

Both hands hooked into the waistband and tore. Fabric ripped straight down your legs in one violent motion; underwear went with it. Cool air hit your bare cunt. The ruined scraps fluttered to the floor.

Peter moved fast after that.

A thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist to the ceiling. He gripped it, kicked off the ground, and swung himself upside down in one fluid motion until he hung inverted directly beneath you—face level with your exposed cunt, body suspended by the same silk that held you horizontal. The position put his mouth at the perfect height. He didn’t adjust further. He just gripped your bound thighs, pulled himself in, and buried his face between your legs like he’d been denied the taste of you for weeks.

There was no careful start.

His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke, then he sealed his mouth over you and sucked hard. The wet, greedy sounds of it filled the apartment as he ate you out relentlessly. Every shift of his body made the webbing supporting him creak. Your own suspension swayed in answer whenever he pulled you tighter against his mouth.

“Fuck—just like that,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Dripping straight onto my tongue. Keep making those noises. I want to feel every single one. Don't you dare fuckin' hold back.” He pushed his tongue deep, fucking it into you in short, filthy thrusts before returning to your clit and sucking until your thighs trembled in his grip. “You’re going to come on my face like this—And I’m not stopping until you do.”

He went back to devouring you without another word, starved and thorough, the two of you suspended together while he took exactly what he wanted.

Every time your thighs started to shake and your cunt clenched around his tongue he pulled back just enough to deny you. A frustrated sound tore out of your throat. He only laughed against your slick folds, inverted and unbothered, and went right back to licking in long, filthy strokes that stayed carefully short of enough.

“Listen to that desperate little noise,” he murmured, voice rough and dripping mean amusement. “You’re throbbing on my tongue little bug. You regretting staying yet? How long do you think I could keep you like this? Dripping, shaking, right on the edge while I decide whether you deserve it?” He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard for a few perfect seconds, then pulled off again with a wet pop. “Not yet. I want you meaner first.”

He dragged his tongue through your wetness one more time, slow and deliberate, before speaking against your cunt like the words themselves were another form of torment.

“I still remember how you bit me. Sank those teeth in deep enough to hurt. Most people would have been terrified after. You just looked at me like you were already planning the next one.” His grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh. “I still feel it when I think about it. That little flash of pain while you were on your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You surprised yourself by laughing—short, breathless, a little wild.

The sound made him go completely still. Then a low, filthy groan vibrated against you.

“Oh, you like that. You like knowing it got to me.” He licked a long, greedy stripe from your entrance to your clit and stayed there, speaking between wet strokes. “That laugh just made my cock throb. Keep it up. I want the version of you that bites and talks back and still soaks my face while she does it. The soft little neighbor who says she’s not scared is cute. The other side of you is so much better.”

Something in you shifted.

Peter had been trying for weeks to let both sides of himself want you. Maybe it was time you stopped pretending you only wanted the soft half of him. If he could give in, so could you.

He felt it immediately.

“There it is,” he growled, pulling off you with a filthy wet sound. “Did I piss you off sweetheart? Good."

He released the webbing holding him inverted and dropped lightly to the floor. Before you could sag he cut the main strands keeping you horizontal. Fresh silk shot out instantly, yanking you upright and backward.

Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Thick webbing pinned both wrists high above your head in a single unforgiving band. More strands wrapped your thighs and calves, hauling your legs up and open until your ankles hung high near your shoulders, knees forced wide, cunt completely exposed and still glistening from his mouth.

Peter stepped between your elevated thighs, black eyes gleaming with open, cruel satisfaction as he looked you over.

“I like you tied up,” he said, voice pure filth. One hand stroked along the inside of your raised thigh, smearing the wetness he’d left there. “Like this. Think it's my favorite. Arms trapped. Legs spread so wide I can see every inch of this pretty, swollen cunt. You’re already clenching around nothing. Pathetic and perfect.” He leaned in and bit the soft skin just above your knee hard enough to leave a mark, then soothed it with his tongue. “I want all of it. The fight, the attitude, the way you get wetter every time I’m mean to you. I want that side of you little bug. We'd make such a perfect team.”

His fingers trailed higher, brushing the edge of your soaked entrance without pushing in.

“You’re thinking about giving in properly now, aren’t you? I can smell how much you want it. Felt that little mental shift where you decided maybe the monster is worth wanting too.” A slow, vicious smile curved his mouth as he finally pressed two fingers against your clit and rubbed in tight, filthy circles. “Don’t worry, little bug. I’m going to ruin you so thoroughly you’ll never be able to pretend you only want the soft one again. And you’re going to thank me for it while you’re still tied open and dripping.”

Peter peeled the rest of the suit off without ceremony.

The blood-streaked fabric hit the floor in a heap. He was hard, cock flushed and heavy between his legs as he put one hand and one foot on the wall and crawled upward with that same unnatural ease. In seconds he was braced above and between your elevated thighs, the head of his cock dragging through the slick mess he’d left on you. One sticky hand gripped the webbing near your hip for leverage. The other wrapped around the base of his cock so he could line up perfectly.

He pushed in with one hard, unbroken thrust.

The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat. He bottomed out and stayed there for a single heartbeat, black eyes locked on your face, before he started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes that made the webbing creak and your back scrape against the brick wall.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he snarled, hips snapping forward. “You love it. Look how wet you got just from me crawling up the wall to take you.”

You glared up at him even as your body clenched around every thrust.

“You’re not even trying to be him right now,” you shot back, voice rough. “Just the mean bastard who gets off on keeping me stuck and full. At least own it.”

Peter’s laugh was low and filthy. He drove into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the apartment.

“Oh, I’m owning it. Every time this pretty cunt grips me like it never wants me to leave. You talk so much shit for someone who’s dripping down my cock.” He leaned in closer, breath hot against your mouth. “Keep running that mouth. It just makes me want to fuck you stupid.”

“Good,” you bit out between thrusts. “Maybe if you’re rough enough the soft one will finally stop hiding and come take his turn.”

That earned a sharper snap of his hips and a mean flash of teeth.

“There it is. Bringing him up while I’m buried in you.” Peter’s voice dropped into something darker and almost offended. “You’re hurting his feelings, you know. Little Peter Parker. The one who spent weeks trying to be careful with you. He can hear every filthy little thing coming out of your mouth right now.” He thrust particularly deep and held there, grinding against you. “Shut up. Stop talking about him like that while I’m the one fucking this cunt.”

You didn’t shut up.

“Make me,” you panted, deliberately clenching around him. “He’s the one who left me alone with you. If he doesn’t like what I’m saying he can climb back up and do something about it.”

Peter’s eyes flashed pure black. A low, dangerous sound left his throat. He released the webbing near your hip so both hands could grip your elevated thighs hard enough to bruise and started railing you in earnest—short, brutal strokes that stole the air from your lungs and made the silk around your wrists dig deeper into your skin.

“You just can’t help yourself,” he growled, voice pure filth and irritation. “Even when I’m balls-deep and you’re shaking you still keep talking shit. Fine. Keep going. Every word just makes me want to wreck you harder until the only sound left in this apartment is you coming on my cock and begging the soft one to save you.”

He fucked into you without mercy, and you kept talking right back.

Peter’s free hand slid between your bodies. Unfortunately he knows how to make you fall apart all too well.

His fingers found your clit and started rubbing in slow, almost careful circles—soft pressure that felt completely at odds with the hard, punishing thrusts still driving into you.

"I— Fuck— Peter—"

The contrast made your head drop back against the wall. Every deep snap of his hips stayed brutal, but those fingers stayed maddeningly gentle, stroking like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

“Listen to you,” he muttered, voice rough and mean even while his touch stayed light. “Still trying to talk shit? Keep running that mouth like it’s going to change anything. Pathetic whore.”

“You’re—ah—still just a dick,” you managed between thrusts, deliberately clenching around him. “My Peter would’ve at least asked if I was okay before he started railing me against a wall and calling me names.”

Peter’s laugh was low and filthy. He fucked into you harder, the gentle circles on your clit never speeding up.

“There he is again. Always dragging the soft one into it. Keep hurting his feelings, see what happens.” His thumb brushed your clit in a feather-light stroke that made your thighs jerk in the webbing. “You’re getting tighter. I can feel it. This cunt’s about to make a mess all over me and you’re still trying to sound tough.”

The pressure built fast and mean. Your insults started fraying at the edges.

“Fuck—you—don’t get to—look so smug when—” The sentence broke into a helpless sound as his fingers kept up that soft, devastating rhythm. “Peter—shit—I’m—”

“There it is,” he goaded, black eyes locked on your face. “Starting to babble. Couldn’t even finish the insult. Come on. Squirt on my cock like the desperate little thing you are. Let me feel it.”

Your coherent words collapsed completely.

“Please—fuck, I can’t—I’m gonna—Peter, fuck, fuck—” The rest dissolved into broken, high sounds as the orgasm slammed into you. Your cunt locked down hard around him and you squirted, a hot, pulsing rush that spilled over his cock and dripped onto the floor beneath you. Your whole body shook in the webbing, legs straining against the silk that kept them wide open.

Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, dragging every last spurt out of you while his fingers finally pressed a little firmer on your oversensitive clit.

“Look at that,” he said, voice pure cocky satisfaction as he watched the mess you’d made. “I barely even had to try. All that attitude and you still came exactly when I told you to.” He gave a slow, deep roll of his hips, letting you feel how wet everything still was. “Proud of yourself? Because I am. Look at the state of this cunt. Still twitching. Still taking it while you’re shaking.”

He didn’t stop moving, and the mean, delighted edge in his voice only got stronger.

“Go on. Try talking shit again. I dare you. Your legs are still trembling and my cock’s covered in you. Let’s hear it.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you snapped, still breathless and shaking in the webbing.

Peter’s mouth curved into a sharp, delighted grin.

“Already did,” he shot back without missing a beat. “Inside you. What is this the fourth time now you fell into my web? Keep up.”

The webs snapped all at once.

You dropped straight into his arms. Before you could get your feet under you he hauled you up and over one shoulder like you weighed nothing, one arm locked across the backs of your thighs. The world tilted. Your still-sensitive cunt was suddenly right beside his face.

He started walking.

“Now where next…” he mused aloud, completely ignoring the fresh string of insults you aimed at the back of his head. Two filthy fingers slid between your legs from behind and started lazily stroking through the mess he’d already made of you—slow, proprietary circles that made your hips jerk against his shoulder. “Couch is right there. Floor’s an option. Window ledge could be fun if I web your hands to the frame…”

“You’re still covered in someone else’s blood, you absolute psychopath,” you gritted out. “Could you maybe wash that off before you stick your dick in me again, or do you enjoy the thought of giving me an infection?”

Peter paused mid-step.

You felt the low, considering hum vibrate through his shoulder.

“Huh.” His fingers pushed into you just once, lazy and deep, before sliding back out to keep toying with your clit. “That’s actually not a bad idea. You’re right. I’m filthy.” He adjusted his grip and changed direction toward the bathroom, still fingering you with open casualness while you hung over his shoulder. “Fine. Shower it is. But just so we’re clear—”

He kicked the bathroom door open and finally set you down on the cool tile, black eyes gleaming with pure mean amusement.

“I’m still fucking you in it.”

He reached past you to turn the water on full blast, already hard again, already looking at you like the argument had only made him hungrier.

Peter didn’t give you time to stand.

Fresh webbing shot from his wrists the second your feet touched the tile. It wrapped your wrists behind your back and looped around your ankles, forcing you to sit on the shower floor with your knees bent and your spine against the cool wall. You could move your head. That was about it.

He stepped under the spray like he had all the time in the world.

“There. Front-row seat,” he said, tipping his head back so the hot water could run over the dried blood on his throat and chest. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’m cleaning up for you. Most people would call that considerate.”

You tested the silk and found zero give. “You’re webbing me to the floor so I can watch you rinse off someone else’s blood and calling it a favor. Your definition of considerate needs work.”

Peter only grinned, eyes closed as he scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. Pinkish water swirled toward the drain near your feet.

You stared anyway.

He looked good—lean muscle shifting under the water—but he also looked broken. Exhaustion sat under the cocky posture. Old bruises mixed with the blood he was washing away. The black in his eyes never softened, yet something frayed and overused lived in the set of his shoulders, like the body was still running on whatever had gotten him through tonight's fight.

He caught you looking.

“You’re staring,” he noted, rinsing soap from his chest. “If you wanted a show you could’ve asked. I would’ve tied you down either way, but it’s nice to know you appreciate the view.”

“I’m staring because I’m stuck here and you’re rinsing off a crime scene like it’s a spa night,” you shot back. “Hurry up before I start hoping the soft one wakes up and sees what a smug asshole you’re being.”

Peter’s laugh was low and mean. He left the water running on purpose.

One sharp tug snapped the webbing. In the same motion he hauled you up, spun you, and pressed your chest to the wet tile wall under the still-pounding spray. A fresh band of silk locked your wrists high above your head. His other hand gripped your hip hard, tilting you back.

He pushed into you in one deep, unbroken thrust, water cascading over both of you.

“Soft one’s still not here,” he growled against your shoulder, already fucking you in hard, steady strokes that made the wet tile slap under your palms. “Just me. I cleaned up and you're still being a fucking brat.” He drove deeper, the hot water turning every movement slicker and louder. “Keep talking shit little bug. It only makes this cunt squeeze me tighter.”

Peter didn’t slow down.

He kept driving into you under the hot spray, every thrust wet and deep and relentless. The hand not pinning your wrists slid around your hip and found your clit again—this time with no gentleness at all. He rubbed tight, filthy circles in time with his hips until the pressure built too fast to fight.

“That’s it—give it to me again,” he growled against your ear. “I can feel you getting there. Squirt on my cock like you can’t fucking help it.”

It hit hard.

Your cunt clamped down around him as you came with a broken cry, a hot rush of wetness spilling over his cock and immediately caught by the shower, swirling down your thighs and toward the drain. Your legs started shaking almost instantly.

Peter made a low, complicated sound—half cocky satisfaction, half something almost disappointed.

“Look at that. All of it just… washing away.” He fucked you through the orgasm without mercy, dragging every pulse out of you while the evidence disappeared down the drain. “I wanted that on your skin. Wanted you walking around marked with it. Instead the water’s stealing it. Fucking shame.”

He didn’t stop.

Even when the pleasure tipped into overstimulation and your legs threatened to give out completely, he kept thrusting—short, deep strokes that forced broken noises out of your throat. The webbing around your wrists was the only thing keeping you upright. Your thighs trembled violently against his.

“Stay with me,” he ordered, voice rough. “You’re not done until I say you are.”

Only when your legs were genuinely on the edge of collapsing did he finally chase his own release. Peter buried his face against the side of your neck and started marking you in earnest—open-mouthed bites and hard sucks along the curve of your throat, then lower across the top of your shoulder and the upper part of your back. Each one stung under the hot water. Each one felt deliberate.

He came with a guttural sound against your skin, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, still biting and sucking fresh marks into your neck and back while the orgasm rolled through him. The shower kept running the whole time, washing everything away except the bruises he was leaving behind.

When he finally stilled, he stayed pressed against you, mouth still on your shoulder, breathing hard.

“Mine,” he muttered against the wet skin, almost too quiet to hear over the water. “Even if the rest of it goes down the drain.”

Peter reached out and shut the water off with one hand.

The sudden quiet felt almost loud. Water still dripped from both of you onto the tile. He stayed pressed against your back for a moment longer than necessary, mouth brushing one of the fresh marks on your shoulder, before he finally spoke.

“I’m not done.”

The words came out quieter than before—still rough, still certain, but missing some of the earlier sharp cruelty. He exhaled against your neck like he was annoyed with himself for the softness, then pulled back enough to look at you.

“If I take the webbing off… are you going to be good?”

There was a reluctant edge to the question, like part of him hated how careful it sounded. He covered it almost immediately with a crooked, cocky tilt of his mouth.

“Don’t make me regret asking. I’m trying to be nice. Sort of.”

You swallowed, still breathing hard against the wet tile.

“I’ll be good.”

A low, pleased sound left him—too honest for a second—before he forced it back into something smug. The silk around your wrists dissolved with a wet snap. Peter scooped you up while you were still dripping, carried you out of the bathroom without bothering with towels, and dropped onto his bed with you straddling his lap. The sheets were going to be soaked. He clearly didn’t care.

He gripped your hips and guided you so the length of his still-hard cock slid through the slick mess between your legs—slow, deliberate, not pushing in yet. Just dragging through your folds, coating himself in everything the shower hadn’t managed to wash away.

“Look at you,” he murmured, black eyes half-lidded as he watched the way you moved over him. The words started almost soft, then he caught himself and pushed the cockiness harder into his voice. “Still so wet. Still sitting here taking whatever I give you like a perfect little fuck toy.” He rolled his hips upward, letting the head of his cock catch against your clit with every pass. “I could keep you like this for hours. Move you around, fill you up, mark you wherever I want. And you’d let me. That’s the best part.”

His thumbs stroked over the bruises on your hips—gentler than they needed to be—before he deliberately tightened his grip again, like he was reminding both of you who was in control.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, almost irritated with the way his own voice had gone quieter. “I’m still the one using you. Nothing’s changed.”

He kept sliding through your folds in slow, filthy strokes, clearly fighting the softer instinct every time it tried to surface when he finally pushed into you.

One slow, deep thrust and he was buried to the hilt, a rough sound catching in his throat. His hands locked on your hips hard as he started fucking up into you—controlled at first, then harder, using your body exactly the way he’d promised. The wet slide of it filled the quiet bedroom. Every upward snap forced a soft, fucked-out sound out of you.

“That’s it,” he muttered, voice strained around the edges. “Just like that. Sit there and fuckin' take it. You’re so fuckin' good at this—letting me use you until you can’t think straight.” He thrust up harder, watching your face through half-lidded black eyes. “Look at you little bug. Nothing left to say? Don’t get quiet on me now.”

You were already floating in that heavy, oversensitive haze, body pliant and warm, but something in his voice kept snagging your attention. The cockiness was still there, but it sounded thinner. Frayed. Like he was working harder to hold onto it with every thrust.

“You’re shaking again,” he said, almost accusing. “Still so responsive. I could keep you on my cock all night and you’d just let me, wouldn’t you? Say it. Tell me you’re mine to use.”

The words came out sharper than necessary, like he needed the mean edge to stay in control. But the black in his eyes kept flickering—tiny, unstable fractures of brown trying to push through.

Even fucked-out and blissed, you felt it.

The spider was slipping.

You leaned down while he was still thrusting up into you and kissed him.

Soft. Deliberate. No heat, no bite—just your mouth pressed gently to his.

Peter’s rhythm stuttered hard.

A broken sound left him, half growl, half something far more human. His hips faltered, then stopped completely for a second as the black in his eyes fractured wider. Brown bled through in unstable waves. His hands on your hips trembled.

You didn’t pull back.

You kissed him again, slower this time, lingering, giving the real Peter something solid to reach for while the arachnid side tried to dig its claws back in. His next thrust was unsteady. The one after that almost gentle. A raw, shaky breath spilled against your mouth as more of the darkness cracked.

“Don’t—” he whispered, voice splitting between the two versions of him. “If you keep doing that I can’t—”

You kissed him anyway, and felt the exact moment the spider’s grip started to truly fail.

Peter went completely still.

The black drained from his eyes in uneven waves until only the familiar warm brown remained—wide, horrified, and already filling with self-disgust. He was still buried inside you, still hard, but his hands had gone careful on your hips like he was afraid of leaving more bruises than he already had.

“Oh my god.” The words came out wrecked. He stared down at the marks on your neck and shoulders, at the way you were still straddling him, at everything the other version of him had done. “I—again. I let it— I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop it this time either.”

You reached up and cupped his face before the spiral could pull him under completely.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “I want this. I want you. This version. The one who’s looking at me like that right now.”

Peter searched your eyes like he was waiting for the catch. After a long moment he nodded—small, uncertain, only half believing you—but he didn’t pull away.

Instead he wrapped an arm around your back and carefully flipped you over, settling you into the mattress beneath him. The change in angle made both of you exhale. He stayed inside you as he shifted, then began to move again—slower this time, deeper, almost reverent.

Every thrust was measured. Gentle.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your mouth, kissing you between the words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed the corner of your lips, your cheek, the fading bite mark on your neck, then found your mouth again like he couldn’t stop. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to see me like that again.”

His hips kept the same soft, steady rhythm, rocking into you with none of the earlier roughness. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head; the other stayed braced by your shoulder so he wouldn’t put too much weight on you. Every few strokes he paused just long enough to kiss you again—apologizing into every one of them, like the words and the gentleness together might somehow make up for the hours the spider had taken.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured between kisses. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He kept moving inside you, soft and careful and full of quiet remorse, kissing you through every slow thrust as if he could erase the rougher versions of himself with nothing but tenderness and apologies.

Every stroke was deliberate—hips rolling instead of snapping, the thick, warm slide of him dragging against places already left sensitive and swollen. The sheets were cool under your back. His skin still carried the faint scent of soap and blood. You could feel the quiet tremor in his arms every time he braced himself.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered between soft, lingering kisses. “You’re safe. I’m right here. No more webs. No more games. Just me.” Another careful thrust made your breath catch. “You feel perfect. Soft and warm and mine. This is what I wanted. You. Just you.”

You reached between your bodies, fingers slipping through the slick mess where you were joined, and started rubbing your own clit in tight, needy circles. The added pressure made your back arch. Peter felt the change immediately—the way your cunt fluttered and clenched around him—and a wrecked sound left his throat.

“That’s it… just like that,” he breathed against your mouth. “Don’t stop. Let me feel you.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing the soft noises you made. “I’ve got you. Come for me. Please.”

The contrast was too much.

After hours of being used and restrained, the sheer gentleness of him—the sweet words, the careful hands, the way he kept kissing every part of your face he could reach—crashed over you in a sudden, helpless wave. Your fingers pressed harder. Your thighs started to shake. The orgasm built from somewhere deep and oversensitive, coiling tighter with every slow thrust and every soft “I’ve got you” he murmured against your lips.

When it broke, it broke hard.

Your cunt locked down around him in strong, rhythmic pulses as you squirted, a hot, uncontrollable gush of wetness spilling between you and soaking the sheets beneath your hips. The pleasure was sharp and overwhelming, pulling broken, high sounds from your throat while your fingers kept moving through it. Your whole body trembled under him.

Peter made a sound like he’d been gutted.

“Oh—god—” His eyes went wide and glassy. His rhythm fell apart completely. Feeling you come around him while he was fully present—feeling every tight, pulsing squeeze without the spider filtering any of it—destroyed him. His forehead dropped to yours. A raw, punched-out groan tore out of him as his hips stuttered and he spilled deep inside you, thick heat flooding you in long, pulsing waves while your cunt kept milking him through it.

The sensation of him coming—hot, heavy, so deep—made aftershocks flutter through you all over again.

“I’ve never…” he choked out between desperate kisses, still shaking. “I never got to feel that before. Not really. You—fuck—you feel incredible. So perfect. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You kissed him back just as softly, hands coming up to cradle his face even while you were both still trembling.

“I’ve got you too,” you whispered against his mouth. “Stay. Just stay with me.”

Peter nodded, still buried deep, still kissing you like he couldn’t bear to stop—soft, grateful, completely human again—as the last of the aftershocks faded between you.

Peter shifted as his cock softened inside you and naturally slipped out.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges. “There’s… a lot. And the marks on your neck, your back—I don’t want you falling asleep like this. Let me just—”

Your arms tightened around him before he could move any farther. You kept him right where he was.

“Stay,” you said quietly. “Please. Just stay with me for a minute.” You brushed your fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He went still. For a few seconds the only sound was the two of you breathing. Then a long, shaky exhale left him and he nodded against your shoulder, the motion small and tired.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “A little. If that’s okay.”

You kept stroking his hair in silent encouragement.

Peter was quiet for another moment, gathering the words.

“Scorpion got under my skin tonight. The Telepath had him—he knew exactly where to push. Everything I’d been holding down just… snapped. And once it started I couldn’t get it back. I kept seeing red and then I was here and you were looking at me like—” His voice caught. He pressed his face more firmly into the curve of your neck. “I hate that you keep seeing me like that. I hate that the first thing the spider does when it takes over is come looking for you. Like you’re the only thing that makes sense when I’m not me anymore.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss his temple.

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “You’re you. That’s what matters.”

“I know. I just…” He let out a soft, exhausted huff. “I’m so tired of being afraid of myself. And I’m so tired of making you clean up the mess afterward.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” you said. “I’m choosing to stay and I'll keep choosing it.”

Peter was silent for a long time after that. His hand stroked slowly up and down your side, the touch almost reverent. When he finally spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Thank you. For not running. Even when you probably should.”

The exhaustion settled over both of you like a heavy blanket—deep and to the bone after everything the night had taken. His breathing gradually slowed against your neck. Yours followed. Still wrapped around each other, the two of you drifted off tangled together in the dark, the city quiet beyond the window for once.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You woke before him.

Morning light filtered weakly through the half-closed blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed. Peter was still deeply asleep on his stomach, one arm stretched out toward the empty space you’d left, face turned into the pillow. In sleep the constant tension he carried was gone. The line between his brows had smoothed out. His mouth was soft. He looked younger. Content in a way he never quite managed when he was awake.

You watched him for a long moment, then leaned down and pressed a quiet kiss to his forehead. He didn’t stir.

The apartment was still. You slipped out of bed carefully, pulled on one of his discarded t-shirts, and padded into the kitchen with the vague idea of making breakfast. Something simple. Something normal.

His kitchen was about what you expected—half-empty cabinets, a fridge that contained mostly takeout containers and a suspicious number of sports drinks. You started opening drawers looking for a pan or utensils.

In the third drawer, shoved all the way to the back beneath a tangle of takeout menus and loose batteries, you found a folded piece of paper with your name written on the front in Peter’s handwriting.

You almost left it there.

Instead you unfolded it.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

The words blurred for a second. You had to read them twice before they fully registered. The paper trembled slightly in your hand.

Behind you, the bed creaked.

Peter’s voice, still rough with sleep, came from the doorway.

“…Hey. You’re up early—”

He stopped.

You turned, note still open in your fingers, and met his eyes.

“What the fuck is this note about?”

life had been hell for you as of late. ever since the tragic death of your father, your grand dreams of royalty had crumbled. king jason baratheon's cruelty only sharpened the ruin. his cold indifference, his calculated mistreatment, stripped away whatever illusions you had clung to.

you had never felt more alone.

once, you had pictured yourself beside him on the throne, ruling as his queen, carrying his princes and princesses, strengthing the legacy that would outlive you both. it had been a beautiful fantasy, but the current reality was nothing like that picture.

you still couldn't erase the memory of jason forcing you to watch your father's execution. you knew he was innocent. you knew the charges were nothing more than a lie spun by the queen regent, karene, desperate to preserve the lannister legacy at any cost.

and jason had let it happen. despite his pretty promises.

the next day, jason insisted you join him for a walk. his personal bodyguard, ser edward "the hound" clegane, trailed a few steps behind. jason called him dog with casual cruelty, a habit he seemed to enjoy far too much. you could see the flicker of irritation in ser edward's eyes each time the world left his lips, but he never spoke against it. a kingsguard had to hold his tongue when it came to his duty.

you didn't realize where jason was taking you until you saw it. your father's head, mounted on a spike.

your breath caught. all jason did was watch your face with a twisted satisfaction. he wanted your pain—your fear—as he taunted you.

he even threatened that your brother—jonathor stark—would join your father once the war was won. your eyes stung with tears, but you refused to look away.

you told him that perhaps it would be your brother bringing you his head on a spike.

jason's face twisted with rage. his hand lashed out, striking you hard enough to split your lip. the sting burned, but you held your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cower.

he continued talking, ranting, boasting, drowning in his own arrogance. and as he did, the rage inside you rose. you stepped forward, genuinely ready to show him off the bridge and watch him fall—no matter what consequences would follow.

but a hand caught your arm.

ser edward turned you around, firm but not rough. you braced yourself, expecting another blow, but none came. instead, the hound reached into his cloak and pulled out a handkerchief. carefully, almost gently, he wiped the blood from your lip.

the kindness in the gesture stunned you. from a man whose presence intimidated half the court, the softness felt almost unreal.

jason eventually left when another knight called for his attention. whatever the matter was, it sounded urgent, but you barely processed it. your gaze fixed on ser edward.

he stood beside you—tall, rugged, long dark hair brushing his shoulders, and eyes so dark they seemed carved from obsidian. intimidating, even when silent. even when secretly kind.

before leaving, jason ordered the hound to escort you back to your chambers. the moment the king disappeared around the corner, ser edward finally spoke.

"save yourself some pain, girl. give him what he wants."

his voice was rough, like gravel dragged across stone. you looked up at him as you walked, your lip still stinging.

"thank you, ser," you said softly.

he scoffed, a sharp exhale through his nose. "i'm no ser. don't get comfortable calling me that."

you frowned. "but—"

"aye, i know. kingsguard and a white cloak." he waved a hand dismissively. "but i never took the fuckin' vows. doesn't make me a bloody knight then, does it?"

you stayed quiet, not offended. you knew he was a crude man—blunt and honest.

after a moment, he added, "just... don't go trying to shove kings off bridges. you'll end up worse than your father."

his tone wasn't mocking. it seemed like warning. maybe even concern for your well being.

you swallowed. "i wasn't thinking."

"i know you weren't," he muttered.

the two of you walked in silence for a few steps before he spoke up again, quieter this time.

"he's looking for reasons to break you. don't hand him any."

when you reached your chambers, you offered him the handkerchief back. he shook his head.

"keep it. you'll be needing that again."

you hesitated. "i hope not."

he gave a low grunt. "hope's a pretty thing. doesn't last long in places like this."

he lingered for a moment, his gaze holding yours as if trying to understand why he cared at all.

then he turned and left.

you watched him go, stunned by the unexpected softness beneath all that armor and intimidation.

throughout the weeks of your stay, you and the hound exchanged lingering looks. it became a quiet routine—every time your eyes met, you offered him a small, gentle smile. and every time, he held your gaze for just a moment longer than necessary before looking away. there was something in that hesitation that pulled at you.

you knew it was wrong. you were betrothed to jason. bound to him by politics, by duty, by the twisted whims of the crown. but still... you couldn't help yourself. there was something about ser edward clegane that drew you in.

and in king's landing, whispers traveled faster than ravens. rumors drifted through the halls—saying the queen regent karene had been unfaithful to the late king teddard baratheon. they say she spent her nights with billy "the mountaint" clegane. forbidden relationships between queens and knights weren't unheard of, but they were definitely still frowned upon.

perhaps that was why you felt the wrongness so sharply. and yet, the pull remained.

one afternoon, you caught him watching you again. this time, he didn't look away immediately. his dark eyes stayed fixed on you, steady and unflinching. you felt that familiar tug again, and you found yourself walking toward him before you could think better of it.

when you reached him, you almost regretted it. you didn't know what to say or do, other than the fact that you just wanted to speak to him again.

but you managed. "earlier... i heard king jason call you 'dog'."

his jaw tightened. "aye. he does that."

"does it bother you?" you asked softly. "when he says things like that?"

he scoffed. "why? what's it to you? i thought you loved your king."

you swallowed, remembering the role you had to play—the dutiful bride-to-be, the loyal future queen. it was all you had been doing since arriving in king's landing.

"my beloved can be a bit harsh at times," you said carefully, tiptoeing around each word. "but... i hope that once i am queen, i can help him see my way."

he gave you a look—sharp, skeptical, almost amused. "your way," he repeated, like the phrase tasted strange in his mouth.

you tried to hold his gaze, but he was too direct, too honest. it made your heart beat faster.

"yes, ser," you added, quieter.

he snorted. "i told you not to call me that."

"but you're a knight! you—"

"i told you, girl," he cut in, his voice low and rough. "i'm not no fuckin' knight. i'm just a dog to your beloved king."

he said beloved with a mocking curl of his lip, as if the word itself sicked him.

you hesitated. "why do you say that? you wear the white cloak. you protect the king. isn't that what knights do?"

he shook his head. "knights lie. knights pretend. knights smile while doing cruel things." his eyes flicked to yours, steady and careless. "a dog's better. a hound will die for you, but never lie to you. and he'll look you straight in the face."

you realized then why he refused the title—why he clung to the name jason used to demean him. he hated the falsehoods that came with knighthood. hated the men who hide behind vows while committing horrors. none of the other knights would've offered you that handkerchief. none would have cared enough to stop you from doing something reckless.

you tried to smile, small and warm. "you're kinder than you pretend to be."

he huffed, almost a laugh. "don't go spreading that around. i've got a reputation."

"intimidating?" you teased gently.

"dangerous," he corrected, though his tone softened. "and you ought to remember that."

you tilted your head. "if you were truly dangerous to me, you wouldn't have stopped me on the bridge."

his gaze flicked to your lips—just for a moment—before returning to your eyes. "maybe i didn't want to watch you die."

"so you didn't want to watch him kill me?"

his jaw clenched. "maybe."

he didn't look away as the silence stretched, and neither did you.

finally, he muttered. "you should go. before someone sees you standing here making eyes at me."

you felt a flutter in your chest. "i wasn't—"

"aye," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "you were."

you turned to leave, your heart pounding, but you couldn't resist glancing back.

he was still watching you.

a couple of weeks passed, and your strange connection with the hound never truly progressed. just small talk. lingering glances. a few quiet moments where his eyes held yours a little too long. always close enough to feel something, never close enough to reach it.

it frustrated you more than you wanted to admit.

one day, you joined the royal procession in the streets of king's landing. princess nancyne, jason's sister, was being sent to dorne for her safety during the war. at first, everything seemed fine.

until the shouting began.

insults hurled at the king. accusations. pleas. rage. jason had ignored the suffering of the common people for too long, leaving them starving, desperate, furious.

someone threw cow dung at jason's head. he froze, humiliated, then exploded with fury. he ordered the hound and the rest of the guards to kill the culprit. steel flashed. screams rose. panic surged through the crowd, the riot erupting.

you were swallowed by it.

cut off from the royal party, separated from the lannister guards, shoved deeper into the chaos. you tried to push through, but the bodies pressed in on all sides. then you saw them—a group of men breaking away from the frenzy, their eyes locking onto you with a hunger that made your blood run cold.

karene's words echoed in your mind. all men make some use of their swords—the ones they wield in battle, and the ones they use in bed.

their faces told you exactly which sword they meant.

you darted away, heart pounding, slipping into a narrow alley. but they followed. their footsteps thundered behind you.

when you realized you were cornered, you attempted to fight back. you slapped one of the men, only to get struck back much harder. you stumbled onto the floor, shrieking and yelping as rough hands grabbed at your arms and legs.

"no, please! please! i am the king's betrothed—"

but your words were useless.

"quiet, girl. do you see the king around here?" one sneered.

your gown was tearing, your cries and protests seemingly helpless.

until everything stopped.

edward clegane had seen you break away from the crowd. seen the men chase you. and something inside him had snapped.

he didn't even hesitate.

steel sang. bodies fell. you heard the thud of boots, the grunt of effort, the wet sound of violence you couldn't bear to look at. you curled in on yourself, sobbing, trembling, unable to process anything except fear.

when it was over, he turned back to you.

and the brutality in him vanished.

his voice was low and rough, but undeniably gentle. "you're alright now, sweet girl, you're alright."

sweet girl.

your heart yielded completely to those words. you reached for him without thinking, and he offered his hand—large, calloused, steady. you took it, clinging to the warmth that grounded you.

you expceted him to walk you back. instead, he lifted you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. then with a decisive shift, he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing at all.

you gasped, startled. "edward—"

"quiet," he muttered, already carrying you out of the alley. "you're safe. i've got you."

his grip was firm, protective, almost possessive. and despite everything—the terror, the chaos, the blood—you felt the familiar warmth bloom in your chest again. stronger than ever.

he set you down on the cobblestones, far enough from the chaos. a cluster of handmaidens rushed toward you, skirts gathered in their fists, faces pale with worry.

edward didn't linger. he snapped at the nearest guard, voice sharp and commanding. "little bird's bleeding. take her back to her cage. and make sure someone sees to that cut."

the guard nodded quickly, almost flinching under the weight of his tone.

you watched edward turn away, his armor streaked with blood. he pushed back into the fray, disappearing into the violent swell of bodies and steel. for a moment, you could only stare after him, your breath trembling, your heart still racing from the terror of the alley.

hands touched your shoulders, your arms, guiding you gently. the handmaidens fussed over you, checking your torn gown, brushing dirt from your skin, murmuring reassurances you barely heard.

but none of it mattered. all you could think about was him.

the way he looked when he found you—furious, sickened, determined. the way he had killed without hesitation, not for the king, not for his duty, but for you. you couldn’t let go of how his voice had softened afterward, calling you sweet girl like the words were meant only for you.

he had saved your life. and he had done it more than once.

it had been days since you last saw him. your handmaidens insisted you keep to yourself—stay in your chambers, avoid the corridors, avoid the city, avoid anything that might put you in danger again. you tried. you really did. but the walls felt too close, the silence too heavy, and the memory of edward's hands lifting you from the alley lingered.

eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

you slipped out for fresh air, wandering the quieter halls of the red keep. you didn't expect to see him, but fate had its own ideas.

you turned a corner and saw him.

he was walking the opposite direction, armor cleaned, hair down as per usual, expression unreadable. you were about to pass him, until you found your voice.

"i beg pardon, ser," you said softly, turning to fully face him as you stopped walking.

he stopped. turned. and for once, he didn't correct you or scoff at the title. he just looked at you—long, grounded, almost curious.

"i should've came to you after," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "to thank you for saving me. you were so brave."

he snorted, but it lacked its usual bite. "brave? a dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats."

normally you would've let his meanness pass. but this time, it frustrated you.

"does it give you joy to scare people?" you demanded, frustration slipping through your gentle tone.

his brows lifted, amused. he took a slow step toward you, savoring the sight of your anger like it was something sweet.

"no, it gives me joy to kill people."

you stiffened, clearly intimidated. he watched it happen, clearly pleased he could rattle you.

"spare me," he went on. "you can't tell me lord jameson stark of winterfell never killed a man."

your breath caught at the mention of your father. "it was his duty," you said sharply. "he never liked it."

edward scoffed. "is that what he told you? he lied. killing's the sweetest thing there is."

you let out an exasperated sigh, looking up at him with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "why are you always so hateful?"

his jaw tightened. he hesitated—just a fraction—before answering.

"you'll be glad of the hateful things i do someday when you're queen," he said quietly. "and i'm all that stands between you and your beloved king."

he said beloved the same way he did the last time—mocking, bitter, disgusted. but this time, you felt something else beneath it.

you processed his words slowly, your heart rate picking up.

he would choose you. even against jason. even against his duty and the crown.

you swallowed, your voice softer now. "you... would stand between us?"

he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. "aye."

your heart fluttered. "why?"

he gave a low grunt, looking away for a moment as if the truth irritated him. "because you're soft," he muttered. "too soft for this place."

you frowned. "is that supposed to be an insult?"

"no," he said simply, his eyes flicking back to yours. "just the truth."

you held his gaze, refusing to look away. "you don't scare me, edward."

he huffed a quiet laugh. "i should."

"why?" you challenged, stepping closer.

his eyes dropped to your lips before rising again. he didn't answer your question. he tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he intended to take apart piece by piece.

"i've heard the rumors, you know. about the queen regent karene and my brother."

your brows lifted. "billy?"

"aye." his eyes narrowed, dark and sharp. "if she can take up with him of all people..." he let the implication hang. "why shouldn't i have what i want?"

your breath caught. "and what is it you want?"

he leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravel-soft murmur. "you already know."

your gaze lingered on him for a long moment before you froced yourself to turn away. you couldn't afford anyone peering at you when king jameson was already making it his mission to belittle you.

you turned to leave, heart pounding, but you couldn't resist glancing back.

he was still watching you.

"call for your dog if you ever need someone to escort you to your chambers," he called out, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you flushed at the implication, picking up the speed in which you walked.

edward had felt it the moment he heard your name whispered in the red keep's corridors. you were another arrival in king's landing, another court figure to be catalogued and guarded. yet the day he finally saw you, standing small but steady in the shadow of the throne room, something inside him clicked into place.

pretty thing, yes. sweet, undeniably so. but it was more than that.

most people flinched when they saw him. they stared up at him for too long, and spoke to him like he was a weapon rather than a man. you didn't. you were intimidated—he could see it in the way your breath caught, the way your fingers curled slightly when he drew near—but you didn't treat him like a monster. you didn't pretend not to notice him, nor did you shring away.

you were kind. even to him.

and he liked it more than he should have.

at first, he told himself it was ismply duty. jason was not the sort of king who valued gentleness or goodness in others. edward had seen enough of his temper, his appetites, his carelessness with people. the moment edward realized you would be spending time near the king, he knew he couldn't let him hurt you.

that was all it was. protection.

but the longer you stayed, the more he saw you in your light pretty gowns—the way you spoke softly but with conviction, the way you looked at him like you were trying to understand him rather than fear him—made the truth harder to ignore.

the truth that it wasn't just protection.

he found himself thinking of you at odd hours. after fighting, after killing, when drinking himself near death, before he slept. he would wonder if you were safe. wonder if you were lonely and if you thought of him. and every time he tried to push the thoughts away, they returned stronger, more insistent.

knights sharing the queen's bed when the king was away—it was nothing new. it had been happening for generations. his own brother, billy, slipping into queen regent karene's chambers with the ease of a man who had long stopped pretending it was only duty that brought him there.

if billy could do it... if karene could allow him.... would you?

the thought unsettled him. especially at night. it made everything worse. the possibility felt closer, more real, more dangerous.

he didn't want to think of you that way. he didn't want to imagine what it would mean if you ever looked at him with something warmer than kindness. the fire of desire in your eyes instead of the gentle storm. the feel of your body beneath his and how you would look with your lips parted and your brows furrowed. but he couldn't stop.

the wine was sour. edward drank it anyway, slow, watching the fire instead of the man who'd summoned him.

jason poured himself another cup, lounged back in the carved chair. it infuriated edward how arrogant he was—how everything belonged to him.

"pretty little thing, isn't she?" the king said.

edward's jaw went tight. he didn't ask who.

"the stark girl. your little bird." jason swirled the wine, studying its color with theatrical interest. "soft hands. soft mouth."

edward said nothing. drank.

"you've been watching her, dog. don't think i haven't noticed." a smile formed at his lips, thin as a blade. "standing too close in the corridors, that business in the alley. you were quick to her. quicker than your duty required."

"she was in danger."

"was she?" jason set the cup down with a click. "or did you just want an excuse to put your hands on her?"

edward's knuckles went white around the goblet. he held the king's gaze and said nothing, because saying anything was a rope around his neck.

jason laughed, easy, delighted by the silence. "ah. you've got the look, dog. i know that look. i've worn it." he leaned forward. "you want to fuck her, don't you?"

edward's body went still.

"don't be shy," jason pressed, savoring it. "i'd want to too. she has that fresh thing about her. untouched. makes a man wonder what she sounds like when she begs."

edward's jaw ached from clenching. he pictured his hands around the king's throat, pictured the wet sound of it, pictured the blood. saw it clear as the fire. but he did nothing.

"you know the rumors," jason went on, refilling his cup, conversational now. "about my mother. the queen regent. spreading her legs for your brother."

edward's gaze snapped to him.

"billy." jason tasted the name. "the mountain, they call him. big as a mountain, dumb as one too. and yet there is she, whoring night after night, letting him in her bed while my father rots in the ground." he shook his head, sorrowful. "the things she must let him do. a queen. a lannister."

"you speak of your own mother."

"and you defend a whore." jason's smile didn't waver. "family pride, is it? the cleganes stick together. i respect that." he swirled his wine. "almost."

edward's voice came out like gravel. "say what you brought me here to say, your grace."

"straight to the point. i like that." jason set the cup aside and rose, circling slow, boots echoing. he stopped close, his breath sour with wine. "here's what i want you to understand, dog. the girl is mine. betrothed to me. meant to carry my sons, warm my body, wear the crown that is meant for her."

edward didn't move. didn't even blink.

"so if i ever hear that you've touched her. that you've put your filthy hands on her. that you've so much as thought of her in a way that isn't solely for protection." jason's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "i'll have your head on a spike beside her father's. i'll mount it above the gave so she has to look at it every time she leaves the keep. and i'll make her watch."

edward's hands stayed at his sides, fists so tight the metal bit into his palms.

jason studied him a moment longer, then clapped him hard on the shoulder like they were old friends.

"good talk, dog." he stepped toward the door, then paused, glancing back. "oh, and dog? don't think i didn't notice you never denied it."

he left. and edward stood in the firelight, alone, the goblet still in his fist.

he hadn't denied it. he couldn't. because the king was right.

he wanted you. he wanted you the way he'd never wanted anything that wasn't a sword or a cup of wine. and jason knew it. knew it and dangled her in front of him like meant before a chained dog, just to watch him strain.

edward laid on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling of his chamber. he couldn't sleep. he was thinking about you.

it started soft. the way you'd looked at him in the corridor, the way your voice caught when he told you he'd stand between you and the king. that was the romantic part—the part that made his chest ache in a way he'd never knew it could.

then his mind turned. it always did.

he thought about your mouth. about the softness of your throat, the curve of your waist under those light gowns. about what you'd sound like if he got you alone, if he pressed you against a wall, if he found out whether that sweetness ran all the way through. he thought about your thighs, your hands, the way you'd say his name again—but breathless this time, broken and begging.

the image was vivid enough to make his blood run hot and his jaw clench against the wanting.

and then jason's voice cut through, sour as the wine. you want to fuck her, don't you? the king's grin, thin as a blade. i'll have your head on a spike beside her father's.

edward's fist tightened on the blanket. he should stop. he should let it go. you were betrothed. you belonged to the throne, and the throne belonged to a man who'd crush you like a flower between his fingers. every sane instinct told him to keep his distance, to guard you from across the room and never closer.

but he couldn't.

the wanting had its teeth in him now, and it wasn't letting go. it wasn't just the filth either, though the gods knew there was plenty of that. it was you. all of you. the softness and the steel, the way you looked at him like he was a man and not a weapon. he knew he'd die for you. the question was whether he could stand to let you live a life that wasn't with him.

edward swung his legs off the bed.

he didn't even think about it. he just pulled on his boots, shrugged into his tunic, and moved through the dark keep like a shadow, like the hound he was named for. his feet knew the way to your chambers before his mind caught up. he'd memorized it weeks ago, telling himself it was just for protection.

he reached your door and paused. his hand hovered over the latch.

then he slipped inside.

you were sitting near the window, the moonlight silvering your hair, when the door opened and closed behind you with a soft click. the lock turned. you spun, heart leaping into your throat.

and there he was. edward clegane, filling your doorway with his dark eyes already on you.

"edward—" you were on your feet, crossing the room before you knew you'd moved, your hands finding his arms, his chest, checking him like you expected him to be bleeding. "what are you doing here? if anyone saw you—if the king—you'll be killed, edward, you'll be—"

"no one saw me." his voice was low and rough like usual, but there was something almost amused in it despite everything. "are you truly so worried for me, sweet girl?"

you stopped. your hands were still on him, your breath short. you looked up into that honest face and couldn't lie.

"yes," you admitted softly. "i care about you."

his jaw worked. his eyes searched yours, and you could see the war in him—the wanting and the restraint, the anger and the gentleness underneath.

"why are you here?" you asked, your voice still soft.

he let out a rough breath. "the king summoned me tonight. made me drink his sour wine while he talked." his gaze dropped, then rose again, unguarded. "he told me he's noticed the way i look at you. said i wanted to fuck you."

your breath caught.

"he's right," edward said, and the words came out raw. "i do want you. but it's not just that." he stepped closer, and you didn't move back. "i want you by my side. not his. i want you safe, and warm, and mine—even though i know you're betrothed. even though i know it can never be."

his voice broke on the last word. you could see the frustration in the set of his shoulders, the anger in his clenched jaw—anger at the king, at the world, at himself for wanting what he couldn't have. but beneath it laid the gentleness. the tenderness he tried so hard to bury.

you reached up. your hand found his jaw, rough with stubble, and you felt him go still beneath your touch.

and before you could think better of it, you stepped forward and kissed him.

it was soft at first when you initiated it—uncertain, trembling. but his hands came up, one cupping the back of your head, the other finding your waist, pulling you against him. he kissed you back like a starving man, deep and desperate, all that careful restraint crumbling into heat.

you gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his tunic, and he groaned, low in his chest, a sound that went straight you. his hand slid down your back, pressing you closer, and you could feel the want in him—the hard, aching truth of it—but he didn't push. he held you liked you were something delicate, like he was afraid you'd shatter.

"sweet girl," he murmured against your lips, rough and wrecked. "you don't know what you're doing to me."

"then show me," you breathed.

his eyes, dark and burning, met yours. and for a long moment, it was just the two of you amidst the moonlight, the locked door, and the unspoken understanding of everything you both wanted and could never have.

he kissed you again, harder this time.

his mouth was everywhere—your lips, your jaw, the sensitive spot below your ear that made your knees buckle. each kiss was deeper, hungrier, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him with a soft, shuddering gasp.

edward's hands moved across your body, learning every contour through the thin fabric of your gown. his palm cupped your breast through the material, his thumb brushing over the peak, and you arched into his touch with a whimper that vibrated against his lips.

"there you are," he murmured, feeling you respond to him. his hand slid down your side, over the curve of your hip, gathering the hem of your gown and pulling it upward in one slow motion. cool air kissed your skin as the fabric pooled at your waist.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—not your face, but the expanse of skin he'd exposed. his breath hitched. his hand settled on your bare thigh, thumb stroking along the inside, and you trembled against him.

"gods," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "look at you."

you shifted your weight, leaning back against the windowsill for support, and his eyes darkened further, tracking the movement. the moonlight fell across your skin, and he looked at you like no one ever had—like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he was terrified of breaking you.

his mouth found your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the pulse point, his teeth grazing your skin. you threaded your fingers through his hair, and a low rumble escaped his chest—a sound half-growl, half-groan. his hand tightened on your thigh, pulling you closer, and you could feel him, hard and insistent, against your stomach.

you wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he lifted you easily, carrying you to your bed. he tossed you down none too gently, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the dark intensity of his gaze as he loomed over you. a smirk tugged at his mouth.

"so the sweet little bird likes it a little rough, does she?" his voice was a low rasp, full of lust and unspoken promises. "i'll have to keep that in mind."

he grabbed your thighs, spreading your legs wide as he settled between them. the position left you bare and exposed to his heated gaze. cool air kissed your most intimate places, making you shiver.

"gods," edward growled appreciatively, drinking in the sight of you splayed out before him, "you're perfect."

he leaned down, hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, and you bucked reflexively into the sensation. a large hand on your stomach pressed you back down into the mattress, pinning you there.

"stay still," he commanded gruffly. "let me taste you."

the first swipe of his tongue nearly undid you completely. he lapped at you slowly, delicately, like he wanted to savor every second. his scruff rasped against your inner thighs as he worked you open, sending sparks of pleasure skittering along your nerve endings.

it was almost too much—the heat of his mouth, the sinful slide of his tongue, the press of his body holding you down. you could feel yourself climbing toward the edge with frightening speed.

"edward," you whimpered breathlessly, hands fisting in his hair, "please..."

he hummed against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you. "that's it, sweet girl," he encouraged roughly, "let me hear you."

his lips closed around your aching center, suckling hard, and your back arched off the bed with a choked cry. your thighs clenched around his head, threatening to crush his ears if he didn't stop this exquisite torture.

but he didn't stop. he just doubled his efforts, tongue flicking mercilessly over the sensitive bundle of nerves until you were writhing beneath him, mindless with pleasure.

"look at you," edward rumbled against your slick flesh, his voice dark and possessive, "spread wide and dripping for me. such a pretty little thing."

he circled your entrance lazily, teasing, before pushing his finger inside. you cried out at the invasion, your hands gripping his thick dark hair. he pumped into you slowly, deeply, the rhythm almost devoutful despite the crude nature of it.

"mmm," he hummed approvingly, "tight and warm. does this pretty cunt like my tongue on it, sweet girl?"

"y-yes!" you gasped, shameless in your need.

"good girl," he praised, the words vibrating against your most sensitive parts. he sucked lightly on the bundle of nerves, then firmer, establishing a rhythm that made rational thought impossible. "gonna make you come so beautifully..."

the dual stimulation was overwhelming. he curved his finger, seeking the spot inside that made your vision blur with pleasure.

"right there," you sobbed, clutching at his hair. "please don't stop—"

he didn't. he worked you relentlessly with his mouth and fingers, driving you higher and higher until you were a writhing, panting mess beneath him. every suck, every stroke, every possessive murmur pushed you closer to the edge.

"give it to me," edward demanded roughly, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, his chin glistening with your arousal. "you can do it, sweet girl, come for me."

your whole body shuddered as the orgasm rolled through you in waves, starting deep in your core and pulsing outward until every nerve ending was alight. edward pressed his mouth gently to your clit through the aftershocks, soft kisses that coaxed the pleasure into something almost unbearable in its tenderness. you panted, shaking, your thighs still trembling around his head.

"shh, shh," he murmured against your oversensitive skin, his breath warm and soft. he pressed a slow kiss to your inner thigh, then another just below your center. "you did good, sweet girl. beautiful."

"n-need more," you managed, reaching for him. your body was still thrumming, hungry for something deeper. "edward, please—"

he lifted his head, wiping his mouth carelessly with the back of his hand. his eyes were half-lidded, drunk on you, but there was a gentleness there too—that careful yet prominent tenderness that always made your heart ache.

"i know, sweet girl," he said quietly, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "i know."

he shifted up your body, settling between your thighs. you could feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the solid reality of his body pressing you into the mattress. you tried to unburden him but his hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head firmly. possessively.

"don't move," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "let me take care of you."

you nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. your heart hammered against your ribs as he released your wrists and sat back on his knees, pulling his tunic over his head. you watched the play of shadows across his torso—every battle scar, every hard plane of muscle—as he undid his belt with practiced ease and shed the rest of his clothes.

the sight of him made you swallow hard. he was magnificent in a brutal, uncompromising way. and he was looking at you like you like you were the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in the seven kingdoms.

he lowered himself over you again, his body hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. his cock pressed against your thigh, heavy and hot, and you let out a shuddering breath.

"you're so soft," edward murmured, his nose brushing your jaw. he kissed the corner of your mouth, then the other corner, then the hollow of your throat.

he kissed his way down your neck, his hips shifting against you in a slow, delicate rhythm that made you gasp. "tell me if i hurt you," he said against your collarbone, his voice thick with need but careful, tender. "promise me you'll tell me."

"i will," you breathed. your hands were in his hair again, gripping him for support. "edward, please—"

"shh," he hushed you softly, pressing a kiss to your racing pulse. "i've got you, sweet girl."

he positioned himself at your entrance, his breath catching as he felt how slick you were. "fuck," he cursed under his breath, his hips jerking involuntarily. "you ready for me?"

you nodded frantically, tilting your hips up to meet him. "yes, yes, please—"

he took you at your word. slowly, carefully, he began to push inside. you felt him stretch you open—he was bigger than you expected, thicker—and you arched into the sensation, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

"seven hells, you're tight," edward groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. he stopped halfway in, giving you time to adjust. his hands were braced on either side of your head, his arms trembling with effort. "tell me if it's too much."

"it's—oh gods, edward, you feel so good," you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "more, please, i need more—"

he let out a shaky laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth. "greedy thing." but he obliged, sinking in deeper with another deep thrust that made you see stars. "like that, sweet girl? taking all of me?"

"yes, yes," you panted, meeting each of his movements. it was nothing like you imagined it would be with a man like him. there was hunger in the way he claimed you, but there was also worship. devotion.

"you're perfect," he murmured against your lips, his pace increasing just slightly. one of his hands slid between you to circle your clit with his thumb. "look at you, taking me so well."

you whimpered at the added stimulation, your nails digging into his shoulders as your gaze dropped to where your bodies were connected. where his fingers were pleasuring your mound.

the more comfort that you gained, the harder his thrusts got. you moaned a little louder as he increased his pace, the fullness of him stretching you deliciously. he had to cover your mouth with one of his hands to prevent you from making too much noise.

"quiet, girl," he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of pounding you. "fuck—can't have anyone figuring out what we're doing, can we?"

you whimpered against his hand, nodding. you closed your eyes at the pleasure he was giving you, every helpless sound you made muffled under the weight of his large palm.

then, he pulled out, making you whine softly at the loss. you immediately missed how his manhood made you feel—now aching and empty. he harshly flipped you over onto your stomach, but brought you up against his chest as he slid into you from behind.

you cried out before his hand covered your mouth again, the other snaking around your throat to keep you in place. he groaned softly into your ear, the proximity of his warm breath against your skin making you clench around him. your desperate whimpers were muffled as the hand at your throat tilted your chin up slightly, exposing your neck to his mouth. he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there while maintaining a punishing rhythm behind you.

you pushed back against him instinctively, greedy for more even as your moans dissolved into muffled whimpers against his palm. he groaned softly at your advances, his grip on your throat tightening for a moment before releasing.

"filthy little thing, aren't you? grinding back against me," he rasped, his breath hitching as he fought the urge to groan. "tell me, sweet girl, is this how you needed me? could your beloved king ever make you feel like this?"

you shook your head desperately, your whimpers becoming more high-pitched as he pounded into you harder—his grunts of effort shifting into barely contained groans. you wanted him to know how badly you longed for this, for him. he removed his hand from your mouth to hold the back of your head, tilting it to the side as he leaned down and caught your mouth with his. his tongue fought past your lips, dancing with yours as he felt you clench around him. your soft, desperate whimpers against his mouth felt like music to his ears.

the pressure built quickly, overwhelmingly. your body trembled against his, your inner walls clamping down on him as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

"come on my cock, beautiful, i've got you," he rasped, his own voice strained as he fought the urge to spill inside you. he wanted to make you fall apart first.

you came apart with his name half-swallowed in your throat.

your body seized around him, inner walls clenching in long, shuddering pulses, and edward groaned against your shoulder—a raw, wrecked sound that vibrated through your skin. he held you through it, one hand gripping your hip, his breath ragged against your neck.

when the tremors finally slowed, he pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

"easy, sweet girl," he murmured, his voice rough. he turned you gently, guiding you onto your back, his hands big and careful on your body. "easy."

he loomed over you, chest heaving, dark hair falling across his face. his eyes traveled down your body—flushed skin, parted thighs, the slick shine of him still on you—and a low, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest.

"gods," he said, almost to himself. "you came that hard for me. look at you. shaking like a leaf, soaked through..."

your cheeks burned, but you couldn't look away.

"can't blame you," he went on, his thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, feeling the tremors still running beneath your skin. "sweet little bird, all proper in the daylight... and then you come apart like that for a dog."

"edward—"

"i liked it," he cut in, his voice dropping low. "liked feeling you clench around me. nearly took me over the edge with you."

his jaw was tight, his eyes dark. the strain showed in the fine tremor of his arms, the short, ragged rhythm of his breath. he was close. barely holding on.

"where do you want it, sweet girl?" he asked, rough and careful at once.

your mouth opened, but the words tangled. he waited, patient, his thumb still stroking your thigh.

"inside," you managed, barely a whisper.

his eyes darkened. a mixture of raw emotions flickered across his face—hunger, surprise, and beneath it the usual softness he tried to conceal.

he knew the risk. one night could plant a bastard in your belly, and jason would read it as treason. proof enough to mount his head beside your father's. but you looked up at him like that—wanting, needing him—and every warning in his head went quiet.

"fuck," he breathed.

he lowered himself over you, settling between your thighs, his weight a warm, solid pressure. he guided himself back to your entrance, and you felt him—heavy, hot, aching—before he pushed inside.

slower than before, but still deep. he let you feel every inch as he sank in, and you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders.

"oh," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. "that's it."

he moved like that—slow, deep, hard—each thrust a long, rolling push that had you gripping his back, your breath stuttering. harder for the slowness of it. his eyes tracked every flicker of pleasure on your face, drinking you in.

"feel that?" he rasped, hips rolling into you. "feel how deep i am inside you, sweet girl?"

"yes," you breathed. "yes, edward—"

"good." his voice was wrecked, but his hand was gentle, cradling your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "want you to remember this. want you to remember exactly who put it there."

he watched your face as he moved inside you—slow, deep, each thrust measured like he wanted to memorize the feel of you around him. your legs had fallen open for him, boneless and trusting, and he used the give of your body to sink deeper still, until there was nowhere left to go.

"that's it," he breathed, his voice scraped raw. "right there, sweet girl. stay right there."

his rhythm quickened. his hand slid down your side, gripping your hip, pulling you into each stroke. the sound of it filled the room—skin against skin, wet and obscene, the creak of the bed beneath you both. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, and he saw it, and a dark sound rumbled up from his chest.

"don't," he rasped. "i want to hear you."

you shook your head, breathless. "someone will—"

"let them hear." his jaw was tight, his eyes half-lost. "let the whole keep know who's fucking you."

his pace turned punishing then, deep and hard, the restraint he'd held all night cracking down the middle. you clung to him, nails raking his back, and he groaned against your throat like the sting was the sweetest thing he'd felt. he drove into you once, twice, a third time, and then he was cursing—a low, broken stream of words against your skin, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you.

you felt it. felt every hot pulse of him filling you, flooding you, until you were certain there was nothing left of him to give. he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in short, wrecked bursts against your lips.

"fuck," he managed, the word barely a sound. "fuck, sweet girl."

you didn't move. neither did he. the two of you lay tangled, slick, his weight a warm pressure you had no desire to escape. your hand came up to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and he let out a shuddering exhale, some of the tension draining out of him at the touch.

for a long moment, there was only that—your breathing evening out together, the firelight painting the wall, the slow drip of sweat cooling on skin.

then he stirred. careful, so careful, he pulled out of you, and you felt the loss like a small ache. he settled beside you, one arm sliding under your shoulders, turning you gently onto your back. his thumb brushed a strand of hair from your face, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like before.

soft. unhurried. his lips moved over yours like he had all the time in the world and meant to spend it here.

he drew back just enough to look at you. "you alright?"

your lips curved into a small, tired smile. "i am."

his eyes searched your face anyway, reading you for flinches and lies. "i didn't hurt you?"

"you didn't." you reached up, fingers tracing his jaw. "you were gentle."

he snorted. "gentle." the word came out like an insult. "that's a first."

"it's true." your smile widened. "you called me your sweet girl and checked in with me throughout our time together. that's gentle."

"it's a standard thing to do," he corrected gruffly. "and you were going to ruin your sheets with all that—" he gestured vaguely, "—weeping you did."

"i did not weep."

"you did. heard it when i was between your thighs. very wet. very pitiful."

"edward."

"like a little bird caught in the rain." he was grinning now, a rare, crooked thing that changed his whole face. "soaking my face, sniffling about how good i felt—"

"i never said that!"

"you said 'oh gods, edward,'" he said, dropping his voice into a breathy, mocking falsetto. "'oh gods, edward, you feel so good—'"

you shoved his shoulder, and he caught your hand, laughing low in his chest. the sound was so unexpected it made your heart stutter. you'd never heard him laugh before.

"i hate you," you informed him.

"no, you don't." he kissed your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

you saw it happen when the words landed—the flicker in his eyes, the way his smile faded by a degree. the room seemed to shrink around the silence that followed.

"so… what happens now?" you asked quietly.

he didn't pretend to misunderstand. his thumb traced the inside of your wrist, back and forth, back and forth, like he was thinking.

"if the king finds out," you went on, when he didn't answer, "he'll—"

"i know what he'll do."

"he'll have you killed, edward. he said so himself. your head on a spike—"

"i know." his voice was flat, but his grip on your hand tightened. "i was there, sweet girl. i heard every word."

"then why—" your voice broke. "why would you come here? why would you risk—"

"because i wanted to." he lifted his head, and the look in his eyes stopped your breath. "because you looked at me like that, and i couldn't have walked away if the seven hells themselves opened up under my feet."

"edward—"

"listen to me." he sat up, pulling you with him, his hands framing your face. "i meant what i said in the corridor of the red keep. every word of it. all the hateful things i do, they're for you. and i meant what i said then too. when you're queen, i'll be the only thing standing between you and the king."

his thumb traced your cheekbone. his voice dropped to that rough, low tone.

"i would do anything for you. i would kill for you." a pause. his jaw worked. "i would die for you, if i have to."

your eyes burned. you tried to speak, and the words came out thick. "i don't want you to die."

"and i don't want you to live like this." he said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "so we're at an impasse, my love. and i find i don't much care, as long as i get to keep doing this."

"doing what?"

"this." he kissed you, soft, then drew back with that crooked grin. "stealing you from your king. making you weep against me ."

you laughed despite yourself, wet and shaking. "you're ridiculous."

"aye." he pulled you against his chest, and you went willingly, your cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart. "but i'm yours."

outside, the first grey light of dawn crept over king's landing. neither of you moved to acknowledge it. the world was out there, waiting—the king, the war, the spike that would carry his head or yours.

but for now, there was only this. his arms around you. his breath in your hair. the dangerous, reckless promise of a man who had nothing left to lose, and had chosen to spend it all on you.

the first thing you registered was the absence.

the warmth between your legs—that deep, pleasant ache, the sticky evidence of what had happened hours ago—was still there, but the source of the heat itself was gone. you were alone.

you lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling above you. the fire had burned down to embers. pale morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting thin gold lines across the bedsheets.

he left.

you felt relieved because he'd been careful, because no one had found him here. yet also grief because the thought of him slipping through your door in the predawn darkness felt unbearably lonely.

you rolled over and buried your face in the pillow. his scent was still there—smoke and armor—and you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes.

everything came rushing back. his mouth on your throat, his hands everywhere. the way he'd called you sweet girl in that ruined, tender voice. the slow part afterward, when he'd held you like you were something precious, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin while the city slept outside your window.

and the other parts too—the rough parts. his hand over your mouth to silence your cries. the way he'd taken you from behind, his grip on your throat firm enough to make your vision swim. the filthy things he'd whispered against your ear while burying himself inside you.

your cheeks burned. you pressed your face harder into the pillow.

rough and gentle. that was what he was. one moment he'd pin you to the mattress with a strength that thrilled you, and the next he'd cradle your face in his hands like you might break. he'd asked if he'd hurt you, checked in after every new position, pressed soft kisses to your lips when he thought you'd fallen asleep.

i would die for you, if i have to.

you loved him. you knew that now with a certainty that terrified you more than any threat from jason or karene or anyone else in this godsforsaken castle.

your handmaidens fussed over you as they prepared for the day. you let them. you needed the distraction. you needed to look composed, untouched by the storm that had passed through your life the night before.

council was interminable. king jason sat at the head of the table, gesturing expansively as he discussed potential war crimes and troop movements. you sat beside him, nodding at appropriate intervals, your expression carefully neutral.

edward wasn't present. of course he wasn't. he was probably somewhere doing whatever dangerous things the hound did—training, sparring, brooding in corners as he held watch.

but you could still feel his absence like a phantom limb.

jason leaned toward you. "you seem distracted, my lady. everything well?"

"yes," you said quickly, forcing a smile. "just... contemplating."

"about?"

you swallowed. with all the discussions of war and violence, you began to think your brother, jonathor. he was king in the north now, and house lannister had some plans for him that you would not wish to see executed.

"just... the war and what would come of it," you murmured.

jason raised an eyebrow. "what else would you expect other than my family bringing you his head? your father was a traitor, and now we must annihilate your brother's army. he became a political threat ever since he declared the north and the riverlands independent, you do realize that?"

you swallowed, feeling your hands shake with an uncontrollable fury. how dare he speak of your family like that? had he no empathy? no compassion?

but of course he didn't. you ought to have known that by now. being a little bird trapped in a cage had made you realize that not everybody was as sincere and as kind as they seemed to be.

but you composed yourself, pulling the act of the dutiful princess once more. "yes, your grace. forgive me, i forget myself." you spoke softly.

jason gave you a lingering look as if to question your sincerity, but he let it go.

as the council went on, all you could think of was your family. your brothers. your mother. your two sisters. were they safe? maxine and jane were always stronger than you were. you could only hope that they were somewhere safe, away from the war and the horror you knew it would bring.

you missed your mother and your sisters, dearly so. you missed their compassion, although maxine was always the more logical one. you missed your brothers. the way jonathor led his family and how he was leading a war currently. the way your little brother william was so happy and carefree before the fall. the last time you saw him, he was paralyzed and bed-ridden. where was he now? was he safe?

you didn't know, and you didn't know if you wanted to know.

the thoughts made you nauseous.

when the council adjourned, you escaped back to your chambers. you couldn't stomach the idea of socializing after everything you had just heard in the meeting. ever since you arrived, everyone had an ulterior motive to them. everyone was selfish.

except the hound. he thought of you and kept you safe countless of times. he loved you and made sure to prove himself of that.

you wondered what he was doing right now. even in battle, did he think of you?

the training yard stank of sweat and turned earth. edward worked the practice sword through its forms, steel ringing off steel as his opponent staggered back. the boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, fresh-faced and eager, already bleeding from a split lip he'd earned three passes ago.

"again," edward said.

the boy came at him. edward turned the blade aside, stepped inside the swing, and put the flat of his sword against the boy's throat.

"dead."

the boy's chest heaved. edward stepped back, already bored, already elsewhere.

his body moved through the morning drills on memory. block, step, cut. the rhythm of it all was old as breathing. but his mind wasn't in the yard.

it was in your chambers.

he kept seeing you as he'd left you—hair spread across the pillow, one arm flung out toward the empty space where he'd lain. he'd stood at the door too long, watching you breathe, before he'd forced himself out into the grey dawn.

now the sun was high and he was still half there.

a spear clattered against the rack. somewhere behind him, two squires argued about a tourney. edward heard none of it.

he thought about the way you'd looked up at him in the dark, asking what happens now. the fear in your voice when you'd said his name. the way you'd kissed him.

and underneath all of it, he thought of how you were locked in that pretty cage with your handmaidens and your grief and a war that was eating your family from the inside.

his grip tightened on the practice sword.

"ser edward."

he turned. a steward stood at the edge of the yard, wringing his hands.

"the king requests your presence at the afternoon audience."

edward grunted. "requests."

the steward flinched. "his grace said to fetch the hound."

of course he had. jason liked to keep his dog close, where he could watch it strain. edward tossed the practice sword to the squire and walked past the steward without another word.

the white cloak was heavy on his shoulders. it always was, these days.

he'd never wanted the damn thing. had said as much to half the court by now, loudly and often. but the cloak came with duties, and duties were the only thing that kept a man's hands from shaking when he wanted to put them around a king's throat.

so he did them. he stood at jason's back through audiences, through suppers, through the endless parade of sycophants and petitioners. he watched the doors. he counted the exits. he kept his face a mask of bored contempt and let the world believe there was nothing behind it but a dog waiting to be loosed.

it was safer that way.

for you, mostly.

because the truth was a dangerous thing to carry now. every time he stood too close to you in a corridor, every time he let his eyes linger a half-second too long, he was handing jason a sword. the king already suspected. already watched. already smiled that thin, knowing smile.

edward had to be careful. careful in a way he'd never been in his life.

when the audience ended, he walked the walls. it was part of the duty—checking the guard posts, making sure the watch was sober and the gates were sound. he did it every day, rain or shine, because it gave him an excuse to move, to burn off the restless thing that lived under his skin.

today it gave him an excuse to pass beneath your window.

he didn't look up. he didn't stop. he just walked, slow and steady, and let the knowledge that you were up there settle into his chest.

she's safe. she's safe. she's safe.

the words were a prayer he didn't believe in.

he thought about stealing you away. not for the first time. not for the hundredth. he'd pictured it in the dark hours, lying awake in his own cold bed: the two of you riding north before dawn, your hair unbound, his cloak around your shoulders. leaving the red keep and its king and its spikes and its lies behind. finding some holdfast in the mountains, some place where no one knew your name or his.

it was a boy's dream. he knew it even as he wanted it.

you were betrothed. your brother was fighting a war. your father's head was on a spike above the gate. if edward took you, jason would burn the realm to find you, and every mile you ran would be bought with blood.

he couldn't do that to you. couldn't ask you to trade one cage for a life on the run with a killer.

but gods, he wanted to.

he reached the end of the wall and turned back. the sun was sinking now, painting the city in gold and shadow. somewhere below, a woman laughed. a child cried. the world went on, indifferent to the war in his chest.

edward stopped at the postern gate and looked out over the blackwater, and for a long moment he let himself feel it—the ache of wanting you, the terror of losing you, the slow, grinding weight of a duty that had become a leash around his own throat.

then he turned and walked back into the keep.

he had a king to guard.

and a girl to keep safe, even if it killed him.

it became a game, and you both played it well.

in public, you were strangers. a kingsguard and a king's betrothed, nothing more. you passed him in the corridors without a word, your eyes fixed ahead, your hands folded. he stood at jason's back during audiences and suppers, a statue in a white cloak, and never once let his gaze drift toward your seat.

except when the king said something stupid.

jason had a gift for it. he'd declare that the common people loved him, that the war would be won by the turn of the moon, that the north would kneel the moment they saw his banner. grand, empty pronouncements that filled the hall with sycophantic murmurs.

you'd catch edward's eye across the room. just for a heartbeat. his mouth would twitch. you'd bite the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood.

neither of you laughed. not once, although it came close.

it was the small things that kept you sane. the way he'd shift his weight when jason said something particularly idiotic, like a man physically restraining himself. the way your own shoulders would shake, just slightly, before you schooled your face back into the mask of the dutiful bride.

you learned to read him in those glances. a raised eyebrow meant did you hear that? a slight tilt of his head meant don't you dare laugh, sweet girl. the barest curve of his lip meant later.

and later always came.

he came to you at night, when the keep had gone quiet and the guards had settled into their posts. you'd leave the latch undone, and the door would open without a sound, and then he was there—filling the dark room with his size and his heat and the smell of smoke and steel.

the first time he brought you roses, you'd laughed.

they were a sorry sight. wild things, torn from some bramble he'd passed on his rounds, the stems ragged where he'd snapped them, the petals already bruising. he held them out like a boy, almost sheepish, and you'd taken them with both hands and pressed your face into them.

"they're ugly," he'd muttered.

"no, they're not. they're perfect," you'd said, and meant it. "thank you."

after that, he brought them whenever he found them. a single rose left on your windowsill. a handful of wildflowers tucked into his cloak, transferred to your palm in the dark. you kept them in a cracked vase you'd hidden behind the curtains, and every time you looked at them, you smiled.

he was different in your chambers. that was the thing you never got used to.

the man the court saw was hard. bitter. a killer with an intimidating face and a tongue like a blade. he snapped at squires and glared at lords and made serving girls flinch with a single look.

but alone with you, he laughed.

he told you stories—crude ones, mostly, about the fools he'd had to guard and the absurd things they'd said. he teased you until your face felt hot and you shoved at his chest. he'd grin, that rare crooked grin that transformed his whole face, and you'd think: this is him. this is the man underneath.

he was happy with you. you could see it in the way his shoulders dropped when the door closed, the way his voice softened, the way he'd pull you onto his lap and bury his face in your hair like he'd been waiting all day just to breathe you in.

"you're not like this with anyone else," you said once, tracing along his jaw with your finger.

"like what?"

"this." you gestured vaguely at his smile, his ease. "you're mean to everyone."

"mhm," he agreed. "it's good for morale."

you snorted. "that makes no sense."

"it makes perfect sense. if they're scared of me, they stay out of my way. if they stay out of my way, i don't have to talk to them." he kissed your forehead. "you're the only one i want to talk to."

you didn't know what to say to that. so you kissed him instead.

you made love often. sometimes slow and tender, which would leave you breathless and shaking and held so carefully you thought you might break from the sweetness of it. sometimes rough, the way he knew you liked—his hand over your mouth, his voice dark and filthy in your ear, your nails raking down his back.

he learned your body the way every soldier learns a blade. every sound you made, every place that made you gasp, every rhythm that made you come apart beneath him. and he gave you everything, held nothing back, until you couldn't remember what your life had been before him.

afterward, you'd lie tangled in your sheets, and he'd trace patterns on your skin and make you laugh with some absurd observation about the court, and you'd think that this—being here with him—was the only thing in the seven kingdoms that felt real. like you had a chance.

it was late. the fire had burned low, and the room was warm with it, and edward had you pressed against the wall beside the window, his mouth on your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist.

"edward," you managed, but it came out breathless, ruined.

he hummed against your throat. his hands were gripping your thighs, and you could feel the hard line of him against you. you didn't want him to stop.

"edward," you tried again, and this time a giggle escaped you, high and giddy. "you have to go!"

"no," he said simply, and kissed your collarbone.

"yes." you were laughing now, pushing weakly at his shoulders. "the guards! if you're not gone—"

"i'll kill them."

"you will not kill the guards, edward."

"i'll maim them. politely, if that's what you wish."

you dissolved into giggles, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. "you're a fool."

"i'm a thorough fool." he lifted your head up, and there was that grin, the one that made your heart stutter. "i don't leave a job half-done."

"the job is done. the job has been done three times tonight."

"three?" he raised an eyebrow. "i only count two."

"then you weren't paying attention."

he laughed, low and warm, and the sound of it filled the room. you loved that sound. you loved him.

"go," you whispered, but your hands were in his hair, pulling him closer. "before you get caught."

"one more minute." he kissed you, soft and slow, and you melted into it despite yourself. "one more."

"edward."

"yes, sweet girl?"

you sighed against his mouth. "i love you."

you froze once the words came out, your heart hammering, suddenly terrified you'd said too much.

but he just looked at you. his dark eyes searched your face, and something in them softened—something so tender it made your chest ache.

"say it again," he said quietly.

"i love you," you repeated, stronger now. "i love you, edward."

he kissed you. deep and desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"i love you too, sweet girl." a breath. "i've loved you since the bridge. since you looked at me like i wasn't a monster."

"you're not a monster."

"i'm a killer, aren't i?"

"you're mine," you corrected. "that's all that matters."

he kissed you once more, quick and fierce. then he set you down, gentle, his hands lingering on your waist.

"i have to go," he said.

"i know you do."

he crossed to the door, then paused, his hand on the latch. when he turned back, the firelight caught his face, and you saw it all there—the love, the fear, the weight of everything you were risking.

"i'll come back," he said.

"i know you will."

he smiled. just a small thing, but it was for you, and it meant the world.

then he was gone, the door closing soft behind him.

you stood there for a long moment, your hand pressed to her chest, your heart still racing. the room felt emptier without him, colder, but you didn't mind. because you could still feel his lips on yours, still hear the echo of his voice.

i love you too, sweet girl.

you smiled as you watched the door, long after he'd disappeared into the dark.

and you knew, with a certainty that terrified you and thrilled you in equal measure, that you would risk everything for him.

again and again and again.

the attack came out of nowhere. one day, you were sitting at your vanity—letting your handmaiden gossip as she styled your hair—and then you heard it. the explosions. the screams. the men fighting outside your window.

before you knew it, you were rushed into a room filled with the rest of the women in the castle. the queen regent karene was there, sitting on the center of the floor with a glass of wine in her hand—clearly drunk and bored with the current affairs of men.

you kept to yourself mostly. you did your part. you held hands with the rest of the women and prayed, hoping to bring them peace during these troubled times. as you prayed, you hoped that edward would be safe. you knew he would die for you—he made sure to remind you of that—but you didn't want his promise to carry out.

"little dove," karene called. "come here."

you swallowed. you gave a brief, kind smile to the women you were praying with before politely excusing yourself.

you stood before the queen regent, trying to hide your obvious fear. being a woman did not give her the sense of empathy you hoped it would. despite your mistreatment, she paid no mind to it. she would give you advice, sure, but none to actually improve your stay. you knew how conniving she was and how ambitious she was to protect the family legacy.

"what are you doing?"

"praying."

her eyes flashed with annoyance, her voice dripping with mockery as she spoke. "you're perfect, aren't you? praying. what are you praying for?"

you hesitated. "for the gods to have mercy on us all."

she seemed unimpressed. "oh. for all of us?"

"of course, your grace."

she gave you a snark smile. "even the king?"

the hesitation was longer this time, more obvious. "my beloved—"

"oh, shut up, you little fool," she sighed, clearly fed up with the act. "praying for the gods to have mercy on us all? the gods have no mercy, that's why they're gods. now, sit." she tossed you a pillow onto the floor in front of her.

you stayed quiet as you sat, letting her words sink in. as much as you wanted to deny her claims, you could understand where she was coming from. all you had been doing for the past few months was pray. pray for your loved ones to be safe. pray for mercy throughout your stay. one of your prayers wasn't being answered, so why should the other?

"i need to tell you something, little dove," she whispered, leaning in. you could smell the wine on her breath. "just between us girls."

you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of showing how intimidated you were by her presence. "what is it, your grace?"

she tilted her head, analyzing you with a knowing smirk. "i know."

your heart raced. "know what, your grace?"

she hummed. "about you and the hound. edward clegane, is it?"

your whole body felt like it was on fire. you couldn't breathe. you couldn't think. your heart was pounding and your knees felt weak. how long had she known? when did she find out? what was the punishment going to be?

she chuckled at how thrown off you were. "calm yourself. i have no intention of punishing you... yet. i just want to talk."

you stayed quiet, avoiding her gaze as you looked down at your lap.

"i want to give you some womanly advice, dear. it's all i've been doing since your stay, haven't i?"

you said nothing.

"i asked you a question."

you looked up and met her gaze, giving her a small nod.

that seemed to satisfy her enough.

"i'm sure you've heard the rumors of my unfaithfulness to the late king, teddard baratheon. people love to talk amongst themselves of how the great mountain has me. whether i'm on my back or kneeling, or whether my children are even born of the right father."

you listened as she spoke despite how crude her words were.

"but i've grown to care less and less of what filth leaves the common people's mouths. i do love the mountain, and you love the hound, don't you?" she tilted her head again, analyzing your expression. "don't be afraid. i already told you i don't wish to punish you yet. i won't tell my son."

you hesitated. "so... what do you want?"

"i want you to realize that this is a warning for your stupidity. you thought you were so clever, didn't you? sneaking sweet ser edward into your chambers before nightfall."

your face felt hot.

"we don't get lucky in this world, little dove. we flower, we wed until we bed, we reproduce, and then we die. the husbands we marry will become imbeciles, so we have to focus our attention elsewhere," she poured you a glass of wine and handed it to you. "drink."

you obliged, taking a sip. your nose scrunched up slightly at the bitter taste.

"i don't blame you. but that does not mean that your little secret is safe. if you ever do anything that jeopardizes my family's reputation—even mine—i'll let the king know."

so you weren't safe. you knew that well enough.

you couldn't bite your tongue. "and what of your secret?"

you immediately regretted saying the words. she took a sip of her wine, her cold gaze never leaving yours.

"was that a threat, little dove?"

you shook your head quickly, scrambling for an excuse. "no, you're grace—"

"perhaps i was wrong," she sighed. "if the city doesn't fall, i'll make use of the information i have."

you realized then that this was her plan all along. she shared the truth in order to bring out yours, knowing at one point that her words would irritate you just enough to give her the power to tell.

i am such a fool.

"you're excused, little dove," she hummed. "leave the wine."

you set your glass down and got up, departing back to your bed along with the rest of the women. they chatted amongst themselves—some praying, some crying. but all you could think of was how doomed you were.

green fire bloomed across the bay. men burned alive. ships cracked apart. the air tasted of smoke, blood, and metal. edward clegane swung his sword until his arm went numb, cutting down anyone who came near him. he fought because that was what he had been made for. because that was what the king demanded.

but somewhere between one kill and the next, he realized something.

the king wasn't fighting.

jason stood behind the lines, untouched, unbothered, barking orders he didn't understand, letting his men die for him while he clutched his cloak like a frightened child. edward saw him—saw the cowardice, the uselessness, the entitlement—and a moment of clarity washed over him.

why am i doing this?

why am i risking my life for him?

for a man who hurt her? who threatened her?

he cut down another soldier, but his movements slowed. his breath came harder, both from exhaustion and realization.

if he died there, you would be alone. jason would ave no one to stop him. no one to shield you. no one to stand between you and the cruelty of the crown.

he couldn't let that happen.

he killed one last man, then stopped.

stopped fighting. stopped pretending. stopped being the king's dog.

a guard noticed immediately. "ser clegane! what are you doing? get back in line!"

edward didn't even fully turn towards him. "i'm leaving."

the guard stared, horrified. "leaving? what about the king?! you're a member of the kingsguard!"

edward finally looked at him—and the guard stepped back at the expression on his face.

"fuck the kingsguard," edward said, voice low and shaking with fury. "and fuck the king."

the guard sputtered. "you can't—"

he put his sword back into his scabbard and walked away from the battle, from the crown, from the oaths he never truly took.

he walked away because he loved you.

you were sitting on your bed, clearly distressed. but then your handmaiden slipped beside you and tugged gently at your sleeve.

"my lady," she whispered gently. "come with me."

you followed her to a shadowed corner of the chamber. she glanced at the guard—barely conscious—and at karene, who was now muttering to herself and spilling some wine down her dress.

"you can leave," your handmaiden breathed. "i'll make sure no one notices. go back to your room. lock the door. don't come out."

your heart hammered. "are you sure?"

"yes. go. now."

you didn't hesitate. you slipped out of the room, your footsteps soft against the stone. the corridors were empty—everyone was either fighting or hiding. you reached your room, shut the door, and locked it with trembling hands.

only then did you breathe.

you crossed to your dresser, bracing your hands against the cool wood, eyes closed, trying to steady yourself. you felt the panic rising, the fear, the uncertainty.

then you heard it.

"you shouldn't be out in the halls."

you whipped around.

edward clegane sat in the chair near your window, a bottle of wine dangling from his hand. his armor was covered in blood, and his hair was damp with sweat. his eyes were dark, unfocused—he was clearly starting to get drunk.

your breath caught. "edward—? what are you doing here? why aren't you fighting?"

he took a slow drink, then set the bottle on the floor with a heavy thud. "because i'm done," he said simply. "i'm done fighting for him."

you stared, stunned. "you... deserted?"

"aye." he leaned back in the chair, jaw tight. "i couldn't keep doing it. swinging a sword for a man who'd sooner break you than look at you. risking my life for a king who doesn't deserve a breath."

your heart twisted. "edward... you shouldn't be here. the queen regent knows. she told me. she knows about us."

his eyes sharpened at that. "karene?" he scoffed. "she's too drunk to know her own name."

"that doesn't matter," you protested. "if jason finds out—"

he stood.

he took his time as he did, purposefully. he crossed the room until he stood only a breath away from you. you felt the heat of him, the danger, the devotion.

"i'm not letting him touch you." he said.

you swallowed hard, trying to keep your distance. you loved him, but you tried to remember how dangerous this was. you wouldn't be able to stand seeing jason mount his head.

"edward, please. please go. if they find you here—"

"i could take you with me."

you blinked. "what?"

"i'm leaving," he said. "tonight. i'm going north, maybe." his voice softened, almost unbearably. "i could keep you safe."

your breath trembled. "edward..."

"i mean it." his jaw worked, his eyes burning with the tears he fought to restrain. "i won't let anyone hurt you, sweet girl. they're all afraid of me, remember?"

you felt your heart pounding so hard it hurt. "you... you would take me? truly?"

"aye." he promised. "you know i'd do anything for you."

his voice shook—just barely.

"i'm not a good man. i know that. i've done things i'm not proud of. but whatever goodness i've got left... it's yours. all of it."

your eyes softened, your gaze searching his.

"i want a life where you're safe. where you're not afraid. where you don’t have to bow your head to a man who doesn’t deserve you. i want a life where i can stand beside you without hiding it. where i can protect you because it's what i choose—not what some king commands."

he hesitated, then spoke the words like a vow.

"i want a life with you."

your lip trembled. "edward..."

"i can keep you safe, sweet girl. i swear it. i'll fight for you. i'll bleed for you." his jaw worked, emotion tightening his throat. it felt like he was pleading.

"i love you," he said quietly. "more than i ever thought i could love anything. and i'm asking you... please let me take you away from here. let me give you a life where you don't have to be afraid."

he held your gaze, steady and unflinching.

"say the word," he murmured. "and i'll get you out of here."

for a long moment, you could only stare at him.

"edward..." you whispered, your voice barely holding together. "if i go with you... everything changes."

"aye," he said softly. "it does."

"i would be a traitor."

"to a king who doesn't love you."

"i would be hunted."

"i'd keep you safe."

"i would lose everything i've ever known."

he stepped closer, his voice gentler than you ever heard it. "you'd lose a cage. that's all."

your throat tightened. you looked down, trying to steady yourself, trying to think clearly. you thought of jason's cruelty. karene's threat disguised as advice. the suffocating halls of the red keep. the life you were meant to live—cold, loveless, controlled.

and then you thought of edward. of his honesty. his devotion. his fierce protectiveness.

he had taught you what sincerity felt like ever since your arrival.

what love and passion could be when it wasn't twisted by power or cruelty.

you lifted your eyes to his.

"i can't imagine my life without you," you said, voice trembling. "i don't want to."

his dark eyes were soft, almost nervous as he waited for your reply.

you hesitated only a moment more, feeling the enormity of the choice settle into your bones.

then you nodded.

"yes," you whispered. "i'll go with you."

then he kissed you. deep and frantic, yet deep and heartfelt—full of everything he felt for you throughout your stay at king's landing. his hands cupped your face with a gentleness that contradicted the way his mouth moved against yours.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

he exhaled a shaky breath. "you're gonna be the death of me."

you let out a soft, breathless laugh. "i thought you said you'd die for me."

"aye," he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, "but i didn't think you'd make it this easy."

he brushed his thumb across your cheek. "come on, sweet girl. we've got a long road north."

you nodded, gripping his hand.

he grabbed his cloak, his sword, and opened your chamber door. the corridor beyond was empty, silent, waiting. he looked back at you one last time.

"stay close," he said. "i'm not losing you."

you stepped into the hall beside him.

you: oh my god

you: that wasnt for you

you: steve im so fucking serious delete that right now

You can still feel the exact second your brain short-circuited. Both of them texting at the same time, both of them saying they were bored, and you’d been half-laughing, half-rolling your eyes when the request came through—Miss me enough to send me one of those pictures I love so much?—and your fingers just… moved. Wrong chat. Wrong name. Wrong everything.

You’ve had a crush on Steve Harrington since the first week he started working the counter with you. Before the boyfriend even existed. You used to watch him lean on the glass, hair falling in his eyes, talking shit with Robin, and you’d think if he ever looked at you like that you'd combust. You never thought he would. He’s Steve. Golden-boy Steve. You’re the girl who folds the aprons and knows how he takes his coffee and listens to him complain about customers. You put the crush in a box the day you started kinda dating someone else. You told yourself it was safer that way.

Now the box is on fire.

steeb: stay just like that baby

steeb: ill be off work in an hour

Your pulse is so loud you can hear it in your ears.

you: steve no

you: that was a mistake

you: i was texting someone else and i sent it to the wrong person

you: please just delete it and pretend this never happened

You can already picture him in the break room, phone tilted away from Robin, that slow, stupid smile he gets when he’s about to be an asshole. The same smile he probably used earlier when he was texting you about being bored.

steeb: nah

steeb: im keeping it

steeb: and im coming over

you: you are NOT

you: i have a boyfriend

you: this is so not funny

Your hands are shaking. You keep switching back to the other chat, the one where your boyfriend is still waiting for the picture he asked for, the one where he’s probably wondering why you told him you're closing tomorrow. You should send him something. You should fix this. You should do literally anything except sit here staring at Steve’s messages like they’re the only thing that exists.

steeb: robin’s driving me crazy today anyway

steeb: i can be there in like forty five

steeb: leave the door unlocked

you: steve i’m serious

you: i didn’t mean to send that to you

you: i’ve never…

you: just please don’t come over

There’s a long pause. Long enough that you start hoping maybe he got busy. Maybe Robin dragged him back to the counter. Maybe the whole thing is about to dissolve into one of those jokes you’ll both pretend never happened by tomorrow morning.

Then the typing bubble appears.

steeb: too late

steeb: already clocking out

steeb: stay just like that for me

You drop the phone onto the mattress like it burned you. Your heart is slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. All the careful distance you built, all the times you told yourself he only saw you as a friend, all the nights you went home and tried not to think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—gone. One wrong swipe and it’s gone.

You pick the phone back up. Your thumbs hover.

you: steve

you: if you show up here i don’t know what happens next

The reply is almost instant.

steeb: good

steeb: neither do i

You’re still staring at the last message when the knock comes— sharp raps against wood that land right against your sternum.

For a second you don’t move. You just sit there on the edge of your bed with the phone still warm in your hand, heart thrashing like it’s trying to climb out of your throat. Then the knock comes again, lighter this time, almost lazy, and you know. You know exactly who it is before you even stand up.

You cross the apartment on unsteady legs, bare feet sticking slightly to the hardwood. When you pull the door open the evening air hits you first—warm, thick with the smell of cut grass and someone’s distant barbecue—and then there’s Steve.

He’s still in the stupid sailor uniform. The blue collar is half-unbuttoned, the red bandana loosened like he yanked at it the second he clocked out. His hair is a little flattened from the Scoops hat he must’ve thrown off in the car, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples from the walk up your stairs. He looks ridiculous. He looks unfair. He looks stupidly delicious.

You just… stare.

Steve’s mouth quirks, slow and knowing. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing over that ridiculous striped chest, and the whole hallway suddenly feels too small.

“You’re not gonna invite me in?”

You exhale hard through your nose and step back. There's no use fighting him when he's already here. The door swings wider. Steve pushes off the frame and walks past you like he’s been here a hundred times, the faint scent of U.S.S Butterscotch and that lemon cleaner we use regularly trailing after him. Your apartment feels different the second he’s inside. Charged.

He doesn’t ask where to go. He just drops onto your couch like he owns it, legs spreading, one arm stretched along the back. The sailor shorts ride up a little on his thighs. You close the door carefully, like any sudden noise might shatter whatever this is, and turn to face him.

Steve’s already watching you. His eyes drag over you once, slow, and then he smiles—that same crooked, dangerous smile from the texts.

“So,” he says, voice low and playful, “Not wearing that set I see. You just save that picture for special occasions?”

Your face goes hot instantly. You stay standing by the door, arms crossed tight over your chest like that might hold the embarrassment in.

“It was a mistake.”

“Mm.” Steve tips his head back against the couch cushion, looking up at you through his lashes. “Funny mistake. You don’t usually send me photos of yourself looking like that.”

"I don't usually send you pictures at all."

"Well maybe you should."

He says that like it’s something filthy. Like he’s still got the image burned behind his eyes. Your stomach flips hard.

“I was texting someone else,” you manage, but it comes out weaker than you meant it to. “You know I was.”

Steve’s grin widens, all teeth and trouble. He pats the empty cushion beside him once, casual, like an invitation he’s already decided you’ll take.

“Yeah. And yet here I am.” He lets the silence stretch just long enough for your pulse to climb again. “Come sit down, baby. You look like you’re about to pass out standing there. We can talk about how accidental that photo really was.”

The word baby lands the same way it did in the text—warm, possessive, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to use it. You feel it all the way down your spine.

You don’t move yet. You’re still half-convinced this is some elaborate joke, that any second he’s going to laugh and say gotcha and go back to being the coworker who only ever teases you about burnt pretzels and the way your hair looks in that stupid hat. But Steve just keeps looking at you, patient and hungry at the same time, and the only thing you can think is that you’ve wanted him to look at you like this for so long it almost hurts.

Your fingers curl against your own arms.

“…You’re such an asshole,” you mutter, but your feet are already carrying you toward the couch. Steve’s hand finds you as soon as you get close enough.

His fingers land warm and heavy just above your knee, then slide higher, slow enough that you feel every inch of skin they claim. The calluses on his palm catch against the soft inside of your thigh. Your breath stutters. For a second you just stand there between his spread knees, looking down at him in that ridiculous sailor uniform, at the way his eyes have gone darker, hungrier, like he’s been waiting for permission to touch you since the second he walked through the door.

You freeze.

“Steve—” Your voice comes out thinner than you wanted. “I have a boyfriend.”

His hand doesn’t leave your thigh. If anything it presses firmer, thumb stroking once, deliberate. He tips his head back against the couch cushion, looking up at you through his lashes, mouth curved in that same cocky almost-smile.

“Yeah? How serious is he, exactly? Because Robin doesn’t know about him. I don’t know about him. You’ve never once mentioned a boyfriend in the break room or on shift or literally ever.” His fingers flex against your skin. “So either you’re really good at hiding him… or he’s not that serious.”

The words land right in the soft, guilty place you’ve been trying not to look at. You think about the unanswered messages still sitting in the other chat. About how easy it was to go quiet on him the second Steve started typing. About how long you’ve wanted this—Steve looking at you like you’re something he plans to ruin.

You swallow.

“Not that serious,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Steve’s eyes flash. The smile turns sharper.

That’s all it takes.

You climb into his lap like your body decided before your brain could catch up. Knees bracketing his hips, hands braced on those ridiculous striped shoulders, and the second you settle your weight down you feel him—already hard, thick and huge beneath the thin fabric of the sailor shorts. The rumors about Steve Harrington were something you tried not to think about— but fuck— the rumors were so true. A low sound punches out of his chest. Your own breath shivers. You grind down once, experimental, and the friction is so good your eyes almost flutter shut.

“If this is all one big joke,” you mutter against his mouth, voice shaking with nerves, “I swear to god I’m offing myself—”

Steve’s hands slam to your hips so fast it steals the rest of the sentence. He hauls you tighter against him, grinding up to meet you, and the kiss he crashes into is nothing like playful. It’s deep and claiming and a little mean, all tongue and teeth and the taste of the mint gum he must’ve been chewing on the drive over. When he finally pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is rough and cocky and so close you feel it against your lips.

“Wouldn’t be this fucking hard for you if I was joking.”

He rolls his hips up again to prove it, the hard line of his cock dragging right where you need it, and the soft broken sound that leaves your throat makes him grin against your mouth like he’s already won.

The second you grind down again you can feel it—slick heat soaking through the thin fabric of your shorts, painting the hard ridge of him where he’s straining against those stupid sailor shorts. Steve feels it too. A broken sound rips out of his throat and his hands clamp harder on your hips, dragging you down so the friction is filthy and perfect.

Things move fast after that. Almost frantic.

There’s no more teasing, no more careful space between you. You’re both too far gone on each other for it. You yank at the button of his shorts with shaking fingers while he shoves the soft fabric of yours roughly aside. The cool air hits your cunt for half a second before he’s pulling himself free—thick and flushed and already leaking—and then you’re sinking down onto him in one long, wet slide.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs.

Steve’s head drops back against the couch with a punched-out groan, throat working, sailor collar askew. His hands flex on your thighs hard enough to bruise as you take him to the hilt. You’re so wet the slide is easy, filthy, the sound of it obscene in the quiet apartment. For a moment you just stay there, full, trembling, forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air.

Then you start to move.

You ride him hard and messy, chasing the drag of him inside you, the way every downward roll makes his cock drag against that perfect spot. Steve’s hands never stop moving—sliding up under your shirt to palm your tits, down to grip your ass and help you bounce on him. His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, the corner of your lips, murmuring praise between wet kisses.

“Fuck—look at you. Taking me so good. Knew you’d be such a good girl once I saw that picture.” His voice is wrecked already. “Been hard for you since work baby. Had to put on that stupid apron to cover my cock. Christ, you’re dripping down my balls—”

Your thighs start to burn. Your rhythm stutters. Steve feels it the second your legs begin to shake.

He doesn’t let you slow down.

In one smooth, powerful motion he surges up, flipping you onto your back on the couch cushions without ever pulling out. The sailor shorts are still shoved just far enough down his thighs; the rest of the uniform is wrinkled and half-unbuttoned and somehow even hotter for it. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, spreads you wide, and drives back in hard.

The new angle is devastating.

Every deep thrust punches a broken sound out of you. Steve’s free hand shoves between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit immediately, rubbing tight, wet circles in time with the snap of his hips. He’s relentless—fucking you into the couch like he’s been starving for it, dirty praise spilling constant and low against your mouth.

“That’s it. Just like that. Gonna come all over me, aren’t you? Been wanting this—wanting you—for fucking months. So wet for me. So fucking perfect—”

You shatter first.

The orgasm rips through you hard enough that your back arches clean off the cushions, cunt clamping down around him in pulsing waves. Steve curses, hips stuttering, and then he’s following you over—burying himself deep and coming with a low, broken groan against your throat, cock throbbing as he fills you.

The only sound that surrounds you is the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

Steve stays buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand still cupped possessively over your cunt like he can’t stand to let go yet. His thumb strokes once, soft, over your oversensitive clit and you twitch around him with a quiet whimper. He huffs a breathless, cocky little laugh against your lips.

“Told you I wasn’t joking.”

By Friday afternoon, the biggest things on your mind were the newest Word document staring blankly at you from the kitchen counter and your rapidly emptying fridge.

Or at least, it had been until you pulled into the parking lot of your usual grocery store and found the entire building hidden underneath the heavy smell of dust and regret, scaffolding, and orange construction fencing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

With a sigh of annoyance and both hands thrown in defeat, your eyes skimmed over the bright yellow sign cheerfully informing you the store was closed for renovations. Which meant driving another twenty minutes across town, in the opposite direction of your apartment.

Because there was no way in hell you were driving to an entirely different chain store and settling for another brand of ricotta sauce.

The newer branch was at least worth the extra drive. It was bigger, somehow quieter and blessedly empty for a Friday afternoon, leaving you free to wander the aisles in the lost search of pasta without having to dodge slow-moving shopping carts every three seconds.

On the other hand, unfortunately, it also meant absolutely none of the shelves were where you expected them to be. Apparently, not all chain stores had the same layout. And nearly five full minutes later, you finally found the godforsaken pasta aisle. Your search for the familiar glass jar came to an abrupt halt when your eyes landed on a bag of colourful alphabet pasta tucked away on the bottom shelf.

Yeah, that was definitely coming home with you.

The dry rustle of the package thudded softly in your cart when you leaned over it before looking back to the shelves in search of a familiar jar of ready-made sauce.

“Well…”

The familiar voice, impossible to ever forget, instantly made your stomach drop. A chill ran down your spine, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the freezing air conditioning overhead.

“I was wondering if you’d ever open that message.”

No. Absolutely not.

Indianapolis had nearly a million people living in it. Nearly a fucking million.

Which meant there were roughly nine hundred thousand other people you could’ve run into that afternoon. But naturally, the universe had decided to throw you the one man you’d spent the past week trying extremely hard not to think about directly on your path. Like a cruel fucking joke.

You’d written a not-so-impressed article about that one singing acrobat about a month ago — the one in glittery jumpsuits, sporting a fireman’s moustache and with a fanbase consisting of H&M addicts. Why couldn’t the universe have put him there to confront you?

It must have taken you a solid ten seconds to gather enough courage to turn around, fingers still glued to the fucking jar of ricotta sauce waiting patiently to be picked up from the shelf.

The first thing you noticed were his shoulders — broader than you remembered, stretching the faded Metallica t-shirt across his frame in a way that made your brain immediately forget how words worked.

“Uh…”

Your eyes stubbornly remained fixed somewhere around the logo tightly pulled across his chest while your brain completely short-circuited just for the hell of it. Like you hadn’t already embarrassed yourself enough the previous weekend.

“H-hi, Mr. Munson,” you finally breathed, forcing your gaze upwards.

“Just Eddie is fine.”

And Jesus Christ, the pictures hadn’t done him a single favour.

The oversized sweatshirt of your alma mater suddenly felt too tight around your neck and far too heavy on your shoulders, and you were fairly sure the dumbest expression imaginable had plastered itself across your face.

“Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a sideways smile. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“I…” You blinked up at him for a second before giving your head a small shake. “No, it’s okay. I just… wasn’t expecting to run into… you. Or anyone, really.”

For fuck’s sake, could you be anymore lame?

His eyes wandered over your shoulder and dropped to the colourful bag sticking out of your cart. “That’s a bold choice.”

You glanced down at the alphabet pasta and gave a small shrug.

“Yeah, I guess I fell for the whole healing your inner child trend,” you joked, scrunching your nose slightly.

Your gaze drifted to the bright yellow basket hanging from his hand. A packet of spaghetti sat beside a six-pack and an oversized bag of dog food.

“How’s Rocco?”

The question left your mouth before your brain had the chance to stop it.

Honestly, what was your problem?

There was self-sabotage and annihilation, and then there was whatever the fuck you just did.

Mr. Munson — Eddie — tilted his head ever so slightly, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes narrowed in thought. Then, slowly, a knowing grin spread across his face.

“Rocco’s good,” he answered, still grinning in amusement. “Old and grumpy, but doing fine.”

“Jesus. Sorry.” Heat immediately rushed to your face. You let out an awkward laugh, finally letting go of the shelf to tug absentmindedly at your earlobe as your gaze darted to… anything that wasn’t the man in front of you. “I sound like a fucking stalker.”

“It’s not like I didn’t stalk you too.”

The word came so matter-of-factly that you almost missed them — like he was commenting on the fucking weather, or how shitty the Colts did at their last game.

Your head snapped back towards him. Eddie was already looking at you, one hand still hooked around the little shopping basket, that same teasing grin lingering on his face.

And suddenly you were fifteen again. Sitting in the back row of the music room, pretending to pay attention to the difference between a D minor and an F major while tracing the tattoos peeking from his shirt with your eyes, half a wedding playlist staring at you from your notebook instead of useful notes.

You swallowed, forcing the knot forming in your throat down, and ran the tip of your tongue across your bottom lip before forcing yourself to speak again.

“So…” You gestured vaguely towards the seemingly endless aisles surrounding you. “On the off chance of sounding even more like a stalker, do you happen to come here often?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My usual store is closed for renovations and I just spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for the pasta aisle.” You offered a sheepish smile and slowly turned back towards the rows of glass jars. Hopefully adding three jars of the same sauce wouldn’t get you any weird looks. “I’m absolutely dreading spending another five trying to find the coffee.”

The admission pulled a low, easy chuckle out of him as he tipped his head back, a few loose curls bouncing with the movement.

“This way.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and started walking.

You may or may not have lingered behind for a split second (or five) to appreciate the view before following him into the next aisle. But he didn’t need to know that.

“So, on the, uh… off chance of this sounding even more like a stalker,” he chuckled over his shoulder and slowed down his pace until you’d caught up with him. “Are you still a vegetarian?”

“Uh… no.” You blinked. “How did you know that?”

“You spent an entire class rambling about animal cruelty.” He grinned at the memory. “You were very passionate about it.”

A quiet laugh escaped you.

“Yeah, that sounds like me.” You rubbed the back of your neck. “I, uh, had to start eating meat some time ago because of some health issues.”

“Ah.” His smile softened. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” Shrugging, you halted the cart in the middle of the aisle and turned towards rows of colourful coffee bags. “I’ve made peace with it.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke as you scanned the shelves in search of the familiar red package while, from the corner of your eye, you noticed Eddie scratching thoughtfully at the stubble along his jaw before reaching for a bag of ground coffee.

“Do you still perform with your band?” You glanced over at him. “Corroded… Coffin, right?”

You scrolled through plenty of pictures of him performing, but none of the other people on them had been tagged.

He looked up, ringed hand halting mid-air as he reached for his preferred brand.

“Yeah. Corroded Coffin.” Eddie nodded as a smile grew on his face. “We still play the occasional gig. Small festivals, bars… wherever people are willing to listen to a bunch of middle-aged metalheads.” He chuckled, and the red-and-gold bag easily found its way to his basket. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“You spent an entire class rambling about it.” You repeated, and smiled at the soft sound of his laughter. “You were very passionate about it.”

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“You really did.”

The two of you shared another laugh before it dissolved into a comfortable silence.

Eddie shifted the basket from one hand to the other, his gaze lingering somewhere on the rows of coffee before drifting back to you. He absently worried at his lower lip for a moment, like he was debating something with himself.

Then he cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck with a bashful smile slowly growing on his face.

“Would you maybe like to grab a drink sometime?”

The bag of coffee nearly slipped straight through your fingers and into your cart. For one absurd second, loud and damning, you were convinced you’d somehow hit your head on one of the shelves and this was the concussion talking.

And Eddie’s little smile, mistaking your stunned silence for discomfort, immediately fell from his face.

“Fuck.” He grimaced, already shaking his head at himself. “Sorry. That was just fucking weird.”

“No—”

“I used to be—” He let out a quiet, awkward laugh. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you tried again, gentler, cutting him off before he could apologise again. “You’re not. Promise.”

He looked at you uncertainly before distractedly licking his lips and looking away.

“I just…” You laughed nervously, glancing down at the coffee bag in your hands. “I genuinely wasn’t expecting you to, you know, ask me that. Nonetheless in the middle of a grocery store.”

A somewhat painful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah…”

Silence settled between the two of you. Not comfortable, but not necessarily uncomfortable either.

For some reason, Eddie found himself picking up a bag of sugar despite the fact he had no intention of buying it, like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the entire store.

“I’d…” You placed the bag in your cart and glanced back up at him, unable to stop the little, stupid smile from pulling at your lips. “I’d actually really like that.”

You didn’t even know if this was reality anymore.

Just a week ago, you’d been spiralling in your apartment, on the verge of booking the first flight to Alaska out of sheer embarrassment after adding your former music teacher on Facebook and accidentally stalk-liking his Instagram. Now you were standing in front of him in the coffee aisle of a grocery store, absentmindedly wetting your lips as you agreed to go out with him.

Eddie slowly lifted his gaze back to yours, looking almost as surprised as you felt, as though he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually said yes. Or that you hadn’t immediately abandoned your shopping cart and run out of the store while calling him a creep.

“So,” you began, beating him to it. “When are you free?”

He scratched the back of his neck, his brows knitting together for a moment. Truth be told, he clearly hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I’m… Free tomorrow morning?”

“Oh.” Heat immediately rushed back into your face, this time spreading all the way down to your chest. “You meant coffee.”

A sheepish laugh escaped you as the realisation settled in.

Of-fucking-course he meant coffee. That was significantly more casual and considerably less insane than what your brain had immediately jumped to.

“I thought you meant…” You cringed at yourself. “Like, a drink-drink.”

“Ah.” A slow grin spread across Eddie’s face. “So that’s where your head went.”

“Please pretend I didn’t.”

“I don’t know.” He set the bag of sugar back on the shelf and shifted the basket to his other hand, the grin only growing. “I’m not exactly opposed to getting an actual drink either.”

“Oh.” Today was just… full of fucking surprises, apparently. You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat before nodding a little too quickly. “Y-yeah.” You cleared your throat. “That’d be… nice.”

Desperately pretending that you weren’t helplessly praying for the ground to open up and swallow you whole out of pure embarrassment, you turned towards the shelves beside you and picked up the first thing your eyes settled on. Despite definitely not needing a bottle of vanilla syrup, you studied the label as though your life depended on it.

“Does…” you said after a moment, still pointedly avoiding his eyes and just praying you didn’t sound nearly as desperate as you thought you did. You set the vanilla syrup back and reached for a bottle of hazelnut syrup instead. “Does tomorrow still work?”

“I can definitely make tomorrow night work.”

You finally looked back at him.

Something softened in his expression before the familiar teasing glimmer returned to his eyes.

“But…” He paused long enough to make you — even more — nervous, his smile only widening at the sight. “If I send you a DM to work out the details, are you actually going to answer this time?”

A strangled laugh escaped from behind your bitten lips.

Somehow, the joke — and light jab — made everything lighter. It wasn’t nearly as difficult to meet his gaze now, or to notice the faint crow’s feet gathered at the corners of his eyes whenever he smiled.

“Definitely.”

“Good.” He replied lowly, licking his bottom lip.

Turned out you’d completely forgotten to buy half the stuff on your grocery list the day before — apparently, awkwardly flirting with your former high school music teacher in the coffee aisle had taken priority over nuggets and cheap wine.

Still, that was the least of your worries right now.

“Jesus fucking Christ, pick the fuck up,” you muttered, hitting Hayley’s contact for what had to be the fourth time in a row as you leaned your phone against the lamp on your nightstand.

The call rang twice while you skipped back towards your closet before she finally answered, her face covered in what looked like an aggressively green face mask.

“This better be good, bitch,” she muttered, setting her phone against the bathroom mirror. “I was having a well deserved self care evening.”

“Hayley, I don’t have time to explain,” you rushed out, yanking another dress from its hanger before immediately tossing it onto the ever-growing pile on your floor without a second look. “I need help picking an outfit. I need to look good without screaming desperate.”

“…Why?”

“I literally just said I don’t have time—” You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose. You paused as your eyes landed on another dress hanging in the wardrobe. It lasted all of two seconds before joining the previous dress. “I’m seeing Mr. Munson. Eddie.” You looked over your shoulder and stole another glance at the dress you’d just thrown on the pile before shaking your head and turning back. “We’re getting drinks tonight, and I have absolutely nothing to wear.”

Hayley narrowed her eyes, and for a brief moment you could practically see the gears turning in her head with at least a dozen questions she wanted to ask about why this was the first time she was hearing about your not-quite-a-date. Fortunately for you, she chose to postpone the interrogation with a low hum and dipped two manicured fingers back into the little tub of clay mask and continued spreading it across her left cheek instead.

“The satin one,”  she said matter-of-factly. “With the deep V.”

“What?” You looked over at your nightstand. “Are you crazy? No. I don’t want to look like a desperate whore.”

“It accentuates your curves, babe.” She didn’t even look away from the mirror. “You’ll look hot.”

You let out a defeated sigh and turned back to your wardrobe, slowly pushing a handful of hangers aside until your fingers landed on the familiar satin fabric. It really was a beautiful dress.

Hayley had been with you the day you’d bought it, insisting you try it on despite your protests that I was “too much.” But she had been right then, too;  it did make your curves look better than anything else ever could, and it never failed to level up your confidence.

But wearing it to get drinks with Mr. Munson? Eddie?

(Getting used to calling him Eddie was still weird.)

A long sigh crackled through your phone’s speaker and pulled you out of your silent spiral.

“Trust me babe.” Hayley leaned against the bathroom counter, folding her arms across her chest after she’d washed her hands. “Wear the dress.”

You looked at the mirror inside the closet door, holding the dress in front of your pyjamas.

“Don’t you dare put on a bra under it, bitch.” She added, pointing at you. “And put the black leather boots.”

“...The boots, really?”

“Really.”

A few hours, two shots of liquid courage — one before and another after the intensive everything-shower — and one minor panic attack later, you climbed out of the backseat of a cramped Uber and found yourself standing in front of the bar Eddie had suggested the two of you meet at.

The old brick building towered over the corner of the street, warm amber light spilling through the large storefront windows onto the sidewalk below, while a faded neon sign buzzed softly and painted the pavement in streaks of red and orange while the muffled sound of conversation and music drifted through the walls.

You adjusted the hem of your dress for what had to be the twentieth time that evening before glancing down at your phone. Seven minutes early. Close enough to avoid looking overeager, far enough from being late to convince yourself you had a fever dream the day before and order another Uber back home.

After slipping your phone into your purse, you pushed the door open before you could change your mind and walk straight into oncoming traffic instead.

Not to be dramatic, or anything.

The bar wasn’t quite the dingy dive you’d secretly been expecting, but it wasn’t a sleek cocktail lounge either.

The dark wooden floorboards still carried the faint citrus scent of whatever cleaning product had been used earlier that afternoon, while the exposed brick walls were lined with shelves of liquor bottles, old concert posters, and an impressive collection of licence plates from different states that would put the Winchester brothers to shame.

The whole place felt easy going, with its low amber lights spilling from the hanging fixtures above the bar and pool tables, illuminating mismatched chairs, worn leather couches, and tabletops hidden beneath years’ worth of collected band stickers.

You were suddenly very grateful Hayley had spent three full minutes arguing you out of the heels you’d worn on your birthday and into the pair of leather boots instead as it toned down your outfit just enough you didn’t feel extremely out of place. Her suggestion of leaving your hair mainly unstyled had ended up being a blessing, too.

“Hi,” you greeted the bartender as you set your purse on the counter. “Could I get a vodka soda, please?”

The man nodded absentmindedly, tossing the towel slung over his shoulder onto the bar before turning to grab a clean glass.

“You know what, hold the soda and make it a double dose of vodka.” You added quickly, and nervously tugged at your earlobe. “Please. Sorry.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “…Sure.”

The glass arrived with a soft clink against the polished wood, and half of it disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.

So much for never drinking again.

“That’ll be—”

“Just put it on my tab, Mike.”

His voice reached your ears a fraction of a second before the warm touch of his hand settled briefly against the small of your back. By the time you turned around, lowering the glass to the counter, it had already disappeared again.

And there he was — defined curls hastily gathered into a messy bun, a fitted black t-shirt disappearing beneath an old red flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the vaguely familiar guitar pick dangling from his neck.

“The usual?” Mike asked with a knowing nod, already pouring whiskey into a heavy-bottomed glass before sliding it across the counter.

Eddie thanked him with a small smile before turning back to you.

“Hi.” His eyes, a warmed shade of brown under the lights, stole a quick glance towards your glass, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips before they met yours. “Sorry. Traffic was a nightmare.”

“H-hi.” You instinctively ran your tongue across your bottom lip before immediately remembering the thin layer of lip gloss you’d carefully applied twenty minutes earlier. “Oh, don’t worry,” you said with a nervous chuckle. “I literally just got here.”

“Good.”

His gaze lingered just enough to make your heartbeat stumble, drifting over your face before briefly dropping to your dress — not without lingering on the deep V for a split second. When his eyes met your again, his lips had stretched into a smug smile.

“You look great.”

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around your glass.

“So do you.” The word left your mouth before you had the chance to overthink how lame they sounded.

Eddie’s eyes drifted somewhere over your shoulder for a brief moment before settling back on you. “There’s a free table back there,” he said, nodding towards the far corner of the bar.

His hand found its way back to the small of your back as he guided you between weathered pool tables and the steady stream of people filtering through the front door beside a small table tucked beneath a wall plastered with concert posters that had seen better days. It sat far enough from the speakers that the music settled comfortably into the background.

Eddie slid into one of the worn vinyl chairs, taking an unhurried sip of his whiskey before setting the heavy-bottom glass on the table.

“So… Northern Arizona University.” He leaned back slightly, resting an arm on the edge of the backrest of his chair. “You ended up going after all.”

“I did.” Your lips twitched.

“Did you major in English like you were planning?”

Your gaze drifted to the table as you absentmindedly traced the rim of your glass with your fingertip.

“No,” you answered, looking back up at him. “I switched to journalism during my second semester. Minored in music.”

Eddie’s eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise as a smile spread across his face. “Music? Really?”

Feeling the knot in your stomach slowly loosen from the combined courage of two shots and the bad decision you’d made only a minute ago.

“I may have…” You smiled sheepishly, peeking up at him through your lashes, “been influenced by a certain music teacher.”

The hand holding and turning his glass around stopped its movements as a quiet laugh escaped him at the confession.

“Still can’t play for shit,” you admitted with a shrug, voice back to your usual volume, “but it definitely helped when I ended up deciding to become a music journalist.”

“So I accidentally helped create someone who’s now professionally paid to judge other people’s music?”

 A warm laugh escaped you at his choice of words. “Pretty much.”

His own laughter was warm and low as he leaned forwards, resting both elbows on the tabletop, still idly swirling the whiskey around in his glass. It gradually faded, replaced by a quiet curiosity and a newfound glimmer in his eyes as he studied your face for a moment.

“But,” he began, “why music? Why not, I don’t know, investigative journalism?”

The question pulled you back several years in an instant.

You could almost picture yourself sitting behind the desk in your childhood bedroom, sheets of loose papers scattered across the surface while Pierce the Veil blasted from your laptop beside you. Your favourite pen had spent more time between your teeth than on the page that evening, and if memory served you right, there had probably been more frustrated tears than you’d like to admit somewhere in the middle of it all.

“You had us write that paper on our favourite artist and why we connected with their music,” you recalled. “I remember having the hardest time putting it into words.”

Eddie’s expression softened with recognition, and nodded for you to continue. “I still make my students do that.”

“I handed it in anyway, and the following week you pulled me aside after class.” You continued absentmindedly tracing the rim of your glass with your fingertip before looking back up at him, lips curling into a bashful smile as the memory resurfaced. “ You told me it was one of the best papers you’d read in a while.”

You let out a quiet breath and shrugged. The silence that followed settled comfortably between the two of you as you took a sip of your vodka. Somewhere across the bar, glasses clinked together while the speakers crackled softly into the next song.

“It wasn’t just because you said it was good,” you admitted after a moment, your eyes drifting down to the table. “It was the first time someone made me feel like I’d actually written something worth reading. That my opinion mattered, you know?”

You brushed the condensation on the side of your glass away before your gaze found his once again.

“I think that’s when it clicked: it wasn’t just music that I loved.” A sheepish smile crossed your face. “It was writing about why people loved it.”

Eddie looked briefly down to his whiskey, turning the glass slowly between his hands.

“Didn’t know I’d left that much of an impression.” The words were so quiet they almost disappeared beneath the music.

“You have no idea,” you replied breathlessly before your brain had the chance to intervene.

You wanted to snatch the words back the moment they left your mouth as heat immediately rushed to your face.

“I mean—” You laughed awkwardly, shaking your head at yourself while pretending your eyes hadn’t just gone impossibly wide. You took another second of watered down vodka for good measure. “You were a good teacher. Are.”

One of Eddie’s eyebrows rose just slightly, the light catching the faint scars of an old eyebrow piercing. For a brief moment, he simply looked at you.

Then his eyes drifted down to the whiskey in his hand, a slow, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as though he’d just pieced together exactly what you wished he hadn’t. He took another sip before meeting your gaze again.

“Thank you.”

Somewhere between tipping your glass back to finish your drink and praying the ground would open and swallow you whole, the two of you had wandered outside beneath the warm night sky. The air was still thick with late spring heat as you leaned against the brick wall of the bar, fishing your lighter out of your purse with a cigarette already tucked between your lips.

Eddie’s eyes briefly flickered to the glossy stain of lip gloss smeared on the filter before he quietly flipped his lighter open and held it out towards you.

“…Thanks,” flickering your eyes up to meet his as you leaned in to catch the flame before taking the first slow drag of bitter smoke.

“So,” he began after exhaling the smoke of his own cigarette, angling his face slightly away from you. A small, persistent smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he motioned back towards your table inside. “Does that mean I was your favourite teacher?”

A flustered laugh escaped you despite yourself. “That’s an incredibly dangerous question.”

Eddie simply shrugged, the cigarette pausing just short of his lips. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

Licking your lips, you turned your attention towards a group of college students wandering down the opposite side of the street, pretending they suddenly looked far more interesting than the man standing in front of you.

“No,” you smiled cheekily, finally looking back at him. “It was Mr. Johnson.”

That earned you an immediate snort from him.

“Bullshit.” He shook his head, taking another unhurried drag from his cigarette. “You complained about him all the damn time.”

“You remember that?” The scrunching nose softened into an amused smile.

“I remember more than you think.”

Your freshly manicured fingers — a deep red replacing the pretty gold birthday nails of last week — stalled halfway to your lips as the words settled between you, and neither of you spoke for a moment after that.

Then Eddie smiled to himself, licking his bottom lip as he debated mentioning the memory that had just resurfaced. “Like that time you walked into class with bright red hair.”

“Oh, God.” Your free hand immediately flew to your face. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Oh, come on.” He laughed, dropping his cigarette onto the pavement and crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. “It was kind of cute.”

“It definitely wasn’t.” You shook your head, another embarrassed laugh escaping you. “It was all patchy, and—”

The rest of the sentence quietly faded as Eddie took a slow, but determined step closer.

His hand lifted carefully, giving you every opportunity to lean away if you’d wanted to, before gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered lightly against yours cheek for a heartbeat before settling against your jaw, his eyes searching yours with an uncertainty that made your stomach twist.

“Tell me I’m reading this wrong.”

Your lips parted, but no word came. Instead, your free hand found the front of his flannel almost instinctively, your fingers curling into the soft fabric while your eyes drifted down to his mouth.

A small, almost relieved smile tugged at the corner of Eddie’s lips before his thumb brushed lightly across your cheekbone and disappeared into your hair. His other hand found your waist with the same quiet determination, lingering there for just a moment before he gently tilted your chin upwards.

His lips were warm against your when they finally met in a slow, lingering kiss.

He tasted faintly of cigarette smoke and smooth, oaky whiskey when he deepened it with unhurried certainty, one hand squeezing your waist while the other remained gently cupping your jaw. The quietest sound escaped you when his slick tongue met yours, and he answered you with his ringed fingers tightening against your side.

Eddie swallowed the sound effortlessly, taking a careful step forwards and pushing your back against the cool brick wall behind you. Even then, every movement remained slow enough to give you every opportunity to pull away — but you never did.

When he finally broke the kiss, neither of you moved very far.

His forehead lingered close to yours as he searched your face, his breathing just as uneven as your own. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he lifted his thumb and gently brushed away the smudged mixture of lip gloss and spit that settled on your lower lip. His plush lips closed around the digit to lick it clean.

Holy fucking—

“You drive me absolutely insane,” he murmured, his eyes never quite making it back to yours as he slowly pushed his thumb, wet with his own spit, inside your mouth.

Your throat tightened around the quiet confession, and your fingers instinctively curled a little tighter into the fabric as you instantly complied.

“Jesus…”

He let both his hands fall away before reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for the familiar, battered pack of cigarettes, smiling to himself as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened either.

Eddie’s chest rose with a slow inhale as he took another deep drag of his cigarette. His lips still carried the faint shimmer of your glittery lip gloss as they curled around the filter, and the sight of it did absolutely nothing to calm down the frantic beating of your heart.

Or the faint, starting pulse between your legs, for that matter.

The way his nose ring caught the city lights was deeply unfair, and so was the fact he only got even better looking after all these years.

Before your brain had the chance to question what you were doing, your hand was already reaching for his cigarette between his lips. Your fingertips brushed his as you gently pulled it free from his lips before bringing it to your own mouth. The taste was subtly different from your usual brand — drier, with a faint metallic bitterness — but the smoke settled warmly in your lungs all the same.

You never looked away from his eyes as you slowly hollowed your cheeks, taking another drag before pulling the cigarette from his lips. Holding the smoke in your lungs, your leaned forwards and held it out towards his mouth.

His lips brushed lightly against your fingertips as they closed around the filter.

Tilting your head slightly to the side, never breaking eye contact with him, you slowly exhaled the smoke into the warm, night air.

“So…” you said, your fingers finally slipping away from the cigarette. “Are you gonna invite me back to your place?”

You weren’t entirely sure where the sudden burst of confidence had come from as the words settled heavily between the two of you.

Maybe it was the two shots you’d taken home. Maybe it was the watered down vodka from moments earlier. Maybe it was simply the fact that you’d spent the entire evening remembering exactly why fifteen-year old you had been so hopelessly infatuated with him.

Whatever the reason, you weren’t about to take it back.

One of Eddie’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. For a long moment, he simply looked at you while taking another slow drag from the cigarette, as though carefully considering his answer.

The corner of his mouth curled into that familiar, smug smile after he’d carefully swiped the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip.

“That’s an incredibly dangerous question.”

Hearing your own words thrown back at you made you laugh despite yourself, only fading away when your teeth caught your lower lip as you shook your head.

“I’m willing to take the risk,” you replied softly, the smile lingering on your own lips.

⋆˚꩜｡additional authors note: a lot of new people (welcome btw!) asked to be added to the taglist, but i wasn't entirely sure if yall wanted to be added to the permanent tag list or a separate taglist specifically for da&d (because some of you don't follow me, which is fine, but ykno kind of confusing lol) so if i added you to the series taglist instead of the permanent taglist, please lemme know and i'll fix it!

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life had been hell for you as of late. ever since the tragic death of your father, your grand dreams of royalty had crumbled. king jason baratheon's cruelty only sharpened the ruin. his cold indifference, his calculated mistreatment, stripped away whatever illusions you had clung to.

you had never felt more alone.

once, you had pictured yourself beside him on the throne, ruling as his queen, carrying his princes and princesses, strengthing the legacy that would outlive you both. it had been a beautiful fantasy, but the current reality was nothing like that picture.

you still couldn't erase the memory of jason forcing you to watch your father's execution. you knew he was innocent. you knew the charges were nothing more than a lie spun by the queen regent, karene, desperate to preserve the lannister legacy at any cost.

and jason had let it happen. despite his pretty promises.

the next day, jason insisted you join him for a walk. his personal bodyguard, ser edward "the hound" clegane, trailed a few steps behind. jason called him dog with casual cruelty, a habit he seemed to enjoy far too much. you could see the flicker of irritation in ser edward's eyes each time the world left his lips, but he never spoke against it. a kingsguard had to hold his tongue when it came to his duty.

you didn't realize where jason was taking you until you saw it. your father's head, mounted on a spike.

your breath caught. all jason did was watch your face with a twisted satisfaction. he wanted your pain—your fear—as he taunted you.

he even threatened that your brother—jonathor stark—would join your father once the war was won. your eyes stung with tears, but you refused to look away.

you told him that perhaps it would be your brother bringing you his head on a spike.

jason's face twisted with rage. his hand lashed out, striking you hard enough to split your lip. the sting burned, but you held your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cower.

he continued talking, ranting, boasting, drowning in his own arrogance. and as he did, the rage inside you rose. you stepped forward, genuinely ready to show him off the bridge and watch him fall—no matter what consequences would follow.

but a hand caught your arm.

ser edward turned you around, firm but not rough. you braced yourself, expecting another blow, but none came. instead, the hound reached into his cloak and pulled out a handkerchief. carefully, almost gently, he wiped the blood from your lip.

the kindness in the gesture stunned you. from a man whose presence intimidated half the court, the softness felt almost unreal.

jason eventually left when another knight called for his attention. whatever the matter was, it sounded urgent, but you barely processed it. your gaze fixed on ser edward.

he stood beside you—tall, rugged, long dark hair brushing his shoulders, and eyes so dark they seemed carved from obsidian. intimidating, even when silent. even when secretly kind.

before leaving, jason ordered the hound to escort you back to your chambers. the moment the king disappeared around the corner, ser edward finally spoke.

"save yourself some pain, girl. give him what he wants."

his voice was rough, like gravel dragged across stone. you looked up at him as you walked, your lip still stinging.

"thank you, ser," you said softly.

he scoffed, a sharp exhale through his nose. "i'm no ser. don't get comfortable calling me that."

you frowned. "but—"

"aye, i know. kingsguard and a white cloak." he waved a hand dismissively. "but i never took the fuckin' vows. doesn't make me a bloody knight then, does it?"

you stayed quiet, not offended. you knew he was a crude man—blunt and honest.

after a moment, he added, "just... don't go trying to shove kings off bridges. you'll end up worse than your father."

his tone wasn't mocking. it seemed like warning. maybe even concern for your well being.

you swallowed. "i wasn't thinking."

"i know you weren't," he muttered.

the two of you walked in silence for a few steps before he spoke up again, quieter this time.

"he's looking for reasons to break you. don't hand him any."

when you reached your chambers, you offered him the handkerchief back. he shook his head.

"keep it. you'll be needing that again."

you hesitated. "i hope not."

he gave a low grunt. "hope's a pretty thing. doesn't last long in places like this."

he lingered for a moment, his gaze holding yours as if trying to understand why he cared at all.

then he turned and left.

you watched him go, stunned by the unexpected softness beneath all that armor and intimidation.

throughout the weeks of your stay, you and the hound exchanged lingering looks. it became a quiet routine—every time your eyes met, you offered him a small, gentle smile. and every time, he held your gaze for just a moment longer than necessary before looking away. there was something in that hesitation that pulled at you.

you knew it was wrong. you were betrothed to jason. bound to him by politics, by duty, by the twisted whims of the crown. but still... you couldn't help yourself. there was something about ser edward clegane that drew you in.

and in king's landing, whispers traveled faster than ravens. rumors drifted through the halls—saying the queen regent karene had been unfaithful to the late king teddard baratheon. they say she spent her nights with billy "the mountaint" clegane. forbidden relationships between queens and knights weren't unheard of, but they were definitely still frowned upon.

perhaps that was why you felt the wrongness so sharply. and yet, the pull remained.

one afternoon, you caught him watching you again. this time, he didn't look away immediately. his dark eyes stayed fixed on you, steady and unflinching. you felt that familiar tug again, and you found yourself walking toward him before you could think better of it.

when you reached him, you almost regretted it. you didn't know what to say or do, other than the fact that you just wanted to speak to him again.

but you managed. "earlier... i heard king jason call you 'dog'."

his jaw tightened. "aye. he does that."

"does it bother you?" you asked softly. "when he says things like that?"

he scoffed. "why? what's it to you? i thought you loved your king."

you swallowed, remembering the role you had to play—the dutiful bride-to-be, the loyal future queen. it was all you had been doing since arriving in king's landing.

"my beloved can be a bit harsh at times," you said carefully, tiptoeing around each word. "but... i hope that once i am queen, i can help him see my way."

he gave you a look—sharp, skeptical, almost amused. "your way," he repeated, like the phrase tasted strange in his mouth.

you tried to hold his gaze, but he was too direct, too honest. it made your heart beat faster.

"yes, ser," you added, quieter.

he snorted. "i told you not to call me that."

"but you're a knight! you—"

"i told you, girl," he cut in, his voice low and rough. "i'm not no fuckin' knight. i'm just a dog to your beloved king."

he said beloved with a mocking curl of his lip, as if the word itself sicked him.

you hesitated. "why do you say that? you wear the white cloak. you protect the king. isn't that what knights do?"

he shook his head. "knights lie. knights pretend. knights smile while doing cruel things." his eyes flicked to yours, steady and careless. "a dog's better. a hound will die for you, but never lie to you. and he'll look you straight in the face."

you realized then why he refused the title—why he clung to the name jason used to demean him. he hated the falsehoods that came with knighthood. hated the men who hide behind vows while committing horrors. none of the other knights would've offered you that handkerchief. none would have cared enough to stop you from doing something reckless.

you tried to smile, small and warm. "you're kinder than you pretend to be."

he huffed, almost a laugh. "don't go spreading that around. i've got a reputation."

"intimidating?" you teased gently.

"dangerous," he corrected, though his tone softened. "and you ought to remember that."

you tilted your head. "if you were truly dangerous to me, you wouldn't have stopped me on the bridge."

his gaze flicked to your lips—just for a moment—before returning to your eyes. "maybe i didn't want to watch you die."

"so you didn't want to watch him kill me?"

his jaw clenched. "maybe."

he didn't look away as the silence stretched, and neither did you.

finally, he muttered. "you should go. before someone sees you standing here making eyes at me."

you felt a flutter in your chest. "i wasn't—"

"aye," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "you were."

you turned to leave, your heart pounding, but you couldn't resist glancing back.

he was still watching you.

a couple of weeks passed, and your strange connection with the hound never truly progressed. just small talk. lingering glances. a few quiet moments where his eyes held yours a little too long. always close enough to feel something, never close enough to reach it.

it frustrated you more than you wanted to admit.

one day, you joined the royal procession in the streets of king's landing. princess nancyne, jason's sister, was being sent to dorne for her safety during the war. at first, everything seemed fine.

until the shouting began.

insults hurled at the king. accusations. pleas. rage. jason had ignored the suffering of the common people for too long, leaving them starving, desperate, furious.

someone threw cow dung at jason's head. he froze, humiliated, then exploded with fury. he ordered the hound and the rest of the guards to kill the culprit. steel flashed. screams rose. panic surged through the crowd, the riot erupting.

you were swallowed by it.

cut off from the royal party, separated from the lannister guards, shoved deeper into the chaos. you tried to push through, but the bodies pressed in on all sides. then you saw them—a group of men breaking away from the frenzy, their eyes locking onto you with a hunger that made your blood run cold.

karene's words echoed in your mind. all men make some use of their swords—the ones they wield in battle, and the ones they use in bed.

their faces told you exactly which sword they meant.

you darted away, heart pounding, slipping into a narrow alley. but they followed. their footsteps thundered behind you.

when you realized you were cornered, you attempted to fight back. you slapped one of the men, only to get struck back much harder. you stumbled onto the floor, shrieking and yelping as rough hands grabbed at your arms and legs.

"no, please! please! i am the king's betrothed—"

but your words were useless.

"quiet, girl. do you see the king around here?" one sneered.

your gown was tearing, your cries and protests seemingly helpless.

until everything stopped.

edward clegane had seen you break away from the crowd. seen the men chase you. and something inside him had snapped.

he didn't even hesitate.

steel sang. bodies fell. you heard the thud of boots, the grunt of effort, the wet sound of violence you couldn't bear to look at. you curled in on yourself, sobbing, trembling, unable to process anything except fear.

when it was over, he turned back to you.

and the brutality in him vanished.

his voice was low and rough, but undeniably gentle. "you're alright now, sweet girl, you're alright."

sweet girl.

your heart yielded completely to those words. you reached for him without thinking, and he offered his hand—large, calloused, steady. you took it, clinging to the warmth that grounded you.

you expceted him to walk you back. instead, he lifted you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. then with a decisive shift, he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing at all.

you gasped, startled. "edward—"

"quiet," he muttered, already carrying you out of the alley. "you're safe. i've got you."

his grip was firm, protective, almost possessive. and despite everything—the terror, the chaos, the blood—you felt the familiar warmth bloom in your chest again. stronger than ever.

he set you down on the cobblestones, far enough from the chaos. a cluster of handmaidens rushed toward you, skirts gathered in their fists, faces pale with worry.

edward didn't linger. he snapped at the nearest guard, voice sharp and commanding. "little bird's bleeding. take her back to her cage. and make sure someone sees to that cut."

the guard nodded quickly, almost flinching under the weight of his tone.

you watched edward turn away, his armor streaked with blood. he pushed back into the fray, disappearing into the violent swell of bodies and steel. for a moment, you could only stare after him, your breath trembling, your heart still racing from the terror of the alley.

hands touched your shoulders, your arms, guiding you gently. the handmaidens fussed over you, checking your torn gown, brushing dirt from your skin, murmuring reassurances you barely heard.

but none of it mattered. all you could think about was him.

the way he looked when he found you—furious, sickened, determined. the way he had killed without hesitation, not for the king, not for his duty, but for you. you couldn’t let go of how his voice had softened afterward, calling you sweet girl like the words were meant only for you.

he had saved your life. and he had done it more than once.

it had been days since you last saw him. your handmaidens insisted you keep to yourself—stay in your chambers, avoid the corridors, avoid the city, avoid anything that might put you in danger again. you tried. you really did. but the walls felt too close, the silence too heavy, and the memory of edward's hands lifting you from the alley lingered.

eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

you slipped out for fresh air, wandering the quieter halls of the red keep. you didn't expect to see him, but fate had its own ideas.

you turned a corner and saw him.

he was walking the opposite direction, armor cleaned, hair down as per usual, expression unreadable. you were about to pass him, until you found your voice.

"i beg pardon, ser," you said softly, turning to fully face him as you stopped walking.

he stopped. turned. and for once, he didn't correct you or scoff at the title. he just looked at you—long, grounded, almost curious.

"i should've came to you after," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "to thank you for saving me. you were so brave."

he snorted, but it lacked its usual bite. "brave? a dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats."

normally you would've let his meanness pass. but this time, it frustrated you.

"does it give you joy to scare people?" you demanded, frustration slipping through your gentle tone.

his brows lifted, amused. he took a slow step toward you, savoring the sight of your anger like it was something sweet.

"no, it gives me joy to kill people."

you stiffened, clearly intimidated. he watched it happen, clearly pleased he could rattle you.

"spare me," he went on. "you can't tell me lord jameson stark of winterfell never killed a man."

your breath caught at the mention of your father. "it was his duty," you said sharply. "he never liked it."

edward scoffed. "is that what he told you? he lied. killing's the sweetest thing there is."

you let out an exasperated sigh, looking up at him with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "why are you always so hateful?"

his jaw tightened. he hesitated—just a fraction—before answering.

"you'll be glad of the hateful things i do someday when you're queen," he said quietly. "and i'm all that stands between you and your beloved king."

he said beloved the same way he did the last time—mocking, bitter, disgusted. but this time, you felt something else beneath it.

you processed his words slowly, your heart rate picking up.

he would choose you. even against jason. even against his duty and the crown.

you swallowed, your voice softer now. "you... would stand between us?"

he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. "aye."

your heart fluttered. "why?"

he gave a low grunt, looking away for a moment as if the truth irritated him. "because you're soft," he muttered. "too soft for this place."

you frowned. "is that supposed to be an insult?"

"no," he said simply, his eyes flicking back to yours. "just the truth."

you held his gaze, refusing to look away. "you don't scare me, edward."

he huffed a quiet laugh. "i should."

"why?" you challenged, stepping closer.

his eyes dropped to your lips before rising again. he didn't answer your question. he tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he intended to take apart piece by piece.

"i've heard the rumors, you know. about the queen regent karene and my brother."

your brows lifted. "billy?"

"aye." his eyes narrowed, dark and sharp. "if she can take up with him of all people..." he let the implication hang. "why shouldn't i have what i want?"

your breath caught. "and what is it you want?"

he leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravel-soft murmur. "you already know."

your gaze lingered on him for a long moment before you froced yourself to turn away. you couldn't afford anyone peering at you when king jameson was already making it his mission to belittle you.

you turned to leave, heart pounding, but you couldn't resist glancing back.

he was still watching you.

"call for your dog if you ever need someone to escort you to your chambers," he called out, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you flushed at the implication, picking up the speed in which you walked.

edward had felt it the moment he heard your name whispered in the red keep's corridors. you were another arrival in king's landing, another court figure to be catalogued and guarded. yet the day he finally saw you, standing small but steady in the shadow of the throne room, something inside him clicked into place.

pretty thing, yes. sweet, undeniably so. but it was more than that.

most people flinched when they saw him. they stared up at him for too long, and spoke to him like he was a weapon rather than a man. you didn't. you were intimidated—he could see it in the way your breath caught, the way your fingers curled slightly when he drew near—but you didn't treat him like a monster. you didn't pretend not to notice him, nor did you shring away.

you were kind. even to him.

and he liked it more than he should have.

at first, he told himself it was ismply duty. jason was not the sort of king who valued gentleness or goodness in others. edward had seen enough of his temper, his appetites, his carelessness with people. the moment edward realized you would be spending time near the king, he knew he couldn't let him hurt you.

that was all it was. protection.

but the longer you stayed, the more he saw you in your light pretty gowns—the way you spoke softly but with conviction, the way you looked at him like you were trying to understand him rather than fear him—made the truth harder to ignore.

the truth that it wasn't just protection.

he found himself thinking of you at odd hours. after fighting, after killing, when drinking himself near death, before he slept. he would wonder if you were safe. wonder if you were lonely and if you thought of him. and every time he tried to push the thoughts away, they returned stronger, more insistent.

knights sharing the queen's bed when the king was away—it was nothing new. it had been happening for generations. his own brother, billy, slipping into queen regent karene's chambers with the ease of a man who had long stopped pretending it was only duty that brought him there.

if billy could do it... if karene could allow him.... would you?

the thought unsettled him. especially at night. it made everything worse. the possibility felt closer, more real, more dangerous.

he didn't want to think of you that way. he didn't want to imagine what it would mean if you ever looked at him with something warmer than kindness. the fire of desire in your eyes instead of the gentle storm. the feel of your body beneath his and how you would look with your lips parted and your brows furrowed. but he couldn't stop.

the wine was sour. edward drank it anyway, slow, watching the fire instead of the man who'd summoned him.

jason poured himself another cup, lounged back in the carved chair. it infuriated edward how arrogant he was—how everything belonged to him.

"pretty little thing, isn't she?" the king said.

edward's jaw went tight. he didn't ask who.

"the stark girl. your little bird." jason swirled the wine, studying its color with theatrical interest. "soft hands. soft mouth."

edward said nothing. drank.

"you've been watching her, dog. don't think i haven't noticed." a smile formed at his lips, thin as a blade. "standing too close in the corridors, that business in the alley. you were quick to her. quicker than your duty required."

"she was in danger."

"was she?" jason set the cup down with a click. "or did you just want an excuse to put your hands on her?"

edward's knuckles went white around the goblet. he held the king's gaze and said nothing, because saying anything was a rope around his neck.

jason laughed, easy, delighted by the silence. "ah. you've got the look, dog. i know that look. i've worn it." he leaned forward. "you want to fuck her, don't you?"

edward's body went still.

"don't be shy," jason pressed, savoring it. "i'd want to too. she has that fresh thing about her. untouched. makes a man wonder what she sounds like when she begs."

edward's jaw ached from clenching. he pictured his hands around the king's throat, pictured the wet sound of it, pictured the blood. saw it clear as the fire. but he did nothing.

"you know the rumors," jason went on, refilling his cup, conversational now. "about my mother. the queen regent. spreading her legs for your brother."

edward's gaze snapped to him.

"billy." jason tasted the name. "the mountain, they call him. big as a mountain, dumb as one too. and yet there is she, whoring night after night, letting him in her bed while my father rots in the ground." he shook his head, sorrowful. "the things she must let him do. a queen. a lannister."

"you speak of your own mother."

"and you defend a whore." jason's smile didn't waver. "family pride, is it? the cleganes stick together. i respect that." he swirled his wine. "almost."

edward's voice came out like gravel. "say what you brought me here to say, your grace."

"straight to the point. i like that." jason set the cup aside and rose, circling slow, boots echoing. he stopped close, his breath sour with wine. "here's what i want you to understand, dog. the girl is mine. betrothed to me. meant to carry my sons, warm my body, wear the crown that is meant for her."

edward didn't move. didn't even blink.

"so if i ever hear that you've touched her. that you've put your filthy hands on her. that you've so much as thought of her in a way that isn't solely for protection." jason's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "i'll have your head on a spike beside her father's. i'll mount it above the gave so she has to look at it every time she leaves the keep. and i'll make her watch."

edward's hands stayed at his sides, fists so tight the metal bit into his palms.

jason studied him a moment longer, then clapped him hard on the shoulder like they were old friends.

"good talk, dog." he stepped toward the door, then paused, glancing back. "oh, and dog? don't think i didn't notice you never denied it."

he left. and edward stood in the firelight, alone, the goblet still in his fist.

he hadn't denied it. he couldn't. because the king was right.

he wanted you. he wanted you the way he'd never wanted anything that wasn't a sword or a cup of wine. and jason knew it. knew it and dangled her in front of him like meant before a chained dog, just to watch him strain.

edward laid on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling of his chamber. he couldn't sleep. he was thinking about you.

it started soft. the way you'd looked at him in the corridor, the way your voice caught when he told you he'd stand between you and the king. that was the romantic part—the part that made his chest ache in a way he'd never knew it could.

then his mind turned. it always did.

he thought about your mouth. about the softness of your throat, the curve of your waist under those light gowns. about what you'd sound like if he got you alone, if he pressed you against a wall, if he found out whether that sweetness ran all the way through. he thought about your thighs, your hands, the way you'd say his name again—but breathless this time, broken and begging.

the image was vivid enough to make his blood run hot and his jaw clench against the wanting.

and then jason's voice cut through, sour as the wine. you want to fuck her, don't you? the king's grin, thin as a blade. i'll have your head on a spike beside her father's.

edward's fist tightened on the blanket. he should stop. he should let it go. you were betrothed. you belonged to the throne, and the throne belonged to a man who'd crush you like a flower between his fingers. every sane instinct told him to keep his distance, to guard you from across the room and never closer.

but he couldn't.

the wanting had its teeth in him now, and it wasn't letting go. it wasn't just the filth either, though the gods knew there was plenty of that. it was you. all of you. the softness and the steel, the way you looked at him like he was a man and not a weapon. he knew he'd die for you. the question was whether he could stand to let you live a life that wasn't with him.

edward swung his legs off the bed.

he didn't even think about it. he just pulled on his boots, shrugged into his tunic, and moved through the dark keep like a shadow, like the hound he was named for. his feet knew the way to your chambers before his mind caught up. he'd memorized it weeks ago, telling himself it was just for protection.

he reached your door and paused. his hand hovered over the latch.

then he slipped inside.

you were sitting near the window, the moonlight silvering your hair, when the door opened and closed behind you with a soft click. the lock turned. you spun, heart leaping into your throat.

and there he was. edward clegane, filling your doorway with his dark eyes already on you.

"edward—" you were on your feet, crossing the room before you knew you'd moved, your hands finding his arms, his chest, checking him like you expected him to be bleeding. "what are you doing here? if anyone saw you—if the king—you'll be killed, edward, you'll be—"

"no one saw me." his voice was low and rough like usual, but there was something almost amused in it despite everything. "are you truly so worried for me, sweet girl?"

you stopped. your hands were still on him, your breath short. you looked up into that honest face and couldn't lie.

"yes," you admitted softly. "i care about you."

his jaw worked. his eyes searched yours, and you could see the war in him—the wanting and the restraint, the anger and the gentleness underneath.

"why are you here?" you asked, your voice still soft.

he let out a rough breath. "the king summoned me tonight. made me drink his sour wine while he talked." his gaze dropped, then rose again, unguarded. "he told me he's noticed the way i look at you. said i wanted to fuck you."

your breath caught.

"he's right," edward said, and the words came out raw. "i do want you. but it's not just that." he stepped closer, and you didn't move back. "i want you by my side. not his. i want you safe, and warm, and mine—even though i know you're betrothed. even though i know it can never be."

his voice broke on the last word. you could see the frustration in the set of his shoulders, the anger in his clenched jaw—anger at the king, at the world, at himself for wanting what he couldn't have. but beneath it laid the gentleness. the tenderness he tried so hard to bury.

you reached up. your hand found his jaw, rough with stubble, and you felt him go still beneath your touch.

and before you could think better of it, you stepped forward and kissed him.

it was soft at first when you initiated it—uncertain, trembling. but his hands came up, one cupping the back of your head, the other finding your waist, pulling you against him. he kissed you back like a starving man, deep and desperate, all that careful restraint crumbling into heat.

you gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his tunic, and he groaned, low in his chest, a sound that went straight you. his hand slid down your back, pressing you closer, and you could feel the want in him—the hard, aching truth of it—but he didn't push. he held you liked you were something delicate, like he was afraid you'd shatter.

"sweet girl," he murmured against your lips, rough and wrecked. "you don't know what you're doing to me."

"then show me," you breathed.

his eyes, dark and burning, met yours. and for a long moment, it was just the two of you amidst the moonlight, the locked door, and the unspoken understanding of everything you both wanted and could never have.

he kissed you again, harder this time.

his mouth was everywhere—your lips, your jaw, the sensitive spot below your ear that made your knees buckle. each kiss was deeper, hungrier, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him with a soft, shuddering gasp.

edward's hands moved across your body, learning every contour through the thin fabric of your gown. his palm cupped your breast through the material, his thumb brushing over the peak, and you arched into his touch with a whimper that vibrated against his lips.

"there you are," he murmured, feeling you respond to him. his hand slid down your side, over the curve of your hip, gathering the hem of your gown and pulling it upward in one slow motion. cool air kissed your skin as the fabric pooled at your waist.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—not your face, but the expanse of skin he'd exposed. his breath hitched. his hand settled on your bare thigh, thumb stroking along the inside, and you trembled against him.

"gods," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "look at you."

you shifted your weight, leaning back against the windowsill for support, and his eyes darkened further, tracking the movement. the moonlight fell across your skin, and he looked at you like no one ever had—like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he was terrified of breaking you.

his mouth found your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the pulse point, his teeth grazing your skin. you threaded your fingers through his hair, and a low rumble escaped his chest—a sound half-growl, half-groan. his hand tightened on your thigh, pulling you closer, and you could feel him, hard and insistent, against your stomach.

you wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he lifted you easily, carrying you to your bed. he tossed you down none too gently, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the dark intensity of his gaze as he loomed over you. a smirk tugged at his mouth.

"so the sweet little bird likes it a little rough, does she?" his voice was a low rasp, full of lust and unspoken promises. "i'll have to keep that in mind."

he grabbed your thighs, spreading your legs wide as he settled between them. the position left you bare and exposed to his heated gaze. cool air kissed your most intimate places, making you shiver.

"gods," edward growled appreciatively, drinking in the sight of you splayed out before him, "you're perfect."

he leaned down, hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, and you bucked reflexively into the sensation. a large hand on your stomach pressed you back down into the mattress, pinning you there.

"stay still," he commanded gruffly. "let me taste you."

the first swipe of his tongue nearly undid you completely. he lapped at you slowly, delicately, like he wanted to savor every second. his scruff rasped against your inner thighs as he worked you open, sending sparks of pleasure skittering along your nerve endings.

it was almost too much—the heat of his mouth, the sinful slide of his tongue, the press of his body holding you down. you could feel yourself climbing toward the edge with frightening speed.

"edward," you whimpered breathlessly, hands fisting in his hair, "please..."

he hummed against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you. "that's it, sweet girl," he encouraged roughly, "let me hear you."

his lips closed around your aching center, suckling hard, and your back arched off the bed with a choked cry. your thighs clenched around his head, threatening to crush his ears if he didn't stop this exquisite torture.

but he didn't stop. he just doubled his efforts, tongue flicking mercilessly over the sensitive bundle of nerves until you were writhing beneath him, mindless with pleasure.

"look at you," edward rumbled against your slick flesh, his voice dark and possessive, "spread wide and dripping for me. such a pretty little thing."

he circled your entrance lazily, teasing, before pushing his finger inside. you cried out at the invasion, your hands gripping his thick dark hair. he pumped into you slowly, deeply, the rhythm almost devoutful despite the crude nature of it.

"mmm," he hummed approvingly, "tight and warm. does this pretty cunt like my tongue on it, sweet girl?"

"y-yes!" you gasped, shameless in your need.

"good girl," he praised, the words vibrating against your most sensitive parts. he sucked lightly on the bundle of nerves, then firmer, establishing a rhythm that made rational thought impossible. "gonna make you come so beautifully..."

the dual stimulation was overwhelming. he curved his finger, seeking the spot inside that made your vision blur with pleasure.

"right there," you sobbed, clutching at his hair. "please don't stop—"

he didn't. he worked you relentlessly with his mouth and fingers, driving you higher and higher until you were a writhing, panting mess beneath him. every suck, every stroke, every possessive murmur pushed you closer to the edge.

"give it to me," edward demanded roughly, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, his chin glistening with your arousal. "you can do it, sweet girl, come for me."

your whole body shuddered as the orgasm rolled through you in waves, starting deep in your core and pulsing outward until every nerve ending was alight. edward pressed his mouth gently to your clit through the aftershocks, soft kisses that coaxed the pleasure into something almost unbearable in its tenderness. you panted, shaking, your thighs still trembling around his head.

"shh, shh," he murmured against your oversensitive skin, his breath warm and soft. he pressed a slow kiss to your inner thigh, then another just below your center. "you did good, sweet girl. beautiful."

"n-need more," you managed, reaching for him. your body was still thrumming, hungry for something deeper. "edward, please—"

he lifted his head, wiping his mouth carelessly with the back of his hand. his eyes were half-lidded, drunk on you, but there was a gentleness there too—that careful yet prominent tenderness that always made your heart ache.

"i know, sweet girl," he said quietly, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "i know."

he shifted up your body, settling between your thighs. you could feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the solid reality of his body pressing you into the mattress. you tried to unburden him but his hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head firmly. possessively.

"don't move," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "let me take care of you."

you nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. your heart hammered against your ribs as he released your wrists and sat back on his knees, pulling his tunic over his head. you watched the play of shadows across his torso—every battle scar, every hard plane of muscle—as he undid his belt with practiced ease and shed the rest of his clothes.

the sight of him made you swallow hard. he was magnificent in a brutal, uncompromising way. and he was looking at you like you like you were the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in the seven kingdoms.

he lowered himself over you again, his body hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. his cock pressed against your thigh, heavy and hot, and you let out a shuddering breath.

"you're so soft," edward murmured, his nose brushing your jaw. he kissed the corner of your mouth, then the other corner, then the hollow of your throat.

he kissed his way down your neck, his hips shifting against you in a slow, delicate rhythm that made you gasp. "tell me if i hurt you," he said against your collarbone, his voice thick with need but careful, tender. "promise me you'll tell me."

"i will," you breathed. your hands were in his hair again, gripping him for support. "edward, please—"

"shh," he hushed you softly, pressing a kiss to your racing pulse. "i've got you, sweet girl."

he positioned himself at your entrance, his breath catching as he felt how slick you were. "fuck," he cursed under his breath, his hips jerking involuntarily. "you ready for me?"

you nodded frantically, tilting your hips up to meet him. "yes, yes, please—"

he took you at your word. slowly, carefully, he began to push inside. you felt him stretch you open—he was bigger than you expected, thicker—and you arched into the sensation, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

"seven hells, you're tight," edward groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. he stopped halfway in, giving you time to adjust. his hands were braced on either side of your head, his arms trembling with effort. "tell me if it's too much."

"it's—oh gods, edward, you feel so good," you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "more, please, i need more—"

he let out a shaky laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth. "greedy thing." but he obliged, sinking in deeper with another deep thrust that made you see stars. "like that, sweet girl? taking all of me?"

"yes, yes," you panted, meeting each of his movements. it was nothing like you imagined it would be with a man like him. there was hunger in the way he claimed you, but there was also worship. devotion.

"you're perfect," he murmured against your lips, his pace increasing just slightly. one of his hands slid between you to circle your clit with his thumb. "look at you, taking me so well."

you whimpered at the added stimulation, your nails digging into his shoulders as your gaze dropped to where your bodies were connected. where his fingers were pleasuring your mound.

the more comfort that you gained, the harder his thrusts got. you moaned a little louder as he increased his pace, the fullness of him stretching you deliciously. he had to cover your mouth with one of his hands to prevent you from making too much noise.

"quiet, girl," he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of pounding you. "fuck—can't have anyone figuring out what we're doing, can we?"

you whimpered against his hand, nodding. you closed your eyes at the pleasure he was giving you, every helpless sound you made muffled under the weight of his large palm.

then, he pulled out, making you whine softly at the loss. you immediately missed how his manhood made you feel—now aching and empty. he harshly flipped you over onto your stomach, but brought you up against his chest as he slid into you from behind.

you cried out before his hand covered your mouth again, the other snaking around your throat to keep you in place. he groaned softly into your ear, the proximity of his warm breath against your skin making you clench around him. your desperate whimpers were muffled as the hand at your throat tilted your chin up slightly, exposing your neck to his mouth. he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there while maintaining a punishing rhythm behind you.

you pushed back against him instinctively, greedy for more even as your moans dissolved into muffled whimpers against his palm. he groaned softly at your advances, his grip on your throat tightening for a moment before releasing.

"filthy little thing, aren't you? grinding back against me," he rasped, his breath hitching as he fought the urge to groan. "tell me, sweet girl, is this how you needed me? could your beloved king ever make you feel like this?"

you shook your head desperately, your whimpers becoming more high-pitched as he pounded into you harder—his grunts of effort shifting into barely contained groans. you wanted him to know how badly you longed for this, for him. he removed his hand from your mouth to hold the back of your head, tilting it to the side as he leaned down and caught your mouth with his. his tongue fought past your lips, dancing with yours as he felt you clench around him. your soft, desperate whimpers against his mouth felt like music to his ears.

the pressure built quickly, overwhelmingly. your body trembled against his, your inner walls clamping down on him as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

"come on my cock, beautiful, i've got you," he rasped, his own voice strained as he fought the urge to spill inside you. he wanted to make you fall apart first.

you came apart with his name half-swallowed in your throat.

your body seized around him, inner walls clenching in long, shuddering pulses, and edward groaned against your shoulder—a raw, wrecked sound that vibrated through your skin. he held you through it, one hand gripping your hip, his breath ragged against your neck.

when the tremors finally slowed, he pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

"easy, sweet girl," he murmured, his voice rough. he turned you gently, guiding you onto your back, his hands big and careful on your body. "easy."

he loomed over you, chest heaving, dark hair falling across his face. his eyes traveled down your body—flushed skin, parted thighs, the slick shine of him still on you—and a low, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest.

"gods," he said, almost to himself. "you came that hard for me. look at you. shaking like a leaf, soaked through..."

your cheeks burned, but you couldn't look away.

"can't blame you," he went on, his thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, feeling the tremors still running beneath your skin. "sweet little bird, all proper in the daylight... and then you come apart like that for a dog."

"edward—"

"i liked it," he cut in, his voice dropping low. "liked feeling you clench around me. nearly took me over the edge with you."

his jaw was tight, his eyes dark. the strain showed in the fine tremor of his arms, the short, ragged rhythm of his breath. he was close. barely holding on.

"where do you want it, sweet girl?" he asked, rough and careful at once.

your mouth opened, but the words tangled. he waited, patient, his thumb still stroking your thigh.

"inside," you managed, barely a whisper.

his eyes darkened. a mixture of raw emotions flickered across his face—hunger, surprise, and beneath it the usual softness he tried to conceal.

he knew the risk. one night could plant a bastard in your belly, and jason would read it as treason. proof enough to mount his head beside your father's. but you looked up at him like that—wanting, needing him—and every warning in his head went quiet.

"fuck," he breathed.

he lowered himself over you, settling between your thighs, his weight a warm, solid pressure. he guided himself back to your entrance, and you felt him—heavy, hot, aching—before he pushed inside.

slower than before, but still deep. he let you feel every inch as he sank in, and you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders.

"oh," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. "that's it."

he moved like that—slow, deep, hard—each thrust a long, rolling push that had you gripping his back, your breath stuttering. harder for the slowness of it. his eyes tracked every flicker of pleasure on your face, drinking you in.

"feel that?" he rasped, hips rolling into you. "feel how deep i am inside you, sweet girl?"

"yes," you breathed. "yes, edward—"

"good." his voice was wrecked, but his hand was gentle, cradling your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "want you to remember this. want you to remember exactly who put it there."

he watched your face as he moved inside you—slow, deep, each thrust measured like he wanted to memorize the feel of you around him. your legs had fallen open for him, boneless and trusting, and he used the give of your body to sink deeper still, until there was nowhere left to go.

"that's it," he breathed, his voice scraped raw. "right there, sweet girl. stay right there."

his rhythm quickened. his hand slid down your side, gripping your hip, pulling you into each stroke. the sound of it filled the room—skin against skin, wet and obscene, the creak of the bed beneath you both. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, and he saw it, and a dark sound rumbled up from his chest.

"don't," he rasped. "i want to hear you."

you shook your head, breathless. "someone will—"

"let them hear." his jaw was tight, his eyes half-lost. "let the whole keep know who's fucking you."

his pace turned punishing then, deep and hard, the restraint he'd held all night cracking down the middle. you clung to him, nails raking his back, and he groaned against your throat like the sting was the sweetest thing he'd felt. he drove into you once, twice, a third time, and then he was cursing—a low, broken stream of words against your skin, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you.

you felt it. felt every hot pulse of him filling you, flooding you, until you were certain there was nothing left of him to give. he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in short, wrecked bursts against your lips.

"fuck," he managed, the word barely a sound. "fuck, sweet girl."

you didn't move. neither did he. the two of you lay tangled, slick, his weight a warm pressure you had no desire to escape. your hand came up to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and he let out a shuddering exhale, some of the tension draining out of him at the touch.

for a long moment, there was only that—your breathing evening out together, the firelight painting the wall, the slow drip of sweat cooling on skin.

then he stirred. careful, so careful, he pulled out of you, and you felt the loss like a small ache. he settled beside you, one arm sliding under your shoulders, turning you gently onto your back. his thumb brushed a strand of hair from your face, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like before.

soft. unhurried. his lips moved over yours like he had all the time in the world and meant to spend it here.

he drew back just enough to look at you. "you alright?"

your lips curved into a small, tired smile. "i am."

his eyes searched your face anyway, reading you for flinches and lies. "i didn't hurt you?"

"you didn't." you reached up, fingers tracing his jaw. "you were gentle."

he snorted. "gentle." the word came out like an insult. "that's a first."

"it's true." your smile widened. "you called me your sweet girl and checked in with me throughout our time together. that's gentle."

"it's a standard thing to do," he corrected gruffly. "and you were going to ruin your sheets with all that—" he gestured vaguely, "—weeping you did."

"i did not weep."

"you did. heard it when i was between your thighs. very wet. very pitiful."

"edward."

"like a little bird caught in the rain." he was grinning now, a rare, crooked thing that changed his whole face. "soaking my face, sniffling about how good i felt—"

"i never said that!"

"you said 'oh gods, edward,'" he said, dropping his voice into a breathy, mocking falsetto. "'oh gods, edward, you feel so good—'"

you shoved his shoulder, and he caught your hand, laughing low in his chest. the sound was so unexpected it made your heart stutter. you'd never heard him laugh before.

"i hate you," you informed him.

"no, you don't." he kissed your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

you saw it happen when the words landed—the flicker in his eyes, the way his smile faded by a degree. the room seemed to shrink around the silence that followed.

"so… what happens now?" you asked quietly.

he didn't pretend to misunderstand. his thumb traced the inside of your wrist, back and forth, back and forth, like he was thinking.

"if the king finds out," you went on, when he didn't answer, "he'll—"

"i know what he'll do."

"he'll have you killed, edward. he said so himself. your head on a spike—"

"i know." his voice was flat, but his grip on your hand tightened. "i was there, sweet girl. i heard every word."

"then why—" your voice broke. "why would you come here? why would you risk—"

"because i wanted to." he lifted his head, and the look in his eyes stopped your breath. "because you looked at me like that, and i couldn't have walked away if the seven hells themselves opened up under my feet."

"edward—"

"listen to me." he sat up, pulling you with him, his hands framing your face. "i meant what i said in the corridor of the red keep. every word of it. all the hateful things i do, they're for you. and i meant what i said then too. when you're queen, i'll be the only thing standing between you and the king."

his thumb traced your cheekbone. his voice dropped to that rough, low tone.

"i would do anything for you. i would kill for you." a pause. his jaw worked. "i would die for you, if i have to."

your eyes burned. you tried to speak, and the words came out thick. "i don't want you to die."

"and i don't want you to live like this." he said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "so we're at an impasse, my love. and i find i don't much care, as long as i get to keep doing this."

"doing what?"

"this." he kissed you, soft, then drew back with that crooked grin. "stealing you from your king. making you weep against me ."

you laughed despite yourself, wet and shaking. "you're ridiculous."

"aye." he pulled you against his chest, and you went willingly, your cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart. "but i'm yours."

outside, the first grey light of dawn crept over king's landing. neither of you moved to acknowledge it. the world was out there, waiting—the king, the war, the spike that would carry his head or yours.

but for now, there was only this. his arms around you. his breath in your hair. the dangerous, reckless promise of a man who had nothing left to lose, and had chosen to spend it all on you.

the first thing you registered was the absence.

the warmth between your legs—that deep, pleasant ache, the sticky evidence of what had happened hours ago—was still there, but the source of the heat itself was gone. you were alone.

you lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling above you. the fire had burned down to embers. pale morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting thin gold lines across the bedsheets.

he left.

you felt relieved because he'd been careful, because no one had found him here. yet also grief because the thought of him slipping through your door in the predawn darkness felt unbearably lonely.

you rolled over and buried your face in the pillow. his scent was still there—smoke and armor—and you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes.

everything came rushing back. his mouth on your throat, his hands everywhere. the way he'd called you sweet girl in that ruined, tender voice. the slow part afterward, when he'd held you like you were something precious, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin while the city slept outside your window.

and the other parts too—the rough parts. his hand over your mouth to silence your cries. the way he'd taken you from behind, his grip on your throat firm enough to make your vision swim. the filthy things he'd whispered against your ear while burying himself inside you.

your cheeks burned. you pressed your face harder into the pillow.

rough and gentle. that was what he was. one moment he'd pin you to the mattress with a strength that thrilled you, and the next he'd cradle your face in his hands like you might break. he'd asked if he'd hurt you, checked in after every new position, pressed soft kisses to your lips when he thought you'd fallen asleep.

i would die for you, if i have to.

you loved him. you knew that now with a certainty that terrified you more than any threat from jason or karene or anyone else in this godsforsaken castle.

your handmaidens fussed over you as they prepared for the day. you let them. you needed the distraction. you needed to look composed, untouched by the storm that had passed through your life the night before.

council was interminable. king jason sat at the head of the table, gesturing expansively as he discussed potential war crimes and troop movements. you sat beside him, nodding at appropriate intervals, your expression carefully neutral.

edward wasn't present. of course he wasn't. he was probably somewhere doing whatever dangerous things the hound did—training, sparring, brooding in corners as he held watch.

but you could still feel his absence like a phantom limb.

jason leaned toward you. "you seem distracted, my lady. everything well?"

"yes," you said quickly, forcing a smile. "just... contemplating."

"about?"

you swallowed. with all the discussions of war and violence, you began to think your brother, jonathor. he was king in the north now, and house lannister had some plans for him that you would not wish to see executed.

"just... the war and what would come of it," you murmured.

jason raised an eyebrow. "what else would you expect other than my family bringing you his head? your father was a traitor, and now we must annihilate your brother's army. he became a political threat ever since he declared the north and the riverlands independent, you do realize that?"

you swallowed, feeling your hands shake with an uncontrollable fury. how dare he speak of your family like that? had he no empathy? no compassion?

but of course he didn't. you ought to have known that by now. being a little bird trapped in a cage had made you realize that not everybody was as sincere and as kind as they seemed to be.

but you composed yourself, pulling the act of the dutiful princess once more. "yes, your grace. forgive me, i forget myself." you spoke softly.

jason gave you a lingering look as if to question your sincerity, but he let it go.

as the council went on, all you could think of was your family. your brothers. your mother. your two sisters. were they safe? maxine and jane were always stronger than you were. you could only hope that they were somewhere safe, away from the war and the horror you knew it would bring.

you missed your mother and your sisters, dearly so. you missed their compassion, although maxine was always the more logical one. you missed your brothers. the way jonathor led his family and how he was leading a war currently. the way your little brother william was so happy and carefree before the fall. the last time you saw him, he was paralyzed and bed-ridden. where was he now? was he safe?

you didn't know, and you didn't know if you wanted to know.

the thoughts made you nauseous.

when the council adjourned, you escaped back to your chambers. you couldn't stomach the idea of socializing after everything you had just heard in the meeting. ever since you arrived, everyone had an ulterior motive to them. everyone was selfish.

except the hound. he thought of you and kept you safe countless of times. he loved you and made sure to prove himself of that.

you wondered what he was doing right now. even in battle, did he think of you?

the training yard stank of sweat and turned earth. edward worked the practice sword through its forms, steel ringing off steel as his opponent staggered back. the boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, fresh-faced and eager, already bleeding from a split lip he'd earned three passes ago.

"again," edward said.

the boy came at him. edward turned the blade aside, stepped inside the swing, and put the flat of his sword against the boy's throat.

"dead."

the boy's chest heaved. edward stepped back, already bored, already elsewhere.

his body moved through the morning drills on memory. block, step, cut. the rhythm of it all was old as breathing. but his mind wasn't in the yard.

it was in your chambers.

he kept seeing you as he'd left you—hair spread across the pillow, one arm flung out toward the empty space where he'd lain. he'd stood at the door too long, watching you breathe, before he'd forced himself out into the grey dawn.

now the sun was high and he was still half there.

a spear clattered against the rack. somewhere behind him, two squires argued about a tourney. edward heard none of it.

he thought about the way you'd looked up at him in the dark, asking what happens now. the fear in your voice when you'd said his name. the way you'd kissed him.

and underneath all of it, he thought of how you were locked in that pretty cage with your handmaidens and your grief and a war that was eating your family from the inside.

his grip tightened on the practice sword.

"ser edward."

he turned. a steward stood at the edge of the yard, wringing his hands.

"the king requests your presence at the afternoon audience."

edward grunted. "requests."

the steward flinched. "his grace said to fetch the hound."

of course he had. jason liked to keep his dog close, where he could watch it strain. edward tossed the practice sword to the squire and walked past the steward without another word.

the white cloak was heavy on his shoulders. it always was, these days.

he'd never wanted the damn thing. had said as much to half the court by now, loudly and often. but the cloak came with duties, and duties were the only thing that kept a man's hands from shaking when he wanted to put them around a king's throat.

so he did them. he stood at jason's back through audiences, through suppers, through the endless parade of sycophants and petitioners. he watched the doors. he counted the exits. he kept his face a mask of bored contempt and let the world believe there was nothing behind it but a dog waiting to be loosed.

it was safer that way.

for you, mostly.

because the truth was a dangerous thing to carry now. every time he stood too close to you in a corridor, every time he let his eyes linger a half-second too long, he was handing jason a sword. the king already suspected. already watched. already smiled that thin, knowing smile.

edward had to be careful. careful in a way he'd never been in his life.

when the audience ended, he walked the walls. it was part of the duty—checking the guard posts, making sure the watch was sober and the gates were sound. he did it every day, rain or shine, because it gave him an excuse to move, to burn off the restless thing that lived under his skin.

today it gave him an excuse to pass beneath your window.

he didn't look up. he didn't stop. he just walked, slow and steady, and let the knowledge that you were up there settle into his chest.

she's safe. she's safe. she's safe.

the words were a prayer he didn't believe in.

he thought about stealing you away. not for the first time. not for the hundredth. he'd pictured it in the dark hours, lying awake in his own cold bed: the two of you riding north before dawn, your hair unbound, his cloak around your shoulders. leaving the red keep and its king and its spikes and its lies behind. finding some holdfast in the mountains, some place where no one knew your name or his.

it was a boy's dream. he knew it even as he wanted it.

you were betrothed. your brother was fighting a war. your father's head was on a spike above the gate. if edward took you, jason would burn the realm to find you, and every mile you ran would be bought with blood.

he couldn't do that to you. couldn't ask you to trade one cage for a life on the run with a killer.

but gods, he wanted to.

he reached the end of the wall and turned back. the sun was sinking now, painting the city in gold and shadow. somewhere below, a woman laughed. a child cried. the world went on, indifferent to the war in his chest.

edward stopped at the postern gate and looked out over the blackwater, and for a long moment he let himself feel it—the ache of wanting you, the terror of losing you, the slow, grinding weight of a duty that had become a leash around his own throat.

then he turned and walked back into the keep.

he had a king to guard.

and a girl to keep safe, even if it killed him.

it became a game, and you both played it well.

in public, you were strangers. a kingsguard and a king's betrothed, nothing more. you passed him in the corridors without a word, your eyes fixed ahead, your hands folded. he stood at jason's back during audiences and suppers, a statue in a white cloak, and never once let his gaze drift toward your seat.

except when the king said something stupid.

jason had a gift for it. he'd declare that the common people loved him, that the war would be won by the turn of the moon, that the north would kneel the moment they saw his banner. grand, empty pronouncements that filled the hall with sycophantic murmurs.

you'd catch edward's eye across the room. just for a heartbeat. his mouth would twitch. you'd bite the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood.

neither of you laughed. not once, although it came close.

it was the small things that kept you sane. the way he'd shift his weight when jason said something particularly idiotic, like a man physically restraining himself. the way your own shoulders would shake, just slightly, before you schooled your face back into the mask of the dutiful bride.

you learned to read him in those glances. a raised eyebrow meant did you hear that? a slight tilt of his head meant don't you dare laugh, sweet girl. the barest curve of his lip meant later.

and later always came.

he came to you at night, when the keep had gone quiet and the guards had settled into their posts. you'd leave the latch undone, and the door would open without a sound, and then he was there—filling the dark room with his size and his heat and the smell of smoke and steel.

the first time he brought you roses, you'd laughed.

they were a sorry sight. wild things, torn from some bramble he'd passed on his rounds, the stems ragged where he'd snapped them, the petals already bruising. he held them out like a boy, almost sheepish, and you'd taken them with both hands and pressed your face into them.

"they're ugly," he'd muttered.

"no, they're not. they're perfect," you'd said, and meant it. "thank you."

after that, he brought them whenever he found them. a single rose left on your windowsill. a handful of wildflowers tucked into his cloak, transferred to your palm in the dark. you kept them in a cracked vase you'd hidden behind the curtains, and every time you looked at them, you smiled.

he was different in your chambers. that was the thing you never got used to.

the man the court saw was hard. bitter. a killer with an intimidating face and a tongue like a blade. he snapped at squires and glared at lords and made serving girls flinch with a single look.

but alone with you, he laughed.

he told you stories—crude ones, mostly, about the fools he'd had to guard and the absurd things they'd said. he teased you until your face felt hot and you shoved at his chest. he'd grin, that rare crooked grin that transformed his whole face, and you'd think: this is him. this is the man underneath.

he was happy with you. you could see it in the way his shoulders dropped when the door closed, the way his voice softened, the way he'd pull you onto his lap and bury his face in your hair like he'd been waiting all day just to breathe you in.

"you're not like this with anyone else," you said once, tracing along his jaw with your finger.

"like what?"

"this." you gestured vaguely at his smile, his ease. "you're mean to everyone."

"mhm," he agreed. "it's good for morale."

you snorted. "that makes no sense."

"it makes perfect sense. if they're scared of me, they stay out of my way. if they stay out of my way, i don't have to talk to them." he kissed your forehead. "you're the only one i want to talk to."

you didn't know what to say to that. so you kissed him instead.

you made love often. sometimes slow and tender, which would leave you breathless and shaking and held so carefully you thought you might break from the sweetness of it. sometimes rough, the way he knew you liked—his hand over your mouth, his voice dark and filthy in your ear, your nails raking down his back.

he learned your body the way every soldier learns a blade. every sound you made, every place that made you gasp, every rhythm that made you come apart beneath him. and he gave you everything, held nothing back, until you couldn't remember what your life had been before him.

afterward, you'd lie tangled in your sheets, and he'd trace patterns on your skin and make you laugh with some absurd observation about the court, and you'd think that this—being here with him—was the only thing in the seven kingdoms that felt real. like you had a chance.

it was late. the fire had burned low, and the room was warm with it, and edward had you pressed against the wall beside the window, his mouth on your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist.

"edward," you managed, but it came out breathless, ruined.

he hummed against your throat. his hands were gripping your thighs, and you could feel the hard line of him against you. you didn't want him to stop.

"edward," you tried again, and this time a giggle escaped you, high and giddy. "you have to go!"

"no," he said simply, and kissed your collarbone.

"yes." you were laughing now, pushing weakly at his shoulders. "the guards! if you're not gone—"

"i'll kill them."

"you will not kill the guards, edward."

"i'll maim them. politely, if that's what you wish."

you dissolved into giggles, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. "you're a fool."

"i'm a thorough fool." he lifted your head up, and there was that grin, the one that made your heart stutter. "i don't leave a job half-done."

"the job is done. the job has been done three times tonight."

"three?" he raised an eyebrow. "i only count two."

"then you weren't paying attention."

he laughed, low and warm, and the sound of it filled the room. you loved that sound. you loved him.

"go," you whispered, but your hands were in his hair, pulling him closer. "before you get caught."

"one more minute." he kissed you, soft and slow, and you melted into it despite yourself. "one more."

"edward."

"yes, sweet girl?"

you sighed against his mouth. "i love you."

you froze once the words came out, your heart hammering, suddenly terrified you'd said too much.

but he just looked at you. his dark eyes searched your face, and something in them softened—something so tender it made your chest ache.

"say it again," he said quietly.

"i love you," you repeated, stronger now. "i love you, edward."

he kissed you. deep and desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"i love you too, sweet girl." a breath. "i've loved you since the bridge. since you looked at me like i wasn't a monster."

"you're not a monster."

"i'm a killer, aren't i?"

"you're mine," you corrected. "that's all that matters."

he kissed you once more, quick and fierce. then he set you down, gentle, his hands lingering on your waist.

"i have to go," he said.

"i know you do."

he crossed to the door, then paused, his hand on the latch. when he turned back, the firelight caught his face, and you saw it all there—the love, the fear, the weight of everything you were risking.

"i'll come back," he said.

"i know you will."

he smiled. just a small thing, but it was for you, and it meant the world.

then he was gone, the door closing soft behind him.

you stood there for a long moment, your hand pressed to her chest, your heart still racing. the room felt emptier without him, colder, but you didn't mind. because you could still feel his lips on yours, still hear the echo of his voice.

i love you too, sweet girl.

you smiled as you watched the door, long after he'd disappeared into the dark.

and you knew, with a certainty that terrified you and thrilled you in equal measure, that you would risk everything for him.

again and again and again.

the attack came out of nowhere. one day, you were sitting at your vanity—letting your handmaiden gossip as she styled your hair—and then you heard it. the explosions. the screams. the men fighting outside your window.

before you knew it, you were rushed into a room filled with the rest of the women in the castle. the queen regent karene was there, sitting on the center of the floor with a glass of wine in her hand—clearly drunk and bored with the current affairs of men.

you kept to yourself mostly. you did your part. you held hands with the rest of the women and prayed, hoping to bring them peace during these troubled times. as you prayed, you hoped that edward would be safe. you knew he would die for you—he made sure to remind you of that—but you didn't want his promise to carry out.

"little dove," karene called. "come here."

you swallowed. you gave a brief, kind smile to the women you were praying with before politely excusing yourself.

you stood before the queen regent, trying to hide your obvious fear. being a woman did not give her the sense of empathy you hoped it would. despite your mistreatment, she paid no mind to it. she would give you advice, sure, but none to actually improve your stay. you knew how conniving she was and how ambitious she was to protect the family legacy.

"what are you doing?"

"praying."

her eyes flashed with annoyance, her voice dripping with mockery as she spoke. "you're perfect, aren't you? praying. what are you praying for?"

you hesitated. "for the gods to have mercy on us all."

she seemed unimpressed. "oh. for all of us?"

"of course, your grace."

she gave you a snark smile. "even the king?"

the hesitation was longer this time, more obvious. "my beloved—"

"oh, shut up, you little fool," she sighed, clearly fed up with the act. "praying for the gods to have mercy on us all? the gods have no mercy, that's why they're gods. now, sit." she tossed you a pillow onto the floor in front of her.

you stayed quiet as you sat, letting her words sink in. as much as you wanted to deny her claims, you could understand where she was coming from. all you had been doing for the past few months was pray. pray for your loved ones to be safe. pray for mercy throughout your stay. one of your prayers wasn't being answered, so why should the other?

"i need to tell you something, little dove," she whispered, leaning in. you could smell the wine on her breath. "just between us girls."

you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of showing how intimidated you were by her presence. "what is it, your grace?"

she tilted her head, analyzing you with a knowing smirk. "i know."

your heart raced. "know what, your grace?"

she hummed. "about you and the hound. edward clegane, is it?"

your whole body felt like it was on fire. you couldn't breathe. you couldn't think. your heart was pounding and your knees felt weak. how long had she known? when did she find out? what was the punishment going to be?

she chuckled at how thrown off you were. "calm yourself. i have no intention of punishing you... yet. i just want to talk."

you stayed quiet, avoiding her gaze as you looked down at your lap.

"i want to give you some womanly advice, dear. it's all i've been doing since your stay, haven't i?"

you said nothing.

"i asked you a question."

you looked up and met her gaze, giving her a small nod.

that seemed to satisfy her enough.

"i'm sure you've heard the rumors of my unfaithfulness to the late king, teddard baratheon. people love to talk amongst themselves of how the great mountain has me. whether i'm on my back or kneeling, or whether my children are even born of the right father."

you listened as she spoke despite how crude her words were.

"but i've grown to care less and less of what filth leaves the common people's mouths. i do love the mountain, and you love the hound, don't you?" she tilted her head again, analyzing your expression. "don't be afraid. i already told you i don't wish to punish you yet. i won't tell my son."

you hesitated. "so... what do you want?"

"i want you to realize that this is a warning for your stupidity. you thought you were so clever, didn't you? sneaking sweet ser edward into your chambers before nightfall."

your face felt hot.

"we don't get lucky in this world, little dove. we flower, we wed until we bed, we reproduce, and then we die. the husbands we marry will become imbeciles, so we have to focus our attention elsewhere," she poured you a glass of wine and handed it to you. "drink."

you obliged, taking a sip. your nose scrunched up slightly at the bitter taste.

"i don't blame you. but that does not mean that your little secret is safe. if you ever do anything that jeopardizes my family's reputation—even mine—i'll let the king know."

so you weren't safe. you knew that well enough.

you couldn't bite your tongue. "and what of your secret?"

you immediately regretted saying the words. she took a sip of her wine, her cold gaze never leaving yours.

"was that a threat, little dove?"

you shook your head quickly, scrambling for an excuse. "no, you're grace—"

"perhaps i was wrong," she sighed. "if the city doesn't fall, i'll make use of the information i have."

you realized then that this was her plan all along. she shared the truth in order to bring out yours, knowing at one point that her words would irritate you just enough to give her the power to tell.

i am such a fool.

"you're excused, little dove," she hummed. "leave the wine."

you set your glass down and got up, departing back to your bed along with the rest of the women. they chatted amongst themselves—some praying, some crying. but all you could think of was how doomed you were.

green fire bloomed across the bay. men burned alive. ships cracked apart. the air tasted of smoke, blood, and metal. edward clegane swung his sword until his arm went numb, cutting down anyone who came near him. he fought because that was what he had been made for. because that was what the king demanded.

but somewhere between one kill and the next, he realized something.

the king wasn't fighting.

jason stood behind the lines, untouched, unbothered, barking orders he didn't understand, letting his men die for him while he clutched his cloak like a frightened child. edward saw him—saw the cowardice, the uselessness, the entitlement—and a moment of clarity washed over him.

why am i doing this?

why am i risking my life for him?

for a man who hurt her? who threatened her?

he cut down another soldier, but his movements slowed. his breath came harder, both from exhaustion and realization.

if he died there, you would be alone. jason would ave no one to stop him. no one to shield you. no one to stand between you and the cruelty of the crown.

he couldn't let that happen.

he killed one last man, then stopped.

stopped fighting. stopped pretending. stopped being the king's dog.

a guard noticed immediately. "ser clegane! what are you doing? get back in line!"

edward didn't even fully turn towards him. "i'm leaving."

the guard stared, horrified. "leaving? what about the king?! you're a member of the kingsguard!"

edward finally looked at him—and the guard stepped back at the expression on his face.

"fuck the kingsguard," edward said, voice low and shaking with fury. "and fuck the king."

the guard sputtered. "you can't—"

he put his sword back into his scabbard and walked away from the battle, from the crown, from the oaths he never truly took.

he walked away because he loved you.

you were sitting on your bed, clearly distressed. but then your handmaiden slipped beside you and tugged gently at your sleeve.

"my lady," she whispered gently. "come with me."

you followed her to a shadowed corner of the chamber. she glanced at the guard—barely conscious—and at karene, who was now muttering to herself and spilling some wine down her dress.

"you can leave," your handmaiden breathed. "i'll make sure no one notices. go back to your room. lock the door. don't come out."

your heart hammered. "are you sure?"

"yes. go. now."

you didn't hesitate. you slipped out of the room, your footsteps soft against the stone. the corridors were empty—everyone was either fighting or hiding. you reached your room, shut the door, and locked it with trembling hands.

only then did you breathe.

you crossed to your dresser, bracing your hands against the cool wood, eyes closed, trying to steady yourself. you felt the panic rising, the fear, the uncertainty.

then you heard it.

"you shouldn't be out in the halls."

you whipped around.

edward clegane sat in the chair near your window, a bottle of wine dangling from his hand. his armor was covered in blood, and his hair was damp with sweat. his eyes were dark, unfocused—he was clearly starting to get drunk.

your breath caught. "edward—? what are you doing here? why aren't you fighting?"

he took a slow drink, then set the bottle on the floor with a heavy thud. "because i'm done," he said simply. "i'm done fighting for him."

you stared, stunned. "you... deserted?"

"aye." he leaned back in the chair, jaw tight. "i couldn't keep doing it. swinging a sword for a man who'd sooner break you than look at you. risking my life for a king who doesn't deserve a breath."

your heart twisted. "edward... you shouldn't be here. the queen regent knows. she told me. she knows about us."

his eyes sharpened at that. "karene?" he scoffed. "she's too drunk to know her own name."

"that doesn't matter," you protested. "if jason finds out—"

he stood.

he took his time as he did, purposefully. he crossed the room until he stood only a breath away from you. you felt the heat of him, the danger, the devotion.

"i'm not letting him touch you." he said.

you swallowed hard, trying to keep your distance. you loved him, but you tried to remember how dangerous this was. you wouldn't be able to stand seeing jason mount his head.

"edward, please. please go. if they find you here—"

"i could take you with me."

you blinked. "what?"

"i'm leaving," he said. "tonight. i'm going north, maybe." his voice softened, almost unbearably. "i could keep you safe."

your breath trembled. "edward..."

"i mean it." his jaw worked, his eyes burning with the tears he fought to restrain. "i won't let anyone hurt you, sweet girl. they're all afraid of me, remember?"

you felt your heart pounding so hard it hurt. "you... you would take me? truly?"

"aye." he promised. "you know i'd do anything for you."

his voice shook—just barely.

"i'm not a good man. i know that. i've done things i'm not proud of. but whatever goodness i've got left... it's yours. all of it."

your eyes softened, your gaze searching his.

"i want a life where you're safe. where you're not afraid. where you don’t have to bow your head to a man who doesn’t deserve you. i want a life where i can stand beside you without hiding it. where i can protect you because it's what i choose—not what some king commands."

he hesitated, then spoke the words like a vow.

"i want a life with you."

your lip trembled. "edward..."

"i can keep you safe, sweet girl. i swear it. i'll fight for you. i'll bleed for you." his jaw worked, emotion tightening his throat. it felt like he was pleading.

"i love you," he said quietly. "more than i ever thought i could love anything. and i'm asking you... please let me take you away from here. let me give you a life where you don't have to be afraid."

he held your gaze, steady and unflinching.

"say the word," he murmured. "and i'll get you out of here."

for a long moment, you could only stare at him.

"edward..." you whispered, your voice barely holding together. "if i go with you... everything changes."

"aye," he said softly. "it does."

"i would be a traitor."

"to a king who doesn't love you."

"i would be hunted."

"i'd keep you safe."

"i would lose everything i've ever known."

he stepped closer, his voice gentler than you ever heard it. "you'd lose a cage. that's all."

your throat tightened. you looked down, trying to steady yourself, trying to think clearly. you thought of jason's cruelty. karene's threat disguised as advice. the suffocating halls of the red keep. the life you were meant to live—cold, loveless, controlled.

and then you thought of edward. of his honesty. his devotion. his fierce protectiveness.

he had taught you what sincerity felt like ever since your arrival.

what love and passion could be when it wasn't twisted by power or cruelty.

you lifted your eyes to his.

"i can't imagine my life without you," you said, voice trembling. "i don't want to."

his dark eyes were soft, almost nervous as he waited for your reply.

you hesitated only a moment more, feeling the enormity of the choice settle into your bones.

then you nodded.

"yes," you whispered. "i'll go with you."

then he kissed you. deep and frantic, yet deep and heartfelt—full of everything he felt for you throughout your stay at king's landing. his hands cupped your face with a gentleness that contradicted the way his mouth moved against yours.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

he exhaled a shaky breath. "you're gonna be the death of me."

you let out a soft, breathless laugh. "i thought you said you'd die for me."

"aye," he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, "but i didn't think you'd make it this easy."

he brushed his thumb across your cheek. "come on, sweet girl. we've got a long road north."

you nodded, gripping his hand.

he grabbed his cloak, his sword, and opened your chamber door. the corridor beyond was empty, silent, waiting. he looked back at you one last time.

"stay close," he said. "i'm not losing you."

you stepped into the hall beside him.