est

— tags/warnings: switch!reader, bisexual!Jacaerys, bisexual!Cregan, modern AU, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), threesome FMM (female/male/male), drunk sex, rough sex, double penetration, leaned-back reverse cowgirl position, anal sex (female receiving), oral sex (female & receiving), cunnilingus, blowjob (female & male giving), handjob (female & male giving), vaginal fingering, anal fingering (female receiving), spit as lube, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, cum swallowing, praise kink, degradation kink, dacryphilia, light subspace, no aftercare, past Jacaerys Velaryon/Sara Snow, past Cregan Stark/Sara Snow, past Starkcest (older half-brother/younger half-sister), mention of past consensual und*r4ge sex, unestablished relationship, Jacaerys' first time with a man, Cregan's first time with a man, open ending. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes: this fic was posted on my first banned account, so I chose to repost it here too 💕💕 I really like this one cuz it was my first Jacegan x reader 3some 🤭🤭

— crossposting: AO3

It had all been the result of hours of drunken and dirty talks. Your twin brother Jacaerys had taken you to one of his college classmates' parties for the first time. You had not visited England in a few months since you moved to Edinburgh, then the summer holidays were the perfect opportunity to see your family again and meet Jacaerys' friends.

Now, in the middle of the night, you found yourself lying in the bed you once shared with your dear brother. The same brother who was now stroking your hair while you moaned loudly, looking at him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

"Is Cregan giving you pleasure, little sister?" Jace teased, his fingertips trailing down your cheekbones before breaking eye contact for a moment so he could see how his best friend Cregan Stark was starting to move his tongue faster in your bundle of nerves. "Be gentle, she's already kinda overstimulated."

Despite the hint of concern in Jacaerys' voice, Cregan pulled away from between your thighs to wipe his chin, damp with your juices. "Don't be an asshole, Jace. You're not the only one who knows how to please your sister." You held back the urge to punch the two boys who were talking about you as if you were not there. Instead of cursing them, you whimpered again and reached out for Cregan's short blonde hair, trying to draw him back to your pussy, but he just chuckled, managing to push your hand away and standing up. "No, no, princess. Now it's your turn to prove to me why Jace always tell me you're his favorite slut."

You tilted your head back to give Jace a fake angry stare, your cheeks as pink as Cregan's face after spending so many minutes so busy while he was eating you out.

Jacaerys shrugged, as if telling his best friend about the secret and forbidden affair he was having with his own twin since they were teenagers was not a disgusting thing. However, Cregan never thought about it in that way. The first time Jace let slip that he was missing the constant blowjobs you gave him, he almost choked, trying to understand if he heard those words correctly, and as soon as Jacaerys explained with a bit of hesitation about the situationship between the two of you, Cregan found himself tempted to continue asking for more details.

It was disgusting and hot at the same time, especially considering that during months Cregan kept the secret about he also fucking his own half-sister Sara Snow once when both of them were drunk on vodka. After Jacaerys told him everything, Cregan realized they had a lot in common, which made their friendship more special and relatable.

And if Jacaerys fucked Sara a few times when he visited Cregan's dad's house, then it was understandable that he should share his twin sister with his friend as well. It would be a fair agreement.

"Open your pretty mouth wide." Jacaerys demanded, holding his own cock and patting your chin. You bit your lip, wanting to tease and deny him. Jace was already very familiar with your bratty behavior, grabbing your hair and forcing your head back into the pillow. "You're being a fucking brat again." Cregan let out a low chuckle at Jace's frustration, his amusement turning to excitement when you finally obeyed your brother's commands and let him shove his cock deep down your throat, the quick gagging noise echoing off the walls as did Jacaerys' groan.

Fuck, he was longing so much for your damn mouth since you decided to study in another country, quite far away from him.

Jacaerys gripped your hair tighter to keep you in place, his dark pubic hairs tickling your skin lightly while you stood in that one same position. Your brother's cock's veins throbbed over your tongue and you closed the eyelids to focus on breathing through your nose.

As soon as Jacaerys noticed your silent breathlessness, he pulled the hips back, making Cregan smirk while he watched you cough, spit running down your jaw and even a little from your nose too, but neither of the boys cared about the mess. Jacaerys took advantage of how wet your tongue made him there and began to jerking off with one hand and wipe your face's mess with the other one. Cregan held back the urge to roll eyes at the excessive affection, already knowing he could not complain about that, after all, Jacaerys seemed like a sad puppy all those months without you.

Even when he was having sex with Sara and random girls from his college's campus or the clubs, nothing was so good like his little sister's mouth.

"I really wished to keep enjoying you giving me a head, but I guess my buddy is a little annoyed just watching us"

You looked back at Cregan, who was still kneeling between your legs on the bed and watching everything very carefully. He blinked quickly when he noticed that you were sitting up. Cregan did not even have time to retort to Jace's mockery, because you immediately held the shirt he was wearing and pulled him into an intense kiss, more intense than all the past ones you two exchanged since the three of you got home from the party and Jace reminded him about the agreement thought up weeks ago.

If Jacaerys was fucking Cregan's half-sister oftentimes, then Cregan had the right to fuck Jacaerys' twin sister at least once.

Yeah, it was a stupid and boyish joke. Later on, you could argue with Jacaerys about his thing with Sara and the random bitches he was having fun while you were away. For now, you would just enjoy the chance to fuck a handsome gorgeous guy while Jace watched everything like it was one of his favorite porns.

Cregan's kiss was not passionate like the ones you were used to exchanging with Jace. On the other hand, it was much rougher physically, his heavy hands gripping every curve of yours, rubbing your soft flesh and leaving marks that would be difficult to hide the next days. Neither of you minded that. You wanted him to keep pressing against your body, his tongue invading your mouth in a way that was almost considered animalistic.

His fingers dug into the sides of your breasts, pressing them together as he lay on top of you. The kiss was broken so you could moan loudly at the rude but pleasing treatment.

"Fuck..." Your whine sounded like a tearful exclamation, and both Jacaerys and Cregan laughed, Jace who was sitting next to you and Cregan who was panting with his large body on top of yours.

Lowering your swollen reddish lips to his neck, you nibbled on the skin and incited him to take off the black sweatshirt and the white t-shirt underneath he was wearing. His body was stronger and more muscular than Jacaerys' some golden and thin hair covering his chest. Your breath caught and your throat dried, thinking about how much you wanted to drag your nails on and make him moan...

"It seems my little sister is horny and dripping just seeing you half-naked." Your perverted attention was dispersed by Jacaerys, who pulled your scalp to force you to arch the neck back at him and stop admiring Cregan for a moment. "You look like a little nymphet, so greedy for my friend's cock."

There was a certain tension in your brother's voice that would easily go unnoticed if you did not know him very well and did not know how bad-tempered he could get when he felt ignored by you. Then, despite the need to just go back to kissing Cregan, you were going away from his touch to kneel on the mattress next to your twin until your lips met his.

Jacaerys' palms went to your breasts immediately, playing with your nipples and lowering his hands to your ass afterwards, slapping it while your mouths fought for power, the metallic taste of blood on your tongue each time Jacaerys refused to give in. After all, he was the firstborn child due to minutes, which he thought justified being the controlling person in the relationship.

When Jacaerys squeezed your ass with such worship, a bold idea crossed Stark's mind. Now completely naked like the twins, he got closer, smirking at the view of his best friend kissing his own twin sister as if he had been used to do it during years. In fact, Jacaerys was really already used to do it, which made the situation even hotter in Cregan's point of view. He could even pictured about what Jacaerys told him weeks ago, about how you let him fingerfuck your tight little pussy when you were both only thirteen, after he woke up with a morning arousal.

You were teenagers discovering about each other's bodies, and the intense kisses were no longer enough. Even though Rhaenyra suspected the closeness of her children and tried to force the two of you to sleep in different rooms, you always snuck into the boy's bed during the early hours of the morning.

"Dude, I hope you know that you're being a jealous weirdo right now." Cregan teased Jace, getting up from the bed and lifting you with him, causing Jacaerys' irritation. "I thought you agreed to let me fuck your sister."

He snorted, rolling his eyes and grumbled, lying down with his hands under his head. "I know I did."

While you were facing facing away from him and standing up, Cregan brought his large palm to your neck and pressed it tightly, bringing the other arm to your waist.

Cregan whispered something into your ear, eliciting a quick giggle from you and a frown from Jace. "What's so funny, sweetheart?" The classic pet name did not match with his lack of patience.

"Cregan suggested that you two should try to fuck both my holes together, so you won't feel mad."

Jacaerys was about to argue against what you said, however, he felt his face heat up when he thought about the whole suggestion. He already experienced many threesomes throughout his nineteen years of life, all of them only with women. He had anal sex with you in the past and also fucked your pussy while you had a plug stuck inside your ass.

But the idea of fucking his twin sister literally together with Cregan left his mind in a mix of horny and concern. On the one hand, it could be the most amazing experience of his sex life. And on the other hand, both of them could hurt you by accident.

The last thing he wanted was to overstimulate you beyond what he considered healthy.

"What if you can't handle it?"

The question sounded more tense than he would have wanted, you grimaced and Cregan continued pressing your neck and caressing your curves, an amusement expression at your lack of patience due to your twin's excessive caution. It was almost comical to see the impulsive womanizer Jacaerys Velaryon acting like an overprotective incestuous brother.

"I'm not a doll, Jace." You defended yourself and Cregan nodded with a sly smile, releasing his grip on your neck and nibbling on your earlobe right after.

He took a step back and turned his attention to Jace, who remained lying there in front of you, so gorgeous with his arms under the head and his slender but a bit six-pack stomach. His rosy cock was harder, waiting for the next action. "We won't hurt her. She'll tell us if it hurts too much. And she wants to stop, she'll just say 'red' or something like that. Or knock her knuckles on any part of our bodies if she can't remember the word or if she can't speak."

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, understanding that his best friend's argument was valid. The two of you always had a safe word and Jacaerys respected it every time you needed to use it. Actually, he also knew that Cregan would never cross the line with any girl, much less with his best friend's twin sister, the best friend who he saw as a younger brother.

After some silent time, Jace finally sighed and looked at you with his bright but worried brown eyes. "Sister, you don't have to take both of us at the same time if you don't want to. I can just watch—"

"Jacaerys!" You interrupted him abruptly, silencing him as you leaned closer, resting your hands on his thick thighs. He took a deep breath at the feeling and met your gaze, waiting for what you had to say. However, he could not say anything. You brought one of your palms to his needy cock, hard and heavy in your hand. "I really want to do this, okay? I'll take both of you, and Cregan will be good to me."

You stroked him up and down at a pace so slow that it was almost torturous. Jace bit his plump lip, wanting to keep asking if you were truly fine with that or if you were only feeling pressured to please him, his mind going into a complete frenzy when your small delicate hand pulled away seconds later, replaced by Cregan's, much larger and stronger. "W-What the fucking hell, Stark... What are you—"

Once again, Jacaerys' protests were interrupted by you, your mouth hitting into his and preventing him from trying to dodge Cregan's fist. The kiss was sloppy, a mess of tongues and teeth. Jace's body trembled under his best friend's rough touches, not really understanding why the guy was giving him a handjob. These type of experience with other boys never happened until now, and Jacaerys had never even considered it could happen someday.

"I'm relaxing you, dude." The blond mocked the Velaryon boy, and Jacaerys pulled away from your mouth with a mix of panic and pleasure.

"I-I don't... F-Fuck, I don't know if it's working, you idiot..."

You could not help but chuckle, the lower lip slightly stained crimson. Your fingers massaged his scalp and then his dark curls. "You look like a little nymphet." The repeat of his past tease about you angered him, a disapproving grimace appearing on that pretty face. “Oh no, babe. Stop the pout.”

"You're a mean whore, sister." His voice was breathless, the chest rising and falling and his legs trembling when Cregan suddenly increased his speed, more than Jace's body could handle. "O-Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck..." Jacaerys writhed, whimpering and throwing his head back. His hips bucked forward, unconsciously seeking more friction. "Cregan, please..."

"This is so fucking hot!" You whispered, admiring your twin's submission, lying down at his side. Cregan smirked and Jacaerys whined with embarrassment, pulling you closer, licking your breasts and sucking on your nipple like a baby.

Without stopping his movements on Jace's arousal, Cregan spat on his own middle finger, index finger and thumb of his free arm and brought it to your wet core, rubbing circles on your clit. Making the entire act hotter than it already was, you and Jacaerys moaned Cregan's name at the same time and with the same tremble tone.

"I'll get you ready to take both of us, alright?" He asked you, receiving a weak nod as an answer.

Cregan fucked the tip of his middle finger inside your ass and you tried to recoil by reflex, a low cry of pain coming out from your throat. Jacaerys immediately flinched under his friend's handjob, distracted with worry due to the sight.

"It's okay, Jace. It's just a natural reaction of her body." Cregan explained to the younger boy. Jacaerys already knew that, after all, he fucked you in that way in the past too, but the idea of another man accidentally inflicting pain on you was enough to make him feel uncertain about continuing with the threesome, even though he felt so close to cumming in Cregan's palm and felt so desperate to fuck you together with his best friend.

Ignoring his own throbbing and aching arousal, your twin faced you, licking one of your nipples and caressing the other with care. "Are you sure you want this, sweetheart?"

Swallowing hard at his touches on your peaks, you nodded at him and Cregan, a bit of sweat trickling down your neck. "Y-Yes, I do. I want this, Jace. I want you and I want Cregan too. Please, brother."

After Jace nodded to Cregan, agreeing that he should go ahead with what you asked them, the blond rubbed his thumb on your clit once again to relax you, the tip of his middle finger still inside your back hole. He did not try to insert the rest yet, knowing that your body would recoil if he went too fast and all at once.

Instead, Cregan focused on keeping one hand on your bundle of nerves and the other on Jacaerys' cock, which was starting to throb in his hand, the sight of his friend's heavy balls being an indication that he would not last much longer without at least a pause between those touches.

Even though Cregan was not into orgasm denial, it would be impossible not to do it at that moment. Jacaerys would take a while to get aroused again if he came so soon, and the idea about fucking you at the same time would end up taking longer than the three of you would like.

Jacaerys let out a groan that sounded like a pathetic whimper when Cregan released him, the rosy cock slamming into his own stomach, hard and heavy with the denial of the high. "Son of a bitch..."

"Mind your tongue, Jace." Cregan scoffed at Jacaerys' reaction, squeezing the boy's thick thigh and eliciting a second groan from him. "Focus on your little sister."

Swallowing the urge to curse his best friend, Jace turned to you, who were sprawled on the bed, legs open and eyes focused on Cregan's fingers between them. Your brother followed your gaze, sighing and smiling almost too sweetly when you moaned in pleasure, arching your head back. "Are you enjoying it, little sister?" Jacaerys gripped your neck with tenderness, nibbling on your jaw as your parted and swollen lips let out more sweet sounds when Cregan began to fuck his digit a little deeper. "You look so gorgeous right now, my little slut..."

You nodded, not really knowing what you were doing. Your mind was going crazy with the combination of Cregan's thumb circling your clit and his middle finger now inside your ass. "Oh, fuck! Cregan..." You practically screamed when your brother's best friend straightened up, kneeling on the mattress between your thighs and sticking his face there to start to lick your folds, fingering you. It was a fucking overstimulation, he had already eaten you out before all that, and now you still needed to endure a lot more.

Jacaerys' cock throbbed with the sounds you made, emitting a mix of desperation for more and the pain of feeling Cregan's index finger forcing itself into that same hole to open you up more. This time, after so many confirmations from you in the past minutes, Jacaerys did not stop Stark. He just grabbed your chin so he could kiss you, the free fist jerking off his own arousal and controlling himself not to spill it out on himself.

Cregan watched everything attentively, his soft mouth alternating about sucking on your bud and also licking the juices that ran from your pussy. The feeling of having two long thick fingers into your ass was indescribable, even Cregan was enjoying the way you squeezed him like a bitch in heat. He felt the moment your body trembled and your clit throbbed a little on his tongue, moans being strangled by your twin's kiss.

"How do you feel?" Jace asked while he pulled away enough to see your facial expression, all fucked up with a haze of pleasure.

"I'm all wet and horny..." You purred panting, receiving low chuckles from both Jacaerys who was stroking your hair, and Cregan who slowly withdrew his digits, licking your taste before lifting his upper body, keeping the knees on the bed.

Cregan considered some possible positions for what was about to happen, then asked. "Who are you gonna take in your pussy?"

The answer to that question would also indicate who would fuck you from behind. It was no surprise to the guys when your cheeks turned red. "You..."

Jacaerys looked at you with a slight jealousy that he knew was unfounded, because the mutual agreement about being with other people had been decided in the last year of high school, and he had never felt much annoyance with the knowledge that you were fucking other men. However, watching it in person left him with a discomfort in the chest, which he did his best not to show, not wanting to ruin the mood or his friendship with Cregan.

Stark's gray eyes looked over the twins and he murmured then. "Fine. So you can get on top of your brother and—"

You interrupted him, confused and thinking Cregan wanted you to get in the doggy style position to him, but on top of Jace. "But I said I want you to fuck my pussy, not him."

The words angered Jace, wishing that stupid jealousy would go away. "You're supposed to get on top of me but face away from me. Almost the reverse cowgirl position." He tried to explain, realizing that your reasoning was slow due to your recent climax. "With your body a bit arched, the knees bent and your feet positioned on the mattress."

Cregan noticed the beginning of Jacaerys's lack of patience and intervened to prevent the Velaryon boy from being rude to his sister. "Just do what we tell you to do, princess." Jacaerys snorted when you agreed, obeying Cregan almost as if you were a puppy.

You felt Stark lift you by the arm and make you sit down, the juices of your pussy leaving a sticky trail on the white sheets. When you were already sitting next to him, Cregan grabbed your chin and kissed you, rough enough to cause you a tearful sigh, and fast enough that Jacaerys did not even have time to assimilate the discomfort that envy brought him.

"Spit." Cregan ordered, raising the palm towards you. You did not hesitate, gathering some saliva and spitting the way he told you. "Good girl." He praised.

Jacaerys bit the lower lip as his best friend rubbed his cock with your spit, helping the movements being more pleasurable and faster. The brunette boy clutched the bedsheets to stop moan in such a shameful way. He did not register the exact moment Cregan gave you the command to climb on top of him, only enjoying how the blond held his shaft upright, waiting for you being ready for the right position.

With a brief glance at your brother, you placed your legs on either side of his waist, practically sitting back on the warm skin of his lap. However, you slightly arched your body upwards and bent your knees. That way, Cregan received a perfect view of your dripping pussy just inches above Jacaerys' needy cock, his face quite wary. "Open her ass cheeks."

Jace did as instructed, his hands going down your body, leaving your tight puckered hole on a better display for the other guy. Cregan took a deep breath, his neglect arousal bothering him beyond measure. He then held Jacaerys' cock tighter and finally fitted its tip inside you.

The absence of any real lube turned everything complicated. Even that single bit hurt your insides and your body flinched so bad. "R-Relax, little sister..." Jacaerys said to reassure you, shaky and weak voice, his balls heavy with the animalistic need that consumed him. Little by little, Jacaerys managed to get it all in, closing the eyelids and letting out a low growl, his palms squeezing your buttocks. "Holy shit..."

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your legs trembling to the point that you thought they would give out at any second, even when Jace continued to hold on.

Your brother's cock felt like it would rip you in half, and Cregan noticed the initial pain, rubbing your clit to relax you.

"Oh, fuck..." Jace whined, feeling your hole crushing him. "Can you move, sister? Please... Fucking please. I need you riding me. I need it so bad."

Listening to your twin brother begging was like music to your ears. The persistent pain became irrelevant when compared to that desire to continue witness Jace go crazy over all of that. Cregan nodded to you and it was all you needed to start moving up and down, Jacaerys' shaft impaling you with each bounce. His moans mixed with your whimpers, both of you very desperate for more.

As you bounced on Jace, Cregan approached the boy's face who was with his mind messed up with all the horny, not complaining when his best friend simply pulled his sweaty curls and ordered him to open his mouth. Jace obeyed him like a dirty whore and Cregan growled seeing his reddish tongue sticking out, then he put his cock inside at once.

Neither Cregan nor Jacaerys had fucked men until that night, Jacaerys' inexperience caused him to gag several times around the thick shaft, a large amount of spit running down himself.

You looked over the shoulder when you heard Jace's gagging sounds, gasping in shock at their sudden naughtiness, your movements increasing the pace and your wet pussy clenching around nothing yet.

A few minutes passed and Cregan pulled himself out of the brunette's mouth, smirking when Jace pouted after the emptiness in his throat. "Who would've thought the biggest womanizer of the campus is also a whiny little slut." Stark mocked his best friend's reaction, patting his pretty face and coming back to you.

Stopping procrastinating, Cregan positioned himself in front of the two of you and entered your tight little pussy. As soon as you cried out in pain, Jacaerys tightened his grip on your ass to keep you still until you got used to the double penetration. Cregan's cock was much thicker than Jace's, despite Jace's being longer. Anyway, being filled by both of them at the same time was an overstimulation beyond what you were used to.

The two guys waited for you to get used to the intrusion. Cregan brought one arm to your neck, grabbing you with unexpected delicacy so he could brush the mouth against yours, his other hand stimulating your bundle of nerves, an attempt to help you feel less sore.

Cregan groaned feeling your warm soaked core spasming around him. He broke the kisses, admiring Jacaerys beneath you... and their exchange of glances was enough for both of them started to thrust together. It took a while for them to establish a pace that was really good for you. Jacaerys' hips moved upwards into your ass, but not too fast or rough. Unlike Cregan, who fucked your pussy like a hound, his thumb keeping to circle your clit and his free palm pressing your soft breasts, giving special attention to both of them, each one at a time.

"O-Oh, oh shit... Sister, I'm... I'm gonna cum!" Jacaerys cried out, failing to control his release and moaning his own twin sister's name out loud, spilling inside that ass right away.

Jace's seed warmed your insides and your pussy convulsed on Cregan's cock soon, two short and quick spurts of squirt wetting your brother's thighs and his best friend's groin. "Fuck... Do it again, princess." Cregan groaned, rubbing your clit with intense roughness, forcing you to squirt again and cum with a tearful scream. Your eyes became blurry, tears ran down the cheeks and your hearing became almost muffled. Even awake, your ability to move or say anything disappeared during a few seconds. Cregan took the opportunity to pull out of your sore pussy when your legs went limp and Jacaerys withdrew himself too.

Your high was what Cregan desired to seek his own release next. He used his fist to masturbate himself, moving on the mattress again until he was facing the twins, a silent command for both of you to open the lips. Despite your mutual tiredness, you and Jacaerys obeyed, sticking your tongues out and waiting for that white seed. Cregan managed to share the great amount of his cum between the two of you, some drops also shooting on Jace's cheeks and on your collarbone.

Your current weakness was worse than your twin's, you felt his mouth on yours to share and taste Stark's salty cum during the sloppy kiss, but you were too weak and hurt to want to sit up or stand up.

"Sweetheart... Are you okay?" Jace finally asked as he laid you down against his chest, the fingertips caressing your soft sweaty skin with love and affection.

Your nonverbal answer was not exactly appropriate after the sex. Cregan lay down on the other side, without touching you. "Use your words, princess." He said with a gentle but firm voice, to make sure that you were not dealing with some kind of subspace.

Swallowing hard with the throat aching, you nodded a second time and mumbled then. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... exhausted, I guess."

Jacaerys frowned at that shaky and unconvincing tone, sighing and kissing your forehead like he used to do during childhood every time you got hurt by accident. "I'mma draw you a bath."

It was Cregan's turn to frown at Jace's behavior. He understood a little how his best friend was feeling, because they had never done anything sexual or physical with boys, and never considered having sex with each other. This had gone beyond what the agreed upon promise about the expected threesome meant before. It was a complicated event for their friendship, and he could not blame Jacaerys for pushing him away so suddenly. Cregan was also embarrassed and knew it would take a while for things to get back to normal.

"Well, I think I should go home."

Cregan's warning caught you off guard. You stared at him with a sad look, your fingers instinctively gripping his wrist. Jacaerys grimaced at your random display of affection for his best friend.

"Aren't you gonna stay with us until the morning? Please?"

The blond gave you a soft smile, taking your hand from him and bringing it to his lips, giving a small peck there. He did not want you to feel just used by him, even though he was aware that everything had just been a casual night of intense sex between the three of you. Either way, Cregan's presence at Jacaerys' house was confusing the feelings of the feelings of all of you, and Cregan did not want to upset his friend.

It was just a fair agreement, was not it? Nothing more. Now it was time to leave to avoid those messy issues.

And you couldn't blame yourself, not really. When you were friends with his brother, going no contact wasn't an option. You would have to walk past him in the driveway, or pass him in the kitchen. And your mind would be stunned with memories and feelings.

You held off for two months. Went out with your friends every weekend, spent more time outside your house and less on your phone. You were doing so well, gone were the days of dragging yourself out of bed and forcing yourself to do something. But you hit a wall. And it felt like you were hurtling towards it at 100mph.

Seeing Aerion the first time was easily avoidable. You promised to keep Daeron company whilst he babysat his youngest sister, and found yourself cradling the five-year-old who refused to leave you alone.

"I might tell my Father to just employ you next time," Daeron commented.

"Although, I'd force you to keep me company, so we'd both be stuck here anyway." You laughed.

The credits of whatever Disney movie Rhae had chosen were rolling, and you excused yourself to carry her to bed. You'd been here plenty of times before, had been dragged into each of the siblings room at some point. Aegon loved showing you his newest games, Daella would beg you to do her hair in fancy hairstyles, Daeron loved to steal you away to get high and watch a terrible movie, and Aerion. Aerion held you captive as best as he could whenever he'd invite you over, quickly rushing you up the stairs so his siblings couldn't steal you away.

"She still loves you." You heard from the doorway of Rhea's room. Aerion leant against the doorframe, arms folded with his signature smug look on his face.

"Of course she does," you scoffed, sliding past him to leave her room, "who wouldn't?"

If only you could see the look on his face, or feel the way his heart threatened to break through his ribs. Though it wouldn't matter if you could, because you would end up in the same place as you had done. Being thrusted into, sandwiched between him and the inside of his bedroom door. His forehead stuck to yours as he grunted with each push.

"Missed you." He panted, dangerously close to your lips. But you wouldn't let him push any further.

"Shut up." You clamped a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle your own moans with your lip between your teeth. He felt so good, so familiar.

The next time had riddled you with guilt. After the first time, you vowed for it to never happen again. It was a small relapse, a quick satisfaction to help you get over him. But it didn't work, for either of you.

Daeron and his cousin, Valarr, had invited you out to some club. You didn't want to go, much preferring the sound of a face mask and a bath. But they were incessant in their pleas, standing at your apartment door with 'gifts', or bribes. Canned cocktails and sour candy.

And so you found yourself stood at the bar, chin in the palm of your hand as you listened to Valarr tell you about work. The music rattled your bones, the air was soaked with alcohol and sweat. You needed air. Now.

"Are you following me?" You heard as you stood in the smoking area, gaze so intently focused on the contents of your purse, trying to find a cigarette amongst the random lip liners and crumpled receipts. You frowned at the lack of cigarettes, swearing blindly that you put the last of your carton in there before you left.

Aerion handed you his, placing it between your lips without averting his gaze once. He knew exactly what he was doing, he had become an expert in reading the look behind your eyes. He recognised the ache in his chest, the all too familiar ache he felt when you left him.

"Did Daeron drag you here, too?" You countered, taking a drag and leaning against the wall of the club.

"No." His breath tense as he held the smoke in, before exhaling slowly. "Valarr did. He can't go as crazy as Daeron, needed me as a buffer."

Which is what you were. A buffer between Daeron's inability to stop drinking, and Valarr's unwillingness to. But this was good, it meant you could fake sickness and go home, and have that bath that's been calling your name.

It was cold, and you instinctively shuffled closer to Aerion's side as you retrieved the cigarette, avoiding his gaze to feign interest in the skyline instead. You could feel his gaze on you, studying your new nose piercing, your thinner brows, your darker shade of lip. You had morphed into someone else since leaving him, and he felt let out. Like he had been locked behind a door and made to watch you leave.

You passed the cigarette back, finally looking up at him. You were weak, you knew it. You knew where you'd be moments later, letting him feel you up in the back of a taxi on the way back to his. Bent over his bed, too overcome with lust to undress, so Aerion had your dress bunched at your hips as he slammed into you from behind.

"Fuck, I missed this." He groaned. "Missed this pussy."

You tried to ignore him. Tried to ignore the whimper in his voice, the way he sounded so needy and pathetic for you. It was the hottest thing ever, it had you soaked for him within seconds. And he knew that, taking full advantage of that. Even now.

"You take me so well." His words were like poison, so sickly sweet in the pit of your stomach as he fucked you into your orgasm. You had even whimpered at the loss of him as he finished, spilling over the back of your thighs.

You didn't tell Daeron or Valarr about that night. You texted them that you left early because you were sick. The moment you were done with Aerion, you left. Not even a kiss goodbye as you brushed past him. His hand outstretched to caress your cheek, his soul yearning for the nostalgia of such a quiet intimacy.

But you didn't want it. You spent months trying to get over it, only to find his claws still embedded within you.

You tried to avoid Daeron's house like the plague. Insisting he visits your apartment, going out instead of staying in. But helping him babysit his youngest sister again had held you hostage all day. You were exhausted by the end of the day, your tight clothes now uncomfortable on your body, your eyes burning from lack of energy.

"I think I'd crash if I drove home right now." You groaned, your forehead against Daeron's shoulder as you both slumped on the couch.

"Stay the night then," he offered, "you know my dad loves you. And there's a guest room for every day of the week."

You nodded, using what's left of your energy to drag yourself upstairs behind him. Following him into his room as he promised to find you a shirt to sleep in.

"Um." He sighed. "I need to do laundry."

"I curse your manly habits," you whispered, "why couldn't I have befriended a woman?"

"I have an idea, but you're not going to like it." He folded his arms, wincing to brace for impact against your reaction. But he didn't need to say a word, you knew Daeron like the back of your hand. There was good reason for your close friendship, and how it lasted through your messy relationship with his brother. Of whom he begged not to sleep with you.

"No."

"Yes."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

You were tired and out of option, not wanting to sleep naked in fear of someone walking in. So you shoved past Daeron with a middle finger, trailing to Aerion's room. You hesitated knocking, your knuckles hovering over the door as you listened for any sign of him. Even after you knocked, there had been no movement.

"Miss me?" The voice spooked you, your body jolting as you turned to see Aerion. Smugly smiling at you as he passed you to open his door.

"I hate you." You cursed him, swatting his arm whilst he was still within reach.

"I know."

"Can I borrow a shirt?" You asked, your pride mortally wounded at asking your ex for his shirt to sleep in.

"For what?"

"To sleep in, idiot. What else?"

"Didn't pack your jammies?" He taunted, but turned to find a shirt for you anyway. Because he would always do as you said, it was his fatal flaw.

He handed you the navy blue fabric, but retracted it quickly. "Say please."

"You're an asshole." You reached for the shirt, too tired to play his stupid games. But you knew Aerion and his stubbornness, he rarely gave up. Even with you. "Please."

"That's a good girl." He taunted you once more, holding the shirt out for you to snatch it from him. But you paused, contemplating every boundary you set yourself. Every secret you harboured from Daeron about hooking up with Aerion resurfacing, contorting your soul with guilt.

You weighed your conscience with your arousal, the bigger beast claiming victory as you shoved him into his room. The shirt now discarded on the floor as you stood on your toes to kiss him. His hands pawing at your clothes to feel your skin against his.

"Can't resist, can you?" He laughed into your mouth, feeling your nails dig into his back in retaliation.

"Shut up, Aerion." You hissed, his name on your tongue making him achingly hard. Still he kissed your neck, your jaw, took your clothes from your body and threw them to the floor. Grabbing hold of your breasts almost instinctively, his hand moulding around them perfectly, yet feeling so different in his hands.

He frowned, looking down at them. Two metal bars pierced through your nipples.

"These are new." He observed, now fixated on them. He didn't think you could get any hotter, and yet you kept pushing that boundary.

"Got them the day after I left you." You said it so casually, bringing him back down to Earth for a moment. You weren't his, not anymore.

Still, he fucked you like you belonged to him. Remembering just how to make you whimper and cry around him. Remembering just how to fuck you, hard enough to send you into a near paralysed state of climax. His touch changed once you both came, it became softer. More inviting. He didn't say a word as he helped you put your underwear back on, with his shirt. He walked you to the guest room, his hands cradling your cheeks as he stared down at you.

You gulped, unable to rip yourself from the intimacy. The deepest parts of you were the strongest, and they clung onto him. Until he let you go, staining your minds alike with unanswered questions.

You tried being friends with Aerion, the weird, feverish intimacy between you both felt like the catalyst in this decision. But it had been wrong. Aerion cursed himself for ever agreeing to it. He watched you for months, flirting with other guys, listening to you telling Daeron about your latest Hinge match. So he retaliated, because it was in his nature to act out. And got himself a stand-in girlfriend.

His heart nearly failed him when you invited them both on a double date. Sitting across from you, watch your date of the month try to feel you up as you excitedly spoke to your stand-in. Yes, your stand-in. Aerion had long ago admitted there wouldn't be another you. So now he was subject to an eternity of torture, watching men paw at you like you were theirs.

He drowned himself in drinks, giving a stale smile to the girl at his side as she joked about him. Feeling your foot drag up and down his leg, your voice not wobbling as you inched up to his thighs. But he could barely maintain his breath.

He excused himself to buy another drink, moments after you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. And as he waited for his terrible cocktail, he felt his phone buzz.

You: I'm at your car, hurry up. I'm so cold, my nipples are cutting holes in my dress.

Aerion wasn't one for remorse, except for where it concerned you. So ditching his date to shove you into the backseat of his car was easy, ripping your dress from your body was even easier. You were so willing for him to touch you, your back arching into him as he kissed your chest.

"You piss me off." He panted against your skin, his words and actions out of sync.

"Why?"

"You know how desperate I've been for you?" He urged, not bearing to look at you as he fumbled with his belt.

"Poor baby." You taunted him, pinching at his cheek.

He wasted no time burying himself within you, hearing your cry as you look all of him. He grabbed at your breasts, your jaw, whatever gave him control over you. Stealing it from you once again.

"That fucking shirt," he hissed, eyes closed in ecstasy, "had to use it and think of you. You know how fucking humiliating that is? How fucking desperate I am for you?"

You and Dexter were perfect for each other – or close enough. You loved his bluntness, his dry sense of humor (which wasn’t always humor) and his demons, whatever they were. You had your suspicions, but you had yet to muster the nerve to ask him directly about them. It was so frustrating, because you prided yourself on opening controversial or inappropriate topics. You kept telling yourself that you were just afraid of losing the tension between the two of you once you’d call him out on his nocturnal disappearances.  

Some nights, he’d come home at an ungodly hour, collapsing into the bed beside you like gravity finally caught up with him. Occasionally, you’d wake to his stubble brushing your cheek as he laid kisses along your face. More often than not, you were too tired to make something out of it, and usually, you also assumed he’d just gotten off on something else, because he would sigh and nuzzle into you like he was still riding en endorphin rush.

You rarely engaged in a sex in the middle of the night, unless he demanded it. Once, you told him he could do whatever he wanted with you. Yours and Dexter’s sex life had its own intricate taxonomy:  I am objectifying you right in this moment and want your body sex or my hormones are acting up sex. The list was long, really, but at the very top was something went wrong sex. That was your favorite, but too bad for you, because it wasn’t very often that you got to experience it. Dexter is very careful and focused most of the time. He doesn’t make mistakes. The bright side of that: you’d never ever get tired of it. Those nights felt like Christmas. No. Better than Christmas.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual (you weren’t even asleep yet). He was so angry. So frustrated. And you wanted to help. You set aside the book you were reading (it was about a woman who fell in love with a sociopath. safe to say, it was an intriguing read) when he stormed into the room. You crawled to the foot of the bed, watching his sharp movements with wide eyes as he took off his army green shirt.

You’d always imagined yourself grinding on him while he wore his uniform. And that time was no different. But that night wasn’t about you. It was about him. Well, partly.

“Can I help?”

“No.” his tone was clipped as he continued to move frantically around the room.

You weren’t sure if you should push his buttons. Your heart beat out of your chest from the nerves. Part of you thought maybe you should back off; the other part – it thrived on the uncertainty, the thrill of not knowing how far you could push before he snapped.

“I could make you something to eat…”

Horse shit. You couldn’t cook to save your life, and he knew that. But he just scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk.  

“How about a bath? I could light those lavender candles and throw in one of my bath bombs.”

“I said no.”  

You were still kneeling on the bed, dressed in your checkered shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top. Trying to act as innocently as possible.

“Do you want–”

He finally charged toward you, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Finally. Bait taken.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, slowly rising to your knees. The top of your head barely reached his chin, forcing you to tilt your neck to meet his gaze.

You started placing kisses along his collarbone, trailing up over his shoulder and to his neck. Your hand rested on his chest, palm splayed over his heart.

“Any chance I can sub in for one of them tonight?” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin.

His brows furrowed and then shot up. “Them?”

You felt the sudden quickening of his pulse beneath your hand. You nibbled on your lower lip as you nodded.

“Who’s them?”

Instead of answering, you tanhled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a reassurance, a promise that you’d always be there. Okay, maybe you did it because you didn’t want him to leave you. You didn’t want to activate a chain reaction.

He leaned into you, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you. When your lips parted, your forehead rested against his.

“You tell me, Dexter. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I want you to be happy. Do whatever you need to me if that’s what it takes.”  

Pathetic? Most definitely. But who cares? He secretly loved it when you got like this – whiny, needy, entirely his.

His hand cupped your right cheek, his thumb brushing a faint vertical line against your skin, the nail scratching just enough to leave a fleeting mark. But his gaze darkened again, pupils dilating, like he was replaying unhappy memories.

He kissed you then – hard and insistent. His hand circled your neck, his thumb pressing just underneath your ear, while the rest of his fingers gripped the other side, his pointer brushing against your earlobe. Your hand instinctively shot up, clutching his forearm as if steadying yourself for what was coming.

Long story short, he fucked you that night, like never before. And since then, you’d been relying on your own version of Thorndike’s Law of Effect: if you wanted to ignite that fire in him, to get destroyed by him, you had to be a brat. Acting like you had control was the fastest way to make him prove otherwise. Sometimes you suspected he loved control more than he loved you. You’d told him that once, and he’d said you were being dramatic. Again. Well, you could still weaponize it.

The problem was, Dexter was otherwise a calm and patient boyfriend. He tolerated your antics with an almost infuriating ease, whether it was leaving the windshield wipers on long after the rain stopped or overbuying carrots at the farmer’s market only for him to help you eat the whole bowl of carrot salad. He even helped you find reliable owners for the stray cats that always “followed” you home. He was so good to you, and that’s why you always had to wait for something to go wrong. That’s when he was at his weakest and that’s when you struck.

Today’s the day. It was Friday and you didn’t have any classes, so you hadn’t set an alarm. You usually managed to wake up before 8 am – not too early, not too late. But this time, it wasn’t the sunlight or your internal clock that stirred you awake. It was the sound of chewing. Muffled munching, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate.

You cracked your eyes open, squinting as the golden rays of the early Miami morning sun flooded the room. You groaned softly and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. 7:42. Acceptable.

Blinking the sleep away, you shifted your gaze to Dexter. He sat propped against the headboard on his side of the bed, a plate balanced on his lap, spearing pieces of egg and bacon with his fork before shoving them into his mouth.

What the fuck?

He never ate in bed. One time, when you’d brought a bowl of popcorn to share during a movie night, he’d almost thrown you out.

“I’m not a clean freak. You just can’t even drink out of a bottle without spilling it all over the place,” he’d said. Well, he wasn’t wrong, but you’d managed to convince him anyway.

Now, though? Now he was the one violating the sacred no-food-in-bed rule.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still groggy as you reached for him.

He paused, registering your movement, and turned to you. His fork hovered mid-air as his gaze softened, just enough for him to take your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, the grease from his lips lingered on your skin.  

“Hey,” he said, offering a weak smile. His voice carried a strange edge too, almost shaky.

You watched him carefully, he turned back to his food and with a quick flick of the remote, he raised the volume on the TV you hadn’t even noticed was on.   

The screen showed a reporter standing in front of a crime scene, her voice urgent as she rattled off details about a recent incident. They flashed an image of a man – the criminal – and then back to the reporter.

Your eyes darted from the TV to Dexter. His brow was drawn low, his stare almost predatory as he watched the broadcast. His jaw tightened and released, the muscles flexing as he chewed. Occasionally, his teeth ground together, producing a faint, grating sound.

He was in the mood. And it hit you.

He never ate in bed. He wanted you to provoke him. A slow smirk curled your lips.

“Careful, Dex. You might intimidate the reporter through the TV.”

His grip on the fork tightened and chewing came to an abrupt halt. He exhaled sharply through his nose, not amused.

“Not today.”

“Did someone leave a typo in their lab report or what?”

He stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth without so much as glancing at you.  

“Drop it.”

“Oh no, did Masuka out-gross you again?”

The plate clattered onto the bedside table with a force that made you flinch. Before you could react, he was on you. In a flash, his hand gripped your cheeks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

That was easier than you thought.

“Funny? No. I think I’m just observant.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and unrelenting as he studied you. His grip on your cheeks tightened just enough to make your lips purse.

“Is that what you call running your mouth until you get yourself in trouble?”

You couldn’t help it. Even with his face inches from yours, his hand firm on your cheeks, you smirked. “Please, Dexter, you’re all bark and no bite.”

Now you were just being annoying. He was actually all bite and no bark. His jaw ticked anyway, a muscle jumping just beneath his skin. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips as his nose brushed against your cheek.

“You really want to test that theory?”

You tried to shrug, but his grip on you made the movement awkward.

The air between you was thick, electric. His eyes searched yours, and you finally saw that primal tweak of his.

Then, without a warning, he released your cheeks and grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of your head. His strength was effortless, his movement precise.

“If you don’t come at least four times until I have to leave for work, I’m not gonna let you come for four weeks at all.”

Shit. Four weeks is a long time. That’s a whole month!

“Now you’re setting ultimatums?”

“Your time is running out, you sure you want to talk back?”

And that was your cue to finally keep your mouth shut.

“Good girl.” He said, the words sending a jolt straight through you, and you became acutely aware of the wetness pooling in your sleep shorts.

“On your knees. Grab the headboard.”

You obeyed without hesitation, pressing your chest into the mattress as you shifted onto your knees, sticking your ass into the air. You felt the fabric of your shorts clinging to your slick pussy in a way that was both uncomfortable and relieving.

Dexter moved behind you, his hand brushing over your hips, the touch almost gentle before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. He tugged them down, watching the material stick to your pussy, making his cock twitch in his pants. You squirmed under his fingers as they brushed against the skin of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, you’re sopping wet. Am I even surprised?” He said, bringing his fingers to your cunt and skimming them along the center from your hole, down to your clit. As he grazed that little spot, you bucked your hips into his hand, only for him to retreat it and bring it down in a swift move, slapping your clit and sending a tingling into your stomach. You moaned, not expecting him to get rough so soon.

Then, he kneeled next to you. You were too afraid to turn your head, but you could see with your periphery vision the tent in his pants. He brought the middle finger and the ring finger of his left hand to your mouth, and you opened without hesitation, wrapping your lips around them as he slid them all the way in. For you, it was awkward from that position, the fingers hooked in the corner of your mouth, forcing it to tilt slightly.

Once he decided that they were wet enough, he removed them and the same arm reached under you, his forearm touching your stomach as his fingers, now slick with your saliva, reached your pussy. They slid between your folds with ease, the two fingers pinching your clit between, before rubbing circles into it.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter with each movement. You squirmed under him, needing more than he was giving you, and he knew that. But when you started moving too much, he slowed, barely grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Dex,” you whined, your hips moving, trying to chase the friction he was withholding. But his only answer came in a form of a slap to your ass. Your mouth opened in a silent cry, and your hand instinctively let go of the headboard and reached for your cheek in order to sooth the pain. But before you could touch your own skin, his free hand was wrapping around your wrist, holding it high and causing your muscles to strain.

“Don’t make me tie you up. You don’t have time for that.”

You nodded in silent obedience, and you gripped the headboard again, focused on not letting go. His hand was still teasing your clit while his other hand reached from behind and played with your hole, your slickness sticking to his fingers. For a moment, he was enjoying the feeling of it, of you on his fingers. Then he spread the wetness up and over your asshole. He only teased your back entrance, returning to your pussy and plunging his fingers inside, making your grip on the headboard tighten, as well as your walls around his fingers.

Dexter’s fingers worked you expertly, curling upward to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. The movements of both his hands were in sync, the combination driving you to the edge as he upped the pace, relentless and unforgiving his fingers thrusting deeper, while also pinching your clit harder and occasionally grazing a nail over it, sending shivers down your spine.

The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps, Dex’s occasional grunts and most importantly, the squelching sounds of your drenched cunt. You were almost embarrassed by it, and Dexter made sure you felt that shame.

“Listen to yourself. So messy.”

Your response was a broken whine, your body trembling as his fingers curled just right to hit that devastatingly perfect spot again and again and again. His other hand maintained its tormenting rhythm on your clit, switching between sharp pinches and soft, tantalizing circles as your juices dripped from your hole to your clit.

Your knuckles became white from the hold you had on the headboard, your focus on not letting go and letting go at the same time. The pressure pulled you further under, and when he felt you clench around him, he pressed harder, his fingers moving with even more intensity.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” you whined, your body shaking with the overwhelming sensations.

“Don’t forget your manners, sweetheart.”

The pressure was unbearable now, your release so close you could taste it.

“Please, can I come?”

“Go ahead.” He growled, his fingers resuming his relentless pace, the wave of pleasure hitting you like a tidal force, crashing through every nerve in your body. You cried out, your body convulsing with the intensity of your climax. Your thighs trembled and your grip on the headboard faltered, but you were quick to remember to hold on, otherwise he wouldn’t let you ride it out.

Dexter worked you through the aftershocks, his fingers slowing but still keeping you riding that high until you were an overstimulated mess beneath him. When he withdrew his hand, you thought he’d give you a moment to gather up, but instead, in a quick motion, he was behind you, spreading your ass and burying his face between your cheeks.

Your body twitched as you felt him press his tongue flat on your puffy clit, shaking his head from side to side before catching it between his lips and sucking on it. The stimulation too much, you even tried to pull away even though you didn't really want to. It was to no use anyway, he followed you and his hands pushed against the small of your back, limiting your movements. He kept sucking on your bundle of nerves, his nose nudging your wet opening.

The thought of him being this messy alone made you so fucking horny and needy, as if you weren’t at the maximum capacity to feel those things.

Dexter pulled another whine out of you when he tugged on your clit with his lips, pulling back until he let go with a pop.

“You get so fucking sweet when you’re on your on your knees.” He said before returning his tongue to your pussy, running it flat up and down your lips, spreading your cunt and mixing his spit with your juices before he slurped it all up.

Your hand itched to let go of the headboard and cover your pussy to give your swollen clit a rest, but you were afraid of what he might do if you disobeyed again.

Besides, eating you out was his favorite thing in the world, and bad things would happen if you deprived him of his favorite activities.

One time, he’d made you ride him for so long until it was physically impossible for you to lift your ass. He’d proceeded to call you lazy, and had you dared, you would have slapped him.

Now, too much was at stake. He flicked his tongue against your clit repeatedly before finding your entrance and plunging it inside, the wet muscle massaging your walls. He loved your taste, he loved how you squirmed, he loved how slick and sticky you were. And you loved how animalistic he was about it, and how he didn’t care that you were overstimulated.

He dragged his tongue in and out of you, and then finally, it returned to your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot. And the slightly sharp sensation was all it took to send you over the edge again. Your pelvis twitched against him, his hands squeezing the flesh of your ass, dragging his nail against you aggressively and leaving red scratch marks behind.

You loved them more than bruises. You could get bruises anywhere, sometimes they appear, and you don’t even know how. That's a common knowledge. But chafed, irritated skin? You know exactly how it gets there. You remember it. It evokes memories.

He hummed against your hot, wet flesh, the vibrations only accelerating your orgasm. You mewled, almost screamed, but you didn’t want to seem overdramatic. Your cum spilled straight into his mouth and he drank it all down as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop. He caught it on his tongue, licking you through the orgasm. Your upper body felt so numb, while down there, it was like fireworks. And when you finally started coming down, he slowed down, laying kisses over your pussy lips and your butt and your thighs. You felt the wetness his mouth left behind, your slick slowly drying on your skin. It was almost comforting, feeling him be so soft. You felt like curling up to him, falling asleep in his embrace.

“Three to go. You think you can make it?” He asked, and you heard him move behind you, followed by the sound of his buckle as he removed his belt.

You looked at the clock. 8:02. You didn’t think you could, but even if you did, it was in his control. He was just manipulating you to think that it was yours. Or he was just mocking you. He knew you weren’t stupid.

“You think you can?”

The leather belt came down on your ass, to the same place he’d slapped before. You made a note about checking out that bruise later.

 “You’re only giving me reasons to spank the shit out of you.” He said, dragging the belt across your ass, before touching the curved part to your pussy. Once it was gone, you waited for Dexter to hit you there too, but the blow never came.

“Let go of the headboard.”

Your brows furrowed, but your confusion quickly disappeared when he hooked the belt around your neck, yanking you upwards, your back against his chest and his clothed cock nestled between your ass cheeks.

You subtly ground against him, making him purr into your ear, which made you smirk. He gripped both ends of the belt in one hand, while his other arm snaked around your waist, his hand slipping under your tank top and squeezing your breast. The way he pinched and tugged on your nipple made you buck into him with more force, and he reciprocated, grinding against you, giving in to his own pleasure. Then his hand disappeared from your body and you heard the sound of him spitting into his palm, before he brought it to your pussy. As if you weren’t completely drenched. He knew you loved how disgusting the thought was. How lewd you felt when he did that.

For him, this was nothing compared to the things he did during his free time.

Then without a warning, he released one end of the belt, causing you to collapse face-first into the bed. He unbuttoned his khaki pants and pulled his cock out before grabbing your arm and turning you on your back.

You finally got a good look at him - strands of hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes dark framed by lashes that looked like he'd used an eyelash curler (something you envied him). You admired him. Not just for his look, though that part was obvious. He knew he had women turning their heads in his direction. But they didn’t know the brilliant mind beneath it all. He was so clever, so undeniably smart, and that was what truly excited you. That a neat man with a compartmentalized brain like his could get so messy when it came to sex. Like now, all sweaty, his cock leaking onto the sheets. Some of the precum probably landed on your cunt too. The thought alone sent another wave of pleasure building deep in your abdomen.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking into your pussy in one swift motion before crawling over you and capturing your lips in a kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. His hand slid to your neck, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse point, making you aware of how fast your heart was pounding. You moaned into his mouth as he applied a touch more pressure for a split second, giving him the chance to slide his tongue deeper into your mouth. You sucked on it, tasting the tanginess that he'd collected from your lower lips.

Without warning, with just a sublte shift of his hips, he was inside you. A low moan escaped him as he felt the tightness of your walls, and you let out a soft whimper at the stretch. He didn’t move at first. He kept kissing you and his hand slid down your body, squeezing your boob again, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Lowering his head, he wrapped his mouth around your sensitive peak, sucking gently on your tit. Your fingers tangled into his hair, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp, pulling him closer.

His teeth grazed your sensitive nub, sending a jolt through you, and in one fluid motion, his arm snaked beneath you, lifting and sitting up as he pulled you onto his lap. He started thrusting his hips into you, holding you in place, his cock gliding effortlessly along your slick walls.

Leaning forward, his lips found your other breast, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your nipple before his mouth opened wide, taking in as much of your soft flesh as he could. You arched against him, your back curving as your hads pressed his face closer, your head tipping back in ecstasy.

He kept on fucking you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made you dizzy. He drove his cock into you, quickening the pace, a sign that he was getting close. His arms around you tightened and then suddenly, you felt a sharp pain originating in your breast and going straight to your pussy, making you clench around. He was fucking you hard and deep, and when you looked down, you saw him still latched onto your tit, his upper lip covered in crimson.

You felt the sting from the way he was sucking on you, and when he finally removed his lips from your breast, you saw red drops dripping down your breast, the blood leaking from the bite marks where his upper teeth sank into your skin. You were mesmerized by it, and you wanted more. You pushed his face back against your sore nipple and Dexter surprisingly didn’t argue. He licked the blood off you and sucked again while ramming into you. Your body shuddered, and finally your third finish was brought on by a couple of additional thrusts of his hips. Then he laid you flat on the bed and chased his own release. You pulled him up by the chin, meeting his lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you hard and fast until he spilled inside of you.

Once you both came down, he was lying on top of you. You wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him affectionately, because you were so content that he was there with you.

But you were yanked out of your dreamland when he rose to his feet, making your brows furrow.

“That was only three,” your tone couldn't be more confused, as he headed to the bathroom.

“Yeah, but I need to shower and pick new clothes to wear. Can’t go to work with your cum all over my pants.” He came back to the bedroom with a smile on his face, as if he just hadn’t fucked the shit out of you. “Last one’s on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Make yourself cum before I leave. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before disappearing into the bathroom.

Asshole. He knew you’d lost the ability to make yourself cum shortly after you’d started sleeping together. But luckily, you had your stash of toys that might help you with your problem.

With the roll of your eyes, you rolled over and reached into your nightstand, but in that moment, he peeked from around the corner.

“Oh, and your hands only.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

His face dropped again.

“You want to tell me what’s fair and what isn’t?”

You slammed the drawer shut and fell on your back, your body bouncing on the soft bed.

“Good girl. And no cheating. I’ll keep the door open. If I so much as hear something else that isn’t your fucking scream, I swear you’ll have to work your ass off to make me let you come ever again. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You hadn’t done this in a long time. It almost felt unnatural. But despite that, your fingers dropped to your clit, and you began pushing yourself over another edge. Or at least you tried. But it was pointless. You tried to squeeze your wounded breast to get that rush going, but it didn’t have that effect this time. It only made you sweaty.

He managed to finish his shower before you made yourself orgasm, obviously. When he entered the bedroom with a towel around his waist, he looked at you with feigned pity.

“Aww… Don’t tell me my baby needs a manual to get herself off.”

“Dex, come on. You know I can’t make myself orgasm,” you tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t going to budge.

“I can’t do two things at once, I’m only one person,” he argued, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “This is for your own good. I gave you an opportunity to make it to four before I have to leave. It’s not my fault you’re not capable.”

You huffed, bringing your fingers to your pussy again, stuffing them inside yourself and trying to fuck yourself, but again, to no avail.

He even laughed at you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him already with his work bag slung over his shoulder, hands casually tucked in his pocket. You’d lost.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. So desperate. It’s like your world has been destroyed.”

“It kinda has.”

He came to your side of your bed where you were still lying with your hand between your legs. He leaned over you, brushing the hair that stuck to your forehead and placing a soft kiss there.

“Take that as a lesson. You shouldn’t take a bait if you can’t handle the hook.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left, leaving you wrecked and messy, the most agonizing four weeks of your life just now beginning.

You should be paying attention. You should be listening.

This was the entire point of coming here, wasn’t it? To mingle. To network. To smile politely at people with intimidating résumés and expensive shoes and pretend you belonged in the same room as them. The producer to your left was still talking, animatedly, too, judging by the movement of his hands, but the words themselves dissolved before they could reach you, lost somewhere in the fog clogging your brain.

Nothing stuck.

Your mind had become a radio station trapped between frequencies: all static, no signal. You knew it was rude. God, you knew it was so rude. Your manager would probably combust on the spot if they saw you mentally buffering through a conversation with someone this important. You should be nodding at the right moments, asking insightful questions, laughing at things that probably weren’t funny. Instead, you stood there clutching a champagne flute like it was a flotation device and silently praying you hadn’t been asked a question yet.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. The cool crystal pressed into your skin hard enough to ground you, or at least you hoped it would. As if friction alone could yank your consciousness back into your body.

You weren’t completely hopeless, at least. You aren't just blatantly staring like some kind of creep, you're only occasionally…staring. Briefly. In controlled, civilised little glances. You do know how to compose yourself, if just barely. 

Mostly.

You lifted the champagne to your lips again, bubbles prickling against your tongue, bitter and expensive in the way all award-show alcohol seemed to be. The movement gave you the opportunity, well another excuse, to look over the rim of the glass to the man who had your attention under his captivity all night.

And there he was.

Tyler sat across the room with the sort of posture that suggested he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Not because he didn’t deserve to be here, but because he looked painfully detached from it all. The flashing lights, the clinking glasses, the endless circulation of industry people pretending not to size each other up, it all slid off him like rain against a window.

You couldn’t even blame him. Award show afterparties were essentially glorified corporate flirting. A room full of talented people pretending to casually “chat” while secretly exchanging social currency under the guise of a celebration.

Still, your attention remained embarrassingly, helplessly fixed on him and you start to feel undoubtedly pathetic

You had a crush.

Which was ridiculous. Deeply, profoundly ridiculous. Every few minutes you had to remind yourself that you were not thirteen years old clutching a band poster to your chest. You were an adult. A serious musician. A person in their early twenties with bills and deadlines and a carefully curated public image. You were supposed to have evolved past this sort of thing years ago.

You shouldn’t be fawning over someone almost twice your age who is just trying to enjoy their evening.

It's all so lame. It feels so immature.

And yet your stomach still performed humiliating little somersaults every time he laughed at something his bandmate said.

It all felt unbearably soft. Too fluffy. Too naïve. Too pink.

The kind of feelings reserved for handwritten love notes tucked into jacket pockets and flowers bought spontaneously from street vendors. The sort of emotions that belonged in cheesy coming-of-age films where people kissed in grocery store aisles while indie music played in the background. Not here. Not in a crowded afterparty smelling faintly of perfume, alcohol, and expensive desperation. And definitely not for someone like you.

Yet somehow, despite every logical thought your brain attempted to manufacture, your gaze kept drifting back toward him like a compass needle snapping north.

You only hoped the producer beside you hadn’t realised you’d mentally checked out ten minutes ago.

More importantly, you hoped Tyler wouldn’t look up and catch you already staring.

“Thirsty?”

The word cut through your trance so suddenly it nearly made you jump.

You turned to find the producer watching you with an expression hovering somewhere between amused and mildly concerned. Following his gaze downward, you realised your champagne flute was still pressed against your lips despite the fact it had been completely empty for God knows how long.

Smooth.

You let out a little laugh that sounded almost natural if nobody examined it too closely.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said, lowering the glass. “Just really committing to the party atmosphere, I guess.”

Your attempt to come off as playful landed well enough. Half-successful. Which, honestly, counted as a victory tonight.

The conversation picked back up after that, and this time you actually participated instead of standing there like an emotionally overwhelmed coat rack. You asked questions. You responded appropriately. You even managed to make eye contact for more than three consecutive seconds.

Progress.

Still, your attention betrayed you constantly, eyes wandering back toward Tyler whenever you thought you could get away with it. Every glance was subtle in theory and catastrophically obvious in practice.

Eventually, after exchanging numbers and a firm handshake, the producer disappeared back into the current of people flooding the room.

And just like that, you were alone again.

Alone, holding an empty champagne glass, still losing a one-sided staring contest with a man across the room.

Your mind wandered helplessly, circling the same impossible question over and over:

How had someone who’d spoken maybe three sentences to you managed to take up this much space inside your head?

•••

When the AMAs team first reached out and asked if you’d present one of the awards, you said yes almost immediately.

Of course you did.

It was a good opportunity, one of those glittering, career-polishing moments your manager would later describe as “great for visibility”. You weren’t exactly underground by any means, but your audience existed in a strange little pocket of the industry: devoted, passionate, slightly concerning in their ability to decipher cryptic lyrics, but niche enough that broader exposure still mattered.

The AMAs meant cameras. Press. New listeners. New connections.

And, as an added bonus, there was a very real possibility you’d be handing an award to one of your favourite bands of all time.

A perk, really.

You’d loved Twenty One Pilots for what felt like forever. Their music had threaded itself through years of your life so thoroughly that certain songs felt less like tracks and more like timestamps. So the idea of not only attending the same event as them, but potentially standing beside them onstage and speaking to them like a normal, functioning human being?

Slightly horrifying. Completely exciting.

Mostly horrifying.

By the time the actual day arrived, you’d already been poked, powdered, zipped, sprayed, adjusted, accessorised, and manhandled by your stylist until you barely resembled the exhausted creature who’d rolled out of bed that morning.

Then came the red carpet.

Well, the blue carpet, technically.

The second you stepped out, the noise hit you all at once.

Your name echoed from every direction in overlapping waves. Photographers shouted over each other trying to steal your attention for half a second longer than everyone else. Camera flashes burst like tiny supernovas directly into your retinas. Somewhere nearby, a publicist was stress-sprinting in heels.

It was chaos disguised as glamour.

Still, this wasn’t your first rodeo. You knew the choreography by now. Pause here. Turn slightly. Chin down. Smile but not too much. Pretend you aren’t being perceived by thousands of people simultaneously.

Easy enough.

So you posed. Then posed again. Shifted your weight. Smiled on cue. Tilted your head just enough to look effortless despite the fact every movement was calculated within an inch of its life.

And then your entire carefully rehearsed performance collapsed in on itself.

The atmosphere shifted first.

You felt it before you saw it: a sudden spike of energy rippling through the crowd, voices rising several octaves louder behind the barricades. The photographers straightened like hunting dogs catching a scent. Heads turned in unison.

Then you looked over.

And there he was.

Tyler.

It took one glance, one stupid glance, and suddenly your brain ceased functioning like reliable machinery and started behaving more like microwaved soup.

You stared at him completely, helplessly transfixed.

He looked annoyingly good.

Confident, too. Far more confident than you’d expected. Somewhere in your mind you’d imagined him quieter, more reserved in front of cameras. Less willing to play into the spectacle of it all. But instead he moved like he understood exactly how to command attention without even trying.

Which, frankly, felt unfair.

Your eyes drifted over the sleek leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, the material reflecting the flashing lights in sharp white streaks every time he moved. The cameras adored him. The entire carpet seemed to tilt subtly in his direction.

And then your gaze dropped lower.

Lower.

Lower-

Were those fucking capris?

“Eyes over here, please!” one photographer barked alongside your name, not rude exactly, but definitely firm.

Your stomach dropped.

You swallowed hard and immediately snapped your attention forward again, suddenly very aware of the approximately one hundred high-definition cameras pointed in your direction. Somewhere out there existed photographic evidence of you openly gawking at your celebrity crush. You were caught, quite literally, in 4k.

Fantastic.

You tried to recover quickly, forcing your expression back into something vaguely composed. Cool. Casual. Entirely normal.

Then, because apparently you didn’t have a single ounce of self control left in your body, you looked back for another indulgent glance one more time.

Big mistake.

Tyler had the leg of his absurdly expensive sunglasses caught between his teeth, eyes half-lidded as he glanced lazily toward the cameras surrounding him.

No recovery from that, really.

You turned away so fast your neck nearly snapped, forcing yourself to stare blankly ahead while heat prickled violently up the back of your neck. You pasted another smile onto your face, praying the blush wasn’t visible beneath the makeup.

Later, unfortunately, you’d discover it absolutely was. In high definition. From multiple angles.

You weren’t entirely sure when things had shifted. When admiration had quietly curdled into something far messier.

At some point, respect had become longing.

A harmless crush on an artist you deeply admired had transformed into something hotter, needier, impossible to ignore no matter how many times you internally told yourself to get a grip. Maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface unnoticed. Maybe admiration and infatuation had simply worn each other’s faces long enough for you to stop distinguishing between them.

The line between wanting to be someone and wanting someone, after all, could be dangerously thin.

So for the rest of the night, you simmered quietly in your seat like an unattended pot threatening to boil over.

Awards came and went in glittering waves. Industry veterans stood beneath spotlights and delivered polished speeches about perseverance and artistry while fresh-faced newcomers blinked through tears and thanked God, their mothers, and occasionally their publicists. The audience applauded on cue. Cameras swooped dramatically through the aisles. Somewhere behind you, someone laughed just a little too loudly at a joke that absolutely did not warrant it.

And through all of it, your attention kept drifting forward.

Toward Tyler.

Just a few seats ahead of you, close enough to look at without being obvious, though at this point you were beginning to suspect you had wildly overestimated your own subtlety. Every few minutes your manager would jab an elbow sharply into your side and whisper, “Are you even paying attention?”

To which you’d immediately respond with an offended, wholehearted, “Of course I am.”

You absolutely were not.

At one point you were pretty sure you clapped for a category you didn’t even hear announced.

Eventually, after what felt simultaneously like twenty minutes and several lifetimes, it was finally your turn to present. A stagehand appeared beside you with the silent urgency of someone who hadn’t sat down in twelve hours and ushered you backstage. Into your hands they placed the envelope: sleek, black, unnecessarily dramatic.

You stared at it suspiciously.

It took every ounce of self-control not to pry it open immediately. Technically, you weren’t supposed to have favourites. Presenters were meant to remain neutral, professional, unbiased.

Unfortunately for the integrity of the American Music Awards, one of the nominees happened to be Twenty One Pilots.

So neutrality had left the building hours ago.

Then suddenly you were climbing the stairs toward the stage, and your first coherent thought was: Don’t fall.

The fear was irrational but relentless. Every award show staircase looked specifically engineered to humiliate celebrities in front of millions. You mentally congratulated yourself the second both feet safely reached the platform without catastrophe.

A win was a win.

The crowd erupted as you stepped toward the microphone, applause echoing through the massive venue. You smiled automatically, waiting for the noise to settle while trying very hard not to look directly into the camera lens currently capable of exposing every pore on your face in microscopic detail.

“Hello, Vegas,” you greeted with a grin, fingers idly playing with the edge of the envelope. “Now don’t tell anyone, but I’m a little biased when it comes to this category.”

The crowd laughed softly. Good. Alive. Breathing.

“Many, if not all, of my favourite artists being rock or alternative.. So honestly, presenting this award feels less like work and more like being handed the aux cord.”

You smiled again, pausing for the crowds reaction like a well practiced performance. All about stop and start.

“That’s why I’m incredibly honoured to present the award for Best Rock/Alternative Artist. This category is stacked with absolute heavy hitters, some past winners such as Green Day, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam. And this years outstanding nominees are…”

You began reading through the list carefully, grateful you’d rehearsed the names obsessively beforehand. Nothing haunted you more than the possibility of publicly mispronouncing or forgetting someone’s name and immediately combusting from embarrassment on live television.

Finally, you reached the envelope again.

“And the American Music Award goes to…”

You dragged out the pause shamelessly, slowly opening the envelope while the room collectively held its breath. Your eyes scanned the card inside.

And then your entire face lit up.

The smile that spread across your mouth was immediate, impossible to contain, bordering dangerously close to cartoonishly ecstatic.

“Twenty One Pilots!”

The room exploded into applause.

As the crowd roared and the duo made their way toward the stage, you quickly swapped the envelope with a stagehand in exchange for the award itself, a heavy, oddly-shaped sculpture of black and clear glass that looked beautiful but also vaguely capable of causing blunt force trauma.

And then suddenly they were there.

Right in front of you.

Josh reached you first, bright grin and easy energy radiating off him as you shook his hand warmly.

“Congratulations,” you told him sincerely.

Then Tyler stepped forward.

Your breath caught embarrassingly fast.

Up close, he somehow looked even more unreal. Sharper somehow. More tangible in a way your brain had clearly not prepared for.

You placed your hand in his, tilting your head slightly as your smile softened.

“Congratulations,” you said quietly.

The words themselves were simple, but you were fairly certain your expression betrayed everything else: admiration, excitement, years of respect folded carefully into one tiny moment.

Tyler squeezed your hand gently. His palm was warm, rough with calluses. Real.

“Thank you,” he replied, humble and earnest enough to make your stomach flip violently.

Then you passed them the award and stepped aside while the two of them accepted it.

You should have been listening to the speech.

Instead, your brain remained catastrophically fixated on the lingering feeling of Tyler’s hand against yours, phantom static still prickling across your palm.

And God, photos and videos truly did him no justice. None at all.

Before you could properly recover, the three of you were already being shuffled offstage by stagehands moving with the efficiency of air traffic controllers. You barely had time to blink before a photographer intercepted you near the wings for a quick set of photos.

You took your place between the pair carefully, trying not to look as nervous as you suddenly felt.

Josh casually slung an arm around your shoulders like you’d known each other for years. Meanwhile Tyler’s hand settled against the small of your back almost immediately, warm and steady against the curve of your spine.

The touch nearly short-circuited your nervous system.

You faltered for half a second before forcing yourself to smile through it, praying none of the cameras could capture the absolute psychological warfare currently happening inside your body.

“Congratulations again,” you said through your grin while flashes exploded around you. “I know I’m not supposed to play favourites, but I’m really glad you guys won.”

Your voice came out more genuine than intended.

Then, finally glancing upward toward Tyler, you almost laughed at the way he’d slouched slightly so the photographer could fit all three of you in frame.

“And honestly,” you added, “thank God you did, because otherwise I might’ve pulled a full Moonlight/La La Land stunt up there.”

That earned a real laugh out of Tyler.

Not the polite celebrity kind, either. A genuine one. Shoulders shaking, eyes squinting shut. Josh snorted beside you trying, and failing, not to laugh too.

The sound hit you directly in the chest.

“You wouldn’t actually do that, right?” Tyler asked as the photographer finally moved on, though his hand lingered at your back for several seconds longer than necessary.

Long enough for your pulse to completely betray you.

“I mean,” you started, unable to stop smiling, “not intentionally.”

You shrugged innocently.

“Like a, uh, what do they call it? A Freudian slip?”

Another laugh spilled from Tyler’s mouth, warm and effortless, and you immediately knew your brain would replay that sound obsessively at three in the morning for the foreseeable future.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, an incredibly stressed and overwhelmed stagehand appeared beside him looking moments away from a full on collapse.

“Guys, performance prep. Now. Please.”

The duo began getting ushered away almost instantly.

Tyler glanced back at you as he walked, gaze lingering for just a second too long to feel accidental.

“I’ll, uh…” you began quickly, suddenly aware that if you didn’t say something now you’d spend the rest of your life regretting it. “I’ll see you at the afterparty?”

Tyler considered it for a moment before a small crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Sure.”

Then the stagehand dragged him fully away before either of you could say anything else.

“Congratulations again!” you called after them.

Tyler looked back over his shoulder one last time, smiling properly this time, and the expression hit you with enough force to make your entire insides twist themselves into ecstatic knots.

Yeah.

You were absolutely screwed.

•••

And now here you were.

Alone at the afterparty, an empty champagne flute still trapped in your hand like a security blanket, staring across the room with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Your brain continued to replay every microscopic interaction you’d had with Tyler on an endless loop. The handshake. The smile. The warmth of his hand against your back. The laugh. God, especially the laugh.

You were spiralling over approximately four minutes of human interaction.

Truly pathetic.

The party buzzed loudly around you, all gold lights and expensive perfume and conversations that sounded vaguely important if you didn’t listen too carefully. Somewhere nearby, somebody was definitely pitching a podcast no one asked for.

But your attention remained fixed elsewhere.

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you watched Tyler lean toward Josh, murmuring something into his ear before standing from the booth. He slipped through the crowd with an ease that made everyone else seem clumsy by comparison before settling onto one of the ridiculously tall red leather bar stools lining the counter.

You watched him lean forward onto his elbows, shoulders loose, expression soft and tired in the low amber lighting.

Your stomach betrayed you immediately.

You debated going over there.

Actually talking to him. Like a real person. Instead of silently orbiting him from across rooms like some compromised satellite.

The angel on your shoulder urged restraint.

Leave him alone, it said. Let the man enjoy his night in peace. Your intentions are not nearly as innocent as you’re pretending they are.

You argued back internally that you could absolutely behave yourself.

The argument lacked conviction even inside your own head.

Meanwhile the devil on your opposite shoulder was practically shoving you forward.

Go talk to him. You’ll regret it forever if you don’t. Opportunities like this don’t happen every day. Also, he touched your lower back for an objectively unnecessary amount of time. Science demands further investigation.

Really, you needed very little convincing.

By the time your internal moral debate had concluded, you were already halfway to the bar.

Tyler glanced sideways as you approached, eyes flicking over you with immediate recognition as you awkwardly climbed onto the stool beside him. You tried to make the movement look graceful and effortless. Unfortunately, bar stools were instruments designed specifically to humble humanity.

You nearly missed the footrest entirely.

Recovering quickly, you ordered another drink from the bartender, having to repeat yourself twice over the noise of the crowded room before finally turning toward Tyler with a small smile.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he replied easily, mouth curling into a faint grin.

He said something else immediately after, but the words dissolved beneath the roar of the music and surrounding conversations. You saw his lips moving, caught maybe half a syllable, and absolutely nothing else.

“Sorry, what?” you asked louder, leaning closer into his space so you could actually hear him.

Tyler leaned toward you too, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your neck and clavicle. Goosebumps erupted instantly down your arms.

“I said,” he repeated directly beside your ear, voice lower this time, “I was wondering when you were actually gonna come over here instead of staring at me all night.”

You jerked back just enough for Tyler to witness the full extent of your horror in real time.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with both hands. “You saw that?”

Heat climbed violently up your neck and ears despite your best efforts to contain it.

Tyler nodded once, slow and smug.

“Yeah.”

The grin he flashed you was entirely too self-satisfied for your liking.

Mortified beyond comprehension, you immediately grabbed your drink and took a long sip like alcohol alone might erase the last ten seconds from existence. Unfortunately, it did not.

Still, you refused to let yourself die of embarrassment that quickly.

“What can I say?” you sighed dramatically, lowering the glass. “You’re kind of intimidating.”

You looked at him through your lashes, and Tyler’s brows lifted slightly in amusement before he leaned a little closer again, visibly entertained now.

“I am?”

You nodded slowly.

“Well, not just visually.”

That pulled a small curious crease between his brows. You hesitated briefly, debating how honest you wanted to be with him. Or perhaps how honest you could survive being.

“And honestly,” you admitted softly, “this is kind of embarrassing to say out loud, but I admire you a lot.”

Your smile turned smaller then, more sincere.

“I’ve been a fan for years. I’m pretty sure my first concert was one of yours.”

“Oh yeah?” Tyler asked.

“Yeah,” you laughed softly before taking another sip of your drink. “I think I was thirteen? It was at, God, what was the venue called?”

You snapped your fingers suddenly as the memory hit you.

“The Basement!”

Tyler groaned immediately, dropping his head slightly while a crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“That makes me feel so old.”

You shrugged without missing a beat.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining. Most people would kill to age as gracefully as you have.”

That made him look at you properly. Fully.

And unfortunately, you looked back.

His expression shifted into something quieter then, something unreadable but intent. His eyes lingered on yours for a second too long before drifting downward slowly, past your nose, your lips, your chin, then lower still before flicking back up again so quickly you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Did Tyler Joseph just give you a once-over?

Your pulse stuttered embarrassingly fast.

“I mean it, though,” you said quickly, breaking eye contact before you could completely combust. Your fingertips traced absentminded patterns against the polished countertop. “I genuinely don’t think I’d be making music if it weren’t for you guys.”

Tyler’s smile softened instantly into something sweeter. Something devastatingly genuine.

“You flatter me,” he said quietly.

You rolled your eyes playfully, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“Always so humble.”

A soft snicker escaped him, barely audible beneath the music.

“I try not to brag too much,” he replied dryly.

“You should,” you answered immediately, sincerity slipping into your voice before you could stop it. “You’ve earned it.”

For a moment, Tyler just looked at you.

Not politely. Not casually.

Really looked at you.

And somehow, despite the packed room buzzing around you, despite the music and flashing lights and hundreds of conversations happening all at once, the moment felt strangely quiet.

Like the rest of the party had blurred into static around the two of you.

Tyler tilted his head slightly, studying you with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

“So,” he said finally, swirling the liquid in his glass, “you’ve just been secretly judging me from afar this whole time?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Admiring. There’s a difference.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you nodded solemnly. “Judging would imply I think I’m above you somehow.”

Tyler just stared at you for a solid three seconds before he snorted quietly into his drink.

“That would be ambitious.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand against your chest. “Wow. Humble and self-aware. Dangerous combination.”

“I try.”

“No, seriously,” you continued, leaning against the counter slightly. “I had to work up the courage to come talk to you.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow again like he still didn’t fully believe you.

“You literally walked onto that carpet looking like you knew every camera in the room was in love with you.”

“That’s because they were,” Tyler replied immediately.

You blinked at him once before laughing loudly enough to earn a brief glance from the bartender.

“There he is,” you pointed accusingly. “There’s the ego.”

“It comes out occasionally.” Tyler smiled into the rim of his glass before taking another sip. “Usually only at formal events or when I’m on stage.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself.

You took another sip of your drink. It was unfair how easily he dismantled you. You’d walked over here fully intending to be cool and charming and vaguely mysterious. Instead you were thirty seconds away from melting directly into the upholstery of the bar stool.

“So,” Tyler said after a moment, “what was thirteen-year-old you expecting when you went to that concert?”

You huffed out a laugh. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I think I expected you guys to seem larger than life.” You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly. “You know how artists feel when you’re younger. Like they exist somewhere outside normal reality.”

Tyler watched you quietly as you spoke.

“But then you got onstage and acted like complete weirdos,” you added. “And I remember thinking that maybe making music didn’t have to feel so unreachable.”

His expression softened at that.

“That’s… actually really nice.”

“It’s true.”

You glanced sideways at him.

“I mean, your music made me feel less insane as a teenager, which is probably the highest compliment anyone can receive.”

There was another small lull then, but not an awkward one. The kind that settled naturally between two people who had somehow slipped into each other’s rhythm quicker than expected.

Tyler leaned back slightly against the stool, eyes still on you.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you’re a lot different than I expected.”

That caught your attention immediately. “Different how?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I expected you to be…” He gestured vaguely with his glass. “Cooler.”

You barked out a laugh. “Cooler?”

“Yeah.” Tyler nodded seriously. “Like intimidatingly cool. The kind of person who’d silently judge my outfit choices.”

Your eyes immediately dropped toward his cropped pants again before you could stop yourself.

Tyler caught it instantly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed helplessly. “I’m trying so hard to respect the capris but I can’t.”

“They’re not capris.”

“They end mid-calf, Tyler.”

“They’re fashion.”

“That sentence alone just made them worse.”

Tyler laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders shaking slightly as he dropped his head.

You stared at him for half a second too long.

It was strange seeing him like this up close, looser, lighter. Less like the carefully constructed image you’d built in your head over years of interviews and performances.

Just a man laughing beside you at a bar.

A very attractive man, unfortunately.

“You’re staring again,” Tyler murmured without looking up.

You sighed immediately. “Jesus Christ, do you notice everything?”

“Mostly things that are entertaining to me.”

“That’s awful.”

“I think it’s charming.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught somewhere in your throat under the weight of the way he was looking at you now.

Not teasing anymore.

Something quieter. Warmer.

The tension shifted subtly between you then, no longer playful in the same harmless way. It settled lower now, tucked beneath every glance and every lingering second of eye contact.

Tyler’s fingers tapped idly against his glass before he leaned slightly closer again, close enough that you could smell the lingering cologne on his skin beneath the alcohol and crowded-room haze.

“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who claimed to be intimidated by me, you walked over here pretty confidently.”

You swallowed once.

“That’s because I had two drinks first.”

Tyler grinned immediately. “Ah. Liquid courage.”

“Exactly.”

“And here I thought you were naturally this smooth.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head before glancing down into your drink again.

When you looked back up, Tyler was already watching you.

Still.

Like he hadn’t looked away once.

“God,” you tutted, reaching out without thinking and catching Tyler’s hand in yours as if it belonged there.

His skin was warm. Real.

Your fingers traced lightly over the faint smudges of black paint still stubbornly clinging to him, like it had made itself at home and refused to leave.

“I bet the cleaners absolutely hate you,” you said, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Leaving black handprints and smudge marks everywhere you go.”

Tyler watched you inspect his hand with an intensity that felt unfairly focused, like you were doing something infinitely more interesting than you actually were. He flexed his fingers once, subtle, almost instinctive, then stopped himself from curling them around yours.

“Yeah,” he said, voice mild but amused. “You should see the award. It’s covered in them.”

That made you laugh properly, soft and unguarded.

“It’s cool though,” you said, thumb brushing one last absent circle over his knuckles before you finally let go, like you were reluctantly returning something you’d borrowed. “The paint. I think it’s cool.”

Tyler’s smile widened just slightly, something softer flickering across his expression.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and for some reason his voice felt closer than it should have.

His bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth as he kept looking at you, like he had something else to say but didn’t quite trust himself to say it.

And then the moment broke.

A hand landed on his shoulder from behind.

Josh.

He stood there with the air of someone trying very hard not to smile too obviously, eyes flicking between you and Tyler in slow, deliberate disbelief before settling on his bandmate.

“Me and Debs are heading out,” he said. “You coming?”

Tyler glanced back at you. Just for a second.

Long enough to feel like something, short enough to pretend it wasn’t.

Then he exhaled, almost reluctant.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Alright. Let’s call it.”

He shifted like he was about to stand.

Something in your chest reacted before your brain caught up.

“Wait,” you said quickly.

Your hand reached out before you could overthink it, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist.

Tyler paused immediately.

Looked at you.

Curious. Patient. Entirely too aware.

You let go just as fast, suddenly aware of the contact, and grabbed a napkin from the bar instead, asking for a pen with a speed that probably suggested mild panic. The bartender handed one over.

You wrote quickly. Too quickly.

Once. Twice. You checked it. Fixed a digit. Checked again.

Then you folded it carefully and held it out to him.

Tyler looked at it, eyes flicking down to it with a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“My hotel,” you said simply, then added, because apparently subtlety had left your body entirely, “and room number.”

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him.

“In case you wanted to… talk more.”

A beat of silence.

Then you reached forward and, with zero self-preservation instincts left, tucked the napkin neatly into the front pocket of his jacket.

Tyler went still.

For half a second, he just looked at you. Mouth slightly parted, like his brain had briefly stopped buffering.

Then, softly-

“Okay.”

A smile returned to his face, quieter now. Real in a different way.

“Okay,” you echoed, like you needed to make sure the moment had actually happened.

Then you stood, smoothing nothing in particular, and nodded politely at Josh, who looked like he was witnessing something he would be telling people about for the next ten years.

“Nice seeing you both,” you said as you backed up.

“You too!” Josh called immediately.

As you walked away, you heard the tail end of Josh’s voice, too amused to fully contain himself, and then Tyler’s laugh cutting in right after-

“Shut up, man.”

•••

The city stretched beneath your hotel window like a restless constellation, millions of blinking lights stitched together in pinks, blues, and molten orange. From up here everything looked almost gentle, softened by distance, as if Vegas could be mistaken for something calm if you didn’t know better.

You stood there watching it anyway.

Waiting.

The clock on the wall became its own kind of obsession. You checked it once. Then again, as if time might have changed its mind in the last thirty seconds. It hadn’t. It never did.

Tyler wasn’t coming.

The thought arrived quietly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to embarrass you.

Not that you blamed him. Inviting someone to your hotel room under the guise of “talking” was the kind of sentence that sounded innocent only if you ignored every possible implication hiding underneath it. And you were fairly sure neither of you had been particularly committed to innocence when you said it.

Maybe you’d misread everything. The laughter, the lingering looks, the ease between you at the bar. Maybe it had all been nothing more than a good night wrapped in coincidence and your own overactive imagination doing what it always did best: writing stories that weren’t there.

It stung, just a little.

But it made sense.

You let out a soft sigh, finally peeling yourself away from the window. The room behind you was dim and expensive in that impersonal way hotel suites always were, beautiful, but clearly belonging to no one. You bent to tug off your heels, your feet practically sighing in relief the moment they hit the shiny marble tiles.

Freedom, at last.

You were halfway to reaching for the zipper at the back of your dress when the knock came.

Three taps.

Careful. Measured. Like whoever stood on the other side is hesitant, unsure of themselves.

Your hand froze mid-motion.

For a second, you didn’t breathe.

It could be your manager. It could be security. It could be your stylist here to retrieve the dress before you somehow managed to spill something on it, tear it, or damage it beyond repair.

But your body was already moving before your thoughts caught up.

Bare feet padded quickly across the glossy floor, each step quieter than the last as you crossed the room with sudden, reckless certainty. You didn’t bother with the peephole. Didn’t pause. Didn’t think.

The deadbolt clicked. The latch turned.

And you pulled the door open with far more urgency than necessary, almost swinging it off its hinges.

Tyler stood there with his fist still raised mid-air, frozen in the exact position he’d been about to knock again. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stared.

The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. stretching, tightening, holding its breath.

Then his hand slowly lowered.

His eyes swept over you in one unguarded pass, like he was trying to confirm you were real and not something his night had invented out of exhaustion and too much noise.

“Hi,” you said, breaking the spell first, leaning casually into the doorframe like your pulse wasn’t currently sprinting. A grin tugged at your mouth.

“Hey,” he replied, voice soft. A little unsure. A little amused. His hands slid into his pockets as he offered you a small smile that didn’t quite settle into confidence, but came close enough to try.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside and gesturing him inside with an easy tilt of your head before turning away.

“Okay,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You didn’t hide your smile as you moved toward the mini bar in the kitchenette.

“You want a drink?” you asked, already reaching for two glasses and the decanter without waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” he hummed, glancing around as he followed you in. His eyes moved over the room in quick, practical sweeps, living area, kitchenette, windows overlooking the city. “Nice room.”

You paused just long enough to look at him over your shoulder.

“Is it?” you said lightly, pouring with theatrical generosity. “Didn’t know you were a hotel-room connoisseur. I’m learning so much about you tonight.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed slightly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He leaned back against the island as if he belonged there, watching you with quiet amusement.

“Just take the compliment,” he said.

“Okay,” you replied easily, sliding his glass toward him. “My manager will be thrilled to hear Tyler Joseph approves her hotel selection strategy.”

That earned a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

You lifted your glass. He lifted his.

The clink was soft, barely there, but it landed anyway.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It was something gentler. Something that felt like space rather than distance. Like the world had finally stopped insisting on anything from either of you.

Just two people. A room. A city breathing quietly below.

“I’m glad you came,” you said eventually, voice softer now.

Tyler glanced at you over the rim of his glass.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Me too.”

A pause.

Then, a little more honestly, he added, “I don’t usually, uh… do this.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

The question hung there, though neither of you pretended you didn’t understand it.

Tyler exhaled through his nose, a small, self-aware smile flickering at the edge of his mouth as he looked away briefly.

“This,” he said. “I don’t usually go back to people’s hotel rooms.”

“No?” You asked in a quiet mummer.

That made him look at you again.

You stepped closer without really thinking about it, like the space between you had quietly decided it no longer needed to exist.

“Listen, I like you,” Tyler said then, quieter than before. More careful. Like he was placing the words down instead of saying them. “But I think I’m a little too old for you.”

A small smile spread across your face before you could stop it, soft, immediate, almost disbelieving in its ease.

“I’m not a kid, you know? I’m a serious, successful adult.” You began, eyes lingering on his as you took another step towards him. “I should be offended, but… I get it.”

You took another long, leisurely sip of your drink. “I like you too, Tyler.”

Something in his expression loosened at that.

Your hand lifted, slow, deliberate this time, and came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was warm beneath your palm, real in a way that made everything else feel slightly unreal. Your thumb traced absentmindedly along the seam.

Tyler didn’t pull away.

Instead, he leaned into it just slightly, as if he’d been unconsciously waiting for permission to do exactly that.

He watched you over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, eyes steady now. Less cautious. More present.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words leave you before you can catch them, soft, reckless, completely uninvited. They hang in the air between you like something fragile that shouldn’t be touched for fear it might disappear.

The room shifts.

Tyler’s glass pauses halfway down to the counter. Then he sets it down properly this time, like he needs both hands for whatever this moment is becoming.

For a split second, everything inside you detaches from your body from the sheer shame.

Of course you said that. Of course your mouth decided to skip consultation with your brain entirely.

“I-” you start quickly, already shaking your head, heat rushing up your neck. “I am so sorry. I know we just met, I just thought-”

You don’t get to finish.

Tyler moves.

There’s no hesitation, no drawn-out decision, just a sudden, decisive closing of distance, like something in him has already been waiting for permission and finally decided to stop asking.

His hand finds your face as his mouth meets yours.

And the thought you were having dies cleanly mid-sentence.

The kiss isn’t gentle in a careful, uncertain way. It’s soft, yes, his lips warm, slightly parted, but it deepens quickly, like something that starts as a spark and forgets it’s supposed to stay small. You answer instinctively, like your body has been waiting longer than your mind has been willing to admit.

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw as his fingers settle behind your ears, anchoring you there like he has no intention of letting the moment slip away. The touch is steady, almost reverent, but the way he pulls you in contradicts every attempt at restraint.

He's crowding you against the counter, closing you in with his body, and you let him. You're barely cognizant enough to try and sit the glass in your hand down, but you must miss the mark, because you're pretty sure that it goes teetering over the edge of the counter, landing near your feet with a clatter. The drink is probably pouring everywhere, but it's a mess you'll have to clean later, because as of now, you can't be bothered to care. 

Tyler’s mouth breaks from yours just long enough to graze your bottom lip with his teeth, barely there, a tease more than anything, but it sends something sharp and immediate through your spine anyway.

You shift closer without thinking, chasing him, chasing the warmth.

Then he pulls back just enough to speak.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all night.”

You've never heard his voice sound like this before. Lower now, roughened at the edges, like it’s been worn down by restraint. Inflections layered like you've turned him ragged just from a little kissing. You're tempted to tease him for it, but truthfully, you aren't faring any better.

“You can kiss me whenever you want,” he adds, quieter, like he’s not entirely sure he should be saying it but refuses to take it back.

That finally gets a breath of clarity out of you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tyler.”

There isn't an ounce of fight in him when you grip his shoulders and rotate your positions, spinning him around to pin him against the wall. One moment he’s the one leaning in; the next he’s the one being guided back, until his shoulders meet the wall with a low sound that vibrates somewhere between surprise and approval.

And then you’re the one closing the space.

His head tilts back slightly as you trace your mouth along his jaw, teeth scraping as you gently suck and bite, slow enough to feel deliberate. You don’t rush it, you take your time with him, the faint scrape of stubble against your lips grounding you more than anything else in the room.

Tyler exhales sharply when you bite lightly at the edge of his jaw, a sound that catches in the air between you and makes something in your stomach tighten in response.

You continue to pamper the plane of skin between his jaw and neck with kisses. You let your tongue glide over his pulse point, slow and calculated.

“Do you want to keep this going?” you murmur against his skin, words barely separated from him at all.

The answer you get isn’t verbal at first.

It’s a sound, low, involuntary, honest in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

Still peppering kisses across his given flesh like constellations. He arches into you when you sink the stamp of your teeth around him in a particularly harsh bite. You nearly apologize, jerk away for the slip up, but the heady groan that pierces the atmosphere snuffs out any worry you were beginning to feel. You make note of that little reaction, filing it away for later. 

Then, suddenly, his hand is at the back of your neck.

Not harsh, but firm enough to guide you.

He pulls you back just slightly so you have to look at him.

The lighting shifts across his face in soft, uneven tones, city glow, amber lamp light, shadows folding along his features like something half-dreamed. Up close like this, he looks different again. Less like a person you’ve watched from a distance and more like someone you can actually reach. He looks so pretty like this, painted in shades of black, and mellow gold. There's a tenderness in his stare as it darts over your face, pausing over your features like he's trying to memorize you. 

His thumb is sweeping over your chin, traveling up, scorching in its path as it glides over the shape of your bottom lip and presses into the soft, rosy flesh, slightly parting your lips.

"Yeah? You want to keep going?"

Now he's just teasing you. The question is genuine, you can tell that much, but its delivery is still entirely smug. There's a satisfaction in his gaze, the warm shade of them alive with it. Like he's got you exactly where he wants you. 

“Oh, I do,” you say. “I’m not letting you get away that easily.”

You don't give him any kind of warning when you lift your thigh up between his legs, grinding it directly on the hardness that's pressing against the rough material of his pants. You can feel the weight of him on your thigh, even through the cover of the fabric, close enough that there’s no ambiguity left in the air between you.

The reaction is immediate and just as good as you hoped.

He curls into you, head tilting to nudge against yours. His chest heaves, deep and heavy when a breath puffs out across your neck. "Fuck. That's-" his hips grind on your thigh, chasing after the sensations it creates, and you aren't sure if he's entirely aware he's doing it.

You tug him away from the wall by the collar of his jacket, and he follows easily, practically leaning into your grip as you guide him down the hallway. He's leaning into you again, dragging you into another kiss as you pull him through the dark, though now you're both flying a little blind now that you're caught back up in him. You have to rely on your brief memory of hotel rooms layout to back yourself through the open threshold of the bedroom. 

Your hands fumble as the pair of you put in joint effort to pull off his jacket, toss it carelessly to the floor.

You're hardly gentle when you turn him and shove him down on the bed. The springs creak with his impact, his weight sinks a divot into the mattress. You don't waste any time reaching behind your back and pull down the zipper to the dress, letting the expensive fabric fall and pool at your feet before climbing over him, swinging your legs around his hips.

“Someone’s eager.”

His hands are greedy, raising to grip you by the waist, holding on tight like he's wants to keep you there permanently. Holding you firmly to keep you pressed on the bulge straining against his pants. 

“Can you really blame me?” You glide a hand over him, slipping it over his chest, feeling the shape of lithe muscles and soft skin underneath your palm while it navigates its way up, allowing you to trail your fingertips along the column of his throat. “You’re so hot, it’s unfair.”

You can't resist to start circling your hips in a slow grind, working yourself over his bulge. You can feel him through your respective clothes, or lack thereof, the thin fabric of your underwear does little to dull the sensations. They even magnify them, the thin seam on the inside brushes right over your clit, sparking a bright, syrupy heat up your nerves when you move. 

“Don’t be a tease.” Tyler breaths deeply, a low whine slipping from his behind the wall of his chest. You can feel the air slip through his trachea, the dim shudder of it humming beneath your palm when you tense it around his throat. He chases after the drag of your hips, lifting his own to meet the lazy rhythm you've set.

“I think you like it.” You lean yourself over him, not ceasing your movements, without removing your hand. You drag your nose alongside his, angling your head, contemplating kissing him, but you pull back before he can fill the distance. His head drops back down on the mattress with a muffled thump, a frustrated sigh escaping past his lips. “Besides, I want to take my time with you.”

His mouth drops open a bit, preparing to talk, and that's when you choose to grind yourself down more firmly. The head of his cock drags right along your clit when you do it, and you just barely manage to keep the loud moan in your chest from shaking free. Tyler isn't so lucky though, hissing through his teeth, spine bowing to lift himself into the brunt of the feeling.

"Not. Fair," he bites out stiffly. He looks so pretty like this. The bedroom is dark, save for the bit of light from the city lights outside that manages to barely slip in through the window. But, you can see him clearly, the blush on his cheeks, the lust burning in his glazed over stare, hair tussled and messy on the comforter. He's impossibly pretty; you wish you could keep him here, just like this, forever. "Do you have any idea-, shit, that feels good, how hard it’s been to hold myself back all night." 

"Yeah, I've got an idea or two," you shrug, nodding your head in playful tilt. 

"As if you're any better. I did catch you staring at me all night long, remember?" 

“What happened to your humility?”

"Haha. Very funny," he scoffs beneath you, making you shake with the motion of it. And then he's moving, and in a blur, you're the one under him. You don't resist, body turning pliant under the weight of him wedging between your thighs, slotting in to place like he belongs there. Your legs splay open, seemingly on their own volition to give him more room, your ankles hooking around the back of his knees to keep him there, locked to you. 

When he kisses you this time, it's so much sweeter than the one you had shared back in the kitchen. This exchange is more explorative. No less passionate, but more leisurely. Like you both want nothing but to take your time with each other. Eagerly tasting the other, indulging in the brush of your lips on his, and he, yours. The tip of his tongue skims over the swell of your mouth, asking for entrance, which you give without hesitation, jaw parting open to let him tease his tongue with your own. 

It throws you headfirst into a clouded head space, brain turning hazy from the press of his body pinning yours, the bite and lick of his mouth. The concept of time trickles far from your grasp, seconds and minutes turning murky when he grinds his hips down on you, taunting you with the heavy press of his cock, thick and throbbing, rocking over your clothed cunt. You're dripping now, wet and soaking your underwear, clit aching, and you moan into his mouth. 

He swallows the sound greedily, drinking it down like wine. You two are hardly doing much, dry humping like a pair of horny college kids, but your brain is already breaking down into mush. Made muddled, thoughts turned brittle and falling apart by the delicious pressure already building at the base of your spine, molten inside the pit of your belly. Searing, slipping inside your bloodstream, coiling like a drug. 

And now he's the one pulling away from you. Abrupt and terrible. You hardly have time to process it at all. 

"What the hell Tyler!" you snap indignantly, tucking your chin down to glare at him as he lifts himself, untangling the hook of your legs from around he's knees so he can freely sit back on his haunches.

He's unfazed by your complaint, too busy roving his attention over your body. You don't miss how his eyes seem to pause over your heaving chest, staring unabashedly at the way your nipples are hard and poking beneath the thin fabric of your bra. You see the way his eyebrows seem to perk appreciatively.

And then his gaze is traveling down further, his hand is on one of your knees, gently tugging your legs open wider so he can stare between your legs. It makes you uncomfortably aware of how wet you are, of the visible patch that's probably soaked through the gusset of your panties. He doesn't comment on it, but he looks smug. Eyes glittering with a satisfaction that seems to burn. 

"Take this off," he orders, hooking his pointer finger around the left strap of your bra before abruptly letting it go, letting the snap back against the skin of your shoulder. And then he's hooking his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and pulling, hard enough that you almost get tugged with it. You have to grip onto the blankets to hold yourself in place. You move to obey, hands fumbling to reach for the hook of your bra before unclasping it. Both articles of clothing get carelessly tossed, landing somewhere on the floor. 

You can't look away from him. Your attention is trapped, seized onto him like he's the only thing that matters. Transfixed like a moth hypnotized by an exposed flame as he leans down, settling his stomach flat on the mattress, shoulders tucked within the open splay of your thighs. Suddenly, you feel like you can't breathe. Like if you do, you'll wake up and realize that this is just a cruel dream, forced to drink the bitter medicine of reality.

But this is real.

This is happening.

You can feel the warm brush of his breath gliding over the exposed spread of your cunt, teasing in its glide. 

"What are you doing?" Nope. That's not what you had wanted to say at all. Now you look stupid, lips parted, eyes probably glassy. 

He smirks, the corner of his mouth ticking up in his amusement. "I was planning on eating you out. Why? Do you want me to stop?"

"No." The word all but rips out of your throat, loud and demanding in its tone as you jerk up as you prop yourself up on your elbows to openly glare. But you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed about how desperate you are. Not right now.

He seems pleased with your answer, gaze dark. "Good." 

There's no fanfare before he's all but burrowing his face into you, tongue splitting you open to lick a stripe over your cunt from hole to clit. It's a shock to your system, every atom in your body flares under the stimulation, muscles pulling taut. You're like a marionette on tight strings, all parts of you seizing, back bowing from the surprise of it, legs involuntarily clamping around Tyler's head. He doesn't fight it, doesn't make any moves to pry your thighs away from his ears. He carries on, unbothered within their squeeze. 

His hands loop under you, coming around to grab your hips when they squirm. But he isn't stopping you. He isn't trying to hold you down. It's like he aiding them, guiding them when they start to rock against his face, helping you find a smoother rhythm that makes you gasp. "There you go, baby," he murmurs in a velvet baritone in between lapping at your clit in tight little circles. The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Snuffed out. "Just like that." 

He almost sounds proud, pleased with the reactions that he's getting out of you, and it has your body burning so much hotter. And then he's sealing his lips around clit, sucking gently. Your hands fly down to take ahold of his head, fingers threading through the silky stands of his hair. Reaching for something to ground you down. To keep you contained inside reality. 

He groans when you pull his hair, sending vibrations scattering across your cunt. Most of his face is obscured, smothered against your pussy, but you see how his brows furrow, face twisting with how much he liked it. Even more damning though, is his hips. The subtle lift of them before they grind back down, fucking himself on the mattress, seeking out friction. 

Your jaw drops open, from your moans and pleased disbelief. You smile as best as you can when you look down at him, trying to focus through the waves of bliss ceaselessly drifting within your body. "Are you, are you-, God, Tyler, are you humping my bed?" 

His eyes, which have slipped shut at some point, open lazily to meet your gaze, but he doesn't bother with speaking.

All you get in response is a shameless "mmhmm." Smothered, slurred, like he can't be bothered to part himself from you.

Maybe you should have anticipated that he would be like this. Zealous, indulgent, giving. He's eating you out like it's his job. Like he's doing it for himself just as much for your pleasure.

As though he needs it to survive, the purpose of it. 

A laugh hisses from your throat, just as disbelieving as it is excited. "Wow, you really are desper-" 

You didn't notice that one of his hands had disappeared from your hip, until one of his fingers is prodding at you and slipping inside. The full length of it stretching you open in a single push, the insertion aided by how soaked you've become, wet across the inside of your thighs, his spit and your own arousal makes you slick. All it takes is a single finger to punch the air out of you. The suddenness of it, the width filling you up has your body squirming. 

"I'm sorry. What was that?" He taunts, and meanly curls his finger, pumps it deep inside of you, seeking out that spot that'll have you going brainless. 

"An asshole," you choke out. "You're such an asshole." 

"Well, this 'asshole' is about to make you cum, so I feel like I should be hearing less shit talking." 

You're tempted to berate him. Maybe tell him to shut up, but the ability to speak goes lost on you as he goes back to licking on your clit. Thrusting his finger inside of you at the same time, and when he finds it, the edge of his finger sweeping over your g-spot with startling accuracy, the high-pitched moan it drives out of you is humiliating.

You just barely hear the cocky "There it is" he murmurs over the blood roaring in your ears. 

Your eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you fully drop your head back on the mattress, lifting your hips to chase after the dual sensations of his tongue and the pump of his finger. You're just beginning to adjust to it, body growing used to the stretch when he's slipping another in alongside it. Relentlessly stroking them over that spot inside of you that makes your thoughts dwindle into nothing. And you let it happen, giving up any kind of resistance or snark that you might have been clinging on to, allowing yourself to fully bask in the rapture of it all, and the ecstasy is almost harsh. 

"I think you can be good for me when you don't act like a brat. Wanna try? You want to be good for me?" 

It lashes through you. Electrical, sharp, brilliant. You find yourself nodding without little thought. 

"Oh, c'mon. You know how to talk. Don't tell me you've gone all dumb on me already from a little finger fucking." 

It should be mortifying how simply he's got you under his influence. How clearly he's been able to read you. Picked you apart, piece by meticulous piece and figured out all of your tells, what makes you tick. But all you feel is elation. The euphoria that comes with being understood. 

"Yeah, I'll be good. I can be good, I promise." 

"There we go," he purrs, too arrogant. Utterly happy with the state he's put you in, and he's determined to make you so much worse. To tear you apart and leave you as a pile of twitching, heaving parts. 

"Tyler, I'm-" your breaths snag, gasp hiccupping. "You're gonna make me, fuck."  

"Go on, pretty girl." He urges, voice a throaty rasp. "You can have it any time." 

And that's all it takes. The raw permission, the sloppy drag of his tongue gliding around your clit, the firm thrust of his fingers fucking into you. It all takes ahold of you mercilessly, wraps you up tight, and shoves you directly down into the throes of your orgasm. Your nails rake down his scalp, messily gripping at his hair in an effort to try and keep yourself sane while your back bows off of the mattress. He works you through it, lapping carefully at your clit, softening the pressure as the pleasure begins to tapper off, ebbing away in blissful aftershocks. 

The moan you let out is drawn out, wispy. Your hips are still moving, lazily rocking while the rest of you has gone boneless, endorphins and contentment turning your muscles into jelly. You can feel him peppering kisses across your thighs, the sensation of it helping to draw you out of the pleasant haze you've been caught in. 

You will yourself to look down, almost drunkenly tilting you head while you focus on composing yourself, sucking steady breaths. If you didn't know better, you could believe that Tyler had been the one who just got off. His cheeks are still flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen and smeared the aftermath of your orgasm. He's panting, catching his breath while he nuzzles into your thigh. 

"I'd say I did a decent enough job," he joked. "What do you think? At least a five out of ten, right?" 

"Hmm. I'm not so sure yet. I think we need to gather more information before I can give it a proper rating." 

He smiles with you. And then you're moving. Lifting yourself up on wobbling knees. He raises himself to meet you, leaning himself over to take your mouth in a brief kiss, letting you taste yourself on him, dimly sweet, natural. You both reach for his clothes, and you busy yourself with his belt and then his zipper, tugging his ridiculous capris and boxers down his waist, and he works on the buttons of his shirt. But he gets frustrated halfway, annoyed with how his fingers keep slipping from his impatience, and he settles for ripping it off. Buttons go flying, clacking across the tiles in the spray, but neither of you pay it any mind. 

You're tugging him higher up on the bed as soon as he's naked. He pulls himself up after kicking his pants away and off his ankles, swapping his place with yours. You shove him down on the flat of his back, climbing astride his bare hips and his hands are already on you, groping, shifting, feeling all of you. Traveling up to take handfuls of your breasts, softly squeezing them within the textured skin of his palms. The callouses on his fingers and the undersides of his knuckles are delightfully rough against your nipples, and you arch into them, seeking out more. 

You can't help but to admire all of him now that you have him bare and beneath you.

It only takes a split second to come to a conclusion: he's stunning. Far better than anything you imagined. It's surreal to have him here, splayed out and panting. Tan skin bordered in amber from the glow of the lights down below. Lithe muscles and his soft frame taking shape from the shadows projected over him. Inky blotches of tattoos that have long faded with age.

"What?" he asks softly, observing you playfully. His thumbs sweep over your breasts, caressing around your nipples, making you grind down onto him. He's hot, throbbing, the thick width of him bare between the crux of your legs; head catching against the entrance of your pussy. 

Your head angles to the side when you observe him, admiring him with an expression that you know must be terribly affectionate. Too loving for what this is. "You're pretty Tyler."

"Pretty?" He looks like he doesn't quite believe you, eyebrows raising. "I don't think I've ever been called that before." 

That admission makes your heart ache. The flippantness of it. The casualness of its delivery. As though it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't expect for anyone to regard him such a way. That maybe, he isn't deserving of it, the appreciation or praise. "You are. So pretty." 

He truly looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Now the blush on his face isn't only from the lust burning through his veins, but also what must be mortification, self-consciousness, incredulity.

You want to tell him that he's so much more than just that, but you suppose that it would probably be pretty ill-timed considering that you're both completely naked. You'll have to save that for later. When you aren't trying to fuck each other. 

He's soaked when you reach down where your bodies press together and take him into your hand, smeared with the precum that dribbles from the head of his cock. He hisses between the clench of his jaw when you grab him, sensitive no doubt, from how worked up he'd gotten from eating you out, from how he'd humped himself on your mattress. The evidence of it trickles from him in a messy, sluggish flow. He's so hard that it must be painful, head flushed an angry red. 

When you trace your thumb down a vein, throbbing as it scrawls down the length of him, he jerks, hips flexing into the movement. You feel starved and ardent when you watch how his eyelashes flutter, the subtle swell of his lips glittering with his spit and your cum. He looks drunk. Dazed while he stares up at the ceiling before glancing down back at you. He swears when he sees you hovering over him, like you're something to be in awe of. You don't do it to be mean exactly, but when the weight of his eyes settles back on you, glazed over, pupils blown wide, almost reverent, it has you clenching around nothing. You need to take the edge off somehow, need to get a little bit of relief just so you think a little clearer. 

It has you gripping him tighter, slipping your hold lower, aided by the smear of his arousal as you grab him around the base to hold him still when you grind your clit against the tip. 

His hands fly around your waist, firm enough that it might leave bruises. He gasps, face pinching while he stares, transfixed as you softly rock on the head of his cock. 

"Okay, now you're just fucking teasing," he wheezes out.

Something like realization slips into his expression, sober and bare. "Shit, you don't have any condoms here, do you? I wasn't exactly planning on this." 

You immediately halt in your movements, pressing a palm down on his chest to prop yourself up, breathing through the shocks of pleasure still boiling inside of your stomach. "No, I don't have any," you say, disappointment pressing down behind your lungs. You couldn't blame if he doesn't want to keep going now, for being responsible. "Uh, I mean, I'm on the pill and I'm clean. So if you are, then…”

You let it settle there, the offer looming. Letting him contemplate your proposal on his own terms.

"Yeah, I'm clean," he replies. "Don’t really have too much time to sleep around while touring. And the last time I was in a relationship was an embarrassingly long time ago." It stretches between your bodies, an answer in its in own, and the stares you exchange only confirms it. His hands don't move to lift you off; they don't lighten to give you the ability to tear yourself from his grasp, either. You're both motionless, the shared decision felt in both of your bodies. 

"Oh really? I figured you would have had, like a whole mob of fans frothing at the mouth to get a piece of you." you shrug.

“Guess that makes more for me then.”You shift the angle of your hips, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance and then you sink down on him. It's abrupt. He chokes, and all the collective air held in your lungs is shoved out in a single gasp. Your bodies freeze, muscles going temporarily still like they don't know how to handle what they're experiencing. 

An ache throbs from the girth of his cock stretching you open, a subtle sting that feels good as much as it hurts. Probably the only thing that helps in aiding you in fitting him inside so quickly is how soaked you both are, from how relaxed he'd gotten you with his mouth. You sink all the way down to the hilt, stopping only once the physical barrier of his thighs keeps you in place. 

"Hold on. Don't move," he pleads in a thin rumble. He draws in a large gulp of oxygen, brows furrowed like he's concentrating. "This is literally every guys worst nightmare, and I don't want to admit it, but if you move, I'll probably come. I swear I'm not usually like this." 

"That's what they all say," you chide with faux annoyance. It's not very convincing, your amusement is clear, a smile already nudging at your mouth. 

"Well in my defense, it’s been a while. I'm a little out of practice." 

You don't poke any more fun at him, you let him adjust, adapt to the feel of you around him. For a minute or two, you just stay like that. Quiet, joined together, listening to the other breath, the occasional rumble of a car passing down the street outside, feeling the soothing warmth of each other's bodies.

It's intimate in a way.

Too gentle for what might just be a fling, for whatever this might turn out to be. A quick one-night stand in between basically strangers, a temporary experiment. You don't want to think about the fact, that once this is over, he might not want anything more with you. And that's fair, isn't it? 

Sure, he said that he likes you. But that doesn't mean that this is going to develop into anything more than mutual attraction and lust that's finally spilt over. Once this is done, and the mutual high has worn off and you've both satiated that want and curiosity, you'll both go back to your lives. You'll become strangers again and pretend that you don't know what he tastes like, how he sounds when he groans, how he feels under you. You'll see him at stupid award show after party’s, listen to his voice on the radio, continue on with your respective careers and convince yourself that don't want him anymore. That this didn't matter. You'll lie to yourself. Make it easy, because that's what you do. That's what has to be done. 

But if you couldn't have this, him, then you'd at least make this a night to remember. Something to think back on fondly. 

"You good?" you ask him after a few passing minutes. He looks visibly less tense, and the white-knuckled grip he had on your hips has slackened; his thumbs now sweep over the sore skin in apologetic caresses. 

He answers in a nod, but when you raise your eyebrows in a silent bid for a better response, he successfully spits out a verbal reply. Quietly panting out a confirming "yes" along with another agreeing tilt of his head. It's only then that you lift yourself up in a steady rise only to drop back down again, rocking yourself in a steady motion that has your clit grinding against the swell of his pelvis bone, the dark thatch of hair above his cock catching on your clit. Coarse, dragging over you in a way that has pleasure sparking along your nerves, light and electric. 

It makes you moan, a pitched, breathy sound, rising up right along the wet squelch of his cock repeatedly driving into you. Tyler's focus keeps darting, like he can't decide where to look: at your face, fervently admiring how your mouth has dropped open, cheeks and forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, or down where he splits you open, cock flushed, thick girth plunging deep inside of your pussy. 

You circle your hips when you rise and fall, rotating them in a heavy rhythm that nearly makes your eyes turn in the back of your skull. It has your hands scrambling again for something to purchase, slipping up the expanse of his abdomen, the shape of his pecs. His flesh is hot, damp with perspiration, the usual tan hue darkening a tad. 

When he sighs out in bliss, almost whimpering, he says your name. He repeats it. It's like he's taste testing it, and it sounds saccharine on his tongue. It invigorates you, shooting through your system like a shot of adrenaline, and you can't help but to grind a little deeper, squeezing the walls of your cunt to grip him a little tighter when you lift yourself. 

It earns you another gasp of your name, a little desperate, as though he's been relieved by the feel of you, the heat. You can practically feel the stress ebb from him. The tension vacating his body as you ride him, churning and bucking your hips to carry you both towards the ecstasy that looms ahead. A far drop that you know will have you both scrambling and struggling to hold on. 

His shoulders draw back, pressing back into the mattress when he fucks himself back up into you, thrusting rapaciously to meet your pace. 

"That's, that feels-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence, head lolling back, stretching out the pretty shape of his neck. You see how his Adam's apple bobs, throat working as he swallows another moan. If you focus just enough, sifting through the rise and fall of your shared breathing, the worn creak of the mattress' springs rasping each time you drop yourself back down on him, the wet smack of your skin meeting his, you can hear his pulse. Thundering under his skin. A recurrent thump, a brisk pattern that you swear you can almost taste in the air, weaving the already heady perfume of sex into something intoxicating. 

"I really wish you could see yourself like this, Tyler." You heave in another breath, your own spine arching when the head of his cock strikes a spot that makes your thoughts fizzle, turning as thick and sluggish as a batch of melted sugar. "You look so good baby, it's not fair." 

You expect to hear some kind of sass thrown back at you. Maybe something sarcastic and self-depreciating, another deflection, but all you get is a rough groan, inarticulate and drawn out, like you've grazed something deep and wounded inside of him. 

Oh, he liked that. You could feel it in how every part of him coils up tight, legs bending sharper to drive into you with deeper strokes. Some kind of compulsion. A physical impulse, like his body had decided to do it before his mind could completely recognize that it's chasing after the urge. Hungry for the praise, the desire to be wanted.

Adored. 

It's a complete 180 from how he'd been before. In control, directing you how he pleased, balancing between chiding and gentle. But this is the opposite. He's the one who's being influenced now; he's wordlessly handed you the reins and allowed you to take what you need from him, graciously accepting what you're willing to offer him. A chalice taking only what's been poured. And you're willing to give him anything, to fill him until he's overflowing. 

You lean over him as best as you can without throwing off the pace you've built, supporting yourself with a hand on his chest while the other settles beside his head, fingers squeezing to clasp the blankets to keep you grounded. You lower your head, chin dipping to glide your nose along the shape of his cheekbone, and you have to smile at how he leans into you to graze his nose along yours.

It's intimate. So intimate that you could suffocate on it like a poison, but you can't stop. 

"You feel so good," you praise in a euphoric moan. "Tyler, you're making me feel so full. God." That compliments that flow from you aren't fake. You aren't hamming it up like you have with past one-night stands, saying whatever you possibly can just so the guy will get off and make the experience end sooner, counting the seconds in the hope for it to be over.

But you typically aren't this vocal apart from the occasional moan, or a sporadic line of dirty talk scattered here and there. But right now, it all flows from you freely. Maybe it's only because you love to see the reactions it garners from him. You're subconscious craving more. More of those dainty, breathy whines and gasps that have begun to spill from him. Groans worked out from him each time you lift yourself up with your thighs, balancing your weight on the flat of your feet to drive yourself downward. It's hell on your muscles, a deep burn already zapping up the tendons, licking harshly across the meat of your thighs, but you'd be damned if you stopped now.  

You aren't entirely sure that he's aware of the noises he's making now. You didn't think that he would lose his composure this fast, unbothered demeanor crumbling as delicately as a sandcastle giving beneath the barrage of an ocean's waves. He looks debauched, hair damp with sweat, eyes still dazed and fluttering, jaw dropped open. You wish you could keep him like this for eternity, spread out on your bed in a hedonistic display, chest heaving, atmosphere thick with the sounds of his pleasure and the prurient taste of his scent saturating your mouth and throat. Kept and cherished, drinking each other down until the sun goes supernova and consumes the world in a burst of fire and plasma. 

He mutters something, a whisper of words, jammed and snagging in his mouth, tongue tripping uselessly against his teeth. You aren't able to pick up what he said, syllables lost to the slurred mumble of his voice. 

"Hmm? What was that?" You remove your hand up from where it was gripping the blankets, using it to cup the side of his face, directing him to focus his attention back on you from where it had drifted off. 

For a split second, it seems like he's contemplating talking back. There's a flicker in his eyes, sharp and challenging, but it vanishes as swiftly as it had appeared, snuffed out as definitively as a coal being doused with a bucket of water, and all that remains is supple compliance.  "…Don't stop. Please, don't stop." 

You really wished you had the time to really indulge and take him apart piece by piece. To study him in the way that you truly want to. To prod and lick and touch, discovering what makes him weak. What gets under his skin and turns him boneless and desperate, but that sort of excess requires a long discussion, a conversation of boundaries. It would be pretty mistimed to try and bring that sort of thing up now, when you're both already in so deep, consumed and stupefied by lust. Too muddled and dazed to think clearly. 

But having him like this is more than enough. You'll be thinking about this for weeks, months, hooked on him like a drug; candy stuck and caramelized between your teeth, sweet and tawny. Buttery gold on your enamel, sunlight caught inside of your mouth. 

You would deny anyone else, taunt them, make them ask you again until you were satisfied, but you don't think you can resist him now. Not with you both so close, hurtling towards the fringes of a shared bliss.

"I won't stop," you assure. "You've been so good for me. So good, Tyler." 

And there it is again. He jolts, a full-bodied shiver twitching over him as though he's physically trying to seek out more praise. You swear you can feel him twitch inside of you, but it could just be a trick of your imagination. Though you're doubtful it is with how needily he drives his cock into you, causing the noisy echo of skin on skin to pitch around the room, the bed creaking repeatedly, the frantic movements of your bodies causing the headboard to thump against the wall. 

You're probably going to get a noise complaint tomorrow, but it's definitely worth it. 

"You close baby?" you ask, slipping your palm down from his face to feel his pulse battering throughout the junction of his jugular. 

He nods frantically, a guttural groan vibrating behind his ribcage. You're both right there. Dangling at the edge, hurtling in the direction of a precipice that swells and expands in front of you, and you need it. You need it so bad that it hurts. A painful ache, like the gnawing of hunger. All it's going to take for either of you to reach it is a little push, and you're happy to deliver, to reach out and shove. 

"I want to feel it. You're so close, Tyler, I know you are." You're moaning now, and your thumb squeezes around the width of his throat, hooking just beneath the hinge of his jaw and he presses into it. (You're absolutely storing that away for later, if there is a later) "I want you to come inside. I need you to fill me up. C'mon, you deserve it." 

That's all it takes. He goes off as though he's attached to a fuse that's been lit and eaten up by the sparks. He seizes up, reacting like a man being electrified, coiling up, wrought with tension that makes him spasm. "Oh fuck," he swears. A cork popping free from a bottle, a string of swears and curses rambling from him in a stimulated rush. 

You keep bouncing on him, unrelenting in the cadence of your ride, determined to aid him through every possible pulse of pleasure, just as adamant to finish yourself off in the process. It's right there, dangling in front of you, licking up your back, lashing through your stomach. Before you can reach down to swirl a finger over your clit, he's doing it for you, settling the thick pad of his thumb over you in tight, debilitating figure eights that light you on fire. Between the brush of his thumb on you and the warm flow of his cum spurting inside of you, that's all it takes for you to tip over into your second orgasm of the night with a silent cry. 

You keep going until you're both spent. Until the pleasure turns too sharp, overstimulating, and you're both twitching from the aftershocks. It's only then that you allow yourself to collapse. The sting in your hips and thighs makes you groan from the relief of finally stopping and you sag on top of him from the respite of it. 

Your head drops on his chest, ear pressed where his heart thuds and pulses. You both pant, unmoving, Tyler still buried inside of you, softening but heavy. You try to catch the oxygen you had lost and struggled to hold. You stay like that, basking in the afterglow. Lounging in the sounds of your breathing, the scent of sex, which has merged with his. It's pleasant. Peaceful. The kind of smell that you wish you could trap in a bottle and save for later.

You long to stay here, but you know that time won't slow down for you. Soon you'll both have to move. You'll have to get up from the bed and clean yourself up, take a shower, and Tyler will have to go back to his own hotel room. This moment isn't infinite. The hands on the metaphorical clock are ticking down, and they can't wait for you to be ready for the inevitable. For the awkward conversation that awaits you. The shifty eyes and the promise to make sure that you'll both be professional, detached. 

"Ten out of ten," you blurt, trying to shake off the dread that's settled over you, as fitting as a second skin. "Ten out of ten, for sure." 

He chuckles at the call back, and the fleeting trickle of levity is soothing. But it doesn't last. He falls silent, catching his breath while he absentmindedly traces shapes across your back and shoulders, sketching nonsensical patterns and marks. The sensation of it is more calming than your half-cocked attempt at humor. It helps you settle against him, going lax across the shape of his torso, your ribs trying to take shape to his own. 

Minutes later, maybe even hours later, times still a murky area for you, he's still holding you, arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing over your back like he's plucking the invisible strings of a bass. It all seems so real. It's the kind of gesture that doesn't belong between one-night stands. It's captivating, close, something shared between lovers. It has anxiety prickling at the back of your throat like you might be sick, turned ill from the uncertainty tossing in your stomach. 

You should break the tension. Rip the band-aid off but you find your voice lost, caught within the chaotic webbing of your insecurities. Stuck on the fine threads and spun up like a stupid, struggling fly. 

"I guess I should go ahead and ask: Was this a one-time thing? It's cool if it is, I understand. I just… want to make sure we're both on the same page. That there's no room for misunderstandings." 

You question if you're hallucinating. If you had imagined him talking. But no. His voice is real, gruff and raw from how it had been used, but no less vulnerable. Uncertainty clinging to its edges. As though he's reluctant to ask. Afraid to hear what your answer is. While he's busy suffering in his trepidation, you're being freed of yours. The delight that breaks through you is shifting, coruscating with its hope. 

"Do you want it to be a one-time thing?" 

"No. No, I don't." His answer breaks over you like the dawn piercing through a long dark. Warmth cresting, a medley of hues splashing over the sky as though someone had spilt watercolors over a canvas. Life bursting through frozen earth. 

"Then it isn't," you reply. Firm, doubtless. 

His lips press against the crown of your head, a loving stamp of approval sealed on your skull. A mutual agreement signed in affection. A promise that hums between you with its own pulse, made living and determined.

modern!duncan who met you half-way through your second to last semester at university after his calculus professor suggested he find a tutor before midterms.

you were on the dean's list and he was in the rugby team, and he just needed to get a decent grade on all of his classes (yes, even the nightmare-induced math ones) because his scholarship depended on it. who knew geology would have so much math in its course curriculum, anyways?

he arrived, ten minutes early to the first session with two peanut-free protein bars, a broken calculator, and a second-hand textbook packed somewhere inside a messy backpack, and thought nothing else but a headache would come out of looking at equations for two hours straight. he left, still not knowing a damn thing about derivatives and vector fields, but holding a crush he swore felt like cupid's own arrow had lodged itself straight into his heart.

modern!duncan who asked his friends to tutor him every week before his sessions with you so you would not think he was a lost cause. they never explained the concepts correctly though, and a couple of weeks into your study plan, you had to schedule two sessions per week because he was somehow more confused with integral solving than he was when you started. so... a win in his book, either way?

modern!duncan who spiraled himself into an actual bit of existential dread at the thought of the semester ending before he could tell you how he felt. what if he never saw you again? what if you moved on, forgot all about him, and fell in love with someone that was just as smart as you, and just as dedicated, and just as beautiful—gods, what if you fell in love with someone like valarr targaryen? he would not stand a chance, not against someone like the golden boy. oh, he would just never recover! not when you held the stars in your eyes and the sun in your smile, and when your voice sounded like the angelic choir he is sure welcomes well-doers in the seven heavens, and—

modern!duncan who never thought you could ever, actually, possibly like him back.

not even when he smiled every time he saw you and looked at you like you had just hung the moon upon the midnight sky. not even when he brought a to-go cup of coffee for you every time he arrived at the booth you'd reserved in the library, exactly the way you had once mentioned you liked it. not even when he laughed at your jokes, and listened to you without paying attention to anything else, and carried your bag over his shoulder the whole way through when he walked you home after your session.

he was just being polite, anyways. anyone would do that... right?

modern!duncan who didn't believe his ears when you asked him out on a date at the end of your very last session. you had mentioned it so casually, so calmly, like your heart was not about to beat its way out of your chest. like your world had not just spun on a different axis. like your fate had not just been written into the stars.

oh... was that just him?

still, he said yes right away and never once felt ashamed at the fact of you having been the one to take the first step. he let you choose the restaurant, picked you up while holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in shaking hands, and paid the bill in full after letting you have the last bite of dessert.

he walked you home and blushed a deep red when you kissed his cheek before walking inside your apartment complex and wishing him a good night. he asked you on a second date as soon as he made it back to his place.

and then almost cried himself to sleep when you told him to pick you up the next morning.

modern!duncan who, five years into your relationship, still blushes all the way up to the tip of his ears whenever you refer to him as your boyfriend. who still get butterflies every time he wakes up by your side and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead while he tries his best to not disturb your sleep. who still feels the luckiest man whenever he's simply allowed to exist by your side.

modern!duncan who will come home to your shared apartment from work before you do, pet your cat, and get dinner started with the goal of it being ready by the time you arrive. it took him a while to learn how to cook: failed youtube tutorial after failed youtube tutorial until he eventually got somewhat decent results of your favorite dishes. he kept going, and even if his creations turned a little funky whenever he improvised (and grew really fond of simply following the recipe as it said on the page), still found satisfaction in making you happy with something he'd made.

he liked it so much, in fact, that he got himself an apron and invested in a nice set of stainless steel pans. you even got him a cooking board for christmas that he considered not using only for the sake of forever keeping it in pristine conditions. he uses it carefully, and lovingly, and really hopes it can last a lifetime.

modern!duncan who, in the same vein, packs your lunch every morning and always folds a little note somewhere inside your bag so you will "always remember how much he loves you". his writing is still as indecipherable as it was since you first met and he writes the corniest notes, but you still grin from ear to ear everytime you find a post-it that reads "you are the best part of my day :)" next to your home-made buffalo chicken wrap.

he always texts you to ask if you liked your lunch. and he always feels himself become love personified when you tell him you liked your note more.

modern!duncan who will get you flowers every single pay day without fail. who will take blurry photographs of things he sees on the way home that make him think of you, no matter how silly others may think they are: a cat that looks somewhat like yours, a trinket on a windowsill he thinks you would like, the poster of a play he'll take you to after checking both of your schedules for your next day off.

modern!duncan who refers to himself as a "cat dad" every time someone at work asks him if he has children at home. who will show them the photograph he keeps of the three of you in his wallet because, well, that is his family right there. who will blush and scratch the back of his neck when his co-workers ask him if he really let you name your cat sauron. let you... let you? what is this, the middle ages? he does not let you do things, mind you, but holds the honor of doing things with you. and, just so it's perfectly clear to dave from accounting, does think sauron is a perfectly appropriate name for a cat... duh.

modern!duncan who studies his gaming group's d&d campaigns before bed, with his glasses perched low over the tip of his nose, while you read off next to him. he will ask for your opinion and then get a little bashful at having interrupted your focus but you never mind, and he will then just recount the entire campaign to you after you've set your book down on your night table. he'll write down every single suggestion you make so he can include them in his campaigns or his character design, and always lets his group know exactly how you helped him. and yes, his charismatic paladin does have a tragically romantic backstory. and yes, it was your idea. and yes, he loves it.

modern!duncan who is only on social media to keep up with what you post. he follows a couple people on instagram that he personally knows, some gaming accounts to gain inspiration for his campaigns, and the official profiles of the sports teams he keeps up with. he only really interacts with you, though. you will post something only to be immediately flooded with duncan's reactions to it, which, yes, do include a couple comments that consist only of... emojis. he's just expressive, okay?

modern!duncan who will unknowingly participate in every single trend you want him to hop on because he can never say no to you. you'll scare him half to death calling him your "current boyfriend" only for him to kiss you silly after confessing it was only a joke for a tiktok video. you'll have him snapping an egg clean between his arm muscles, and he'll be so giddy and proud of himself while you just stare at him because god, duncan, have you even seen your own biceps before?

modern!duncan who loves practically being your plus-one whenever you have plans for the weekend. who will hold your hand in his when you navigate through the crowds and then on the small of your back for the rest of the night because he has to be touching you to feel at peace. who will have you sitting on his lap while you sip on whatever fruity cocktail he'd gotten you, only to carry your heels for you when it's time to go home because you're sleepy and your feet are tired.

modern!duncan who is really vocal during sex. who always echoes a string of "just like that, baby," while you're riding him to oblivion, with your head thrown back in pleasure and your pretty tits bouncing and rubbing against his face. who likes to take one of your nipples into his mouth as you move, sucking on the bud as he spills inside you: always way too early, and always ready to go again.

who trusts you implicitely, and is always ready to try new things. who lets you tease his ass when you blow him, with your finger caressing his rim as you run your tongue along the side of his shaft. who hisses as his entire body is overcome by goosebumps when you squirt a generous dollop of lube over his skin before beginning to play with his waiting hole. who then wears a pretty little buttplug while he's fucking you in missionary.

who really means it when he says he actually could die a happy man when his head is nestled between your gorgeous thighs. who eats your pussy for hours, mumbling and blabbing about how tasty it always is, about how wet you always are for him. who moans the loudest when he's sucking on your clit, with his big, thick fingers nestled inside your sopping hole as he makes you gush into his mouth.

modern!duncan who takes aftercare really seriously, but also deems it a practice that should never feel like it is out of the ordinary. who'll run you a bath every night without fail, hop inside with you, and hold you until the water gets cold. who will stare at you in awe as you get ready for bed, and then waste no time to hold you in his arms again once you're warm and comfortable under the covers.

modern!duncan who always looks for you first whenever he thinks something is funny. who holds your opinion as holy scripture. who is always unconsciously moving his chair ever so slightly so it's a little closer to yours.

modern!duncan who will sit in silence by your side and still know exactly what you are thinking, and exactly how you are feeling, because existing by your side has become as natural to him as drawing breath. as feeling hunger. as finding happiness in the little things and peace in the quiet moments.

and the thing is that he's just so, so in love with you, that he thanks his lucky stars every single night for having him being so close to flunking calc he had to get tutored by you all those years ago. and so he will one day get down on one knee and rely on that very same blessing in the hopes that he gets honored with spending his every waking hour making you the happiest he can.

and he saves up half of his check every month, writes his vows in his head every time he feels your skin against his, and knows that he will cross the bridge when the time is right. you're his person, and his future is yours to shape in your hand. his heart, big and bleeding and always held in his sleeve, has always been safe with you, anyways.

he really is a loverboy, but can you blame him?

He was slouched over a pile of papers he had to sign, his fingers tense and weary from holding a fountain pen for so long. His hand repeatedly scribbled his name. His eyebrows were pinched in that familiar, ever-present frown on his face.

He had come into the office early this morning, hoping to keep his mind occupied and busy. If he was overloaded with meetings, strategies, and supervision, he wouldn't have to think about the conversation he had with you in the foyer of his house.

The way the twinkle in your eyes slowly faded when he refused to let Aegon stay at home. How his chest ached at the defeated look on your face.

But most of all he wouldn't have to think about how you made him feel, how when you were around color seeped into his life again, how the house felt less haunted and hollow with your presence. How it tugged at his chest when he saw you take care of children, play with them, teach them, be gentle with them, love them.

Love themm in a way he didn't know how, in a way he never would know how to. For the longest time he thought it impossible to let someone in, least of all a complete stranger. He never thought a foreigner could learn to love and understand his children in a way only so few did. After Dyanna's death he couldn't bring himself to deal with the void she had left.

I don't know how to be a mother and a father. His own voice echoed in his head. You don't have to be. You had replied with such earnest honesty that for a brief moment hope had flickered in his chest and a dangerously optimistic thought bloomed in his mind.

But just as quickly it had died. The realization that you could never be a replacement for Dyanna, that you could never love his sons and daughters in a way that only the mother who birthed them could, quickly settled in.

And in that cold moment of letdown he had dismissed you, refused to listen to yours pleas of letting Aegon stay at home.

But now, with his posture tense and back rigid, he wondered if he had been wrong to disregard you so quickly. He sighed, releasing the pen from his grasp and letting it topple and roll over somewhere on the mahogany desktop.

His entire hand ached; enough of signing, he decided.

Instead his hand found the mouse of the computer in front of him and he opened the digital mail app. There were always things to be checked here. Reports to be read and complaints answered. Yet as he scanned through the list, scrolling down nothing caught his eye, nothing piqued his interest. All of the emails seemed like dull, lifeless, utterly boring affairs. He'd rather claw his own eyes out than read any of these messages.

His brain was pulsing against his skull and he felt the familiar headache setting in. He was about to exit the site when something caught his eye. Your name — more precisely your email. He didn't scan the topic of your message, just immediately clicked on it.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.

He read the text twice before going back to check if he had indeed clicked on your email and not that of some random employee. He felt the quiet disbelief settle in his chest as he desperately scrolled to make sure this was some kind of mistake.

He stood from his desk, pacing over the office and striding outside to his assistant who worked in the front. She was a middle-aged, curvy woman with a short blonde bob.

The entire office practically stilled when he walked outside and it felt like everyone was walking on eggshells all of a sudden. He did not pay them any mind.

"Clarice, did you fire my son's babysitter?" His question was more accusation than inquiry. The poor woman shrunk in her seat at his fiery gaze.

"No sir... I would never do such a thing without your consultation..." The woman replied evenly.

He knew the entire office was gawking at them but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Then tell me why the fuck there is a resignation email sitting in my inbox that I have not been notified of?" He demanded, raising his hands in agitation.

"I... I'm very sorry sir but I do not know..." She replied, clutching her floral shirt nervously.

"Why do I always have to handle everything, oh fuck me…" He muttered under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his workspace. Except this time he did not sit back down, he didn't look at emails or sign papers. He grabbed his black wool coat off the hanger, wrapped it around his shoulders and strided out of the office like he was preparing for battle.

As he exited the Targaryen Corp. building, his mind was fixed on one singular objective. Finding you.

—

The late afternoon air was sharp against his face, the city loud and indifferent around him, yet he heard none of it.

His driver stood waiting beside the blacked-out SUV, posture straight, hands folded neatly in front of him. The moment he registered Maekar’s long, purposeful strides, he stepped forward and opened the rear door without a word.

Maekar slid into the backseat, the leather cool beneath him, and waited as the door shut with a muted thud. The engine hummed to life.

“Where to, sir?” The driver’s eyes met his through the rearview mirror.

Maekar opened his mouth. And nothing came out. His brain short-circuited entirely.

Where did you live? He had no idea.

“Hold on a moment.” He lifted a hand, palm out, signaling the driver to wait. The man gave a single nod and kept the car idling at the curb.

Maekar reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, staring down at the screen as if it might provide him with answers on its own. How, exactly, was he supposed to know where you lived?

Personal addresses weren’t required on casual job arrangements, and the truth was—there hadn’t been much of a formal arrangement at all. You hadn’t forged a traditional contract because he had been entirely convinced you wouldn’t last longer than a day.

He almost scoffed at himself.

A mental note formed instantly: change that. The moment he found you.

His thoughts began shifting rapidly, gears turning, rearranging, calculating. How could he possibly locate you? He could call. He could send a message. Demand an explanation.

But that felt wrong. Too distant. Too impersonal.

You would refuse him outright over the phone. You would be polite, composed, stubborn. No, he needed to see you. Needed to stand in front of you, face to face, so you couldn’t slip away so easily.

His brow furrowed in concentration.

Then it clicked.

He leaned forward abruptly, the leather creasing beneath him. “Have you ever taken the lady who takes care of Aegon home?”

The driver blinked, visibly surprised at the sudden question, but professionalism smoothed over his features within seconds. “Yes, sir. Once. She stayed until late one evening. Your son Aerion commanded me to take her home.”

A flicker of surprise flashed in his violet yes but he quickly concealed it. Instead he hummed low in his throat. “Very well. Drive there.”

He leaned back into his seat as the small privacy window between the driver and the back compartment slid up automatically, sealing him into silence.

His mind immediately began constructing scenarios.

Would you even be home? Were you at university? Out with friends?

The thoughts lodged unpleasantly in his chest.

It didn’t matter. He would find you wherever you were.

His thoughts ran ahead of him, rehearsing conversations, arguments, apologies he wasn’t certain he knew how to voice. By the time the SUV slowed to a stop, he hadn’t even registered the passing of time.

“We’re here, sir."

He looked up.

The neighborhood was modest. Slightly grimy. Ordinary. Not dangerous, not dilapidated—but far from luxurious. No marble façades. No polished glass towers. Just aging brick, narrow balconies, laundry lines strung between windows.

It did not suit him. But it suited you.

He stepped out of the car, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat.

“Shall I wait for you here, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes.” Nothing more.

He strode toward the building entrance, jaw set.

By sheer luck, an older man was entering at the same time. Maekar caught the door before it shut, offering a tight, practiced smile as he gestured the man inside first. He followed after him, silent and composed.

He did not belong here, it was plain for all to see.

The pale silver of his hair, the immaculate cut of his coat, the overly polished shoes—everything about him screamed money, power and distance. He felt the old man's eyes linger, curious, assessing.

He ignored him.

He located your name on the row of mailboxes, committing the apartment number to memory, then took the stairs two at a time.

When he reached your door, he stopped.

For a split second, uncertainty crept in. Was he supposed to knock? Ring the bell?

He lifted his hand and knocked. Firm and controlled. Then he waited. Seconds stretched thin. His jaw tightened. Still no answer.

He shifted, about to press the doorbell when— he heard footsteps on the other side.

His heartbeat picked up sharply, pulse thundering in his ears. He straightened unconsciously, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and something dangerously close to relief.

The door opened. And it was not you.

A girl stood there, unfamiliar. Long chestnut hair pulled into a low ponytail, an oversized band T-shirt hanging loosely over shorts. She held the door with one hand, studying him with open skepticism.

“Hello?” One fine eyebrow lifted. “Can I help you?”

Maekar composed himself instantly, though the brief flicker of something—hope, perhaps—had already died behind his eyes.

“Excuse my… interruption,” he said, forcing civility into his tone. “But doesn't Miss Y/N Y/L/N live here?”

She was scowling before recognition dawned on her face at the mention of your name. “Oh—yeah, she does. Well. She’s renting the apartment for now. She’s away in Sunspear. For some exchange program or something.”

The words struck like a physical blow. Sunspear? Exchange program?

The air seemed to thin around him.

You hadn’t said a word. Not a hint. Not a mention of such a thing.

He had seen you only days ago.

“Sir?” the girl prompted, visibly uncomfortable. “Are you her dad or something because—”

“Thank you.” He cut her off cleanly, voice clipped, already turning away.

He did not offer another glance. He did not bother to offer apologies or explanations.

“Creep,” he heard her mutter under her breath as he disappeared down the corridor.

He did not care.

He reached the car in long, sharp strides and slid back inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. His hand dragged through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the silver strands before moving to scratch at his beard. His mind was racing now—truly racing.

Sunspear, the capital of Dorne.

If he left now, he could be on a flight within three hours. He could get there. To you. He could find you.

And then what?

“Sir, where should I—” the driver began cautiously.

“King’s Landing Airport,” Maekar barked without a second thought.

The driver hesitated only a fraction of a second before pulling away from the curb.

As the city blurred past the tinted windows, Maekar’s thoughts spiraled.

He would arrive in Sunspear and do what exactly? Hunt you down across a foreign city? Stand in front of you and beg you to come back? To resume caring for his son? For his broken household?

Would he ask you to abandon your future because he was incapable of being a competent father on his own?

The image formed vividly—your face, resolute and disappointed.

He had already ruined enough lives with his grief, his coldness, his inability to move forward. Dyanna. Aegon. And now was it your turn?

Yours did not have to become another casualty. The car slowed at a red traffic light.

“Stop,” he breathed suddenly, the word almost lost beneath the hum of the engine.

The driver glanced back. “Sir?”

“Turn back.”

Silence filled the vehicle for half a heartbeat before the indicator clicked on.

He leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes briefly. He would not be the one to ruin this. Not this time.

—

Life in Dorne moved differently.

It was in the languid warmth of the sun that never seemed in a hurry to set, in the salt that lingered in the air and clung to your hair and skin long after you had left the sea. It was in the people who roamed the streets with unhurried steps, in the way laughter drifted lazily from shaded balconies, in the music that seemed to exist without performance — simply because it wished to.

The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices, sweet and sharp all at once. Markets spilled over with the finest silks in sunset hues and deep ocean blues, glittering jewelry catching the light as vendors called out softly to passing strangers.

Fresh fruit was piled high in woven baskets — oranges split open to reveal jeweled flesh, figs glistening with nectar, citrus elixirs poured into delicate glasses that sweated under the heat.

Everything about Sunspear was royal and grand. But not in the rigid, towering way King’s Landing was — not in marble columns and suffocating expectations — but in something slower. Something steadier and older. The kind of magic that did not need to announce itself to be known.

The people here did not rush. They did not shout. They did not live with anxiety curled tight in their ribs.

They lived for pleasure, not for survival.

They argued with fervor, and kisssed with passion.

The city was cradled by three seas, waves pressing against its shores like a constant lullaby, and by the Shadow City on the fourth side — narrow streets twisting through sun-baked stone and vibrant fabric awnings.

It felt insulated from the rest of the world. From politics. From grief. From dragons.

Your arrival had been entirely abrupt, messy and unplanned. You had not packed with excitement, rather with necessity.

Yet somehow, your days in Dorne offered something dangerously close to peace. A silent escape. A retreat from everything that had unraveled in the last few weeks — from the heavy halls of that house, from silver hair and violet eyes.

You were stretched out on the sand now, midday sun pressing warm kisses to your damp skin. A soft towel lay beneath you, grains of sand clinging stubbornly to the edges. You wore a simple bikini top and short linen trousers you had purchased from a local market — cream-colored and airy, tied loosely at the waist.

The fabrics here breathed with every movement, light and unrestrictive in a way your life in King’s Landing never had been.

Clarisse, bright-eyed, sun-drenched Clarisse — had insisted on bringing you to her favorite beach. She had claimed it was the perfect spot for swimming and tanning and forgetting.

You had agreed without hesitation. You would have agreed to anything that promised distraction from King's Landing.

Anything that might pull your mind away from the dragon family thousands of miles from you.

Clarisse was Dornish in every sense of the word. She studied at the University of Sunspear, the same exchange program that had given you an excuse to disappear.

Long brown curls framed her face in wild spirals, freckles scattered like constellations across her rich chocolate skin. She was beautiful in the effortless way all Dornish girls seemed to be.

Untouched by urgency, utterly carefree and languid.

They looked like they had stepped from oil paintings — springy locks, sun-kissed skin, gold and silver jewelry clattering musically against their wrists and ankles as they moved.

Their laughter was loud, unashamed. Their eyes bright with something playful and curious.

You often found yourself wondering if Dyanna had looked like them. Your thoughts drifted to her more often than you cared to admit.

Had she spoken with the same lilting accent? Had her voice carried that soft warmth beneath its strength? Had she possessed that playful glint all Dornish girls seemed to be born with? Had she dressed in flowing silks the color of ripe pomegranates or in the deep royal purple of House Dayne?

Would she have liked you here?

Would she have thanked you for loving her son? Her family?

The questions came uninvited and lingered far too long.

You sighed softly, leaning back on your elbows and squinting against the brightness overhead. The sky was impossibly blue, stretching endless and indifferent.

Clarisse was still somewhere in the sea, her laughter occasionally carried by the wind as she floated on her back. You could just make out her figure in the distance, arms spread wide as though embracing the horizon.

Beside you lay a discarded book — half-read and forgotten.

And Theodan, one of Clarisse’s friends. Apparently he was her neighbor incapable of missing an opportunity.

When he had heard Clarisse befriended the new foreign student, he had begged to tag along. He worked in his father’s shop in the city, she had told you.

"He's sweet, very persisten." She had warned you. "But harmless."

He had jet-black hair that curled slightly at the ends and warm chocolate-brown eyes that lingered a second too long. You had noticed the way he watched you throughout the day — offering to carry your beach bag, to fetch you drinks, to help you apply sunscreen.

You had politely refused the last offer.

Dornish people were very straightforward. You had learned that quickly. They said what they meant. Wanted what they wanted.

It was refreshing, sometimes intrusive.

You should have been flattered.

You should have been overjoyed to be here — in the sun, by the sea, admired by a sweet boy with kind eyes.

And yet something inside you felt hollow. As though a small, vital piece of your soul had been left behind in a house of cold stone and silver hair.

No amount of Dornish sunlight could warm that missing part. No lingering gazes could fill it.

You felt his eyes on you now but pretended not to notice, fingers sifting slowly through the warm sand.

“So…” he cleared his throat, his Common Tongue broken and thickly accented. “You like Sunspear?”

You turned your gaze to him slowly. He was propped on one elbow, absently drawing lines in the sand as he admired you with open sincerity.

You hummed. “Yes… it’s nice.”

Nice. Such an empty word for a place so alive.

“Westeros is different?” he asked, more question than statement.

A small chuckle escaped you. Technically, Dorne was part of Westeros. But you understood the pride here — the fierce independence threaded into their bones.

“Yes, it’s… much less…” You paused, searching for the word that would not offend. “Unhurried.

He frowned slightly, clearly unfamiliar with the term. Embarrassment flickered across his face before he shifted topics.

“Do you have boyfriend in Westeros?”

The bluntness almost made you laugh. You looked down at your hands, sand slipping between your fingers like time.

“No… No, I don’t.”

He huffed softly. “I don’t believe.”

Your lips twitched. “You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Someone… you… love? Care?”

The question struck deeper than he intended. And no matter how much you tried to stop it, faces rose unbidden in your mind.

Aegon with his mischievous eyes. Daeron’s awkward smile. Maekar's rare smile. Rhae and Daella tangled in laughter. Valarr’s quiet observance. Kiera’s bright laugh.

And even— Aerion.

You swallowed. Your throat tightened painfully.

But you shook your head. “No one.”

The lie tasted like saltwater.

He opened his mouth to press further, but before he could, Clarisse came sprinting from the sea toward you both, water dripping from her limbs, laughter spilling from her mouth. Her curls were plastered to her back, droplets catching in the sunlight.

“What are you two up to?” she demanded, grabbing her towel and scrubbing at her hair. Her Common Tongue was far smoother than Theodan’s.

“I hope he hasn’t annoyed the living hell out of you. He flirts with everyone.”

She plopped down beside you, bumping your shoulder playfully as Theodan smacked her arm in mock offense, clearly understanding far more than he could articulate. She shrieked in laughter.

You forced a smile.

“No… it’s fine. I appreciate the company.”

In all truth you appreciated the noise. The distraction. The way they did not know you well enough to see through you.

“There’s this new bar some girls from my class want to try tonight,” Clarisse said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should come with us. It’ll be fun.”

Fun she said. You searched her face — so open, so bright, so contagious — and found yourself unable to deny her.

“Sure,” you replied softly, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun.

“Great!” She beamed, genuinely exhilarated.

“Can I come?” Theodan asked innocently.

“No!” you and Clarisse said in unison.

And for a moment — just a brief, fleeting moment — you burst into laughter with them. Real laughter, which was light and unguarded.

And yet even as you laughed, a quiet ache lingered beneath it.

Because no matter how beautiful Dorne was, no matter how warm the sun or how kind the people, deep down you knew some part of you remained elsewhere. Across the sea. With dragons.

—

Daeron was nursing a glass of whiskey in his hand.

It was late at night — the kind of late where the house had long since fallen silent, where even the restless creaks of the old halls seemed to grow tired. Likely around one or two in the morning.

The darkness outside the tall windows was thick and endless, swallowing the gardens and the distant city lights whole.

His dreams had woken him again. As they always did.

It was such a casual occurrence now that part of him no longer even questioned it.

Since childhood the dreams had come and gone like unwanted guests — violent flashes of fire and wings, of heat so intense it felt as though his lungs might collapse beneath it. Yet no matter how many times they came, no matter how many mornings he woke with them fading from memory, it never became easier.

He always woke the same way. Cold sweat clinging to his skin. His heart hammering violently against his ribs.

And that invisible tension coiled deep in his muscles, as if some ancient instinct inside him believed he had truly been there — among fire and ruin.

So he had done what he always did.

He slipped quietly from his bed and padded down the dark hallway toward the study, bare feet soundless against the polished floor. The house was quiet enough that even the faintest movement echoed.

He pushed open the large oak doors.

The study was empty. Of course it was.

He reached for the small table lamp at the center of the room and flicked it on. Warm golden light spilled outward, illuminating the polished desk, the towering shelves of books, the heavy curtains drawn against the night.

For a moment he simply stood there, letting the quiet settle around him.

Then he walked to his father’s alcohol cabinet.

It was usually locked. But Daeron had a spare key. Because of course he did.

He slid it into the lock with practiced ease and opened the cabinet doors. The smell of aged liquor drifted out immediately — expensive, heavy, almost ceremonial.

His hand hovered briefly before selecting one of the stronger whiskeys.

He poured it slowly into a crystal glass, dropping in a few cubes of ice. They clinked softly as they settled, floating there as though daring him.

It always began like this. Just one glass. He would tell himself that every single time.

Just one to calm his nerves. Just one to quiet the racing thoughts that clawed at his skull after the dreams.

One became two. Two quickly turned into three. And somewhere along the way he stopped counting altogether.

Now the bottle of that ridiculously expensive whiskey sat in front of him on the desk — half empty.

He stared at it with dull, unfocused eyes.

The burn of the alcohol lingered in his throat, spreading warmth through his chest in that familiar way he had come to depend on. It stung going down, sharp and punishing.

How familiar it had become.

For years he had used it like this — to dull the fear, to smother the memories of dreams that felt far too real, to quiet the grief that never seemed to leave this wretched house.

And then you had come along. The thought rose unbidden, unwelcome.

You with your kind eyes and your careful words.

The way you moved through the halls as though you belonged there, as though the cold weight of the Targaryen household had never intimidated you in the first place.

You weren’t afraid to reprimand Aegon when he was being impossible, yet you loved him just as fiercely — fiercely enough that the boy had followed you around like a shadow.

Something in Daeron’s throat tightened painfully.

Hope. That was what you had been.

A small, fragile flicker of it in a house that had long since forgotten what it felt like.

And he — with his stupid dragon dreams and his quiet misery — had driven you away. He thought miserably.

He had asked Aegon where you were earlier that day.

The boy had nearly burst into tears right there in the hallway before stubbornly wiping them away with the heel of his hand.

“Gone,” he had said.

Just thst one word. Gone. He could see how much it pained his youngest brother.

Daeron hadn’t known what to say to that.

Now he couldn’t sleep. And when he did manage to drift off, the dreams came worse than ever — monstrous shapes tearing at each other in cavernous darkness, wings blotting out the sky, fire roaring so loud it drowned out every other sound.

He always ruined everything.

His dirty blonde hair fell into his face as he lowered his head, pale violet eyes shimmering with a sheen of unshed tears.

What use would crying do now? None. What’s done is done.

He swallowed hard and reached for his phone, some half-formed drunken thought bubbling up in his mind — maybe he could call you, maybe he could—

The study door creaked open and he froze instantly.

For a brief second he braced himself for his father’s voice, sharp and disappointed. A lecture. A reprimand. Another reminder of everything he had failed to be.

But it never came. Instead there were quiet footsteps.

They crossed the room behind him and stopped.

A sigh followed. Daeron would recognize that sound anywhere

Aerion.

He waited for the inevitable insult — something cutting and cruel, something designed to twist the knife deeper.

Or perhaps Aerion would snatch the bottle away with that cold sneer of his, saying the whiskey shouldn’t be wasted on drunkards like Daeron.

Instead there was only the soft sound of the cabinet door opening again. Daeron blinked slowly, confusion dulling his intoxicated thoughts as Aerion retrieved a second glass.

The chair across from him scraped softly against the floor as his brother sat down. Aerion’s movements were slower than usual, lacking their usual sharp aggression.

He looked… different. His eyes were sunken, shadows dark beneath them. Without a word he poured himself a small measure of whiskey. Then he downed it in a single swallow.

He did not meet Daeron’s eyes.

For the first time in what felt like years, Aerion did not look like the cruel, angry boy the world knew him to be.

He looked defeated. Hollowed out.

The sight reminded Daeron painfully of another day — years ago now — standing beside him at their mother’s funeral, both of them too young to understand the kind of grief that had swallowed their family.

The silence between them stretched long and fragile.

Neither spoke. Neither dared to.

But Daeron would never forget the way Aerion’s lip trembled, barely noticeable in the dim light of the lamp.

Nor the single, silent tear that slipped from his violet eye and fell onto the polished wood of the desk.

—

The kitchen was quiet — quiet only in the strange way it could be when half the members of its household were sitting inside it, yet no one was speaking to each other.

The large room was flooded with pale morning light filtering through the tall windows that overlooked the gardens. The marble counters gleamed softly, and the long dining table in the center of the room was set with the usual precision: porcelain plates, silver cutlery, linen napkins folded neatly beside them.

Breakfast had been laid out lavishly, as it always was.

Aegon sat opposite his sister Rhae, poking and prodding at the omelette on his plate but not actually putting a single bite of it into his mouth. The fork scraped idly against the porcelain as he moved the food around in absent circles.

In the past few days he had been too defeated to eat. Too defeated to study. Too defeated to play or do anything at all really.

The girls sat opposite him on the other side of the table, neatly dressed in their school uniforms. Their silver hair had been braided to match — two careful plaits resting over their shoulders the way the servants always styled it before school.

Rhae was staring down at her bowl of oatmeal with quiet dreariness, stirring it slowly though she wasn’t eating either. Beside her, Daella was scrolling lazily on her phone beneath the table. The slice of toast in front of her had grown cold and untouched.

At the head of the table sat Maekar.

He held a cup of black coffee between his hands, occasionally lifting it to take slow, thoughtful sips while he scrolled through emails on his phone. The faint glow of the screen reflected against his sharp features.

For once his brows weren’t furrowed in that constant scowl everyone in the house had grown accustomed to. But his lips were set in a straight, unmoving line.

One of the servants approached quietly, setting down a silver jug of freshly brewed tea beside the plates. The faint steam curled upward into the air, carrying the soft scent of bergamot and honey.

The table was filled with warm bread, fresh fruit, delicate pastries, perfectly cooked eggs — every possible luxury that could be expected in a household like this.

None of it seemed to matter. To Aegon this had always been normal. The luxury, the servants, the silence.

Still, he could tell something was gnawing at Rhae.

She kept opening and closing her mouth, as though debating whether to speak. Her spoon clinked faintly against the bowl before she finally lifted her gaze toward their father.

“Is YN going to come back?”

The question sliced cleanly through the quiet and lodged itself in the air like a knife.

Maekar slowly lifted his eyes from his phone.

For a brief moment — the briefest flicker — he looked unsure how to answer. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“No.”

The reply came cold and straightforward. Just like the rest of him.

Aegon’s mood soured instantly, pausing the scraping of his fork.

“Why?” Rhae pressed, her voice small but stubborn. “I liked her, she was nice and—”

“Enough of this now.” Maekar’s voice cut her off sharply, before she could press any further.

“Eat your breakfast, all three of you. And you too, Daella — leave that phone.”

His gaze moved over his children in quiet reprimand.

Daella slowly lifted her eyes from the screen to look at him. Then she scoffed.

This makeshift family breakfast was a strange occurrence none of them had wanted. Normally they ate at different times, drifting in and out of the kitchen like strangers passing through a hotel lobby.

But that morning their father had insisted on it. Why, none of them could decipher.

Rhae pushed her chair back suddenly. The legs scraped loudly across the floorboards as she stood. Without another word she walked out of the kitchen.

A servant stepped forward almost immediately to collect her untouched plate.

Maekar watched his daughter leave, his mouth parting slightly as if he meant to say something. But the protest never came.

Daella stood soon after.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, shoving her phone into her pocket. “And we need to go to school.” She disappeared after her sister without waiting for permission.

Which left only Aegon and Maekar sitting at the table.

The silence that settled between them felt thicker than before.

Maekar glanced down at Aegon’s plate, jaw tense. “I suppose you’re not going to eat that.”

Aegon shook his head.

The older man sighed, rubbing slowly at his temple.

“Go to your room. Maellon should be arriving any minute. Did you do your High Valyrian homework?”

“Yes, father.” The reply came automatically.

“Very well.” Maekar nodded once.

“May I go now?” Aegon asked, staring at the two empty chairs where his sisters had been sitting only moments ago.

“You may.” His father dismissed him with a small wave of his hand.

Aegon stood and left the kitchen without another word.

As he walked through the long corridors of the house toward his bedroom, the quiet followed him like a shadow.

His thoughts drifted back to the first day you hadn’t come.

The day after the charity gala. At first he thought you must have fallen ill. Maybe you had simply forgotten to text him. It happened sometimes.

So he waited.

He waited all morning, wandering restlessly through the house, glancing toward the door every time he heard footsteps in the hallway.

But you never came.

By afternoon he had begun to feel uneasy, and by evening the feeling had turned into something sharper.

Finally, at around six o’clock, he decided to message you himself.

Egg

hey, where are you? are you sick? you forgot to mention you weren't coming?

The message sat there. Delivered. But unanswered.

Something about it bothered him deeply, though he refused to admit it even to himself. He told himself he wasn’t a little child anymore.

He didn’t need someone hovering over him all the time. He didn’t need to be reassured and coddled.

Still, that night he slept uneasily.

The second day he asked his father about it.

Maekar had barely looked up from his paperwork when he answered. “She resigned.”

Resigned? The word hadn’t made sense. Why?

Aegon had stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline — waiting for the moment his father would admit he was joking. But there had been no humor in his voice.

Aegon almost shouted at him then. He almost accused him outright of driving you away. Yet something stopped him.

A quiet, traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Of course she left. They always leave, don’t they? It’s all your fault.

The incessant voices kept repeating.

The thought had burrowed deep inside his chest.

He remembered every moment he had been difficult. Every sarcastic remark. Every time he had rolled his eyes or refused to listen.

The charity gala. Running away from it like a stupid child because he couldn’t stand being there. Because he wanted to escape.

Maybe that had been the final straw. Maybe you had simply grown tired of him. Fed up.

And so you had left. Just like that.

Aegon rubbed angrily at his eyes as he reached his bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him.

Maellon would be arriving any moment. He had to compose himself.

Still, the absence lingered everywhere.

In the quiet halls. In the empty afternoons. In the way the house seemed colder somehow.

He missed your laughter. Your honest words. The way you cared for him like no one had in a very long time.

Stop. He scolded himself. She’s just a memory now. Forget about it.

He repeated the thought stubbornly as Maellon entered the room moments later, greeting him warmly before setting down his satchel and preparing for the day’s lesson.

Maellon had been speaking for nearly ten minutes.

Something about the origins of the Free Cities. Yet Aegon had not absorbed a single word.

His mind drifted constantly back to you. Where were you, what were you doing, with who were you—

“And that is how the merchants who went to Braavos—” The old man stopped mid-sentence.

“You are not listening, young sir.”

Aegon sighed. “I am.” But even he knew that wasn’t true.

“Then tell me,” Maellon said calmly, adjusting his spectacles, “why did the merchants sail and set out for the Free Cities?”

Aegon had no answer.

He leaned his head against his hand, elbow resting on the desk, and rolled his eyes. “This is stupid anyway,” he muttered under his breath.

Maellon leaned forward slightly in his chair.

“I see the young lad is in a foul mood today.”

Aegon said nothing.

“What irks you so?” the old man asked gently.

Still Aegon refused to look at him.

“Nothing.” The answer came quietly.

Maellon studied him for a moment.

“Is it the young lady who looks after you?”

His voice had softened now.

Aegon refused to respond.

But the tightening in his throat returned instantly. His eyes stung.

Maellon slowly removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk.

“I speak to you now not as a professor,” he said quietly. “But as the man who pulled you from your mother’s wailing body and into this world.”

Aegon blinked, startled by the words.

“And I was the one who placed you upon her chest when you were born.”

The old man’s gaze softened.

“So listen to me very well, boy, when I say this: your mother will love you until the very end of your days. In life and in death.”

Aegon frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“My mother is dead.”

The words came out sharper than he intended. Venom and sorrow tangled together.

“Aye,” Maellon said quietly.

“But that does not mean she is not here with you. She lives inside your heart.”

He leaned forward slightly, pointing at his own chest.

“And I know this much — if she had wanted anyone to look after you… to care for you… it would have been someone like her.”

Something cracked inside Aegon then. He turned his watery gaze toward the old man, pleading.

Maellon reached into his satchel and offered him a tissue.

“Come now, lad,” he said gently. “Wipe your tears.”

Aegon took it reluctantly, rubbing at his eyes.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. Only that the hollow ache inside his chest had grown heavier.

Maellon picked up his glasses again and placed them back on his nose.

“Now,” he said calmly, opening the book again, “shall we return to the Free Cities?”

Aegon leaned back in his chair. And this time… he tried to listen.

—

The air in the bar was filled with smoke.

Everything around you felt hazy and foreign. The unfamiliar music thumping through the speakers, people yelling over the noise in languages you did not speak, even the drinks they served here were different.

The way people danced and moved their bodies was more languid, more natural than you had ever seen before. Their arms curved through the air like waves, hips swaying without embarrassment, laughter spilling easily between them as if life itself moved to the same rhythm as the music.

You were in a pale white linen dress — the fabric thin and light against your skin, the kind of dress that belonged in warm weather and seaside afternoons. It clung faintly to your legs whenever someone brushed past you.

The bar Clarisse had dragged you to was full of people, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the smell of citrus and alcohol and smoke swirling into one heavy haze.

The group of girls you were with sat beside you at the bar, laughing and dancing, their bracelets clinking against the marble counter whenever they raised their drinks.

One of them had climbed halfway off her stool already, swaying along to the music with a grin so wide it made the bartender laugh.

You were nursing a cold unfamiliar cocktail, taking a sip every now and then. It was bright blue — some kind of fruit you had never heard of floating inside the glass. The taste was sharp and sweet at the same time, and every time it touched your tongue you winced slightly, not quite able to place what it was supposed to be.

You scanned the crowd, not quite certain what you were searching for, though deep down you knew you were anticipating that flash of pale white hair that never appeared.

The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.

And yet your eyes kept drifting to the door anyway.

Every time it opened you felt your heart give a tiny stutter before logic returned and reminded you how far away King’s Landing was. How far away everything was.

Clarisse clearly noted your discomfort and she leaned on her elbow beside you.

“Hey, is everything okay… you seem kind of, far away?” She asked gently. Her voice cut through the noise somehow, softer than the music around you.

You gave her a weary smile — you hated being the buzzkill but no matter how much you tried to, your life in Dorne was simply not going as you had anticipated.

“I.. no—” you began, pinching at your fingers beneath the counter, but she shot an arm out and put it on your shoulder.

“Hey, no need to lie. I can see it on your face.” She tilted her head, studying you in that quiet observant way of hers.

“Your body cannot lie, and by the way northerners are always so see through.”

She was not judging you. She was merely observing.

You huffed out a nervous cough taking a sip of your colorful drink and wincing at the taste.

“I have known you for a very short time…” she continued calmly, “but I can see it on your face… your heart, your mind it does not belong here. It cannot appreciate Dorne while it yearns for someplace else.”

The truth in her words froze you and for a moment you stilled, unsure how to respond.

Your fingers tightened around the glass. You bit your lip.

And what if you went back to King’s Landing? What then?

Would life just resume? Normally?

No. You knew it would not.

People would gawk at you and ask why you hadn't stayed in Dorne and you'd awkwardly have to explain. There would be whispers in hallways, curious glances across tables. Lyonel Baratheon would never forgive you and you'd have to live with that uncomfortable reality for the rest of the year.

You hadn’t texted Kiera since you left. Would this be it? The end of your relationship?

And Gods — the Targaryens.

They would certainly never take you back in after just disappearing off the face of the earth.

The thought made your chest tighten. Aegon’s face flashed in your mind.

You swallowed hard.

You were trying to calculate, to do the math in your head, but there was no solution. There was no equation where everyone came out unharmed.

You could feel the tears prickle at your eyes.

“I’m sorry I need a breath of fresh air..” you barely choked out as you stood up from the bar and pushed through the crowd of people.

Clarisse called after you and stood to follow but after a while she got lost in the sea of bodies. You didn’t look back.

The outside air was warm but at least not so stuffy.

The street outside the bar stretched out in uneven cobblestones illuminated by golden streetlamps. Somewhere nearby someone was playing a guitar, the music drifting lazily through the night like it had nowhere urgent to be.

An old man was selling some kind of fruit on the other side of the street, even at this late hour, his stall lit by a dim lantern. The fruit were bright red and cut open to reveal deep orange flesh.

A few children ran shrieking through the street, chasing each other between the buildings while a woman shouted after them in a language you did not understand.

The lights and moonlight illuminated it, and for the first time you let the tears fall freely.

You thought coming to Dorne would solve your problems.

You had made a promise to distance yourself, for the better.

Yet it only left a worse ache in your chest.

You hugged your arms around yourself as the warm wind moved through the street, carrying the smell of salt from the sea.

For a moment you imagined the Red Keep rising above the cliffs instead of the sandy stone buildings of Sunspear.

You imagined the sound of Aegon’s laughter echoing through the halls.

You imagined—

Just as you wiped furiously at your tears, your breath caught and your heartbeat stuttered.

A boy with an almost completely shaved head was standing on the corner of the street. Thin and small. Almost exactly Aegon’s height.

“Egg?” you called out without thinking.

The word left your mouth before logic could stop it.

The boy turned sharply. But he did not have purple eyes and the lines of his face were completely different.

He scowled, clearly insulted by the nickname he did not understand.

“I.. I’m sorry..” you let out, though you knew the boy probably didn't understand much.

He stared at you another moment before turning away and walking down the street.

You gaped at him as he disappeared into the night. Your hands tightened in the fabric of your skirt. The ache in your chest deepened.

You clutched at your skirt and decided to go back inside.

The music hit you like a wall the moment you stepped back through the door. There you found Clarisse. A less carefree expression on her face this time.

Clearly she had given up on comforting you. When you appeared she did not acknowledge you. She merely turned her head and ignored you.

Clearly she was cross because of what you had done. Which she had every right to be in some sense.

“I'm going to the bathroom.” you shouted over the noise but none of them paid you any attention.

You pushed through the crowd and made it to thebathroom which was just as old and dingy like the rest of the place.

The tiles were cracked and the fluorescent light flickered faintly above the mirror.

You found a free stall where you sat down. It was dirty and frankly disgusting but you could not bring yourself to care. Not right now.

You pulled out your phone.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before searching for a familiar contact.

Kiera.

You doubted she would pick up.

It was what — maybe around 6am in King’s Landing?

The phone rang. And rang.

You stared at the stall door as your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

And then— “Hello?”

A groggy voice called out.

“Kiera.”

Your breath caught.

“Wh.. shit it's you.” Her voice suddenly sobered up, recognising your tone.

“Oh Kiera..”

You felt the tears come the second time. And right now you were full on sobbing.

“Oh shit.. yeah Valarr it’s—” you could hear her speak to her boyfriend over the phone.

“Hey listen to me everything is going to be okay, are you fine, are you hurt? Where are you?”

She bombarded you with questions as you heard her rise from the bed.

“I’m fine Kie… I just… I want to go home..”

It physically hurt you to say it. But once it tore from your chest you felt more free than ever.

“I can’t do this..” you whispered.

“Oh honey..” she sighed, voice more calm now knowing you were fine.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“No.. I pinky promise..” you laughed weakly. You had only one cocktail, which did not even count for being tipsy.

“Shit. Why did you fucking leave? I told you not to go!”

Her tone was not angry. It was more of a I told you so. And you couldn't help but laugh, feeling like yourself for the first time in a long while.

“Look we’re going to get you on a plane from Sunspear to King’s Landing just.. hang on.. it’s 6 am here, reckon you could wait one more day?”

“Yeah… but not longer..” you breathed.

She laughed. A disbelieving but free laugh.

“Seven hells… I'd love to stay and talk to you but Valarr is giving me a death glare, I have to go now, it’s like 6 am and I am severely decaffinated.”

You could practically hear her rubbing her eyes through the phone.

“Love you Kie.” You breathed before she would disappear.

“Love you too, and see you soon I guess." You could hear the smile in her voice.

The line clicked.

And suddenly the bathroom was quiet again. But the grin on your face was larger than it had ever been.

—

You were laying in your bed in your apartment in Sunspear.

It must have been around four or five in the morning.

The smoke still clung to your skin, tangled in your hair and the linen dress you had not bothered to change out of. It was a little bit dusty and stained after your night out.

You thought back to the girls you had met. Clarisse’s bitter rejection felt stale in your chest.

But none of it mattered as you lay on the cold sheets looking out at the sea. Your window was open and the curtains moved softly in the breeze.

Beyond the balcony the water stretched endlessly into the darkness, the moon painting silver lines across the waves. And somewhere beyond that sea was King's Landing.

You were going home.

The thought settled into your chest like something fragile and glowing. Like the soft quiet promise at the end of a long song.

Tomorrow you would pack your things. Tomorrow you would get on a plane.

Tomorrow—

And then as if a thing out of a dream or trance your phone dinged.

You glanced at it lazily and your heart skipped.

Daeron Targaryen. The notification clearly read.

Something wonderful perked in your chest. Your fingers moved before you could think.

But when you opened the message it was like everything had ceased to exist. Like the world had been plunged into darkness.

The screen glowed in the dim room.

Daeron Targaryen

hi, i know i have absolutely no right to be texting you but… we need you to come home, baelor has been in an accident.

And your heart dropped to your stomach.

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©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

.✦ ݁˖ quick reads ass date hc gentle lover lay all your love fuckin in the bath* summer's afternoon* toxic bf hc sleepy boy guard dog couple nightmares lazy mornings carnival hc life with theo hc worm precious .✦ ݁˖ AUs fast and furious

HEADCANONS:

Untouched. [Dark!Aegon | smut]

She's Wonderful [Fanon!Aegon | fluff]

Childish Love [Modern AU | angst | fluff | smut]

Strangers to Lovers [Modern AU | chubby!Aegon | angst | fluff | smut]

Teacher's Pet [Modern AU | Professor!Aegon, angst | fluff | smut]

Servant to the Moon. [Werewolf!Aegon | angst | fluff | smut]

Baby Fever! [Dad!Aegon | smut | fluff]

Stranger Danger! [Dark!Stalker!Aegon | angst | smut | fluff]

Ignorant Cruelty [Mean!chubby!King!Aegon | angst | smut]

No.1 Fan [Rugby!player!Aegon | smut | fluff]

My Best Girl [Best Friend’s Dad!Aegon | fluff | angst | smut]

ONE-SHOTS:

Angel of My Dreams [chubby!Aegon | angst | fluff]

Our Child [fanon!Aegon | angst | fluff]

Delicate [fanon!Aegon | smut]

Sweets, Treats & a Princess. [dad!King!Aegon | fluff]

Satisfied, Yet? [chubby!King!Aegon | angst | smut]

A Little Too Tight... [chubby!King!Aegon | angst | smut]

Seconds, Please? [Modern AU | chubby!Aegon | angst | smut]

Bound to You. [Modern AU | chubby!Dad!Aegon | fluff | smut]

Happy Wife, Happy Life... [Modern AU | chubby!Aegon | angst | smut]

Union of the Dragon & the Wolf. [King!Aegon | angst | smut]

Dilemmas & Dreams. [Modern AU | dark!Aegon | angst | smut]

Touch Starved. [King!Aegon | angst | smut]

Hardly Workin' [Modern AU | chubby!CEO!Aegon | smut]

Duty to the Realm. [King!Aegon | smut]

My Dream Girl... [Moder AU | chubby!Fratboy!Aegon | angst | smut | fluff]

To Lead Astray or Not... [Modern AU | chubby!Professor!Aegon | angst | smut | fluff]

Playboy [Modern AU | chubby!Gamer!Aegon | angst | smut]

Cinammon Crush [Modern AU | chubby!Professor!Aegon | smut]

Mericless or Ruthless? [Fanon!Aegon | smut]

Existence of a Woman. [chubby!King!Aegon | angst | fluff]

Daddy's Princess [King!Aegon x daughter!Targaryen!Reader | angst | smut]

A King to Fear... [King!Aegon | angst | smut]

All I Want for Christmas... [Modern AU | chubby!Aegon | fluff | smut]

Divine Honour. [King!Aegon | smut | fluff]

For Good Measure… [Daddy!King!Aegon | smut | angst]

Appetite [Chubby!Aegon | smut]

SERIES:

The Wolf & the Stray Girl. [Red Riding Hood AU | Werewolf!Aegon | angst | smut | fluff] - Prologue | 1 |