he goes down without resistance. he always does for you. he lets you tip him backward onto the blankets—the fabric sighing under his weight, the nest reshaping itself around him—lets you settle him onto his back like he's furniture you're rearranging. his eyes are wide and curious, a little startled because you don't usually move him.

you climb on top of him.

you don't look at his face. you can't. the lights are too bright and your skin is too tight and you can't articulate a single human thought right now. you just push your hands up under the bottom of his hoodie, under his shirt, shoving the fabric up around his ribs. your knuckles drag across his stomach, the skin smooth and cool like river stone, and then you duck your head and crawl under the hem.

it's dark under there.

it's quiet under there.

bb's stomach is cool against your cheek. the cotton of his hoodie is a small dim tent over your head, soft against the back of your neck, and the harsh lights are gone. completely gone. blocked out by the fabric, and you exhale for the first time all day.

your whole body unclenches. you press your face against the smooth wrong-temperature skin of his torso and listen to the absence of his heartbeat and feel the low hum vibrating through his sternum, through his ribs. press closer to the cool, flat plane of his stomach where your cheek rests.

you can smell him. damp cotton, and underneath that, mineral and ancient scent. like stone that's been underground for a very long time. it should be unsettling. yet somehow it's the most comforting thing in the world.

you close your eyes.

shh.

bb has gone completely, utterly still.

you remember, vaguely, somewhere in the back of your tired exhausted brain real bobby. before everything went wrong.

lying in bed with him on a sunday afternoon, the light coming through his bedroom window warm and golden, and joking i want to be so close to you i'm basically in your ribcage and bobby laughing and saying babe that's weird and pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your hair.

he'd held you like that for a while. you could hear his heartbeat, real and steady and human, and his skin was warm. he smelled like skin, cheap soap and even cheaper cologne he'd worn since sophomore year, and you'd thought this. this is all i need.

he would have let you stay there. he did let you stay there. he was really good once. he just couldn't sustain it. the arms would loosen. the attention would drift. he'd reach for his pager with one hand while the other went slack against your back and you'd feel the moment he left even though his body was still there.

bb is not leaving.

his hands are hovering somewhere above you. you can feel the space where they should be, the cool absence of contact, the careful displacement of air. and you can sense him not knowing what to do. processing. trying to figure out the protocol for the love of his existence has just burrowed under his clothes and pressed her face against his stomach and is making a small, contented noises.

then, slowly, gently, his hands settle.

palm flat against your back through the layers of his hoodie. the weight of his hand steady and deliberate, fingers spread wide, covering as much of you as he can reach. the other curls around the back of your head, holding you to him, fingers threading at the nape of your neck where the tension lives.

the humming starts.

not in his throat. in his chest. you feel it everywhere your skin touches his. that low constant vibration, the resonance that means safe, mine, stay. and it's so much closer like this, so much louder. you're inside it now. you've crawled into the source. it moves through bb's ribs and into your cheekbone and down through your jaw, settling in your chest.

your breathing syncs to it without your permission. your body trusting him before your brain can object.

he understands. he doesn't say anything but he understands.

somewhere in his unknowable processing he's connecting this to every joke you've ever made, every offhand comment about wanting to be closer. every small, impossible wish you've voiced to other people who couldn't give it to you. he's filing this moment in whatever he has instead of memory and labelling it she chose me. she crawled into me. she came home.

bb's hand strokes unhurriedly down your back through the hoodie. up. down. his fingers find the knots along your spine and press (not hard, just enough, just exactly enough) and the tension you've been carrying between your shoulder blades releases in a way that makes your breath stutter.

you press closer. your arm curls around his side, fingers finding the ridge of his lower ribs. too prominent, the set up slightly wrong, the bones just a fraction too defined under the skin, and you hold on.

the hum deepens.

you fall asleep there.

in the dark. against his bare skin. under his clothes. inside the warm cotton tent that smells like cold stone and uniquely him.

the lights stop bothering you because you can't see them anymore. the migraine ebbs. your breathing slows and matches the rhythm of his impossible non-breath. you can feel his chest rise and fall—performing it, mirroring your rhythm, breathing because you're breathing, syncing himself to you the way he syncs everything to you.

bb doesn't move for the rest of the day.

he could. he doesn't.

he stays exactly where he is. one hand on your back. one in your hair. humming his tuneless song into the dark space where you've made yourself small against him. and somewhere in level 0, the fluorescent lights dim by a degree, then another, then another. soft, dim, gentle. because his girl is sleeping and the harshness was hurting her and he's the walls, the carpet, the lights and he'll simply make them stop.

rib time.

shh.

Dunk is mid-lecture, voice earnest and hands gesturing as he warns you about wandering off alone or doing something reckless.

He’s sure he’s making a point, full of righteous indignation, and slightly red from how much he cares.

Then you start loosening your dress slowly, his words faltering the moment your bodice unlaces, silk slipping softly to the floor. His eyes go wide, color rushing from his face straight down his neck as he stammers.

“By the gods…y-you can’t just—that’s not fair—”

He tries to look away like the honorable oaf he is, but his gaze keeps dragging back to your bare tits and the slick already glistening between your thighs, the sight making his breeches tent painfully fast.

Honour holds for about five heartbeats before it gives. 

Moments later he has his big, rough hands under your thighs hoisting you up and pinning you against the wall with his body crowding yours as he pounds into you, already lost and rutting like a bull in heat. 

Every brutal thrust drives so deep you feel the thick head of his cock kiss your cervix, the force of it creating a faint, obscene bulge low in your belly that he can see every time he pulls back and slams home again.

He groans loud and broken each time your cunt clenches tight around him, the sound raw and desperate.

“Shouldn’t—fuck—do this when I’m mad at ya,” he pants against your throat, voice wrecked and ragged but his hips never slow.

He keeps going until he feels you clench around him and you’re gasping his name then he pulls out at the last second with a strangled curse, spilling hot and thick across your stomach in heavy, shuddering pulses.

After a moment, he’ll ease you down onto unsteady legs before dropping to his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as his mouth finds your heat without hesitation.

Apologies spill from him between filthy sucks on your clit until you’re shaking, fingers tangled in his hair until neither of you can remember what the argument was even about.

Baelor is calm and measured, laying out his point with logic and quiet authority—every word annoyingly irrefutable, especially as he explains with infuriating patience why you shouldn’t have challenged the council on your own.

The more he speaks, the more you know he’s right… and the more it grates.

It doesn’t stop you from testing him anyway.

If anything, it’s what prompts you to let your gown whisper to the floor.

He pauses, eyes darkening, but he doesn’t falter outwardly. Instead he steps closer, voice dropping to velvet command. 

“You would wield your beauty itself as a blade, my love, to tempt your prince’s mercy?”

He towers over you, pinning you gently against the bedpost with his body alone. His hands come to rest at your hips, firm yet careful as they hold you in place.

His gaze lingers, roaming over you with a flicker of both admonishment and need in his eyes.

“You think to test me so boldly… and yet…” His voice dips, rougher now. “I find I cannot resist.”

With that, his hands shift, tightening on your waist as he turns you around. In one smooth motion, he guides you forward over the edge of the bed, following close behind until his body presses to yours.

He starts with his fingers, working you until your body convulses around him, sobs spilling from your lips.

Every reaction only seems to draw him in further, his restraint wearing thinner with each passing moment and pushing him on until he has you squirting over his wrist. 

When you’ve come undone he doesn’t pause, quickly replacing his fingers with his cock, entering you slowly allowing you to feel the stretch inch by punishing inch.

Each thrust is deep, pressing against your cervix while your voice breaks into ragged, babbled apologies, begging even as your body screams for more.

He spends the night proving his point with relentless attention, drawing out every gasp and shiver until your soft sounds turn to breathless pleas. 

“Please… I can’t, not again,” you manage, but he only presses on, guiding you through it again and again and keeping you exquisitely overstimulated, your body trembling as each wave crashes into the next, until at last you’re spent and utterly broken beneath him.

When you finally collapse, he leans close, his voice low and smooth against your ear.

“Perhaps… we might revisit the matter on the morrow.”

Justice served, in his way.

Maekar is already scowling, his voice sharp as Valyrian steel as he lectures you about your recklessness—or your defiance.

He’s certain he’s winning this argument, every word dripping with that prickly judgment you know so well.

So, of course… you start loosening your dress. Just enough that his sharp words falter. His eyes go wide, his scowl faltering into something very close to disbelief. 

“What—what are you—” he stammers, voice cracking where it never should.

He’s a stubborn man, but even Maekar cannot argue with this kind of… persuasion.

You let the gown fall.

He doesn’t move for a full five seconds—just stares with those violet eyes like he’s trying to decide whether he’s angrier or harder.

“You little viper,” he growls and then in two strides he’s on you. Big hands seize your waist, and he hauls you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, carrying you straight to the bed with purposeful, angry steps.

No more lectures. No more words.

He throws you down onto the mattress and pins your wrists above your head with one iron grip before his mouth descends on your throat, biting hard enough to leave dark marks that will linger for days.

After that, he’ll fuck you like punishment—hard and relentless, hips snapping so brutally the bedframe groans beneath you. One hand cracks across your ass again and again until the skin glows bright red and stings with every thrust.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, already pounding deep, voice rough with lust and lingering anger. “My cock splitting your disobedient cunt?”

You can only moan and nod, too wrecked to form words. He drives into you even harder, the wet slap of skin echoing with every brutal thrust until his rhythm starts to falter.

With a deep, guttural groan he’ll bury himself to the hilt and cum hard inside you—thick, hot pulses flooding your cunt as he grinds deep, making sure every drop stays buried where it belongs.

For a long moment the only sound is your ragged breathing and the creak of the bed as he collapses beside you. Then Maekar drags you against his chest, one large hand possessively cupping your marked ass while the other strokes through your hair.

When he finally speaks again it’s only to rasp against your ear: “Next time you pull that, I won’t stop until you’re crying my name instead of arguing.”

Aerion's voice drips with disdain, each word sharp with superiority. There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this—only surrendering to the storm he has already decided to unleash.

So you do the one thing you know will stop his tirade. In one slow movement, you slip your gown from your shoulders, letting the it fall to the floor.

The sight robs him of every ounce of arrogance. He opens his mouth… then closes it, caught completely off guard.

Your slow, deliberate smile only sharpens the effect and his gaze darkens, hungry and dangerous as they trace your curves before lingering on your slick thighs.

Then he laughs, sharp and unhinged, sending shivers down your spine. His hand grips your throat enough to hold but not to steal your breath, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw so you’re forced to meet those wild violet eyes.

“You offer yourself like tribute? How quaint,” he purrs, voice dripping with mocking sweetness. “As if a dragon needs permission to take what already belongs to him.”

In the next breath he yanks you forward and crashes his mouth against yours—all teeth and fire, the kiss is less affection and more conquest. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and curled in a cruel smile.

“You think this will silence me, little lamb?”

He spins you around and shoves you face down onto the bed with startling strength, one knee pinning your thighs apart. His hand stays locked around the back of your neck, holding you down as he rips his own breeches open.

“Dragons do not bargain,” he growls against your ear, hot and vicious. “They burn. They claim. They breed.”

He spits once before he lines himself up and drives into you in one savage thrust—so deep you feel the blunt head of his cock kiss your cervix.

A broken sound escapes your throat, but Aerion only laughs again, low and delighted, as he starts fucking you with brutal, punishing strokes.

The bed slams against the wall with every snap of his hips. One hand yanks your hair back, forcing your back to arch sharply while the other cracks across your ass, leaving bright red prints that bloom on your skin. 

“Sing for me,” he demands, voice wild with lust and lingering fury. “Let the whole Red Keep hear how sweetly a dragon’s whore moans.”

He rides you harder, faster, until his rhythm turns erratic and his breathing turns into snarls. With a final, feral groan he buries himself to the hilt and cums deep inside you—thick, scalding pulses flooding your cunt as he grinds against your cervix like he wants his seed to take root.

Only when he’s spent does he loosen his grip on your neck. He stays buried inside you, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Next time you dare interrupt a dragon…” he whispers, voice soft but trembling with dangerous amusement, “…you’d best be prepared to burn, my sweet.”

Valarr was coolly dismantling your argument as he lays out his point, certain that logic is on his side.

You watch him for a moment before you slowly begin to slip out of your dress, letting it fall from your shoulders with deliberate grace.

His words falter mid-sentence, a sharp intake of breath catching where confidence had been. He swallows, eyes darkening as they trace your curves, lingering on the swell of your breasts.

For a heartbeat he simply stares, the prince’s usual composure cracking. Then a slow, heated smile curves his lips.

He rises from his chair and crosses the room in two quick strides, trying to look composed even as his hands betray a slight tremble when he pulls you flush against him.

One arm wraps around your waist, firm and possessive, while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face up so you meet his two-toned eyes.

“You think you can win every argument by making me forget my own name?” he asks, thumb brushing your lower lip. There’s a hint of boyish amusement in his tone, but the grip on your waist is unmistakably dominant. “Clever girl.”

He leans down and kisses you—deep and hungry. When he pulls back, his breathing is already uneven.

“Since you’ve decided to distract me so shamelessly…” He lifts you with surprising ease, carrying you to the bed and laying you down with careful gentleness, though his eyes burn with clear want. “…then I’ll have to remind you who’s in charge here.”

He settles over you, caging you in while his mouth trails hot, open mouthed kisses down your throat, then lower, sucking lightly at the curve of your breast before drawing a nipple into his mouth with a low, appreciative groan.

One hand pins your wrists above your head while the other strokes slowly between your thighs, teasing, learning what makes you gasp.

“Look at me,” he commands quietly, voice still young but threaded with authority. When you obey, his expression softens just a fraction, warm affection shining through the dominance. 

He keeps you on edge like that, kissing and touching until you’re trembling and whispering his name. Only then does he push his breeches down and slide inside you—slow and deep, a soft hiss escaping him as he feels how wet you are.

“That’s it… take all of me,” he breathes against your neck, hips rolling in a steady, powerful rhythm. “You’re mine to argue with… mine to fuck… mine to love.”

He builds the pace gradually until your legs are shaking around his waist. When you start to clench around him, he presses his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours.

“Come for me, sweet girl,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “Let me feel you.”

The moment you shatter around him, he follows with a broken groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside you—filling you as he holds you close, hips jerking with each wave.

Afterwards he doesn’t pull away. He stays buried inside you, rolling you both onto your sides so he can tuck you against his chest. His hand strokes slow circles over your back while the other brushes damp strands of hair from your face with tenderness.

“Should you wish to end an argument again,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, a shy smile tugging at his lips, “you may simply ask, my love. Though I must admit… your method is far more enjoyable.”

Daeron tries to reason with you, convinced that careful words will eventually sway you, when you start sliding your dress off your shoulders, before letting it pool at the ground.

He stops mid-word, the goblet of wine in his hand stopping halfway to his lips. A crooked, thoroughly amused grin tugs at his mouth as his eyes rake over every newly revealed inch of skin.

“Seven hells, love—warn a man,” he laughs, low and warm.

He sets the wine down (a small miracle) and reaches for you instead, pulling you straight into his lap with strong, eager hands.

The moment your bare chest presses against him, his mouth is on you—kissing every bit of newly exposed skin with wet, open-mouthed affection.

His hands greedily cup and squeeze your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples before pinching just hard enough to make you whine and arch into him.

He doesn’t stop there. His lips travel lower, sucking marks into the valley between your breasts, then down your stomach, until he’s sliding you off his lap and onto the edge of the table. With a wicked grin he drops to his knees, pushing your thighs wide apart before burying his face between them without hesitation.

“Fuck… you taste so sweet,” he groans against your cunt, voice already thick and messy. “Better than any wine I’ve ever had.”

His tongue laps at you eagerly, almost sloppy in his hunger, while two thick fingers curl deep inside you stroking that perfect spot with practiced ease.

He hums and praises you the whole time—soft, filthy words vibrating against your clit until your thighs start to tremble.

“Come on my face, love,” he murmurs, sucking harder. “Drown me. Let me feel it.”

You shatter with a broken cry, hips jerking against his mouth. He doesn’t let up, only growling in satisfaction as he continues until you come a second time, flooding his tongue while he drinks every drop like a man dying of thirst.

Only then does he rise, lips shiny and swollen and eyes dark with lust and affection. He leans over you, hands bracing on either side, letting his weight press you gently against the surface.

Then he slides into you slowly and deeply, savoring every inch, every shiver, and every gasp that escapes you as he sets the rhythm with lazy but unrelenting thrusts.

“Gods… this cunt,” he mutters against your shoulder, voice rough and reverent. “So fucking perfect… made for me. I don’t deserve you, sweet girl.”

He keeps the pace unhurried, grinding deep on every stroke, murmuring praise and little endearments until your legs are shaking again. When you clench around him, he groans long and low, burying himself to the hilt as he comes hard.

He stays buried deep, draped over your face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you, holding you close while he catches his breath.

“Fight me again tomorrow,” he whispers against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss just below your ear, a smile clear in his voice. “I like losing when it feels this fucking good.”

Lyonel's laughter booms across the room, full of fire and pride. “By the gods, woman! You argue like a bloody gale!” 

His words falter as your dress hits the floor, and for a long moment he simply stares, wide-eyed and raucous. Then a grin spreads across his face wickedly.

“Oh, you fight dirty.”

He strides forward, big hands seizing your hips and tugging you flush against him. His body is all heat and solid strength, chest rumbling as he growls low against your ear. “And I bloody love it.”

Before you can respond, he scoops you up effortlessly and tosses you over the thick arm of the chair, leaving your ass up and your chest pressed into the cushions. He gives one playful, resounding smack to your backside, the sound echoing sharply.

“Thought you could end an argument with this pretty cunt? Hmm?”

He drops to his knees behind you before spreading you wide with both large hands, and devours you. His tongue dives straight to your entrance first—hot, broad, and greedy—licking through your soaked folds before pushing inside, tasting you deep.

His beard is already glistening, soaked with your arousal as he growls against your cunt, voice rough and filthy.

Only when you start whimpering and pushing back against his face does he drag his tongue upward, circling your swollen clit with slow strokes. Then he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them hard against that perfect spot while his mouth sucks greedily on your clit.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking violently and you’re squirting hard down his chin and beard, soaking his face as he groans in pure satisfaction and keeps licking you through every pulsing wave.

When the last tremor finally fades, Lyonel rises behind you, breathing heavy. He gives your ass another firm smack, then grips your hips and lines himself up. In one smooth, powerful thrust he buries his thick cock inside your still-spasming cunt, stretching you open with a deep, satisfied groan.

“Fuck… still fluttering around me,” he rasps, voice rough with pleasure. “That’s my girl.”

He starts slow, deep rolls of his hips that quickly turn harder, more demanding. One hand fists in your hair, the other braces on the small of your back, keeping you arched and pinned exactly how he wants you.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room as he fucks you with the same fiery energy he argues with—joyful and entirely unapologetic.

When you clench down hard around him again, he lets out a loud, rumbling groan and slams into the hilt. You feel the hot flood of his release as he spills deep inside you, pulse after thick pulse, filling you until it starts to leak out around his cock.

He stays buried deep, draped over your back, pressing lazy kisses along your spine while he catches his breath. A low, satisfied chuckle vibrates through his chest.

“Next time you want to win an argument, love…” he murmurs against your shoulder, nipping lightly, “just do that again. I’ll gladly lose every damn time.”

He gives your ass one last affectionate squeeze before gently pulling out, then scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing.

baelor breakspear

— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.

— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.

— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.

— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.

— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.

— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.

— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.

— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.

— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.

— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.

— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.

— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.

— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.

maekar targaryen

— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.

— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.

— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.

— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.

— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.

— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.

— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.

— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.

— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.

— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.

— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.

— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement

— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.

valarr targaryen

— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.

— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.

— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.

— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.

— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.

— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.

— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.

— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.

— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.

— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.

— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.

— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.

— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

daeron targaryen

— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.

— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.

— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.

— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.

— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.

— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.

— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.

— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.

— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.

— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.

aerion targaryen

— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.

— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.

— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.

— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.

— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.

— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.

— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.

— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.

— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.

— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.

— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.

— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.

— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.

"Her?"

Homelander’s voice dripped with disdain as he watched Firecracker spewing her rant about family values and patriotism, all while waving her hands around. She reminded him of a third-rate talk show host. He grimaced, turning to Sage.

"Yeah," Sage responded, standing at his side.

"Really?" he sneered, barely able to mask his disgust.

"Mhm," Sage hummed in affirmation.

"Seems like she fell off her Jet Ski one too many times," Homelander muttered, his lip curling.

Sage, unbothered by his sarcasm, simply shook her head. "No, now that Starlight’s back leading the Starlighters, we need someone like her."

Homelander raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mm. And that’s gonna shut them up?" He knew exactly what "them" meant: the endless critics, social media commentators, all the noise that clawed at his mind.

"No," Sage replied, her voice low and cryptic. "She’s going to make them louder."

He shot her a look. "You gonna trust me or not?" she added before he could question it further.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He was growing tired of these briefings, the endless parade of new supes Vought was parading through. But then, his eyes landed on you.

You were surrounded by a group of eager reporters, microphones pushed into your face. Unlike Firecracker, who couldn't stop her loud, brash performance, you were different. You weren't reciting hollow slogans or pandering to anyone. You stood there with an almost serene composure, answering each question softly, with a gentle smile. There was something…sincere in the way you spoke, like you actually cared about the answers, not just the headlines they’d create.

"And what about her?" Homelander murmured, his gaze locked on you as if he were seeing something unexpected for the first time.

"The Pink Dahlia," Sage said, repeating your supe name as though it was obvious. "She’s going to be the new Starlight."

Homelander frowned, feeling a flicker of confusion. The new Starlight? That seemed impossible. No one could ever replace that bitch's popularity, her…adoring fanbase. But Sage seemed to sense his thoughts, elaborating with an almost bored tone.

"The only reason Starlight is liked is because of her sincerity. Her kindness," Sage explained, nodding towards you. "Pink Dahlia is going to be America’s next sweetheart supe."

Homelander hummed, though his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of you. Sage was talking, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he watched as the cameras captured your every move. For a moment, you glanced in his direction. Not out of fear or awe, but with that same quiet softness you gave to everyone. It unnerved him how unaffected you seemed by his presence, by who he was.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

Sage dragged him into yet another pointless debate, but his attention was only half there. He knew she’d eventually let it go once she realized his disinterest, and sure enough, she did. He was quick to pass her along to the vultures—photographers desperate to get the next "supe girl" in their lenses.

As Homelander turned, his gaze landed on Ryan, sulking in one of the chairs at the back of the room. Frustration boiled inside him. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like that, so withdrawn, when the whole world was theirs.

But then, his brow furrowed. You had walked over, leaving the cameras behind. Quietly, you sat beside Ryan, the two of you almost invisible in the flurry of the room. He watched as you offered your hand to Ryan, a gentle smile on your face. His son, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked in surprise before hesitantly shaking your hand.

For the first time in hours, Homelander saw the tension leave Ryan’s shoulders. His usual sulk was replaced with something lighter. He listened to whatever you were saying, nodding slowly. Homelanders listened carefully to your sweet words, and watched how they were clearly having an effect on Ryan.

Interesting.

Homelander had too many fucking things going on for his mind to keep circling back to you. It irritated him, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

First, the rage that boiled up every time he saw those goddamn Starlighter protests. He could hardly walk outside without hearing people chant for Starlight’s bullshit message, waving their signs, spewing their anti-Homelander garbage. It infuriated him. Then there was the constant frustration in dealing with Neuman. She was slippery, always too clever, too calm, and it made every negotiation with her feel like wading through quicksand.

But every time his temper cooled, his thoughts went back to you. You. That sweet, unassuming smile that you flashed so casually, like it wasn’t the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. And then there was your body—tight and perfect in that small pink and green suit, looking like you belonged on a magazine cover instead of here, in this hellhole with people like him.

It made him furious.

How could he let himself be distracted by you, when everything else around him was crumbling? He was supposed to be in control, but instead, he was falling apart. First he let that fucking loser Hughie get away. Then, Ryan—his own son—had the nerve to run off to see Butcher after everything Homelander had given him. After all the time and care he’d put into Ryan, after showing him the world, how was he still not good enough?

It made him sick.

And then... and then there was the other thing. His reflection. The part of him that never shut up, that always knew where to strike. His other self had looked at him and sneered. Told him he was weak, that he was a joke. That no matter how much power he had, no matter how feared he was, he was still nothing.

And maybe it was right. Maybe he was losing it.

So he decided to visit home. The lab. Where they had made him. Where he had been molded into the strongest supe to ever walk the earth. He’d slaughtered every single one of the scientists who had "raised" him. He stood in the sterile halls, the faint hum of the machines still active around him. The silence made him feel grounded, like this was the only place in the world where he could truly be himself.

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Not when the image of you—your smile, your soft gaze, your kindness—kept seeping into his mind. You were a weakness he couldn’t afford. And that filled him with even more rage.

And yet the moment he saw your face, all that rage he had been holding onto evaporated like steam. The blood, the anger, the frustration—it all seemed distant as he took in the worried expression on your face.

He had strolled back into Vought Tower like nothing was wrong, though his suit was still soaked in the blood and viscera of the scientists he’d butchered in the lab. It didn’t matter—he was Homelander, after all. No one would dare question him. But fate must have been laughing at him because, of all people, he ran straight into you.

You froze when you saw him, your eyes widening in pure shock at the sight of him covered in carnage. Anyone else would have been horrified, would have run or screamed, but not you. Instead, your lips parted and, with that same quiet softness he had come to expect, you said, “Would you like some help?”

Homelander just stared, his mind slowing to a crawl as the words sank in. He was a god, covered in the blood of men, and here you were, offering help. Something inside him shifted in that moment. He nodded, feeling strangely empty and vulnerable, like a child waiting for instructions. In the back of his mind, he realized this was the first time you had actually spoken to him directly.

His chest tightened as you stepped closer, your eyes flicking up to his with cautious concern. You reached out and gently placed your pink-gloved hand into his red, blood-stained one. Homelander nearly closed his eyes, focusing intently on the warmth of your touch. That warmth—it spread through him, melting away the sharp edges of his anger. No one touched him like that, without fear or calculation.

You led him silently into the elevator, your hand still in his, guiding him like he was something fragile. He couldn't help but glance down at your hand in his, his mind spinning as he tried to commit the sensation to memory. The touch wasn’t just physical—it felt like a lifeline, something pulling him out of the darkness he had been sinking into.

As the elevator doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the building surrounded them, and Homelander found himself focusing solely on you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t recoil. You just held his hand, gently, as if leading him somewhere safe. He didn’t feel like a monster in that moment, not in your presence.

The elevator dinged softly, and you led him down the hall to your floor. The sight was unlike anything in Vought Tower—lush greenery, vibrant pinks and soft petals blooming everywhere. It felt alive, warm. This was your power after all, to bend nature to your will. And it was a reflection of you, full of life, soft but powerful. He was surprised it was even still Vought Tower.

He hadn’t expected you to bring him here. You could’ve taken him to his own floor, left him in one of the pristine, sterile bathrooms of his suite. But no—you’d brought him to your space, a sanctuary. It was so unlike the cold, artificial world of Vought. And so much like you.

Slowly, you guided him to the bathroom. The plants trailed along the walls, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. You looked up at him, blinking those wide, soft eyes of yours. A single word entered his mind: Fawn. You looked like a fawn, delicate and innocent, standing before something dangerous without any idea of what it could do to you.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, unable to find the words to speak. Still entranced by you, he wondered how you could be so kind, so gentle, to someone like him. Anyone else would have left him to clean himself up in cold silence, but you…you stayed.

You nodded quietly, as if you understood, then turned to the bath, filling it with warm water. He watched you bite your lip in thought, and all he could think about was biting your lip himself. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and for a split second, he imagined pulling you close, feeling that softness against his own. But instead, he remained silent, his breath heavy as you carefully and gently began to undress him.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with such care. You didn’t fumble or stare, didn’t sneak a lustful glance as you removed his suit piece by piece. You were entirely respectful, your touch light, focused on the task. And when you led him to sink into the bath, your hands still guiding him, he realized that you weren’t treating him like Homelander. You weren’t treating him like a god. You were treating him like…a person.

The warm water surrounded him, washing away the blood and grime. But what made him feel truly clean was your touch. You knelt by the tub, peeling off your pink gloves, and began washing him with your bare hands. He could feel your skin against his, the warmth of your palms gliding over his body.

He had to fight to keep from shivering. The sensation of your skin on his—bare and vulnerable—sent a wave of euphoria through him. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. This wasn’t lust. This was something deeper, something far more dangerous. He was intoxicated by you, not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were. The softness, the care, the genuine kindness…it was all so foreign to him.

And as you worked in silence, cleaning away the blood, he realized with a start that he never wanted this feeling to end.

Homelander couldn’t take his eyes off you as you washed him. Every gentle stroke of your hands sent a ripple of pleasure through him, and though his eyes begged to close, he refused. He needed to see you. To watch you, to take in every movement, every touch. Your fingers slid through his hair, and for a moment, he almost gave in—almost let his eyes flutter shut and just melt into the sensation. But his gaze stayed locked on you, intense and unyielding.

You could feel his stare, that much was clear, yet you didn’t say a word. You just kept working, silent and serene. And it started to bother him, gnawing at him. How could you be so quiet, so unaffected by his presence? He needed to hear your voice again. He craved it, like a drug, something to soothe the irritation building inside him.

“Talk to me,” he said, the words slipping out in a petulant tone he hadn’t meant to use. But he didn’t care. He wanted your attention, your words, your everything.

Your eyes met his, wide and curious, like you were studying him, trying to figure him out. You tilted your head, and once again, the thought struck him—fawn. That was what you reminded him of. A fawn, delicate and gentle, standing before a predator without realizing the danger.

You pursed your lips, thinking carefully about what to say, and for just a second, Homelander finally closed his eyes. He wanted to focus solely on your voice. Nothing else mattered. Just you.

“I named myself Pink Dahlia because my favorite color is pink,” you began, your sweet voice filling the room like music, “and dahlias symbolize love and devotion.”

His eyes snapped open.

Love and devotion. The words echoed in his mind like a gunshot, shattering every other thought. You kept talking, explaining something about flower meanings and other potential supe names you’d considered, but Homelander didn’t give a fuck about that. None of that mattered. All he could focus on was love and devotion.

It was a sign. It had to be. You were made for him. There was no other explanation. How could it be a coincidence that the one person who treated him with kindness, who looked at him without fear, had chosen a name that embodied exactly what he wanted from you? Exactly what he needed. Love and devotion.

His chest tightened with the realization, his mind spinning with the possibilities. You would love him. You would be devoted to him completely. It was inevitable. Fate had brought you into his life for a reason.

As you continued to speak, your voice soft and calming, he stared at you, consumed by the thought of it—how perfect it would be. You, by his side, loyal and loving, filling the void that no one else could. The world would bow before him, but you…you would worship him in the way he craved, in a way no one ever had.

You were starting to seriously piss him off. The way you acted, pretending like nothing had happened between you, like the connection between you wasn’t so strong it practically vibrated in the air. You carried on as if the two of you didn’t share something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable. It was infuriating.

Then again, if you had acknowledged it—if you’d brought it up and confronted him about it—he probably would’ve blown a fucking gasket. His control was fragile enough as it was.

But trying to talk to you? That was a whole other level of frustration. Every time you looked up at him with those soft, gentle eyes, and gave him that sweet, unassuming smile, all the words in his head vanished. Just gone. Like you had some kind of power over him that even he didn’t understand.

So, he did the only thing he could think of to get you closer—he forced The Deep to move, ordering him to sit somewhere else, so that you could sit right next to him. He wasn’t subtle about it, either. He didn’t care if anyone noticed. As long as you were close, that was all that mattered.

Then came the Vought V52 Expo, and Homelander could feel the agitation building inside him. He needed to talk to you, to make you see what was right in front of you, but the timing was never right. On the bright side, things were going well with Ryan. He was bonding with his son, teaching him to stand up for himself, to say no when he needed to. It felt…good, like he was finally getting through to him.

But by the time they got to the V52 Expo, the agitation had grown into something much sharper. His eyes tracked you across the stage, watching as you announced your new environmental awareness project—the Dahlia Project. Fans were cheering for you, screaming your name, and you looked so damn perfect up there.

You were smiling, waving to the crowd, talking passionately about your cause, and the noise of the crowd was deafening. But all Homelander could think about was how you hadn’t even looked at him once. Not a glance. Not a dedication. Nothing.

He watched you with cold, calculated eyes, trying to keep the growing frustration in check. You were good at this, at drawing people in, making them adore you. But how could you not see that you already had him? That no one else in the crowd mattered compared to him?

And as the fans continued to cheer, his grip tightened around the milkshake he’d bought for you. He needed to speak to you. To make you understand. And the longer you went on, the more he realized—this wasn’t just about getting closer to you anymore. It was about making sure you knew that you belonged to him.

Homelander was standing with Ryan, guiding him through yet another lesson in asserting control. Ryan had been eager to "help" people, to really understand what that meant. So, when Homelander saw an opportunity, he called over Adam—the Vought employee who had been making his assistant visibly uncomfortable with inappropriate advances.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed skeptically, his young face twisting in uncertainty as he looked at the assistant. “Um… is he making you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

The assistant bit her lip nervously before nodding, her voice hesitant but honest. “Kind of… yeah.”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, turning his attention to Ryan. “Ryan, what do you think we should do about that?”

Ryan hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He still hadn’t fully grasped the power he held, and Homelander could sense his uncertainty, the hesitation that made his own patience wear thin. With a sigh, he glanced away—only for his eyes to land on you, walking past with that usual air of calm about you.

“Dahlia,” he called, his voice a little sharper than he intended. “Come over here.”

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised in that sweet, expectant way that only made him more agitated, and walked over without hesitation, your eyes scanning the scene as you assessed the situation.

“What’s up?” you asked simply.

Homelander smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and gestured to Adam. “Adam here has been making some inappropriate advances toward his assistant. What do you have to say about that?”

Even Ryan turned to you, waiting for your response. Homelander watched you closely, studying the way you furrowed your brows in genuine concern as you looked at Adam.

“I think,” you said carefully, “that there’s no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. And it’s even worse when you know you’re doing it.”

Homelander’s smile widened at your answer. It was perfect—clear, direct, and moral, just like he expected from you. There was a subtle pride in the way you spoke, and it fed into his own sense of approval. You were playing right into his hands without even realizing it.

Your words seemed to be the push Ryan needed, as he turned to Adam, his voice gaining confidence. “Apologize,” Ryan commanded, the hint of authority in his tone surprising even himself. When Adam hesitated, Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Now.”

Adam stated an obviously insincere apology, and Ryan, growing bolder by the second, looked at the assistant. “I want you to slap him.”

Homelander’s gaze snapped to you, watching intently for your reaction. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you seemed to consider the situation with a quiet thoughtfulness, your expression showing no sign of discomfort. You didn’t object or look shocked—in fact, there was a hint of agreement in the way you nodded lightly. You understood the need to make a point, to assert control.

Homelander couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not just in Ryan, but in you. The way you navigated the situation with clarity, how you stood by his side and reinforced his lessons without even realizing it—it only confirmed what he already knew.

You belonged with him.

The moment his resolve truly snapped was at Tek Knight’s party. Everything had already spiraled out of control. A-Train and Firecracker were nowhere to be found, MIA at a critical time. And when it was time for the big speech to the GOP donors, Sage was acting as if she’d had a fucking lobotomy, leaving Homelander to take over.

The minute he started speaking, they questioned him. Him. They criticized him as if he wasn’t the most powerful man in the room, as if he wasn’t Homelander. His hand twitched, and he was one second away from lasering through every single one of those smug, entitled bastards. But then Neuman stepped in, pulling the conversation back on track and rallying the support he was seconds from obliterating.

He stalked away, seething. And that’s when he saw it—him—one of the donor’s sons talking to you. But it wasn’t just talking. He recognized the look in that guy’s eyes, the casual leaning in, the way his hand brushed against your arm like it was nothing.

Homelander’s chest tightened with a slow, burning jealousy, the kind that clawed at him from the inside. His grip on the glass tightened, but for the moment, he held himself in check. Barely. When that loser touched your arm, though, that’s when it snapped. His entire facade shattered.

In his mind, that small touch was a violation. You belonged to him. Whether you knew it yet or not, it was already decided. And this idiot was crossing a line no one should ever have the nerve to approach.

His reaction started subtly—at first. His smile stiffened, his eyes narrowed with an icy focus. He moved toward you with the kind of charm that made people believe he was still in control, but inside, he was already a storm waiting to break.

Homelander slid smoothly between you and the man, a calculated smile plastered on his friendly. “Everything alright here?” His voice was polite, but there was an edge, a tension simmering just beneath the surface.

You blinked up at him, surprised but unsuspecting, nodding lightly. “Yeah, of course. This is Jason Wilson, the District Attorney’s son. We’re just talking.”

Just talking. Homelander’s smile grew tighter. Logically, he knew that. But logic had no place here. The jealousy gnawed at him, irrational, violent, and all-consuming. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that left no room for doubt. “We wouldn’t want things to get inappropriate, now would we?”

Jason froze, his eyes widening slightly, clearly unnerved by the sudden shift. Homelander’s stare bore into him, a silent warning not to take another step, not to even breathe in your direction. Jason stammered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Homelander alone.

You frowned up at him, clearly confused by the sudden shift in his mood. “What was that about?”

Homelander didn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, enough that you’d feel the strength behind it—enough that you couldn’t pull away easily. He quietly steered you toward a more secluded corner of the room, away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, his lips close to your ear. “You shouldn’t let people touch you like that,” he said, barely keeping his rage in check. “Not when you’re with me.”

You blinked, utterly confused, your brows knitting together in that way he both adored and despised. “I don’t understand. I’m not… with you.”

His jaw clenched. The words stung, hitting him harder than any physical blow could. You didn’t understand yet. You didn’t see what he saw, didn’t feel what he felt. But you would. You had to.

Homelander let out a hollow chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t understand. It’s fine, I’ll forgive you for that.” His tone dripped with condescension as if he were talking to a child. He then pointed between the two of you, his expression hardening. “You and me—we belong together. Which makes you mine.”

You stared at him, completely lost, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The confusion in your eyes only seemed to amuse him further. You were so oblivious, so innocent, and it both frustrated and thrilled him. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice soft and uncertain. “I thought you were interested in Firecracker.”

Homelander’s face scrunched up in pure disgust, his lip curling as if you had just said something vile. “What? No. Ew. No.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, looking around as if there were hidden cameras capturing this bizarre moment, half-expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. “Oh.”

Then you turned back to him, your wide eyes filled with genuine surprise, lips pouting slightly as you asked, “You… like me?”

The way you said it—so innocent, so utterly unaware—made his chest tighten. Like wasn’t even close to what he felt for you. He needed you. You were everything he’d been waiting for, the one pure thing in a world full of filth and betrayal. But the fact that you couldn’t even comprehend why someone like him would be interested in you… It only made his obsession stronger.

He smiled, soft and almost tender, his previous irritation and jealousy melting away in the face of your cluelessness. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling focus. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate but laced with possessiveness. “You just don’t see it yet. But you will.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still confused, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But in his mind, it was already decided. You were his—had been from the moment he laid eyes on you. And soon enough, you’d understand that too.

Homelander cupped your face as though you were the most delicate thing in existence, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone capable of such monstrous strength. His heart raced as he leaned in, finally close enough to taste the softness of your lips—something he’d craved for what felt like an eternity. He could already imagine how perfect you’d feel, how right it would be.

But before his lips could meet yours, your hand quickly covered his mouth. "Wait," you said, eyes wide with sudden embarrassment.

His eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them, his impatience barely concealed. "What?" he grunted, his voice muffled by your hand.

You hesitated, biting your lip nervously, avoiding his intense gaze as you finally explained, “My lips… they’re poisonous.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, and you removed your hand, looking even more embarrassed. “They contain a toxin,” you said softly, as if confessing a dark secret. “It gives anyone who kisses me a high, raises their heart rate until they get a heart attack… and die.”

A heavy silence followed as you waited for his reaction, expecting rejection or disgust. But Homelander’s eyes gleamed with something entirely different. Instead of pulling away, he just shrugged as if the danger you posed was trivial to him. "Fuck it," he muttered with a smirk, his hands tightening around your cheeks.

Before you could protest again, he pulled you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that bordered on madness.

The moment your lips met, Homelander let out a low, primal groan of pleasure. The sensation of your mouth against his was everything he’d imagined—and more. He could feel the toxin you had warned him about seeping into his bloodstream, but instead of fear, it only fueled the euphoria rushing through him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his desire consuming every rational thought.

The high from your poison made him feel invincible, like every dark, twisted part of him was being set free. The world outside—its chaos, its disappointments, its endless betrayals—faded into nothing. All that mattered was you. He felt light, weightless, as though he could fly to the edge of the universe with you in his arms.

And as the toxin worked its way through his system, the sensation of bliss became all-consuming. He didn’t just want to kiss you—he wanted to devour you, to possess you completely, body and soul. Every kiss, every taste of you, made the thought of losing you unbearable.

He deepened the kiss, his grip on your face tightening, every muscle in his body screaming with pleasure. He didn’t care about the risk, didn’t care that you could kill him. In that moment, he belonged to you, utterly and completely, and he’d die a thousand deaths for this feeling. The darkness inside him surged, but for once, it didn’t feel like a curse. With you, it felt like freedom.

Homelander had never been high in his entire existence, but if this was what it felt like—well, it was fucking spectacular. Every nerve in his body buzzed with euphoria, his muscles relaxed in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and everything around him suddenly seemed amusing, even absurd. He laughed—really laughed—as he flew the two of you back to Vought Tower, the wind whipping through his hair as if the world itself couldn’t touch him.

When he landed on your balcony, a wide grin stretched across his face, a rare glint of pure joy in his eyes. You looked up at him, bemused, as he stumbled slightly, his usually poised demeanor replaced with a boyish charm. He couldn’t stop smiling. “How long does this last?” he asked, his voice light with the toxin’s effects.

You chuckled softly as you led him inside, your touch warm and steady while his hands wandered over you, unable to keep still. “Max? Maybe two hours before the average human dies,” you murmured with a teasing smile.

He let out a breathless laugh, his hand still brushing against your waist, intoxicated not just by the toxin but by you. “How many people have you done this to?” he asked, voice low as he buried his nose in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. It was almost possessive, his need to absorb every part of you.

You leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Two… high school boyfriends.”

Homelander’s hands slid over your body, but then something caught his eye—a small jar on the kitchen island. His gaze sharpened instantly, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?” he asked, tone suddenly playful but underlined with a dangerous edge as his fingers drifted toward the jar.

He could feel the tension in your body before he even turned to face you fully, sensing the shift in the air. His smile twisted into something more predatory as he turned to you, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of menace. “Look here,” he started, his voice low and smooth, “since we’re now officially together—”

“Officially?” you murmured, your eyes slightly hazy from his intoxicating presence, a dreamy smile playing on your lips.

He scrunched his nose in a mock expression of annoyance. “Yeah, officially. And there’s one thing you should know about me—I hate secrets. Can’t fucking stand 'em.”

You flushed, your face heating with embarrassment as you shifted on your feet, clearly reluctant to answer. “It’s… nipple cream,” you mumbled.

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically patient, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “I can see that,” he said, his voice slow, almost mocking. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But why do you need it?”

You hesitated, then looked away shyly before finally answering, “I lactate.”

For the first time in a long time, pure shock crossed Homelander’s face. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression as your words sank in. Lactate? He couldn’t process it at first, the information almost short-circuiting his mind. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, the question almost a growl.

You swallowed, explaining softly, “Just like how some plants and fruits produce milk… ever since I got my first cycle, I’ve been producing milk too.”

Homelander’s throat went dry, his eyes dropping instinctively to your breasts as his thoughts spun wildly. “Only during your cycle?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” you admitted, your voice softer still. “Every single day since I got my cycle.”

A long pause hung in the air between you, the weight of your revelation settling in. Homelander’s heart pounded, and for a moment, the effects of the toxin couldn’t compare to the sheer awe and hunger he felt. His gaze drifted back up to meet yours, and something primal flickered in his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, a slow smile creeping back onto his face, but this time, it wasn’t just euphoria driving it. No, this—this was something deeper.

Somehow, impossibly, you had just become even more perfect in his eyes.

Reader's Aesthetic

(only her supe name is Pink Dahlia)