:¨·.·¨: `·.. S

The man’s breath smelled like stale beer and bad decisions. He leaned too close, his elbow propped against the bar beside you, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the sticky wood.

"C’mon, love, just one drink," he slurred, grinning like he’d already won something. You forced a smile, gripping your untouched glass tighter. "I’m good, thanks."

Across the room, the crowd pulsed with laughter and music, but your attention snagged on the way his gaze kept sliding down your shirt. You shifted sideways on the stool, but he mirrored you, undeterred.

"You don’t gotta be like that," he said, louder now, like volume might make you reconsider. The bartender glanced over, then away—purposefully uninterested.

You were about to slide off the stool and bolt when a warm hand settled on your lower back.

The drunk guy’s grin faltered as Oscar materialized beside you, his voice calm but edged with something unyielding. "She said no, mate."

The drunk blinked, swaying slightly as he processed Oscar’s presence—tall, steady, and decidedly not drunk. "Who’re you?" he muttered, squinting.

The drunk guy’s grin widened, revealing a chipped tooth as he leaned even closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "Looks like your boyfriend’s got a problem with me," he said, jerking his chin toward Oscar.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it—Oscar’s presence was a wall he couldn’t quite scale. You swallowed, your pulse thudding in your throat.

"It’s not a problem," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "Just leave it."

Oscar’s hand stayed firm on your back, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc over your spine. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t puff up—just leveled the guy with a look that said try me.

The drunk hesitated, glancing between you two, then huffed a laugh. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered, pushing off the bar with a wobble. "Didn’t know she was yours."

Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he guided you away with a gentle nudge, steering you toward a quieter corner near the pool tables.

The neon lights overhead flickered, casting his profile in sharp relief—all focused intensity, like he was still cataloging threats even now. "You okay?" he asked, fingers brushing your wrist.

You nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Just… hate that yours shit."

Oscar’s grip loosened, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with yours. The noise of the bar faded into a dull hum as he tugged you closer, his other hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Like you’re a fucking trophy.” His thumb swept over your knuckles, a silent apology for the guy’s words, even though they weren’t his fault.

You leaned into him, the solid warmth of his chest a welcome anchor. The drunk had already stumbled off toward the bathrooms, but the tension still coiled in your shoulders.

Oscar noticed—he always did—and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Want to get out of here?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.

You nodded, and he didn’t hesitate, dropping a few bills on the bar before guiding you toward the exit. The night air was sharp with the scent of rain-soaked pavement, a relief after the stifling heat inside.

Oscar’s arm settled around your waist as you walked, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your hip—some racing cadence he’d picked up from hours in the simulator.

“You know,” you said after a quiet stretch, “you didn’t have to do that.” You nudged his side, teasing. “I could’ve handled him.”

Oscar snorted, shaking his head as he pulled you a little tighter against him. “Yeah, I know you could’ve,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “But why should you have to?”

He glanced down at you, eyebrows raised like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, I like pissing off guys who think they’re entitled to your time.”

You laughed, the sound carrying down the empty street. “Oh, so it was selfish, then?”

“Totally,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “My evil plan all along.”

The streetlights flickered above you, casting long shadows as you walked. Oscar’s thumb traced idle circles on your hip, his touch warm even through the fabric of your jeans. You leaned into him, savoring the quiet after the noise of the bar.

“Where are we going?” you asked, though you didn’t really care—anywhere with him was better than that sticky countertop and the weight of some stranger’s gaze.

Oscar tilted his head toward a neon sign glowing faintly at the end of the block—a tiny 24-hour diner you’d never noticed before, its windows fogged with condensation.

“Hungry?” he asked, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist suggested he already knew the answer.

You nodded, and he grinned, quick and bright like he’d won something.

The sharp scent of hot tarmac mingled with exhaust fumes as you blinked against the midday glare. Your fingers cramped around another Sharpie, autographing a cap thrust toward you by a sweating teenager in team merch.

The crowd pressed closer, voices overlapping—requests, compliments, questions about Oscar—until they blurred into a single buzzing hum in your skull.

Someone’s elbow jabbed your ribs as they leaned in for a selfie. Your smile felt like it was cracking at the edges.

The Sharpie slipped from your grip, clattering against the concrete as you tried to steady yourself against the wave of dizziness. Too many bodies, too many voices—your vision blurred at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.

Another cap was shoved into your hands, the brim damp with someone’s nervous sweat. You scribbled something—your name? Oscar’s?—before the pen died mid-stroke.

The pen's death was a small mercy—your fingers had begun shaking too much to keep up the pretense of enthusiasm anyway. Someone in the crowd shouted Oscar's name like a demand, and the sound ricocheted against your skull.

You pressed your lips together, willing your knees not to buckle as the sea of faces swayed in your vision. A bead of sweat trickled down your spine beneath your blouse.

The cap slipped from your hands—your grip suddenly useless—and you watched it tumble in slow motion toward the pavement. A dozen voices surged louder, fingers snatching at it mid-fall like vultures diving for scraps.

Your breath hitched, throat tight as the crowd's heat pressed in from all sides. Someone's phone grazed your cheek, screen blindingly bright as they angled for a shot.

Your vision tunneled—just the blur of outstretched hands, the glare of phone screens, the suffocating press of bodies. Someone’s perfume choked the air, thick and cloying.

The Sharpie was gone. The cap was gone. Your breath came in shallow gasps, ribs aching like they were wrapped in steel bands.

The pavement tilted under your feet—just slightly, like the deck of a ship in gentle swells—and you curled your toes inside your shoes as if that could anchor you.

Someone’s voice cut through the din, sharp with excitement: "Oi, mate, get McLaren’s girl to sign this!" A wrinkled race flag was thrust toward you, the fabric brushing your wrist.

Your signature would’ve been a shaky mess even if your fingers weren’t numb.

Then, like a current shifting, the crowd parted. A familiar shape shouldered through—broad shoulders cutting through bodies with the same precision Oscar used to carve through S-curves.

His hand closed around your elbow, warm and sure, before you could sway again.

"Alright, enough," he said, not loud, but with that quiet firmness that made people step back. The crowd’s noise dimmed by half, as if someone had turned a dial.

Oscar didn’t tug you away—just slid his grip down to your hand, lacing his fingers with yours like he was slotting a battery into place. Solid. Simple. His thumb brushed your knuckles once, a silent breathe.

The remaining Sharpie was plucked from your limp fingers by a grinning team PR guy who materialized out of nowhere.

"We’ll handle the rest, yeah?" he said, already herding fans toward a table stacked with merch.

You expected Oscar to steer you toward the hospitality suite—air-conditioned, quiet, safe—but instead he ducked into the narrow gap between two haulers, pulling you into the shadowed alley of stacked tires and coiled cables.

The sudden silence was dizzying. His hands framed your face, calloused thumbs catching the dampness under your eyes you hadn’t realized was there.

"Hey," he murmured, forehead nearly touching yours. "Still with me?"

You nodded against Oscar’s palms, but your breath still came in uneven hitches, the adrenaline making your ribs feel too tight. The rough texture of his thumbs grounding you more than the cold metal of the haulers at your back.

"I’m here," you managed, voice thinner than you wanted. The distant roar of engines from the track vibrated through the pavement, a steady counterpoint to the static still buzzing in your skull.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, a sound you recognized—the same one he made when his engineer suggested a questionable strategy over the radio. His hands slid down to your shoulders, squeezing gently.

"You were signing for forty minutes straight," he said, like it was a fact, not an accusation. "Even I tap out after twenty."

The corner of his mouth twitched, that almost-smile he reserved for moments when he was trying not to fuss.

A laugh punched out of you, shaky but real. "You’re not supposed to admit that," you murmured, curling your fingers into the fabric of his team shirt.

The familiar scent of his detergent—something citrus and sharp—cut through the lingering haze of sweat and petrol.

"Too bad." His fingers traced the tense line of your spine, slow and deliberate.

Oscar’s fingers didn’t leave your spine—just pressed a little firmer, grounding you in the way only he could, like he was recalibrating your center of gravity.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you tap my shoulder. Just once. Doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m talking to.” His voice was low, the kind of quiet that curled around you in the dark before a race when he’d tell you about his first kart. “I’ll notice.”

You swallowed, the tightness in your throat easing as his thumb traced the hinge of your jaw. The noise from the paddock was muffled here, just the occasional burst of laughter or rev of an engine, but you could still feel the residual buzz in your fingertips, the phantom weight of a hundred Sharpies.

“You’d really abandon a sponsor mid-sentence for me?” you teased, but your fingers tightened in his shirt anyway.

He didn’t smile. “Try me.”

The words landed somewhere under your ribs, warm and certain.

You believed him—not just because of the way his hands steadied you now, but because you’d seen it before: the way he’d cut interviews short when your texts went unanswered for too long, how he’d materialize at your side during paddock chaos like he had some internal radar tuned to your pulse.

"No, seriously—what does he even see in you?" Your cousin Liam grinned over his beer, elbowing your brother, who snorted into his plate. "I mean, no offense, but Oscar Piastri could date literally anyone. And he picks… this." He gestured vaguely at you with a chicken wing, grease dripping onto the tablecloth.

You rolled your eyes, stabbing at your salad with more force than necessary. "Wow, thanks. Real nice family bonding moment."

"It's just charity work at this point," your brother added, wiping his mouth. "Him dating you is basically community service." The table erupted into laughter, forks clinking against plates like a shitty applause track.

The chicken wing grease had barely dried before Liam leaned in again, his smirk widening. “Seriously though—how much did you pay him to show up to family dinners? Or is he just really into pity projects?”

Your brother snorted so hard he nearly choked on his mashed potatoes, thumping his own chest while the rest of the table dissolved into another round of laughter.

You gripped your fork tighter, knuckles whitening, but kept your mouth shut. Defending yourself never worked—they’d just twist it into another joke.

“Bet he’s got a spreadsheet tracking how many times he’s had to pretend to laugh at your jokes,” your brother wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Column A: Painful Silence. Column B: Fake Smile.”

The table erupted again, Aunt Carol nearly spitting out her wine. You focused on the way the lettuce in your bowl had gone slightly limp, the dressing pooling at the bottom like a sad little pond.

The back of your throat burned like you'd swallowed a lit match, but you clenched your jaw tighter, refusing to let them see the sting.

The dining room blurred at the edges—your vision going watery despite your best efforts—and you stared harder at the sad little pond of dressing in your salad bowl, willing yourself not to blink. If you blinked, the tears would fall. If they fell, they'd win.

Your fork trembled against the plate, a tiny, betraying clink. You could feel Oscar's knee pressing against yours under the table, steady and warm, but even that wasn't enough to stop the hot prickle behind your eyelids.

God, you hated this. Hated how they could reduce you to this—a joke, a charity case, something to poke at until you folded. You hated it more because part of you wondered if they were right.

The sound of the front door opening cut through the laughter like a blade. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him—the shift in the air, the way your family’s voices stuttered mid-chuckle, the sudden scrape of chairs adjusting.

Oscar’s footsteps were quiet, but the silence they left in their wake was deafening.

You stood so fast your napkin fluttered to the floor. The chair legs screeched against hardwood, a sound so harsh it made your brother wince.

You didn’t look at Oscar—couldn’t, not with your eyes this close to spilling over—just strode past him toward the hallway, the kitchen, anywhere but here.

Your shoulder brushed his arm as you passed, and the contact burned. Not because you wanted to pull away, but because you wanted to collapse into him, and that was worse.

The laughter had died, replaced by the clinking of silverware and someone clearing their throat.

You barely made it three steps down the hallway before Oscar’s fingers closed around your wrist—not tight, not demanding, just there. Like an anchor.

The contact was warm, almost electric against your skin, and for a stupid second, you considered shaking him off just to prove you could. But then his thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitched.

“Hey,” he murmured, so soft it was almost swallowed by the hum of the fridge in the kitchen ahead. You didn’t turn around, but you didn’t pull away either.

His grip shifted, fingers sliding down to lace through yours, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the smudged fingerprint on the door handle instead. “I’m fine.” The words came out brittle, cracked at the edges like old pavement.

Oscar sighed, stepping closer until his chest brushed your shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“Am not.” But you were—your fingers trembled against his, your breath coming too fast. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that made the walls feel like they were closing in.

He didn’t argue. Just tugged you gently backward, turning you toward him. When you finally looked up, his expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even anger. It was something far worse—understanding.

Like he knew exactly how much it hurt, and it pissed him off. “They’re idiots,” he said simply, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

A laugh punched out of you, raw and unexpected. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t make it less true.”

His jaw tightened. “What part? The part where they think I’m dating you out of charity?” The corner of his mouth twitched, something sharp glinting in his eyes. “Or the part where they think I’m capable of faking a damn thing around you?”

You blinked. That wasn’t the response you’d braced for.

Before you could reply, Oscar stepped closer, crowding you against the hallway wall—not trapping you, just… grounding.

His free hand came up to cradle your face, fingers warm against your cheek. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that shit.” His voice was low, rougher than usual.

You swallowed. “I don’t—”

“Try again.”

The words tangled in your throat. It wasn’t that you believed them—not fully—but after years of hearing the same jokes, the same digs, some part of you had started carving out space for the possibility.

Like a splinter working its way deeper every time you laughed it off.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You really think I’d sit through your uncle’s conspiracy rants and your grandma’s passive-aggressive pie critiques if I didn’t want to be here?” A beat. “With you?”

The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Somewhere behind you, someone dropped a fork, the metallic clatter echoing down the hall. You focused on the way Oscar’s thumb kept brushing your wrist, steady and sure, like he was counting your pulse points.

“I don’t know,” you admitted finally.

His expression did something complicated—twisting between frustration and something unbearably soft—before he leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

“Then let me be clear,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t fake smiles. I don’t track your jokes in spreadsheets. And I sure as hell don’t do charity.”

His breath warmed your lips. “I’m here because every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe. That clear enough for you?”

Your chest ached. “Oscar—”

“Tell me you know that,” he interrupted, fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair. “Tell me you’re not seriously sitting there wondering if I’d rather be anywhere else.”

The problem wasn’t that you doubted him—it was that you didn’t. Not really. The problem was the way your family’s laughter still rang in your ears, the way their jokes had carved grooves into your ribs over the years until you started bracing for impact.

Oscar’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, startlingly gentle. “Say it.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Louder.”

“I know,” you repeated, voice cracking.

Oscar exhaled, long and slow, his fingers loosening in your hair. “Good.” He didn’t pull back—just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he was memorizing the space between your ribs.

The hallway light flickered again, casting his eyelashes in shadow. You could count his freckles from here.

The pressure of Oscar's forehead against yours grounded you, but the weight of his words—raw and unfiltered—left your chest tight. You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"I need a minute," you murmured, pulling back just enough to break contact. His grip loosened reluctantly, fingertips trailing down your arm as you stepped away.

"Go compose yourself," he said, voice low but firm. His jaw was set, the sharp line of it betraying the tension beneath his calm exterior. "I want to speak to them."

You hesitated, fingers hovering near his wrist. "Oscar, you don't have to—"

"I know." He caught your hand, squeezing once before letting go. "But I'm going to." There was no room for argument in his tone, no playful edge—just quiet, simmering resolve.

The bathroom tiles were cool against your palms as you braced yourself over the sink, staring at your reflection. Your eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged just enough to be noticeable.

You splashed water on your face, the shock of cold bringing you back to your body. Outside, the murmur of voices had stopped entirely, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards.

Oscar hadn't raised his voice—you would've heard it. That wasn't his style. But the absence of sound was somehow worse, like the entire house was holding its breath. You dried your hands slowly, focusing on the way the towel absorbed each droplet, delaying the inevitable return.

When you finally cracked the door open, the first thing you heard was your brother's strained chuckle. "C'mon, mate, we were just—"

"Just what?" Oscar's voice was lethally calm. "Bullying her? For fun?" A chair scraped, someone clearing their throat. "Because let's be clear—that's what you were doing. And you've been doing it for years."

You peered around the corner to see Oscar standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood. His shoulders were rigid, the tendons in his forearms standing out. Your brother opened his mouth, but Oscar cut him off with a look that could've frozen lava.

"No. You don't get to justify it. You don't get to laugh it off." His thumb tapped once against the tablecloth. "You don't get to make her feel small ever again."

Aunt Carol dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Now, Oscar darling, surely you're overreact—"

"I'm not your darling." The words landed like a guillotine. "And if I hear one more 'joke' at her expense, I will personally ensure none of you ever see her again." His gaze swept the table, ice-cold. "Try me."

Your cousin Liam scoffed, but it lacked its usual bravado. "What, you gonna punch me over a salad joke?"

Oscar didn't blink. "No. I'll ruin you financially." A beat. "I know exactly where you work, Liam. And I know exactly who owns the building." The blood drained from Liam's face. Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate.

The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked three times before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Alright. That's enough." Her hands trembled as she adjusted her pearl necklace—the one she only wore for special occasions. "Oscar's right."

Silence.

She turned to you, eyes glistening. "I should've stopped this years ago." The admission hung in the air like smoke. Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"

"No." She pressed a hand to his shoulder, her rings catching the light. "I let you boys think this was funny. That was my mistake." Her gaze flicked to Oscar, then back to you. "But I won't let it continue."

Your father cleared his throat, staring at his wineglass like it held the answers. "Darling, surely we can discuss this—"

"There's nothing to discuss." Oscar's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "Not unless it starts with an apology." His knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "A real one."

The air conditioner kicked on with a groan, ruffling the napkins. Someone's phone buzzed—a frantic, misplaced sound. You watched a bead of condensation slide down your water glass, tracing the path with your eyes until it vanished into the tablecloth.

Liam shifted in his seat, tugging at his collar. "Alright, alright—Jesus. We were just having a laugh." His laugh sounded like gravel in a blender. "No need for theatrics."

Oscar didn't move. "You know what's theatrical?" His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried farther than a shout. "Pretending cruelty is comedy for twenty-three years." The math was so precise it made your chest ache—he'd counted. He'd kept track.

Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate. "Okay, fuck, we're sorry—"

"Not to me." Oscar stepped back from the table, hands sliding into his pockets like he couldn't trust them. "And not like that."

The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating. You watched Liam's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his beer bottle.

Your mother reached for her wineglass, then thought better of it, folding her hands neatly in her lap instead. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked four times before your father sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright. Perhaps we've been… unkind."

Oscar's laugh was short and humorless. "Unkind." He tested the word like it was a foreign object. "That's one way to put it."

Your brother shoved his plate away, the china screeching. "What do you want us to say? That we're assholes? Fine. We're assholes." He threw his hands up. "Happy?"

"No." Oscar's gaze flicked to the hallway where you stood, unseen. "I want you to mean it."

Aunt Carol's pearls clicked as she straightened. "This is absurd. We're family—we tease each other. It's what families do."

"Teasing?" Oscar's voice dropped an octave. "Teasing is when she steals your fries and you pretend to be mad. Teasing isn't systematically dismantling someone's self-worth for entertainment."

His thumb tapped the table again—once, twice. "And if that's what your family does? You're worse than I thought."

Your mother's chair scraped back as she stood, her palms pressed flat against the table. "Oscar's right." The words seemed to cost her something. "I've watched you chip away at her for years and I… I laughed along." Her voice wavered. "God help me, I even encouraged it."

The admission hung in the air like a struck bell. Your father reached for her hand, but she pulled away, turning toward the hallway. Toward you. "Sweetheart?" Her voice cracked. "Can you come here?"

Your knees locked. Every instinct screamed to run—to let Oscar handle this, to let him be the shield he'd always been. But then he turned, just slightly, and the look he gave you wasn't pity or frustration. It was pride. Like he knew you could face this. Like he'd stand beside you, but not for you.

The hardwood floor creaked as you stepped forward, your socked feet suddenly too loud in the silence. Twenty-three years of swallowed comebacks pressed against the back of your teeth, threatening to spill over.

Oscar met you halfway, his fingers brushing yours—not holding, just anchoring. "They have something to say," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. His thumb stroked your knuckles once. "You don't have to accept it."

Your brother cleared his throat. "Look, we—" He stopped when Oscar's head snapped toward him, the warning in his glare unmistakable.

Your mother's hands fluttered like wounded birds before settling on the tablecloth. "I'm sorry," she said, the words frayed at the edges. "Not just for tonight. For every time I didn't stop them."

Her gaze flicked to your father, who stared resolutely at his wineglass. "For every time I laughed."

Liam rolled his eyes, but his fingers tightened around his beer bottle. "Christ, it's not that deep—"

"It is." Oscar didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The quiet certainty in those two syllables made Liam's jaw snap shut. "You don't get to decide how deep it goes."

Your brother shoved his chair back, the legs screeching. "Fine! You want a fucking apology? Here." He flung a hand toward you. "Sorry we hurt your fragile little feelings—"

Oscar moved so fast the table rattled. Not toward your brother—no, he stepped between you both, his back to you, blocking their view like a human shield. His shoulders were taut under his shirt, the fabric straining as he braced his hands on the table. "Try again," he said, voice dangerously soft. "And this time? Pretend you're talking to someone you actually give a shit about."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Your mother's pearls clicked as she exhaled sharply. Your father finally looked up from his wineglass, his brow furrowed. Aunt Carol opened her mouth—then closed it at Oscar's glacial glare.

You watched your brother's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His fingers twitched toward his fork before abandoning it. "I…" He glanced at Liam, who suddenly found his beer label fascinating. "I'm sorry. For… the charity comments. And the spreadsheet thing."

The words came out stilted, like he was reading from a script he didn't understand.

Oscar didn't move. "And?"

"And…" Your brother's shoulders slumped. "And for all the other times." His voice dropped to a mumble. "It wasn't funny."

Liam snorted—a reflexive, defensive sound—but choked it off when Oscar's head snapped toward him. "You're next," Oscar said pleasantly. The contrast between his tone and the murder in his eyes made Liam pale.

The grandfather clock ticked seven times before Liam muttered, "Yeah, whatever. Sorry." He didn't look at you.

Oscar's knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "That's the best you can do?" His voice was lethally soft. "After twenty-three years?"

The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Your mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger—a nervous habit you'd inherited. Outside, a car door slammed, the sound startling in the heavy quiet.

Then your father stood abruptly, his chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Enough." He rubbed his temples, his signet ring glinting under the chandelier light. "We've been… unkind."

The word seemed to cost him. "More than unkind." His gaze flicked to you, then away just as fast. "And I'm sorry for that."

Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Better." His fingers finally unclenched from the tablecloth. "Not good. But better."

Your brother opened his mouth—probably to argue—but your mother pinched his arm sharply. "Don't," she hissed.

Liam scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Christ, this is pathetic. It was a joke—"

"A joke everyone laughs at." Oscar's voice was razor-edged. "Except the person it's about." He straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the tension. "Tell me, Liam—how many times have you laughed at yourself today?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought." Oscar turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder. His expression softened infinitesimally—just for you. "You okay?"

You nodded, curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. The fabric was warm from his skin, slightly damp where he'd braced against the table. The scent of his cologne—something crisp and clean, like winter air—anchored you as the room spun slightly at the edges.

Your father sighed, rubbing his thumb over his wedding band. "Oscar—"

"No." Oscar didn't raise his voice, but the quiet authority in it made your father's mouth snap shut. "This isn't about me. It's about her." His fingers found yours, squeezing once. "And whether any of you actually care enough to change."

The grandfather clock ticked eight times—you counted—before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking. "Right." She smoothed her skirt with trembling hands. "We're leaving."

Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"

"No." Her voice cracked like thin ice. "We've done enough damage for one night." She reached for her purse, her pearl necklace catching the light as she turned to you.

The apology in her eyes was real, but raw—the kind that came too late to heal cleanly. "We'll… give you space."

Liam scoffed, shoving his chair back. "Unbelievable." He threw his napkin onto his half-eaten chicken. "Ruined a perfectly good dinner over—"

Oscar moved so fast Liam flinched. Not toward him—just a single, deliberate step forward that made the entire table tense. "Finish that sentence," Oscar invited softly. "I dare you."

Liam's mouth snapped shut. Your brother grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the foyer with a muttered curse. Silverware clattered as your family scattered like startled birds—Aunt Carol fussing with her shawl, your father draining his wine in one go, your mother hesitating at the threshold like she wanted to say more.

Oscar's hand found the small of your back, grounding you as the front door clicked shut behind them.

The silence that followed was thicker than the tablecloth. You stared at the abandoned plates—your brother's fork still embedded in his mashed potatoes, Liam's beer sweating a ring onto the wood. Oscar's thumb traced idle circles over your spine. "Breathe," he murmured.

You sucked in a shaky breath. The air smelled like rosemary and red wine and something sour underneath—regret, maybe. Or guilt. "I should feel better," you admitted. Your voice sounded alien in the quiet. "Why don't I feel better?"

Oscar's exhale ruffled your hair. "Because apologies don't erase years of shit." His fingers curled tighter around your waist. "But it's a start."

The grandfather clock chimed nine times, the sound reverberating through the empty dining room. You focused on the way Oscar's pulse jumped under your fingertips where they rested against his wrist.

Steady, but not calm. "You didn't have to do that," you whispered.

His laugh was a quiet puff of air against your temple. "Yeah, I did." His lips brushed your hairline—quick, barely there. "You're my favorite person. Protecting you isn't optional."

The words curled warm in your chest. You pressed closer, forehead resting against his collarbone. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest trace of motor oil from the garage earlier. "They're still my family," you mumbled into the fabric.

Oscar's arms tightened. "Doesn't give them the right to hurt you." A beat. His fingers flexed against your back. "You're not their punching bag."

You closed your eyes, counting the beats of his heart through his shirt. One. Two. Three. "They're going to hate you now," you murmured, half into his chest.

Oscar snorted, his chest vibrating under your cheek. "They already did." His fingers traced idle patterns between your shoulder blades. "Difference is, now they'll be quiet about it."

You pulled back just enough to see his face—the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows under the dim hallway light. "You really don't care what they think of you?"

"Not even a little." His thumb brushed your chin, tilting your face up. "Only person whose opinion matters is right here." His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up—deliberate, unhurried. "And right now, she's looking at me like I kicked her puppy."

You snorted despite yourself. "You kinda did. That was my family dinner."

Oscar grinned—sharp, unrepentant. "And now it's ours." He nodded toward the abandoned feast. "Better food, better company, no shitty jokes." His fingers traced the curve of your ear. "Unless you count my puns."

"You're insufferable."

The first thing Oscar did after your family left was pour you a glass of wine—the expensive one your father had been saving for his birthday.

He handed it to you with a smirk, the crystal catching the light as he clinked his own glass against it. "To shitty relatives," he toasted, taking a deliberate sip.

You stared at the ruby liquid, watching it swirl against the sides. "You just declared war on my entire bloodline over chicken wings."

"And?" Oscar plucked a roll from the breadbasket, tearing it in half with his teeth. "Worth it." Crumbs dusted his lower lip as he chewed, unbothered.

The second thing he did was steal your brother's untouched steak—the perfectly medium-rare one Liam had been eyeing all night—and slide it onto your plate with a flourish.

"Eat," he ordered, nudging the fork toward you. "Before it gets cold."

You stared at the steak Oscar had commandeered—still pink in the center, just the way you liked it—and something in your chest cracked open.

Not the jagged, painful kind of breaking, but the quiet release of a dam you hadn’t realized was holding back everything. The knife trembled in your hand as you cut into the meat, the juices pooling like an accusation.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just watched you with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, his own fork hovering mid-air.

The silence between you wasn’t empty; it was full of everything unspoken—the years of backhanded compliments, the holidays spent biting your tongue, the way your laughter had always been a half-beat too late at family gatherings.

The third bite was when the tears came. Not the dramatic, heaving kind. Just a single hot trail down your cheek that you swiped away with the back of your hand, pretending it was the horseradish. Oscar’s fork clinked against his plate as he set it down with deliberate care.

"You’re allowed to be angry," he said finally, swirling his wine. The ruby liquid caught the chandelier light, casting fractured crimson across the tablecloth. "You’re allowed to hate them a little."

The wineglass trembled in your grip, the crimson liquid shivering against the crystal. You stared at the reflection warily—your own red-rimmed eyes blinking back at you from the distorted surface.

Oscar's hand settled over yours, steadying the glass before it could spill. His fingers were warm, his grip firm but gentle, like he was anchoring you to the present.

"You're allowed to hate them a little," he repeated, softer this time. His thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to forgive them just because they muttered a half-assed apology."

The steak knife glinted where you'd left it embedded in the meat. You focused on the way the juices had seeped into the mashed potatoes, staining them pink.

"I don't hate them," you murmured. It wasn't entirely true—but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The feeling was more complicated than hate. It was the ache of loving people who kept choosing to hurt you.

Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Yeah, well. I hate them enough for both of us." He said it lightly, but there was steel beneath the words.

His free hand plucked a dinner roll from the basket, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Crumbs scattered across the tablecloth like shrapnel.

"I love you, you know," you murmured into the space between his collarbones, the words muffled against his skin. Oscar stilled, his fingers freezing mid-motion where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns along your spine.

The grandfather clock ticked twice before his arms tightened around you, his chin resting heavy on the crown of your head.

"I know," he said finally, voice rough. His heartbeat stuttered under your ear—just once—before steadying. "But say it again anyway."

You tilted your head back just enough to see the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw catching the dim kitchen light.

"I love you," you repeated, quieter this time. The admission curled warm in your chest, familiar yet still terrifying in its weight.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against your hip. "Even when I ruin your family dinners?" His tone was light, but his grip betrayed him—too tight, like he was bracing for impact.

"Especially then." You pressed your palm flat over his heart, counting each steady beat. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest hint of motor oil from the garage earlier—comforting in its mundanity.

"No one's ever…" The words tangled in your throat. No one had ever looked at you like you were worth defending before.

Oscar's thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up. His eyes were dark in the low light, the usual sharp green muted to something softer.

"No one's ever what?" he prompted, voice dropping to that quiet rasp that always unraveled you.

"Protected me like that," you finished, the words barely audible. Oscar's thumb stilled against your jaw. The kitchen faucet dripped once—a slow, metronomic sound—as his expression shifted into something unbearably tender.

Oscar’s exhale was warm against your lips, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around your waist. "You’re easy to protect," he murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "You’re worth it."

Oscar's hands were still framing your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. His touch was gentle, but there was steel beneath it—the kind of quiet certainty that made your knees weak.

"I love you too," Oscar muttered, the words rough against your temple, his breath warming the damp trail your tears had left.

His fingers curled tighter around your hips, pulling you flush against him—close enough that you could feel the hitch in his breathing, the way his pulse jumped under your palm where it rested against his chest.

The admission wasn’t new—he’d said it before, in stolen moments and sleepy murmurs—but this time, it landed differently. Raw-edged, like he’d dragged it up from somewhere deeper than his ribs.

Oscar’s hands slid down to your wrists, his grip firm but not tight—just enough to ground you without trapping. The contrast was everything.

Previous boyfriends had either clutched too hard, leaving bruises they'd later kiss with performative guilt, or let go entirely when things got messy. Oscar did neither.

He held you like you were something precious, but never fragile. Like he trusted you to stand on your own, but would never make you do it alone. . . .

The only light came from the star-shaped nightlight plugged into the corner, casting a soft, golden glow over the rocking chair. You were there, curled up with your legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against the high back of the chair. In your arms, your daughter was fast asleep, a tiny fist clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Ollie stopped in the doorway. He felt the air leave his lungs.

It happened every time. He’d come home thinking he was prepared for how much he loved you, thinking he knew the extent of it, only to be knocked sideways by the sheer, crushing weight of it. seeing you like this—hair messy, face devoid of makeup, holding the life you two created—it felt like a physical blow.

He crossed the room silently, dropping to his knees beside the chair.

You stirred, blinking open tired eyes. A soft smile broke across your face when you saw him. "You're home," you whispered, careful not to wake the baby.

"I'm home," Ollie breathed. He didn't lean in for a kiss immediately. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the sweep of your eyelashes, the slight pulse in your neck. It was intense, bordering on feverish.

"Ollie?" You shifted slightly, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You okay? You look... intense."

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath. He turned his face, pressing a fervent kiss to your palm, then your wrist.

"I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Not just 'I wish you were there' missed you. I mean, I felt like I couldn't breathe right until I walked through that door."

"You were only gone four days, you drama queen," you teased gently, though your thumb stroked his cheekbone lovingly.

Ollie opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, and terrifyingly sincere. He shifted, resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you like a devotee at an altar.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered. "Do you know what I was doing during debriefs? Thinking about this. Thinking about you holding her. Thinking about the way you smell."

He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your skin, needing the contact to ground him.

"It’s actually a problem, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. "I am so obsessed with you it scares me. I look at you and I feel... greedy. I want every second of your time. I want every thought in your head."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, despite the years you’d been together. "Ollie..."

"No, I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning forward to press his forehead against your thigh, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor himself to you. "You’re a masterpiece. Look at you. You’re exhausted, you haven't slept properly in weeks because of the baby, and you are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life."

He looked up again, his expression vulnerable.

"I would burn the world down just to keep you sitting in this chair, looking at me like that."

You softened, your heart squeezing in your chest. You leaned down as much as you could without disturbing the sleeping baby, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, luckily for the world, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

Ollie let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as he buried his face against your stomach, right beside where the baby lay.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and devotion. "Because I'm never letting go."

When you finally woke up, the first thing you noticed was the silence.

Panic, the constant companion of a young mother, spiked in your chest. You sat up abruptly, hair falling over your face, expecting to hear a cry or the hum of the baby monitor. But there was nothing.

Then, the smell of coffee and burnt toast drifted down the hallway.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, following the scent. The morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, blindingly bright, illuminating the scene in front of you.

Ollie was standing by the stove, shirtless, wearing only his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. In one arm, he balanced your daughter, who was happily chewing on the drawstring of his pants. With his free hand, he was attempting to flip a pancake.

He looked chaotic. There was flour on the counter and a carton of milk dangerously close to the edge. But he was humming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to burn the house down, Ollie."

Ollie spun around so fast he almost dropped the spatula. The moment his eyes landed on you, that same intensity from the night before snapped back into place. The spatula was forgotten on the counter (dripping batter onto the marble) as he just stared.

"Hi," he said, his voice raspy with morning grogginess.

"Hi," you replied, walking over to rescue the milk carton. "How long have you been up?"

"Couple of hours," he shrugged, shifting the baby so she was resting more comfortably on his hip. She made a happy gurgling sound at the sight of you. "She woke up around six. I didn't want to wake you."

You reached out to take the baby, but Ollie stepped back slightly, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I've got her. You drink coffee. You sit."

"Ollie, I can hold my own child—"

"Y/N," he cut in, stepping into your personal space. He used his free hand to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "I’m serious. Sit down. Let me do this."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He was warm, smelling of baby powder and strong espresso.

"I watched you sleep for a while before I brought her out here," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving against your pulse point. "You were drooling a little bit."

You laughed, trying to push him away, but his grip on your waist tightened. "Shut up. That ruins the romance."

"It really doesn't," Ollie pulled back to look at you, his eyes scanning your face with that terrifyingly soft adoration. "It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost woke you up just to tell you how pretty you looked, but I figured you’d kill me."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally a quick, hard peck on your lips.

"Go sit," he commanded gently, guiding you toward a barstool. "I’m making you pancakes. They might be burnt, and they definitely won't be round, but I made them."

You sat down, watching him turn back to the stove. He was humming again, occasionally whispering nonsense to the baby on his hip, who was watching him with wide eyes.

"You're obsessed," you said, resting your chin on your hand, your heart feeling full to the point of bursting.

Ollie glanced over his shoulder, a lopsided, boyish grin on his face. "We established this last night, darling. I'm completely gone for you. Now, do you want syrup or fruit?"

"Both," you smiled.

"Both it is," he said, turning back to the pan, whispering to the baby, "See? Mommy gets whatever she wants. That's the rule."

The end-of-season party was in full swing. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was light. But in the corner booth of the VIP area, a different kind of show was happening.

Kimi Antonelli leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and sighed loudly. He looked across the table at Arthur Leclerc, who was currently trying to ignore the situation.

"Is he blinking?" Kimi asked, nodding his head toward Ollie. "I genuinely don't think he's blinked in three minutes."

Ollie was sitting next to Y/N. He had one arm draped protectively over the back of the booth behind her, and his body was angled entirely in her direction, effectively turning his back on half the group.

Y/N was in the middle of telling a story about the baby’s first attempt at crawling. She was animated, using her hands to demonstrate, laughing at her own bad parenting moment.

Ollie wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the sound of her voice. He was staring at her profile with a look of such profound, dopey adoration that it was almost painful to witness.

Every time Y/N laughed, a soft, matching smile would spread across Ollie’s face, like a reflex. He reached out, his fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve, then drifting up to brush a stray eyelash off her cheek.

"It's disgusting," Arthur whispered, though he was smiling into his glass. "He used to be cool. He used to want to talk about racing."

"Now he just wants to talk about how 'Y/N is a goddess for birthing his child,'" Kimi mimicked Ollie’s British accent poorly. "If I hear him say 'Did you see how she holds the bottle?' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the pool."

At that moment, Y/N shivered slightly, the air conditioning in the venue a bit too high.

Before she could even rub her arms, Ollie was moving. He was out of his jacket in a split second, draping it over her shoulders and tucking the lapels in to ensure she was covered. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her flush pink and swat his chest playfully.

Ollie caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, completely unbothered by the audience.

"Oi! Bearman!" Kimi finally snapped, tossing a peanut at him.

Ollie didn't even flinch. He just lazily turned his head toward his friends, keeping one hand firmly planted on Y/N's waist. "What?"

"You're drooling," Kimi deadpanned. "Dial it back, mate. We get it. She's the love of your life. You're obsessed. We are trying to have a conversation here."

Ollie looked at Kimi, then looked back at Y/N, who was now hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed but laughing.

Ollie smirked, completely shameless. "I haven't seen her in four days, Kimi. You're lucky I'm even acknowledging your existence right now."

"You're whipped," Arthur shook his head. "So whipped."

Ollie just shrugged, leaning back and pulling Y/N into his side, resting his chin on top of her head. He looked at his friends with a smug, satisfied expression.

"I have a beautiful girlfriend," Ollie stated matter-of-factly. "We have a beautiful baby. And I’m the one going home with her. Call me whipped all you want. I’m winning."

Y/N groaned into his chest. "Ollie, stop bragging."

"Never," he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent again. "They're just jealous."

Kimi rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to get another drink. I can't be around this much sugar."

As Kimi walked away, he heard Ollie whisper loudly to Y/N: "Do you want anything? Water? Champagne? My kidney?"

The red digits on the clock read 3:14 AM. The nursery felt like a pressure cooker.

Your daughter had been screaming for two hours straight—a high-pitched, sawing wail that grated against your very soul. Teething. It was brutal. You were pacing the floor, bouncing her rhythmically, tears of sheer exhaustion streaming down your own face. Your back ached, your arms were shaking, and you felt like the worst mother on the planet because you couldn't fix it.

"Shh, baby, please," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please just sleep."

The door creaked open. You expected a sleepy, grumpy Ollie. Instead, you found him fully awake, eyes clear and focused in the dim light.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask if you were okay. He just walked straight to you.

"Give her to me," he said. His voice was low, calm, and brokered no argument.

"Ollie, you have training tomorrow, go back to sleep—"

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, his hands gently covering yours where they clutched the baby. His thumbs stroked over your knuckles. "Look at me."

You looked up, blinking through tears.

"You're done," he said softly. "Your shift is over. Give me my girl."

He took the screaming baby from your arms with a practiced ease that still surprised you sometimes. He shifted her high onto his shoulder, immediately starting a deep, rumbling hum in his chest that you knew she found soothing. He began a specific, swaying walk around the room.

"Go to bed," he instructed over his shoulder.

You hesitated, hovering by the crib. "But she's—"

Ollie stopped swaying and turned to look at you. His expression was fierce, but not angry. It was that intense, singular focus again.

"I cannot handle seeing you in pain," he said, his voice rough. "It hurts me more than her crying does. If you don't go get in that bed right now and let me take care of our family, I'm going to lose my mind. Go."

The sheer force of his care for you was overwhelming. You nodded mutely and slipped out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, you were drifting off when the bedroom door opened softly. Ollie padded in. It was silent outside.

He climbed into bed behind you, smelling of baby lotion and relief. He pulled you back against his chest, his arm clamping around your waist like a vise. You felt him bury his face in your neck, inhaling sharply.

"Is she asleep?" you whispered.

"Out cold," he mumbled against your skin. "Took some convincing." He kissed your shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully. "God, I love you. You're such a good mom. I'm so obsessed with you it makes my teeth ache. Now sleep."

It was a black-tie gala for one of the sponsors. Ollie had stepped away for two minutes to grab you both refills on champagne.

You were standing near a high-top table, idly watching the crowd, looking stunning in an emerald green gown that Ollie had spent the better part of the evening staring at.

"Excuse me," a voice said to your left.

You turned to find a man in an expensive suit—someone you didn't recognize, perhaps an investor—smiling smoothly at you.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, stepping a little too close into your personal space, his eyes raking over your dress. "But you look incredibly bored. And far too beautiful to be standing here alone."

You gave a polite, tight smile. "I'm not alone, actually. My partner is just getting drinks."

The man laughed, a dismissive sound. "Well, he's a fool for leaving you unguarded. I'm Marcus. Can I get you—"

He started to reach out to touch your arm.

He never made contact.

Suddenly, the air pressure around you changed. A warm, solid weight slammed against your back. An arm, heavy and unyielding, wrapped around your waist, pulling you back so hard your spine collided with a rock-hard chest.

The smell of Ollie’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive—flooded your senses.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ollie's voice was unrecognizable. It was several octaves lower than usual, stripped of all warmth, all humor. It was ice cold and razor-sharp.

The man, Marcus, blinked, looking up at Ollie, who was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as murderous. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and flat.

"Oh, uh, no," Marcus stammered, taking a reflexive step back. "I was just... making conversation with the lady."

Ollie didn't blink. The arm around your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress. It wasn't painful, but it was a clear, primal marking of territory.

"She's not interested in conversation," Ollie said, his voice deadly quiet. "And she's not 'the lady.' She's my wife. Move along."

It wasn't a request.

Marcus turned pale, mumbled an apology, and practically ran into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, the tension didn't leave Ollie’s body, but his focus shifted entirely to you. He turned you in his arms, his hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head back.

The icy look vanished, replaced by frantic, searching concern. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly now. "Did he touch you? Tell me if he touched you, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Ollie," you soothed, placing your hands over his on your face. "He was just annoying. You scared him off."

"Good," Ollie breathed, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His heart was hammering against your chest. "I hated the way he was looking at you. I wanted to rip his eyes out."

He kissed you then—hard, possessive, and desperate, right in the middle of the gala floor, not caring who was watching. When he pulled back, he kept you locked against his side.

"We're leaving," he muttered into your hair. "I need to get you home and remind myself that you're mine."

The noise at Monza was deafening, the Tifosi screaming as the cars tore down the main straight. But inside the hospitality suite, it was relatively muffled.

Ollie stood by the glass, arms crossed, watching the monitors with a critical eye. He had a few silver hairs mixed into the dark curls at his temples now, and fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes—evidence of a life spent squinting at the sun and smiling at you.

On the screen, a car emblazoned with the number 87 overtook down the inside of Parabolica.

"Did you see that move?" Kimi (now sporting reading glasses that he refused to admit he needed) pointed at the screen. "That was late on the brakes. She drives exactly like you, Ollie. Aggressive. Little bit stupid."

"She drives better than me," Ollie corrected without turning around. "She has her mother's patience."

"She’s leading the championship," Arthur added, shaking his head. "God help us all. Another Bearman."

You walked into the suite then, carrying two espressos. You were wearing a team jacket over a simple white dress, your hair windblown from the walk through the paddock.

The moment you stepped into the room, Ollie’s posture changed. The tension in his shoulders from watching your daughter race evaporated. He turned away from the track—away from the race his eighteen-year-old was currently leading—and walked straight to you.

"Hi," he said, taking the coffee from your hand and setting it down on a table without looking at it.

"Hi," you smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. "She's doing well. Five laps to go."

"I don't care," Ollie murmured. He stepped into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you in until there was no daylight between you.

"Ollie," you laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Kimi and Arthur, who were both groaning theatrically. "Your daughter is about to win Monza. Watch the screen."

"I've seen Monza," Ollie said dismissively, his eyes scanning your face with that same hungry, reverent intensity he’d had at twenty-one. "I’d rather watch you."

"Please," Kimi called out from the couch. "We are forty years old. Are you still doing this? It’s been twenty years, mate. Give it a rest."

Ollie didn't even look at them. He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"They don't get it," he whispered to you, his voice lower, rougher with age but just as devoted. "They don't understand that it never stops. It just gets worse."

You softened, leaning into his touch, the roar of the cars outside fading into the background. "It gets worse?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes dark and sincere. "I used to be obsessed with the girl who held my baby. Now I'm obsessed with the woman who raised her. I look at you, Y/N, and I think... how did I get away with this? How did I get to keep you for two decades?"

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours.

"I am still so head over heels for you, it’s embarrassing."

"It is embarrassing," Arthur shouted. "We are all embarrassed for you!"

You giggled, and Ollie smiled—that boyish, lopsided grin that hadn't aged a day. He kissed you, slow and deep, ignoring the race, ignoring his friends, ignoring the world.

"Let them talk," he murmured against your lips. "I won the championship a long time ago."On the screen behind him, the car with number 87 crossed the finish line in first place, the garage erupted in cheers, but Ollie Bearman was too busy looking at his wife to notice.

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***

As they walked, he listened to her talk—really listened. She was sharing everything that had been happening lately: her schedules, Jisung, the other Dreamies, the other members—jumping from one topic to another as naturally as breathing.

Mark stayed quite, nodding occasionally, commenting when needed, but his mind wasn’t fully there.

When did she become so open like this…?

It wasn’t that she hadn’t always been talkative, but moments like this—just the two of them, no pressure, no cameras—made her words flow even more freely. And only now he realised how much he had come to rely on these moments too.

Ten years…

That lingered in his mind.

Ten years being in NCT with her. The female maknae. Ten years of growing, changing, struggling, and surviving together.

His grip around her shoulders tightened slightly without him realizing it—and she noticed immediately.

“You okay, Oppa?” she asked innocently, looking up at him with her doe eyes.

Mark felt his chest tighten further.

How can she still look at me like that…

That light in her eyes - the trust, comfort, love - made something inside of him soften…but at the same time…ache.

And I’m going to darken them today…

“Let’s sit over here,” he said, guiding her toward a quieter spot by the Hangang River—the place they always ended up whenever they needed space to talk.

It felt symbolic for him.

Sitting down on the picnic mat they had rented, Boyoung turned to face him, concern already written across her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked again. “You look…worried…”

He let out a small breath.

Of course, she could read him too well…Dreamies knew each other well, now.

“There’s… something I wanted to share with you…” he began, though his voice came out more nervous than he expected. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly.

Why am I this nervous…?

This wasn’t the first difficult conversation or situation he had in his life - there were way worse scenarios they lived through - but it felt like one of the heaviest.

“I-I’ve been thinking…”

Before he could continue, he felt something warm wrap around his shaking hands.

Boyoung’s soft hands. Three rings on her hands; the Dream friendship ring, the matching ring they have with Dream fans, and then Jisung’s couple ring he gifted her for Christmas.

Staring at those significant rings for a moment, he lifted his head, meeting her gaze.

Patient. Steady. Understanding.

It grounded him. He took a slow breath in and out.

“Are you happy?” he asked instead.

Let’s start with something simple…check on her…something honest…

“Oh?” she blinked. “Um…yeah, I'd like to think so.”

“Truly? Are you happy where you are now?” He squeezed her hands lightly, almost as if he was seeking reassurance.

“I think so,” she admitted. “I mean… I have you guys. I’m visiting the therapist less—I feel kind of at peace. Things are going well, and I feel… content…” She hesitated slightly, then looked at him with a small furrow in her brows. “Are you…not happy, Oppa?”

Mark didn’t answer.

Her question lingered in the air, and suddenly, everything he had rehearsed in his mind vanished. Why is this harder than I thought?

“Oppa…” She squeezed his hands again. “You can tell me, it’s okay—”

“My contract is ending soon,” he blurted out.

Silence.

The words felt final the moment they left his mouth. It lifted weight off of his chest, but at the same time, it was still clenched with fear and worry for her reaction.

Boyoung froze, her expression going blank as she stared at him. It had his clenched heart racing tightly.

It’s coming…

“Okay…” she finally said, slowly. “So…you'll renew…?”

More silence. The pause stretched longer than he could bear. He was tempted to just scream out his feelings.

“Right…?” Boyoung's face fell, turning pale. “You'll renew, right?”

“Boyoung…”

“It's Dream forever, isn't it? We-we made promises, and we wear rings, and we have the matching microphones -” Boyoung’s voice began to rise, panic creeping in.

Mark felt his chest tighten painfully almost to the point he couldn’t breathe.

“Boyoung -” he tried again, more urgently this time, but she was already spiraling.

“Is it because of me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Because of all the stuff I put you guys through? I’m sorry, I really am, I’ll do better, I swear, I’ll open up more and listen more—”

“Boyoung, Boyoung, baby, stop, stop, please…” He moved quickly, pulling her into his arms, guiding her onto his lap as instinct took over.

This isn’t what I wanted…

He held her tightly, like he used to when she was younger - when comforting her felt simpler. Just stage nerves. Interviews. Meeting fans. When she was making a comeback after her whole scandal.

But now, it felt heavier. Because he was the reason of her pain this time.

Boyoung cried into his chest, asking why between sobs. It had Mark closing his eyes briefly, his own emotions threatening to spill over.

“I…aigoo…”

He let her cry. He had to. Because anything he said now wouldn’t fix the hurt he had just caused. And that realisation alone made his throat tighten, sign of his own cries emerging.

This is the second time…

The thought hit him again. The first time he had made her cry was when he graduated from Dream. And now this.

He swallowed hard, in an attempt to get rid of the lump in his throat, guilt settling deep in his chest instead.

After a while, her crying slowly softened, and the two of them sat there in silence, listening to the sounds of nature around Hangang River. Mark stared ahead, but his mind drifted through memories—laughing together, practicing together, sitting right here countless times over the past ten years.

So many moments…

“Oppa…” she finally croaked. He hummed in response. “Why…?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took deep breaths, steadying himself as he searched for the right words. Boyoung waited patiently, though her heart felt heavy as she sniffled softly into his chest.

“First of all…” he cleared his throat. “First of all, I’m not thinking this because of you. Chwe Boyoung, this is not your fault. You are not the reason I am considering not renewing, understand?” He shook her lightly when she remained silent. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Oppa…” she answered meekly. He exhaled at her quiet reply.

“The reason…the reason I’m thinking of not renewing is that…” He rested his head on top of hers, letting out a deep sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as exhaustion caught up with him. “I’m… I’m tired… I’m tired, Boyoung.”

The words felt honest…too honest…

But also…relieving, to say it out loud, than hiding it.

“Then…” She lifted her head from his chest. “If you need a break, that can happen—you deserve it, actually—”

“No, baby, I mean…” he sighed again, quietly amazed by her innocence that remained unchanged. “I mean… I’m tired of the idol life… I don’t think I can do it anymore, Boyoung.”

Boyoung went quiet again. He watched her carefully, unsure of what she was thinking. There were times one could read her, times one couldn’t read her. This was one of those moments.

She rested her head back on his chest.

“...oh.”

Her calm reaction startled him. But at the same time…it’s very her.

Boyoung had always been observant, thoughtful—someone who understood more than she let on.

“I…I understand,” she said after a moment, surprising him again.

But was it really a surprise?

Out of the Dreamies, Boyoung was the one who understood everyone the most. She observed quietly and carried her big heart behind careful walls. Of course, she could connect the dots and understand why he was thinking of not renewing.

And she proved it with her next words. And as she spoke, Mark found himself listening more intently than ever, her words grounding him in a way he didn’t expect… reminding him that while this decision was difficult… it wasn’t something he had to face alone.

“Oppa, you’ve been working hard since your trainee days. You’ve been balancing between two sub-units—at one point, three or four—plus your own personal life. I’m not blind. I’ve seen the many times you and Haechan have been overworked and exhausted, especially you.” She looked up at his touched expression. “You’ve done so much for us over these past ten years, especially for me… You’ve been the pillar for us. We wouldn’t be here without your sacrifices. You’ve been doing everything for NCT without complaining or showing any discomfort. You’re always smiling and doing your best—I aspire to be like that. Strong.”

She reached up, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized had fallen until her gentle touch brought him back.

“It’s been more than ten long years, Oppa. I’ve seen the times you almost lost yourself. Use this chance to be free and reach for your dreams.”

How could she be so understanding?

“Thank you,” he whispered emotionally, burying his face in her hair as he hugged her tightly to his chest. His grip tightened slightly, as if holding on would somehow steady the storm inside him. “I’m so sorry—”

“Why are you sorry?” she whimpered, tears falling again. 

Even now…she’s thinking about me first…

“Oppa, you deserve this,” she continued. “You’ve done so much already in ten years. It’s your turn to do what you want. You’re thinking this way because you’ve realized what you really want to do, right? That’s why you’re considering this—because you’ve found yourself.”

Found myself…?

The words echoed in his mind, unsettling and comforting at the same time. Before, he would say he found himself in NCT - and he did. But just as she said, he’s realised what he wanted to do truly…

“I’m so scared!” he admitted with a choked sob, his voice breaking despite himself. “NCT is all I know… and what’s going to happen to you guys? To the rest of the members? I feel bad—I’m the leader, and I’m leaving you—”

The guilt surged through his chest as the words came hurling out of his mouth. Even saying it out loud made it feel more real…and heavier.

“Stop!” she shook her head, lightly hitting his chest. “Stop, don’t think like that. Oppa, you’re finally putting yourself first for once.”

Her words hit harder than he expected.

Putting myself first…when was the last time I really did that?

His thoughts trailed to the members’ sad faces.

“But -”

“Of course we’re going to be scared. This isn’t you graduating—this is you stepping back from NCT. Of course it’s scary. I’m scared too.” Boyoung’s voice wavered slightly, and that alone made his already broken heart ache further.

Even she’s scared…

“You have such important parts in our songs; you’re one of the main members. It’s normal to feel scared. But Oppa—” She held onto his shoulders firmly, grounding him in the moment.

Somehow, he was able to have the strength to look at her through blurred vision, trying to hold himself together.

“I’d rather you leave and be happier than stay here and lose yourself to something you’ve already grown out of.”

Lose myself…

Boyoung’s words lingered, quieter now, but heavier in meaning. When he really thought about it, he had spent so long pushing forward, fulfilling roles, responsibilities, expectations from everyone - never really stopping to ask himself what he wanted. Heck, he didn’t even have the time to ask himself - or think much about it.

And now, faced with the possibility of stepping away, now that he was given a possible chance, he realised…he was afraid not just of leaving NCT - but of not knowing who he would be without it, without the safety of NCT’s reputation and members.

Yet at the same time…a small part of him felt seen. Understood. Accepted.

Because Boyoung wasn’t asking him to stay…

She was giving him permissionto choose himself.

And he was grateful, because to be honest…if Boyoung asked him to stay, he would have stayed. In a heartbeat.

But she didn’t.

“Oh, Boyoung-ah,” he murmured, rocking them gently. “Oh, how you have grown…”

***

2013…

The three entered the small conference room, the last to enter.

Mark noticed her immediately.

The way she paused just slightly at the entrance…the way her steps wern’t as confident as the two boys with her.

And then subtly, she shifted. Half of her body hid behind Jaemin.

She’s…hiding?

Mark’s gaze lingered for a brief second long than he intended. He had heard about her before coming here. Not directly from her - but from others. Trainees talked. Word spread easily in environments like this.

Chwe Boyoung. Quite. Reserved. Barely spoke. Always stayed close to Na Jaemin, her best friend. Hard to approach.

Seeing her in person, Mark understood why those descriptions existed.

But at the same time…

She doesn’t exactly look cold. She just looked guarded. Careful. Almost like she didn’t want to take up space (or even be there) unless she absolutely had to.

“Thank you for coming,” the producer greeted them. “Take a seat, and we can begin.”

Mark listened as the producer explained the purpose of the show, expectations, and how they should present themselves on camera. He followed along attentively, but his attention kept drifting—subtly—back toward Boyoung.

She just sat there quietly, posture slightly closed off, hands close to herself. Shoulders hunched. Not disengaged, just…reserved.

She really doesn’t talk much…

Was she nervous? Uncomfortable? Both?

When the producer spoke again, his tone shifted - more direct. “This is a time for you guys to show yourselves and shine. So do your best, and be out there. Don’t hide.”

Mark didn’t miss the way the room reacted subtly. He saw it clearly.

Boyoung’s shoulders dropped slightly, her gaze lowered.

That was directed at her…

When he glanced around the room, he noted the rest of the trainees were looking at her.

He felt a small weight in his chest. Not pity exactly—but concern. Being singled out like that, especially in front of strangers… it wasn’t easy. 

Beside her, Jaemin quietly placed a reassuring hand over hers. Mark observed that too.

They’re close indeed…

“Okay, use this time now to get to know each other and become good friends,” the producer continued. “It won’t be good for the viewers to see if the main stars aren’t civil with one another.” And then, the staff began to leave. Once the doors closed, silence followed.

Now, it was just them.

Mark became aware of the shift immediately. Everyone slightly more alert, more aware of each other. Conversations hadn’t fully started yet—but the pressure to begin was there. He looked at Boyoung again. She hadn’t changed much—still quiet, still reserved—but now that all eyes were technically on her, her presence felt even more… withdrawn.

She’s uncomfortable…

Jaemin spoke first, introducing himself and Jeno, then naturally introducing Boyoung as well. Mark listened, picking up on the dynamic. They speak for her… not because she can’t—but because she chooses not to.

When it was his turn, he stepped forward slightly. “I’m Mark,” he said with a polite bow, offering a small, genuine smile. Introductions continued. Names exchanged. Small acknowledgments. But Mark found his attention returning to Boyoung more often than he expected. 

She remained mostly silent, offering only brief smiles, small nods, or subtle shakes of her head when necessary. She’s here… but she’s holding herself back.

And somehow, that made her stand out even more.

“Well, it may not seem like it at first,” Mark said at one point, glancing briefly toward her, though she quickly looked away, “but I’m sure we’ll become good friends in the future.”

It was a simple statement. Something people often said in situations like this.

But Mark found himself meaning it more than expected.

Maybe she just needs time…

Jaemin responded enthusiastically, and soon after, he gently guided Boyoung to leave with him, sensing her discomfort. Mark watched as they prepared to go.

Jaemin really looks after her…

As the group dispersed, Mark couldn’t quite shake the image of Boyoung from his mind. She hadn’t said much. She hadn’t needed to. But something about her lingered.

And as he called his mother later that night to share how his day went, he mentioned her. His mother listened, and then gently respond with wisdom he would keep inside for the rest of his life.

“Mark, if you notice someone like that, keep an eye on her. Be a friend if you can… and pray for her too. You never know what someone is going through inside. Sometimes, just having someone who cares can make a difference.”

After the call ended, he sat in silence for a moment, thinking back to her quiet presence.

She doesn’t need someone to force her to open up…

But maybe she needed someone to simply stay.

Someone consistent. Patient. Present.

And quietly, Mark made a decision within himself.

I’ll be there for her.

Whether she opened up to him or not.

***

2016. 08.25 - NCT Dream Debut

Backstage, they waited for their debut performance, each of their hearts racing erratically.

Mark quietly looked around, instinctively counting heads. One by one, he double-checked that all eight of them were present.

Leader mode… even though we’re all just kids…

Despite their age, the responsibility sat on his shoulders heavily.

As he checked on each member, his gaze landed on Boyoung. She stood slightly off to the side, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to hold herself together.

She’s nervous…

He glanced briefly toward Jaemin and Jeno. The two were occupied reviewing choreography, fully focused and unaware of Boyoung’s growing anxiety.

Mark hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach her.

Moments like this were rare—he could count on one hand the number of times he had spoken to her directly like this.

Taking a small step closer, he positioned himself in front of her, subtly blocking her from the others’ view.

“Hey,” he whispered gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared,” she admitted, her voice slightly unsteady. “Nervous… I don’t want to mess up…”

Mark nodded slowly.

Yeah…debut day…it’s not easy…I would know…since I debuted in…NCT U…wow…

“Hey, you’ll be okay,” he reassured her, snapping out of his thoughts. His hand instinctively lifted, as if to rest on her shoulder—but he stopped himself.

Right… she doesn’t like being touched unless she’s comfortable…

He lowered his hand again, choosing instead to keep a respectful distance.

“Boyoung,” he continued, voice steady. “You’ve been working toward this day for a long time. Honestly, you’ve worked harder than us. You’re the one who remembers the choreography best—you helped polish all of us.” He gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Just follow your instincts. Don’t pay attention to the cameras or the audience.”

“But what if I can’t?” she asked quietly.

Mark blinked. For a brief moment, he didn’t have an immediate answer.

Then his mother’s words came back to him.

“Sometimes, just having someone who cares can make a difference.”

He took a small breath.

“Then…look at me,” he said gently.

She looked up at him, uncertain.

“It’s not super professional,” he admitted with a faint, reassuring tone, “but if you ever get nervous, just look at me. I’m NCT Dream’s leader. No matter what, I won’t steer you wrong.”

He held her gaze, steady and sincere.

“I’ll be there for you. For all of you, okay? I believe in you. You can do it.”

Boyoung didn’t respond immediately, but something in her expression softened—just slightly.

And in that quiet moment, without either of them fully realizing it…

That was the beginning of Boyoung letting him into her heart.

***

2017 - First Win

The moment their name was announced, everything became a blur.

Cheers. Shock. Disbelief.

Mark barely registered how they made it onto the stage, the trophy in their hands, voices overlapping as they tried to process what had just happened.

We…won…?

It didn’t feel real.

As they celebrated, laughing and thanking everyone, Mark’s attention drifted—instinctively checking on the members like he always did.

That was when he noticed it.

Off to the side, slightly separated from the group, were Boyoung and Jeno.

Jeno stood close to her, speaking softly, his posture gentle—comforting. Boyoung, on the other hand…

She looked upset.

Mark’s brows furrowed slightly.

Why is she crying…? We just got our first win…

A small flicker of worry settled in his chest. Before he could step closer, the two turned back toward the stage, their expressions shifting quickly into bright smiles.

“Nana! This is for you! We did it!” Boyoung cheered into the microphone, her voice filled with emotion.

“Yeah, Jaemin!” Jeno added, waving toward the cameras. “We’ll give you the trophy afterwards!”

Mark paused.

Ah…

Of course. Jaemin.

The realisation settled over him quietly.

Even in this moment—one of the biggest milestones of their career—they were thinking of the one member who couldn’t be there with them.

Mark’s grip on the trophy tightened slightly.

I didn’t even think of that…

He had been too overwhelmed—too shocked, too happy.

But they hadn’t forgotten. They couldn’t.

He knew how difficult things had been lately. Having one member absent affected all of them—but for Boyoung…

It hit differently.

She had always stayed within a small circle. And Jaemin was at the center of it.

Mark glanced at her again.

She must’ve been holding that in this whole time…

But then—

She turned, and their eyes met. And she smiled.

Bright. Genuine. Full of joy and excitement. For a split second, Mark felt something lighten in his chest.

She looks… happy.

He had noticed it over time—small changes. Boyoung had been opening up more. Slowly, but surely.

She was closer to Jeno now…

And maybe—just maybe—

She’s getting a little more comfortable with me too…

The thought lingered as they made their way offstage.

Later, as they piled into the van, the energy was still high—voices overlapping, laughter filling the space as they talked about surprising Jaemin.

Mark sat beside Boyoung, the trophy still in his hands. He glanced at it, then at her. Without overthinking it, he held it out. “Here,” he said with a small grin. “You should give it to him.”

“Eh?” she blinked, startled. “But you’re the leader—”

“And?” Mark shrugged lightly. To him, it felt simple. Natural. “You’re his best friend,” he said. “And you were able to perform well for all of us today.”

He met her eyes, his tone softening just slightly.

“You did well, Boyoung. You’re strong and brave.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. Just like I told you back then…

“I told you—you can do it.”

She went quiet for a second. Then -

“…thank you…”

Her smile this time was softer. More sincere.

And as Mark looked at her, something clicked.

This might be the happiest I’ve seen her in a while…

And without realizing it—

That mattered to him more than the trophy in his hands.

***

December 2018 - Mark’s Graduation

Standing there, surrounded by the Dreamies… hearing the fans… knowing this was his last stage with them as a NCT Dream member—

It felt heavier than he expected.

As he admired the fans in front of him, his gaze drifted instinctively to the members, to Boyoung. And the moment he saw her

Ah…

Her eyes were already glassy, lips pursed in an attempt to not cry. That alone made his chest tighten.

Don’t cry…please don’t cry…

Because if she did…

He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together.

Mark swallowed hard, trying to keep himself composed, but his mind betrayed him—pulling him back through years of memories. A small girl, barely ten, hiding behind Jaemin. Quiet. Guarded. Someone he wasn’t sure how to approach -

But someone he couldn’t ignore.

Then slowly…

The way she began to trust him. Talk to him. Smile more around him. Look for him before going on stage.

When did she become someone I needed to look after…?

And more than that -

When did she become family…?

“Boyoung-ah…” he called softly, his voice already unsteady. “Boyoung-ah…”

She turned to him, and before he could say anything else, two words escaped her emotionally:

“Don’t go.”

They slipped out of her mouth like a plea, raw and unfiltered, echoing through her mic as she rushed into his arms. For a second Mark froze, caught off guard by the sudden contact. She…hugged me first…?

But the shock didn’t last long; the moment he heard her sob, everything in him broke. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her close without hesitation.

She’s crying…

And just like that, the tears he had been holding back began to fall too. Holding her in his arms, his mind drifted again; to every version of her he had known until now. The quiet girl who barely spoke. The one who slowly opened up. The one who stood on stage now - stronger, a bit brighter…a bit happier. And he had the fortune to be there through it all.

“I’m always here for you, no matter what,” he murmured softly into her ear, his voice breaking despite his efforts. He pulled back just enough to gently wipe her tears, his hands careful, familiar. Even now…she looked the same to him. Not just the idol. Not just his member. But the small girl he met years ago - still someone he wanted to protect.

“If you need me, contact me, okay?” he continued quietly. “I’ll do my best to help you—I promise, Boyoung. I really do.” He pulled her back into another hug, holding her just a little tighter. “I’m not going to leave you…not after everything we’ve been through.”

And he meant it. Every word.

“I love you, Oppa.”

Mark’s breath hitched. For a second, everything went still.

Did she just…?

It was the first time she had ever said it to him. And it shattered whatever composure he had left.

He let out a broken breath, burying his face into her shoulder as tears fell freely. A small, emotional laugh slipped through him.

When did she get this hold on me…

“I love you too, Boyoung,” he said, pulling back with a tearful smile. He looked at her properly - really looked at her. Not just who she was now…but everything she had been. “My little sister, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, sniffling. It had him smiling softly. Even as his chest ached, even as everything was changing for Dream in the upcoming year - 

That much…

Would never change. He was determined on that.

***

He had been there for everything.

Through every stage, every shift, every quiet turning point in her life.

When Dream had their first comeback without him…

When she and Jisung slowly found their way to each other…

Through every milestone, every trial, every moment that could have broken her—

He was there.

At the hospital.

During her recovery.

Watching over her, the same way he always had.

Just like I promised…

And somewhere along the way, without him even realizing it—

Not just the quiet, guarded girl he met years ago…

But Boyoung.

Someone who trusted him.

Someone who let him in.

Someone who gave him her love so freely, in her own quiet way.

He had been there to guide her.

To protect her.

To encourage her when she needed it most.

And she had been there for him too, in ways he never expected.

Grounding him with logic when his thoughts spiraled too far.

Pulling him back when he hit his lowest points.

Supporting him—not loudly, not dramatically—but steadily. Consistently.

Like she always did.

We grew together…

And before he knew it - ten years had passed. Ten years with NCT. With her.

Now, here they were. At Hangang, 2026.

Just the two of them.

When everything finally felt like it was settling into place. Huh, maybe that’s why…

Maybe that’s why it feels like it’s time.

He had done what he needed to do. He had given everything he could. And somewhere along the way…he had found what mattered most.

He let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening slightly around her as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Oh, Boyoung…” His voice was filled with something deeper than pride…something softer. “Oh, how you’ve grown into such an amazing woman…”

Boyoung shifted in his arms, looking up at him with eyes steady despite everything. “Exactly…” she murmured. “You helped me grow into who I am now. And now…” She held his gaze as her words settled into him more deeper than he expected. “It’s your turn to grow.”

For so long, his life had been about leading, guiding, staying strong for others…but now - for the first time in a long time…

He was being told it was okay to choose himself. And somehow…

Hearing it from her made it feel real.

***

He was glad he had told Boyoung first. Because when he spoke to the rest of Dream—one by one, and then all together— she was the one who stood by him the most. Unwavering. Even when it hurt her too.

He still remembered the argument. The first real one between her and Jisung. And it was about him.

“It’s not fair!” Jisung had cried, voice breaking. “How are you okay with this? I thought we were going to be 8Dream forever! We all promised!”

Mark’s chest had tightened painfully at that. We did…I’m sorry…

“Of course I’m not okay!” Boyoung shot back, tears in her eyes. “I’m scared and hurt too! But I’d rather feel this temporary pain than have Oppa stay here and lose himself and be unhappy!” Her voice shook—but she didn’t back down. “Stop being selfish and let him have his freedom! Is this how you’re going to be if I ever want to do this?”

Mark had never felt guilt hit him that hard before. Watching them argue—because of him—it felt unbearable.

He apologised over and over after that. But Boyoung? She never wavered. She chose to stay by his side, no matter what. So this is what it feels like…to be chosen…

There was tension for a while after that. Quiet, unspoken, lingering in the air between them all. It was stifling, and painful, since they were usually comfortable and happy together.

But slowly, things began to settle. Jisung came around, the members adjusted, they prepared for the future. And they made the most of the time they had left, spending their remaining days together as 8Dream.

***

And now…here they were. Their last concert together.

Mark tried not to cry. He really did. He avoided looking at the members for too long, afraid that if he saw them break down, he would too. But there was one person he couldn’t ignore. Boyoung.

She stayed close to him the entire time. Not saying much, not even looking at him for long. Just…there. Close enough that he could feel her presence beside him.

She moved back and forth—going to Jisung when he broke down, kneeling beside him, comforting him…

And then returning to Mark again.

Like she was trying to hold both sides together.

Mark’s eyes drifted to Jisung. Collapsed on the ground, sobbing— just like he had, years ago, when he graduated.

Mark’s grip tightened around the small plushie in his hands. He stared down at it, unable to move.

How can I go to him…when I’m mthe reason he’s hurting like this?

“Oppa…” Her voice pulled him back.

She stood in front of him now, her hands gently covering his—still clutching the plushie. “Look at me.”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to. Because he knew if he did, he’d break again. But slowly, he lifted his head. Her eyes were already fille dwith tears.

“You need to go to him,” she whispered. Mark shook his head immediately.

“I can’t. If I go, I -”

“It’s our last concert together… for who knows how long,” she cut him off, her voice cracking. Her grip on his hands tightened. “Please…you’ll regret it. Go to him.”

Mark stared at her. Even now…she’s thinking about us. About all of them. Not just him, not just herself…all of them.

He swallowed hard. But he nodded, nonetheless. And he was glad - so, so glad - that he listened. Because in the future, when he looked back on this moment, there was no regret. Only gratitude that he was able to be there for Jisung - one last time.

***

As the concert continued, emotions still ran high. But slowly, something began to shift.

Mark found his gaze drifting again back to Boyoung.

What’s going to happen to her… when I’m not there anymore? The thought lingered, heavy and persistent.

For so long, he had been there to watch over her. To guide her. To protect her. But now—

He wouldn’t be by her side every step of the way anymore.

Yet…

As he looked around; at the Dreamies cheering him on from across the stage… At Jeno standing firmly in the middle, bridging both sides… At the way they smiled through their tears, still supporting him—

The weight in his chest began to ease.

They were still here. For him. For each other. Always.

And when his eyes met Boyoung’s, just for a brief moment—

She stood there, surrounded by the others, singing toward him.

And she smiled. Not perfectly. Not without tears. But strong. Steady.

She’ll be okay…

And maybe—

So would he.

Because this wasn’t the end. Not really.

Just because he wouldn’t be part of NCT anymore…

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t be part of their lives.

And they wouldn’t stop being part of his.

We’re still…

Mark let out a small breath, something in his chest finally settling.

We’re still 8Dream.

His fingers kneaded the flesh gently now, pushing your oversized t-shirt further up your thighs. He peppered soft kisses along the newly exposed skin, humming under his breath.

You sighed, unsure if you should feel irritated or amused. "Whatever…"

You turned back to your phone, trying to ignore the low flutter in your stomach.

A second later, strong hands flipped you onto your back with ease and you gasped.

Keeho laughed—that signature, high-pitched schoolgirl giggle that you loved oh so much—and you narrowed your eyes, feigning annoyance. "What now?"

He beamed up at you from between your legs, mischief sparkling in his usually sharp, slitted eyes. They were wide and round now, akin to a kid in a candy store, and you didn’t trust that look one bit.

He pouted dramatically at your reaction. "Why are you already annoyed by me?"

A giggle escaped you despite yourself. You reached down, brushing your thumb over his pouting lower lip where his head rested heavily on your thighs. "Because I feel like you're up to something…"

He shook his head unconvincingly. "I'm not!" But he was already shifting. He lifted your leg, draping it over his shoulder, nestling himself deeper between your thighs until his head rested snugly against your lower stomach. You looked down the length of your body at him, slightly breathless at the sight.

His lips pressed softly against the strip of skin exposed between the waistband of your underwear and your bunched-up shirt—tiny pecks at first. Then he lifted his head, delivering slower kisses that made your skin tingle.

"Not up to anything, huh?" you whispered, feeling the curve of his smile against your hip bone. Sneaky little shit.

"I've been thinking about doing this all day, actually. Just didn't wanna jump you the second I got here." His breath fanned hot over your sensitive skin.

You smirked, raising an eyebrow. "How classy."

He nipped the skin of your lower stomach in warning, just hard enough to make you clamp your mouth shut with a surprised yelp.

He repositioned himself, arms hooking firmly under your thighs, spreading you just a little wider as he stared directly at your center. A faint, telltale damp spot darkened the fabric right over your core.

He couldn't hide the smug smirk that tugged at his lips.

His eyes lifted to yours, finding you watching him intently. He held your gaze and leaned down to press a delicate kiss right over your clit through the fabric.

You gasped softly, a jolt of pleasure tightening the tension coiling in your lower belly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly over the damp spot, breathing in deeply before exhaling a warm sigh.

"Fuck... you smell so good."

You whined as his long tongue darted out to lick from your entrance up to your clit over the fabric. He licked his lips, savoring the feeling, then did it again, slower this time. Your skin felt like it was on fire, the pressure from his tongue combined with the wet drag of the soaked cotton was deliciously torturous.

Your hand loosened around where you had been clutching your phone and an idea sparked. You reached down, carding your fingers gently through his soft hair. "Kyo?"

He tilted his head up, resting his chin lightly on your mound, those big eyes fixed patiently on yours. "Yeah?"

"Can I... can I record you?" you asked, suddenly feeling shy under his intent eye.

He looked surprised for a split second, and you quickly explained yourself. "It's just... you're leaving for tour soon. Need something for when I miss you..."

His eyes darkened, your words sending a sated throb right to where his hips were pressed into the sheets. "God you're the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Of course you can, baby."

Relief and a flush of excitement ran through you at his enthusiasm. You smiled sweetly at him, quickly opening the camera app and hitting record.

He didn’t break eye contact with the lens, or with you behind it.

He leaned back in, pressing another open-mouthed kiss right over your covered clit, his tongue poking it firmly this time. You gasped, clutching the phone tightly in your grip.

His long tongue was relentless, licking up the entire length of your pussy through the soaked fabric, then zeroing in, circling the outline of your clit as you writhed below him. "Fuck... I can taste you through these. Taste even better than you smell."

You could see the concentrated dip between his brows as his jaw worked you.

"Oh god—!" you gasped out, hips jerking reflexively at the sudden, wet pressure. You breathed out his name desperately, your voice catching as he started sucking right where you needed him most. "Right there... Kyo please..."

He squeezed your thigh in response, now alternating between broad licks that made you arch slightly off the bed and tight, rapid flicks focused solely on the tiny bundle of nerves hidden beneath the thin cotton.

"Gonna soak through everything, aren't you?"

His nose nudged against you as he worked, breathing you in. Every so often he glanced back up at you, his lips curling with pride at the desperate little sounds escaping you.

"Look at you... filming me like a good girl while I eat you out. Gonna fuck yourself to it later right? Wishing your fingers were my tongue?"

The fabric was thoroughly soaked now, translucent in places, plastered to your sensitive folds. You could see the outline of his tongue pressing against it, seeking your entrance. Your hips twitched helplessly towards his mouth.

"You feel- ngh..s-so good!" you whimpered.

He chuckled darkly against your heat and pulled back just enough to hook his thumbs into the sides of your underwear. He looked up at the camera, then directly into your eyes, tugging the soaked fabric up and taught against your aching core. The sudden, searing pressure and friction, grinding directly onto your hypersensitive clit, tore a ragged cry from your throat.

"Keeho! What the—fuck!" Your back arched high off the bed, hips writhing helplessly against the unexpected torment.

He watched, mesmerized, as the cotton stretched and sank deep into your swollen folds. A low groan rumbled from his chest. He was two seconds away from grabbing the camera from you to capture the perfect sight.

"Look at you," he breathed, voice thick with lust, eyes fixed on the obscene display. "So fucking desperate, want your pussy ate so bad huh." He pressed hard, open-mouthed kisses over the stretched fabric, each one hitting you with a mix of pleasure and pain that made you eyes roll back in submission.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he peeled the ruined underwear away. The cool air hit your glistening heat and he paused to stare at your bare cunt. You were utterly drenched and squeezing around nothing, folds slick and shining, your clit a hard, needy peak.

A thick rope of your arousal stretched from your entrance down to the sheets and keeho’s tongue swept over his lips, starved by a hunger that could only be sated by you.

"Fuuuck me," he groaned before quickly leaning back in to catch the slick with his tongue, moving up to press against your fluttering hole.

A depraved moan tore from him as your taste flooded his senses. "God, baby… I could do this for hours," he moaned against your skin, one hand splayed on your lower belly, the other clamping your thigh down hard. "Gonna drown in you. Pussy so pretty." He panted before diving back in.

He lapped deep at your entrance, drinking greedily, the blunt pressure and slick glide drawing helpless whines and lifts of your hips.

"Need more… please, Kyo…"

He trailed up, circling your clit with the very tip of his tongue, maddeningly light circles that had you begging, "Oh g-god…r-ngh—right there…" He spread your folds wider with his fingers, exposing you completely to him.

"Look at this perfect clit," he murmured, watching it pulse under his scrutiny. "Begging for me to ruin you."

He began flicking at it, rapid brushes that made you cry out, a broken sob escaping your lips.

Without warning, he inched down, his tongue stiffening as it sank shallowly into you, fucking you with short, insistent bobs of his head.

The sudden invasion and fullness stole your breath. "Soo fucking needy," his voice was strained against your flesh, eyes locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

He slipped in and out a few times before retreating to suck hard on your clit, drawing a new wave of whines from deep within you.

You couldn't lie still anymore. You needed to see him, so you shoved yourself up onto one hand with a groan, letting the phone fall forgotten. You needed to watch as he ravaged you.

The sight was exhilarating. The powerful muscles of his back flexed as he feasted, his hips grinding urgently into the mattress beneath him. Needing more, needing control, your free hand tangled roughly in his hair and pushed, grinding his face harder against your throbbing core.

"Fuck yes—" he whimpered, the sound muffled by your folds, and looked up. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, utterly wrecked and drunk on you.

Your slick coated his lips, chin, and nose, shining obscenely. The sight, so earth shatteringly carnal, made your own arousal spike tenfold.

"Keeho… look at you…" you breathed, voice trembling.

He didn’t pause. His voice was thick, slurred against your heat. "Need you closer...please, ride my tongue."

Heat flooded your cheeks, confidence and control dwindling.

"Oh, I-I've never…" But the doubt was crushed before it formed.

"Do it," he commanded, rough and urgent. "Need you on me. Need you grinding that sweet cunt into my mouth." He was already rolling onto his back beneath you, staring up, chest heaving, eyes burning with pure, feral hunger. "C'mon baby don't be shy, I've got you."

Heart hammering against your ribs, you swallowed hard. Shifting forward, you swung a leg over, positioning yourself above his face, knees planted beside his head. Hovering carefully, your gaze dropped to the massive bulge straining against his sweatpants as you shuddered out a breath.

Slowly, you lowered yourself. He wasted no time to begin lapping at you again, harder, more direct pressure aimed at your entrance

Your thighs trembled as you held yourself up carefully above him.

"Tired already?" Keeho taunted, breath puffing hotly against your sensitive skin. Without question, his hands locked onto your hips and pulled you down flush against him, seating you fully on his mouth. "Fucking use me."

A shocked cry tore from you as his mouth sealed over your entire cunt.

"Yes! Oh God, Kyo! Like that!" you cried, the sensations overwhelming. You found a good rhythm, rolling your hips hard against the muscle, bracing your hands on his abs for leverage.

Seeking a better angle, you leaned forward, lowering your upper body until your face hovered inches above the tent in his sweats. The evidence of just how affected by you he truly was.

Spurred on by the muffled whines getting lost against your core, you fumbled desperately with his waistband.

You shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed an angry red, the head slick with pre-cum.

He moaned deeply against your cunt at the release, his hips bucking off the bed in search of you.

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, stroking him to draw another strained grunt from his lips. "You're so hard Kyo," you murmured, then lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The simultaneous stimulation was a shock to both your bodies.

"Fuck yes… suck my cock princess."

You obeyed, bobbing your head on his cock, taking him as deep as you could while trying to maintain the desperate grinding against his mouth. You swirled your tongue around his swollen head, lapped eagerly at the salty pre-cum leaking steadily, hollowed your cheeks to take him fully.

The taste of him, the sounds of him devouring you, the overwhelming pleasure radiating from your core pushed you towards the edge.

"I can't… Kyo gonna cum," you gasped around his cock, voice shaking. "Please can I? Wanna c-cum on your tongue."

"Cum baby," he obliged, voice raw and ragged. He latched onto your clit like a man possessed, licking and sucking to drive you over the edge.

Your back arched as a choked scream ripped from your throat around his cock. Your thighs clamped around his head as wave after blinding wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

The intense pulsing of your cunt around his tongue mixed with the way your throat squeezed his cock shattered Keeho’s control completely.

"Gonna cum baby, gonna cum in your throat— Fuck!" With the last bit of control he had left, he bucked hard up into your mouth. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot down your throat as his own climax ripped through him.

"Swallow baby, god just like that—that's my good girl."

You obeyed his instructions, swallowing with a gag as you milked him through the last shuddering pulses as aftershocks still rocked your own body. Spent and trembling uncontrollably, you collapsed forward onto his stomach, his softening cock slipping from your lips with a soft, wet sound. Beneath you, Keeho was panting, his face still buried blissfully in your thighs, right where he wanted to be.

Silence fell as you both tried to gather your composures. Keeho turned his head slightly, pressing a final, exhausted, yet tender kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh. His lips were sticky against your skin. His voice, when it came, was a wrecked whisper laced with pure satisfaction. "Mine."

You felt boneless, utterly spent, your cheek pressed against the firm warmth of his stomach, the frantic thud of his pulse beneath your ear slowly calming.

"Okay," he murmured through the silence. "Gotta move, baby." His hands slid carefully under your hips. "Lift up for me? Just a little." You managed a weak groan, pushing yourself up slightly on trembling arms. With a gentleness completely opposite to how fiercely he’d just held you, he eased himself out from under you, mindful of your sensitive, trembling limbs.

He guided you down onto your back against the pillows, your legs feeling like jelly.

Before you could even catch your breath fully, he was leaning over you. His face, still glistening with your slick, met yours in a kiss that was nothing less than deeply intimate. You tasted each other on your tongues; It would have been strange to anyone else but in the hazy aftermath, it felt like your souls were intertwining.

You kissed him back, your hands weakly finding his shoulders, your breaths mingling as you both simply breathed each other in.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dark eyes soft and satisfied. "Fuck," he breathed, a lazy smile playing on his swollen lips.

You managed a weak smile back, still catching your breath. "Yeah."

He shifted then, turning onto his side beside you. His hand reached out, fingers grabbing the forgotten phone lying screen-up on the crumpled sheets nearby. The screen was still on, likely having recorded nothing but darkness. He glanced at it, then back at you, a playful glint returning to his eyes despite his exhaustion.

"Why'd you stop recording?" he asked, his tone light, teasing. He tapped the screen. "Missed the best part."

You stared at him like he was insane. The sheer absurdity of the question, after what had just transpired, cut through the haze.

"Sorry," you said flatly, your voice still a little hoarse. "I was a little distracted, too busy sucking your cock."

Keeho stared at you for a split second then a loud, surprised snort of laughter burst out of him. He threw his head back, the sound rich and genuine, echoing in the quiet room. "Jesus, so vulgar." He wheezed, shaking his head.

He tossed the phone carelessly aside onto the bed turning back to you, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye though it mixed with the drying slick on his cheek. "Look who's not so classy now," he grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners, referencing your earlier teasing jab.

"Not even 3 minutes ago you were telling me to suck your co—" His hand shot out to muffle your words, his face burning red. "Shh! What I say during freaky time is none of my business."

A tired, genuine laugh bubbled up from your own chest.

He leaned in again, his laughter softening into a warm, affectionate smile. His thumb brushed gently over your cheekbone. "But it was well worth it."

He sure was right about that.

—

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Yunho had a show of trying to reach out and laughed when San slapped his hands away.

“San…” you breathed out his name and couldn’t help the bashful grin when he turned to look at you, eyes warm and soft as he gazed down.

His thumb rubbed a circle at your hip. “Come on,” he urged quietly, just for you, “we’re going to be late.”

San drove you both, car rumbling powerfully beneath your legs. He kept a possessive hand on your thigh, the warm curl of his fingers raising goosebumps on your skin. Every time he stopped at a red light, he’d find your fingers and press kisses to the tips.

When you arrived, he rushed around the car just so he could open the door for you.

“You don’t have to do that Sannie,” you said, even as your hand rested on his open palm and your legs swung out of the door car.

“I do,” San insisted, guiding you away from the car door so he could shut it for you. He took your bag from your shoulder to slip on his before his hands were around your waist, moving you step by step into the theatre. 

San was aware that he expressed his love through words. He wasn’t afraid to whisper compliments or confess how he feels into the domestic warmth of the den. He was never ashamed of his feelings, was quite bad at keeping them to himself if he was honest. Hongjoong said that his face always gave it away, the crease between his eyebrows or the subtle flicker of his mouth into a frown. 

Since finding his pack though, his need for touch and expression through actions had increased. There was nothing better than cuddling his love, feeling the uptick of their pulse against his fingertips, watching the way they swayed towards him. Wooyoung and Seonghwa were content to let him reach for them whenever he felt the urge and they would do the same for him. Yunho and Mingi, less so, but would never object to his touch. Yeosang would tense at first and melt easily, an embarrassed flush on his pretty face. Hongjoong and Jongho were the only ones that complained, allowed it in the private moments or when they were feeling particularly amenable to him.

You though – you weren’t a hybrid. Physical connection didn’t have the same impact on you, but you acted like it did. You reacted so beautifully to his touch, to his words. San was obsessed with how goosebumps break over your skin when his touch is gentle or the way your breathing shudders when he’s firmer, surer of himself. You leaned into him so easily and reached for him with the same surety that he did for you.

When they got closer, San had to reluctantly put distance between the two of you. It might be quiet, lower key, but cameras followed him all the time. Still, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at you, never quite willing to let you out of his line of sight. Once he was passed the line of cameras, once the theatre door pulled close, he paused in his step until you were back in step with him. His fingers trailed down your wrist to interlock with your own.

He squeezed them affectionately. You squeeze back.

The show itself was good but not half as interesting as you. Your expressions of delight, your low gasps of surprise, the way your lips angled down in distress at the emotional climax. He found himself unable to look away, watching the sparkle of the light reflecting in your eyes.

You noticed of course. You tried to ignore him to focus on the show, but every once and a while, you’d catch him – smile soft, eyes twinkling, playing with your fingers with the gentlest of touches.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” you whispered.

San kissed your knuckles. “I am,” he lied.

Honestly, if someone asked him what the play was about, he couldn’t explain a single part. Still, he listened with the most avid interest when you gushed and expressed how much you enjoyed it. 

Of course, until the growing urge to kiss you got too much. San clicked off the engine of the car in the driveway of the pack house, and you’d turned to him with such a large smile. It was like instinct to reach across the middle console and cup your cheeks, to drag you in closer and slot his lips over yours.

Kissing San was distracting you found. The cat threw himself into each kiss like he did a stage performance, like he had something to prove to you with each slide of his lips. Sometimes you got Sannie – the soft and sensual slide, the little huffs of breath, the hands that didn’t want to drift anyway disrespectful. Sometimes it was the Duke.

The nip of teeth against your bottom lip told you that’s who was kissing you now. It was harder, deeper, more control in how he licked between your teeth. The way he held you still, kept you close, and you let him, happy to take what he’d give you.

“Fuck, just,” the curse slipped through his lips, pressed like a bruise against you. You didn’t have time to react, before San was moving his hand to the side of his chair and yanked it back.

His fingers gripped your hips and tugged. He moved you effortlessly close, urged your legs to rest on either side of him. You gasped as you fell into him, hands splayed across his broad chest, before the sound was swallowed by a desperate touch.

San felt heady, restless, your sweet scent filling the car until it was all he could smell. It blurred his senses, made him forget the night of romance he had originally planned. The cat within him yowled and purred in delight. He’d have you there, San knew, if you let him.

He could have cried when you moaned into him and parted your lips to let him lick in. The taste of you was even better than the scent and it was lost to the addiction.

You pulled away with a shuddered inhale, and San buried his face in your neck. He pressed kisses there, small at first and then longer, a slide of tongue along where your scent was strongest and then the worrying of teeth. You melted against him, angled your head more to let him get impossibly closer, and he took it greedily.

Later, when you pulled yourself from the fogged-up windows of the car, Mingi gave you a shiteating grin. “In the driveway?” he teased. “Really?”

Wooyoung matched his expression. “Sannie, do you have no shame?”

Yeosang’s lips twitched in amusement. “Baby, have you seen your neck?”

-

Yunho poked your neck and you slapped his hand away. You huffed, ears turning red, while his grin widened next to you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Baby…” he cooed.

You rolled your lips. “Don’t.”

Yunho scooted closer, resting his head on your shoulder. “Come on, please,” he pouted, “you let San do it.”

Across the room, the hybrid in question flushed across the back of his neck and squinted at the ceiling. If he avoided eye contact, he could hide his embarrassment and the swell of pride he felt when he looked at the bite he’d left on your neck.

It wasn’t a mating bite, wasn’t on the correct side of the neck, but that didn’t seem to matter to his hybrid, who purred and swayed in pleasure that you bore his teeth so high on your pretty skin. San had apologised of course, he’d gotten carried away, lots in the feeling and emotion, but when you looked elsewhere, he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

His mark looked so good on you.

The others, of course, were equal parts amused as they were jealous. For you to hold any of their marks was an absolute delight, but the temptation to mark you themselves. Yeah, that was quite intense now that there was proof you’d let him so on display for them. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you scolded, half serious and half playful. Your Labrador hybrid looked so sweet like this, peering up at you with wide and hopeful eyes, it almost made you want to agree.

Because in theory, you didn’t mind having their hickeys along the curve of your throat. It had felt good, lost in San’s kisses and claiming touches, and the idea that each of them wanted to do the same to you, to drag their teeth across the soft skin of your neck, made you feel wonderfully warm all over.

However, the more sensible part of you was aware that this one mark was visible for not just your hybrids to see, but everyone – strangers, colleagues, bosses alike. It filled you with this fluttering of embarrassment, made you want to duck your head and hide away.

So even though the urge to bare your neck and let them have your way with you was high, you had put your foot down.

The boys respected your choices of course, but there were buttons to push, and Yunho was shaking with excess energy that he needed to dispel.

He stuck his bottom lip out more. You couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss it away. 

Wooyoung, head resting against your knee, perked up. “If he gets to, I want to,” he demanded.

Mingi made a noise of objection. “Me too.”

Across the room, Jongho turned the page on his book. “Dibs.”

Yeosang looked aghast. “You can’t call dibs on our baby.”

“I can,” Jongho shot back, “I just did.”

“Do I get a say in this?” you interrupted.

A hand brushed gentle through your hair and when you looked up there was Hongjoong’s calm expression looking down at you. It would have been innocent if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eyes. “Of course beautiful,” he assured. His fingers danced a beat along the high point of your cheek, down your jaw, over the curve of your neck to rest comfortably there. “You can pick where.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t a second away from melting. You worried your bottom lip for a moment. “Just…below my collar line, okay?”

You might as well have begged for it for the way the room went tense, still, bodies thrumming with the expression of interest.

“Out of sight, out of mind, got it,” Seonghwa agreed. He was on the other end of the sofa to you, spreading his legs wider so you had enough space to fit between. He stretched out his arms and wriggled his fingers. “Now come here.”

-

You smothered your neck in foundation, concealer and a lot of setting spray. With the winter month, you were able to get away with high collars with scarves, even though the top of the bruise embarrassingly peeked over the fabric. San had been equal parts embarrassed and delighted, stroking the exposed mark with gentle wonder.

Still, you managed to hide it well enough.

Until you didn’t.

The break room was hot, and you’d been busy all morning, mind running a mile a minute with all the things you needed to do. You’d unwrapped your layers to lay claim to a chair before heading about making yourself a coffee. You hadn’t even realised until one of the production assistants – Soojin, you recalled the name belatedly – gasped excitedly.

“Unni,” she exclaimed, “you’re dating?”

You had hummed in agreement before pausing, registering what she said and asking, “How did you know that?”

She tapped her own neck and wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Your own hand slapped to cover the mark, and you must have looked truly aghast because her excitement faded into a mix of amusement and pity.

“Not serious yet?” she said.

Your heart pounding in your chest, you swallowed around your dry throat. “It’s not that, it’s just…we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s still…new.”

You hadn’t even discussed what to say about your relationship. Are you telling people officially? You aren’t exactly subtle, the boys scent you all the time, but that could be seen as affectionate, just close co-workers, not –

It was professional at work; an appropriate distance kept for all of you. But Hongjoong had said more than once he wanted you in his pack. Yeosang had blushed when he explained mating marks, how it made everything real for their animal instincts as well, and confessed that he liked the idea that you were considering taking theirs. Yunho had been touching the hickeys adorning your skin like it was a daily ritual. Along your thighs, your hips, your breasts, you bore their bruising kisses.

You made a mental note to talk to Hongjoong about it when you got home.

Of course, that’s not where the conversation ended. KQ Entertainment was small and close knit. If anything, that made it worse. Rumours spread from the production team to PR to stylists to the dance team, and then of course to your boys.

One of the dancers had elbowed Mingi goodnaturedly and made a joke. Something about the pretty caretaker of theirs sporting marks and made some comment about how they’d missed their shot. It was nothing serious, meaningless words, but Mingi could feel the way his fox sat up, eyes narrowed, hunches high in displeasure.

He made himself laugh and act as if nothing was wrong, that he was screaming inside. If he was a little rougher during practice, that was no one’s business. When Yunho pulled him aside to find out what was wrong, he admitted to the way it scratched at the worst part of him, made him feel possessive and irritable. Because he knew who left the marks but no one else did and that left room to speculate.

“She’s ours,” he spat and took a deep breath to chase the flare of rage away.

Yunho patted him on the back in understanding. “Hold it together man,” he said, “10 more minutes and you can scent her to your heart’s content. Just try not to take it out on the dancers, yeah?”

When you did arrive, flushed with your scarf firmly secured around your neck, Mingi bullied you into the wall, removed the layer in the way and buried his face into the warm skin there. You yelped in surprise, stammered his name but relaxed, quiet and content, when Mingi rumbled his pleasure.

Your hands came to his head, silky strands slipping between splayed fingers, and angled your cheek towards him. “Tough practice?” you guessed.

Yunho snorted. “More like jealous fox.”

“Jealous?” you blinked. “About what?”

“You’re the talk of the company Noona,” Wooyoung teased.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang looked at you wide eyed. Mingi’s hold on you flexed at the question.

“I’m…a little embarrassed everyone’s talking about my love life,” you admitted. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at you so intently, you needed to look away, gaze dropping to their shoes. “Soojin-ah noticed first and she asked if I was dating someone and I…”

You weren’t sure if you could finish, uncertainty whirling in your stomach. What if they said not to tell anyone? That this needed to be some little secret? Or what if they said tell everyone? Your place in this group becoming public knowledge. Would it be allowed? Would the company terminate your contract because messing around was one thing, but permanence is another.

“Baby…”

Your vision flickered up. It was Yeosang who was taking the step towards you, boba eyes wide. If Mingi wasn’t already laying claim to you, Yeosang would have gathered you into his arms -  as long as someone was holding you. You looked so uncertain, worrying your bottom lip, lips flittering, like they were going to break your heart.

“If you think we don’t want to shout this from the rooftops, then we haven’t been doing our job right,” he said, voice clear, firm.

The honest shot right through you. “I know, but…”

“Tell everyone, tell no one,” Hongjoong interjected, “tell whoever you want. Don’t question for a moment that we want you with us.”

Wooyoung elbowed their leader. “He’s been wanting to give you a pack bite from the beginning,” he teased. He leant that way, into jokes and soft jabs, when he was worried, he might collapse under the weight of the moment.

Though nothing could have prepared from for the soft agreement that left your sweet lips.

“Okay.”

A simple word that had them all standing tense, hope and desire surging through them as their animal brains caught up with the moment.

Mingi had pulled away from you, eyes wide and dark, lips parting in surprise. “W-wait…”

“Are you sure?” Jongho asked. He could have rumbled his excitement, but he suppressed the urge, each muscle tensed individual as if that would hold him in place.

You looked at each of them. Your boys. Your pack. Your loves. Before you’d taken on this position, you never imagined living in a world like this. Never imagined being handled with such softness, never imagined how good it would feel to hold each of them in your embrace. Desperately, selfishly, you wanted this forever. They said they would always be yours, something wired deep in their DNA that would refuse to let you go even if you walked away from them.

But maybe you were more hybrid than you thought because the idea of leaving them behind, of living a life in their absence, made your soul cry. 

A pack mark was akin to a marriage band. It was serious and sacred. It was tying yourself so completely and utterly to a group of people. Your uncle had his own mating mark and had called it more permanent than a wedding band.

“You can break a marriage easy,” he had explained, “but this-“he gestured to the healed wound on his jugular, “-this was intended to be forever. You can break it, of course, but it takes work. It takes true pain.”

There was some evolutionary reason for it. You were sure that you had notes from lecturers about it from your university days. It didn’t really matter why though. In this moment, it came down to you and your confidence.

Were you confident that you would want to be here, with them, until the end?

The answer came so easily.

“I’m sure,” you nodded. 

You looked at Hongjoong, pack leader, who wore an expression that was a mix of joy and terror. He was almost convinced he was dreaming, that he hadn’t drunk enough water and now he was lightheaded, facing a fantasy. His skin was itchy, his red panda restless, and God, he hoped this was real. He wasn’t sure he could bare it if it wasn’t. 

And then you breathed out the words he’d wanted to hear from the beginning, your voice confident and so sure that that this – that him and his pack – were what you wanted. 

“Make me part of your pack.” 

-

Pack bites were something important to hybrids. It held weight and reverence and a lifetime commitment. This wouldn’t be rushed in to, no matter how much you would want it over with.

That night, in the Den, Hongjoong had tucked you under his arm, body curved over yours, cheek pressed to cheek. His breath felt hot there as he whispered, “You really want this? Want us?”

You angled your head to press in close. “I’ve never wanted something more,” you admitted.

Hongjoong could have full body shuddered. He had hoped of course, ever since you had stepped over the threshold, met his pack with a smile, leaving your sweet scent behind. It had been the same with the others – he’d met them and his hybrid decided that he wanted them. Call him possessive, but when he was sure, he couldn’t be dissuaded.

It was still true that he would have let you go though, even as it terrified him. He would have released you and wished you all the best in the world. 

But knowing now that you wanted him – wanted them all, his pack, his family – forever. That would bare his mark as the pack leader and if anyone asked, introduced him as your beloved.

“This is my husband, Hongjoong.”

He could just imagine your smile, the gesturing, the way his arm would slide around your waist, a claim he was allowed to make.

“We’ll pick a day,” he murmured, unable to keep the emotion from his voice, “We’ll show you that you should chose us. We’ll be worth it.”

Beside them, Yunho rolled in close. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and then to the back of his. Hongjoong felt how your body seemed to relax even more, the exhale releasing any remaining uncertainty.

“You are,” you promised. “Do whatever you feel is right for you and pack but don’t think you have to prove anything to me. I’ve made my choice. I’ll chose you every time.”

Hongjoong blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t cry.

Yunho whispered his love into your fingers, a sentiment that was echoed through the crowded space of the den. You felt warm, cocooned, protected by their affection.

It was decided that it would happen during the next big break. ATEEZ would have time just before their scheduled comeback, 5 days to a week of minimal workload to give them a chance to relax and prepare for the next busy cycle.

“It’ll be good then,” Yeosang had murmured, “we can stay with you.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had spoken to you about the mark, about how it affected other hybrids and their research into how it would affect humans like you. Hwa had pages of carefully written notes – because he remembered things better when he writes them by hand and this was important.

To them, there had been initial physical pain, an undeniable pressure of broken flesh, but their animals relished in it, rolled onto their bellies and submitted to their pack leader.

“You want to give everything over to them,” Seonghwa explained gently, voice soft and eyes softer when they consider Hongjoong.

The red panda in turn went a little pink, even as he smiled fondly. “For me, it’s like…the world was spinning and now a little steadier,” he explained, always lyrical in his explanations, “it’s intense though. I remember the need to hover around each of them. Jongho was the worst, he threatened to bite me if I didn’t give him space.”

You snorted. You could just imagine the wide eyed, tense jaw of your baby bear at his leader’s hovering.

“So be prepared to be smothered, got it,” you joked.

Hongjoong grinned, even as he ducked his head shyly. “For humans, it says it could feel like nothing or like everything,” he said.

Seonghwa squinted at his notes. “Some people have reported that they feel almost as animalistic as the hybrid biting them,” he quoted, “and others said that it just felt like a really good foreplay.”

“Kinky,” you muttered.

Seonghwa gave you a wicked smirk, and Hongjoong coughed, eyes rolling to the ceiling to gather himself. He scratched the back of his neck and commented, “I mean, I don’t think any of us would be objecting…”

You wouldn’t either.

“Would everyone…” you paused to consider your thoughts, “…participate?”

“We’ll be there,” Seonghwa answered. “As witnesses, as participants, whatever you want from us. It’ll be about you.”

“About us,” you corrected, “about our pack.”

You watched the way both hybrids visibly melted, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. It sent a rush of warmth through you and more than anything, made you sure of your decision.

How could anything that made you feel like this be wrong?

When the day came, you felt like you could vibrate out of your skin. Excitement, nerves, reckless abandon and catastrophising worries circled through you. It was the same with the boys – the way they looked at you, touched you, scented you, like they were trying to get closer and terrified to in equal measure.

You waited until the evening. San insisted it was more romantic that way. Wooyoung dressed you himself – a dark purple satin styled sleep dress that bordered on lingerie, that he slipped over your head and adjusted the straps on with expressive eyes. He dropped kisses to everywhere his fingers touched, made your skin goosebump and your heartbeat wildly.

“You look beautiful, baby girl,” he whispered.

You couldn’t answer, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you stole a kiss – deep, forceful – on your way out that you hoped would convey everything you were feeling.

It was like they all had a part to play in the pagentry. Seonghwa escorted you down the stairs to the main room, touch burning everywhere he touched. Yunho and Mingi took over, one large hand over each of yours, leading you through the living room towards the corridor that lead to the den. There, four more pairs of eyes watched you, glinting in the dimly lit space.

You felt sick but in the best way.

“This all seems very dramatic,” you commented.

Mingi hummed and bowed just so to brush his nose along the top of your head. “We wanted it to be special for you,” he murmured.

You were about to be handed off to the next, Yeosang and San already had their hands outstretched for you, when you paused. “Wait.”

God, the way their expressions shuttered, scared, already heartbroken. You had to reach out and press desperate hands to both men’s chiselled cheeks, let him nuzzle into the soft flesh of your wrists.

“I have something for you,” you announced, and then broke from the decided path to scurry on bare feet to your overnight bag, left on the sofa where you had dropped it a days before. It didn’t really hold any of your own clothes, not when you wore theirs more often now, but what it held now was more precious to you.

Mating gifts were common, like wedding bands for a marriage. Your uncle had brought your aunt this pure gold necklace that she never took off. That had been a thought for a while, as the future of this relationship, of what he meant, pressed down on you. They were going to be giving you a future with them, welcoming you into their fold, and you wanted to do the same to them.

The small boxes trembled on top of each other as you moved. You passed them out carefully.

“I know you wear your team rings all the time,” you murmured, “so I wanted something that would match.”

The ones you got them were stacking rings, platinum, curved at the bottom to fit against the curved pattern of the team ring. You’d had to find a photo to show the jeweller so it could be custom made to fit. You wanted it to be something that they could wear forever.

You couldn’t watch all their faces at once, eyes dancing from one to the other as quick as you could. You watched Yeosang’s fingers touch the edge of the box, Hongjoong opening it, Jongho’s wide eyed expression when he stared into it.

It was San who stepped in close, wrapped a possessive hand around the back of your neck and kissed you so deeply that the strength left your body, slumping into his broad chest. He licked into your mouth and bit down on your bottom lip, before whispering his love into the swollen flesh. There were hands splayed against your back and a nose nudged against the line of your jaw.

An arm stretched around your waist and tugged you close, tearing your lips and attention from San to Hongjoong. He looked at you with glassy eyes, sharp eyebrows, lips parted as he breathed deeply. When he stroked your cheek, he did it with the finger that held both rings, the cold edge on your warm skin making you shiver.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“I know,” you were breathless, “I wanted to.”

His eyes darkened then as Hongjoong rested his forehead against yours. He took a moment, breathed you in, basked in the moment of feeling so strong that he felt his heart was going to beat out of his chest. “Let’s get started.”

The den room had been tidied. More cushions and blankets had been laid out precisely for you. Hongjoong led you carefully over tripping hazards to the centre of the room and then lowered himself onto his knees with you.

Behind you, the others filed in – Seonghwa shut the door behind him securely – and splayed themselves across the edges of the room. They layered over each other, arms around waists, legs intertwined. They held each other as they watched you.

It was only Jongho that stepped towards you, uncharacteristically nervous eyes dancing from you to Hongjoong as if checking this was okay.

“You wanted someone to hold you,” Hongjoong reminded.

“I won,” Jongho sounded equal parts delighted and wrecked.

The bear was so carefully as he sat beside you, splayed his legs wide and encouraged your body to fit against him. You could feel the deep rise and fall of his breathing against your back. He lowered his head to drop a kiss to your bared shoulder, hands flexing around your waist, and then pressed his cheek against your own.

You relaxed into him, trusting Jongho to keep you up right, to hold you close. Maybe Hongjoong knew that because he smiled at you, wide and open.

His teeth looked unusual sharp. You’d never really looked before but knowing they were about to pierce skin, you couldn’t think of anything else. Your scent must have soured just so because the room vibrated with energy and Jongho rumbled, a sound you knew was his bear trying to comfort you.

“It’s going to hurt,” you said, more to yourself than to the others.

Still, Hongjoong nodded. “Only for a moment,” he promised. He shuffled closer, warm palms sliding up the bare flesh of your legs to your thighs. He didn’t venture any further, rubbed comforting – and distracting – circles on your inner thigh. “I’ll make you feel good.”

It was a loaded promise. One that made desire curl in your stomach, twisting with the anxiety and fear that you felt. Your skin felt sensitive, goosebumps rising, and the muscles in your thighs jumped without warning.

Jongho pressed a sweet kiss to the highest point of your cheekbone.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay…” you licked your lips and flushed at the way Hongjoong’s eyes followed it, “I’m ready.” 

-----------------------------------------------

a/n: let me know if you want the rest of this pack marking scene. it would definitely be nsfw and since this fic hasn't been so far, I didn't want to add it in unexpectedly, but happy to write a spin off!

🏷️ @quaxing-lour @yizhou-time @jpow345 @princelingperfect @aireagle92 @sourlimesoda @livonianmaia @wolfhallows4 @dachshunddame @glowingsoup @devilzliaison @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonadroses @arieltwvdtohamflash @koztion @sangis-puppy (join the taglist)

Yunho had a show of trying to reach out and laughed when San slapped his hands away.

“San…” you breathed out his name and couldn’t help the bashful grin when he turned to look at you, eyes warm and soft as he gazed down.

His thumb rubbed a circle at your hip. “Come on,” he urged quietly, just for you, “we’re going to be late.”

San drove you both, car rumbling powerfully beneath your legs. He kept a possessive hand on your thigh, the warm curl of his fingers raising goosebumps on your skin. Every time he stopped at a red light, he’d find your fingers and press kisses to the tips.

When you arrived, he rushed around the car just so he could open the door for you.

“You don’t have to do that Sannie,” you said, even as your hand rested on his open palm and your legs swung out of the door car.

“I do,” San insisted, guiding you away from the car door so he could shut it for you. He took your bag from your shoulder to slip on his before his hands were around your waist, moving you step by step into the theatre. 

San was aware that he expressed his love through words. He wasn’t afraid to whisper compliments or confess how he feels into the domestic warmth of the den. He was never ashamed of his feelings, was quite bad at keeping them to himself if he was honest. Hongjoong said that his face always gave it away, the crease between his eyebrows or the subtle flicker of his mouth into a frown. 

Since finding his pack though, his need for touch and expression through actions had increased. There was nothing better than cuddling his love, feeling the uptick of their pulse against his fingertips, watching the way they swayed towards him. Wooyoung and Seonghwa were content to let him reach for them whenever he felt the urge and they would do the same for him. Yunho and Mingi, less so, but would never object to his touch. Yeosang would tense at first and melt easily, an embarrassed flush on his pretty face. Hongjoong and Jongho were the only ones that complained, allowed it in the private moments or when they were feeling particularly amenable to him.

You though – you weren’t a hybrid. Physical connection didn’t have the same impact on you, but you acted like it did. You reacted so beautifully to his touch, to his words. San was obsessed with how goosebumps break over your skin when his touch is gentle or the way your breathing shudders when he’s firmer, surer of himself. You leaned into him so easily and reached for him with the same surety that he did for you.

When they got closer, San had to reluctantly put distance between the two of you. It might be quiet, lower key, but cameras followed him all the time. Still, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at you, never quite willing to let you out of his line of sight. Once he was passed the line of cameras, once the theatre door pulled close, he paused in his step until you were back in step with him. His fingers trailed down your wrist to interlock with your own.

He squeezed them affectionately. You squeeze back.

The show itself was good but not half as interesting as you. Your expressions of delight, your low gasps of surprise, the way your lips angled down in distress at the emotional climax. He found himself unable to look away, watching the sparkle of the light reflecting in your eyes.

You noticed of course. You tried to ignore him to focus on the show, but every once and a while, you’d catch him – smile soft, eyes twinkling, playing with your fingers with the gentlest of touches.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” you whispered.

San kissed your knuckles. “I am,” he lied.

Honestly, if someone asked him what the play was about, he couldn’t explain a single part. Still, he listened with the most avid interest when you gushed and expressed how much you enjoyed it. 

Of course, until the growing urge to kiss you got too much. San clicked off the engine of the car in the driveway of the pack house, and you’d turned to him with such a large smile. It was like instinct to reach across the middle console and cup your cheeks, to drag you in closer and slot his lips over yours.

Kissing San was distracting you found. The cat threw himself into each kiss like he did a stage performance, like he had something to prove to you with each slide of his lips. Sometimes you got Sannie – the soft and sensual slide, the little huffs of breath, the hands that didn’t want to drift anyway disrespectful. Sometimes it was the Duke.

The nip of teeth against your bottom lip told you that’s who was kissing you now. It was harder, deeper, more control in how he licked between your teeth. The way he held you still, kept you close, and you let him, happy to take what he’d give you.

“Fuck, just,” the curse slipped through his lips, pressed like a bruise against you. You didn’t have time to react, before San was moving his hand to the side of his chair and yanked it back.

His fingers gripped your hips and tugged. He moved you effortlessly close, urged your legs to rest on either side of him. You gasped as you fell into him, hands splayed across his broad chest, before the sound was swallowed by a desperate touch.

San felt heady, restless, your sweet scent filling the car until it was all he could smell. It blurred his senses, made him forget the night of romance he had originally planned. The cat within him yowled and purred in delight. He’d have you there, San knew, if you let him.

He could have cried when you moaned into him and parted your lips to let him lick in. The taste of you was even better than the scent and it was lost to the addiction.

You pulled away with a shuddered inhale, and San buried his face in your neck. He pressed kisses there, small at first and then longer, a slide of tongue along where your scent was strongest and then the worrying of teeth. You melted against him, angled your head more to let him get impossibly closer, and he took it greedily.

Later, when you pulled yourself from the fogged-up windows of the car, Mingi gave you a shiteating grin. “In the driveway?” he teased. “Really?”

Wooyoung matched his expression. “Sannie, do you have no shame?”

Yeosang’s lips twitched in amusement. “Baby, have you seen your neck?”

-

Yunho poked your neck and you slapped his hand away. You huffed, ears turning red, while his grin widened next to you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Baby…” he cooed.

You rolled your lips. “Don’t.”

Yunho scooted closer, resting his head on your shoulder. “Come on, please,” he pouted, “you let San do it.”

Across the room, the hybrid in question flushed across the back of his neck and squinted at the ceiling. If he avoided eye contact, he could hide his embarrassment and the swell of pride he felt when he looked at the bite he’d left on your neck.

It wasn’t a mating bite, wasn’t on the correct side of the neck, but that didn’t seem to matter to his hybrid, who purred and swayed in pleasure that you bore his teeth so high on your pretty skin. San had apologised of course, he’d gotten carried away, lots in the feeling and emotion, but when you looked elsewhere, he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

His mark looked so good on you.

The others, of course, were equal parts amused as they were jealous. For you to hold any of their marks was an absolute delight, but the temptation to mark you themselves. Yeah, that was quite intense now that there was proof you’d let him so on display for them. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you scolded, half serious and half playful. Your Labrador hybrid looked so sweet like this, peering up at you with wide and hopeful eyes, it almost made you want to agree.

Because in theory, you didn’t mind having their hickeys along the curve of your throat. It had felt good, lost in San’s kisses and claiming touches, and the idea that each of them wanted to do the same to you, to drag their teeth across the soft skin of your neck, made you feel wonderfully warm all over.

However, the more sensible part of you was aware that this one mark was visible for not just your hybrids to see, but everyone – strangers, colleagues, bosses alike. It filled you with this fluttering of embarrassment, made you want to duck your head and hide away.

So even though the urge to bare your neck and let them have your way with you was high, you had put your foot down.

The boys respected your choices of course, but there were buttons to push, and Yunho was shaking with excess energy that he needed to dispel.

He stuck his bottom lip out more. You couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss it away. 

Wooyoung, head resting against your knee, perked up. “If he gets to, I want to,” he demanded.

Mingi made a noise of objection. “Me too.”

Across the room, Jongho turned the page on his book. “Dibs.”

Yeosang looked aghast. “You can’t call dibs on our baby.”

“I can,” Jongho shot back, “I just did.”

“Do I get a say in this?” you interrupted.

A hand brushed gentle through your hair and when you looked up there was Hongjoong’s calm expression looking down at you. It would have been innocent if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eyes. “Of course beautiful,” he assured. His fingers danced a beat along the high point of your cheek, down your jaw, over the curve of your neck to rest comfortably there. “You can pick where.”

You’d laugh if you weren’t a second away from melting. You worried your bottom lip for a moment. “Just…below my collar line, okay?”

You might as well have begged for it for the way the room went tense, still, bodies thrumming with the expression of interest.

“Out of sight, out of mind, got it,” Seonghwa agreed. He was on the other end of the sofa to you, spreading his legs wider so you had enough space to fit between. He stretched out his arms and wriggled his fingers. “Now come here.”

-

You smothered your neck in foundation, concealer and a lot of setting spray. With the winter month, you were able to get away with high collars with scarves, even though the top of the bruise embarrassingly peeked over the fabric. San had been equal parts embarrassed and delighted, stroking the exposed mark with gentle wonder.

Still, you managed to hide it well enough.

Until you didn’t.

The break room was hot, and you’d been busy all morning, mind running a mile a minute with all the things you needed to do. You’d unwrapped your layers to lay claim to a chair before heading about making yourself a coffee. You hadn’t even realised until one of the production assistants – Soojin, you recalled the name belatedly – gasped excitedly.

“Unni,” she exclaimed, “you’re dating?”

You had hummed in agreement before pausing, registering what she said and asking, “How did you know that?”

She tapped her own neck and wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Your own hand slapped to cover the mark, and you must have looked truly aghast because her excitement faded into a mix of amusement and pity.

“Not serious yet?” she said.

Your heart pounding in your chest, you swallowed around your dry throat. “It’s not that, it’s just…we haven’t really told anyone yet. It’s still…new.”

You hadn’t even discussed what to say about your relationship. Are you telling people officially? You aren’t exactly subtle, the boys scent you all the time, but that could be seen as affectionate, just close co-workers, not –

It was professional at work; an appropriate distance kept for all of you. But Hongjoong had said more than once he wanted you in his pack. Yeosang had blushed when he explained mating marks, how it made everything real for their animal instincts as well, and confessed that he liked the idea that you were considering taking theirs. Yunho had been touching the hickeys adorning your skin like it was a daily ritual. Along your thighs, your hips, your breasts, you bore their bruising kisses.

You made a mental note to talk to Hongjoong about it when you got home.

Of course, that’s not where the conversation ended. KQ Entertainment was small and close knit. If anything, that made it worse. Rumours spread from the production team to PR to stylists to the dance team, and then of course to your boys.

One of the dancers had elbowed Mingi goodnaturedly and made a joke. Something about the pretty caretaker of theirs sporting marks and made some comment about how they’d missed their shot. It was nothing serious, meaningless words, but Mingi could feel the way his fox sat up, eyes narrowed, hunches high in displeasure.

He made himself laugh and act as if nothing was wrong, that he was screaming inside. If he was a little rougher during practice, that was no one’s business. When Yunho pulled him aside to find out what was wrong, he admitted to the way it scratched at the worst part of him, made him feel possessive and irritable. Because he knew who left the marks but no one else did and that left room to speculate.

“She’s ours,” he spat and took a deep breath to chase the flare of rage away.

Yunho patted him on the back in understanding. “Hold it together man,” he said, “10 more minutes and you can scent her to your heart’s content. Just try not to take it out on the dancers, yeah?”

When you did arrive, flushed with your scarf firmly secured around your neck, Mingi bullied you into the wall, removed the layer in the way and buried his face into the warm skin there. You yelped in surprise, stammered his name but relaxed, quiet and content, when Mingi rumbled his pleasure.

Your hands came to his head, silky strands slipping between splayed fingers, and angled your cheek towards him. “Tough practice?” you guessed.

Yunho snorted. “More like jealous fox.”

“Jealous?” you blinked. “About what?”

“You’re the talk of the company Noona,” Wooyoung teased.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang looked at you wide eyed. Mingi’s hold on you flexed at the question.

“I’m…a little embarrassed everyone’s talking about my love life,” you admitted. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at you so intently, you needed to look away, gaze dropping to their shoes. “Soojin-ah noticed first and she asked if I was dating someone and I…”

You weren’t sure if you could finish, uncertainty whirling in your stomach. What if they said not to tell anyone? That this needed to be some little secret? Or what if they said tell everyone? Your place in this group becoming public knowledge. Would it be allowed? Would the company terminate your contract because messing around was one thing, but permanence is another.

“Baby…”

Your vision flickered up. It was Yeosang who was taking the step towards you, boba eyes wide. If Mingi wasn’t already laying claim to you, Yeosang would have gathered you into his arms -  as long as someone was holding you. You looked so uncertain, worrying your bottom lip, lips flittering, like they were going to break your heart.

“If you think we don’t want to shout this from the rooftops, then we haven’t been doing our job right,” he said, voice clear, firm.

The honest shot right through you. “I know, but…”

“Tell everyone, tell no one,” Hongjoong interjected, “tell whoever you want. Don’t question for a moment that we want you with us.”

Wooyoung elbowed their leader. “He’s been wanting to give you a pack bite from the beginning,” he teased. He leant that way, into jokes and soft jabs, when he was worried, he might collapse under the weight of the moment.

Though nothing could have prepared from for the soft agreement that left your sweet lips.

“Okay.”

A simple word that had them all standing tense, hope and desire surging through them as their animal brains caught up with the moment.

Mingi had pulled away from you, eyes wide and dark, lips parting in surprise. “W-wait…”

“Are you sure?” Jongho asked. He could have rumbled his excitement, but he suppressed the urge, each muscle tensed individual as if that would hold him in place.

You looked at each of them. Your boys. Your pack. Your loves. Before you’d taken on this position, you never imagined living in a world like this. Never imagined being handled with such softness, never imagined how good it would feel to hold each of them in your embrace. Desperately, selfishly, you wanted this forever. They said they would always be yours, something wired deep in their DNA that would refuse to let you go even if you walked away from them.

But maybe you were more hybrid than you thought because the idea of leaving them behind, of living a life in their absence, made your soul cry. 

A pack mark was akin to a marriage band. It was serious and sacred. It was tying yourself so completely and utterly to a group of people. Your uncle had his own mating mark and had called it more permanent than a wedding band.

“You can break a marriage easy,” he had explained, “but this-“he gestured to the healed wound on his jugular, “-this was intended to be forever. You can break it, of course, but it takes work. It takes true pain.”

There was some evolutionary reason for it. You were sure that you had notes from lecturers about it from your university days. It didn’t really matter why though. In this moment, it came down to you and your confidence.

Were you confident that you would want to be here, with them, until the end?

The answer came so easily.

“I’m sure,” you nodded. 

You looked at Hongjoong, pack leader, who wore an expression that was a mix of joy and terror. He was almost convinced he was dreaming, that he hadn’t drunk enough water and now he was lightheaded, facing a fantasy. His skin was itchy, his red panda restless, and God, he hoped this was real. He wasn’t sure he could bare it if it wasn’t. 

And then you breathed out the words he’d wanted to hear from the beginning, your voice confident and so sure that that this – that him and his pack – were what you wanted. 

“Make me part of your pack.” 

-

Pack bites were something important to hybrids. It held weight and reverence and a lifetime commitment. This wouldn’t be rushed in to, no matter how much you would want it over with.

That night, in the Den, Hongjoong had tucked you under his arm, body curved over yours, cheek pressed to cheek. His breath felt hot there as he whispered, “You really want this? Want us?”

You angled your head to press in close. “I’ve never wanted something more,” you admitted.

Hongjoong could have full body shuddered. He had hoped of course, ever since you had stepped over the threshold, met his pack with a smile, leaving your sweet scent behind. It had been the same with the others – he’d met them and his hybrid decided that he wanted them. Call him possessive, but when he was sure, he couldn’t be dissuaded.

It was still true that he would have let you go though, even as it terrified him. He would have released you and wished you all the best in the world. 

But knowing now that you wanted him – wanted them all, his pack, his family – forever. That would bare his mark as the pack leader and if anyone asked, introduced him as your beloved.

“This is my husband, Hongjoong.”

He could just imagine your smile, the gesturing, the way his arm would slide around your waist, a claim he was allowed to make.

“We’ll pick a day,” he murmured, unable to keep the emotion from his voice, “We’ll show you that you should chose us. We’ll be worth it.”

Beside them, Yunho rolled in close. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and then to the back of his. Hongjoong felt how your body seemed to relax even more, the exhale releasing any remaining uncertainty.

“You are,” you promised. “Do whatever you feel is right for you and pack but don’t think you have to prove anything to me. I’ve made my choice. I’ll chose you every time.”

Hongjoong blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t cry.

Yunho whispered his love into your fingers, a sentiment that was echoed through the crowded space of the den. You felt warm, cocooned, protected by their affection.

It was decided that it would happen during the next big break. ATEEZ would have time just before their scheduled comeback, 5 days to a week of minimal workload to give them a chance to relax and prepare for the next busy cycle.

“It’ll be good then,” Yeosang had murmured, “we can stay with you.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had spoken to you about the mark, about how it affected other hybrids and their research into how it would affect humans like you. Hwa had pages of carefully written notes – because he remembered things better when he writes them by hand and this was important.

To them, there had been initial physical pain, an undeniable pressure of broken flesh, but their animals relished in it, rolled onto their bellies and submitted to their pack leader.

“You want to give everything over to them,” Seonghwa explained gently, voice soft and eyes softer when they consider Hongjoong.

The red panda in turn went a little pink, even as he smiled fondly. “For me, it’s like…the world was spinning and now a little steadier,” he explained, always lyrical in his explanations, “it’s intense though. I remember the need to hover around each of them. Jongho was the worst, he threatened to bite me if I didn’t give him space.”

You snorted. You could just imagine the wide eyed, tense jaw of your baby bear at his leader’s hovering.

“So be prepared to be smothered, got it,” you joked.

Hongjoong grinned, even as he ducked his head shyly. “For humans, it says it could feel like nothing or like everything,” he said.

Seonghwa squinted at his notes. “Some people have reported that they feel almost as animalistic as the hybrid biting them,” he quoted, “and others said that it just felt like a really good foreplay.”

“Kinky,” you muttered.

Seonghwa gave you a wicked smirk, and Hongjoong coughed, eyes rolling to the ceiling to gather himself. He scratched the back of his neck and commented, “I mean, I don’t think any of us would be objecting…”

You wouldn’t either.

“Would everyone…” you paused to consider your thoughts, “…participate?”

“We’ll be there,” Seonghwa answered. “As witnesses, as participants, whatever you want from us. It’ll be about you.”

“About us,” you corrected, “about our pack.”

You watched the way both hybrids visibly melted, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. It sent a rush of warmth through you and more than anything, made you sure of your decision.

How could anything that made you feel like this be wrong?

When the day came, you felt like you could vibrate out of your skin. Excitement, nerves, reckless abandon and catastrophising worries circled through you. It was the same with the boys – the way they looked at you, touched you, scented you, like they were trying to get closer and terrified to in equal measure.

You waited until the evening. San insisted it was more romantic that way. Wooyoung dressed you himself – a dark purple satin styled sleep dress that bordered on lingerie, that he slipped over your head and adjusted the straps on with expressive eyes. He dropped kisses to everywhere his fingers touched, made your skin goosebump and your heartbeat wildly.

“You look beautiful, baby girl,” he whispered.

You couldn’t answer, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you stole a kiss – deep, forceful – on your way out that you hoped would convey everything you were feeling.

It was like they all had a part to play in the pagentry. Seonghwa escorted you down the stairs to the main room, touch burning everywhere he touched. Yunho and Mingi took over, one large hand over each of yours, leading you through the living room towards the corridor that lead to the den. There, four more pairs of eyes watched you, glinting in the dimly lit space.

You felt sick but in the best way.

“This all seems very dramatic,” you commented.

Mingi hummed and bowed just so to brush his nose along the top of your head. “We wanted it to be special for you,” he murmured.

You were about to be handed off to the next, Yeosang and San already had their hands outstretched for you, when you paused. “Wait.”

God, the way their expressions shuttered, scared, already heartbroken. You had to reach out and press desperate hands to both men’s chiselled cheeks, let him nuzzle into the soft flesh of your wrists.

“I have something for you,” you announced, and then broke from the decided path to scurry on bare feet to your overnight bag, left on the sofa where you had dropped it a days before. It didn’t really hold any of your own clothes, not when you wore theirs more often now, but what it held now was more precious to you.

Mating gifts were common, like wedding bands for a marriage. Your uncle had brought your aunt this pure gold necklace that she never took off. That had been a thought for a while, as the future of this relationship, of what he meant, pressed down on you. They were going to be giving you a future with them, welcoming you into their fold, and you wanted to do the same to them.

The small boxes trembled on top of each other as you moved. You passed them out carefully.

“I know you wear your team rings all the time,” you murmured, “so I wanted something that would match.”

The ones you got them were stacking rings, platinum, curved at the bottom to fit against the curved pattern of the team ring. You’d had to find a photo to show the jeweller so it could be custom made to fit. You wanted it to be something that they could wear forever.

You couldn’t watch all their faces at once, eyes dancing from one to the other as quick as you could. You watched Yeosang’s fingers touch the edge of the box, Hongjoong opening it, Jongho’s wide eyed expression when he stared into it.

It was San who stepped in close, wrapped a possessive hand around the back of your neck and kissed you so deeply that the strength left your body, slumping into his broad chest. He licked into your mouth and bit down on your bottom lip, before whispering his love into the swollen flesh. There were hands splayed against your back and a nose nudged against the line of your jaw.

An arm stretched around your waist and tugged you close, tearing your lips and attention from San to Hongjoong. He looked at you with glassy eyes, sharp eyebrows, lips parted as he breathed deeply. When he stroked your cheek, he did it with the finger that held both rings, the cold edge on your warm skin making you shiver.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“I know,” you were breathless, “I wanted to.”

His eyes darkened then as Hongjoong rested his forehead against yours. He took a moment, breathed you in, basked in the moment of feeling so strong that he felt his heart was going to beat out of his chest. “Let’s get started.”

The den room had been tidied. More cushions and blankets had been laid out precisely for you. Hongjoong led you carefully over tripping hazards to the centre of the room and then lowered himself onto his knees with you.

Behind you, the others filed in – Seonghwa shut the door behind him securely – and splayed themselves across the edges of the room. They layered over each other, arms around waists, legs intertwined. They held each other as they watched you.

It was only Jongho that stepped towards you, uncharacteristically nervous eyes dancing from you to Hongjoong as if checking this was okay.

“You wanted someone to hold you,” Hongjoong reminded.

“I won,” Jongho sounded equal parts delighted and wrecked.

The bear was so carefully as he sat beside you, splayed his legs wide and encouraged your body to fit against him. You could feel the deep rise and fall of his breathing against your back. He lowered his head to drop a kiss to your bared shoulder, hands flexing around your waist, and then pressed his cheek against your own.

You relaxed into him, trusting Jongho to keep you up right, to hold you close. Maybe Hongjoong knew that because he smiled at you, wide and open.

His teeth looked unusual sharp. You’d never really looked before but knowing they were about to pierce skin, you couldn’t think of anything else. Your scent must have soured just so because the room vibrated with energy and Jongho rumbled, a sound you knew was his bear trying to comfort you.

“It’s going to hurt,” you said, more to yourself than to the others.

Still, Hongjoong nodded. “Only for a moment,” he promised. He shuffled closer, warm palms sliding up the bare flesh of your legs to your thighs. He didn’t venture any further, rubbed comforting – and distracting – circles on your inner thigh. “I’ll make you feel good.”

It was a loaded promise. One that made desire curl in your stomach, twisting with the anxiety and fear that you felt. Your skin felt sensitive, goosebumps rising, and the muscles in your thighs jumped without warning.

Jongho pressed a sweet kiss to the highest point of your cheekbone.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay…” you licked your lips and flushed at the way Hongjoong’s eyes followed it, “I’m ready.” 

-----------------------------------------------

a/n: let me know if you want the rest of this pack marking scene. it would definitely be nsfw and since this fic hasn't been so far, I didn't want to add it in unexpectedly, but happy to write a spin off!

🏷️ @quaxing-lour @yizhou-time @jpow345 @princelingperfect @aireagle92 @sourlimesoda @livonianmaia @wolfhallows4 @dachshunddame @glowingsoup @devilzliaison @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonadroses @arieltwvdtohamflash @koztion @sangis-puppy (join the taglist)

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.

“Mom, it’s beautiful. Thank you again for helping me stay here.” 

Your mom is on speakerphone as you unpack your suitcase in a hotel room you could never afford to book for yourself. She always asks you to call her when you’ve made it to your destination, whether it’s just up the street or across the continent. You look around at the forest green walls and plush, intricate cream colored carpet. Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, you pull back the lacy beige curtains to look down at the city below you. 

“Of course, sweetie. Those points were just collecting dust, so I figured I should let someone put them to good use.” Your mom chuckles and lets out a soft sigh. She doesn’t travel often, but she’s very savvy with her credit cards to save up points for you to use on occasion. 

“I appreciate it, this place just feels way too nice for me to be allowed to stay here,” you laugh as you carry your toiletry bag and bath sheet to the bathroom. Hotel towels tend to be small for you, so you’ve started bringing your own.

If the expensive artwork that adorned the lobby walls wasn’t enough to make you feel out of place, the crystal water glasses on the marble bathroom counter sure were. The whole hotel has a dark elegant aesthetic that you find absolutely breathtaking. 

“You’ve been working hard lately, y/n. You deserve a break! I know it’s been a while since you’ve been able to take time off,” your mom reminds you. 

You take a deep breath as you head back into the main room, recalling the frustrating conversation with your boss that led to you being able to be here. Work has felt impossible lately given how understaffed the office has been, and you practically had to beg for a few days off. She reluctantly agreed as long as you put in a few hours of overtime when you returned. You complied with zero hesitation— you’d do anything to make it to the concert. 

“You’re right, I know. I’ll definitely be making the most of my time out of the office.” You wait for your mom’s reply as you start pulling clothes out of your open suitcase. After another beat of silence, she takes a deep breath. 

 “Be safe, honey. You know how I feel about you traveling alone.” You can hear her nerves through the phone. She’s such a worrier. 

Putting your folded clothes in one of the ornate dresser drawers, you attempt to reassure her. “I know, I know. I’ll be meeting up with some friends tomorrow so I’ll be in good company. I’ll send lots of pictures, and you have my location.” 

“Okay, okay. You’re right. You’re a big girl, I know you can take care of yourself.” She chuckles at herself for being so overbearing. “Have fun, honey. I can’t wait to see pictures.” 

“I’ll send you so many pictures, you’ll regret asking for some,” you laugh as you zip up your empty suitcase to stash it in the closet. 

After finishing up your phone call, you head for the bathroom to wash your face. Feeling tired after the long drive, you need a quick refresh before settling in for the evening. You woke up before sunrise to drive here, so a nap may be in order. 

Once you’ve sufficiently dried your face with a towel that probably costs more than your face wash, you waltz over to your king sized bed and flop down belly first. Your eyes feel heavy as you let your body relax for what feels like the first time in weeks. You have a long weekend ahead of you, with two nights in a row of seeing your favorite boys, so you should rest while you can. You let your limbs sink into the plush mattress and allow yourself to drift off. Just a short nap, and then you’ll go get some dinner downstairs.  

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You wake with a jolt as your subconscious reminds you that you forgot to set an alarm. You frantically reach for your phone to check the time, letting out a deep sigh of relief when you see you’ve only slept an hour. You roll onto your back, dropping your phone next to you and rubbing your face in an attempt to get your body to catch up with your brain. Once your heart rate settles a bit you sit up in your still-made bed. 

As you lay atop the fluffy comforter, your groggy mind wanders to the events of tomorrow. You run through your plans for the day, starting with brunch down the street with some friends you’ve made online. You haven’t seen them since the last tour, and you know it’ll be a tearful reunion. Having long distance internet friends is tough, but the time you get to spend together makes up for it, no matter how infrequent. 

After brunch, you’ll all be heading to the venue. Following the pre-show excitement outside the venue, it’ll be time to line up for soundcheck. It’ll be your first time experiencing soundcheck for Ateez, and the thought of being so close to the members causes a familiar uneasiness to settle in the pit of your stomach. 

Butterflies. Every night before going to a concert,  you have uncontrollable butterflies in your stomach. The thrill of seeing your favorite boys onstage never fails to give you a physical reaction. You have been loving Ateez for years now and have seen them in concert a handful of times, but that same feeling creeps up on you the night before without fail. 

Amidst the fluttering, you feel a deep rumbling in your stomach. You realize you haven’t eaten since you stopped to use the bathroom at a rest stop. Hopping out of bed, you go to your dresser to grab your go-to black loungewear set and throw it on. High waisted sweatpants that accentuate your waist, and a matching crop top. You head over to the dark wooden vanity and plop down in one of the two plush armchairs accompanying it to tidy up your hair. The massive ornate mirror gives you the perfect spot to get ready. 

As you reach up to tame your bedhead, your shirt creeps up a tiny bit, exposing your belly. You eye the way it pokes out over the waistband, but try to brush off the self consciousness creeping up. It’s best to shut those thoughts down now before you let them win and just order room service. Once you’re happy with the way your hair is framing your face, you get away from the mirror before it makes you alter your plans for the evening. 

Surely treating yourself to a fancy dinner and a few drinks at the hotel bar will settle your nerves about tomorrow. 

Or so you thought. 

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Two glasses of white wine and a plate full of pasta later, you find yourself ogling at the crystal chandeliers hanging above the bar. You make a mental note to do something special for your mom as a thank you. You adjust in the velvet barstool, trying to get the bartender's attention to order another glass of wine. A faintly familiar laugh ghosts past your ears, but you brush it off and continue your attempt to make eye contact with the bartender. Who would you possibly see here that you knew anyway? All your friends were staying at a hotel much closer to the concert venue. 

Finally, the bartender’s eyes connect with yours, lighting up in recognition that you may need to add another drink to your tab. A heavy pour of pinot grigio later, she’s trotting off to the next guest. Taking a long sip of your wine, you hear another familiar laugh from the other end of the bar. Different from the last one, but still familiar. Letting your curiosity get the best of you, you glance down the bar to find the source of the warm laughter. 

By some devastating stroke of fate, he looks at you the moment you look at him. As soon as your eyes meet his, your heart stops in your chest. You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks, and your hearing gets fuzzy. All the bar patrons chatting around you suddenly sound like they’re talking underwater. Everyone else in the room seems to fade away, and it feels as though it’s only you and him. You feel a thudding pulse in your chest as your heart jumps back to life. 

His dark eyes shine with a mischievous glint as they refuse to leave yours. Your breath hitches in your chest when he smiles at you. You turn back to your wine in an attempt to hide the bright red cheeks you’re surely sporting. The sounds of the bar come rushing back into your ears and hit you like a freight train. The music, the chatter, the clinking of glasses are deafening as your rationality claws its way to the forefront of your brain. You down a sizable gulp of your drink, feeling your cheeks heat even more. 

Absolutely not. No way. No chance in hell. Your mind is running a mile a minute trying to come up with any excuse as to who you think you just saw. How could you have ended up at the same hotel as them? You thought surely they’d stay somewhere even farther from the venue to avoid running into fans. It must just be some other devilishly handsome man with the warmest smile you’ve ever laid eyes on. Just a coincidence, for sure. You brush away the unruly hair that’s fallen in your face before turning to sneak another look. 

Staring right back at you with a knowing grin is none other than Jeong Yunho himself. In your starstruck stupor you failed to notice the equally tall, broad shouldered blond man whom you realize was the owner of the second familiar laugh you heard. Yunho must’ve drawn his attention to you after your little staring contest, inspiring him to start one of his own. Song Mingi’s dark brown eyes burn into yours, sporting the same smirk as his best friend. 

They both look devastatingly gorgeous. Barefaced, wearing oversized t-shirts and sweatpants, and they still look ethereal. Mingi has thin, black framed glasses perched on his slender nose. Yunho’s damp, dark hair peeks out from under a baseball cap. Seeing them stripped of anything that identifies them as idols makes your heart lurch. They look so… real. 

You suddenly wish you put a little more effort into your solo dining outfit, feeling hyper aware of the way your midriff is showing again. You tug your shirt down a bit, adjusting in your seat to hide as best you can. 

You take a sharp inhale as you realize how long your eyes have lingered on your two favorite idols. You turn back to face the bar, frantically searching for the bartender despite your half full glass of wine. After you close your tab, you can retreat back into your oversized hotel bed and pretend this never happened. Feeling their eyes burning into the back of your head and hearing their familiar voices quietly murmuring, you know that they know you recognized them. You’re sure they’re talking about wanting to enjoy their evening without the prying eyes of a fan — not that your eyes were the ones prying. 

You let your mind wander after your third failed attempt to flag down the bartender. The way they were looking at you was not out of annoyance… but intrigue. Is it possible that they’re interested in you? Was Yunho’s knowing look not recognition of you as a fan, but something more flirtatious? That would be insane… Right? 

Curiosity killed the cat.

You take a deep breath and turn to face them once again, puffing your chest out to feign more confidence than you’re feeling. Before you can even process that they were already walking towards you when you spun your barstool in their direction, Yunho is sitting to your left and Mingi on your right. They both synchronously set their whisky glasses on the bar. 

“…Hi.” You manage to squeak out a quiet greeting.

You feel yourself shrinking between them as they look at you in silence. They’re so big. 

Despite how fondly they’re looking at you, the back of your mind is screaming at you that you’re encroaching on their evening. You should go back to your room to give them privacy. 

You nervously glance between the two men before letting all your thoughts out. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable by…looking at you for so long, um, I-I’m sure the last thing you two want the night before a concert is a fan ogling at you from across the bar.” As you look at Yunho, you miss the way Mingi admires how well your round hips fill out your black sweatpants. The way your top rides up exposes a teasing glimpse of your skin, and he wonders if you feel as soft as you look. 

Still oblivious, you continue your rambling. “As soon as I can close my tab,” Mingi drags his gaze from your exposed skin to your eyes as you turn to him, “I’ll get out of your hair so you guys can enjoy the rest of your evening.” As you hopelessly attempt for the fourth time to get the bartender's attention, Yunho kicks Mingi in the shin behind your barstool for looking at you like he wants to swallow you whole. He shoots him a glare that screams: Be a gentleman. Mingi chuckles lowly at his friend's silent warning and takes a sip of his whisky. 

The bartender finally turns in your direction. Your hand is about to shoot up to flag her down, but you’re stopped dead in your tracks by the low timbre of Yunho’s voice. 

“What if we don’t want you to leave?” 

You turn to him in disbelief. Before you can stop yourself, the words leave your lips. “You want me to stay?” 

All your life, you’ve shied away from attention. Not that attention was often given to you, but when it was, it was hardly positive. You’ve slowly become more and more comfortable in your body, learning to dress in ways that you feel accentuate your curves rather than hide them. It’s easy to momentarily retreat back into the mindset of the little girl who was surrounded by judgment. Now is one of those moments. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, Mingi chimes in from behind you, his voice lower than Yunho’s. He feels closer to you than he was a moment ago, his scent of sage and jasmine mixed with the whisky on his breath intoxicating you. “What’s wrong with wanting to spend time with a pretty girl?” His deep voice sends a chill down your spine, and a familiar pool of warmth settles in the pit of your stomach. Get it together y/n, Song Mingi just called you pretty, what’s the big deal? 

Noticing the reaction Mingi’s compliment elicited from you, Yunho realizes he needs to ground you so they can get a concrete answer to their proposal. The last thing he wants is a hazy agreement clouded by alcohol and attraction. 

“What’s your name, doll?” He asks. Your heart skips at the pet name, but you try to keep your reaction internal. 

“Y/n.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. Yunho chuckles at your shyness. 

“Cute. Well, y/n, given how desperately you’ve been trying to get away from us, it’s clear that you respect our privacy. We’re not bothered by your presence in the slightest, in fact it’s quite the opposite.” Yunho smiles softly as he expresses his gratitude. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks again at his recognition of your attempted escape. “Can we buy you a drink? If you still want to run away afterwards, we’ll help you lace up your shoes.” 

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Three rounds of drinks and two hours later, you find yourself laughing in a corner booth listening to Yunho and Mingi poke fun at their leader. The bar has cleared out, leaving you three and one other table.  

“I can’t believe he already lost the team ring,” Yunho chokes out between giggles. His cheeks are flushed from his second glass of whisky, eyes shining at the server as he places down a third. 

“How many pairs of Airpods has he gone through? I don’t know why he thought he could keep track of an expensive piece of jewelry.” Mingi rolls his eyes and chuckles thinking about Hongjoong’s complicated history with headphones. 

“Be nice, he bought you guys those rings didn’t he?” You wipe the tears from your eyes after finally catching your breath. Hearing them so freely joke about their leader’s habit of losing things has left you in stitches. After a quick sip of the whisky that Mingi talked you into trying, you continue. “The least you can do is all pitch in to buy him a replacement.” 

Yunho laughs at your suggestion, placing his glass down next to yours. “You don’t have to defend him, y/n.” He takes your hand in his, and you try not to make it obvious how the size difference affects you. “Even if we did get him a new one, who’s to say he won’t lose that one too?” 

He absentmindedly rubs his large thumb across the back of your hand. You softly clear your throat in an attempt to silence the fangirl screaming in your head that he’s touching you. 

Yunho must’ve mistook your response for discomfort and he pulls his hand away. The last thing he wants is to make you uneasy. If he only knew. You almost let out a whine at the loss of contact, but reel it in before it’s too late. Be cool, y/n. 

Mingi picks up on your inner dialogue and wants nothing more than to resolve the tension. Yunho may not notice it, but Mingi sees the way your breath hitches whenever one of them gets close to you. He saw the way heat rushed to your cheeks when Yunho complimented the color of your eyes. He noticed how shy you became when he caught your gaze lingering on his lips. He even picked up on the curious challenge in your eyes when you caught him looking at the strip of skin between your top and the waistband of your sweatpants that he just can’t get enough of. 

He sees that glimmer of confidence trying to shine through. He knows you can be bold, but he may need to force it out of you. 

“It’s getting awfully late Yuyu, don’t you think?” Yunho looks at Mingi , his gaze laced with confusion. Your heart rate quickens at the thought of your evening coming to an end. 

“Mingi, it’s 9:30.” Yunho looks at his friend quizzically, not understanding where he’s going with this. Mingi can tell if you don’t stop the night from ending early, Yunho will. Yunho wants you just as bad as Mingi does.

“Right, but we have a long day tomorrow. Don’t you think we should turn in soon?” Mingi side eyes you, but your nervous gaze lands on Yunho, awaiting his response. When his answer is just another confused look in Mingi’s direction, you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

“Actually…” you take a deep breath. You fail to notice the way the corner of Mingi’s mouth quirks up, as if he already knows what’s coming. “I was going to offer up a few bottles of soju I have in my room? I brought them for my friends and I for tomorrow, but I can always grab more at the liquor store down the street. I feel like I owe you guys for the last few rounds anyway.” You swirl your big ice cube around your glass, watching it melt into your drink as you avoid eye contact with the men staring back at you. 

There she is. Mingi gleams with pride as he waits for Yunho to catch up. After a beat of silence, Mingi hears a soft sigh of realization from Yunho, followed by a subtle under-the-table high five. They’re going to love playing with you. 

“We would love that,” Yunho says with a mischievous smile. 

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It’s endearing to Yunho and Mingi how palpably nervous you are. You used up all of your courage to ask them up to your room, and you’ve retreated once again into your overthinking mind. You’re perched cautiously on the edge of your large bed, that earlier felt so safe to you. Bouncing your leg and staring at the floor, you’re wondering if the impulsive invitation you extended was the right decision. If you would just look up from the elegant detailing of the carpeting, you’d see how softly they were admiring you. Mingi can’t keep his eyes off of your plump thighs, imagining how they would feel on either side of his — 

“Y/n, can I get you a drink?” Yunho asks, interrupting Mingi’s thoughts. Mingi burns a hole in Yunho’s cheek before turning to you, softening his gaze and awaiting your reply. They're sitting in the two lush armchairs accompanying the vanity, having turned them around to face you. Mingi’s legs are crossed, his cheeks are flushed, and his glasses are pushed up into his spiky blond hair. He’s gently gripping the arms of his chair, fiddling with a button fastened to the fabric, resisting the urge to show you how much he wants you right then and there. 

Yunho’s legs are spread wide, and he’s perched up on his elbows, resting them on his knees. He’s taken his hat off, leaving it on your vanity. His dark hair loosely hangs over his forehead. “It feels odd to ask you that in your own hotel room,” he chuckles, finally getting you to look him in the eyes. Mingi looks you up and down with an unreadable smirk and bated breath.  

“Yes please,” you replied softly, giving him a shy smile. 

“You got it, where’s the soju?” Yunho replies, sitting up in his chair to over exaggerate his curious glance around the room. 

“In the mini fridge,” you point down the hallway toward the bathroom, “it’s tucked away in the closet by the front door.” Before you can finish your sentence, he’s up and moving down the hallway. 

In his absence, you glance at the big mirror propped on the vanity behind Mingi. Unbeknownst to you, you’re both looking where your crop top has shifted up once again and having very different thoughts on your bare stomach. Mingi wants to see more of you, yet you can’t look at it another second, pulling your top down to meet your waistband. It creeps up slowly again, a deep sigh of defeat leaving your lips. 

Mingi feels your insecurity radiating off of you, seeing the way your brow furrows at yourself in the mirror. If only you saw what he and Yunho did. 

He clears his throat, “y/n,” he says softly,

“Hm?” Your gaze softens as you look to him, immediately taken aback by the sheer adoration in his eyes, and you realize he was just watching you that whole time. 

He chuckles at your realization, “you look incredible in that outfit,” he says, looking you up and down with a grin. 

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks “Mingi, I —“ 

The sound of rustling and clinking from down the hallway grabs both of your attention. Yunho reappears, balancing two bottles of soju and three crystal glasses in his large hands. “I missed my calling as a server,” he laughs, handing you and Mingi each a glass and cracking open the first bottle. In the silence he can sense your nerves and Mingi’s eagerness, wholly unaware of the interaction the two of you just had.

“Y/n, I can feel you thinking. Can I speak freely?” He tilts his head at you like a puppy, a look of genuine concern in his eyes. His sudden change in demeanor takes you by surprise. 

“Of course, Yunho,” you reply, trying to put on a brave face. 

“You have no reason to be so nervous with us,” Yunho starts, “we wouldn’t have spent the last few hours with you if we didn’t want to. We’ve had a lot of fun with you tonight, and we said yes to coming up here so we could continue to get to know you better, not just to be nice,” he says, as if he had read your mind. He pours a bit of soju into your glass, then Mingi’s, then his. The silence is palpable as you wait to see if he has more to say, Mingi not giving any non verbal clues as to how he’s feeling. He looks like he wants to say something but decides not to, letting his friend take the lead.

Yunho places his soju down on the vanity and walks over to you, squatting down to meet your eyes. The close proximity makes your cheeks warm, only worsening when he plants his hands next to your hips on the mattress, his thumbs grazing you. He smells like citrus and leather. “If you’re uncomfortable and want us to leave, we will. If not, we’d like to,” he glances at Mingi, who gives him a small nod, then back to you, “enjoy our night together.”

His eyes search yours, and you wonder if he can hear your chest thudding at the implications. They like you. You don’t know if it’s Yunho’s intoxicating scent or the way Mingi can’t look away from your exposed belly, but something compels you to finally let go of all the negativity that has been plaguing your brain all evening. 

“Yes, please,” you sigh, suddenly breathless. Yunho glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes, inching closer to you. You feel dizzy being this close to him, the sudden onset of lust in his eyes making your head spin. Now that he knows you want him too, he’s not ashamed to let his intentions show. 

Mingi stands up from behind Yunho, clearing his throat, effectively shaking you and Yunho out of your desire-fueled gaze. He picks up both of their glasses of soju, passing Yunho’s to him. 

“Cheers,” he says, “to our paths crossing tonight.” He looks expectantly to the two of you, spurring both of you to stand up and raise your glasses. “Cheers,” you and Yunho say almost in unison, giddily clinking your glasses with Mingi’s and downing your drinks. You feel your face warming up as the alcohol burns its way down your throat, the tension in your muscles dissipating. 

“Do your cheeks always get so flushed when you drink?” Yunho asks, a fond smile dancing across his lips. You laugh, walking to your bedside table to set your glass down. “Unfortunately, yes,” you say as you turn back toward him, your heart swelling at him noticing such a small detail about you. 

“Cute,” he comments, stepping toward you and brushing a stray piece of hair out of your face. Your breath quickens at the compliment, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as you look eagerly into his warm brown eyes. 

“I think she liked that,” you glance over Yunho’s shoulder to see Mingi grinning at your reaction. He takes the glasses off of his head to set them on the vanity. “Give her another compliment,” he says, stepping around Yunho to brush the hair off of your shoulder, exposing the column of your neck.

”Is that right, doll?” Yunho asks, his fingers ghosting down your neck to fiddle with your necklace, the pet name he used with you earlier in the evening sending a rush of arousal straight to your core. You nod, lips parted and breathing heavily. Your body feels like it’s on fire. 

“If it’s compliments you want, it’s compliments you’ll get,” Yunho releases the chain around your neck and steps behind you, gently placing one of his large hands on your exposed waist. “You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen,” he teases, softly squeezing your supple skin before sliding his hand around to your belly and pulling you in flush to his chest. You let out a breathless laugh, putting your hand over his and threading your fingers together. You tilt your head to the side to lean into him, desperately wanting his mouth on your neck. 

“How’re you feeling?” Mingi approaches you, softly taking your other hand in his, caressing it with his thumb. Yunho’s grip loosens on your belly, but you lean into him so he knows not to let go. You hear a soft chuckle of understanding from behind you. 

“We aren’t misreading things, are we?” Mingi looks at you, a hint of cautious concern lingering under his lust blown gaze. 

“Absolutely not,” you say, gripping his hand and pulling him closer to you. 

After a beat of heavy breathing and searching eyes, you throw caution to the wind and let go of Mingi’s hand to bring yours up to his face, gently threading your fingers into his hair. He leans into your hand, letting his eyes close as he relishes in your touch. He lets out a breathy moan, letting his mouth hang open.

“We’re so glad we found you,” Yunho says, almost in a whisper against the shell of your ear, his hot breath down your neck causing your body to shiver in anticipation. Mingi nods in agreement into your palm, opening his eyes to get a good look at you. 

“You are breathtaking,” Mingi gingerly wraps his hand around the back of your neck and you wish for a moment that he would stop being so gentle with you. “Y/n, please,” he asks, his breath heaving, “can I kiss you?” The desperation in his voice almost makes your knees give out. 

You let out a giggle mixed with a sigh of relief, “I was thinking I’d have to start begging you,” you lean closer to him waiting for him to make his move. The image of you on your knees for him flashes through Mingi’s mind, pushing him over the edge as he crashes his lips into yours. 

The hand on the back of your neck threads up into your hair as he presses further into your mouth, parting your lips with his tongue. You invite him in with a whine, gripping his hair to pull him closer. You feel crowded between the two of them, Mingi pushing you further back into Yunho. Yunho inhales sharply at the feeling of you pressed against him, letting out a low groan into your ear. Mingi coasts his large palm up to your waist as he explores your mouth, finally able to feel the skin of your stomach he had been fixated on all night. His fingers dance along your exposed belly, and he savors how soft you feel. 

“Touch me Min, please,” you sigh, pushing your ass further back into Yunho. You feel him getting harder with each pulse of contact, and the thought of him getting hard for you has your mind reeling. 

“You sound so pretty when you’re needy,” Mingi whispers, kissing down your jawline and settling on your neck. His hand creeps up underneath the thin fabric of your shirt as he ghosts his fingers along the underside of your bra. “Ask him again, sweetheart,” Yunho sighs behind you, you can feel Mingi smiling as he nips and sucks on your throat. 

“Mingi, please —“ your words stop in your throat as Yunho’s hot mouth descends on the other side of your neck. You moan softly, reaching for both of them. They’re driving you insane — you want more, you want them closer, you need to feel their skin on yours.

”Have something to say, doll?” Yunho teases, sucking at the skin just below your ear, releasing with a pop and planting a kiss to your hair. 

“I need someone to touch me right now or I’m gonna scream,” you whine, pressing your ass into Yunho and your chest toward Mingi, clinging to them like your life depends on it. You feel them everywhere but still not where you need them most. The deep pulsing in your core gets more and more intense with every kiss, lick, and frantic touch. “Please —“ you groan at a particularly sharp nip at your neck, followed by Mingi’s hot wet tongue to soothe you, “please, fuck, I need you,” 

“I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific baby,” Mingi whispers, “need me where?” He pauses his assault on your neck to shift his hand to cup one of your breasts. “Here?” Your head knocks back into the firm plane of Yunho’s chest. 

“Or here?” Yunho asks, boldly snaking his hand down to cup your heat, a whine leaving your lips.  

“Anywhere, everywhere,” you pant, attempting to spread your legs to give Yunho better access. He pushes the heel of his hand down firmly on your pubic bone, drawing a whine up your throat. Mingi chuckles at your desperate mewls and it suddenly feels impossibly hot in your hotel room. “I want you to take my clothes off,” you sigh, running one hand up Mingi’s chest and the other around the back of Yunho’s neck, “and I want to feel your hands on every inch of my body.” 

You turn your head to look up to Yunho, and he finally presses his lips to yours ever so gently. “There she is,” he smirks, sighing into your mouth as his tongue pokes out to swipe across your bottom lip. 

“Anything for you, baby,” Mingi resumes his attack on your neck, and in a sea of sloppy kisses, whiny moans, and wandering hands, one of your lovers manages to pull your shirt up and off over your head. Yunho spins you around to face him, never breaking the kiss. You feel Mingi blindly fumbling with the clasp on your bra, finally freeing your breasts from their confines. 

Yunho’s lips leave yours, his eyes wandering down to your exposed chest. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, letting out a low groan. “Look at you, baby,” Mingi coos from behind you,  “even prettier than I imagined they’d be,” he reaches around you to palm your plump breast, rolling one of your pebbled nipples between his rough fingers. “You look like a goddess,” he sighs, bringing his mouth to your neck once again. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Yunho ducks his head down to catch your other nipple between his teeth, immediately soothing the bite with his tongue, “so fucking beautiful,” you lean into their touch, suddenly feeling so raw, an exposed nerve. 

The praise paired with the both of them working your body like they’ve known it for years is overwhelming, the intimacy of it all tugging at your starved heart. It feels delicious, but you haven’t felt this cared for in a long time. You pinch your eyes closed to stop the tears, but the tightness in your throat causes your breath to tremble before you can stop it. Their movements still at the sound as they both realize the shift in emotion, arms and hands quickly surrounding you for comfort. 

“Hey, hey, what is it, doll?” Yunho holds your face in his hands as he brushes a tear from your cheek. You open your eyes to see both of them looking down at you with concerned gazes. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you start tapping each finger to your thumb, counting each one to calm your breathing, “I don’t want you to stop, it’s just a little overwhelming, in a good way,” you reach for Yunho’s cheek and Mingi’s hand simultaneously, needing to reassure them both that you just need a minute. They reciprocate your touch without hesitation. 

“You’re just making me feel really fucking special and worshipped and I’m not used to it, it’s— a lot,” Yunho turns to kiss your palm, waiting for your breathing to even. You feel Mingi’s other hand rubbing circles into your lower back, the motion helping bring you back down to earth. Slowly but surely, your breathing steadies. 

“You are special, y/n,” Mingi says, almost in a whisper, “and we want to worship you, it’s what you deserve,” he dips down, searching your eyes. You nod, signaling for him to continue. He nods right back, placing a tender kiss on your lips that knocks the wind right out of you. 

“Let us worship you,” he sighs against your lips, gently kissing the corner of your mouth, your nose,  your forehead, settling against your temple. His lips are so soft, peppering gentle kisses along your hairline.  

”Do you trust us, sweetheart?” Yunho asks, still leaning into your palm. 

“Of course I do,” you brush your thumb across his cheek. 

“Let us take care of you,” he looks down at your chest and you see the lust reignite in his dark eyes. 

“Take care of me,” you repeat. Yunho’s breath quickens as he meets your eyes again. You’re suddenly aware that your chest is exposed when they’re both still fully clothed, “but can someone else please take their clothes off too?” Yunho and Mingi both laugh at your straightforwardness, but the energy shifts when you run your hand down Yunho’s chest, stopping at the hem of his shirt. 

Yunho nods and you pull his shirt off together. You marvel at his firm chest and his lean muscles, letting your eyes wander over every inch of his bare skin. Before you can catch your breath, he shucks off his sweats and is standing before you in just his boxer briefs. “Your turn,” he chuckles, pulling you towards him by the band of your sweatpants. You giggle, catching yourself on his chest and weaving your hands up around the back of his neck. 

Mingi watches the two of you affectionately as Yunho dives down the back of your pants to cup your ass in his large hands. Mingi helps you shimmy out of your sweats, watching the way your plush skin molds to the grip of Yunho’s slender fingers. Mingi can’t resist any longer, wrapping his arms around your waist, effectively sandwiching you between the two of them once again. Your scent of lavender fills his nose as he buries his face in your neck again, intoxicating him. He wants you, badly.

”Yun, I wanna taste her,” he shivers with desire, the sudden change in his tone of voice drawing your attention to him. “Baby, can I taste you?” His eyes are dark as he searches yours. You feel a gush of arousal pooling in your panties, nodding before your mouth can get the words out, 

“Yes, please, Mingi,” you lean into him. He plants a quick kiss to your temple, letting out a shaky sigh. Is he… nervous? 

Yunho lets go of you to climb onto your bed and you watch him intently, trying to figure out how this is going to play out. He leans up against the headboard and makes space for you between his legs. You see his boxers starting to tent, and you know the anticipation of what’s to come is affecting him. 

“Come here, doll,” he pats the bedding in front of him. Your belly warms as you realize how they’re about to position you. 

Mingi slides his hands from your waist so you can go to Yunho, giving your ass a light smack as he lets you go. You give Mingi a teasing glare, earning a devious smirk in return. 

You crawl to Yunho across the mattress on your hands and knees, agonizingly slowly, watching him watch your every move with hunger in his eyes. You make a show of looking him up and down, darting your tongue out to wet your lips. 

“You are such a tease,” he lets out a breathy laugh, his comment only fueling your confidence. His chest heaves, glistening with sweat. 

Mingi palms himself over his sweats with his eyes glued to the sway of your round ass. Running your hands over Yunho’s knees, up his thighs, and settling on his hips, you lean into him to plant a bruising kiss on his lips. He pushes his hips upward, looking for any kind of friction against your body, but you don’t give it to him, solely focused on his tongue exploring your mouth. He ghosts a hand up over your neck to wrap his slender fingers around your throat, gently squeezing before pulling his mouth from yours. He groans at the string of saliva connecting the two of you. 

“I could do this all night, sweetheart, but I don’t think you wanna keep him waiting any longer,” Yunho nods in Mingi’s direction. Before you can turn to look at him, Yunho tightens his grip on your throat, pulling your attention back to him. 

“Be a good girl, and turn around and lay down.” The deep, dominant tone of his voice has you nodding immediately, earning you a tender kiss to your forehead before he releases you. 

When you turn around, your jaw drops. Mingi stands shirtless at the foot of the bed with his hand down his pants. His strong chest heaves, slick with sweat, and the muscles in his arm flex with each stroke of his cock. His eyes are clouded with lust, his lips slightly parted, letting out jagged breaths. You don’t break eye contact as you settle between Yunho’s legs, leaning back against his chest. 

He leans down to whisper in your ear, “buckle up, doll, he’s very passionate about eating pussy,” 

“Oh,” you whimper at the way Mingi is looking at you— like he wants to consume you. You realize what you interpreted as nervousness was actually him restraining himself. He is absolutely feral for you, and he’s about to let it out. 

Before you can catch your breath, Mingi is on his belly between your legs, kissing and nipping at the insides of your thighs while he weaves your legs over his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your belly and he gently grips your soft skin, running his hot tongue over the marks he’s surely leaving on you. His mouth feels electric on your skin, and you want more. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you pant. 

“Tell him what you want, sweetheart,” Yunho breathes against your ear, “he’ll do whatever you want,” he cups your breasts in his hands, massaging them gently with his slender fingers. 

”Mmhm,” Mingi groans in agreement against you as he licks a firm stripe along your clothed heat, causing a whine to crawl up your throat. 

“I wanna feel your mouth, Min, please,” you run your fingers through his hair, “really feel it,” you grind your hips down onto his mouth, desperate for him. 

“Needy baby,” he briefly pulls his mouth from you, taking a moment to admire how beautiful you look in Yunho’s arms, letting his eyes linger on you. Your eyes blown wide with desire, your lips puffy, your chest heaving, your breasts gently cradled in Yunho’s hands.

“Mingi,” you laugh breathlessly, smiling coyly, “why are you staring at me like that?” 

“Because, gorgeous,” he pushes himself up onto his knees, running his hands up your thighs and around your hips, “I know I’ve barely had you,” he hooks his fingers under your panties, “but I already can’t get enough of you.” He taps your hips with his thumbs, signaling you to lift them. 

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks as he peels the damp cloth from your body, discarding it on the floor. A sudden rush of embarrassment takes over now that you’re fully bare, but Mingi stops you before you can close your legs. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, darling,” he runs his hands up your inner thighs as he spreads them wide, “let me see you,” he lowers his gaze to your core, a devious glint in his eyes as the corner of his mouth quirks up. 

“What a pretty little cunt you have,” he settles between your legs again, his breath on your wet heat causing your body to shiver. 

“Mingi, please stop teasing me,” you squirm under their strong grasps on your body, Yunho rolling your nipples between his fingers and Mingi kneading the soft skin of your thighs. 

“If you say so,” he nips at your skin, “I’ve been waiting all night for this.” 

Mingi licks you firmly from your entrance to your clit, finding the sensitive bud with ease and circling it with the tip of his tongue. You let out a cry at the sudden sensation, bucking your hips toward his mouth. He pulls you closer to him, dragging your thighs up onto his shoulders once again. His hands wrap around your hips and he squeezes your supple skin as he closes his mouth around your clit, sucking gently. 

“Oh my—“ you gasp at the sensation, and heat rushes to your center, the pressure building. 

“How does it feel, sweetheart?” Yunho asks from behind you, brushing your hair back to plant a kiss on the pulse point of your neck. “Does his mouth feel good on you?” 

You nod fervently, threading your fingers through Mingi’s blond hair again to pull him closer. He feels your signal and sucks your clit a little harder, a moan leaving your mouth as you let your head fall back into the crook of Yunho’s neck. You feel the warm bubble in your core growing, until Mingi’s mouth pops off of you briefly. 

You almost protest but are cut off when he quickly reconnects, licking you down to your entrance, his nose bumping your clit as he pushes his tongue inside of you. He looks up at you through his lashes, his eyes rolling back in his head as you clench around his tongue.  

“Feels so good, fuck,” your grind down onto his mouth, needing more inside than he’s granting you. “Mingi please, I need more,” you pant, looking down at him.

He chuckles against you, swiftly running his tongue up through your heat and pulling away to rest his head on your thigh. “What do you need, angel?” He smiles softly up at you, the evidence of your arousal glistening on his chin. He massages your hips while he waits for your response, leaning into your palm as you run it down his cheek.

”I want your f-fingers,” you whine, wiggling your hips underneath his hands. 

”Ask nicely, baby,” his voice drips with amusement. He nips at your thigh, dragging a groan up your throat. 

“Mingi, please,” you sound absolutely shameless in the way that you’re begging him, “I’ll do anything,” 

”Mingi, stop teasing,” Yunho coos over your shoulder, his voice low and husky, “she’s been so good for us, don’t you think she deserves a reward?” 

“Hmm,” Mingi’s hand disappears from your hip, “I suppose so,” you feel his fingers graze your inner thigh, slowly moving where you need them most. “Do you think you deserve it, y/n?” He softly runs his fingers through your cunt, gathering arousal from your core.

“I do, please, baby,” you beg. He grins at you, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you. He watches your eyes roll back and flutter closed, a satisfied sigh leaving your mouth. 

Yunho marvels at the way your face twists in pleasure as Mingi stretches you on his fingers, your moans music to their ears. He drags them out and pushes back in the tiniest bit faster and deeper, increasing his pace with each thrust. The heavenly stretch ignites something deep in your core.

“So tight,” his breath is hot on your center, “still need more, angel?” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip as your words get stuck in your throat. Mingi clicks his tongue at you, “needy,” he chuckles, curling his fingers inside of you, your back arching in pleasure.

Yunho’s hand coasts up to your neck, gently wrapping his long fingers around your throat and squeezing firmly. “Tell us what you need sweetheart,” he taunts, “use your words.” He puts more pressure on either side of your airway, the lack of oxygen making you feel deliciously dizzy. 

“I need you to touch me Yun, please,” you struggle to get the words out through his strong grip on your throat, getting distracted by Mingi splitting you open. You let your legs fall from Mingi’s shoulders, spreading your thighs as wide as you can manage, presenting yourself to Yunho.

A satisfied groan leaves Yunho’s mouth as he releases you to run his hand up your jaw and brush his fingers across your bottom lip. You gasp to catch your breath, leaving your mouth open to invite him in, and he pushes two of his fingers past your lips. Mingi slows down, watching the two of you in a daze while he lazily pumps his fingers in and out of you. Without hesitation you close your lips around Yunho’s fingers, sucking lightly and bobbing your head, your glazed over eyes not leaving his. 

“Good girl,” Yunho pants, “you’re so pretty when you beg.” You clench around Mingi’s fingers at Yunho’s words, and you hear him chuckle from between your legs. He loves being able to feel your body reacting to the praise you’re receiving. You swirl your tongue around Yunho’s fingers, then release them with a pop. 

Yunho inches closer to you, his eyes wide with hunger. You let out a soft whine when the tip of his nose brushes yours, his hot breath thickening the air between you. He’s almost challenging you by not kissing you right away, allowing his bottom lip to brush yours, but pulling back when you try to lean closer. 

“Yunnie,” you whimper, pushing yourself down onto Mingi’s fingers as much as you could muster, “please,” 

“Hm?” Yunho teases, drawing your bottom lip into his mouth and sucking on it gently. Your breathing turns unsteady and he chuckles. “Look at you,” he nips at your lip, a growl crawling up his throat, “if you’re begging like this for my fingers, I can’t wait to watch you beg for my cock.”  

You whimper as he finally kisses you, and it’s catalytic. The moment his lips touch yours, the tension that had been building between the three of you all night long finally comes to a peak, and all control is lost. 

Mingi bites down hard on your thigh, soothing the spot with his tongue and fucking you faster with his fingers, twisting his wrist slightly with each thrust. Yunho swallows your moans as he runs his wet fingers down your body, easily finding your clit and circling it firmly. The contact makes your head spin, a bolt of heat shooting to your center as you let out a shameless whine into his mouth. 

You feel the pressure building with each rub and thrust, the feeling of both of them touching you almost too much to take. You weave your fingers through Yunho’s hair, pulling him closer to you. He bites down on your bottom lip, rubbing you faster with pointed precision. Sinful sounds fill the air around you; Mingi’s heavy breathing, your desperate whining, Yunho’s deep groaning, the sound of their fingers moving through your arousal. 

“Fuck, I’m s-so close,” you cry, closing your eyes to focus on their ministrations.  

“Help me out, Min,” Yunho pulls away from you briefly and you whine, your growing orgasm fading away. You look down at Mingi as he pulls his fingers out of you. You’re about to cry out in protest when he pops his fingers into his mouth, making a show of licking your arousal from them. 

“Oh,” you marvel at the way his eyes roll back at the taste of you, your chest heaving, “Mingi, please,” 

“I got you, baby,” he coos, pulling his fingers from his mouth and returning them to your entrance. He nods to Yunho as he pushes his soaked fingers back inside of you. Responding to his friend’s signal, Yunho spreads you open as Mingi spits directly on your clit. 

“Jesus Christ,” you sob, throwing your head back. 

“Not quite,” Mingi chuckles, resuming his relentless pace. 

Yunho finds your clit again, gathering Mingi’s saliva on his fingers. The added lubrication has Yunho’s fingers gliding over and around your swollen bud. The two men quickly match their pace to one another and you feel your impending climax building in your core again. 

“Oh my —“ Yunho cuts you off with a firm kiss, groaning into your mouth. His tongue tangles with yours, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. 

“You’ve been so good for us baby,” Mingi says from between your legs, watching his fingers disappear inside of you. “Let go, I wanna feel you come around my fingers.” 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Yunho grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head to the side for better access. “Show us how good we’re making you feel,” he buries his face in your neck, licking and sucking on your skin. 

“Mhm,” Mingi hums in agreement, pushing up onto his knees to pop one of your nipples into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it as he pistons his fingers even faster, hitting that sweet spot inside of you. 

“God, right there,” your eyes screw shut as the pressure builds and builds, but a firm nip to your chest makes you open them again to look down at him.

”Look at me,” Mingi growls, “I want to watch you fall apart, baby.” You nod wordlessly as his mouth reconnects with your nipple. A familiar heat settles in your belly at his words, and the determination in his dark eyes only fuels the fire. He feels your walls tighten around his fingers, and he knows that you’re almost there. 

“I’m s-so close,” you cry, your legs starting to tremble. Mingi splays his free hand across one of your thighs to hold you open.

“That’s our good girl,” Yunho breathes against your skin, “come for us, beautiful,” 

The praise is what pushes you over the edge, your head spinning at Yunho’s words. He rubs you just right as Mingi curls his fingers inside of you again, and the tightly wound cord in your core finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through your body. 

“Oh my god,” you sob, your body squirming beneath them while they light your body on fire. 

“There she is,” Mingi coos, his pace slowing ever so slightly to coax you through your climax. Yunho presses the heel of his hand down firmly on your mound, effectively holding you in place. He lazily swirls the pad of his middle finger over your clit, overstimulating you in a way that you’ve never felt. It should feel like too much, but it’s just enough to draw out your high just the way you need. You let your eyes flutter closed as you feel your body melting into their tender touches. 

Your hearing goes fuzzy and you feel like you’re floating in their arms as they slow their motions to a stop, holding you gently. You feel Mingi pull his fingers from your center, peppering your inner thighs with soft kisses. He brings both his hands up to your hips, massaging your skin. You revel in his touch, each stroke of his fingers drawing you back down to earth. 

Yunho carefully slips out from behind you, laying you down on the fluffy pillows. You snuggle into the satin pillowcase, letting him and Mingi manipulate your pliant body, feeling fully sated coming down from your high. Mingi gently closes your legs and drapes a sheet over you. Their hands never leave your body as Yunho settles in next to you, snuggling up to you with an arm thrown over your waist. 

“Sweetheart, are you with us?” Yunho brushes your stray hairs from your forehead, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. 

“I think so,” you giggle, nuzzling into his touch, “that was incredible.” You slowly open your eyes, your heart skipping a beat seeing Yunho looking back at you. His hair is mussed, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are shining just for you. 

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper before you can stop yourself,

“Me?” He rubs his thumb across your cheek, “look who’s talking,” despite redirecting the compliment to you, you notice his ears turning red. He nuzzles his nose into yours, planting a quick kiss to your lips.

“You’re cute when you come,” Mingi interrupts, crawling up the bed to lay next to you. He props himself up on his elbow, resting his other hand on your belly and rubbing soft circles into your skin. 

“Mingi,” you laugh, “haven’t you teased me enough for one night?” Yunho chuckles from your other side and you nudge your elbow into his ribs. 

“Definitely not, but that’s not the point,” he leans over you to kiss your forehead, “I just like complimenting you,” he kisses your cheek, “and I want you to see yourself,” he kisses your other cheek, “how we see you,” he finally kisses your lips, effectively silencing any witty reply you were trying to conjure up. Tasting yourself on his mouth reignites the flame in your core. 

“And how do you see me, exactly?” you question him, your voice coming out much hoarser than you meant it to. 

Instead of responding, Mingi thinks for a brief moment before his eyes light up, and he jumps up out of bed. You shoot a questioning look in Yunho's direction, but he just shrugs, equally as confused as you are. Mingi walks to the end of the bed, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. You catch a glimpse of the outline of his half-hard cock when he turns back to face you, making your mouth water. 

“Come here,” he holds his hand out to you, waiting expectantly. 

You couldn’t say no to him if you tried, so you wrap your sheet around your body from the chest down and scoot down to the end of the bed, reaching out to meet his outstretched hand. He grabs your hand and swiftly pulls you up from the mattress, helping to steady you on your feet. 

“Look,” he says, nodding toward the massive mirror hanging above the vanity. 

“Oh, Mingi, don’t,” your cheeks warm immediately, and you absentmindedly bring a hand to cover your eyes. Your mind goes back to him watching you glare at yourself in that same mirror earlier in your evening. You felt so embarrassed in the moment, wishing he hadn’t caught you displaying your insecurity so openly. You’d been avoiding the mirror since then, trying not to think too hard about what you look like for your own peace of mind. 

“Baby please, just look,” Mingi gently takes your hand in his, bringing it down from your face, “let us show you,” he kisses your knuckles when you look at him, his warm brown eyes full of admiration. 

You take a deep breath before turning to face the mirror, almost gasping when you see yourself. The white sheet draped over your body falls gracefully, the soft fabric hugging your curves. The way it hangs on your body accentuates your full figure, outlining your plump breasts, your rounded hips, and the natural swell of your thighs. The pristine white sheet makes your skin glow, emphasizing your softness. 

Maybe it’s the post-orgasm glow, but for the first time in a long time, you truly think you look beautiful. You feel beautiful. Without looking away from yourself you squeeze Mingi’s hand, and he squeezes yours right back. 

Yunho scoots down the bed to sit right behind you, opening his legs and pulling you to stand between them. He runs his wide hands up your waist, eyeing the way his fingers glide over your sheet clad curves. His fingers tighten as his hands settle on the swell of your hips. 

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a thousand times more,” Mingi leans down, brushing his lips over your ear, “you look like a goddess,” he murmurs. His hot breath raises goosebumps on your skin, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of the way Yunho’s hands fit perfectly around you.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you sigh, trying to hide that your body is already so reactive to them again. “I do like how I look right now though,” you tilt your head at your reflection in the mirror, trying to admire yourself. 

“I would,” Yunho wraps his arms around your hips pulling you into his lap, “say you look like a goddess, that is,” he sets a steady kiss to the middle of your back, holding you tight. 

“You don’t have to say that,” you look between the two of them, “really,”

“Hm, you still don’t believe us, do you, angel?” Mingi tuts, shaking his head slightly as he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb. 

”It’s not that I don’t believe you,” you look down at your hand in Mingi’s, watching his thumb glide across your skin. “I just have a lot of trouble seeing myself… positively.” Yunho tightens his arms around you, nuzzling into you. 

Mingi nods wordlessly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He lets go of your hand to run his own through his hair, assessing what his next move should be. Before you can question him about what’s running through his mind, he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands landing on your sheet wrapped thighs. A jolt of heat strikes in your core as you wonder what’s coming. His eyes meet yours, a searing heat lingering in his gaze. 

“Mingi…” you hope that the suspicious tone in your voice will prompt him to share whatever plan he’s conjured up in his head, but he just keeps looking at you with fire in his eyes.

“Min, where are you going with this,” Yunho laughs from behind you. “Already need more?” 

“Of course I do, but I can wait,” he smirks, turning his attention back to you. “I could spend all night between your legs baby, but right now, we need to help you see how beautiful you are.” 

You can suddenly hear your heartbeat thudding, anticipation bubbling inside you. 

“Oh, I’m in,” Yunho says, pulling you closer to him, “what about you, sweetheart?”

You don’t know what they could possibly mean by that, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. 

“I’m too horny and malleable to protest, especially with Mingi looking at me like that” you giggle, leaning back into Yunho, “do what you must.” You sigh into his touch, reaching back to pull him closer to you as he nudges at your neck with his nose.

“Atta girl,” Mingi beams, trying to commit your blushing, fucked out smile to memory. 

“If there's anything we do that you’re not comfortable with,” Yunho shifts to softly kiss the curve of your shoulder, “just say the word.” 

Mingi nods in agreement, “okay?” 

”Okay,” you reply in confirmation, giving a small nod. Heat creeps up your cheeks as you wonder where your night is about to go. “I’m a little nervous,” you admit.

“We’ll take good care of you, sweetheart,” Yunho unwraps his arms from around you to massage your lower back, the tension immediately falling away. 

“Really good care of you,” Mingi kneads the soft skin of your thighs through your sheet. You feel so safe with their hands on you. 

Yunho’s hands travel up to where your sheet is tucked under your arm, tugging on it gently. You lift your arm slightly to help loosen its wrapping around you, and with Yunho’s help, it starts to fall. Cascading down your form, it pools around your hips into Yunho’s lap, your breasts fully on display again. 

“God, baby,” Mingi groans, “you are unreal,” he can’t stop himself from reaching up to palm both of your breasts in his hands, coasting his thumbs over your pebbling nipples. You gasp at the sudden contact, reveling in the feeling of his hands on your bare skin again. 

Yunho’s fingers ghost up your back, each fingertip blazing a trail of goosebumps up your spine until he reaches the nape of your neck. He gently wraps his fingers around your throat, running two fingers up your exposed neck and resting them on the underside of your chin. 

“Look,” Yunho nudges at your chin, and you steady your breath before allowing him to lift your gaze to the mirror. You watch him brush your hair back before softly brushing his lips over your neck. 

Mingi’s broad shoulders flex with each movement of his hands on your breasts, each caress more sensual and purposeful than the last. Yunho’s mouth molds perfectly to your neck, his hand snaking up into your hair to keep you steady. 

With two of the most beautiful men you’ve ever laid eyes on worshiping you like you built the earth they walk on, you feel powerful. You look powerful. You dared to think you even looked… sexy. With Mingi on his knees in front of you and Yunho mapping your neck with his tongue for the umpteenth time this evening, you realize how wrapped around your finger they are. 

Before you could fully feel the emotion of your revelation, Mingi’s hands leave your chest as he rises in front of you. “Come here, baby,” he sits next to you, opening his legs to make space for you. You slide out of Yunho’s lap, and Mingi guides your body to rest against his chest, turning you to face Yunho. You realize they’ve put you in the same position as earlier, only now it’s Yunho’s mercy you’re left at instead of Mingi’s. Your breathing quickens at the way Yunho looks at you with hunger in his dark eyes. 

“Can I take this off of you?” Yunho asks, tugging at the sheet still wrapped around your waist. Mingi sweeps your hair from your shoulders, pulling you closer to him as he trails featherlight kisses up your neck. You nod to Yunho, leaning into Mingi’s mouth. 

Yunho gently unwraps the sheet from around you, letting it fall to either side of your hips, putting you on full display for them again. He taps on your leg, signaling for you to lift it up onto the mattress. You bend your knee, letting your leg fall down to present yourself to him. You push your hips toward him, resting your other foot on the floor. A groan rumbles in Yunho’s throat, your cunt glistening and wanting under the dim lighting of your hotel room. 

“So perfect,” he admires your heat, letting his hands rest on your thighs to open you up even more for him. “Can I touch you, sweetheart?” 

“Please, Yun,” you lean further back into Mingi’s chest, his lips traveling up to the sensitive spot right below your ear, pulling a whine from your throat.

Yunho holds you open with one hand while the other runs up your thigh, closer and closer to where you need him. He runs his slender fingers through your cunt, gathering your arousal before slowly pushing a finger inside you. Your eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and he immediately finds that tender spot inside of you. “Need more, beautiful?” He withdraws slightly waiting for your response, and you nod ardently, needing anything and everything he’s willing to give you. 

He adds a second finger, stretching you deliciously, pushing both fingers as deep inside as he can go. He hits that spot inside you again, smirking as you arch your back against his best friend’s chest. 

“Feeling good, baby?” Mingi murmurs into your ear, earning a whimper and a nod in response. “Good girl,” the deep growl in his voice sucks the air from your lungs.

Yunho’s thumb finds your clit, circling it perfectly in sync with his fingers thrusting in and out of you. You feel him scissoring his fingers inside of you, getting you ready to take him. His fingers feel incredible, but you need more. 

”Yunho, baby,” you whine, grinding down on his hand. 

“Yes, beautiful?” He cocks his head at you, a teasing lilt to his voice. He knows what you’re going to say, but he wants to hear it.

“I need you,” you know he’s gonna make you beg, you can see it in his eyes, and feel it in the way he slows his pace a bit. 

“Need me?” He thrusts his fingers deeper inside of you, his free hand tightening its grip on your leg. 

“Mmh, I need you inside of me Yun,” you reach behind you, wrapping your fingers around the back of Mingi’s neck to keep his mouth where it is on your neck.

“Uh-uh,” he scolds you, pulling his fingers from you, lazily running his fingers through your heat. Your cheeks heat with frustration, and you feel Mingi chuckle against your skin at your cute, needy little whines. “Ask nicely, sweetheart,” Yunho positions your clit between his knuckles, squeezing the swollen bud gently.

”Oh my god, Yunho please,” 

“Please what? Use your words,” he teases your entrance with the tips of his fingers. 

Another desperate whine falls from your mouth. “F-fuck me, please, I need your cock Yunnie please, god,” you wiggle your hips beneath his strong grip, trying to catch any bit of friction. 

“Good girl,” he shoves his fingers deep inside you again, and you nearly scream before he swallows your voice, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, doll?” He teases, nibbling on your bottom lip. 

You kiss him back hard, grabbing for the waistband of his boxers blindly, swiping your fingers down his stomach before reaching the elastic. 

“Eager, are we?” Yunho breaks the kiss, hooking his hands under your knees to pull you closer to him, making sure to move you onto the bed more so you’re not so close to the edge. Even when he’s teasing you, he’s being so thoughtful and careful with you. He stands up briefly, and you can’t do anything but watch him silently as he slowly pulls his boxers down, his cock springing free. 

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him, long and velvety, and you feel your cunt clench around nothing. He pumps himself once, twice, as he kneels on the mattress between your legs. 

“Still feeling good?” Yunho spreads your thighs even wider, nodding to Mingi behind you, who reaches over you to hook a hand under your knee to hold you open. He’s stopped kissing you, seemingly settling in for the show. 

“So good,” you breathe, “please Yunho,” 

“Mhm,” he nods, giving you a quick kiss, running his cock through your arousal. You gasp as he bumps your clit, pushing your hips toward him. He nudges his tip at your entrance, resting his forehead against yours. He pushes in slightly, easing into you little by little, the stretch making you gasp. He pauses for a moment, waiting for a signal to keep going. A shuddering breath leaves your lips as you nod, and he pushes deeper.

“I can take all of it, please,” you whine, and with a roll of his hips, he fills you all the way up, finally fully seated inside of you. You both sigh, soaking up the feeling. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “you feel incredible y/n, god,” he kisses your forehead, giving you a moment to adjust. He is so deep inside of you, you’ve never felt so full. 

“Yuyu,” you sigh,

”Hm?” 

“Move.” 

He chuckles, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back into you. You cry out, arching your back against Mingi, pleasure shooting to your center. Yunho sets a slow and steady pace, fucking into you deeply with each stroke. 

“Do you realize how fucking good you look right now?” Mingi’s fingers tangle in your hair, gripping tightly, turning your head towards the mirror. “Look at how well you’re taking him baby,” he coos.

“So good for me,” Yunho has your legs spread at an angle so that you can see every bit of what’s happening. His wide hands splayed across your thighs, his cock disappearing inside of you, plunging in and out, shining with your arousal. Mingi’s cock presses into your back, making your mouth water. 

“Oh my,” you stammer, “Mingi, let me touch you, please,” 

He slips out from behind you immediately, laying you down on the mattress. Yunho slows his thrusts to let you adjust, while Mingi stands next to you at the foot of the bed, his sweatpants tented over his hard length. You roll onto your side, with Yunho still inside of you, propping yourself up on one arm and reaching your other to slip your fingers under the waistband of Mingi’s sweatpants. He helps you push them down, along with his boxers, hissing as the cool air hits his cock. 

You reach for him, beckoning him to come closer. You wrap your fingers around him, his head falling back as you pump him slowly. A quick glance in the mirror has your head spinning, in awe of how both of these men are crumbling for you. You wiggle your hips, trying to scoot closer to Yunho. He shifts deeper between your legs, picking up the pace slightly, and the new angle has his cock hitting that tender spot inside of you. You whimper, squeezing Mingi’s length in your hand, stroking him faster. Mingi looks down at you, his mouth hanging open, his brow furrowing, watching you work him. Looking up at him through your lashes, you lick your lips before opening your mouth for him, inviting him in. He moans, leaning forward so his tip brushes your lips. 

“Baby,” Mingi murmurs, his chest heaving as you flick your tongue over the sensitive underside of his tip. You wrap your lips around him, sucking him further into your mouth with each bob of your head. A sharp thrust of Yunho’s hips has you moaning around Mingi’s cock, the vibrations almost too much for him to handle. You keep pushing forward until Mingi is bumping the back of your throat, and you relax around him, giving him a quick nod to push further inside. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you wonder if you look as messy as you feel. 

“You look so pretty with his cock down your throat, sweetheart,” Yunho matches his pace to how Mingi is fucking your mouth, rolling their hips in unison, stuffing you full. You feel the pad of Yunho’s thumb grazing over your clit, the gentle pressure making you tighten around him. “If you keep squeezing me like that, I’m not gonna last very long,” he adds more pressure on your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. You feel the throbbing in your core intensifying with Yunho’s ministrations. 

You moan around Mingi again, making him slow his pace. He buries himself down your throat, and you keep him there as long as you can, tapping his thigh when your vision starts to blur. He pulls back from your mouth, your throat burning as you try to catch your breath. You replace your mouth with your hand, spitting onto his cock, rolling your wrist as you stroke him. 

”You’re doing so well,” Mingi coos, bending over you briefly to kiss your forehead, brushing your sweaty stray hairs out of your face, “so, so well.” Mingi grabs a pillow and props it under your head, laying you back down to relax into the feeling of Yunho inside of you. Yunho picks up the pace now that he has more of your attention, snapping his hips relentlessly, rubbing your clit just right. 

“Yunho, f-fuck,” you whine, squeezing around him once again, the weight of your arousal settling in your belly. Your hand around Mingi’s cock falters, your strokes becoming erratic as you get closer to your climax.

“What did I say, sweetheart?” He emphasizes his words with a firm swirl of his thumb around your sensitive bud. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna fucking come,” 

“I am too, shit,” you cry, tears running down your temples into the pillowcase. 

“Are you on the pill?” Yunho slows down just enough to make you whimper, 

“Mhm,” you nod, hoping he’s asking you for the same reason you’re thinking,

“I need to come inside of you, beautiful,” he groans as you tighten around him again at his words, “fuck, please y/n,” he pumps into you deep, your back arching into the bed. 

“Yeah, ngh, please, come inside of me Yun,” you whine. 

Mingi pulls your hand from him, kneeling beside you to talk you through it. “You close, baby?” He licks up your chest, kissing every inch of exposed skin he can reach. You nod fervently, reaching for Yunho’s free hand, and grabbing Mingi’s shoulder with your other. “You’re taking him so well,” Mingi praises you, “I knew when we saw you that you’d be so good for us, our good girl.” 

You flutter around Yunho’s cock, and he smirks down at you, his cheeks flushed and hair sticking to his forehead, “you really love being talked to like that, don’t you?” His pace falters slightly, and you know you’re both almost there. “I’m gonna fuck you so full, then Mingi’s gonna do the same, until you’re dripping with both of us, okay?” Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Please, yes please, I need it,” the flame in your core is growing with each thrust of Yunho’s hips.  

“So pretty when you beg,” Mingi whispers into your neck, 

“Come around my cock, beautiful, I wanna feel you,” 

Mingi kisses your temple while you fall apart for the second time tonight, Yunho’s name falling from your lips as your body trembles between your lovers. Yunho’s hips start to stutter, his thrusts getting more and more irregular.

”Yunho,” you whine, your climax still rippling through your body, “fill me up baby, please, come,” you squeeze his hand and he laces his fingers between yours. 

“Oh, f-fuck,” he pushes in deep, his hips stilling as he spills inside of you. He exhales deeply before leaning over you to kiss you, slowly fucking his release deeper and deeper into you as you thread your fingers into his hair. “You are incredible,” he murmurs against your lips. 

“So are you,” you giggle, trying to catch your breath. Mingi rubs a gentle hand down your cheek as you and Yunho remain fused, foreheads pressed together. The three of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, both of them peppering you with kisses, before Mingi breaks it.  

“I know I said this already,” he starts, “but you are so cute when you come.” You roll your eyes at him and Yunho laughs at your bickering.

Yunho slowly pulls out of you, massaging your hips and easing your legs closed. “He’s right,” he smiles at you, kissing your nose. You stick your tongue out at him, earning a wink in return as he flops onto his back. 

“Let’s see how you look when you come,” you taunt, turning your attention to Mingi. You flip over onto your stomach, arching your back and pushing up onto your knees to display your ass up in the air, like you’re a cat stretching after a nap. You turn to face Mingi, still on his knees at the foot of the bed. You point to the mirror behind him, “put on a good show for me, would you?” 

“Ooh Min, someone’s had enough of your teasing for one night,” Yunho laughs. He rolls onto his side next to you, whispering into your ear, “I like you when you’re feisty.” 

Mingi just looks at you, his mouth hanging open slightly as amusement plays across his gaze. 

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” You know you’re instigating, and he’s surely going to make you pay for it… but part of you is hoping for that. “Hurry, before Yunnie’s cum starts to drip out of me,” you pout, faking disappointment in your voice. 

“Oh, you are such a brat,” Mingi beams at you, loving what your newfound confidence is bringing out of you. He stands, climbing up onto the bed behind you, running his hands over your ass. You glance at the mirror, admiring the soft swell of your ass, Mingi’s hands gripping your soft skin. “Look at you, running your mouth asking to get fucked when you’re already full of cum,” he smacks your ass, the crack ringing through the quiet room. You moan at the sensation, the throbbing in your cunt coming back full force. “You like that?” He soothes the angry red spot with his fingers, massaging your stinging skin. 

“Yeah, I do,” you breathe, “do it again,” you wiggle your hips, pushing back toward him. A drop of cum slips from your entrance, landing on the bed beneath you. Mingi groans at the sight, his cock jumping in response. He spanks you again, harder than the last, and you jerk forward, whimpering into the bedding. 

“Dirty girl,” the low growl in his voice makes you shiver. You watch Mingi in the mirror as he strokes himself, lining up with your entrance. “Ready, gorgeous?” 

“Mm, yes please,” you push back into him and he reciprocates, slipping inside of you. The combination of yours and Yunho’s arousal has Mingi sliding all the way in with ease, both of you shuddering when he bottoms out. 

“I’d love to take this slow, baby, but I need you,” 

“Please don’t,” you pull forward off of him slightly before pushing back again. “Fuck me like you mean it.” Mingi laughs, rolling his hips, pumping in and out faster and faster until the bed is rocking with your bodies. 

“You feel so fucking good, y/n.” He has a vice grip on your hips, pulling you back into him to meet each thrust. “You look so good taking me like this,” 

“So perfect,” Yunho chimes in from next to you. You turn your head to face him, and he wraps a hand around the nape of your neck, his lips molding with yours. You moan into his mouth as Mingi fucks into you, harder, faster. 

“Want me to fill you up, baby? Have any room for more?” 

“Please, yes,” you murmur against Yunho’s lips, fucking back into Mingi. Each bump of his cock inside of you has you inching closer and closer to your third orgasm of the night, your knuckles turning white from gripping the sheets. Yunho must sense it, moving his hand to slide under you, down your belly and between your legs. The second he makes contact with your clit, you feel pleasure spreading through you, getting more intense as they work you. 

“I can feel you,” Mingi leans over you to bite down on your shoulder, “you gonna come with me, angel?” 

“Yeah, ngh,” you turn back to face the mirror, remembering the taunting that got you in this position in the first place. Mingi is glowing, every muscle in his body flexing under his sweat-slicked skin as he pounds into you. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth, smirking at you, before bringing his palm down hard on your ass again. 

You cry out, your whole body shaking as your orgasm washes over you, rocking you in waves. You use all your remaining strength to keep your ass in the air as Mingi follows right behind you, letting out an animalistic growl as he fills you. You feel him twitch inside of you, finally stilling after he’s pumped every last drop into you. His chest heaves, easing his grip on your hips to lean over your spent form, trailing kisses up and down your spine. 

“You’re cute when you come too,” you sigh, suddenly feeling sleepy. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Mingi laughs breathlessly, easing out of you, groaning at the mess that drips from your center. 

“Sorry for the mess, sweetheart,” Yunho reaches around you, pulling you down to the mattress, flush against his body.  “Why don’t we get you cleaned up before you fall asleep?” 

You agree, already feeling yourself drift off. They help you to the bathroom, Yunho helping you work all the tangles out of your hair as Mingi gets the shower going. The three of you lazily wash each other, teasing as you do. With Yunho’s lips on your neck and Mingi’s fingers between your legs, both your hands on their cocks, the three of you come again together. You wash all over again, finally agreeing to get out when the water runs cold. They help you dry off, and Yunho grabs you a pajama set from the dresser, letting you get dressed before leading you to the bathroom mirror. He brushes your hair for you while you do your skincare. 

Your heart aches in your chest thinking about your time with them coming to an end. Yunho looks so content, standing in your bathroom with a towel around his hips helping you get ready for bed. Mingi returns from remaking the bed, wearing just his sweatpants and his glasses, sipping his long abandoned soju. You’d been moving around your room in a comfortable silence since getting out of the shower, and your eyes burn at the thought of them leaving you soon. 

“Y/n, you okay?” Yunho sets your brush down on the counter next to your skincare products. He gently grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the both of them. 

A silent tear falls down your cheek. “I don’t want you to go,” you sniffle, suddenly feeling so small. 

“Hey, woah,” Mingi is at your side, “we are not going anywhere, y/n,” he takes your hand in his. 

“You have a show tomorrow, you guys need to rest,” 

“And we can rest here, with you,” Yunho assures you. “We already know that bed is big enough for the three of us,” you laugh at his effort to ease your nerves. 

“You really want to spend the night with me?” 

“Of course, baby,” Mingi says, “we would never leave you after all of that. Plus Yunho is a clingy baby the night before a show and I’m not gonna be his little spoon all night.” 

“He’s right,” Yunho shrugs, “I do need a little spoon. You interested?” 

A short while later and the three of you are dressed and in bed, and you’re wedged in between your two lovers. Your backside is pressed against Yunho, whose arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you close. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, now snuggled up to you, lightly snoring in your ear. You lay nose-to-nose with Mingi, fiddling with each others’ fingers. 

“Not to keep repeating myself, but I am really glad that we met you tonight, y/n.” In the darkness you can feel him looking at you. “I think I can speak for both of us when I say we really like you.” 

“I like you both too,” you whisper. “A lot.” 

Mingi kisses your nose, then your lips, resting his forehead against yours. “Were you scared we were gonna leave you earlier?” You can hear the hesitation in his voice. 

“Yes,” you reply honestly. 

“Why?” Silence hangs in the air for a moment. 

“It’s not because of you. Or how you both had been treating me all night, you’ve been so good to me, it’s just—“ You hesitate, trying to find the right words. “Typially when guys want me… that way… they never want to stick around afterwards.”

“I don’t know how anyone could ever walk away from you like that,” he squeezes your hand in his. “And I could never in a million years regret you. Maybe Yunho and I are just suckers for aftercare, you’ll actually never get rid of us,” he chuckles quietly. 

“Or maybe you’re just obsessed with me,” you tease him. 

“That, too.” He gives you a soft, quick kiss. “We should sleep,” he whispers. 

”Fine,” you sigh,

”We’ll both still be here in the morning,” he assures you. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise.”

You fall asleep tangled between them, your heart feeling so full. 

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The next morning Mingi orders the three of you room service, charging the order to their room. Yunho’s clinginess seems to have carried over to the morning, as he’s made you sit between his legs while the three of you eat in bed together. You all run through your plans for the day, the boys talking about what time they need to be at the venue to run through their private soundcheck, then getting hair and makeup done for the VIP soundcheck. You tell them all about the friends you’re meeting up with, and they joke about setting one of them up with Yeosang. 

Saying goodbye felt impossible, none of you wanting to let go. Both boys put their numbers in your phone, Mingi immediately starting a group chat for the three of you. They promised they’d see you again, and you hope they mean sooner rather than later. They sandwich you between them, hugging you tight. 

“You guys need to get ready to head to the venue,” you murmur between them, not wanting to make them late. 

“Fine,” Mingi says, kissing the top of your head, rummaging through his sweatpants pocket for their room key. “See you at the show,” he winks. 

Your heart flutters thinking about seeing them on stage after the night you’d just spent together. “It’s too early for you to be making me blush, Song Mingi,” 

“Sorry!” He kisses you quickly before slipping out the door, leaving you and Yunho alone. 

“Sorry I fell asleep so early last night,” he holds you tenderly, running a wide hand up and down your back. 

“Don’t apologize, your snoring was kind of soothing,” you poke his stomach, “plus, I liked being your little spoon. We’ll have to do that again sometime.” 

“I’d love to,” he looks at you with such a wholesome admiration in his eyes. “I’m glad we met, y/n.” 

“Me too, Yunho.” He dips down to kiss you, capturing your lips with his. 

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,”

”Promise?”

”Promise.” He kisses you once more before slipping out of your room.

You stare at the closed door for a few moments until you hear the distant ding of the elevator. You miss them so much already. You wonder how you’re gonna keep it together in front of your friends all day, laughing as you imagine each of their reactions to the events of last night.  

Turning to walk back toward your bed, you start running through all the things you need to do in the next hour to get ready to leave. Shower, hair, makeup— you stop dead in your tracks as your eyes land on your vanity. Right next to your makeup bag is Yunho’s hat. Your heart races as you see the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from under it. Moving the hat over, you laugh at his message, written in his scrawling script on hotel stationary. 

Same time tonight? 

YH 

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part two coming soon...

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