#olive writes

You rolled your wrist, trying to shake out the ache. The sword felt heavier now, your fingers sluggish around the grip, sweat making the leather slick. You adjusted your stance and lifted the blade again.

“Again,” Baelor said gently behind you.

Your brother’s voice was as familiar as your own breath.

You had not heard him approach. You rarely did. He had always moved like that, quiet-footed since childhood, forever appearing at your shoulder when you least expected it. One moment you were alone, the next his warmth was at your back, close enough that you could feel it through your shirt. His hand slid over yours, broad and callused, guiding your fingers into place the same way he had when you were small enough to hold a wooden practice blade.

He adjusted your thumb and knuckles with careful patience, slow and deliberate, as if you might bruise under too much pressure.

“Not so tight,” he murmured near your ear. “You’re fighting the blade.”

“I am not,” you said, though your voice came out thinner than you meant.

“You are,” he replied, fond and certain. “Relax. Let it move.”

He stepped closer as he spoke, chest brushing your back. His other hand settled at your waist to steady you, thumb resting just above your hipbone. The touch was practical, familiar, the way it had always been when he corrected you.

It still made your breath hitch anyway.

You lifted the sword again, trying to follow his instruction.

“No.”

The word cut clean through the warm quiet.

Maekar crossed the sand toward you with long strides, dark hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He did not slow when he reached you. He simply stepped into your space and took the sword straight out of your hands like it belonged to him.

“That stance will get her killed,” he said.

Baelor’s hand did not leave your waist. “It will keep her from exhausting herself in the first exchange.”

Maekar shoved the hilt back into your palms and adjusted your grip with brisk efficiency. His fingers were hotter than Baelor’s, rougher too, moving you without hesitation. He pushed your shoulder down, angled your arm, then planted his hand low on your hip and turned you a few inches like you weighed nothing.

“Like this,” he said. “Center your weight. If someone hits you, you hold.”

You swallowed. “You’re both contradicting each other.”

“You should listen to me,” Maekar said.

“You should listen to me,” Baelor said at the same time.

It would have been ridiculous if it weren’t so typical. They had been arguing over how best to teach you since you could walk.

Their hands stayed where they were.

Baelor’s at your waist. Maekar’s just beneath it.

You could feel the heat of them through your clothes, one on each side, guiding and correcting as if you belonged there between them. Your pulse thudded embarrassingly loud in your ears.

“Lift your elbow,” Baelor said softly.

“Lower it,” Maekar said.

“She needs flexibility.”

“She needs stability.”

“She needs both,” you muttered.

Neither paid you any mind.

Baelor adjusted your wrist again, his fingers sliding down your forearm. Maekar’s hand tightened at your hip to keep you from moving the way Baelor wanted. Their knuckles brushed over your side.

Then stayed.

It was the smallest contact, barely anything at all, but it felt like lightning. Both of them went still at once. You felt it in the way their hands paused, the way their breathing changed. Slowly, their gazes lifted.

Not to you.

To each other.

It was not anger exactly. Not yet. Something sharper. Measuring. Territorial. The look men gave across a tourney field before the first charge.

“Let go,” Maekar said quietly.

“I’m supporting her,” Baelor replied.

“So am I.”

You stood between them like a contested prize, the sword still raised uselessly in your hands.

“If you’re both finished using me as an example,” you said, trying for dry humor, “I would like to actually practice.”

Neither answered.

Baelor’s thumb flexed against your waist, almost unconsciously. Maekar’s fingers tightened at your hip as if to anchor you there. Your skin burned where they touched you.

“Strike,” Baelor said.

You obeyed, swinging forward. The blade cut the air cleanly, but before you could recover Maekar stepped in, catching your wrist and redirecting the motion, guiding you through a sharper, faster follow-through.

“Again,” he said.

You did.

This time Baelor corrected your shoulders mid-swing, pressing you back into alignment. You stumbled half a step and both of them steadied you at once, hands firm, bodies close enough that you could feel the heat of their chests on either side. For a moment you were trapped between them, sand shifting under your boots, their grips tight and certain.

Not unpleasantly.

Your breath stuttered.

Maekar noticed. His eyes flicked down to your mouth before lifting again. Baelor noticed that, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly at your waist. Something shifted in the air, heavier now, thicker than the dust.

“You’re distracting her,” Maekar said.

“I’m teaching her,” Baelor replied.

“You’re coddling her.”

“And you’re manhandling her.”

“I don’t mind,” you said.

They both went quiet. Both looked at you. Then, slowly, at each other again.

The yard had gone nearly silent, banners rustling overhead, the last scrape of boots fading beyond the gates. It felt like the three of you were alone in the world. Baelor’s hand never left your waist. Maekar’s never left your hip. Neither seemed inclined to move, like stepping back would mean conceding something neither of them intended to lose.

You realized with a slow, dizzy clarity that they were not touching you by accident anymore. They were touching you because the other one was. Because neither would yield the space. Because neither meant to let go first.

“Well?” you said softly. “Are you going to keep arguing, or are you going to teach me?”

Baelor’s mouth curved faintly. “Again.”

Maekar’s grip tightened just enough to make you shiver. “Again.”

You did not remember the last few swings. Only the heat of them on either side of you. The steady correction of your wrist. The firm pressure at your hip. Their voices low and close to your ears, overlapping until you could not tell whose breath brushed your skin. When at last the sword slipped from your fingers and thudded into the sand, all three of you stilled at once, breathing hard.

“That’s enough,” Baelor said quietly.

Maekar did not argue, which might have unsettled you more than anything. He simply reached down, picked up the sword, and handed it back to a passing squire without taking his eyes off you.

The walk to the Keep began without discussion. It simply happened. You wiped your palms on your trousers and stepped toward the archway that led inside, and they fell into place beside you like they had done it a thousand times before.

Only now there was nowhere to escape them.

The corridor was narrower than the yard, the stone walls holding the day’s warmth. Your boots tracked sand across the floor, the sound soft and rhythmic. Baelor took your right without thinking. Maekar claimed your left just as naturally. You were aware, acutely, of the way their arms brushed yours with every step.

Too close to be accidental.

Too close to ignore.

Baelor reached for your hand first. He turned your wrist gently, examining the leather glove like you were still a child who needed tending. His brow furrowed.

“You’ve split the seam,” he said. His thumb traced the worn patch near your palm. “You’ll blister.”

“I’ll survive,” you said.

“I know.” His voice softened. “Hold still.”

He loosened the laces and retied them tighter, slower than necessary. His fingers slid over your knuckles, your pulse, the inside of your wrist. Every touch deliberate, careful, reverent. The corridor felt too warm suddenly.

On your other side, Maekar made an impatient sound in his throat. “You’re fussing.”

“I’m fixing it.”

“She’s not wounded.”

“She will be if I don’t.”

Maekar stepped closer anyway, his shoulder brushing yours. His hand found the buckle of your sword belt without asking permission. “Here.”

Before you could protest, he unfastened it and slid the belt free. The leather dragged across your hips as he pulled it loose, slow enough that you felt every inch of it. His knuckles grazed your waist. He did not hurry. He never hurried.

“I can take that myself,” you said.

“I’ve got her,” he replied.

Baelor glanced up, expression mild but edged. “Clearly.”

The word hung between them, quiet and sharp.

They did not look at each other, but you could feel it. The competition threading through every small gesture. Baelor brushing dust from your sleeve. Maekar taking the belt and slinging it over his shoulder like it belonged there. Baelor adjusting the strap of your bracer. Maekar’s hand settling briefly at the small of your back to guide you around a crack in the floor you would have stepped over easily.

You did not need guiding.

They knew that.

They did it anyway.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither apologized. Neither yielded an inch of space.

You were suddenly hyperaware of the corridor’s tightness. Of their thighs nearly brushing yours. Of the heat of their bodies bleeding through linen and leather. Of how easily either of them could reach for you at any moment.

“Don’t crowd her,” Baelor said quietly.

“I’m not,” Maekar replied.

“You are.”

“She hasn’t complained.”

They both looked at you.

Your mouth went dry. “I’m fine.”

That only seemed to make it worse.

Baelor’s hand settled at your waist again, familiar, protective. Maekar’s fingers hooked into the fabric at your hip, tugging you half an inch closer like he refused to let Baelor have more of you than he did. The touches overlapped. Hands nearly brushing. Neither retreating.

You wondered if they even realized how much they were touching you. Or if they did and simply refused to stop.

You tried to focus on the sound of your footsteps, the flicker of torchlight along the walls, anything but the steady pressure on both sides of you. But every small thing betrayed you. Baelor’s thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric at your waist. Maekar’s knuckles grazing your hip when he shifted the belt. The way they leaned in close when they spoke, voices low enough that only you could hear.

“I’ll see her back,” Baelor said.

“I already am,” Maekar answered.

Silence followed. Thick and heavy.

Their shoulders bumped again.

Still neither moved away.

You exhaled slowly, realizing with a strange, fluttering certainty that the tension from the yard had not broken at all. It had only tightened. Stretched thinner. More deliberate. Every step deeper into the Keep felt like winding a bowstring further and further back.

Caught between them, hemmed in by stone and heat and two steady hands that refused to leave you, you wondered which one of them would let go first.

Neither seemed inclined to lose.

The small solar near the yard door appeared almost by instinct. You pushed it open without announcing anything, grateful for somewhere to sit, somewhere to breathe that was not a corridor barely wide enough for your shoulders.

They followed you in automatically.

Neither of them hesitated.

The door shut behind you with a soft, solid thud.

The room trapped the day’s warmth. Leather, oil, dust, sweat. The air felt thick, close, intimate in a way it had never seemed before. There was only one bench, one narrow table, one rack of spare gear. Too small for three people who had just come off the training field.

Too small for Baelor’s broad shoulders, too small for Maekar’s restless energy, too small for the way both of them crowded near you without thinking.You sat heavily on the bench and reached for your boots, but you barely got your fingers on the straps before Baelor was already kneeling.

“Let me,” he said quietly.

You didn’t argue. You never did with him.

He rested one knee on the stone and took your ankle gently in both hands, thumbs warm through the leather as he loosened the laces. His movements were slow, methodical, careful not to tug too hard. Like you were something fragile.

Behind you, Maekar made a soft sound of impatience and stepped closer.

“Hold still,” he muttered, already reaching for the clasps at the back of your armor.

You hadn’t even asked.

Metal clicked softly as he worked them free, fingers sure and efficient. Where Baelor’s touch lingered, Maekar’s moved with quiet confidence, sliding beneath straps, undoing buckles in seconds. His knuckles brushed the back of your neck, then your shoulders, then lower along your spine as each fastening gave way.

You inhaled sharply before you could stop yourself.

Neither commented.

Baelor tugged the first boot free and set it aside. His hand stayed at your calf a moment longer than necessary, steadying you as you shifted your weight. His thumb traced a small, absent circle against your skin, thoughtless and gentle.

Maekar slid the loosened plate from your shoulders, his palm spreading briefly at the small of your back to keep you from tipping forward.

Between them, you barely had to move at all.

It was strangely easy. Natural. Like this was something they’d always done.

Like you belonged exactly here.

One kneeling.

One standing close behind.

Both touching you without hesitation.

The room felt warmer by the second.

Baelor reached for your other boot at the same moment Maekar reached around you for the last buckle at your side. Their arms crossed in front of you, creating a wall of muscle and heat. Your breath caught as Maekar's chest pressed briefly against your back, his fingers working at the stubborn clasp while Baelor's hands slid up your calf to steady you.

"I can manage," you said, but the words came out breathy, unconvincing.

Neither acknowledged your protest. Maekar's knuckles grazed your ribs as the final buckle gave way. The pressure of the armor released, leaving you feeling oddly vulnerable in just your thin shirt. Baelor's fingers lingered at your ankle, his thumb tracing the hollow there with deliberate care.

"You pushed too hard today," he murmured, gaze fixed on the reddened skin where your boot had rubbed.

"She can handle it," Maekar countered, but his hand at your hip said something different. Gentle. Almost possessive.

You sat perfectly still between them, caught in the strange gravity they created. The room had shrunk to just the three of you—Baelor kneeling before you, Maekar standing behind, both watching you with expressions that made your skin flush hot.

"You don't need both of us fussing," Maekar said, though he made no move to leave. His fingers trailed up your side where the armor had been, testing for bruises he knew weren't there.

"Apparently I do," you replied, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile. Your voice came out too soft, too breathless.

Baelor's eyes darkened at the sound. "We've always looked after you."

The way he said it—soft, almost reverent—made your pulse stutter. You could feel Maekar's breath against your neck, his heat at your back, while Baelor's hands continued their slow path upward.

"Always," Maekar agreed, his voice rougher than his brother's but no less intent. His fingers traced a path along your shoulder, finding the place where muscle had tensed during training. When he pressed his thumb against the knot there, you couldn't help the small sound that escaped you.

Baelor's eyes flicked up to meet yours at the noise, then drifted past you to his brother. Something unspoken passed between them—a challenge, a question, a decision. You couldn't read it, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way the tension crystallized into something sharper, more deliberate.

"You're sore," Baelor said softly, his thumb pressing gently into the muscle of your calf. "You should have stopped earlier."

"I'm fine," you managed, though your voice betrayed you, coming out breathless and thin.

Baelor's hands slid higher, past your calf to the sensitive back of your knee. His touch was gentle but deliberate, thumb tracing small, teasing circles against your skin. Maekar's hands worked at the knot in your shoulder with more pressure, his callused fingers finding the exact spot that ached. The dual sensations made you dizzy—Baelor's gentleness below, Maekar's strength above.

"She says she's fine," Maekar murmured, though his touch belied his words. He was not treating you like someone who was fine. His fingers worked deeper, finding tension you hadn't realized was there, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.

Baelor's hands paused at the sound. "Is that too much?"

"No," you whispered before you could stop yourself.

The air in the room seemed to thicken. Baelor's thumb traced a slow, deliberate path up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of impropriety. Maekar's hands slid down to your waist, steadying you as you shifted under Baelor's touch. The warmth of his palms seeped through your thin shirt, a stark contrast to the cooler air against your newly exposed skin.

"See? Not too much," Maekar murmured, his lips close enough to your ear that you could feel the warmth of his words. "She can handle more than you think."

Baelor's eyes never left yours as his hand stilled high on your thigh, thumb resting dangerously close to where your legs met. "Is that true?" he asked softly. "Can you handle more?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with meaning that went far beyond training and sore muscles. Your heart hammered in your chest, skin prickling with heat that had nothing to do with exertion. The truth was dangerous, but it slipped past your defenses anyway.

"Yes," you whispered.

Something changed in Baelor's eyes—a flicker of restraint giving way. Maekar's hands tightened at your waist, his chest pressing more firmly against your back. For a moment, neither moved, as if testing whether you'd take the word back.

You didn't.

"Look at her," Maekar murmured to his brother, his breath hot against your neck. "She's been waiting for this."

Baelor's thumb traced one more deliberate circle on your inner thigh. "Have you?"

Words failed you. Your breath came too quick, too shallow, your nod barely perceptible. A confession without words.

Baelor's fingers tightened on your thigh as his other hand rose to cup your face. His thumb traced your lower lip, feather-light, testing. "How long?"

"Too long," Maekar answered for you, his mouth suddenly at your neck, the barest graze of teeth against your pulse. "She watches us in the yard. When we spar. When we train." His hand slid up your side, just beneath the curve of your breast. "Thinks we don't notice."

Heat flooded your face. You hadn't realized they'd seen.

"Is he right?" Baelor asked, still holding your gaze, his thumb continuing its torturous path across your lip.

You couldn't lie. Not with both of them touching you, reading every tremor in your body. "Yes." Baelor's eyes darkened at your admission, his pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained. His thumb pressed more firmly against your lip, parting them slightly.

"And what do you think about?" he asked, voice low. "When you watch us?"

Maekar's mouth was still at your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You felt his teeth graze your pulse point, testing, before his lips pressed there in something too deliberate to be anything but a kiss.

"Tell us," he murmured against your skin.

Your head tilted back instinctively, giving him better access. The movement pushed you further into his chest, your back against his warmth, your throat exposed. Baelor watched the motion with undisguised hunger, his hand still firm on your thigh.

"I think about..." Your voice faltered. It was one thing to have these thoughts alone "...this," you whispered, the confession barely audible. "Your hands. Both of you."

The words hung in the air, honest and raw. Maekar's teeth scraped gently against your neck, not quite a bite, while Baelor's thumb pressed more firmly against your lower lip.

"Our hands," Baelor repeated softly. "Like now?"

You nodded, unable to form words as Maekar's palm finally slid up to cup your breast through your shirt. The weight of his hand made you arch slightly, pressing yourself more firmly into his touch.

"And what else?" Maekar murmured against your skin, his voice rougher than before. His thumb brushed over your nipple, a deliberate circle that drew a soft gasp from your lips.

"More," you whispered, the word barely audible.

Baelor's fingers dug deeper into your thigh, the pressure sending sparks of heat through your body. His gaze never left yours, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes as Maekar's thumb continued its torturous circles over your hardening nipple.

"More what?" Baelor asked, his voice deceptively gentle. His thumb traced the seam of your lips, pressing just enough to feel the wetness behind them. "You need to be specific."

Maekar chuckled against your neck, the vibration traveling down your spine. "She's shy now? After watching us for months?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, making you shiver. "After following us into empty corridors? Standing too close in the armory?"

Your cheeks burned. You hadn't realized they'd noticed every incidental moments. Had they always known? The thought made your pulse race faster, your skin heating with more than just embarrassment.

"I didn't think you saw me," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"We see everything," Baelor murmured, his thumb pressing more firmly against your lower lip until you parted for him. The pad of his thumb slipped past your teeth, resting against your tongue, salt and leather and heat. "Everything."

Maekar's hand kneaded your breast more deliberately now, no pretense of checking for injuries. His other hand slid down to your hip, fingers digging into the muscle there, anchoring you against him.

"Tell us what you want," he demanded against your ear, his voice rough-edged and impatient. "Say it."

Baelor's thumb withdrew from your mouth, leaving a trail of dampness across your lip. His eyes never left yours, watching the way your breath quickened, the way you swallowed hard before answering.

"Both of you," you whispered, the confession burning in your throat. "I want both of you." Your confession hung in the air between them, raw and honest. For a moment, neither moved—as if giving you a chance to take the words back, to retreat from the precipice you'd just approached.

But you didn't want to retreat. You'd thought about this too many times, imagined it in the darkness of your chamber when sleep wouldn't come. Both of them. Their hands. Their mouths. The impossibility of choosing between them when you'd always wanted both.

Baelor moved first, unfolding himself from the floor with a smooth, catlike inevitability. The shift brought him dangerously close, erasing whatever boundary had existed between you. His hands slid up your legs as he rose, one anchoring above your knee, the other bracing lightly at your waist, steadying you. The heat of his palms burned through your clothes, as if you wore nothing at all. He rose to his full height, and suddenly you were looking up at him, at the intensity in his eyes, at the way his hair had fallen carelessly across his brow. The air between the three of you seemed to vibrate, electric with anticipation and something more elemental, something greedy and selfish.

Baelor didn't hesitate. The look on his face was not one of uncertainty, but of satisfaction, as if he’d just solved an equation that had lingered in his mind for years. His gaze flicked to his brother behind you, then back to you, and a slow, wicked smile curled his lips. You felt Maekar tense at your back, his grip tightening on your hip, as if bracing for what Baelor would do next.

Baelor bent forward, his mouth hovering just above yours, close enough for you to taste the heat of his breath, but far enough that you’d have to close the distance yourself. His hand left your knee and cupped your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, his touch reverent yet claiming. For the briefest moment, you wondered if he would actually kiss you, or if he’d make you ask for it again—if that was the game he was playing.

"Both," he repeated, his voice low and thoughtful. His fingers traced your jawline, tilting your face toward his. "You've always been greedy."

Behind you, Maekar made a sound like a growl. "She's always known what she wanted." His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, no longer tentative. "Haven't you?"

The dual assault left you dizzy—Baelor's face hovering above yours, his thumb tracing your cheek, while Maekar's mouth worked against your neck, hot and demanding. You couldn't answer, couldn't find words when your body was singing with sensation.

"I asked you a question," Maekar murmured against your skin, his hand tightening possessively at your breast.

"Yes," you gasped, the word barely formed before Baelor closed the distance and captured your mouth with his.

His kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—and you had imagined it, countless times. It was not gentle or hesitant. It was not the quiet reverence you'd expected from him. It was hot and hungry, the culmination of a restraint that had finally snapped. His mouth moved against yours with certainty, his tongue teasing the seam of your lips before pressing inside, claiming you with a confidence that left you breathless.

Maekar's hands tightened at your waist, as if unwilling to yield even an inch of you to his brother. His teeth closed more firmly on your neck, a sharp counterpoint to Baelor's kiss that drew a muffled sound from your throat. The contrast was dizzying—Baelor's mouth possessing yours, Maekar's teeth marking your skin.

The pleasure of it was overwhelming—too much sensation, too many points of contact. You were caught between them, suspended in their shared hunger, unable to do anything but surrender to it. Baelor's kiss deepened, one hand sliding into your hair to angle your face exactly how he wanted it. The gentle brother, the measured one, kissed you like he'd been starving for it, like he might devour you whole.

Maekar's patience had clearly run out. His hand left your breast and tangled in your hair, pulling your head back from Baelor's kiss. The sudden separation made you gasp, eyes flying open to find Baelor staring down at you with dark, possessive heat. Before you could speak, Maekar turned your face toward him and claimed your mouth with bruising intensity.

Where Baelor had been consuming, Maekar was conquering. His kiss was harder, demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with deliberate skill. His hand fisted in your hair, controlling the angle, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his mouth, the insistent pressure of his lips.

Your mind spun with the contrast between them. Baelor's kiss had been consuming but measured, a careful claiming. Maekar took what he wanted with unapologetic hunger.

When he finally released you, your lips felt bruised, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Maekar's eyes were dark with satisfaction as he looked past you to his brother."Well?" Maekar said, his voice a rough challenge. "Which do you prefer?"

The question hung in the heated air between them. Your lips still tingled from both their kisses, your body caught in the space they created. You couldn't answer—couldn't choose—and they knew it.

Baelor's hand slid back to your face, thumb tracing your lower lip, swollen now from Maekar's attention. "She doesn't need to choose," he said softly. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, watching every flicker of expression. "Do you?"

You shook your head, the small movement making Maekar's grip in your hair tighten. The slight sting sent heat curling through your belly.

"Say it," Maekar demanded against your ear. "Tell us again what you want."

The word fell from your mouth, heavy with desire: "Both." Your voice trembled, then steadied. "I want everything—you, and you. Please.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Baelor's face. He exchanged a look with his brother over your shoulder—some silent communication passing between them that made your skin prickle with anticipation.

"Then you shall have us," Baelor murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip once more. "But not here."

"Not like this," Maekar agreed, his voice rough against your ear. Without another word, Maekar released your hair and stepped back just enough for you to stand on unsteady legs. Baelor's hand found yours, fingers intertwining with a possessive certainty that sent heat coursing through your veins. The simple touch felt more intimate than it should have, his thumb tracing small circles against your palm.

"Come," he said quietly, the command gentle but brooking no argument.

Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you toward the door with a pressure that made your skin burn through the thin fabric of your shirt. Neither seemed willing to relinquish contact, keeping you between them as Baelor led the way through the corridors.

The walk felt endless. Your legs trembled slightly with each step, anticipation and lingering exertion making you unsteady. Every brush of their bodies against yours—a shoulder here, a hip there—sent electricity through your nerves. Maekar's fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt as you walked, grazing the heated skin of your lower back. Baelor's thumb continued its maddening circles against your palm, a small point of contact that somehow felt more intimate than it had any right to be.

The corridors were mercifully empty. Whether by design or luck, you encountered no one as Baelor led you deeper into the Keep, past the familiar routes to your own chambers, toward the royal wing. Your heartbeat quickened with each step, awareness dawning of exactly where they were taking you.

"Someone will see," you whispered, though the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.

"Let them," Maekar murmured, his voice a dark promise that made your skin flush hot. His hand pressed more firmly against your back, urging you forward when your steps faltered. "I want everyone to know."

Baelor's grip on your hand tightened, neither confirming nor denying his brother's declaration. Instead, he led you around a final corner to a heavy wooden door you recognized immediately. The royal apartments. His chambers.

When the door closed behind the three of you, the sound echoed with finality. The room was larger than yours, dominated by a massive bed draped in rich fabrics. A fire burned low in the hearth despite the day's warmth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air smelled of sandalwood and leather, of Baelor's particular scent.

For a moment, none of you moved. The reality of what was happening—what was about to happen—settled over you like a physical weight. You stood between them, caught in the gravity they created, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Maekar's hands slid around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as Baelor stepped forward. You found yourself trapped between them once more, but this time there was no pretense of training, no excuse of checking for injuries. This was deliberate. Wanted.

"Last chance," Baelor murmured, his hand coming up to cup your face. "Tell us to stop, and we will."

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered, the confession hanging in the heated air between you.

Something shifted in Baelor's expression then—a final restraint falling away. His thumb traced your lower lip before he bent to capture your mouth again, this time with a hunger that made your knees weak. Behind you, Maekar's lips found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there as his hands worked at the laces of your shirt with deft, impatient fingers. The dual assault left you gasping, caught between Baelor's demanding kiss and Maekar's teeth at your neck. Your head swam with the sensation, too much and not enough all at once.

Maekar tugged your laces free with practiced ease, his warm hands slipping beneath the loosened fabric to slide against your bare skin. The calluses on his palms created a delicious friction that made you arch into his touch. Behind you, you felt rather than heard his satisfied chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your back.

"She's responsive," he murmured against your neck, his voice a heated whisper meant for his brother's ears as much as yours. "Always has been."

Baelor broke the kiss, his breathing heavier now, his eyes dark as he watched Maekar's hands moving beneath your shirt. His thumb brushed your cheek in a gesture almost tender, contrasting with the heat in his gaze.

"She always has been," he agreed, voice low. "Even when we were teaching her to ride. Remember how she trembled when we lifted her onto the saddle?"

Maekar hummed agreement against your neck, his hands sliding higher beneath your loosened shirt, fingertips grazing the underside of your breasts. "This is better."

You couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through you at his touch, at the way they discussed you as if you weren't there—as if you were a shared secret between them. The casualness of it, the ease with which they touched you, spoke of desires long harbored but never voiced.

Baelor's hands reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, his knuckles grazing the heated skin of your stomach as he pulled upward. You raised your arms instinctively, allowing him to draw the fabric over your head. The cooler air of the chamber kissed your exposed skin, raising goosebumps that Maekar immediately soothed with his palms.

"Beautiful," Baelor murmured, his gaze traveling over your bare torso with undisguised hunger. His hands hovered just above your skin, not quite touching, making you ache for contact.

Maekar was less patient. His hands cupped your breasts from behind, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into tight peaks. The rough calluses on his fingers created a delicious friction that drew a soft gasp from your lips.Baelor finally reached out, his hands joining Maekar's, fingers brushing against yours as they both explored your exposed skin. The sensation of four hands on your body at once sent a wave of dizziness through you, your head falling back against Maekar's shoulder as they touched you.

Baelor stepped closer, eliminating what little space remained between your bodies. His chest pressed against yours, trapping Maekar's hands between you as he bent to capture your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours with deliberate intent. You felt surrounded, consumed by them both—Baelor's mouth demanding your surrender while Maekar's hands continued their teasing exploration.

Their hands worked in tandem, as if they'd discussed this moment for years. Maekar's fingers pinched and rolled your nipples between calloused fingertips while Baelor's palms slid down your sides, mapping the curve of your waist before settling at the laces of your trousers. The dual sensation—Maekar's rougher touch at your breasts, Baelor's more measured exploration—left you trembling between them.

Baelor's fingers deftly worked the laces of your trousers, loosening them enough to slip his hand inside. The heat of his palm against your lower belly made you gasp against his mouth, your body arching instinctively into his touch. Behind you, Maekar made a sound of approval, his teeth grazing your earlobe as his hands continued their torturous attention to your breasts.

"She's trembling," Maekar murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Can you feel it?"

Baelor hummed agreement against your lips, his fingers dipping lower, teasing along the edge of your smallclothes. "I can feel it," he replied, breaking the kiss to watch your face as his hand slid further down. "I wonder how wet she is."

Your face burned at his words, but the embarrassment only heightened the ache between your thighs. Baelor's eyes held yours as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding the slick heat waiting there. His sharp intake of breath when he felt your wetness made your knees weak.

"Drenched," he murmured, his voice rough with approval. His fingers traced your folds with deliberate patience, exploring the evidence of your desire without quite giving you the pressure where you needed it most. "For both of us."

Maekar's hands tightened possessively at your breasts, his breathing heavier against your neck. "Let me feel," he demanded, one hand sliding down your stomach to join his brother's.

For a moment, you thought Baelor might refuse, might claim this pleasure for himself alone. But instead, his hand shifted, making room for Maekar's fingers to slip alongside his own. The sensation of both their hands between your th ighis was almost too much to bear. Different textures, different pressures—Baelor's touch measured and deliberate, Maekar's more demanding, both exploring your most intimate place with unhurried curiosity. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Patience," Baelor murmured against your mouth, though his own breathing had grown uneven. His middle finger circled your entrance without penetrating, gathering your wetness before sliding up to tease your clit with feather-light touches.

Maekar was less restrained. His finger pushed inside you without warning, the sudden intrusion drawing a broken moan from your lips. "So tight," he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there as his finger curled inside you.

The dual sensation—Baelor's teasing circles around your clit, Maekar's finger thrusting inside you—made your head spin. You were caught between them, trapped in the pleasure they created together, your body responding with shameless eagerness to their combined touch. The knowledge that they were touching you together, fingers overlapping between your thighs, sent a wave of molten heat through your core.

"The bed," Baelor murmured against your lips, though he made no move to release you. "Now."

Maekar withdrew his finger with reluctance, drawing a small, involuntary sound of protest from your throat that made both men chuckle. Without warning, Maekar's hands gripped your waist and lifted you as if you weighed nothing, turning you toward the massive bed that dominated the chamber.

Your loosened trousers slid down your hips as they guided you backward, Baelor's hands steadying you, Maekar's pushing you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the mattress. You fell onto the soft furs, your trousers sliding further down your thighs as you landed on your back. They stood over you for a moment, both pairs of eyes dark with hunger as they took in the sight of you—half-naked, breathless, skin flushed with desire.

"Look at her," Maekar murmured, his voice rough with approval. "Waiting for us."

Baelor's expression was more measured, but no less intense. His fingers worked at the laces of his own shirt, loosening them with deliberate patience. "She's been waiting a long time."

You watched, transfixed, as they undressed. Maekar was impatient, stripping off his training clothes with efficient movements, revealing sun-bronzed skin and hard muscle beneath. The scars that crossed his torso told stories of battles and training accidents, mapping a history of violence and victory across his skin. Baelor undressed more methodically, each movement deliberate as he revealed his body inch by inch. Where Maekar was all hard angles and barely contained energy, Baelor was fluid grace, his musculature more refined but no less powerful.

Your breath caught at the sight of them both, standing at the foot of the bed like twin aspects of the same desire. Different in their approach but identical in their hunger as they looked down at you.

Maekar reached for your trousers first, tugging them down your legs with impatient efficiency. The fabric scraped against your sensitized skin, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. Baelor's hands followed, gentler but no less insistent as he helped remove the last of your clothing until you lay completely bare before them.

"Spread your legs," Maekar commanded, his voice rough with desire. You obeyed instinctively, thighs parting under their hungry gazes. The cool air of the chamber kissed your most intimate place, making you acutely aware of how exposed you were, how vulnerable beneath their matched intensity.Maekar moved first, climbing onto the bed with predatory grace. His weight made the mattress dip as he positioned himself between your spread legs, his large hands gripping your thighs to push them wider apart. The hungry look in his eyes made your breath hitch as he lowered himself, his breath hot against your inner thigh.

"I've thought about tasting you for years," he murmured, his lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "Watching you in the yard, sweating, breathing hard. Wondering how you'd taste after a long day of training."

You couldn't respond, couldn't form words as his mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of heat along your inner thigh. The bed shifted again as Baelor joined you, positioning himself at your side, one hand sliding into your hair to turn your face toward him.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "I want to see your face when he tastes you." His fingers tightened in your hair, not painfully but firmly enough to hold you still as Maekar's mouth finally found your core.

The first touch of his tongue against your sensitive flesh made you cry out, back arching off the bed. Maekar groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body as he explored your folds with hungry precision. His hands gripped your thighs, holding them apart as his tongue circled your entrance before dipping inside.

"That's it," Baelor murmured, watching your expression intently as pleasure overwhelmed you. "Let us hear you."

Your eyes fluttered closed as Maekar's tongue flattened against your clit, applying delicious pressure that made your hips buck against his mouth. Baelor's hand immediately tightened in your hair, giving a sharp tug that made you gasp.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. "Watch what he's doing to you."

You forced your eyes open, meeting Baelor's intense gaze as Maekar's mouth worked between your thighs. The dual sensations—Maekar's tongue expertly circling your clit while Baelor's hand tightened in your hair—sent waves of pleasure through your body. Maekar groaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk upward, seeking more.

"She tastes even better than I imagined," Maekar murmured against your flesh, his eyes dark with hunger as he glanced up at his brother. "You should taste her."

Baelor's thumb traced your lower lip, his gaze never leaving yours. "Soon," he promised, his voice thick with restraint. The heat in his eyes made you shiver, anticipation building in your core as Maekar's mouth continued its relentless assault. His tongue worked with practiced skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that had you trembling. Baelor's hand remained in your hair, keeping you anchored as pleasure threatened to sweep you away.

"She's close," Maekar murmured against your sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words sending sparks through your nerves. "I can feel it."

Baelor's free hand moved to your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with Maekar's tongue. "Not yet," he commanded softly. "Make her wait."

Maekar hummed his agreement, slowing his pace deliberately, drawing back just enough to deny you the pressure you needed. Your hips lifted instinctively, seeking his mouth, but his hands pressed firmly against your inner thighs, holding you open and immobile.

"Please," you gasped, the word falling from your lips before you could stop it.

Baelor's eyes darkened at the sound, his grip in your hair tightening. "Listen to her beg," he murmured, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I've waited years to hear that."

Maekar's laugh vibrated against your core, a dark chuckle that sent shivers up your spine. "She'll beg more before we're done with her." His tongue traced a torturous circle around your clit without touching it directly, the near-miss making your thighs tremble.

"Will you?" Baelor asked, his thumb brushing your nipple with maddening lightness. "Will you beg us properly?"

"Please," you whispered again, the word a desperate prayer between your lips. "Please don't stop."

Maekar's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his mouth curving in a predatory smile against your flesh. "There it is," he murmured, the vibration of his words sending new waves of pleasure through your core. "Again."

"Please," you gasped, shame and desire twisting together in your chest as your hips strained against his iron grip. "I need—I need—"

"Tell us exactly what you need," Baelor commanded softly, his fingers still tangled in your hair. His other hand continued its torturous circles around your nipple, never providing enough pressure to satisfy. "Be specific."

Baelor's words made your face burn hot enough that you had to look away, but the emptiness pulsing between your legs left no room for hesitation. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you forced yourself to meet his gaze again. "I need to feel you," you breathed, voice cracking with desperation, "inside me, against me—anything—please—" The last word escaped as barely more than air.The last word left your lips as a plea, and something in Baelor's expression shifted. A decision made. His hand released your hair, sliding down to cup your face instead, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

"We've been patient," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His eyes flicked to Maekar, who had paused between your thighs, watching the exchange with dark intensity. "Too patient."

Without another word, Baelor moved, positioning himself on his knees beside your head. His cock stood proud against his stomach, thick and flushed with need. The sight of it made your mouth water, your body clenching around nothing as you imagined how it would feel inside you.

"Open," he commanded softly, his thumb pressing against your lower lip.

You obeyed without hesitation, lips parting as Baelor guided the head of his cock to your mouth. The salt-sweet taste of him bloomed on your tongue as he pressed forward, his thickness stretching your lips. Above you, he made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, his hand returning to your hair to guide your movements.

"Gods, look at her take it," Maekar murmured, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he watched. His fingers replaced his mouth, sliding through your folds with deliberate pressure. "She was made for this. For us."

Caught between them, you felt yourself dissolving into pure sensation—Baelor's cock sliding deeper into your mouth while Maekar's fingers circled your entrance. Your body trembled between them, caught in the pleasure they created together. Baelor's thumb stroked your cheek, feeling the shape of himself inside your mouth with reverent fascination. Your jaw ached pleasantly as he rocked deeper, testing your limits with careful precision.

"That's it," he murmured, voice strained as you hollowed your cheeks around him. "Take me deeper."

Maekar's fingers circled your entrance once more before pushing inside, two at once, the sudden stretch making you moan around Baelor's cock. The vibration drew a hiss from Baelor's lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The sudden motion pushed him deeper into your throat, making you gag slightly before you adjusted. His hand immediately gentled in your hair, thumb stroking your temple in silent apology even as his eyes darkened with satisfaction.

"Careful," Maekar murmured, his fingers curling inside you with deliberate precision. "You'll choke her."

"She can take it," Baelor replied, his voice strained as he watched your lips stretch around him. "Can't you?"

You hummed agreement around his thickness, the vibration making him groan again. Between your legs, Maekar's fingers worked deeper, stretching you with careful insistence.

"She's ready," Maekar said, his voice rough as his fingers worked inside you, stretching you with deliberate care. The wet sounds of his movements filled the room, mingling with your muffled moans around Baelor's cock. "So wet I can barely keep hold."

Baelor's hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as you worked your mouth around him. His eyes never left yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your features as Maekar's fingers curled against that perfect spot inside you.

When Maekar withdrew his fingers, the soft whimper you couldn’t suppress drew knowing smiles from both brothers—Baelor’s brow quirked even as his cock stayed buried between your lips, slick and throbbing. Maekar grasped himself, the impressive length poised hot and insistent between your thighs. His hungry gaze flicked down to where Baelor’s shaft vanished in your mouth before returning to your glistening slit.

Slowly, deliberately, Maekar positioned himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed in—warm, insistent—and you gasped around Baelor’s cock. Maekar’s eyes locked on yours as he pushed forward, the first inch stretching you exquisitely while Baelor’s cock filled your mouth, his pulse throbbing at the back of your throat.

“Gods,” Maekar growled, hands clamping on your hips with bruising intensity. “So tight.”

Baelor’s dark gaze never left you as he kept his length deep in your mouth, one hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your lips. “Look at you,” he murmured around his cock. “Taking him so beautifully.”

Maekar sank deeper, inch by agonizing inch. The delicious burn as he seated himself fully inside you sent your back arching off the bed, your body adjusting around his impressive girth while Baelor’s spit-coated cock remained deep in your throat. When Maekar paused, buried to the hilt, he met your eyes with a satisfied smile.

“Breathe,” Baelor whispered, stroking your hair as the fullness overwhelmed you. His voice was muffled in your mouth, but reassuring.

Maekar began to move—pulling almost all the way out before driving home slowly. Each deliberate thrust radiated pleasure through you, your walls clenching around him, even as Baelor’s cock pulsed in your mouth, his breadth hot on your tongue. Baelor watched with undisguised hunger, one hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple in sync with Maekar’s slow, powerful rhythm.

“How does she feel?” Baelor asked, his voice rough with anticipation, muffled though it was.

“Perfect,” Maekar growled, thrusting harder as you tightened around him. “Like she was made for this.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at his praise, and another wave of pleasure coiled through you. Maekar hissed as your walls clenched, hips stuttering for a moment before he found his pace again.

“She likes being praised,” Maekar observed, voice husky. “Tell her how good she is, brother.”

Baelor’s eyes grew heavy-lidded as he continued to fuck your mouth, sliding in deeper with each of Maekar’s strokes. His free hand drifted up to the hollow of your throat—gentle, possessive—sending electric shivers through you without choking or pressure. Your heart pounded under his touch, and without thinking, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock in your mouth, stroking him in time with his brother’s thrusts. The guttural sound he made vibrated against your tongue.

Baelor's control shattered with each thrust into your waiting mouth. "I can't—" he gasped, voice breaking as his hips stuttered forward. The prince who commanded armies now trembled above you, his composure crumbling as unfamiliar, raw sounds escaped his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, his breathing ragged as pleasure overwhelmed his legendary restraint. "Perfect," Baelor whispered, voice strained. "So perfect with your mouth around me while he takes you."

Maekar's pace quickened, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. The dual sensations—his cock stretching you below while Baelor filled your mouth—pushed you toward a precipice you couldn't resist. Every nerve ending sang with pleasure, your body caught between them, used and worshipped in equal measure.

"She's close," Maekar growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he angled himself to hit that perfect spot inside you.

Baelor withdrew slightly, allowing you to breathe, his thumb tracing your swollen lips. "Not yet," he commanded softly. "Not until we say."

The order sent another wave of heat through your core, your walls clenching around Maekar's thickness as your body fought to obey. Pleasure coiled tighter, a spring wound to breaking point, but you forced yourself to hold back, to please them both.

"Good girl," Baelor murmured, his voice thick with approval. He guided his cock back between your lips, gentler now, letting you breathe between shallow thrusts. "So obedient."

Maekar's rhythm transformed, becoming methodical and precise—each powerful movement designed to keep you suspended at the precipice without allowing release. His fingers dug into your flesh as he widened your stance, tilting your hips until pleasure exploded through your core like shattered light. The disciplined prince began to falter, his measured cadence breaking as your body gripped him tighter with each plunge, his torso dropping closer to yours as the need for climax overtook his restraint. Maekar's face was transformed by desire—the stern lines softened, his usual severity replaced by raw hunger as he watched you stretched between them. Maekar's rhythm grew erratic, his powerful thrusts becoming desperate. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove deep one final time, his release hot and pulsing inside you. The sound he made—half growl, half groan—echoed through the chamber as his body shuddered against yours.

The sight of Maekar's climax, the hot, slick rush that painted your walls and dripped down your thighs, sent a matching shudder through Baelor. He never took his eyes off you, watching your face the moment Maekar gave in, the moment you trembled and mewled around Baelor's cock, your lips stretched wide and your tongue pressed flat beneath his crown. The sight of his brother undone—the quicksilver loss of composure, the deep growl torn from Maekar’s throat, his jaw clenched and sweat-slicked—made Baelor’s iron self-control unravel. You felt it in the frantic pulse of his cock, in the sudden tautness of his thighs, in the way his hand knotted in your hair and forced your mouth flush to the root, squeezing just enough to let you feel the wildness in him. And in the hot, desperate gasp that rose from the prince's lips, so unlike the careful, measured commands he'd given you moments before.

But Baelor didn't finish, not yet. He dragged himself back from that edge with a trembling shudder, withdrawing from your mouth with exquisite slowness. As he pulled free, a sticky web stretched between your lips and the tip of his cock, the sight of it kindling a flicker of pride in your chest. Baelor’s expression was transformed: the cool, regal mask was gone, replaced by something raw and feral and beautiful. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted in shallow breaths. He gazed down at you as if you held the answer to every riddle, and for once, he looked entirely mortal—devastating, but breakable. “Now I claim you,” he whispered, the words thick with urgency.

Maekar, chest heaving, collapsed beside you for a moment, his hand cupping your thigh, his fingers stroking little patterns into your skin as if to remind himself you were real, that he could touch you. There was a peculiar gentleness in his touch, a softness that belied his rough—almost brutal—release only seconds before. His other hand brushed sweat-matted strands from your forehead and tucked them delicately behind your ear, his thumb tracing the bruised curve of your jaw. He watched Baelor with hooded eyes as the elder brother stood, his cock dripping and glistening, then moved to the edge of the mattress with the purpose of a man intent on making good on a vow.

Baelor’s hands were gentle as they found your waist, lifting and turning you as though you weighed nothing, arranging you precisely as he wanted: on your knees, bent forward, elbows to the sheets, your ass held high and open, the fresh ache of Maekar’s climax still painting the insides of your thighs. Baelor spread your knees wider with his own, and for a moment he simply knelt behind you, his hands resting on your hips, his presence looming over your body like the shadow of a mountain. He drew his fingers up your sides, pausing to press into the softness just above your hipbones, then down again, leisurely, as if mapping you for the first time.

His fingertips grazed the backs of your knees, the flesh of your inner thighs, the curve of your buttocks, never lingering anywhere long enough to satisfy. Every caress sent a new tremor through you. Your cunt still clenched around emptiness, twitching with the last echoes of Maekar’s orgasm, but Baelor would not be rushed. He traced the puckered ridges left by Maekar’s hands, then dragged his thumbs apart to spread you further, making an appreciative noise as your slickness—Maekar’s and yours, mingled—glistened in the candlelight. He leaned forward, his breath feathering across your lower back, and pressed a slow, savoring kiss to your tailbone.

There was a reverence in Baelor’s every movement, as if he were performing a sacred rite rather than an act of conquest. His lips trailed up your spine, planting a slow series of kisses up each vertebra, pausing at the nape of your neck to inhale the scent of your hair. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs stroking circles into your hips, fingers splaying out like he might anchor you in place forever. Each touch was a promise: I see you, I want you, I will take my time learning every inch of you.

You tried to brace yourself for the first thrust, already trembling with anticipation, but Baelor only pressed the blunt head of his cock between your folds, letting it slip and slide through the mess Maekar had left behind. He rocked his hips, notching the tip at your entrance, but didn’t push forward. Instead, he uttered a command, soft but absolute: “Look at me.”

You craned your neck around, peering back over your shoulder. The sight of him behind you—hair loose, lips parted, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm—sent another pulse of heat through your core. His eyes locked on yours, dark and all-consuming, and for a moment the world contracted to the space between the two of you. He reached forward, caressing your cheek with one hand, then slid that palm up and over your scalp, the pads of his fingers massaging your scalp in lazy circles. It was grounding, almost hypnotic, the way he kept you anchored in his gaze even as the rest of your body hovered on the precipice of sensation.

With your gaze pinned, Baelor finally pressed forward, entering you with slow, inexorable force. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch made all the more exquisite by the lingering soreness from Maekar. You moaned—long, low, and involuntary—as Baelor bottomed out, his pelvis flush against your buttocks. He held himself there, unmoving for a beat, letting you feel the totality of him inside you, the thick pressure of his cock and the possessive weight of his hands. He bent forward until his chest pressed your back, his lips at your ear.

As you exhaled, he began to move, drawing out with the same agonizing patience before sinking back in, every stroke measured and perfect. There was nothing frantic about Baelor’s rhythm; he fucked you with the same discipline he brought to swordplay, each movement precise, each withdrawal a calculated loss, each return a reclamation of territory. The friction set your nerves alight. The flare of pleasure was different from Maekar’s—less desperate, more inexorable, like a tide that would eventually sweep you under. Baelor’s hand on your neck, his cock inside you, his body pressed to your back: he surrounded you, boxed you in with pleasure and will.

Every time you squeezed around him, Baelor shuddered, his control straining at the edges, but he never broke pace. Instead, he brought his lips to your ear again, his voice a low growl: “Is this what you wanted? To be filled by me, even after Maekar?” You managed a breathless nod, which he answered with a cruel, sweet chuckle. “Good girl. That’s how I like you—stretched and trembling and desperate for more.”

From your new vantage, you became aware of Maekar, who had not been idle. He knelt before you on the mattress, his chest and belly streaked with sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure. His cock, which you’d assumed spent, had already begun to harden again, the tip beading with anticipation as he watched Baelor claim you. Maekar leaned in, close enough that you could taste the salt of his skin, and pressed his lips to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. “Open,” he said, echoing his brother’s command, and you parted your lips, your tongue darting out instinctively.

Maekar guided his cock to your lips, letting you taste the remains of his release as he slid along your tongue. The act was filthy, decadent, and you loved it. You moaned wantonly, the vibrations traveling up Maekar’s shaft as he thrust gently into your mouth. With Baelor’s rhythm measured and deep behind you, and Maekar filling your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes, you found yourself suspended in a kind of sensory stasis—every hole filled, every inch of your body belonging to them, the two brothers taking you in a rhythm as natural as breathing.

Baelor’s hand fisted in your hair, holding your head steady for Maekar, while his other hand gripped your hip, angling you to take him deeper. Maekar’s hand rested lightly on your crown, thumb stroking your cheek as he watched you service him. He didn’t push or force, just let you set the pace, the tip of his cock bumping the back of your throat in a steady, teasing rhythm.

The two brothers fell into a kind of unspoken accord: when Baelor thrust forward, Maekar withdrew; when Maekar pressed in, Baelor pulled back. It was as if they’d rehearsed this choreography a hundred times, the way they moved in perfect counterpoint, never crowding your boundaries but always keeping you full, always keeping you hungry. The alternating pressure in your ass, your cunt, your mouth became a wave of sensation, building and breaking, building and breaking, each cycle bringing you closer to a kind of pleasure that eclipsed language.

Sandwiched between them, you lost all sense of where your body ended and theirs began. Every inch of you belonged to them in this moment—claimed, worshipped, used in perfect harmony. The pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with each synchronized movement. Baelor's steady thrusts from behind sent shockwaves through your core while Maekar filled your mouth with deliberate patience, his eyes never leaving yours. The pleasure built beyond what you thought possible, caught between their bodies, suspended in their shared rhythm. Maekar's taste filled your mouth as Baelor's hips snapped forward with increasing urgency. The steady cadence they'd established began to falter as both men approached their limits.

"Look at her take us both," Maekar growled, his voice strained as his cock slid deeper between your lips. "Greedy little thing."

Baelor's grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "She was always meant for this," he replied, puncutated by a thrust. "For us."

Their words sent another wave of heat through your core, your walls clenching around Baelor's thickness. The added pressure made him groan, his rhythm stuttering for a moment before he regained control.

"Now," Baelor commanded, his voice a harsh whisper against your ear. "Come for us now."

His permission broke the last thread of your restraint. The pleasure that had been building crashed through you in waves, your body convulsing between them as your walls clamped down around Baelor's cock. Your mouth tightened around Maekar, drawing a harsh groan from his lips as your throat worked involuntarily against him.

"That's it," Maekar growled, his hand tightening in your hair as you trembled.

Your vision blurred at the edges, pleasure overwhelming your senses as both men continued their relentless pace. Baelor's thrusts became more erratic, his legendary control finally slipping as your body milked him with each pulsing wave of your climax. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you where you belonged as he thrust deep one final time, his release hot and pulsing inside you. The sound he made—a low, broken groan—vibrated through your entire body as he filled you, his cock throbbing with each pulse.

Maekar followed moments later, his release flooding your mouth, hot and bitter-salt on your tongue. His grip in your hair tightened almost painfully as he held you still, making sure you took everything he had to give. "Swallow," he commanded roughly, watching your throat work as you obeyed.

The three of you collapsed together onto the sweat-dampened sheets, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing. Your body ached beautifully, used and satisfied in ways you'd only imagined in your most secret dreams. Baelor's arm draped over your waist, pulling you against his chest, while Maekar settled on your other side, his hand resting possessively on your hip. You lay between them, heart still racing, body trembling with aftershocks as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

"Mine," Maekar murmured against your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin there in a gentle bite.

"Ours," Baelor corrected softly, his lips brushing your temple. His fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach, dipping occasionally to the sensitive place between your thighs where both their releases mingled and leaked slowly onto the sheets.

You shivered at his touch, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away. The weight of their bodies on either side of you felt right somehow, as if this was where you had always belonged. Between them. Claimed by both. 

Blazer’s hand gently taps you on the back of your head from where your forehead is pressed on her desk, which brings you to do the barest minimum and sit back up to properly look at her. She has this sort of… motherly look that’s like when you did something so incredibly wrong and she’s trying her hardest not to lecture you about it. It made you want to shrink in on yourself and disappear.

“Do you want to explain to me how Robert got what is very definitely your smoke bomb dye all over himself?” Her brow pinches together almost worriedly and you hate it. For as well as the two of you got along, your brashness didn’t mix too well with her hero persona most of the time.

“How do you know it was mine?” You deflect easily, shrugging and slumping back in the chair in front of her desk, “Golum paints. Could’ve been him.”

“He doesn't tend to leave neon pink behind,” Blazer deadpans, brow raising unamusedly at your attempt to brush her confrontation off as your boss, “That’s your category, Jinx.”

“Pink is for everyone,” Your finger taps against the arm of the chair, eyes narrowing just slightly as you sit up and ready yourself to blitz out of the situation, “I heard Robert say that it wasn’t me, so it obviously wasn’t. Can I go now?”

“He was covering for you,” She says it a bit more sternly, and it makes you stiff. Just barely. “The same way I do. But you’re at the bottom of the leaderboards, Jinx. And we’re… planning on cutting someone. You and Sonar are tied.”

“What?” Leaning forward, your brows furrow as a pit forms in your stomach that you’re a bit too used to but not like this. “You can’t–you’re not seriously considering cutting me, are you? ”

“If we don’t see improvement and soon…” She trails off, looking at you guiltily as she leans forward on her desk with hands clasped together. It makes you straighten, expression hardening, and rising to your feet with your hands on her desk.

“You can’t do this,” 

“We will if we have to,” She says with a finality that’s almost too overwhelming to handle after today's events. What Robert snapped at you with was more than enough to ruin the rest of the week.

“Based on what I saw today, you wouldn’t last a day as Mecha-Man cause there isn’t a mech suit in the universe that can keep you from being a crazy fucking dickhead.”

You lean off her desk, expression hardening before zipping out of the room with a pink comet-like trail in your midst and papers flying off her desk in your wake. 

You’d show Blazer, and you’d sure as hell show that skinny-ass prick Robert.

—

“When I look around this room, what I see is…”

Blazer had found you at a low point, to say the least.

After landing in jail and planning to leave L.A. because there was nothing here for you anymore; youngest sister having died in the crossfire of a Red Ring altercation. On the same night that the majority of the world thought Mecha-Man had died. She came to your cell and offered a spot on the SDN’s up-and-coming Phoenix squad. It took… a lot of convincing. It’s far harder to drag you out of a cell than she ever expected, given the mostly unknown substance Shroud had juiced you with to permanently alter your eyes along with the physicality of your whole body. Super strength and durability, along with agility far more enhanced than what you had prior to it. Didn’t fix your ability to fuck everyone over on purpose or accident, though. 

Jinx had been the title you were dubbed. Fitting.

“Potenial.”

“Got there in the end,” Malevola mumbles condescendingly beside you where you’re sandwiched in this stuff conference room with Prism on your other side. You hold back a snicker by biting your bottom lip between your teeth.

Honestly, as hot as he was, you’d rather be back in the piss soaked cell than having to deal with the most underwhelming pep talk you’d ever received.

It reminded you of Shroud, in a way. 

“Excise your doubts, Jinx!”

“Be what they fear, Jinx.”

Just a lot more positive connotations latched onto this guy with two first names for a name that’s so ridiculously happened three times. The man who thought he made you versus the man who so clearly wants to make us all into something better.

“Unfortunately for you,” Robert begins to pace along the opposite side of the table, glancing around at the whole of the Z-Team while Blonde Blazer and Chase stay standing at the front of the group. “It’s a curse. Cause there isn’t a thing in the universe that goes more wasted than potential.”

Talk about beating a dead horse.

“And despite how common it is, no one seems to forget–it’s what they whisper when you leave the room–” You lean back in the cheap office chair, arms crossed over your chest in a way that’s definitely defensive but you would deny it until you were blue in the face if confronted, “‘Oh, so-and-so had so much potential.’ It follows you forever,” 

Robert puts a hand on the back of Flambae’s chair and makes brief eye contact with him and then the rest of us. The message lands clear enough–this is where you are, and where you stay if you cannot grow and do better like the adults that you are.

“I’m here to help you lift the curse of potential by getting you to fucking do something with it,” He straightens and glances around the room, gaze staying locked on yours the second he finds it because he wasn’t expecting you to be so honed in on his speaking. You gave him the time of day last time he ran across you, but he doesn’t consider any attention to be good attention after what he’d said.

“You’re doing great, Bob!”

Lunging towards him, he expects something like a slap after calling you what he did but you’re wrapping your arms around him and patting his back almost… encouragingly? He hears something quietly latch onto some loose piece of fabric on him, but you’re pulling away with a grin on your lips that is far too wicked for the feigned kind nature of the hug. 

The weight and sound of something hooked onto the front of his shirt catches his attention, looking down and gasping at the sight of… a grenade? Why was it biting–

BOOM!

Pink splatters all over his front, the small but shocking impact of the smoke bomb throwing him off center and knocking him onto the floor, his back from where he was in the chair. Smushed twinkies laying beside his head. Sonar towering over him so casually was the last thing he wanted to see after his loudass coffee grinder was playing during the whole argument between the two of you.

“You gonna eat those twinks?”

“That’s not… no. Go ahead.”

When you avert your gaze, his expression shifts into something more thoughtful and curious despite the narrowing of Chase’s eyes at me and then at Robert.

“You all are a part of the Phoenix program; any of you know what a Phoenix is?” Robert questions as he comes back to the head of the table.

“Oh! A city in Arizona,” Malevola chimes in with a smirk.

“Yeah, the sweltering ballsack of America,” Flambae shrugs, but Chase speaks now surprisingly.

“Nah, if Florida’s the dick then Louisiana’s gotta be the ballsack. Just, y’know, positionally–” One side eye from Robert and he’s zipping his lips.

He goes on his small spiel of the Phoenix’s mythical lore, but his point hits home.

“The Phoenix symbolizes redemption,” He says simply, even as your nails dig crescent shapes into your upper arms, “It’s what you’re here for. It’s what connects everyone in this room. To burn up who you were to become who you were meant to be.”

“Phoenix is also a lame ass band my lame ass roommate listens to,” Invisigal reveals herself in the chair on the other side of Malevola at the front of the table, shrugging nonchalantly even as the demon seems to deflate a bit.

Robert stiffens, gaze narrowing at her, “You’re late.”

“I like that band…” Malevola pouts, earning a glance from you as your eyes finally lift at the appearance of a new person.

“You would.” Invisigal scoffs, shaking her head before turning back to look at Robert, “What’re you talking about? I’ve been here the whole time. I turn invisible genius, remember?”

“Bullshit.” Chase coughs out, tightening his grip on what I’ve heard to be Robert’s dog.

“Great. Then you know we’re cutting someone and you, Miss Hot Topic sale, are almost at the bottom of the leaderboards,” He says pointedly, causing Invisigal to shrink in on herself just barely. His gaze shifts to you and sharpens further, and you almost feel like you’re back with Shroud because you’re at the bottom of the leaderboard. The same look you’d get before you’d be shut out and away from the world to keep you contained until you learned to do better. Reduced to working on his tech and feeling weak. 

The deep rumble of Shroud’s voice rings in your ears before you can anticipate it–sending a shiver down your spine at the mere thought.

“Take some time,”

“I-I don’t need time.” You protest, but it’s far smaller and meeker than how you’d say it today. Laying on his desk and fidgeting with the knife that's stabbed into it far too casually for the age that you were. 

“Take it anyhow,” He says with a tone of finality that’s far too natural when speaking to you. It hits a nerve and makes you tense as the back of his desk chair stays to you, lips parting like you wanted to talk back but you knew what would happen if you did. So you leave.

He knocks on the table, “Have a better second shift.”

He leaves the room with Blazer and Chase right behind him.

And you watch, none of them even sparing a pity glance on the way out towards you as the others start talking and you slump in a way that's almost pathetic.

The second half of the shift today is better. No sabotaging taking place and no failures across any of the calls that Robert dispatches the lot of you all on. Tensions are still high, of course, but we quietly just accepted that whatever will be will be. Or at least, you did. You were expecting to get cut. You didn’t fit in here, never had despite how well you happened to blend with the others every now and then.

Which is apart of the reason why you wandered off out of the coverage area for this SDN Center at the tail end of the shift, snatching a juice from a convenience store before climbing up on top of the tallest building you could find in the outer parts of L.A. It was a three story building, but it gave you a decent enough view of the city.

“Jinx? Where’re you going?”

He apparently gets the live feed from a camera nearby, because the next words you hear from him are about what you’re doing.

“Why are you brooding on the edge of a roof drinking… apple juice?”

“Drowning my sorrows in a way that won’t kill me,” You shrug, tone dry and resigned as you gently start kicking your dangling legs with the bottle of juice held with both hands on your lap. At least your self-soothing methods have gone from harmful to almost ridiculously innocent. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you from cutting me. I’m just accepting my fate. Might just hand in my letter of resignation and make it easy for you.”

“That’s not making it easy,” He protests, and you can almost picture the furrow in his brow that’s almost always there when he looks at the Z-Team, but mainly you since the first day that you met. “That’s quitting. You’re only making it easy for yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” You screw the lid back onto the juice and place it onto the ledge beside you, hunched and looking down at the people walking below. It makes something in your chest ache for that normalcy that was lost after Shroud took you in and bled you dry, “some people are just born to be heroes–with good in there. I’m not that anymore. I’m not sure I ever was. I tried… it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Meant to be? What’re you talking about?”

“Blazer? Phanomaman? They have hero powers,” You lower yourself onto your back, legs still hanging over the ledge as you gaze up at the stars. You loved them once, now that you knew everything you once wished upon was dead? Not so much. “Strong for everyone to see–flying through the sky like literal symbols for what they’re fighting to uphold."

“What’s your point?”

“I got the fuckin’ villian powers,” You throw your arms out to the sky like the universe would finally grant me some response to tell me what you’re good for now that your only family is gone and you’re floating through the world so aimlessly that you left the man that took you two in and you’re working at SDN of all places. Your tone is exasperated as you try to convey how stuck you feel, “I’m some evil scientist that builds bombs and weapons for crooked men and zips away into the shadows. My powers just let me get away with killing people. Being a bad guy is my fate… just like how Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.”

The silence stretches and you think that he’d probably logged off during your vent, feeling a lot more pathetic and ready to stomp on the earpiece and leave before they can kick you to the curb as you sink further into your thoughts. Until his voice seeps in again.

“There’s no such thing as fate. It’s bullshit.” The deep gravel of his voice hits your ears again as you sit up, sulking as you reach for your very adult beverage and unscrew the lid. Once it’s loose enough, you flick it off and watch it fly off before taking another sip, “It’s just something we cling to because we think we’re the main character of life. We’re not. We’re a bunch of flesh blobs with depression on a floating rock.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better because…?” You say dryly, holding the bottle by the top rim and swirling the liquid around. The same way that… yeah, not going there. You learned too many bad habits from that man.

“No one’s paying attention if you wanna switch things up,”

A scoff leaves your lips before you can help it, setting the bottle down so hard that some of the liquid splashes out and dribbles onto your fingerless gloves a bit, “You’ve already been a hero, man. You don’t get it.”

“Ah, get outta here,” He brushes off the abrasiveness the same way he’s done since the beginning of the week. If you leave out our squabble that left him looking like Pinkalious post glittery smoke bomb. “At least you have powers. I don’t have shit. So according to your dumbass theory, I should be an accountant.”

That finally pulls a short but genuine laugh from you, “I think that would suit you, no?”

“Regardless,” He exhales, but you can swear that you can hear a hint of a smile. It makes something traitorous in your chest flutter in spite of you, “Fate, destiny, not having powers, seasonal depression? None of those things kept me from being a hero before and they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”

When the silence hits afterwards, there's no dreadful sort of anticipation that feels like stretching an elastic band so far apart that you're just waiting for it to snap into two and it hits you in the face so fast you barely realize it does until the sting comes and comes and doesn't stop. You’ve felt it slowly going for years, but for once… the reassurance relaxes you. There’s something so innately good in him and his very essence that seeps into your bones and curls around your heart without asking.

You wanted that.

“Oh my god,” Robert’s soft laughter of disbelief is the next thing you hear, brows furrowing as you look up and wait for some sort of answer to what’s going on, “You wanna talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

Oh. The idiot from that coffee shop. Nevermind. “I’m done, Robert. I told you.” You shake your head, dumping out the last of the apple juice and watching it fall the three stories to hit the ground. You could hear it hit the cement with your enhanced senses, wincing slightly as you zone back into the world surrounding you and all the noises flood in.

“You really wanna let this idiot get one over on you for the third time?” He baits, but it doesn’t draw you in. Yet.

“What makes you think it’d be any different?” You ask sarcastically, rolling your eyes and starting to pop your knuckles absentmindedly.

“This could make the difference,” He encourages softly, probably watching as you hold up the bottle and practice your aim for the dumpster in the alley just to your left where you’re sitting on the corner of the building, “The day’s not done.”

“Pfft—he stole what was probably a roll of dimes and a thick wad of ones from the cash register at Caroline’s,” You scoff, lowering the bottle to focus on him instead. Maybe he was getting through to you. Just a bit, “I don’t think he’s shiftin’ the dial.”

“Well, he’s about to steal a quarter of a million dollars worth of jewelry,”

“Damn. Not bad,”

“So go shift the dial.”

Fuck. You took the bait. How was he so good at this? Maybe Mecha-Man should’ve taken up a hobby as some propagandist in politics.

“Or are you just gonna drink apple juice on the roof like a creep?”

A smile creeps onto your lips as you rise off the ledge and toss the bottle, landing in the dumpster with a rattle that was awkwardly loud but you’re already turning away from it. 

“What’s the address?”

It’s easy to get there with the speed blitzing, dropping into the store through a vent and taking out both of Lightningstruck’s buddies—only drawing his attention at the last second. You dash between the counters, narrowly dodging a blast and his gaze when your foot shifts a piece of glass with the movement.

“That you, Coffee Girl?” He snarls, slowly turning to scan the store for any sign of you, “You sure you wanna do this again?” 

Despite the pounding in your chest, you peek around the corner of the jewelry case from across the store to get your bearings but from the dark corner you’re in, you can barely see anything. 

“Jinx, you alright?”

“I’m okay,” You whisper, back against the glass case as you register his footsteps getting a bit farther. You’d like a better idea of his whereabouts though, “Just help me find the shithead,”

“Gottem–He’s at your five o’clock.”

“Thank you…” You murmur, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing as you peek around the case and your gaze finds him easily enough.

“It’s not a fair fight, y’know,” Lightningstruck says roughly, the blaster on his arm crackling with energy as he continues his search for me, “You bein’ able to move so fast.”

He shoots around the store blindly, shattering the glass of the case you’re hiding behind but not spotting you. Your arms come up to cover your head from the shards as he blasts one of the cameras and gets rid of Robert’s view to help you and be the eyes on the back of your head along with the lights in the room. It leaves the dim glow of the red alarm light, along with the augments on his arm. One of Shroud’s men–I knew he looked familiar. You mentally curse how fucked you might be as Robert gets a camera online on his end to help again. That was… surprisingly fast.

“I can see again.”

“Then where is the guy?” You ask in the dark, barely able to see since your abilities needed complete darkness for the enhanced vision to kick in here. 

“I can’t see him from this camera–let me try to get another one online,” He says urgently, and you can hear how aggressively he’s tapping on the keyboard from the comms. Cute.

“Take your time,” You say sarcastically, shutting your eyes and just trying to focus on the man who’s currently in the room that could definitely kill you if you didn’t play this right.

“He’s at your seven–heading your way now.”

“There we go,” You rise off your butt to crouch behind the case, peeking through the shattered glass and watching as Lightningstruck rises from what must be checking his buddy’s pulse and starts to make his way to you unknowingly. Your eyes narrow as Robert’s clicking and clacking is the only thing you register while you listen to the man’s approaching steps.

“Jinx, I’ve got a plan.”

“Good,” You huff under your breath, barely audible as you whisper with what feels like impending doom approaching from behind.

“Got it!” He exclaims softly, “On the count of three, I’m gonna turn on the main overhead lights. It should temporarily blind him and give you enough time to take him out.”

“One… two… three!”

All you hear is Lightningstruck grunting when the lights come on and you’re moving. Eyes glowing a neon purple as you zip out from behind cover and lunge forward to start attacking him. He’s swinging his fists and shooting around aimlessly, moving so quickly for the first few seconds that it looks like you’re glitching before teleporting. You reappear just as he swings his blaster covered arm and finally hits you in the stomach. 

It knocks the wind from you, but you’re recovering quick enough before the next hit to duck beneath the punch and grab his arm to spin and redirect him right into one of the cases. His head hits the corner and he gets knocked to the floor, struggling to stay up for a minute before finally going lax and falling face first.

You pull out your zapper pistol from its holster, crackling with its own blue energy as you approach the man with it pointed directly at his head. Not that it’d actually kill him now; they changed all your gadgetry to stun when you joined the Phoenix program. You’re just too lazy to change it back since it still works well enough.

Your boot meets his back and he grunts at the weight of the step, a smirk curling onto your lips.

“Got any good one-liners for me?” You ask Robert with an excitement and a lightness that he’s far more pleased to hear than he thought. 

“You owe me a soda?” He suggests lamely, and it pulls a real laugh from your throat as he explains the ridiculousness, “Cause y’know… Jinx?”

“I get it, cornball,” Your laughter peters, grip loosening on your gun slightly as you turn your head back down to the villain under your feet. Something flutters in your chest again, but it doesn’t feel as achy this time. It feels kinda… nice. “How about… ‘I'm bringing guns to the knife fight…’ No, that’s not it. Oh! Oh! Get Jinxed, Thundercuck.”

And he passes out.

“That’s the one,” Robert says, sounding almost proud as you turn your gaze up to one of the cameras above you with an equally proud smile. “Would’ve been better if you said it first.”

“Right, ‘cause thunder and lightning—struck, cuck, fuck—so close!” You exclaim with a short burst of laughter, face lit up in a way Robert had never seen but feels he would probably do a lot to see again.

—

Lightningstruck struggles in your grip as you hold his hand cuffed wrists and walk back into HQ with him, which you were expecting from him. But the welcome you received was… not.

It was a nice surprise, though.

You soften into something that seems bashful as you walk past your team and hand him over, the second your hands are off him though? Malevola drags you over to the cell he gets stuffed in with Prism and Flambae joining. You’re stiff and very awkward as you pose for a photo with Lightningstruck pacing angrily in the back, hand clasped in Malevola’s as she sticks her tongue out and makes the “rock on” symbol with her hands as Prism poses and Flambae holds his arms out towards the three of you like that stupid Will Smith meme.

You’re still straight faced and looking confused as the flash goes off and the team stands around to congratulate you. It takes a minute, but you loosen up enough to start awkwardly thanking them instead of just smiling your gratitude out like a moron. Coupé gets fired the same night.

Once everyone leaves and the leaderboard updates, you’re left with the guilt of having someone take my place in getting let go but relieved that you got a second chance as you stand in front of it and watch it change with the new hour. 22 next to your name looks far less stress inducing than 24.

Some strange swell of pride rises in your chest, smiling brightly as you take out your phone to take a picture. Motivation that it was possible to do better because you did. You accepted the olive branch from Robert and earned your stay here.

As you turn the burning feeling of eyes on you registers and when you look up into the sea of darkened cubicles, Robert and Chase are watching you; one soft and the other trying to decipher you like some sort of rubric cube. Before you consciously do it yourself, you're zipping away with burning cheeks and into the hall to leave but something stops you. You zip back over, landing in front of them and smiling despite Chase’s suspicions. 

“I still would’ve cut you,” Chase grumbles as you gingerly approach, your hand raising to gently scratch between Beef’s ears with a smile.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge of that,” You scrunch your nose at him but keep smiling anyway, even though it falters when Robert’s gaze stays glued on you. The hand scratching Beef pauses, cheeks burning as you keep your gaze on the dog for a moment. “Thanks.”

And with that, you’re zipping away again. But this time, Robert’s gaze shifts from surprise into one brimming with pride and something almost like growing affection as his stomach flips.

“Goddammit, Betty. Why can’t you just be sensible for once?”

“Craig, I am not the fucking problem here. It’s you.”

“You’re right, I am the problem. I was stupid when I married such a insufferable fucking idiot who doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”

“Bullshit, you know that’s not true.”

“Do I? DO I? ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION, BETTY.”

The door slams behind Anya as she steps out onto the front porch.

The air outside is unnervingly cold for a midsummer evening. Anya checks her watch. 22:07. Well, hardly evening anymore. She could be gone until at least 2 in the morning without them noticing. That’s one of the upsides of their constant shouting matches-

(their voices are still ringing in her ears)

they don’t notice her. Anya is free to do as she pleases. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she makes her way down the block, music blasting through her headphones. 

She doesn’t know how long she walks for, but eventually she finds herself on a busy street in central London, the smell of freshly baked pastries wafting through the air. She hasn’t eaten all day, she realizes, so she follows the scent to a small cafe tucked in between two looming office buildings. She wishes she had brought a sweatshirt; although, she hadn’t been expecting 7 degree weather in July, so the warmth of the cafe eases her tense shoulders as a bell tinkles, announcing her entrance. There’s only one other person there besides the barista, a girl who looks to be about her age and has a hood pulled over her head, fingers drumming rapidly on the table as her eyes flick over the newcomer. 

Anya makes her way to the counter and orders a large black coffee- Jesus, why is a coffee place open in the middle of the night? she wonders, although she isn’t complaining- and a chocolate muffin. She sits down at a table a few feet away from the other girl, who is still steadily tapping her fingers against the old, chipping plastic of the tabletop. They study each other for a minute- lord above, she’s beautiful- before Anya offers a small smile. The girl doesn’t exactly return it, but Anya sees her mouth twitch as she fiddles with a strand of her long black hair and turns away. She has a journal open in front of her, but the pages are blank save for a small doodle in the corner. Anya sips at her bitter coffee. She could flirt with her, she muses, could get her cheeks to flush red, could probably even have her pressed up against a bathroom stall within the hour.  Normally it would have been tempting, a way to get out all her pent up rage, but tonight, Anya is just tired. 

She sits there silently, picking at her muffin, for what must have been half an hour before the barista calls out to her and the other girl. “We’re closing up! Ya don’t gotta go home but ya can’t stay here,” he says to them with a flashy grin. 

His smile is a little infectious, and Anya feels the corners of her lips twist up despite her bad mood. 

“Thanks,” she says to him as she grabs her headphones off the table and tosses her empty cup and half eaten muffin into the trash. She once again checks her watch- 23:58- and realizes she must have been walking for at least an hour before she got to the cafe. No doubt her parents are still fighting, unconcerned about where she might be. Anya watches the other girl pack up her satchel and make her way out the door before she finds the motivation to leave the building herself, the bell tinkling again, this time to announce her departure. 

Outside, car horns are blaring and the cold air hits her again. She looks around for the girl who just left the cafe, but she’s gone. Anya feels oddly disappointed. She thinks about just going home now, but she can’t stand the thought of seeing her parents. Not yet. Just a few more hours. If she wants to be home by two, she thinks, then she has an hour or so to wander around downtown. Or… 

She pulls out her phone. It rings for a few seconds, and then-

“Anya?” Dahlia’s voice is comforting and familiar, and she immediately feels herself relax.

“Dahlia,” she breathes. “Are you busy?”

“No,” she says, and the concern is evident in her voice when she asks, “Is something wrong, my love?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. They were just fighting again. I’m downtown. Do you think you could come get me and I could crash at your place tonight?” 

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, and then: “Alright- Cam, sweetie, could you get the mattress set up? Anya is coming- send me your location. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Mhm. Thanks, Dahlia. You know I could just sleep on the couch, right?”

“Shush. Nothing but the best treatment for my favorite fucked up teenager.”

Anya laughs softly. “Okay, I’ll see you in a minute.” 

The phone hangs up. 

Anya first shares her location with Dahlia, and then shoots off a quick text to her parents: Staying at Dahlia’s. I’ll be home tomorrow. 

Xadnam counted the money for the 50th time that night before dividing up the tips, paychecks and extra little bits of money for all of the extensive people they hired for the show. This was the best and worst part of tours. Everyone was happy to get paid but also dead-tired from all of the antics that came with these shows.  She then made her way through the small crowd of employees, thanking every single person as she gave each of them their cut from the night or their last paycheck before they left the tour. The olive was jealous of the ones that got to leave today. The city looked gorgeous and she would have loved to wander around with her moirail, but their schedule was tight enough as it was. They only had time to get their stuff and get out of here. 

Besides, knowing him, he was too tired from all the show adrenaline.  “Tell the boss to book us any time, Nammy.” A bodyguard joked as he made sure every single caegar was there. Xadnam rolled her eyes as she walked away.  After a few more minutes and some final check-ins with the tech team and the like, she finally made it over to his room on their bus. Xadnam knocked and waited to see if he was awake enough to be coherent. 

“honk” Xadnam snorted and opened the door. He wasn’t. “It’s just me. Your favorite olive.” She greeted, closing and locking the door behind her. He was tired enough to get real pale with her and they both didn’t need anyone accidentally getting a peek of that. Xadnam turned back around and was glad she locked it. He was splayed out on the bed in his usual performing attire and the stench of his sweat was stinking up the entire place. She’d long got used to the smell. A sweaty Marvus Xoloto was a happy(if dead tired) one.  Welp, time to assess the damage. He was feeling freaky tonight. His makeup was smeared (probably when he wiped off some sweat after he knew nobody was going to see him), his clothes ripped a little more than usual, and his hair in a tangled unruly mess. He didn’t even try to half-heartedly curl up like he usually would. She blushed like she always did while looking him over. “Alright big guy, time for me to get you ready for bed.” “honkkk :o?” “No, there weren’t any issues with the tech squad. Surprisingly the blood didn’t do much damage.” “hooooonk :o)”

“Yes, I will be yelling at you later because of that stunt. But right now we gotta wash your face. You’re looking like a sacrilegious mess right now. Hot or Cold water?” “honk.” She went to get a wash cloth and the bowl they kept in here for just that purpose. She filled the bowl with cold water and started to soak the washcloth in it once full enough. She got his face wash and went over to get ready to clean him off. 

“honk ;o)” “Shut up...you’re the one who can barely move right now.” Xadnam hissed, getting greener as she lathered up the washcloth. Why couldn’t he warn her that he was feeling this needy before she had to participate in these depraved activities with him? The olive knew her blush only got deeper and deeper as she got his makeup off, chatting with him as she gently turned his face this way and that. After a few minutes she got up and dumped the dirty water, throwing a towel on him as well as a shower cap when she came back.

“hhhooonnnnkkkkkk...:o(” He whined.  “I am not the alien. I don’t do that weird red-pale thing you guys have going. You gotta clean yourself.” She heard a few muttered honks of annoyance before starting to move on his own. Xadnam averted her eyes, trying not to look at him directly without his makeup. “honk” He teased.  “I’m still not used it, alright? Just get in the shower, you stink.” She pulled out her phone once she heard the water going, texting a few friends and (Y/N).  Only Marvus would manage to find an Alien to be his matesprit. They kept in good contact because apparently they also did some pale stuff with him. It was good for when she needed a break. 

“honk?” She jumped and whipped around.

“Dude! Why are you so nosy!” Xadnam smacked a pillow into his face for good measure. 

“honk? honk-” “I’m not texting an ex-!” Now it was her turn to get smacked by a pillow.  This continued on for the next few hours, them having a very informal feels jam and generally vibing as Marvus took his time getting ready for bed.  “honk honk honk?”