Vadon

At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.

The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.

Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.

He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.

You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.

He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.

You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.

You turned the name over again and again, testing it.

Aerion Brightflame.

You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.

I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.

You found this almost amusing.

Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.

Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.

But you intended to do something more interesting than that.

The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.

You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.

By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.

King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.

The reception was brief, formal and efficient.

Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.

Aerion was not there, you noticed.

STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.

A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.

You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.

There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.

In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.

Meals.

He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.

He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.

On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.

On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.

You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.

Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.

Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.

Good.

Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.

That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.

He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.

He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.

Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.

You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.

You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.

The ceremony took place at dawn.

Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.

Aerion arrived on time.

He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.

When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.

You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.

The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.

You were seated beside Aerion.

He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.

During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.

"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."

It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.

"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."

Then you returned to your plate.

The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.

Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.

Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.

"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.

You placed your hand in his.

The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.

This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.

His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.

“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."

You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.

“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”

"You will want things eventually. All wives do."

"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.

"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.

"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."

Another turn as the music continued.

"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."

He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.

Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.

You waited but he did not come.

The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.

You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.

You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.

STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.

Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.

In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.

You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.

At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.

You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.

“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”

You stopped reading and looked up at him.

“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”

You walked away with your book before he could answer.

You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.

You remembered that.

STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.

A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.

So, you began to speak.

The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.

“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”

You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.

Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.

You did this again two days later. And again, after that.

An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.

He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.

The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.

He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.

“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”

“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”

Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.

Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.

“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”

“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”

“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”

“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."

The table was very quiet.

Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.

“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.

“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”

You returned to your meal.

He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.

In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.

This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.

For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.

“The Celtigar boy.”

You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.

“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”

“Briefly.” you said.

“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.

You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.

Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.

“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”

“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”

A pause.

“My father should know,” he said.

“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”

You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.

He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.

You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.

Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.

STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.

Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.

You began small, that was where patterns took hold.

The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.

Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.

You said nothing about this to anyone.

Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.

Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.

The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.

The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.

You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.

You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.

He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.

“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”

“Did he.” you said.

“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”

You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”

“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”

“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.

“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.

“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”

He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.

The pattern continued.

Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.

During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.

“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.

“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”

“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”

“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.

Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son.  Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.

The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.

Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.

He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.

You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.

The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.

You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.

You kept brushing your hair.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.

You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.

The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.

“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”

“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.

“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”

You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.

“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”

His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”

“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”

“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.

“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.

“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”

The room went quiet.

He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.

Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.

The door closed with a loud thud behind him.

You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.

A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.

A disruption like that never passed without consequence.

STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.

Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.

You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.

The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.

“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.

“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”

“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”

“He did.”

“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”

“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."

“I do not need anything from you.”

“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”

He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.

“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.

“I think I am.” you said defiantly.

“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”

“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.

“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.

You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.

Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.

A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.

“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”

Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.

“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.

“No,” you said.

“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”

“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”

“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”

“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”

“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”

“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”

The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.

You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.

His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.

In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.

You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.

Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.

You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.

He did not return that night, or the next.

On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.

The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.

You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.

He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.

He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.

He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.

Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.

The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.

You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.

And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.

The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.

His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.

“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”

You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.

“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”

His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.

Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.

You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.

Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.

He felt the motion before you completed it.

He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.

He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.

You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.

It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.

Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.

You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.

Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.

STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.

The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.

You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.

His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.

You did not knock.

The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.

He was standing before it.

He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.

You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.

“You should not be here,” he said.

“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.

You crossed the room.

Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.

Neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.

A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.

You did not look at it directly.

“Aerion,” you said.

“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.

You let the silence hold.

“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”

“How clear,” you said.

“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”

You turned to look at him then.

He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.

You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.

He looked down at it.

“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”

“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”

And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.

“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”

“I know what you have done,” you said.

“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.

The fire was the only sound.

“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”

“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”

“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said. 

“Do not make me into something I am not.”

“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”

The room was absolutely still.

He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.

Then something gave way.

Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.

He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.

You stood very still.

You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.

You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.

You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.

It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.

He did not move away.

He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.

You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.

That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.

You lay down and he lay beside you.

For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.

Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.

“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”

“All right,” you said.

You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.

The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.

“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.

As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.

You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.

His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.

You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.

You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.

The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.

His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.

You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.

“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.

He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.

“Are you comfortable?”he asked.

“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”

He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.

The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.

Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.

He swallowed.

You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.

You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.

Neither of you spoke.

His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.

You did not stop him.

Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.

He exhaled.

“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”

“I know,” you said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” you said.

His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.

His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.

Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.

He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.

You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.

Then you kissed him first.

He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.

The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.

His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.

His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.

“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.

He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.

He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.

“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”

Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.

He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.

The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.

“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”

A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.

“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.

“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”

He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.

His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.

“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”

And you do, you hold his gaze.

His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.

Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.

His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”

It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.

“I don't want you to,” you answer.

The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.

His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.

“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.

“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”

And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.

His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.

Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.

Neither of you speaks.

His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.

The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.

Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.

STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.

A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.

The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.

Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.

None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.

You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.

You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.

The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.

He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.

The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.

Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.

“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”

His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.

You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.

Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.

He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.

He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.

The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.

The scratch of the quill stopped.

You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.

You looked up.

When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.

Then he rose from the table.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.

Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.

He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.

Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”

You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.

You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.

You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”

No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.

He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.

The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.

Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.

Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.

But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.

The point was that he had changed.

Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.

He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.

And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.

His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.

The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.

Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.

Daeron Targaryen, was not yet awake when the maester knocked upon his chamber door. He was, in fact, deeply and contentedly asleep, his face half buried in a feather pillow, his silver gold hair more silver than gold now, he noted with quiet resignation every time he glanced into a looking glass spread across the linen in disarray.

Beside him, Myriah stirred. She had always been a lighter sleeper than he was, a trait she attributed to her Dornish upbringing, where the heat of the midday sun made afternoon siestas necessary and nighttime slumber shallower as a result. Or perhaps it was simply that she had spent thirty years sleeping beside a king, and kings, as a general rule, did not get to sleep peacefully through the night. Messengers arrived at all hours. Ravens came and went. The realm did not pause its endless demands simply because the hour was inconvenient.

"Someone's at the door," Myriah murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, her dark hair spilling across her pillow like a river of ink.

Daeron made a sound that was not quite a word and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. He was sixty three years old. His joints ached when it rained. His eyes tired easily after long hours bent over correspondence and petitions and the endless, grinding machinery of governance. He had been ruling for nearly three decades, and while he liked to think he had done a decent job of it, certainly better than his father, though the gods knew that was not a high bar to clear, there were moments, and this was one of them when he wished he could simply roll over and go back to sleep and let the realm manage itself for a few hours.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three sharp raps, deliberate and apologetic at once, the kind of knock that said I am sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I would not be doing so if it were not important.

"Enter," Daeron called, his voice emerging as a croak. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the protest in his lower back, and ran a hand through his tangled hair.

The door opened to admit Maester Gerold, he carried a rolled parchment in one hand, sealed with the dark wax of Dragonstone, and his expression was difficult to read in the dim light of the chamber. "A raven from Dragonstone, Your Grace," the maester said, his voice carefully neutral. "From Prince Baelor. Marked as urgent."

Daeron's heart gave a single, uncomfortable lurch. Urgent. That word always carried weight, especially when it came from Dragonstone, especially when it concerned Baelor. His eldest son was not prone to exaggeration. If he said something was urgent, he meant it, and a dozen unpleasant possibilities flickered through Daeron's mind before he could stop them. An accident. An illness. An attack. Something had happened to Valarr, or to Matarys, or to Baelor himself, and here he was, an old man in his nightshirt, receiving the news in his bedchamber while the sun was still dragging itself over the horizon.

"Leave it on the table," Daeron said, gesturing toward the small writing desk near the window. "And have someone bring tea. Strong tea. And something to eat, if the kitchens are awake."

"Yes, Your Grace." Maester Gerold set the letter down with careful precision, his chain rattling softly, and withdrew with a bow.

Myriah pushed herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes following the maester's retreating form before shifting to the letter on the desk. Even half asleep, with her hair tangled and her face creased from the pillow, she was beautiful. She had been beautiful for years, and Daeron had never grown tired of looking at her. It was one of the few things in his life that had never grown complicated or disappointing or fraught with political consequence.

"Urgent from Baelor," she said, her voice still carrying the warm, rough edges of sleep. "That cannot be good."

"Perhaps it is good news," Daeron said, though he did not quite believe it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet cold against the stone floor, his nightshirt hanging loose around his thinning frame. "Perhaps Valarr has decided to come home at last."

"If that were the case, Baelor would not call it urgent." Myriah sat up fully, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. "He would call it a relief."

Daeron could not argue with that. He crossed to the desk, his movements slow and careful, the way an old man moved when his joints had not yet warmed to the day. The letter sat where Maester Gerold had left it and Daeron broke it with his thumb and unrolled the parchment.

The handwriting was unmistakably Baelor's. Neat, controlled, the letters formed with the careful precision of a man who had been taught to write by the finest tutors in the realm and had practiced until his penmanship was beyond reproach. But there was something else beneath the neatness, Daeron thought. A slight tremor, perhaps. An unevenness in the spacing that suggested the hand holding the quill had been less steady than usual. Baelor had written this letter in a state of some emotion. Excitement, or fear.

Daeron began to read. Myriah watched him from the bed, her expression shifting from drowsy curiosity to something more alert as she watched his face.

"Well?" she asked, when he had been silent for a long moment. "What does he say?"

Daeron did not answer immediately. He was still reading, his eyes moving down the parchment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Then, quite suddenly, he let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and he lowered the letter to his lap.

"It appears," he said, his voice flat with disbelief, "that there is a dragon on Dragonstone."

Myriah stared at him. "What?"

"A dragon. A living dragon. Pale as sea foam, apparently, with purple shades. Discovered in the eastern caves of the Dragonmont by a village girl." Daeron's voice remained studiously even, the voice he used when he was reading aloud from some particularly dubious petition. "The girl healed its injured wing. The dragon bonded with her. Valarr has fallen in love with her. Baelor has given his consent for them to marry. He wishes to break the betrothal to Kiera of Tyrosh and offer Matarys as a substitute. And he writes all of this in a letter marked urgent."

A long silence filled the royal bedchamber. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside the window, a gull cried, its voice carrying across the rooftops of King's Landing.

Then Myriah laughed. It was not a cruel laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had just heard something so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that she could not help but find it funny. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her dark eyes bright with amusement, and shook her head slowly.

"Matarys," she said. "It has to be Matarys."

Matarys. Of course. His younger grandson, the six and ten year old with his mother's hair and his father's sharp eyes and a sense of humor that had caused no end of trouble over the years. Matarys, who had once convinced half the servants that the Red Keep was haunted by the ghost of a princess. Matarys, who had sent a letter to his uncle Maekar claiming that the King had decided to abdicate and become a septon. Matarys, who loved jokes and pranks and mischief with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a boy who had never quite grown out of being a child.

"That little wretch," Daeron said, but there was no real anger in his voice. In truth, he was almost relieved. A dragon. A village girl. A broken betrothal. If Baelor had genuinely written such a letter, it would have meant his eldest son had lost his mind entirely. But Matarys—Matarys writing an absurd letter in his father's hand, using his father's seal, sending it to King's Landing in the middle of the night—that made a great deal more sense. It was exactly the sort of thing Matarys would find hilarious.

"Read it to me," Myriah said, settling back against her pillows, her dark eyes still sparkling with amusement. "I want to hear every word."

Daeron read about the girl approaching Baelor at the petitions, about Baelor's disbelief, about the shame he claimed to feel. He read about the dragon's name—Moonfyre, a name that sounded suspiciously like something Matarys would invent, poetic and slightly overwrought—and about the bond between the girl and the creature. He read about Valarr falling in love, about Baelor offering the girl silver to disappear, about Valarr abdicating his claim to the throne.

"Abdicated," Myriah repeated, when he reached that part. "Valarr abdicated. For a village girl with goats."

"Apparently so."

"That is quite romantic."

"It is quite absurd."

Daeron read on. The letter grew more elaborate as it went, weaving in details about Tyrosh and Kiera, about Matarys being offered as a substitute husband, about the political implications of a dragon returning to House Targaryen after seventy years. The final paragraphs were almost poetic, speaking of hope and fire and the blood of Old Valyria, of children who would be trueborn Targaryens, of eggs that might hatch and dragons that might fill the skies once more.

When he finished, he set the letter down on the desk and looked at his wife. She was smiling, a small, knowing smile that he had seen a thousand times before and still could not entirely interpret.

"Well," she said. "That was quite the tale."

"It was quite something," Daeron agreed. "Though I am not certain Matarys wrote it."

"No?"

"The handwriting is too good. You know Matarys's penmanship—it looks like a spider fell in an inkpot and crawled across the page. This is Baelor's hand, or a very convincing forgery."

"Then perhaps Baelor wrote it as a joke."

Daeron considered this. Baelor was not known for his sense of humor. He was a serious man, a dutiful man, a man who had spent his entire life doing what was expected of him without complaint or deviation. But perhaps that was precisely what made the joke effective. Perhaps Baelor, exhausted by months on Dragonstone and desperate to return to King's Landing, had decided to write the most ridiculous letter he could conceive of as a way of expressing his frustration. A dragon. A village girl. A love story. A broken betrothal. It was all so patently absurd that it had to be intentional.

"Perhaps," Daeron said slowly, "this is Baelor's way of telling me he needs to come home. He has been on Dragonstone too long. The petitions could have been handled in a fortnight, but he has been there for months. He is bored. He is tired. He wants me to summon him back, and this is his way of asking."

"That is a very elaborate way of asking."

"Baelor has always been thorough."

Myriah laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the cup of water on her bedside table. "What are you going to tell him?"

Daeron looked at the letter again. "I am going to write him back," Daeron said, rising from the desk and crossing to the door to call for a servant. "I am going to tell him that I have read his letter, that I found it very amusing, and that he is to return to King's Landing at once."

"That is all?"

"That is all. If he wants to tell me more about this dragon and this village girl, he can do so in person. I am not going to conduct a serious diplomatic conversation about imaginary creatures through raven post."

Myriah smiled, settling back against her pillows. "You do not think you are being too dismissive?"

"I think I am being appropriately dismissive." Daeron returned to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Myriah's beneath the blankets. "There is no dragon, Myriah. There is no village girl. There is only my son, who has been on a dreary island for too long and has lost his patience, and my grandson, who has fallen in with some local girl and convinced his father to let him out of his betrothal. The rest is embellishment."

"And if you are wrong?"

"I am not wrong."

"But if you are?"

Daeron looked at her. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression unreadable. She had always been the one to see possibilities he overlooked, to consider angles he dismissed, to remind him that the world was stranger and more complicated than his logical mind wanted it to be.

"If I am wrong," he said slowly, "then there is a dragon on Dragonstone, and my son has written me a letter that will be studied by maesters for centuries, and I have just dismissed it as a prank. In which case, I will owe him an apology. A very large apology."

"A very large apology indeed."

"But I am not wrong."

Myriah smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course you are not, my love. You are the King. Kings are never wrong."

Daeron snorted. "Now you are mocking me."

"I have been mocking you for years. You have only just noticed?"

He laughed, a warm sound that filled the quiet chamber, he rose from the bed, crossed to the writing desk, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. The reply did not need to be long. A few lines, perhaps. Enough to acknowledge the letter without taking it seriously, to summon Baelor home without indulging the fantasy. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

To my son Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone,

Your letter reached me this morning. I read it with great interest and no small amount of amusement. The attention to detail is commendable, and I must congratulate whoever composed it—whether that was you, which would surprise me, or Matarys, which would not.

I am pleased to hear that Dragonstone has been treating you so well that you have found time to invent elaborate fictions. However, your presence is required in King's Landing. The small council has been managing without you, but there are matters that require your attention, and I am too old to handle all of them myself.

Bring Valarr with you. Bring Matarys as well, if he wishes to come. If the village girl exists—and I remain skeptical on that point—you may bring her too, though I cannot promise I will believe a word of this story until I see proof with my own eyes.

As for the betrothal, we will discuss it when you return. I am not inclined to break an alliance with Tyrosh on the basis of a letter that reads like a bard's tale, but I am willing to hear you out. If Valarr has genuinely fallen in love, there may be other ways to address the situation that do not involve inventing dragons.

Come home, Baelor. You have been on that island long enough.

With affection and considerable skepticism,

Your father,

Daeron

—

The morning light through the narrow windows of Dragonstone's eastern corridor turned the stone to smoke and honey, and you were still not entirely certain how Valarr had managed to get you here.

No—that was untrue. You knew exactly how he had managed it. He had woken you at dawn with a kiss pressed to the hinge of your jaw, and then another to the corner of your mouth, and then another to your forehead when you had tried to bury your face in the pillow and pretend you were still asleep. Marta had grumbled from her corner of the cottage that if the two of you did not stop whispering and giggling like children she would throw her medicine pot at your heads, and Valarr had muffled his laughter against your shoulder and held you tighter, his arm a warm weight across your stomach.

He had whispered that the tailor was waiting, that your grey wool dress had a tear in the sleeve that Marta had mended three times already, that if you were going to keep flying Moonfyre you needed proper clothes and not garments held together by hope and old thread. You had grumbled that you liked your grey dress. He had kissed you again, this time on the tip of your nose, and said he liked it too, but he would like it even more if it did not disintegrate the next time you climbed onto a dragon's back.

You had told him he was being ridiculous. He had agreed amiably and continued kissing you, your cheek, your temple, the corner of your jaw, until Marta had actually thrown a slipper at him and told him to get out of her house if he was going to behave like a lovesick boy instead of a prince. He had apologized with exaggerated formality, but his eyes had been laughing, and when he turned back to you he had whispered, "The tailor. Please. For my sanity," and you had finally agreed, if only to make him stop looking at you with those mismatched eyes that made you feel as though your bones were turning to warm milk.

So here you were, walking the corridors of the castle that had loomed over your village your entire life, your hand tucked into the crook of Valarr's elbow. The tailor had been efficient and terrifying an old man with pins in his mouth and spectacles perched on his nose, who had clucked over you like a hen with one chick and complained that you had the posture of someone who spent too much time hunched over goats. He had measured everything. Every span of your arms, every width of your shoulders, every length from hip to ankle and elbow to wrist. He had draped fabric over you in shades of deep purple and storm blue and a particular dark red that Valarr had picked out himself, holding it up to your cheek and nodding as though he had just solved some important political crisis.

Now the measuring was done, and Valarr was leading you through the castle instead of back toward the village gates.

"I received another letter from Matarys this morning," he said, his voice carrying that particular mixture of exasperation and fondness that only his younger brother seemed able to provoke. "The third one this week. He has taken to sending them by raven, which is absurd—he could simply walk send a servant, but he claims a raven carries more dramatic weight."

You smiled. "What does he want?"

"The same thing he has wanted since you came back. To meet you. To meet Moonfyre." Valarr sighed, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "He writes that he is perishing of neglected curiosity, and that if I do not introduce him within the fortnight he will be forced to take drastic measures. What those measures are, he does not specify, which I find deeply unsettling."

"He sounds very dramatic."

"He is insufferable," Valarr said, but his voice was warm. "Father has forbidden it, of course. He does not want you overwhelmed, and he knows Matarys has all the subtlety of a battering ram. When you meet him, and you will meet him eventually, he wants it to be on your terms, not because my brother has ambushed you in some corridor."

"I appreciate that," you said, and meant it. The thought of meeting more of Valarr's family made your stomach tighten, but the thought of meeting them when you were prepared, when you had warning and time to steady yourself, was easier to bear.

"He will adore you," Valarr said quietly and his hand tightened over yours where it rested in the crook of his arm.

They turned a corner, and the corridor changed. The stone here was older, rougher hewn, the torches fewer and farther between. You slowed, glancing up at Valarr in confusion, but he only tightened his arm against his side, pressing your hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow.

"There is something I want to show you," he said.

"More tailors?"

"Nothing so dire, I promise."

He led you down a narrow flight of stairs, then another, the air growing cooler and damper with each step. The walls dripped in places, dark with moisture, and the torches were spaced so far apart that you walked through pools of shadow between each one. The steps were worn smooth in the center, grooved by centuries of feet, and you found yourself wondering how many Targaryens had walked this same path, and what they had been going to see, and whether any of them had been village girls with no name and no family and a dragon who purred when scratched behind the eye ridge.

At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door of iron-banded oak stood slightly ajar. Valarr pushed it open with his shoulder and ushered you through. The chamber beyond was not large, but it was full. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with objects draped in oilcloth and dust. The air smelled of old leather and metal and something sharper beneath—the faint, acrid tang of dragon, though you did not recognize it at first. It was only when Valarr crossed to the center of the room and pulled away a heavy canvas sheet that you understood.

They were saddles. Dragon saddles. They rested on great wooden stands, three of them arranged in a loose semicircle like ancient thrones awaiting occupants who would never return. The leather was cracked and dark with age, the metal fittings dulled by time, but the shapes were unmistakable. Not the light, simple saddles that horses wore, these were massive, built like siege weapons, all deep seats and high backs and heavy straps that looked more suited to anchoring a ship than securing a rider. The buckles were iron, some rusted, some wrapped in remnants of what might once have been decorative tooling. One saddle still bore faint traces of gilding along its pommel, the gold flaking away like autumn leaves.

"This one was Sunfyre's," Valarr said, touching the edge of a saddle that gleamed dully in the torchlight, its leather the color of old coins. "Or so the records claim. It is difficult to be certain—so much was lost during the Dance. Saddles burned with their riders, or were broken apart for leather and metal when the dragons died and no one thought to preserve anything." He moved to the next, and his voice softened. "This one belonged to Syrax."

You stepped closer before you meant to. Syrax's saddle was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Even beneath the dust and the cracks and the slow decay of years, you could see it, the intricate patterns worked into the leather, the fittings that looked almost like gold, the delicate filigree along the backrest that must have taken someone months to complete. It was opulent and feminine and utterly unlike the heavy, warlike saddles beside it. It looked like something a queen would ride.

"Rhaenyra's dragon," you said quietly.

"Yes." Valarr's hand hovered over the pommel without touching it. "She rode Syrax when she took King's Landing. And later—well. You know the histories."

You did. You had read them in the book he gave you, sounding out the words while his shoulder pressed warm against yours. Syrax had died in the Dragonpit, torn apart by the smallfolk who rose against Rhaenyra. The saddle had outlived the dragon. That seemed wrong, somehow. That leather and metal could endure when fire and wings could not.

"There is more," Valarr said, turning to face you. The torchlight caught the silver streak in his hair, made his pale eye gleam like a coin. "That is not why I brought you here. I brought you here because—" He stopped, and for a moment he looked almost uncertain, which was such an unusual expression on his face that you felt your heart clench. "Because I want to commission a saddle for you. For Moonfyre."

You opened your mouth, but he was already speaking again, the words tumbling out faster now.

"I cannot watch you fly anymore without one. Every time you climb onto her back with nothing but your hands and your legs and your stubbornness, I feel as though my heart is going to stop. You hold on with strength alone, and you are strong—stronger than anyone I have ever met—but strength fails. A saddle would not. A saddle would keep you secure through dives and climbs and whatever else Moonfyre decides to do. A saddle would—"

"Valarr—"

"—mean that I could watch you fly without feeling as though I am going to be sick from terror. A saddle would mean that if something happened, if she banked too sharply or you lost your grip, you would not—"

"Valarr."

He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into loose fists, and his chest was rising and falling too quickly. He looked at you with those eyes and you could see the guilt there, the fear, the thing he still carried from the weeks when he had not believed you. It had not gone away. You were not certain it ever would.

"You are frightened for me," you said.

"Of course I am frightened for you." His voice was raw at the edges, scraped clean of princely composure. "I am frightened for you every moment you are in the air. I am frightened for you when you are on the ground and Moonfyre is not with you and I think about all the things that could happen, all the people who might want to hurt her or take her or use you to get to her. I am frightened for you when you are asleep and I am watching you breathe and I think about how close I came to losing you before I ever truly had you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through your new grey dress. "So yes. I am frightened for you. And I am asking you—asking, not commanding, I would never command you—to let me do this one thing that might make you a little safer. Please."

The word hung in the dusty air between you. A prince, begging. For you. You looked at the saddles again and tried to imagine yourself sitting in something like that, strapped into leather and steel, secured against the sky. Moonfyre was warm beneath you when you flew. Moonfyre was solid and alive and always, always careful with you, even when she dove or climbed or twisted through the air like a ribbon in the wind. The thought of putting something between you, something hard and unyielding, made your stomach clench.

"It might hurt her," you said quietly. "The straps. The weight. She has never carried anything but me. What if she hates it? What if it rubs her scales raw or catches on her spines or—"

"Moonfyre," Valarr said, and his voice was gentler now, some of the urgency draining out of it, "is a dragon. She carried you across the sea and back. She fought off infection and crooked bones and months of pain. A saddle will not hurt her. A properly fitted saddle, made by craftsmen who know what they are doing—she will barely feel it."

"You do not know that."

"I do not know that," he agreed. "But I know that the old riders saddled their dragons, and the dragons did not suffer for it. I know that Sunfyre carried Aegon through battle after battle with a saddle on his back, and it did not slow him down. I know that Syrax bore Rhaenyra for years, and the saddle was part of them, part of the bond, not a barrier between them."

You traced your fingers along the edge of Syrax's saddle. The leather was cold and brittle, flaking slightly beneath your touch. You thought of the craftsmen who had made it, the hours of careful work, the pride they must have felt when they saw it strapped to a dragon's back. You thought of Valarr, standing beside you in this dusty chamber, pleading with you to let him keep you safe.

"Moonfyre might like it," Valarr said softly. "If it means you can fly longer. Fly farther. Go places you have never been without your arms giving out halfway across the bay."

That was unfair. He knew it was unfair. You could see it in the slight quirk of his mouth, the way his pale eye caught the torchlight. He was appealing to the part of you that wanted to see the world from dragonback, that had tasted freedom on that unknown island and wanted more of it, that dreamed sometimes of flying west until you reached the edge of the map and saw what lay beyond.

"You are manipulating me," you said.

"I am reasoning with you."

"You are manipulating me with reasoning."

"Is it working?"

You wanted to stay cross with him. You wanted to hold onto your uncertainty, your fear for Moonfyre's comfort, your stubborn village-girl conviction that you did not need fine things or special treatment or princes who commissioned saddles for you. But he was looking at you with those eyes and you could feel your resolve crumbling like the gilding on Syrax's pommel.

"If Moonfyre hates it," you said slowly, "I will not make her wear it. Not even if it is the finest saddle ever made. Not even if you beg."

"Agreed."

"And if it hurts her—if there is even a single scale rubbed raw, a single moment where she seems uncomfortable—it comes off and I do not put it back on."

"Agreed."

"And you stop hovering every time I fly. You let me go without looking as though you are about to be sick."

He hesitated at that, his jaw tightening, and you knew you had found the limit of his willingness to negotiate. But after a moment he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head that was more concession than agreement.

"I will try," he said. "I cannot promise I will succeed."

"That is all I ask."

He reached for you then, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently toward him. You went willingly, letting yourself be drawn into the circle of his arms, letting your forehead rest against his collarbone. He smelled of salt and leather and something else, something warm and clean that you had come to associate with him alone. His chin came to rest on the top of your head.

"Thank you," he said, and the words vibrated through his chest into your bones.

"You are very difficult to refuse," you mumbled into his tunic.

"I know. I have been practicing."

You laughed despite yourself, a small huff of air against the fabric of his shirt. His arms tightened around you.

"The leatherworker will want to meet Moonfyre," he said, already planning, already thinking ahead to measurements and fittings and all the practical details that would make this real. "To take her dimensions. I will send word to him today."

"He will have to approach her slowly. She does not like strangers."

"I will tell him."

"And he cannot stare at her. She thinks staring is a challenge."

"I will tell him that too."

"And he should bring her something to eat. A goat, or a sheep. She likes people better when they come bearing food."

Valarr stopped in the doorway and turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression wonder, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the overwhelming relief of a man who had been forgiven for something he could not forgive himself.

"I love you," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

You did. You had known it for longer than you had believed it, had felt it in every kiss and every gentle word and every moment when he looked at you as though you were the only real thing in a world made of shadows. But hearing him say it still made your heart stutter in your chest, still made you feel as though you were standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful.

"I know," you said. "I love you too."

He kissed you once more, soft and brief and full of promise, and then he led you back up the stairs and into the light.

At the top of the stairs, instead of turning back toward the main corridor and the way you had come, he steered you left. Then right. Then through a narrow archway you had not noticed before, into a hallway lined with old tapestries whose threads had gone dull and grey with age.

"What is this?" you asked.

"The east gallery. It connects the residential wing to the great hall without going through the main courtyard. Useful when it rains."

"It is not raining."

"No," he agreed. "But you have never seen it, and I thought you might like to."

You walked a little further. He showed you the small sept tucked into an alcove off the gallery a quiet, shadowed space with carved dragons twining up the pillars and a septa's crystal catching the light from a single high window. He showed you the library, which was not grand like you imagined the one in King's Landing must be, but still held more books than you had ever seen in one place, their spines cracked and faded and smelling of dust and old paper. He showed you a narrow window that looked out over the eastern meadows where you and Moonfyre had first learned to fly, and he pointed to the distant smudge of the village and said, "Marta's roof needs new thatching. I noticed it yesterday. I'll send someone."

You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the window's light, his mismatched eyes fixed on the village below, and there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, something careful and measured that you could not quite name.

"Why are you being so thorough?" you asked.

He turned from the window. "Thorough?"

"All of this." You gestured at the corridor behind you, the library, the sept, the gallery with its faded tapestries. "You are showing me every corner of this castle as though you expect me to be tested on it later."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was a softer smile than before, less teasing and more tentative. "Perhaps I am."

"Valarr."

He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry some weight you could not see, and reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before lowering them again.

"I am showing you your future home," he said. "Or one of them, at least. The Red Keep will be yours as well, when the time comes. I thought you ought to know your way around before—" He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your hand. "Before everything changes."

The word echoed in the quiet corridor. Home. You had a home. A small cottage with a sagging roof and a hearth that smoked when the wind blew from the east and a narrow pallet where Marta had tucked you in every night since you were small enough to be carried. That was home. That had always been home.

"Home," you repeated, and the word felt strange in your mouth, too large and too small at the same time.

"Yes. When you marry me, Dragonstone will be yours. Not just the caves and the village and the meadows, but all of it. The castle. The library. The sept and the gallery and every dusty corner you have not seen yet. And King's Landing, too, when—" He stopped, his jaw tightening briefly. "When the time comes."

Your heart was beating very fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the place where his thumb was still tracing circles over your skin.

"I do not recall accepting any proposal," you said.

It came out steadier than you felt. His eyes met yours, and there was no teasing in them now. Just him. Just Valarr, looking at you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"You will," he said. "One day."

"That is very confident of you."

"Not confident. Hopeful." He lifted your hand again and pressed it flat against his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm, quick and strong and slightly uneven. "I told you I would spend the rest of my life making up for the weeks I did not believe you. That was not a promise I made lightly. I do not expect you to forgive me tomorrow, or next moon, or even next year. I will wait. I will keep showing you libraries and septs and the best windows for watching the sunrise, and I will wait, and one day—when you are ready, when you have forgiven me as much as you are able—I will ask you properly. And you will say yes, or you will say no, and either way I will still be here. Still waiting. Still yours."

You stared at him. His heart was still hammering beneath your palm, belying the calm of his voice, and the silver streak in his hair caught the light from the window, and his eyes were full of something so raw and tender that it made your chest ache.

"You are a fool," you whispered.

"Probably."

"A complete and utter fool."

"I have been told."

You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss, or a careful one. His words had been too earnest, too tender, too full of that quiet certainty that made your chest feel too small for everything inside it, and kissing him seemed the only way to make him stop before he said something else that made you want to weep in the middle of a dusty corridor. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he made a sound low in his throat and kissed you back.

The corridor was silent except for the soft sound of your mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, and for a long, suspended moment there was nothing in the world but his hand in your hair and his heart still hammering beneath your palm and the warmth of him pressed against you in the narrow space between the tapestries and the wall.

A throat cleared behind you. Not loudly. Politely, even. The kind of throat clearing that was meant to announce a presence without making a scene, the kind that belonged to someone who had walked in on something he ought not to have seen and was determined to pretend otherwise.

You pulled back from Valarr so quickly you nearly stumbled, your face flooding with heat. Valarr's hand fell from your jaw, but his other arm remained around your waist, steadying you, and when you looked up at him his expression was caught somewhere between mortification and the particular irritation of a man who had been interrupted at a crucial moment.

Prince Baelor stood at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression impeccably neutral but he carried himself with the easy authority of a man who did not need a crown to be recognized. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his jaw strong, and his eyes were fixed on a point just above your heads, as though the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating.

"Y/N," he said, and his voice was warm, warmer than you expected, as if he had not just witnessed his eldest son kissing a girl in a secluded corridor. "I did not expect to find you in the castle today. How fortunate."

Your face was still burning. You dropped into a curtsy—a little clumsily, your legs still unsteady from the kiss—and kept your eyes on the floor. "My prince. The fortune is mine."

Valarr's arm tightened around your waist, a small, reassuring pressure. "Father," he said, and his voice was even, though you could hear the strain beneath it. "I was just showing Y/N the castle. She has not seen much of it beyond the great hall and the tailor's chambers."

"So I observed," Baelor said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, though his face remained carefully composed. He looked at you then, directly, and his expression softened. "Valarr tells me you agreed to riding clothes. I am glad. The dresses are charming, but I suspect they were not designed with dragonflight in mind."

You did not know what to say to that. Your hand found Valarr's sleeve and held on. "The tailor was very thorough, my prince."

"He is a tyrant in human form, but his work is excellent." Baelor smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look less like a prince and more like a man who told jokes and laughed at them. "Since you are here, you must stay for supper. I will not hear any argument—it is late, the sun will set soon, and there is no sense in walking all the way back to the village on an empty stomach. My wife has been asking to meet you properly. She will have my head if I let you slip away without an introduction."

Your stomach dropped. Supper. With the prince and princess of Dragonstone. In the great hall, or some private dining chamber, with servants and candles and more forks than you knew what to do with. You looked down at your dress, the dress of a village girl who spent her mornings mucking out goat pens and her afternoons scrubbing dragon scale from beneath her fingernails.

"My prince, I am not—" You stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I have nothing suitable to wear to a royal supper. And I would not wish to impose on your household without any warning, I am sure the kitchens have not prepared for an extra guest, and Marta will be expecting me back before dark, she worries when I am gone too long, and I should really—"

"Nonsense." Baelor waved his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Valarr, see that a bath is drawn for her in the guest quarters. Your mother has many gowns she will not mind if Y/N borrows one until the tailor finishes her commission. Send a servant to the village to inform Marta that Y/N will be dining at the castle tonight and will return in the morning."

"Father—" Valarr began, but Baelor was already turning, already walking back down the corridor with the unhurried stride of a man who was accustomed to having his instructions followed.

"This will be good," Baelor said over his shoulder, and his voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "A proper family supper. It has been too long since we had one of those. I will inform the kitchens. Bring her to the dining chamber when she is ready."

He disappeared around the corner, his boots clicking against the stone, and then there was silence. You stood frozen, your hand still clutching Valarr's sleeve, your heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. A bath. A borrowed gown. Supper with the heir to the Iron Throne and his wife and his sons and—gods, how many forks were there going to be? You had eaten at Marta's table your whole life. You owned one spoon.

Valarr turned to you, and his expression was a complicated mixture of apology and barely suppressed amusement. "I am going to kill him," he said.

"Your father?"

"My father. Yes. That is the one I meant."

"He did not seem to notice the—" You gestured vaguely at the space between you, where moments ago there had been no space at all.

"Oh, he noticed." Valarr's mouth twitched. "He was looking at the ceiling. My father only looks at the ceiling when he is pretending he has not seen something. He did it when Matarys pushed me into the fountain during his nameday feast. He did it when my mother asked him if her new gown made her look fat. And he did it just now."

You closed your eyes. "I am going to die."

"You are not going to die."

"I am going to embarrass myself so thoroughly that I will wish I were dead. I do not know which fork to use. I do not know how to address a princess. I do not know—"

Valarr took your face in both his hands, gentle and steady, and pressed his lips to your forehead. "You will use whichever fork feels right. You will address my mother as 'my princess' and she will tell you to call her Jena, and you will not call her Jena because you are too polite, and she will like you all the more for it. My father already likes you. Matarys will talk so much that no one will notice if you use the wrong fork." He pulled back and looked at you, his pale eye catching the light. "And I will be beside you the entire time. You will not face any of it alone."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that he was a prince and you were a bastard and that no amount of borrowed gowns would change the fact that you did not belong in a castle dining chamber with people who had been raised to rule. But he was looking at you with those eyes, and his hands were still warm on your face, and you could feel your protests crumbling before they reached your tongue.

"If I faint," you said, "you will have to carry me out."

"If you faint, I will carry you out and tell everyone you were overcome by the excellence of the roast lamb."

"That is not funny."

"It is a little funny."

You pushed his chest, but you were almost smiling, and he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.

"The guest quarters are this way," he said. "The bath will take a little while to fill. In the meantime, I can show you the north tower—it has the best view of the Dragonmont, and there is a particular window where the light hits the stone in a way that makes it look like fire. If you want."

You took a breath. Let it out. Squeezed his hand.

"Show me," you said.

He led you through corridors you had never seen before, the guest quarters, when you reached them, were not as grand as you had feared. The chamber was small but warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a canopied bed pushed against one wall with hangings the color of heather. Servants were already moving in and out, carrying copper tubs of steaming water, laying out cloths and jars and things you did not recognize.

Valarr spoke to them in low tones, giving instructions you could not quite hear, and then turned back to you. His hand found yours and squeezed once, briefly.

"The bath will be ready soon," he said. "I will leave you to it."

"You are not staying?" The words came out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, edged with something that sounded uncomfortably like panic.

Valarr paused. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not the polite smile he wore in public, but the smaller, more private one that meant he was trying not to laugh at you.

"It would be somewhat improper," he said, "for me to stay while you bathe. Unless you are insisting. In which case I suppose I could be persuaded."

Your face went hot. You could feel the blush spreading from your cheeks to your ears to the base of your throat, and you were suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath your feet. "I did not mean it like that."

"I know." He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I was teasing you. The servants know what they are doing—all you have to do is stand there and let yourself be treated like a doll for an hour or so. Can you manage that?"

"I have never been treated like a doll in my life."

"Then it is long overdue." He pulled back and looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft. "Trust them. I will be back before you know it."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were alone with the servants and the steam and the copper tubs and the frightening array of jars and bottles and strange instruments laid out on a side table.

What followed was one of the most mortifying hours of your life.

The servants were efficient and utterly unbothered by your nakedness in a way that only made your nakedness feel more acute. You had bathed yourself your whole life this was nothing like that. This was hands in your hair and warm water poured over your shoulders and something that smelled of lavender massaged into your scalp. This was a rough stone, a pumice stone, one of the women called it, though you had never heard the word, dragged carefully over your elbows and knees and the soles of your feet, scraping away calluses you had earned over years of climbing and kneeling and walking barefoot through the village. This was oil rubbed into your skin until you gleamed like polished wood, and then more oil, a different kind, something that smelled of jasmine and made your skin feel impossibly soft.

They cut your hair. Not much—just the ends, just enough to make it fall evenly down your back instead of straggling in uneven lengths the way it always had. You watched the pale strands drift to the floor and felt a strange pang in your chest, as though they were cutting away some essential part of who you were.

Then came the dress. You had expected something simple. Something modest, in a muted color, appropriate for a village girl who had been invited to supper out of politeness rather than any real desire for her company. What the servants lifted from the wardrobe was not simple.

The gown was lilac a pale, shimmering shade that seemed to shift between purple and silver as it caught the light. The neckline dipped low across the chest, lower than anything you had ever worn, and when you looked down at yourself after it was laced you saw your own body as though for the first time. The cut of the bodice lifted and shaped in ways you had not known were possible. The waist was tight, the sleeves long and fitted, and silver embroidery traced delicate patterns across the whole of it, flowers, you thought, or perhaps vines. The skirts fell in soft folds to the floor, and when you moved they whispered against the stone like a secret.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger. She was beautiful. You could admit that, even if it felt like admitting something shameful. Her skin glowed, soft and luminous from the oils and the pumice and the careful attention of hands that knew how to transform a body into something ornamental. Her collarbones were visible above the neckline, her waist impossibly narrow, her hands usually chapped and reddened from work resting soft and pale against the lilac silk. She looked like a princess. She looked like she belonged in this castle, in this chamber, in this gown. She looked like someone who had never mucked out a goat pen or scrubbed dragon scale from beneath her fingernails or woken before dawn to haul water from the well.

She looked nothing like you. This was what they did, you thought. This was what nobles did every day of their lives. They stood in warm chambers while servants oiled and polished and dressed them, while hands they did not have to thank transformed them into something beautiful enough to be looked at. They wore silk while you had worn patched wool. They ate from silver plates while you had eaten from wooden bowls. They had never once wondered if they belonged at the table because they had never once sat anywhere else.

And here you were, dressed like one of them, looking like one of them, as though a lilac gown and some jasmine oil could erase everything you were and everything you came from.

The door opened behind you. You did not turn. You were still staring at the stranger in the mirror, your hands clenched at your sides, your heart beating too hard against the boning of the borrowed bodice. Footsteps. Then silence. Then Valarr's voice, low and rough and stripped of all composure.

"Gods be good."

You turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, his cloak gone and his dark hair slightly damp as though he had bathed and dressed in haste. He was wearing a deep blue tunic you had not seen before, silver thread at the collar and cuffs, and his mismatched eyes were wide. His lips were parted. He looked at you the way you had seen villagers look at moonfyre as though something impossible and beautiful was happening in front of him and he did not know whether to speak or kneel or simply stand there and let it burn itself into his memory.

"You look," he said, and stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You look like the Maiden herself. Reborn. Walking the earth. In my father's guest quarters."

"That is blasphemy," you said, because you did not know what else to say.

"Then I will do penance tomorrow." He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching you, his hands hovering at your elbows as though he was afraid the gown might dissolve if he made contact. Up close, you could see the faint flush rising along his jaw, the way his throat moved as he swallowed again. "I mean it. You are—I do not have the words. I have read poetry. I have read a great deal of poetry. None of it is adequate."

Your cheeks were warming again, but the resentment was still there, coiled beneath the fluster. "It is the dress. And the oils, and the—the stones, and my hair, and—"

"It is you." His hands found your elbows at last, gentle and steady. "It is you in the dress. It is you with your hair like moonlight and your eyes doing that thing where you are not certain whether to be pleased or to run. It is you, Y/N. The rest is just trimming."

"I do not look like myself," you said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "You look like the person you have always been, only now the outside matches the inside. That is what fine clothes are supposed to do, I think. I have never understood it until now."

You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything to say. So you stood there, in your borrowed lilac gown, with his hands warm on your elbows and his eyes full of something that looked a great deal like worship, and you let yourself be looked at.

He was still holding your elbows, his thumbs tracing small arcs over the silk, when his expression shifted. The wonder in his face dimmed slightly, replaced by something more careful, more searching.

"You are uncomfortable," he said. "If the dress bothers you, I will find you another. There are a dozen gowns in the wardrobes here—my mother's, my cousins', ones that have been left behind by visiting ladies over the years. Something with a higher neckline, or heavier fabric, or—"

"No." The word came out faster than you intended. You shook your head, your hands smoothing over the lilac skirts almost without your permission. "No, it is not the dress. The dress is…" You struggled for the right word, and failed, and settled for the truth instead. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. I have never worn anything like it. When I was small, I used to dream about dresses like this."

You had not meant to say that. The confession slipped out before you could catch it, and once it was free you could not pull it back. You remembered those dreams now, sharp and sudden, lying on your pallet in Marta's cottage while the fire burned low, imagining yourself in gowns of silver and gold and deep Targaryen red, imagining a life where you walked into a room and people looked at you not with pity or curiosity but with respect. You had always woken from those dreams feeling foolish. A bastard girl with patched wool and callused hands, dreaming of silk. It was like a goat dreaming of flying.

Valarr's hands tightened on your elbows. "And now you are wearing one."

"Now I am wearing one," you agreed. "And I feel like I have stolen something. Like I walked into a room I was not supposed to enter and put on a gown that belongs to someone else and at any moment someone is going to realize the mistake and send me back where I came from." Your voice was steady, but only just. "I feel like I do not deserve this."

"Y/N—"

"I know what you are going to say."

"You do not," he said quietly, "because what I am going to say is that you deserve this more than anyone I have ever met."

You looked at him. His face was earnest and open and so desperately sincere that it made your chest hurt. And beneath that sincerity, beneath the warmth and the love and the way he was looking at you as though you were the answer to some question he had been asking his whole life, something else stirred. A thought. A question. A splinter of doubt that you could not quite dislodge.

Why?

Why did you deserve it more than anyone? Why did any of this, the dress, the oils, the servants, the castle, the prince who looked at you like you were the Maiden reborn, why did any of it have to be deserved at all? Marta had worked her whole life, her hands gnarled and aching, her back bent over poultices and potions and the bodies of the sick and the dying, and she had never once worn silk. The fishermen who went out before dawn in their leaking boats, the baker's wife who rose at an hour that ought not to exist to knead dough for bread she would never have time to eat warm, the village children who ran barefoot through the mud because shoes cost coin and coin was for food—why did none of them deserve pretty dresses? Why did decency have to be earned? Why was beauty a reward for the few instead of a gift for everyone?

You did not say any of this. You were not certain you knew how to shape the words, or whether Valarr would understand them if you did. He had been raised in a world where some people deserved things and others did not, and he was kind but kindness and understanding were not the same thing.

"Y/N." His voice pulled you back. He was watching you carefully, his head tilted slightly, his pale eye narrowed. "You went somewhere just now. Where did you go?"

"Nowhere." You shook your head and forced a smile. "I am here."

"You are lying. But I will not press you." He lifted one hand from your elbow and offered it to you, palm up. "Come. I told you I would show you how the soup is supposed to go, and I meant it. Father will have told the kitchens to prepare something elaborate—he always does when there are guests—but I can at least warn you which course comes with which implement and when you are supposed to nod politely instead of speaking."

You stared at his outstretched hand. A prince's hand, clean and uncallused, offered to a girl whose palms still bore the faint roughness of work despite the pumice stone's best efforts.

"I am a little scared," you admitted. The words came out small, smaller than you wanted them to.

"I know." His hand did not waver. "You do not have to pretend you are not. I will be beside you the entire time. And if anyone makes you feel unwelcome, I will—"

"What? Challenge them to a duel?"

"I was going to say I would glare at them meaningfully. But a duel is also an option."

Despite everythin you laughed. It was a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but it was real. Valarr smiled, and his hand was still there, waiting.

"Alright," you said, and placed your palm in his. "Show me."

He led you not to the dining chamber to a small room just off the corridor, one you had not seen during his earlier tour. It was not grand. A modest table, two chairs, a sideboard bearing a modest collection of plates and bowls and an array of cutlery that seemed excessive for a room this size. A single window looked out over the darkening sea, the sky going violet at the edges where the sun had begun its slow descent.

"A practice round," Valarr said, pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing for you to sit. "Before the real battle. Every knight drills before a tourney."

You sat. The lilac skirts pooled around you on the chair, and you spent a moment arranging them so you would not trip if you had to stand suddenly. "Is supper a tourney now?"

"Supper with my family can be a trial by combat if you are not prepared. Fortunately, the rules of etiquette are simpler than swordplay. There are only six forks to worry about instead of seven, for instance, and no one is trying to unhorse you."

"Six forks," you repeated, your voice flat.

"Only five, actually. I was exaggerating for dramatic effect. There are three." He pulled the other chair close to yours—close enough that your knees nearly touched—and sat down, reaching for a spoon from the sideboard. "This is the soup spoon. You will know the soup course has arrived because someone will place a bowl of soup in front of you. At that point, you may use this spoon. You dip it away from yourself—so—and you sip from the side, not the front. Like this."

He demonstrated with an imaginary bowl, his movements exaggerated and faintly ridiculous, and you felt some of the tension in your shoulders ease.

"Away from myself," you said. "Side of the spoon. Not the front."

"Exactly. You are already better than Matarys, who once drank his soup directly from the bowl during a formal banquet because he was thirteen and wanted to see what would happen. What happened was that our mother did not speak to him for two days."

You laughed despite yourself. Valarr's eyes crinkled at the corners, pleased.

"The fish fork," he continued, picking up a smaller implement with slightly curved tines, "is for fish. The meat fork is for meat. If you are ever uncertain which to use, watch me. I will use the correct one, and you can follow half a heartbeat behind. No one will notice."

"They will notice."

"They will be looking at Moonfyre's rider. They will be looking at the girl who brought dragons back to House Targaryen. They will not be looking at which fork you are holding. And if they do, they are boors, and their opinion is not worth your concern."

You picked up the fish fork and turned it over in your fingers. It was heavier than it looked, the silver cool against your skin. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple. You are the one making it complicated."

"I am not—" You stopped, because he was looking at you with that particular expression he wore when he knew he was right and was waiting for you to admit it. "Perhaps I am making it a little complicated."

"Only a little." He reached over and gently extracted the fork from your fingers, setting it back on the sideboard. His hand lingered on yours. "You are also gripping that fork as though you expect it to attempt an escape. Try to hold it more like a writing quill and less like a weapon."

"I have never held a writing quill."

"Then hold it like you hold my hand. Gently. As though you trust it."

Your eyes met his. The room was quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, the soft crackle of the torch in its sconce. His thumb traced a slow line across your knuckles.

"You are flirting with me," you said.

"I am always flirting with you. It is one of my defining characteristics." He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "Is it working?"

"A little."

"Only a little. I shall have to try harder." He released your hand and reached for a small plate, holding it up between you like a shield. "Bread. You will tear it with your fingers, not cut it with a knife. Tearing bread with a knife is considered uncouth, though I have never understood why. Bread does not care how it is divided."

"Bread does not care about anything. It is bread."

"Precisely my point. And yet the rules persist." He set the plate down and leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. "You are still nervous."

"I am always nervous."

"I know. But this is a different kind of nervous. You are thinking about forks and soup spoons and whether my mother will like you, and you are forgetting that you have already done something braver than any of them have ever done."

You looked down at your hands, at the faint calluses the pumice stone had not quite managed to erase. "I do not feel brave."

"Bravery is not a feeling. It is an action. You saved a dragon. You flew across the sea. You came back." He tilted his head, catching your gaze and holding it. "What is a soup spoon compared to that?"

"A soup spoon is smaller."

"Much smaller. And less likely to bite you."

"Moonfyre tried biting me once."

"And you survived. You will survive the soup course as well." He smiled, and it was the private smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes and made him look less like a prince and more like the boy who had sat beside you in a meadow and taught you to read. "If you become overwhelmed during supper, I have a plan."

"What plan?"

"I will feed you."

You stared at him. "You will what?"

"Feed you. Lift morsels to your lips with my own fork. It will be very romantic and deeply inappropriate for a formal dinner, and my father will stare at the ceiling again and you will be so distracted by your embarrassment that you will forget to be nervous about the cutlery."

Your face was hot. "That is the worst plan I have ever heard."

"It is an excellent plan. I have been refining it for hours."

"You have not."

"You are correct, I invented it just now. But I am committed to it. Say the word and I will feed you every course from soup to sweetcake."

"Please do not feed me at your father's table."

He sighed with theatrical regret. "Very well. But the offer remains open. If you find yourself paralyzed by the weight of silverware, simply look at me. I will know what it means."

"You will know what what means? I do not even know what it means."

"I will know." He stood and offered you his hand, the same gesture he had made in the guest quarters, patient and steady and sure. "Are you ready? The soup is waiting, and I have it on good authority that it is leek and potato. My father is very fond of leek and potato. He will talk about it at length. You need only nod and make appreciative sounds."

You took his hand and rose, the lilac skirts settling around you with a whisper. "Appreciative sounds I can manage."

"I never doubted you for a moment." He tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow and led you toward the door. Just before you reached it, he paused and leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are the rider of the first dragon in seventy years. You are stronger than anyone in that dining chamber, and kinder, and braver. The forks are irrelevant. The soup is irrelevant. You could eat with your hands and my mother would still adore you."

"She would not."

"She would. She told me so."

You did not trust yourself to speak. So you tightened your hand on his arm and let him lead you into the corridor, toward the dining chamber and the soup and whatever lay beyond.

The small dining chamber was not what you had expected. You had imagined something vast and echoing but this room was intimate, almost cozy, its walls hung with tapestries in warm shades of gold and russet, its hearth fire casting dancing shadows across a table set for five. Candles flickered in iron holders. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted from somewhere nearby. It was, you realized with a jolt, a room meant for family.

The family was already there. Baelor stood near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, his dark beard catching the firelight as he turned toward the door. He smiled when he saw you and inclined his head in greeting. Beside him, a woman had risen from her chair.

She was not tall. That was the first thing you noticed. Princess Jena Dondarrion was small and fine boned, with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes the pale, clear blue of a winter sky. She was not beautiful in the way the songs described princesses. Her face was too sharp for that, her nose slightly aquiline, her mouth set in a line that suggested she spent more time thinking than smiling. But there was something striking about her nonetheless, a quiet intensity, a sense of coiled intelligence behind those pale eyes.

The young man sprawled in the chair beside her could only be Matarys. He had his mother's coloring, though on him the hair curled wildly around his ears and the eyes held a restless, mischievous gleam. He was handsome, you supposed, in a way that was less polished than Valarr's careful composure. Where Valarr was stillness and duty, Matarys seemed to be barely contained motion, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his leg bouncing beneath the table. He was watching you with undisguised curiosity, and when your eyes met his, he grinned.

You dropped into a curtsy before you could lose your nerve, gripping the sides of your borrowed skirts the way Valarr had shown you in the practice room. "My prince's. My princess. I am honored to be received."

The words felt stiff in your mouth, rehearsed and foreign, but Jena's expression softened slightly at the edges, and Baelor raised his goblet in a small toast. "The honor is ours," he said. "Please, sit. You are not a petitioner tonight, Y/N. You are a guest."

Valarr's hand found the small of your back, a brief, steadying pressure, and he guided you to the chair beside his. The table was round, not long, and you found yourself seated between Valarr and Matarys, directly across from Jena. Baelor took the chair beside his wife, setting down his goblet with a soft clunk.

Servants appeared as if conjured, pouring wine into your goblet—a pale gold, not the deep red you had expected—and setting down bowls of soup. Leek and potato, just as Valarr had predicted. Steam curled upward, fragrant and warm.

"So," Matarys said, before anyone else could speak. "You are the dragon girl."

"Matarys," Jena said, her voice quiet but carrying a warning.

"What? I am only stating a fact. She is a girl, and she has a dragon. That makes her the dragon girl." He leaned forward, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it true she sleeps curled around you like a cat? Valarr said she sleeps curled around you like a cat."

"Matarys," Valarr said, in a tone that was considerably less patient than his mother's.

"I am only asking what everyone is thinking. You cannot blame me for being curious. There has not been a living dragon in seventy years, and now one is napping not half a league from where I sleep, and I am not allowed to see her." He turned to you, his expression plaintive. "Do you know what that is like? It is like being told there is a feast in the next room but you are not permitted to leave your chair."

You picked up your soup spoon, remembering Valarr's instructions. Away from yourself. Sip from the side. The soup was hot and creamy and rich in a way that village soup never was real cream, you thought, and butter, and herbs you could not name.

"Moonfyre does not curl around me like a cat," you said, after you had swallowed. "She is much larger than a cat."

"But she does curl around you?"

"Sometimes. When she is cold."

Matarys looked at Valarr with an expression of profound vindication. "She does curl around her like a cat."

"I never said she did not," Valarr muttered into his soup.

Baelor chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Let the girl eat, Matarys. You can interrogate her after the fish course."

The conversation eased after that, settling into something that felt almost natural. Jena asked you about the village how long you had lived there, whether the fishing had been good this season, if the storms had damaged any of the cottages. Her questions were practical, straightforward, the questions of a woman who had learned to manage a household and was genuinely interested in how other people managed theirs. You answered as best you could, and when you stumbled over a word or forgot to address her as "my princess," she did not correct you. She only nodded and asked another question.

Baelor asked about Marta, how long she had been a healer, what remedies she used for winter fever, whether she had ever trained with a maester. You told him she had learned from her mother and her mother before her, that she knew every herb on Dragonstone and what it cured, that she had never lost a mother in childbirth. Baelor listened with genuine interest, his eyes thoughtful, and when you finished he said, "She sounds like a remarkable woman. I should like to meet her properly one day."

The fish course came and went. You used the fish fork without incident, though you caught Valarr watching you with a small, private smile when you picked it up. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table, a warm point of contact that anchored you when your nerves began to fray.

It was Baelor who raised the question you had been dreading. "Y/N," he said, setting down his knife, his voice gentle but curious. "You have the look of our house, it is unmistakable. Have you any idea who your Targaryen parent might have been?"

The table went quiet. Not the awkward quiet of people who were embarrassed for you, but the attentive quiet of people who were genuinely interested. Even Matarys stopped fidgeting. You took a sip of wine to buy yourself a moment. The goblet was cool against your fingers.

"No, my prince," you said. "I was found abandoned. Marta took me in when I was only a few days old, or so she says. There was nothing with me—no note, no token, no clue to who my parents might have been. I do not even know if it was my mother or my father who had the Targaryen blood."

Jena exchanged a glance with Baelor, something unreadable passing between them. "That is a hard beginning," she said quietly.

"It was not so hard. Marta was good to me. I had food and a roof and someone who loved me." You paused, your thumb tracing the rim of your goblet. "I have wondered, of course. Every child wonders. But after a while, I stopped. It did not matter who my parents were. What mattered was who I was."

Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers lacing through yours and squeezing once.

"That is a wise perspective," Baelor said. "Wiser than many who have had easier beginnings." He did not press further, and you were grateful.

The conversation shifted, turning toward lighter things, the upcoming harvest festival in the village, the quality of the wine from the Arbor, a horse that Matarys had tried to ride and been thrown from. Matarys told this story with great enthusiasm, describing his ignominious fall into a mud puddle with the kind of dramatic detail that made even Jena's stern mouth twitch toward a smile.

Then he turned to you, his blue eyes bright with renewed curiosity.

"Valarr told us something else about you," he said, and something in his tone made you wary. "He said you admire the late Princess Baela. The rider of Moondancer."

You blinked. "He told you that?"

"He tells me many things. I am his favorite brother."

"I am his only brother," Matarys said, unperturbed. "But yes. He said you are fascinated with her. That you named your dragon after hers. Moonfyre, Moondancer. It is a tribute, is it not?"

You glanced at Valarr. He was looking at his plate, his jaw slightly tight, as though he had not expected Matarys to bring this up at supper and was already regretting ever telling him anything.

"It is," you said, turning back to Matarys. "Marta used to tell me the old stories when I was small. The Dance of the Dragons, the conquest, all of it. But I always liked Baela best. She was not the heir or the queen or the one the songs were written about. She was just—brave. Fierce. Loyal to the people she loved. She rode Moondancer against Sunfyre even though she knew she would lose. She did it anyway."

"That is why you like her? Because she lost?"

"Because she fought." You had not meant to say it so forcefully, but the words came out steady and sure. "Because she did not wait for someone else to save her. Because she made her own choices and she stood by them, even when they cost her everything, reading it myself with Valarr's help only made me adore her even more."

"Valarr taught you to read," Baelor said, breaking the silence. It was not quite a question.

"Yes, my prince. He has been lending me books from the castle library. Histories, mostly. Some legends."

"That is impressive," Baelor said, and he sounded as though he meant it. "To learn so quickly, and to read well enough to tackle the histories. You have a sharp mind, Y/N."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I had a good teacher." Valarr's hand tightened on yours beneath the table.

"Valarr is many things," Jena said, her voice dry, "but patient is not usually among them. He must have made an exception for you."

"I am very patient," Valarr said, with a touch of indignation.

"You once threw a book at your septa because she corrected your High Valyrian pronunciation."

"I was eight."

"And you missed. Your aim has never been good."

Matarys let out a bark of laughter. Baelor hid a smile behind his goblet. Valarr looked at his mother with an expression of profound betrayal, and you found yourself laughing too, a real laugh, startled out of you before you could stifle it.

Jena's pale blue eyes shifted to you, and her expression was no longer unreadable. She was smiling, a small, private smile that softened the sharp lines of her face and made her look almost warm.

"I am glad to finally meet you," she said. "Truly. I have wondered what kind of girl could make my son sleep in a peasant's cottage."

"Mother—" Valarr began, but Jena continued as though he had not spoken.

"Do you know, when he was a child, he used to follow his father on hunting trips. He insisted he wanted to be a knight, wanted to learn woodcraft and survival and all the things a future king ought to know. And then he would come back after three days in the forest and cry to me because the bedroll was lumpy and the ground was cold and his tent had leaked in the rain." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving your face. "He was a fastidious child. Very particular about his pillows. I had to have special ones made for him—goose down, with silk covers, because the wool ones gave him a rash."

"Mother," Valarr said, and his voice was pained.

"And yet now he sleeps every night on a straw pallet in a village cottage, with a roof that leaks and a hearth that smokes and an old woman who apparently throws slippers at his head." Jena set down her goblet. "He has not complained once. Not a single letter home lamenting the accommodations. So you must be something quite extraordinary."

You did not know where to look. Your face was burning, and Valarr's hand had gone rigid in yours, and Matarys was grinning like a fool.

"I do not think it is me," you managed. "Marta's cottage is very comfortable. The straw is fresh, and she keeps the hearth clean, and—"

"And you are there," Jena said simply. "That is the difference. He would sleep on a stone floor if you were beside him."

"Mother," Valarr said again, and this time his voice cracked slightly.

Jena smiled at him—a real smile, full of affection and amusement and something gentler beneath. "I am not mocking you, my son. I am glad. It is good to see you sleep somewhere willingly. You were always a restless child. You used to wake in the night and crawl into our bed because you had dreamed of dragons."

The word hung in the air for a moment. Matarys opened his mouth, probably to make some joke, but Jena silenced him with a single look.

"I am glad you found your dragon," she said to Valarr, and then her pale eyes shifted back to you. "And I am glad you found her."

You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything adequate. So you simply met her eyes and said, "Thank you, my princess. I am glad too." Beneath the table, Valarr's hand turned in yours, his palm warm and steady.

The meat course arrived a tender cut of lamb, pink at the center, dressed with rosemary and garlic and some kind of dark wine reduction that you did not know the name for. You used the meat fork. Valarr's knee remained pressed against yours beneath the table, steady as a heartbeat.

It was Baelor who brought the subject around, setting down his knife with a soft clink and folding his hands on the table before him. His expression was thoughtful, the same expression he had worn in the corridor when he told you to stay for supper, warm, but measured. A prince making a decision.

"I wrote to my father," he said. "The King. I told him about Moonfyre."

Your hand stilled on your fork. The lamb was suddenly very difficult to swallow. King Daeron the man whose word was law, whose temper you had never seen, whose opinion could change everything. You had known this moment would come. You had known, in some way, that the King would have to be told. But knowing and hearing it spoken aloud at a family supper were two very different things.

"What did he say?" Matarys asked, leaning forward with undisguised eagerness. "Did he believe you? Is he coming here? Does he want to see the dragon?"

Baelor held up a hand, silencing his younger son with the gesture. "He did not believe me."

The silence that followed was not shocked. It was confused, uncertain, the silence of people who had been expecting one answer and received another entirely.

"What do you mean, he did not believe you?" Valarr's voice was careful, but there was an edge to it. "You wrote to him yourself. In your own hand. With your own seal."

"I did. And he read the letter, and he concluded that it was not from me at all." Baelor's mouth twitched. "He thought Matarys had written it. As a joke."

Matarys blinked. Then his face broke into a grin of such pure, delighted mischief that he looked about twelve years old. "He thought I wrote it?"

“He complimented the attention to detail.”

You pressed your napkin to your mouth, but it was too late. A laugh had already risen in your throat, sharp and sudden and entirely inappropriate for a formal supper with the royal family. You tried to swallow it. You failed. It came out as a strangled sort of cough, and then another, and then you had to take a long drink of wine to keep from laughing outright.

Valarr looked at you with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," you managed, your voice slightly strangled. "Perfectly fine. I was only thinking—" You set down your goblet and met Baelor's eyes. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching. "He did not believe you."

"No."

Baelor's dark eyes were steady on yours, and there was something in them, recognition, perhaps, or wry amusement, or the shared understanding of two people who had learned the same lesson in very different ways. "That is precisely what he decided."

You took a breath and folded your hands in your lap, composing yourself with an effort that felt almost physical. "I cannot imagine," you said, very carefully, "how that would feel. Truly. To tell someone the truth, something you have seen with your own eyes, something you know to be real—and to have them smile and nod and think you are making it up. To have them be so certain they know better that they dismiss you without even bothering to investigate." You met Baelor's gaze and held it. "I cannot imagine that at all."

Baelor looked at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and lifted his goblet.

"Well played," he said quietly.

Jena was watching you with those pale blue eyes, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Matarys was looking between his father and you with the air of someone who had just watched a very entertaining joust and was not quite sure who had won. Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table again, and when you glanced at him, his mismatched eyes were bright with something that looked a great deal like amusement.

"He will believe you eventually," you said to Baelor, your voice softer now. "When he sees Moonfyre for himself. When she is standing in front of him, real and solid and breathing fire. He will have to believe you then."

"Yes," Baelor said. "He will. And when that day comes, I intend to remind him of this letter. Frequently. In great detail." He paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the same smile you had seen on Valarr a hundred times, rueful and self deprecating and entirely genuine. "I suspect you may understand something of that impulse as well."

"I might," you said. "A little."

—

The guest chamber was too quiet. You had been lying in the dark for what felt like hours, the canopy above you a deeper shade of shadow against the ceiling, the fire burned down to embers that pulsed faintly in the hearth like a heartbeat made of light. The bed was soft, softer than anything you had ever slept on, goose down and fine linen and pillows that smelled of lavender. It should have been wonderful. It should have been the most comfortable night of your life.

You could not sleep. Your body was exhausted, heavy with the weight of the evening, the soup and the fish and the lamb, the wine and the candles and the way Jena had looked at you when she said I am glad you found her. But your mind would not stop turning. It circled the same thoughts over and over, a crow picking at old bones. King Daeron did not believe Baelor. The King thought the letter was a joke. The King would have to be convinced, would have to see Moonfyre with his own eyes, and what if he believed and was afraid, or what if he believed and wanted to take her—

A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant, barely audible over the distant crash of the waves. You sat up, your heart lurching. "Who is there?"

"Only me." Valarr's voice, muffled through the wood. "I saw the light beneath your door. You are not sleeping."

"I am sleeping. This is a dream. You are speaking to a sleeping person."

"May I come in? Or shall I continue this conversation with the door?"

You hesitated. It was late, very late, the hour when respectable girls were asleep in their beds and respectable princes were asleep in theirs. But you were not a respectable girl, not really, and Valarr had never been a particularly respectable prince. He had slept beside you in Marta's cottage for nights now, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your hair. The servants would talk. The servants were probably already talking. What was one more transgression?

"Come in," you said. The door opened just wide enough for him to slip through, and then it clicked shut behind him. He was dressed for sleep a loose tunic, soft breeches, his feet bare against the stone floor. His dark hair was rumpled, the silver streak catching the firelight, and his mismatched eyes found you in the darkness without difficulty.

"You could not sleep either," you said.

"Your chamber is next mine. I could hear you thinking."

"That is impossible."

"Nevertheless." He crossed the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at you with an expression that was half affection and half exhaustion. "Would you like some company? I find that thinking is easier to bear when there is someone else to share the weight of it."

You did not answer with words. You only shifted over, making room, and pulled back the edge of the blanket in invitation. He climbed in beside you with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and then his arm was around your waist and your head was tucked against his shoulder and the lavender-scented pillows were forgotten because there was nothing in the world that smelled quite like him salt and leather and something warm and clean that you had come to associate with safety.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly. The waves crashed against the cliffs below. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back through the thin fabric of your borrowed nightgown.

"Do you like it here?" he asked quietly. "Staying in the castle, I mean. Is it comfortable?" You considered the question. The bed was comfortable. The bath had been mortifying but the results were undeniable. The food was richer than anything you had ever eaten. The chamber was warm and dry and did not smell of goat or herbs or the particular mustiness that crept into Marta's cottage when it rained.

"It is comfortable," you said. "Very comfortable."

"And Moonfyre would be comfortable here too."

You tilted your head back to look at him. His profile was sharp against the firelight, his pale eye gleaming, his mouth set in the careful line of someone who was trying very hard to sound casual and not quite succeeding.

"What do you mean?"

"The castle and the caves are one and the same," he said. "The Dragonmont runs beneath Dragonstone like a web of veins. You have seen the eastern tunnels—they connect to the castle cellars, to the old hatcheries, to chambers that were built for the express purpose of housing dragons. If Moonfyre lived here, she would have a proper resting place. Warm stone. Hot springs. Room to grow. She would not have to sleep in a cave that is also a thoroughfare for goats and curious village children."

"Moonfyre likes the cave."

"I am not saying she does not. But she has grown, Y/N. She is larger than she was when you found her, and she will keep growing. The cave will not fit her forever. And—" He hesitated, his hand stilling on your back. "And she has knocked things over. In the village."

You winced. That was true. Moonfyre had knocked things over. The baker's fence, for one, when she had decided she wanted to follow you into the village and her tail had swung a little too wide. Old Tom's drying rack, which had been laden with salted fish and had gone crashing to the ground in a shower of scales and splinters. No one had been hurt, but people had screamed. People had run. People had grabbed their children and looked at your dragon with terror in their eyes, and Moonfyre had hissed at them because she did not understand why they were screaming, and you had spent an hour calming her down and another hour apologizing to everyone in the village and another hour after that sitting in Marta's cottage with your head in your hands.

"The villagers are afraid of her," you said quietly.

"Some of them. Not all. But enough." His hand resumed its slow pattern on your back. "It is not their fault. They have never seen a dragon before. They do not know her the way you do. They see teeth and claws and fire, and they are afraid, and fear makes people do foolish things. I do not want anyone to do something foolish and force Moonfyre to defend herself."

You closed your eyes. The image was too easy to summon, a frightened villager with a pitchfork, a dragon who did not understand the threat, fire where there should not be fire. "Neither do I."

"Dragonstone is called Dragonstone for a reason," Valarr said, and his voice was gentle but insistent, the voice of someone who had been thinking about this for a long time and had finally found the courage to speak. "It is the seat of dragonlords. It was built by my ancestors for this exact purpose—to house dragons and their riders, to be a place where both could thrive. The old hatcheries are still warm. The Dragonmont is full of caves and tunnels and chambers that have not been used in seventy years but are still there, still waiting. Moonfyre could have the run of them. She could fly from the mountain and return to the mountain, and no one would scream or run or grab a pitchfork. She would be safe here. You would both be safe here."

You were quiet. His words settled into the space between you, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.

"I do not want to leave Marta alone," you said finally. The words came out smaller than you intended.

Valarr's arm tightened around you. "You would not have to."

"She would never agree to leave the village. That cottage is her home. She has lived there since before I was born—before she found me. She knows every creak in the floorboards and every crack in the hearth and exactly where the roof leaks when the wind blows from the east. She would never leave it."

"Then we will not ask her to leave it." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The firelight caught the silver streak in his hair, turned it to molten moonlight. "I will take care of her. Servants to fetch her water so she does not have to haul it from the well. Guards to keep her safe. A girl to help with her herbs and her remedies and whatever else she needs. She will be treated like a lady of the castle, even if she chooses to stay in her cottage. She raised you. She kept you safe when no one else would. The least I can do is make sure she never has to work herself to the bone again."

Your throat was tight. "She will throw a slipper at the servants. She does not like people fussing over her."

"Then the servants will learn to duck." He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You are not choosing between Marta and the castle, Y/N. You are not abandoning her. You are simply moving a little further up the mountain. She can visit whenever she likes. You can visit whenever you like. The distance is not so great that you cannot walk it in an afternoon."

You looked up at him. His face was open and earnest, his mismatched eyes soft with concern, and you could see the care he had put into this, he way he had thought through every objection, every fear, every reason you might say no.

"And what would I do here?" you asked. "In this castle. What would my life be?"

"You would learn," he said. "How to be a dragonrider. A true dragonrider. Not just someone who clings to Moonfyre's back and hopes for the best, but someone who knows how to fly and fight and command. There are books in the library—old books, from before the Dance, written by dragonriders for their children. There are records of techniques, of commands, of ways to bond with your dragon that have been forgotten for generations. You could learn all of it. You could become something the realm has not seen in seventy years."

"And beyond that? When I am not flying?"

He smiled, a small, private smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Beyond that, you could learn whatever you wished. History. Languages. Music. Statecraft. You have a sharp mind—my father said so himself. You could put it to use. You could become a lady who impresses the King when he finally arrives and sees Moonfyre for himself. You could become someone who does not feel out of place at a supper table with six forks."

"There were only three forks."

"Three forks tonight. There will be more at the Red Keep."

You laughed despite yourself, a soft huff of air that was half exhaustion and half something warmer. "You are very good at this."

"At what?"

"Making me feel as though the world is not quite so terrifying as I thought it was."

His expression softened. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I am only telling you the truth. You are not alone in this. You never have to be alone again. Whatever you decide—whether you stay in the village or move to the castle or fly off on Moonfyre and never come back—I will be there. I will take care of Marta. I will take care of you. That is not a negotiation. It is a promise."

You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the place where his dark hair gave way to that single silver streak. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like a cat seeking warmth.

"Stay," you said. "Tonight. Just stay."

"I was not planning to leave."

"Good." You tugged him back down to the pillows, settling yourself against his side with your head on his shoulder and your hand over his heart. His arm wrapped around you, solid and steady, and his lips pressed once more to the top of your head.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Valarr."

You smile to yourself. The act coming from a place of slight amusement. It was like routine with Dex, when you close the door, he'll pretend he needs something from the other side — make up some kind of ruse in order for you to open it. 

Making your way to his side of the bed, you look inside his nightstand drawer for the charger that's almost always there, though it isn't. The neatly segregated contents void of the charger he claims he needs to collect. And so you adjust the towel still wrapped around you and sit yourself down at the edge of the bed. You glance to the near empty nightstand and to the door, and it's then you decide to toy with him for a moment.

"I'll pass it to you, one second," you tease. You pretend to search and tap your feet on the floor; remaining in place so as to give the illusion you were actually looking. "It's not in here."

"Well," he sighs, seemingly panicking for an excuse. "It is."

"Where is it?" you question, playfully provoking him. "I'll get it."

"Can I just come in?" he remarks, growing annoyance clear in his tone. "I'll be quick," he adds, voice far softer — like he was prompt to correct himself.

You give him a hum in response, but it doesn't have to be particularly loud for him to hear it. All he needs is the slightest possible confirmation in order to open the door. And like it was an instant invitation, he pushes it open and steps inside. 

He lingers in the door frame for a moment, eyes falling from the exposed expanse of your shoulders and down to your bare legs. His gaze reluctantly pulls away for a quick moment and to the kitchen behind him, the hot pans on the stove reminding him of where his prior attention was. Though he's thankful to have been ahead with forethought, and it's when he finally hears the pans reduce to a quiet, inconsistent sizzle, he steps further into the room.

Your eyes meet his, peered up gaze following his stalk like movements as he grows closer and closer. And it's then that he halts, big broad frame pausing in front of you — intense hazel eyes cast down on you below. You were fine playing with him between a closed door, fine to tease when he didn't face you; but to have him directly ahead of you, watchful gaze locked on you, you no longer felt that same sense to toy with him like you did before.

His eyes lower and focus in on your lap for a moment. And it's then his head tilts aside, like you were supposed to know what it means. 

Though you do and you give him a small nod. Again, it was all he needed. 

He bends at the knee and lowers, movement slow and controlled. He's far closer to the level of your eyes, but still, it feels like he's looking down upon you. Dex places his palms on either of your thighs, hands spread wide as he guides your legs apart — separating you. 

The placement of his thumbs lower on either side of your thighs, the pads itching along the inners of each with faint little circles he draws into your skin. He sits further onto the heels of his feet, and it's then he looks up at you, eyes heavy as they study the growing want in your face. 

His gaze soon diverts from you, though yours remains on him — watching him intently as he dips between your thighs, face turning aside so he can press his lips to the inners of one. Breath hot as his mouth ghosts your skin. The trail of his lips rises higher and higher and in it's place, a litter of kisses are left behind. 

Your head involuntarily falls back, and the rest of you then follows. You adjust and push yourself further up the bed, scooching back so as to kindly make some space for Dex between you. He moves with you, lips remaining in place at the inner of your thigh like his mouth is fused to your skin.

Getting comfortable betwixt your thighs, he rests on his elbows — face subsequently itching in closer to your cunt. He shifts his weight a moment, arms coming up from their placement at the edge of the bed to wrap around you; arms encompassing your lower hips. His fingers paw at the squish of your inner thighs, pads sort of pulsing your skin as he pries your legs further apart.

He's slow and teasing. Like he's making you wait the way you did him a few moments before. But really, he's only taunting himself. 

Nuzzling inwards, he presses a kiss to crease of your inner thigh, and then another and another, though the more that follow, the closer they get to your cunt. And by the fourth, maybe fifth kiss he sears into you, his lips reach the ones of your pussy.

Your stomach shudders as a direct response to his touch and it's when you feel your back lift from the sheets, that your hands shoot down and for his hair. Bending your legs, you lift your feet and place them at the edge of the mattress. You hook them, heels digging into that rimmed cuff as an effort to fix yourself more comfortably.

He presses another kiss to you, but this time, slightly higher than the one before. His lips reach your clit and it's there he resumes a small series of faint, and just as lengthy kisses — each one making your thighs beside his head twitch from the gentle care. His tongue extends outwards and he licks a stripe from the middle of your cunt, to where his lips remain just below the mound of your clit.

And he repeats that — doing so over and over and over until all that coats your cunt is a slight sheen of his spit. Before long, those licks turn into suckles; mouth moving deliberately in one spot, focus honed in on where you're most sensitive. Your clit.

With his grip still encompassed over the uppers of your thighs, he adjusts you within his grasp — angling and tilting your hips so as to better nuzzle his face between. You too reposition; altering the placement of your legs so they can trail down the length of his back, the behinds of your thighs pressing into his shoulders, the heels of your feet hooked at his sides.

It's as if you've inadvertently entrapped him, caged him between your thighs. But he's quick to return the gesture — quick to ensure he's just as trapped as you'd involuntarily made him. 

Dex's hold withdraws from your thighs and instead roams upwards, hands flat, thumbs leading the way as he runs up the sides of you, movement slow and intentional. He pauses when he reaches your tits, and it's then that he cups them; holding each nice and firm as he uses them as a way to anchor himself to you. To keep you exactly as is.

His tongue curls between your folds, the once flat muscle now pointed and deliberate as he pushes it through your pussy's lips — pressure slight, yet apparent as it divides you. While his touch is light, your body processes it as anything but, and as the tip of his tongue knocks up against your clit, you jerk against him. Hips winding and bucking a couple times against his face like you had no control over it.

Your nails rake across his scalp, fingers pushing through his hair just moments before you grab fistfuls on either side. While it was an effort of control on your side, it only encourages him, it simply eggs him on to have you respond in such a distinct and albeit, forceful way. 

But there's only so much direct pleasure you can take, especially when his mouth is so concentrated on your nub of nerves. And when he begins to tweak your nipples between thumb and index, you find yourself eager to scamper from the gratification he brings you. 

The height within you hasn't yet been located, but with every lick and suck and kiss he presses into your cunt, you feel yourself aimlessly creeping closer and closer towards it. Though it begins to teeter into too much and your hips shudder against his tongue as a means to escape from the bottomless pit of pleasure.

He doesn't let you far, not when his grip tightens around you.

"No," he murmurs into you, the word muffled yet firm — voice reverberating against your cunt. "Stay."

But as much as you try, you just can't. You react instinctively, body responding through lack of self-control, and it's in the following moment where you feel yourself reach that edge. 

You feel it harsh and fast. 

Your back curves from the sheets as you cry out, panting out nonsensically as he continues to tongue fuck you through it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you choke out, voice strained. Desperate. 

If you thought it felt too much before, you were surely mistaken; just blatantly erroneous. You make attempts to rid him from you — weakened hands pushing at his head, though it's no use, not when he further secures his grasp around you. 

"Keep still."

"Fuck," you whine. It's just shy of a mewl.

But when you really, seriously, genuinely try to flee, he lets up. He releases your shaking shuddering body and slowly stands, emerging from between your thighs. 

Dex leans over you, hands either side of you for support as he lowers atop, face itching in for yours. 

"Dinner's in fifteen," he hums against your lips, the taste of you on his tongue slight.

Even with his mouth ghosting yours, he neglects to press a kiss. Instead he pushes himself away from your bare body below and stands over you. His eyes trail over you a moment before he covers you with the towel that had fallen open from those ten-some minutes of tongue fucking. 

His absence grows larger, and as he heads for the door, he pauses — turning slightly to look back at you. Features stern, sort of like a warning. 

He taps at the door, head tilting so as to firm his expression.

"This stays open."

⎯ ☆ ⎯

You had fought well. Better than well. You had taken a bullet on your bracer, thrown a man twice your size through a marble column, and caught a falling security guard before his skull could split against the floor. You had moved like you were taught. Feet light. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. A son of Themyscira, Diana called you. A wonder in your own right.

And then a reporter shoved a microphone toward you and said, brightly, “How does it feel being Wonder Woman’s newest little Amazon princess?”

The world narrowed.

Not dramatically. No thunder. No cracking sky. Just the sudden, awful sensation of your skin becoming a costume someone else had zipped you into.

Beside you, Dick Grayson’s smile faltered. On your other side, Kara Zor-El went very still.

You had trained for pain. For insult. For blood. For the hot blur of combat and the cold ache after. You had not trained for a question asked sweetly, by someone who thought she was complimenting you.

So you smiled.

Because Diana had taught you diplomacy. Because Hippolyta had taught you dignity. Because the Amazons had raised you to stand tall even when the world tried to make you kneel.

“It feels,” you said, voice smooth as polished marble, “like an honour to represent Themyscira.”

Dick’s hand brushed yours. Not enough for the cameras to catch. Just enough for you to know he had noticed.

Kara stepped forward, eyes bright in that dangerous way Kryptonian eyes got when they were one bad decision away from glowing.

“He’s Wonder Boy,” she said, voice gentle enough that the correction landed like silk over steel. “And he saved six people today.”

The reporter blinked. “Of course, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Kara said.

Somehow that made it worse.

You kept smiling until the interview ended. You kept smiling through the photos. Through the congratulations. Through the mayor shaking your hand and calling you “a credit to Diana’s legacy,” which was better, closer, but still made something twist beneath your ribs.

You kept smiling until the three of you reached the rooftop two blocks away, where the city noise softened into wind and sirens and the low electric hum of Metropolis pretending it was not afraid of anything.

Then your smile fell off your face like a dropped shield.

Dick noticed first. Of course he did. He had the kind of attention that felt like sleight of hand: casual, bright, impossible to catch until he was already holding the truth between two fingers.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You with us?”

You looked out over the city. Metropolis glittered below, all glass towers and impossible optimism. It was nothing like Gotham, which crouched under its own sorrow and dared the world to flinch. Metropolis reached upward. Gotham curled inward. Themyscira stood apart from both, ringed by sea and myth, older than either city could imagine.

You belonged to none of them. That was the thought that came, ugly and sudden. You belonged nowhere completely.

“I hate when they do that,” you said.

Your voice did not break. You wished it had. A broken voice would have felt honest. Instead, it came out calm. Trained. Royal, almost. Like you were giving a speech instead of bleeding quietly in your own chest.

Kara’s expression softened.

Dick did not move closer. Not yet. He was good at that too—waiting for permission without making it feel like waiting.

“When they call you the wrong thing?” he asked.

You huffed a humourless laugh. “When they call me the thing they think I should be.”

The wind tugged at your cape. It had been designed in Themysciran red, shorter than Diana’s, pinned at one shoulder with a clasp shaped like an eagle. The armour beneath was bronze and blue and gold, fitted to your body by hands that had known you since childhood.

It was yours. You knew it was yours.

Most days.

Some days, you looked at the symbol on your chest and felt like you were borrowing a language that had no word for you.

“I know what Wonder Woman means to people,” you said. “I know what the Amazons mean. I know what it means to see her and think—there. There is a woman who can lift a tank and tell the truth to gods. There is a woman who does not apologise for power.”

Kara leaned against the ledge beside you. Her shoulder nearly touched yours.

You stared down at the traffic, at the tiny rivers of headlights moving through the streets.

“I loved that too,” you admitted. “Before I had words for myself, I loved it. I loved being raised among them. I loved the training yards at dawn. I loved the old songs. I loved watching Diana spar like the whole island was holding its breath. I loved thinking strength could look like that.”

Dick’s voice was quiet. “But?”

“But then I became myself.”

The words landed between you.

Not became, not exactly. You had always been yourself. But there had been a time when the truth had been buried under other people’s names for it. Girl. Daughter. Maiden. Princess. Future sister. Future warrior woman.

You had peeled each word away with shaking hands until only one remained.

Boy. Son. Man, someday. Maybe. If you were brave enough to grow into it.

You swallowed. “And suddenly, everything that had made me feel powerful started feeling like it belonged to someone else.”

Kara’s face changed. It was subtle, but you saw it. A flinch hidden under compassion.

“I get that,” she said.

You looked at her. She gave a small, crooked smile. Not Supergirl’s smile. Kara’s. Younger, sadder, sharper at the edges.

“The symbol,” she said, touching the crest on her chest. “Sometimes it feels like home. Sometimes it feels like a tombstone.”

Dick exhaled.

Kara looked away, out toward the burning city lights. “People see it and think hope. They see Superman. They see my cousin. They see this perfect idea of Krypton that never really existed. But I see…” She paused. “I see my parents. My city. The sky turning red. I see everything I was supposed to protect and couldn’t.”

Your chest ached.

Kara Zor-El, last daughter of a dead world, wearing her family’s crest like a sunrise.

You had always thought she looked invincible. That was the trick of symbols, maybe. From far away, they gleamed. Up close, they had weight.

Dick moved then, sitting on the rooftop ledge with one knee drawn up, balance effortless. The wind teased his hair across his forehead. In the museum lights, he had been all charm: Nightwing, the first Robin, Gotham’s golden boy, the one who could smile reporters into forgetting they were afraid.

Now he looked tired.

“The bat never fit me,” he said.

That surprised you.

Dick glanced at you, mouth quirking. “What? You thought I came out of the womb doing flips in kevlar?”

“A little,” you said.

Kara snorted.

Dick pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “Wounded by my own mythology.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

There he was. The performance. The dazzle. The easy little bow with grief tucked behind his teeth.

But then his smile faded.

“I loved being Robin,” he said. “I did. It gave me somewhere to put all the rage. All the grief. Bruce gave me a mission when I thought my whole life had ended. But the bat was his. The cave was his. The silence was his. And for a while, I thought loving him meant becoming another shadow.”

You listened.

It was strange, hearing Dick talk like this. He was so often motion. Laughter. Gravity-defiance with a pulse. But here, under the Metropolis moon, he sounded like a boy who had once stood in a cave too large for him and mistaken obedience for belonging.

“So you became Nightwing,” Kara said softly.

Dick nodded. “Eventually. But even that took time. I had to figure out what parts of the legacy were mine and what parts were just… hand-me-down grief.”

Hand-me-down grief.

The phrase slid into you like a blade finding the gap beneath armour.

You looked down at your chest again. The eagle. The gold. The proof of Diana’s faith in you.

“I do not want to sound ungrateful,” you said.

Dick’s gaze softened. “You don’t.”

“Themyscira accepted me,” you said. “Not all at once. Not perfectly. Some of the elders looked at me like I was a riddle they had not been warned they would have to solve. But Diana never hesitated. She called me a son before I was brave enough to say the word without whispering.”

Kara’s hand found yours.

Warm. Strong. Careful.

You stared at your joined hands.

“She told me the island had raised warriors, queens, hunters, philosophers, poets. She said it could raise a boy.” Your mouth trembled. “She said perhaps it was time it did.”

Dick’s eyes shone.

You looked away before that could undo you.

“But every time I stand beside her, people look for the girl version of me. The version they understand. The version that makes sense beside Wonder Woman.” You took a breath. “Sometimes I feel like the symbol only fits if I make myself smaller. Softer in the wrong ways. Easier to translate.”

Kara squeezed your hand. Dick stood from the ledge and came closer, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted.

You didn’t.

“You know what I see?” he asked.

You gave him a tired look. “If you say ‘a hero,’ I’m throwing you off this roof.”

“I was going to say a terrifyingly judgmental Amazon who once told me my flirting lacked moral architecture.”

Kara burst out laughing.

You closed your eyes. “It did.”

“I have been haunted by that sentence for weeks.”

“As you should be.”

Dick grinned, but it softened quickly. “I see someone who’s carrying a legacy most people don’t even know how to name yet. That doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It means the world’s behind.”

The world’s behind.

A laugh escaped you, small and wet. “That is a very Nightwing way to make alienation sound like a scheduling issue.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain glitter and trauma.”

“Also multitudes.”

Kara shook her head, smiling. Then she turned to you fully.

“When I first came to Earth,” she said, “I hated how people talked about me. Like I was Superman’s cousin first and myself second. Like my whole life was an explanation attached to his. I still hate it sometimes.”

Her thumb moved over your knuckles.

“But Clark didn’t steal the symbol from me. People just didn’t know how to see us both under it yet.”

You looked at her.

“And Diana doesn’t make you less Wonder Boy,” Kara said. “She makes room for you to be him. Everyone else will catch up or get out of the way.”

“Preferably get out of the way,” Dick added. “Kara’s reporter-handling voice is terrifying.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is. I saw a man reconsider his bloodline.”

Kara looked pleased. “Good.”

You laughed then.

Not enough to fix it. Not enough to make the ache vanish. But enough to loosen something.

Dick reached for your other hand.

You let him take it.

There, on a Metropolis rooftop, held between the last daughter of Krypton and the first son of Themyscira’s new age, with Gotham’s bright shadow watching you like you were something worth waiting beside, you finally let your shoulders drop.

“I want it to fit,” you confessed.

Dick’s hand tightened around yours.

“I want to wear the eagle and not feel like I am trespassing. I want to be Wonder Boy and not feel like an asterisk. I want little boys like me to see me and not have to translate themselves in their own heads.”

Your voice cracked at last.

Good. There it was.

The honest wound.

“I want to be a son of Themyscira,” you said, “without feeling like I betrayed its daughters.”

Kara inhaled sharply.

Dick’s face changed with something almost fierce.

“You didn’t betray anyone,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.” His voice was steady. “You didn’t leave womanhood like a battlefield deserter. You were never there as yourself. You survived being misnamed long enough to come home to yourself. That’s not betrayal.”

The words hit too deep.

You stared at him. Dick looked almost surprised by his own certainty, like the truth had passed through him before he could dress it up in charm.

Kara’s eyes were bright again, but not with anger this time.

“You are not less Amazon because you are a man,” she said. “You are proof they were strong enough to love beyond tradition.”

Something inside you gave.

Not broke.

Opened.

You lowered your head, and Kara pulled you into her arms.

You went.

For one suspended second, you were aware of everything: the smell of wind and dust and Kara’s shampoo, the press of her cape against your cheek, Dick’s hand warm between your shoulder blades, the city below moving on without knowing that your world had tilted slightly toward healing.

Then you let yourself breathe.

Kara held you like she understood what it meant to be mistaken for a symbol when you were really a survivor wearing one.

Dick stayed close like he understood that sometimes family was not the people who gave you a name, but the ones who learned how to say it correctly.

After a while, you muttered, “If anyone tells Diana I cried, I will deny it.”

Dick hummed. “I’m pretty sure Diana would just ask why we didn’t cry with you.”

Kara nodded solemnly. “She would be disappointed in us.”

“That is worse.”

“Deeply,” Dick agreed.

You pulled back, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “The two of you are terrible comforters.”

“False,” Dick said. “We are emotionally available and visually stunning.”

Kara tilted her head. “He’s half right.”

You looked between them and, despite the rawness in your throat, smiled. “Which half?”

Kara’s mouth twitched. “He is visually stunning.”

Dick gasped. “Betrayal. On my rooftop? In this economy?”

You laughed again, and this time it felt like sunlight touching water.

For a while, none of you moved.

Then, softly, Dick said, “You know, for what it’s worth… I think the symbol fits you better because you had to fight for it.”

You looked at him. His expression was open in a way that made him look younger. Not childish. Just unguarded. Like the boy who had once worn pixie boots and grief and called it justice was still somewhere inside him, waiting to be told he had done enough.

“You too,” you said.

Dick blinked.

You turned your hand, catching his fingers before he could retreat into a joke.

“The blue bird,” you said. “Nightwing. It fits because you chose it. Not because it was easy. Not because it solved everything. Because you refused to become another man’s shadow.”

Dick went very still.

Kara watched quietly.

“You were not made to be Batman’s echo,” you said. “You were made to be the first song after mourning.”

Dick’s mouth parted slightly.

For once, he seemed to have no clever answer.

Good. You had learned from Diana that truth, when thrown well, could be more precise than any spear.

“You call me dramatic,” you added softly, “but you named yourself after a Kryptonian legend and then made it about freedom. That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard.”

Dick’s ears went red.

Kara’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, he’s blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” you said, delighted despite yourself. “Apollo preserve us. Gotham’s golden boy can be flustered.”

Dick pointed at you. “You weaponise poetry.”

“I was raised correctly.”

Kara laughed, but there was something fragile in her smile now. You saw it because you were looking. Really looking.

The crest on her chest gleamed in the rooftop lights.

You remembered her words.

Sometimes it feels like home. Sometimes it feels like a tombstone.

Carefully, you released Dick’s hand and turned to her.

“And you,” you said.

Kara’s smile faded.

Dick glanced at you, then at her.

You touched the edge of her crest, not pressing, just asking.

She nodded once.

So you laid your palm over the House of El.

“This is not only grief,” you said.

Kara’s throat moved.

“I know it feels that way,” you continued. “I know you carry a dead world where others see hope. But Kara, you are not a monument to Krypton’s ending.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“You are its return,” you said. “Not as it was. Not untouched. Not unbroken. But alive. Speaking. Laughing. Eating terrible Earth food with people who love you.”

Dick whispered, “Hey, potstickers are not terrible.”

Kara let out a shaky laugh. You smiled faintly, then grew serious again.

“You are not the last daughter of anything,” you said. “You are the first hymn after silence.”

Kara covered your hand with hers.

For a moment, the only sound was the city and the wind.

Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against yours.

Kryptonians ran warm. You had noticed before, in battle, in passing, in the casual brush of her shoulder against yours. But this close, Kara felt like standing near sunlight with a pulse.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

You closed your eyes. “Always.”

Dick’s hand settled lightly at your back again, anchoring without holding you down.

That was the thing about them, you thought.

Dick, who had turned mourning into motion. Kara, who had turned extinction into hope. And you, who were still trying to turn truth into a shape the world could recognise.

Perhaps that was why Diana had smiled when Clark suggested the three of you train together. Perhaps she had seen it before you did: not a replacement Trinity, not a neat inheritance, but a beginning.

A bird. A star. An eagle.

Not Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman.

Not yet legends. Not old gods. Just three young heroes on a rooftop, learning that symbols were not cages unless you let the world lock them from the outside.

Below, sirens wailed.

Dick sighed. “That sounds like our cue.”

Kara lifted her head, eyes clearing. “Bank robbery?”

You tilted your head, listening. “No. Two streets over. Elevated rail malfunction.”

Dick was already smiling, mask sliding back into place—but not all the way. Not with you. Not with Kara.

“Race you?” he asked.

Kara arched a brow. “You cannot fly.”

“I have style.”

“You have sticks.”

“Iconic sticks.”

You stepped toward the ledge, cape snapping behind you.

The ache was still there. It would be there again tomorrow, probably. The next interview. The next mistaken title. The next stranger trying to squeeze you into a story too small to hold you.

But Kara’s words stayed in your chest.

The world’s behind.

And Dick’s.

You survived being misnamed long enough to come home to yourself.

You looked at them both, your heart stupidly full.

“If either of you falls,” you said, “I am not looking back like Orpheus. I am coming down after you.”

Dick’s smile softened into something dangerously tender. Kara’s eyes shone.

“Very romantic,” Dick said.

“Very impractical,” Kara added.

You grinned and stepped backward off the roof. “Then keep up.”

For one breath, there was only falling.

Then the lasso at your hip sang gold through the night, catching a flagpole, swinging you out over the bright Metropolis street.

Behind you, Kara launched herself into the sky like a comet.

Dick followed in a graceful arc of blue and black, laughing as he fell toward the city like gravity was merely an old friend he enjoyed teasing.

And for once, the symbol on your chest did not feel borrowed.

It felt like a vow.

Not perfect. Not finished.

That precision, the control he has over them, and the way they respond to him like they're an extension of his own body. What would that feel like, turned inward? Directed not toward battle, but toward you?

A slow, traitorous flush creeps down your neck.

You shift on the bed, suddenly very aware of how warm your skin feels, how much space there is between the two of you. You chew your bottom lip, watching as one of the shadows curls around his wrist like a lover's hand, languid and slow.

Your thighs press together without thinking.

"Whatever you're thinking," Xaden suddenly says, voice low and edged with amusement - apparently, he's been watching you without you noticing, "you're not being subtle about it."

Your heart skips a beat. You look up too fast, and sure enough, he's turned to you now, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fist. Those dark eyes fix on yours, heat smoldering behind them.

"I wasn't thinking anything," you lie, poorly.

He lifts an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge. "No?"

The shadows twist upward behind him, lazily coiling like smoke in a breeze. You can't help it; your gaze follows the movement, and he notices. Of course he does.

"You've been staring for the past five minutes," he murmurs, rising slowly to his feet. "And you do this thing ..." His head tilts, eyes raking over you. "... where your breathing changes. A little faster. Lips parting. Eyes glazed. That usually means one of two things."

You blink, startled. "Oh?"

"Either you're about to kiss me," he says, stepping closer, shadows following after him like eager whispers, "or you're imagining what I can do to you."

Your skin goes hot. You don't respond, can't, because yes, damn it, that's exactly what you're doing.

He stops in front of you. Close, but not yet touching you.

"What is it about them?" he asks softly. His eyes flick to his own hand, where a shadow is curling between his fingers. "The way they move? Or the fact that I can control them with a thought?"

You breathe in, gaze fixed on the shadow. "Both." This single word is a whisper and a confession in one, and you immediately see something in his expression change.

His shadows still as he leans down, mouth near your ear, voice a raw, delicious scrape of sound. "I've thought about it too, you know."

Your breath hitches.

"You pressed up beneath me, breathless and flushed, my hands holding you down while my shadows ..." He pulls back, just enough to meet your wide eyes. "... explore."

You shudder just once, not in fear but in anticipation, and don't look away. You can't - too enthralled, the images already burning into your mind.

"Tell me," he says, voice low and reverent. "Do you want to feel it?"

There's a pause before you answer, soft but sure, "Yes."

That one word changes everything. Xaden's eyes darken, heat and intent flaring behind them like something alive. But he doesn't move forward. Not even a single step toward you. Instead, he stays exactly where he is, a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, shadows slowly curling at his heels like they're waiting for permission.

"This is about you," he says, voice a low, molten thread of sound. "So I'm not going to touch you."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles, slow and dangerous, like he knows exactly what that promise will do to you. "You're going to feel everything," he says, "and I won't lay a single finger on you. Not until you ask me to."

Your breath catches.

Because you can already see it, you see how much he wants to. It's in the way his hands flex at his sides, how the tension has crept into his shoulders. His gaze is locked on you, burning, like he's already imagining what it would feel like to give in, to press his mouth to your neck and pull those desperate little sounds from your throat.

But he doesn't.

He just lifts his hand, fingers twitching in a subtle, deliberate motion, and the shadows come to life. One tendril rises, slow and sinuous, brushing along your ankle like a whisper of wind. You twitch, the sensation feather-light and unfamiliar, and your eyes shoot to his. He watches you closely, carefully, as another shadow curls around your calf, sliding beneath the hem of your pants.

You inhale. Sharp. Audible.

The shadows are cool but not cold. Just ... different, unfamiliar. They move like silk against your skin, with the weight and texture of something half-formed, something alive. One glides higher, slowly trailing the curve of your thigh, and you feel it even through the layers of fabric. It's a delicate, teasing pressure that makes your stomach twist and your breath grow shallow.

Xaden says nothing. But his pupils dilate, and his throat bobs when he swallows. Yet he still doesn't move closer.

Another shadow moves, this one rising behind you, slipping between your back and the shirt that suddenly feels far too heavy, too in the way. It lifts the hem slightly, gliding along the dip of your spine with aching patience. You shiver, spine arching instinctively, chasing the touch.

"Good," he murmurs. "Just feel."

The one at your thigh climbs higher, and gods, your breath stutters as it slides beneath the waistband of your pants. It doesn't touch anything yet; it just rests there, waiting for a command. You meet his gaze again, and something about how he's watching you - dark and reverent, restrained but starving - makes heat bloom low in your belly.

"Do you feel how much they want you?" he asks softly. "They react to me, but they respond to you. They're drawn to your need."

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, legs tense, muscles coiling in anticipation as the shadow behind your back slowly inches higher, brushing your lower ribs, tracing the side of your breast through your shirt.

You let out a quiet, shaky breath. Too overwhelmed by the sensation to do anything else.

"I can stop," he offers, voice rougher now, more ragged.

"No!" you say quickly, almost desperately. "Don't."

His jaw clenches and his hands twitch, but he nods. "I won't."

The shadow beneath your clothes at your waist finally moves again, tracing the curve of your hip bone, before finally slipping lower. Not quite touching where you want, where you need it, but circling closer and closer like it knows exactly how to undo you one brush at a time.

And still, Xaden hasn't taken a step.

But he's breathing harder now, lips parted, chest rising with each slow inhale like it's costing him something to keep his distance. He's watching you unravel, and gods, the way he's watching makes you feel bare even with all your clothes on.

"Does it feel good?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Yes," you breathe.

The shadows are slow and deliberate, gliding just beneath your clothes, shaping your breath, and making your skin feel electric. Every pass, every faint caress beneath fabric you suddenly resent, tightens the coil in your belly another notch.

But then they stop. Sudden. Inexplicably.

They still and retreat, slipping away from your body like smoke sucked into the air. You blink, heart racing, skin humming with frustration and want.

You're about to question your boyfriend, curse him, and beg him to continue, but then you hear his voice, low and raspy, "Take them off."

His dark eyes are fixed on you, sharp and hungry. He's still standing exactly where he was, chest rising with careful, controlled breaths as if proximity might undo him. As if he cannot guarantee not to touch you, should he come closer.

Your lips part. "You want me to ...?"

"Clothes," he explains, voice even lower and rougher than before. "Take them off. I want to see."

Your breath catches because you know he won't ask twice. So, you slowly rise to your feet on trembling legs. You don't rush the process, though. Partly because your fingers are shaking. Mostly because something is intoxicating about the way his gaze follows your every motion, tracking your hands as you peel your shirt over your head, slow and careful, revealing bare skin inch by inch. His eyes immediately flicker to your breast, to your nipples already tightened from the phantom touch of his shadows. He swears under his breath.

Your pants slide down next, slowly over your hips, until they pool at your feet. You stand there for a moment in just your underwear. The room is silent except for your breathing and the subtle crackle of restrained power in the air.

Then, without a word, you slip the last layer down too, baring yourself to him completely.

His jaw tightens. "Sit back down. Just like you were before."

You do, moving slowly, lowering yourself back onto the edge of the bed. Your thighs part instinctively, showing him how aroused this whole thing has already made you.

Xaden's mouth parts just slightly, as he stares at you.

You're already wet. You know you are. The air brushes your skin and makes you clench around nothing, and the way his eyes drag over every inch of you, now neck to chest, to your slick center and back up again, makes your breath catch.

His voice, when it comes, is low and reverent. "Fuck."

He runs a hand over his mouth, like he needs a second to compose himself. "I knew you'd be beautiful," he murmurs. "But like this? Dripping and flushed and waiting ... all because of me? Because of my shadows touching you?"

You exhale shakily. "Xaden ..."

His shadows stir again. Like they can feel his restraint slipping and want to return to what they've been doing before. Touching you, feeling you unravel beneath them. But he holds up a hand, commanding them still.

"I want to remember this," he says, voice quiet. "Every part of you. Every look you make. I want to see what my shadows do to you."

You shift on the bed, instinctively trying to ease the ache growing between your legs. His eyes follow the motion and darken.

"Touch yourself," he says. It's not a command, just a plea by a man starved. "Just for a moment. Let me see how badly you need it."

You hesitate, the heat of his gaze wrapping around you like a second skin. But then, slowly, you obey.

Your breath stutters as you slide your hand between your thighs, fingers moving cautiously at first. Testing. The memory of his shadows still lingers on your skin. Soft, ghostlike. Wanting. But now it#s your hand, your touch, and his eyes never leave you.

You glance up and your breath catches in your throat.

Xaden's no longer standing in front of you; instead, he's taken a seat in the chair across from the bed, distant enough not to touch, but close enough that nothing escapes his view. He sits wide-legged, hands gripping the arms of the chair like his life depends on it. And between his thighs, his pants are visibly, unmistakably tight.

There's no hiding it. The bulge pressing against the front of his pants is hard and obvious, a physical betrayal of everything he's been trying to hold.

You lick your lips, proud that you can have such an effect on him just by presenting yourself to him. Your arousal becomes his arousal and vice versa.

His gaze stays locked on your hand. On the slow, tentative movements of your fingers as they brush through your slick folds, circling your clit once, twice, which draws out a soft moan you try (and fail) to contain.

He keeps watching like he's starved. Dark eyes fixed, jaw tight, the tendons in his neck straining with restraint. His shadows swirl faintly at his feet again, like they're agitated and restless, sensing just how much their wielder is holding himself back.

"Don't stop," he says roughly. It's the first time he's spoken since sitting, and his voice alone is proof of his building arousal. It's lower now, hoarse. Like it's scraped raw from the inside. "Let me see you fall apart."

You shiver, and his command causes your fingers to move a little faster now, bolder, getting encouraged from his noises. Your other hand lifts to your chest, brushing over one breast, teasing one of your already pebbled nipples. The sensation sends sparks dancing down your spine, and you let your head tip back for a moment, lips parting to let out a low moan.

When you spare a glance at him, you realize that one of his hands has clenched into a fist on the armrest. The other twitches, like he's resisting the urge to reach for himself, no matter how difficult it seems to be. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes dark and feral, but his body remains still. Controlled, but burning up in heat.

"For someone who's not supposed to be touching," you murmur, breathless but in a teasing tone, "you're looking at me like you're seconds away from losing it."

That earns an immediate reaction. His head tilts, and a small smile curves at his lips. "I said this was about you, not me."

And then, finally, the shadows start to move again. They slither forward like they've been waiting for this moment, rising to meet your thighs, brushing past your fingers with the same careful precision as before. One tendril wraps gently around your wrist, slowing your movements, before using its grip to guide them. Another one glides along the inside of your thigh, tracing slick skin, spreading you a little wider. Two wrap around your thighs, holding them open, and giving Xaden a perfect view of everything that is happening.

Xaden exhales like he's been holding his breath for minutes. "Look at you," he says, "you're soaked."

The shadows shift, and a new one curls beneath your breast, lifting it slightly before trailing the tip across your nipple. You gasp, louder this time, hips rocking instinctively into your own hand guided by their touch.

"You should see what I see, love," Xaden murmurs. "Flushed. Desperate. Dripping for me. For my shadows."

The one around your wrist retreats now, your hand free again, and you're moving it quicker now, fingers sliding in deeper, guided by your need and his intense focus. But the shadows don't stop this time; they join you. One flickers gently across your clit while another brushes the spot where your fingers disappear inside yourself, clearly planning to either join you or take over completely.

You moan again, this time unfiltered. Loud and desperate and fueled by a kind of heat you've never felt like this before.

And across from you, Xaden groans, quiet and broken, when you suddenly see it: His hips shift. He presses into the seat of the chair, like he's trying to relieve the pressure, just for a second. Just to survive the sight of you like this. But still, he doesn't touch. Gods, does he want to, though.

You're so close you can taste it now. The shadows are everywhere, coaxing, teasing, knowing. One is stroking your clit in maddening circles, precise and rhythmic, while another moves against your entrance in tandem with your fingers, every motion tailored to bring you to the brink of orgasm. Your hand is soaked, knuckles slick, your breath ragged as your thighs tremble with every breath.

Your head falls back. Your hips rise. You're right there, teetering on the edge ...

Suddenly, your wrists are caught, stopping every motion immediately.

Your eyes fly open with a sharp inhale as cool tendrils of shadow wrap around both wrists, gentle but firm - no matter how hard you try to free yourself, you can't - and lift your arms above your head.

They pin you to nothing but air, stretched and exposed, your back arched and your chest rising in quick, desperate breaths. Your hands twitch in the hold, but there's no pain. Just a quiet, impossible strength that says: stay.

"What ..." you gasp, eyes darting to him. "Xaden!"

His gaze is molten, no longer calm, no longer composed. He leans forward in his chair at least, forearms resting on his thighs, and his voice is barely human when he speaks. It's low and dark and hungry. Different from what you're used to. "You don't need your hands anymore."

Immediately, you reply with a quiet, wrecked sound, caught somewhere between surprise and need. He still hasn't moved from that chair, hasn't touched you, but somehow, this is even more intimate than him being right in front of you. Or above you. Your body is fully open, trembling under the sensation of shadow and want, your skin hypersensitive, your breath breaking.

"I want to see you fall apart," he says, each word thick with restraint. "But I want it to be because of me. Not your fingers. Mine."

In that moment, you realize: his shadows are his fingers. They are an extension of himself. Guided by his will, listening to his command, touching you the way he would.

They start moving with more purpose now, no longer teasing. One slides between your legs, a thicker one than the small tendrils that have touched you before, and presses inside you. Slow but thick enough to stretch, and somehow it feels both soft and strong all at once. You cry out, hips jerking, the sensation unlike anything you've ever felt.

Another one trails up to your stomach, curves over your breasts, and brushes your nipples with aching precision. First one, then the other. Going back and forth, switching between them.

And the one at your clit? It doesn't stop. It keeps circling, stroking you with maddening accuracy. Never too much, never too little. Just enough to keep you spiraling higher and higher.

Xaden watches you writhe under the touch of his power, his jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack.

"You look so fucking perfect like this," he rasps. "Wrists bound. Mouth open. Needing me ... and so fucking wet for me."

You moan at the cadence of his voice, low and dark, cracked with hunger. One of the shadows brushes your throat like a phantom kiss, not choking, just reminding you that he could touch you anywhere and anytime. That he is touching you, even if not directly.

"Do you want to come?" he asks, eyes fixed on your soaked center, on the way his shadows move inside you.

"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from your throat. "Please ... Xaden, please."

"Good," he growls. "Then let go."

And with one final flick of shadow against your clit, one deep thrust of dark silk inside you, right against your spot, you shatter. The moment your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs, tearing a loud moan from your throat, everything blurs.

You need a few seconds to come back, and when you do, when the wave recedes, the shadows remain.

Your body is still pulsing, clenching involuntarily around the cool tendril inside you. Your skin is damp with sweat, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. You're floating, skin prickling, heart fluttering ... and then you feel it.

They haven't stopped.

The shadow tendril buried inside of you doesn't retreat. No, it stays where it is. Still moving, slower now, but steady still, curling in a way that makes your overstimulated nerves jolt in shock. Another brushes your clit in delicate, lazy circles, too gentle to hurt, but too much for your already sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your breath catches in your throat. You try to speak, but the words stutter out as a broken moan.

Xaden hasn't moved from his seat yet, but he's leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees, his expression dark and unreadable. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw flexes as he watches the way your body arches, the way you fight the pleasure even as it builds again. Faster than the first time.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

You nod, unable to do much else, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your wrists are still pinned above your head, held by nothing but shadow and his command. You don't even think about pulling free anymore.

"You just came, and now you're already clenching for more. Tell me, love. Tell me how much you enjoy it."

You whimper, hips jerking as the shadow inside you twists again, gentle but devastating.

"Xaden." His name slips out like a plea, like a warning.

He cocks his head slightly. "Do you want me to stop?"

You should say yes. You should. Your body is too raw and overstimulated. But even as the words rise in your throat, you feel it again. That heat. That slow, growing ache that builds from the aftermath and transforms into a second wave of pleasure. The shock has started to fade, replaced by something darker, something deeper. Pure need. Desperate want. Burning heat.

So instead of giving him the answer you should, you shake your head, and whisper, "No. Don't stop."

His eyes darken even more, if possible, and a low groan escapes him, like your words physically unravel something inside him. "Then take it," he growls. "Let me watch you fall apart again."

The shadow at your clit quickens just slightly, the circles tighter now, more deliberate. The one inside you thrusts a little deeper, filling you completely before dragging out with slow, perfect pressure. You cry out, body jolting with every pulse of sensation.

Your back arches. Your legs twitch.

And Xaden is watching it all, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, muscles taut, a sheen of sweat at his brow from how tightly he's reining himself in.

"You're going to come again. And you'll keep going until I say you're done." It's not a threat, it's a promise. You know he isn't playing around, especially not when it comes to something like this.

Another shadow tendril rises and wraps around your waist - not to restrain, but to cradle. To hold you still. You're barely sitting upright anymore, slumping into its cool embrace like you're weightless, boneless. Which, honestly, after everything, might not be that far off the truth.

Your nipples are hard, your mouth slack, and your whole body trembles. The pressure of another orgasm is rising again, faster this time. Hot and brutal and inevitable.

You can't think. Can't breathe. All you can do is feel.

When it finally hits, it hits you harder than the first. The second climax tears through you without warning, without mercy. It's raw and overwhelming, your body clenching so hard around the shadow inside you that your whole vision whites out at the edges. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, every nerve stretched, every muscle taut.

Your limbs tremble violently in their bindings, thighs twitching with aftershocks. The tendrils of shadow cradle you still, one stroking inside, another lazily circling your clit like it's savoring the moment. There's one still playing with your nipples, and a few more keeping you in place, holding you open and mostly unmoving. Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, like you could burst from even a single breath of air.

You let your head drop back for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. Your heart is racing, lungs dragging air in ragged gulps, body slick with sweat.

For one second, you think it's over. But then you blink and realize Xaden has finally moved. He's standing now, and while his shadows move across the room, remaining on your hot body, he has finally stepped closer. Not yet touching you, but finally within reach.

His jaw is hard, his breathing uneven. His eyes are darker than you've ever seen before. And when your gaze shifts downward, you see it.

He's pulled down his pants, his cock now in his hand. Thick, flushed, and painfully hard. He's not stroking, just holding it, fingers tightening like he's seconds away from losing all control.

Yes! He'll finally give it to me now, you think for one blissfully naive second.

You're wrecked, spent, soaked. Although your body is done, your mind screams at you, imagining it vividly: Xaden finally sinking into you, claiming you after all that teasing and restraining, giving up the control he so carefully maintained.

But he doesn't move, doesn't come closer, doesn't give any sign that you're wish is about to come true. Instead, he meets your eyes and smirks.

"You think you get this now?" When he speaks, his voice is ruined with lust. His hand flexes around his cock, but he doesn't stroke. Doesn't offer it to you. "You think just because you came twice for me, I'm going to fuck you?"

Your lips part, but you don't have an answer. Your mind is too occupied with watching him, big, flushed, and ready. The ache between your legs hasn't faded - it only seems to grow stronger.

"You don't get that yet. Because this isn't about me." His gaze flicks down to your body, your parted thighs, your glistening skin, your nipples still hard, your wrists still pinned high in the air. "This is about you; this is about what you can take."

He's moved closer, until he's standing right at the edge of the bed and between your spread legs.

The shadow inside you pulses once in a deep, deliberate thrust that has your hips jerking as another gasp rips from your throat.

"You're not done, love," he says. "Not even close."

Suddenly, something new touches you. Smaller. Different.

Your body goes completely still as a thin tendril brushes softly over the curve of your ass. Hesitant. Gentle. It's not yet pressing, just a presence. Like it's testing the waters, asking for permission to go further.

Your breath stutters in your throat, your heart giving a sharp little flutter of surprise as your eyes fly to Xaden.

He's still watching you, every inch of you, every breath. His cock is hard in his hand, his control barely holding. But his gaze softens the moment he sees your expression shift.

"No, don't tense you," he says gently, tone softer than before. He knows this is new territory, and he's giving you a chance to stop him before he goes further.

You swallow hard. "Xaden ..."

"Shhh. You're safe, I promise."

The smaller shadow hasn't moved again. It lingers where it is, waiting for you to breathe more normally.

"I won't hurt you," he promises.

You nod, chest rising with each shaky inhale. You know that. Xaden would never do something that'll hurt you.

He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze like a hand stroking down your body. "This is just another way to make you feel good. If you want it."

You don't need to think about it for long. You just nod and whisper, "Okay. I trust you."

That soft tendril starts to move. It's just a nudge at first, brushing between your cheeks, slicking itself with your arousal before it traces lower. The pressure is featherlight. Circling, teasing, not yet pushing in.

Xaden looks at you, at the small tendril working at your tightest hole. "That's it. Let it in. Let me show you what you can feel."

You gasp as it eventually slips in, not far, just barely enough to make you tense. But you feel the stretch, the sensation. It's neither overwhelming nor wrong. It's just ... more. Different. Not something you're used to.

Paired with the slow thrusts from the other shadow and the rhythmic circles on your clit, it feels insane. Like your body is being touched in ways you never thought to imagine.

You moan, louder this time, raw and half-broken. From the corner of your vision, you see Xaden's hand tighten around his cock, stroking up and down just once. Probably to alleviate the pressure.

"You're taking it so well," he says. "So fucking perfect for me."

The tendril inside your ass moves again, just slightly. A flex. A press. Slowly but surely working you open, so your whole body shakes. By now, it feels like it's not entirely your own anymore, nothing but heat and trembling limbs, every nerve alive and burning.

You're still bound. Still held open by his shadows, which have not relented the slightest. The one inside your cunt keeps up that slow, steady rhythm, deep and dragging, like it knows exactly how to keep you suspended right on the edge. The tendril inside your ass moves in time, not fast, not rough, just full. Measured. Perfect. And the one at your clit continues its circles, patient and relentless, tracing the shape of you, bringing you closer to your next inevitable orgasm.

You moan again, high and shaking, toes curling.

Xaden's voice breaks through the haze. "Fuck. You look so fucking good like this."

His hand is still wrapped around his cock, now flushed dark and heavy, and he's definitely throbbing.

"You don't realize, do you?" he murmurs, looking down at you, at your stretched, wrecked body, held wide open for him by nothing but his magic. "Stuffed in all the right ways. Taking every bit of it like you were made for this."

You moan, body arching, because gods, the words, the way he says them ...

Suddenly, he freezes because you do something he doesn't expect. You tilt your head back, eyelids fluttering. Your mouth falls open. Not in a cry this time, but in invitation. Slow. Willing. Silent.

You look up at him with your lips parted, tongue just barely visible, and there's no mistaking what you're asking for. Not begging. Not demanding. Just offering - in case he needs it.

His breath catches in his throat. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He lets out a noise which sounds suspiciously like a growl, and for a second, he doesn't move.

But then he steps forward.

His cock is right there now, heavy and flushed and aching. So close you can smell the salt and sweat and want rolling off him in waves. He watches your mouth like it's the most dangerous thing in the world.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice low and guttural. "Because if I fuck your mouth right now, I'm not going to last long. You've already undone me, love. All of this -" He gestures at your body, his shadows still moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. "This is you doing it to me."

You breathe out around the words. "Then let me finish it."

That seems to be all it takes.

His hand lifts as he guides himself to your lips, eyes asking for permission once more, before he finally slides in. The weight of him on your tongue is heady. Real.

The moment you close your lips around him, Xaden shudders like he's being struck by lightning. "Fuck. Yes. Just like that, love."

He doesn't thrust. Not yet. Instead, he lets you set the pace, lets your tongue swirl, lets you hollow your cheeks, and allows your mouth to worship him in the way you want.

But his control? It's shredding by the second. You see it, you feel it.

As his shadows keep moving inside you, pushing you higher once more, he finally touches you, tangling a hand in your hair. His breath catches and his hips twitch, and you know: This is the beginning of the end.

His cock is heavy on your tongue, warm and pulsing, the taste of him already blooming against the back of your throat. He's still not thrusting, letting you drag your mouth over him slowly. Your lips glide down his length as far as they'll go, your tongue curling underneath as you pull them back, then down again, building a rhythm.

Above you, Xaden swears, quiet and savage. "Fuck, you're perfect. So fucking perfect with your mouth full of me."

His hand stays buried in your hair, fingers clenched tight, but he still doesn't force it. Doesn't need to. You're doing it for him - to him. And the look on his face is giving you confirmation you're doing something right, because it's nothing short of wrecked.

But what ruins you all over again, what truly undoes you, is that his shadows have never stopped. They're still moving inside you with terrifying intent.

The thick one inside your cunt is thrusting faster than before now, perfectly timed with the flickering pressure at your clit. The smaller tendril in your ass moves in a slow, careful motion, stretching you just enough to make your body twitch with every movement. Your wrists are still held high, legs shaking. Your entire body feels like one exposed, burning nerve.

You can't moan around his cock, but your throat vibrates with the effort.

Xaden feels it. He chokes out a curse, hips jerking forward just a little, and that's the moment you've been waiting for. His control finally snaps. "Shit - love, I'm gonna ... fuck, I'm-"

You look up at him, eyes wide, mouth full, and take it.

The shadows drive deep inside you, fast and hard now, and your body tips over the edge one last time. Your third orgasm of the night crashes through you like lightning rippling through your spine. Your hips buck, walls clenching around the tendrils inside you, every inch of you convulsing with a release so raw it leaves your vision blurring.

And above you, Xaden roars. His hand tightens in your hair, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he thrusts deep one last time, spilling hot down your throat, groaning so low it seems to vibrate in your bones. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time, wild and worshipful and undone.

You swallow around him, reflexive, greedy, and he nearly collapses.

The shadows don't stop immediately. They ease, slow their movements, stroking you gently through the aftershocks as your whole body trembles, overstimulated and utterly spent. A soft, rippling sensation coils around your thighs, your belly, your chest, like they're trying to soothe you now. Trying to bring you gently down from your high.

When he finally pulls out, you're still breathing hard, lips parted, chest heaving. Xade drops to his knees in front of you. His hand cradles your jaw, his thumb wiping a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. His gaze searches yours, worried and full of something deeper than lust.

"You okay?" he asks in a whisper.

You nod. "I've never -" You break off, breath hitching.

He leans in, presses a single kiss to your damp cheek. Then your temple. Finally, your lips. Soft this time, with no demand behind it. Just him. Just your boyfriend.

"I know," he murmurs. "Me neither."

Time seems to lose all meaning after that.

You're not sure how long you sit there, body limp, shadows fading slowly like dusk melting into night. The bindings at your wrists release at last, and you let your arms fall with a shuddering sigh, your whole body humming, flushed and overstimmulated in the best way.

You barely notice when Xaden moves. It's only when you feel his arms around you that you do. Strong. Gentle. Steady.

He lifts you with seemingly no effort at all, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. You don't protest. You just let your head fall to his shoulder, your cheek resting against his bare skin, still damp with sweat and heat. His heart is racing.

He lies you down on his bed, real, solid, grounding, and eases you down like you're fragile. You aren't, of course, but gods, you're glad he treats you like you are right now.

Then he crawls into bed next to you, not reaching for more, not chasing the embers of lust still flickering in the air. He's just lying there, close and real.

You turn to him, your limbs slow and heavy, and he lifts the blanket over both of you. The heat of him seeps into your bones. His arm curls beneath your head, and his hand rests on your waist, holding you there like he's afraid you'll disappear.

And then, finally, he speaks. Quiet, almost uncharacteristically unsure. "I didn't go too far?"

You shake your head, brushing your nose against his chest. "You stopped every time you thought you might. You gave me every choice."

He exhales, which you can feel in your hair. "I've never done that before. With the shadows, I mean."

You pull back just enough to properly look at him in disbelief. "You've never used them during ...?"

His eyes meet yours, soft and unwavering. "Never. Not like this."

Your chest tightens as something inside you settles. "What was this, then?" you ask, not teasing. Just curious.

Xaden hesitates, then brushes his thumb across your cheek, the way he did when you were bound and writhing, only now with tenderness so thick it nearly breaks you.

"This," he says quietly, "was me showing you that you're not just another weapon I want at my side. You're the only thing I've ever wanted to fall for."

Your breath catches. There are no more shadows now. Just you, and him, and the sound of your heartbeat where it echoes against his chest.

author's notes: I watched twenty minutes of American Psycho and got pissed off and wrote this instead of finishing the movie. It’s fine, everything’s fine. Idk, I feel like Patrick isn’t that deep of a character. Seemed pretty fuckin easy to understand 💀 But who knows? Not me. Idk. That’s your warning for potential mischaracterization. I hate everything Bateman represents, but I think I tear him a new one pretty well in this.

The reader is referred to with he/him pronouns and he’s written to have tattoos; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used. He’s called pretty, but that isn’t intended to be a gendered compliment. Guys can be pretty, people can be pretty.

The title of this fic is from Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery.

god let's just get this over with i hate myself

Patrick Bateman is, in a word, annoyed. He’s suffocated by routine, drowning in expectations only he has set for himself. This does not transfer well to his work: he lashes out quickly, nitpicks at the smallest of things and raises his voice when he shouldn’t. But Patrick knows he’s invaluable to the company, so he has a certain level of diplomatic immunity. 

Even so, he didn’t expect his boss to go so far as to personally select his next assistant. Usually, Patrick is given that responsibility—and he just bases it on which female applicant is the least irritating to look at. But apparently he doesn’t have that kind of authority anymore. He’s annoyed, even if he’s also secretly relieved to be freed from the endless cycle of interviews. 

“Patrick,” his boss says sternly one unremarkable Tuesday morning, lingering in his doorway. “Your new assistant starts tomorrow.” 

“Right,” he says, barely able to conceal his annoyance. Patrick can’t wait to be met with yet another woman who drools all over him, who compliments his outfits and stares at him with hopeful eyes. So very exciting. And the fact that he was given no agency in the affair doesn’t exactly make him feel any better about it. 

His jaw is clenched through his skincare routine the next morning. His hands almost shake as he applies his ice mask. He has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he drives to work, a permanent scowl on his face as the elevator ascends the building’s floors. 

Patrick isn’t settled at his desk for more than a few moments before his boss is in the doorway. “Patrick,” he says, virtually the same words spoken in the same inflection in the same place at the same time as yesterday. Is his life really growing so monotonous and predictable? Patrick sighs, tries to pay attention despite the growing urge to think about literally anything else. “This will be your new assistant,” his boss continues, stepping aside to allow them to enter. 

Patrick almost doesn’t want to look, but he manages to convince himself if only to maintain pretense. His eyes drag across the elegant bookshelves against the wall and over his boss to find… you. 

“Him?” Patrick just blinks in disbelief. Surely you’re not his new assistant. 

“Me,” you confirm, looking at him with thinly-veiled amusement. You don’t seem threatened or bothered by the fact that he just ignored you. “Nice to meet you,” you say before introducing yourself. You step in and offer a hand; he shakes it. The gesture doesn’t tell him much about you: it’s firm and brief, almost unassuming. You don’t attempt to pry his hand off with a strong grip, but you also don’t rush to get your hand away. Hm. 

His boss soon departs, leaving the two of you standing there. You’ve stepped back, still lingering in the doorway. You’re wearing a dress shirt and slacks. Ordinary, unassuming. 

“Come in,” Patrick offers. You take a step forward, closing the door behind you. Your eyes flit about the space with a detached curiosity. He watches you for several seconds, studying you. “You’re a guy,” he eventually states. 

“Yeah,” you confirm, meeting his gaze. “You seem surprised.” 

“My prior assistants were all women,” Patrick elaborates. 

You’re silent. He wonders if you’ve connected the dots on that particular puzzle. It looks like you have. 

“Nothing to say?” he challenges you. 

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that,” you frown. 

“Fine,” he relents. “Have a seat. We should discuss what your days will consist of.” 

“Okay,” you answer casually, taking the proffered seat. 

Patrick feels his eyebrow twitch at the informal remark, but he manages to hold himself back from reprimanding you. This is what he wanted, after all: someone who didn’t immediately fall in love with him. The question remains, though: are you competent? 

He tries his best to figure that out, as he engages you in conversation. Ultimately, though, Patrick won’t really know for sure until your skills are put to the test—until you’re in action, completing tasks for him. In the meantime, he’ll settle for messing with you a bit. 

“Get me a mineral water, will you?” he asks nonchalantly. 

“I don’t know where it is,” you say flatly, almost too quickly. 

“In the kitchen around the corner,” Patrick recites, making sure to sound as bored as possible. “Second shelf from the top in the fridge.” He waves his hand and waits for you to scramble off. 

A few seconds pass and he doesn’t hear any scurrying footsteps or murmured apologies. Patrick drags his eyes up from his papers to find that you’re still just sitting there. “Well?” he demands impatiently. 

“I’m your assistant, not your delivery boy,” you remark calmly, “and you have one right there.” You nod to the mineral water on his desk, which is, in fact, untouched. 

Patrick is struck with a profound sense of irritation. It boils along his skin, makes his fists clench under his desk. You have some audacity—to be sitting there with that damn blank expression on your face. As if you hadn’t just outright refused him. 

“You said we’d discuss what my days will consist of,” you then say, leading the conversation. Patrick wants to scream. He can’t wait to take you apart.

Instead, he takes a measured breath. “I did. Very well.” Patrick feels his knees shift apart a bit under his desk, as he slips into the posture of unwavering power.

A quick glance at you shows you’re either uncaring or unaware of the nuances of body language: you have one leg crossed over the other, your hands clasped in your lap as you just… stare. It’s almost eerie, he thinks. 

Patrick decides he hates you. 

You’re growing too comfortable too quickly. That’s the only explanation for what you’re wearing right now, a mere few weeks after you were first hired: a dark sweater over a collared shirt and slacks. And sneakers. Sneakers. As if this is a basketball court, not one of the best investment firms in the country. 

Patrick can’t hold back his criticisms. And he doesn’t think he even wants to. It slips out the next time you’re in his office that same day. “Don’t wear that outfit again,” Patrick says clearly, his eyes locked on his paperwork. 

You’re quiet. Good. 

“And dress shoes,” Patrick continues. “I like dress shoes.”

You still aren’t responding, so Patrick begrudgingly looks up from his work to find you staring at him with a blank expression. A bit unnerved, Patrick stares back.

You’re watching him. Scrutinizing him. Patrick isn’t sure if anyone’s ever just stared at him like this. Like he’s some kind of vile thing, a mere pebble thrown into the path of a pedestrian. He almost wants to fidget. Almost. 

As if sensing his growing discomfort, you stare just a bit longer.

“Is there a problem?” Patrick remembers to ask.

“No,” you respond unflinchingly. “I just wanted you to sit in that. Do we need to talk about your outfit too? I feel like it speaks for itself.” You look him up and down, your voice dripping in disinterest and judgment. Then you turn and walk away. 

Patrick is staring at the door long after you leave. What the hell just happened? 

He’s thinking about you, even as one of his coworkers drones on and on in their weekly meeting. He realizes, idly, that you may just be the only interesting person he knows. You’re not trying to fit in or impress him. Hell, it doesn’t even seem like you care what he thinks of you. You should, of course. But you don’t. It perplexes him. 

It only takes a month for Patrick to be forced to accept that you are competent. (Of course, he’ll never go so far as to admit it.) You complete your work quickly and accurately; you never linger too long. You aren’t bothered by his constantly oscillating moods; his sarcastic remarks and borderline insults have virtually no effect on you. It’s almost frustrating—Patrick has grown accustomed to being in control. He dominates any and all conversations he has. Yet, when he interacts with you… he doesn’t feel that way. He doesn’t have that same bone-deep assuredness and authority. You refuse to give it to him. 

“Any plans for the weekend?” Patrick hums one Friday afternoon, tapping his pen against his desk a few times. He feels strangely restless. He tries to focus on other things, instead of your presence in his doorway. Predictably, this does not work. 

It’s almost amusing to see the surprise flicker across your face, as you process his remark. You know he never bothers asking about such mundane trivialities. You know he doesn’t care, yet here he is, asking as if he does.

“Why are you asking?” you question skeptically. You know he wouldn’t be asking unless he had a good reason. Patrick resists the urge to sigh. Sometimes, he wishes you weren’t so sharp. It would make things easier. You would never grace his mind, never persistently linger in his thoughts. 

“Just making casual conversation,” Patrick answers nonchalantly. 

“You’ve never seemed to care about that before,” you remark.

True. But Patrick finds himself, strangely enough, actually wondering what you’ll be up to. He wonders what your life is like. To him, you only exist in this particular space and time: this building, during work hours. He has only ever seen you in work clothes; he has only ever spoken to you regarding work. The few glimpses he’s caught of you, hidden beneath that professionalism, have intrigued him far more than they should. 

“Humor me,” he prompts you. You’re making him fight for it. 

“Um…” you trail off. “Honestly, I’m not doing much. How about you?”

“Not doing much,” he repeats. Patrick completely ignores your follow-up question. You’re trying to take the attention away from yourself; for some reason, he doesn’t like that. “And what does not doing much entail, exactly?” 

“Pretty much what it sounds like,” you respond. “Grocery shopping, maybe a bit of cleaning. Reading, watching bad horror movies.” Your fingers tap against the door frame for a few seconds, a fidget. 

“That sounds like a nightmare,” Patrick scoffs instinctually. The words crawl from his lips before he can stop them—even though he doesn’t actually believe them. Secretly, beneath all of his corporate pretense, he’s envious of that freedom. His life is dictated by the desires of others. 

You barely react to his statement. Your shoulders shift ever so slightly, in a mild shrug. Secure. Uncaring, unbothered despite his scrutiny. 

“You haven’t asked what I’m doing this weekend,” Patrick continues. He wants to throw you off, wants you to apologize for the error. 

“I did,” you remind him instead in a swift and effective argument. “You brushed it off.” 

That’s right. You did ask him. But he was so busy attempting to combat your evasiveness that he forgot about it. Patrick lets out a quiet frustrated noise under his breath. Why does he feel so weirdly off-kilter around you? 

“Did you want to tell me about it?” you continue gratuitously. Damn it, you’re not even trying to one-up him. And somehow, that’s making things even worse. Why couldn’t you have been a jerk? Why couldn’t you have been hellbent on making his life miserable? It leaves him with no excuse for his behavior. No excuse for the uptick in his heart when his eyes meet yours. 

“No,” Patrick responds immediately. 

That’s a lie, and you both know it. Neither of you acknowledge it, instead continuing as if nothing had been said. 

A chance meeting in the hall proves to be his undoing. 

Patrick nearly bumps into you in his distraction. You don’t seem bothered by it, instead giving him a weird look before turning to follow him into his office. Your movements are sure and certain as you close the door behind you, before turning to him.

“You all right?” you ask him, paying him a glance that almost looks concerned. 

“Yes, of course,” Patrick remembers to answer, trying to sound as composed as possible. Usually he wouldn’t worry, but this is you—there’s a good chance you won’t believe him. 

Indeed, you look skeptical. “Right,” you remark, your eyes falling to his hands. “Your hands are shaking. And you nearly bumped into me.” 

“Caffeine,” Patrick explains. “And you were in the way.” 

You ignore that snappish remark, because of course you do. “You have coffee every day, and it’s never that bad,” you say. You’re observant and he hates it.  

What in the hell is Patrick supposed to say now? His hands are shaking from the adrenaline high of slitting someone’s throat mere moments ago; his skin is practically thrumming and buzzing underneath his clothing. Patrick washed the blood off, but it still feels stuck to him. His shirt is perfectly clean, he made sure of it. His hair is effortlessly styled, his shoes are a glossy black—

Your hand is on his shoulder. 

All of the background noise seems to fall away. 

“Patrick,” you say slowly. You look genuinely concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I—” he breaks off, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. Jesus Christ. He’s slept with several women before—he’s engaged in physical intimacy. But somehow, none of those feelings even come close to the one you’ve just incited in him. You’re another man, and you’re just placing a hand on his shoulder, for God’s sake. This should not be making his heart thunder in his chest. 

You’re looking at him patiently. Your eyebrows are furrowed ever so slightly and your gaze flits about his face. This may be the most attention you’ve ever paid him. He wants to drown in it. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Patrick remembers to say. The words almost hurt. 

You don’t seem to believe him, but you drop the subject. Patrick is both relieved and oddly disappointed when your hand falls from his shoulder. 

Patrick is a man on a mission. His mission? Heading home. 

It’s been a long day. Work was pretty ordinary, but his commute home had been hindered by seemingly random traffic. Then, to make matters worse, he very nearly forgot about the dinner he had scheduled with some prospective clients. He managed to show up to the restaurant in time, smiling and conversing when he needed to. His mind was elsewhere, though. 

It still is—Patrick is distracted. He’s distracted enough to be walking down the street quickly, not even noticing the person in front of him until he’s crashing into them. A bitter remark is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it down when he recognizes who he nearly tackled. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly, stepping to the side. Then you blink, coming to the same recognition that he just experienced. “Oh, shit. Hey, Patrick.”

Patrick studies you, finding that you look different. You’re not in your typical work clothes: you’re wearing a deep green collared shirt, the top few buttons unbuttoned to reveal the edges of your collarbone; black jeans, cuffed at the ankles; and black boots that appear to have a slight platform. You sound a bit breathless, but there’s a content smile on your face. (Happy, free of expectations. Patrick wants that feeling more than anything.)

“......Hello,” Patrick manages to respond. His throat feels dry. Why does his throat feel dry?

“What’re you doing here?” you ask. “Didn’t think you visited this side of town.” 

“Just passing by,” he says smoothly. Right, this side of town. The queer side. Evidenced by the gay bar you just walked out of. You don’t seem the least bit bothered by being seen here. Meanwhile, Patrick’s skin feels like it’s on fire. He’s restless, subtly jittery. 

“Okay,” you just respond, as if it doesn’t make a difference. You shove your hands in your pockets in an unconscious movement and Patrick watches, realizing it’s not just a trick of the light: there’s ink across your forearms. 

“You have tattoos,” he states matter-of-factly. 

“Oh, yeah,” you blink and respond. “The dress code’s pretty strict at work, so… I’m stuck in long sleeves.” 

Patrick quite literally has to rip his eyes away, blinking hard enough to bring dizzying circles to his eyes. “Right,” he says. And wow, he is making a total fool of himself here. He’s never floundered around so helplessly before. 

“It’s nice to see you,” you say with a smile. Good God, man, get it together. He should not find that smile so charming. “See you… Monday, I guess?”

“Monday,” he responds. You walk away; Patrick does too, albeit after a brief second he spends faltering. Then he forces himself to keep moving, watching the cracks run across the pavement. 

Within a few steps, Patrick is glancing back at you over his shoulder. He can’t help it. 

Your back is turned. 

He sighs. 

The rest of that night is kind of a blur, but Patrick knows this much: he kills someone. Shortly after colliding with you on the street, he heads back home. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his teeth practically grinding together as he tries to move past this intense, almost unfounded anger. Jealousy and envy boil hot under his skin. 

He bumps into someone again. 

It’s not you. It’s a businessman, just like him. The man doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even budge. The slight breeze in the air carries the scent of alcohol, and the guy’s wavering balance suggests he’s very inebriated. 

An hour later, Patrick is staring down at the guy’s dead body. The crisp white dress shirt he was sporting is splattered with blood, pooling underneath his unmoving corpse. 

Patrick exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. Unsurprisingly, this act doesn’t quell the restlessness buzzing along his skin—nor does it free him from dreaming of you that night. 

…Patrick is getting ruder. 

He knows it. He’s pushing you away, because of the feelings you incite in him: irritation, anger, exhaustion. And… others that he’d rather not name. 

Frustratingly enough, you seem to recognize this. You start giving him space, only entering his office when you need to. Suddenly he’s only seeing you a few times a day, if even that. Patrick wants to feel satisfied—this is exactly what he wanted. But it only makes him more angry. 

It’s only natural that he snaps. Contrary to popular belief, Patrick is but a man. And men like him will grow impatient.

Patrick enters the men’s restroom, walking into a stall. He emerges to wash his hands… only to find you standing there. You’re at the sink two away from him, staring down at your hands as you scrub them with soap. You’re so preoccupied that you haven’t even seemed to notice him. And for a few seconds, Patrick just stares. 

The words crawl from his lips as you’re drying your hands. “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

You glance up from the faucet, over at him. You look surprised and momentarily confused. For a moment, Patrick thinks you’ll try to deny it. Instead, you just look askance. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

You will never know just how deep that remark cuts. It’s spoken so innocently, without caution. But those words… They’re what Patrick’s entire life has been boiling down to—other people’s perceptions of his desires. People think he wants to be this way, act that way. They throw their expectations on him, without ever considering the weight of them. And Patrick has been sinking under the pressure. 

“Don’t presume what I want,” he says coldly. 

You’re not visibly affected by his tone. “That’s my job,” you frown, drying your hands and throwing away the paper towels. You turn back to him. Sure, technically speaking, that’s correct. But regardless, Patrick isn’t pleased. 

“Your job,” Patrick seethes, the words venomous and biting, “is to stand there and look pretty.” 

“What?” you choke. And it’s the surprise that widens your eyes, the damn flustered expression that passes over your face—as if you’re genuinely shocked that he’s just acknowledged your attractiveness…

Patrick surges forward, his hand latching on to your collar far too easily. He yanks you closer, looks at you furiously. “You heard me,” he asserts. “You’re not supposed to think for yourself. I tell you to do something, and you do it.” 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting: a sharp inhale of breath, a hand on his wrist, a flinch or a twitch. Patrick is expecting something—but he gets absolutely nothing. You’re entirely still, just staring at him with those defiant, scrutinizing eyes. Patrick suddenly feels as if he’s being ripped apart under your knife, laid bare for the world to see. 

Voices sound from the hallway, forcing him to remember himself. Patrick releases you as if burned. And he stalks off, unable to shake the uncanny feeling that he was somehow the loser, not the victor, in that interaction.

As Patrick stands on the cracked pavement, looking up at the flashing neon sign he saw all those days ago, one thought presides over all others: …is he really doing this? What is he trying to prove? What does he want? Why is he here? 

The bar sign is immune to his scrutiny, almost blinking at him mockingly. The rhythm of the music inside reaches his ears, a consistent beat. He doesn’t need to look to know the people in that bar are happy, comfortable, confident. 

He’s been prolonging this moment for almost two decades now. Patrick has tried to push past these feelings, telling himself it’s just a phase. That’s what everyone else loves to preach. Loving men, being attracted to them, it’s a phase. They say you’ll grow out of it.

It’s ironic, he thinks, that his adult self stands here—completely plagued by these feelings that were reported to be fleeting and temporary. No. These sentiments have been formative. Patrick has been avoiding this for far too long. 

He takes a step, then another. He’s lurking in the doorway awkwardly now. There are people behind him, growing impatient and eventually just brushing past him. Patrick’s throat burns as he sees the ease with which they bleed into the space. Meanwhile, he’s frozen at the edge.

Someone else passes by, their shoulders knocking against his and sending him forward. It’s the push he needs, both figuratively and literally. Patrick is officially in the bar now. 

A man brushes against him within seconds. “Hey, handsome.”

He doesn’t pay him any attention, instead combing over the space as he looks for you. It doesn’t take long to find you, lingering in the corner with a peaceful expression on your face. You look like a quiet spectator to the chaos—a happy one, though. 

“Patrick?” you say as he approaches. The shock on your face is completely priceless. He wants to smirk. But his heart is racing for some reason, so he just tries to focus on the conversation. 

“Hello,” he greets you. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. He supposes your surprise is warranted: the image he’s carefully cultivated wouldn’t be caught dead in a queer bar. Yet here he is, standing here entirely of his own volition. 

“...Exploring,” Patrick answers loftily.

“Okay,” you say, accepting his vague answer with ease. The ease with which you’re accepting his explanation—or lack of—is both confounding and reassuring. Then you hum, your eyes glimmering with what appears to be amusement. “Just a fair warning, you’re going to be pretty popular.” 

“Why’s that?” he asks, struggling not to sound smug. He gets those kinds of compliments all the time. Somehow, it means infinitely more coming from you. 

“Don’t play coy,” you just say with a roll of your eyes. 

Damn. He wanted to hear you say it. 

A somewhat comfortable silence lingers in the air, before Patrick finds himself breaking through it. “If anyone’s popular tonight, it should be you,” he says before he can stop himself. Huh. He feels weirdly free of inhibition, and he hasn’t even had a drink. 

“God, I hope not,” you just huff. Patrick feels his lips twisting into a smile. You notice it, because of course you do. “Did you just smile?” you question disbelievingly. 

“No,” he says immediately.  

“You totally did,” you say with a slight smirk of your own. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” A concession. 

“Protect my reputation,” he adds. 

“I’ll try,” you joke. You stare for a moment. Patrick can’t get rid of the quirk to his lips, as much as he tries. You don’t seem to mind, instead unabashedly saying, “You should smile more. It’s cute.” 

He’s definitely blushing now. What the fuck? He’s heard far more specific—hell, even obscene—things and never batted an eye. But these simple remarks from you, uttered so earnestly and unapologetically, are wrecking his composure. 

“Thank you,” Patrick eventually says. 

Your eyes widen. “Wow,” you say, evidently thrown off by his gratitude. “You must be in a good mood or something. Are you a doppelganger?”

A restrained huff. “Not to my knowledge,” he answers. 

The silence from before returns, but it feels more tense. That could just be Patrick, though—he still feels incredibly out of place. Despite the fact that you’re here, despite your solitary position against one of the walls, he’s still off-kilter. It’s almost scary, how freeing this experience is. Between the loud music, dancing, and surrounding conversations, Patrick could say whatever he wanted without judgment. 

“You know, you don’t have to be here unless you want to be,” you say, swiftly breaking through his thoughts. 

You’re trying to reassure him—you’re giving him an out. You’re being polite and unintrusive, but somehow, that’s the opposite of what Patrick wants to hear. He huffs dryly. “Why else would I be here?” He wouldn’t be here unless he wanted to be. 

You’re too nice to pry any further. The one time he wants you to ask for more information… and you don’t. He sighs. “You can ask,” Patrick says, grateful for the background noise. The comment is lost to the pulsing music and distracted clubbers. You are the only one to bear witness to his vulnerability. 

You study him for a moment, as if discerning if he’s really telling the truth. Then, you finally ask. “Why are you here, Patrick?” you indulge him. 

“For myself,” he responds after a beat. His hand nearly twitches at his side. You don’t seem surprised by that revelation, instead listening to him patiently. Patrick takes a slow breath. “And… for you.”

“Me?” you ask. 

“You,” he confirms. 

“Oh.” You’re surprised, evidently.

“Yes, oh,” Patrick responds. If he weren’t so irritatingly fond of you, he thinks he’d be frustrated. But he’s only exasperated, and nervous. Nervous. Patrick Bateman, nervous. The thought confounds him. 

In the chaos of the surrounding conversations and dancing bodies, you both gravitate towards each other. Patrick feels like a puppet on your string. The two of you are far closer than socially appropriate, but in the flashing lights and loud music of the gay bar, you go unnoticed. It’s… liberating. 

Patrick reaches out, his hand splaying across your cheekbone and jaw. There’s an uncharacteristic shakiness to the movement. It’s the most he can allow himself. He can’t— He can’t convince himself to go further, to just take the leap and stop being a coward. Patrick is out of his element here. 

You’re infuriatingly perceptive, as always. He knows you can see the tension drawing his shoulders together, the slight tremble to his hands. And somehow, despite all of the tense moments between you—the backhanded compliments, the passive aggressive demands—you’re merciful. “Can I kiss you?” you ask. 

The question pierces through the air with the force of a bullet. 

“Yes,” he breathes. The word has never tasted so good, so right before. Of course, his traitorous heart does not stop there. “Please.” 

Fortunately Patrick isn’t given time to feel the full force of his embarrassment, as you swiftly lean in to kiss him. 

All the kisses he’s shared with women… He had to force himself to play a part. It wasn’t natural; it was fake. But this… this is almost too real. Patrick has no idea how to even do this—he just knows his hand is fisted in your collar tightly, the other pressed to the small of your back, and nothing will shake his grip. 

Patrick is always the one to break away, to end things. This time, you pull away—and he sucks in a harsh breath as he reminds himself that he needs to breathe. His fingers tangle in your shirt collar, brushing against your collarbone and giving him yet another reason to feel restless. 

“You okay?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing in concern. Your hand is still on Patrick’s shoulder and it almost burns. He swallows.

“Yes,” Patrick responds habitually. 

And, for the first time, he actually believes it.

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thanks for reading! <3

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author's notes: This is Finnick/Reader focused. Finnick is the District 4 mentor and the reader is an adult tribute. I’m weak for charismatic & popular characters being met with people who don’t fall at their feet or treat them differently. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, if you will.

The reader’s race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. The other tribute is female, but feel free to ignore that “one male tribute & one female tribute” bullshit if you choose.

There will be some canon divergent and non-compliant details. For example, I forgot tributes are literally children… And I didn’t realize that until I already had 14 pages of this written… So just pretend this Games has adults, for some reason. Also, Annie doesn’t exist, because I said so.

enjoy <3

You’re one of two tributes chosen to represent District 4 in the Hunger Games. The Capitol tries to play it off as an honor—a chance to do your district and home proud. But you’re not that deluded, and you recognize the Games for what they are: a sickening bloodsport performed for the highest echelons of Panem’s society. Selfishly speaking, you don’t want any part in that. Of course, the universe has other plans for you—as your name is pulled from the Reaping bowl. 

Now, you’re sitting on a train speeding down the rails through the Panem countryside, to the facility where you will train in preparation for the Games. The other District 4 tribute sits across from you, clearly just as distressed as you are. Neither of you have bothered to speak to one another, too busy attempting to piece together what little remains of your futures. 

The sound of footsteps reaches your ears and you look up to find a man with bronze hair, tanned skin, and vibrant green eyes. He looks familiar, but it isn’t until he introduces himself that you can place the feeling. “Finnick Odair,” he states, his eyes flitting from the other tribute to you as he evidently scrutinizes both of you. “I’ll be your mentor for the Games.”

The other tribute warms up to him rather easily, introducing herself and speaking with Finnick about his experience at the Games. You’re content to watch from the sidelines, trying to gather information on both of them. It’s unfortunate, but you don’t think the other tribute will be anything more than an enemy to you. You don’t intend to make an alliance with her, so you don’t really see the point in pretending as if this week at the Capitol will be even mildly enjoyable. You’re already dreading the training, interviews, style consultations… 

As if sensing your negative thoughts, Finnick turns towards you. “And you are?” he hums. You want to believe that he doesn’t know who you are, but since he’s the District 4 mentor, you suspect he was watching the broadcast of the Reaping. Something ticks in your jaw and you mutter your name, if only to placate him. 

Finnick stares at you for a long moment. You stare back. “Not very talkative, hm?” he eventually asks. 

“Just thinking about my impending doom,” you say wryly. You hide your shaking hands in your pockets and stare ahead at the darkened windows, watching as the passing mountains blur around you. Finnick blinks at you in surprise, before laughing. He doesn’t seem to realize you’re being serious. After all, being a tribute in the Hunger Games is practically a death sentence. There can only be one victor, amongst twenty four tributes. Your chances at survival are increasingly low. 

Finnick continues on, unaware of how quickly your thoughts are spiraling. He explains the process leading up to the Games themselves and provides you with a general idea of the schedule for the next week. The other tribute is quick to ask him questions about his strategy and how he survived, while you just sit there in silence. You can’t help but think that most of Finnick’s advice won’t be particularly relevant. 

Some of the guidance he provides is helpful, you have to admit. Yet you can’t help but be reminded by the stark differences between your perspectives. Finnick is almost endlessly optimistic, speaking in hypotheticals and asking the two of you what you will do with your winnings. Meanwhile, you’re unable to suppress the voices in your mind, reminding you of how the odds are decidedly not in your favor. 

You keep those thoughts to yourself for the first few days. But there’s only so much you can hold back. Delusion and unfounded optimism seems to be the other tribute’s ways of coping, while yours seem to be uncomfortable dread and grief in hindsight. You can only fake appearances for so long—you’re fighting against increasingly large waves, and you will soon fall under the surface. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the Tribute Parade unscathed. The stylist chose clothing that’s a bit gaudy, but you’re just grateful you weren’t sent out there wearing anything scandalous. In the days after the Tribute Parade, all the tributes take part in mandatory training sessions—involving everything from archery to camouflage and fire-starting. You’re not particularly talented at anything; although by the end, you feel confident enough to wield a knife correctly and distinguish between poisonous and nontoxic berries. Of course, those skills will mean jack shit if you don’t play your cards right. Plus, there’s no telling what the arena will look like. There have been tough years when the arena was a desert or a snow-covered forest. You can only hope you won’t be dropped into something like that. 

The training days pass rather quickly, leaving you only two days before the Games begin. Each tribute now has to appear in front of the Capitol (and all the Districts watching through a broadcast). The thought makes your stomach stew in unease and disgust. You hate how the Games are treated as nothing more than entertainment. Your death will be broadcast for the whole world to see. Your survival will be gambled and bet on. It’s disgusting, and you hate that you’re forced to be a participant. 

You soon find yourself standing backstage, watching the District 1-3 tributes interview with Caesar Flickerman. Finnick stands at your side, a relentless presence despite the unapproachable aura you’re trying to exude. You don’t want to talk to him—don’t want to pretend that everything is okay. Your mentor doesn’t seem to care, as he tries to give you advice on how to succeed in the interview. “Just be charming,” he suggests. Then a mischievous smirk rises on his lips. “I know that’s going to be hard for you,” he taunts. 

You just scoff at him. Being charming to the Capitol citizens—who are practically the reason you’re here—is the least of your priorities. That sentiment must be apparent on your face, because your mentor just sighs.  “It’s only thirty minutes,” he tries to reassure you. 

That’s not the point, you think to yourself. You decide to keep quiet, if only to appease Finnick. Yet he seems to sense that you’re a bit frustrated, because he shoots you a sympathetic smile before you’re accosted by your stylist and forced to change into a needlessly extravagant outfit. 

Your fellow District 4 tribute has her interview and she does rather well. You’re happy for her, but nervous for yourself. You know you’re not the best at speaking in large groups—let alone in front of the entire country. You can’t get rid of your anxiety. You’ve had no media training, aside from those brief remarks from Finnick. 

Dread, revulsion, and shame are coursing through you as you walk up to the steps and greet Caesar, before sitting down across from him. His questions start off rather innocuous, as if he senses that you’re nervous. But the subject of the conversation soon becomes your thoughts on the Games. And despite your knowledge that these interviews are important for securing sponsors, you can’t quite filter your thoughts well enough. 

When Caesar asks you about your thoughts on victory, you lose any credibility you built. “Do I think I’m going to win?” you repeat the question, something ugly building in your throat. You feel like you’re going to throw up. He nods and you feel the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Probably not. The odds are slim.” You see Finnick frowning out of the corner of your eye. But all you can focus on is the ugly stewing feeling in your chest and the bright spotlight that almost seems to sear in your skin. 

“The odds are ever in your favor,” Caesar says, attempting to remain optimistic as he shares a smile with the audience. 

Your brows furrow. “I don’t think they are,” you mutter. Your hands are shaking furiously at your sides, just barely hidden by the arms of the armchair you’re sitting in. Caesar seemingly doesn’t expect your negative answer, because he blinks for a moment before quickly diverting the audience’s attention. 

“You have quite a popular mentor, though!” The camera pans over to Finnick and he smiles, causing raucous applause. Frustration courses through your blood. It’s just so easy for him, isn’t it? Caesar continues on, immune to your internal conflict. “He’s a crowd favorite, I’d say.”

“Sure,” you acquiesce, if only to please the audience. “But he’s not the one in the arena.” Not to mention, there are tributes who have spent their entire lives training for this very moment. The Careers were born for this very moment. You, on the other hand, are nothing more than an unprepared victim. 

“You heard it here first, folks,” Caesar smiles at the camera awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension that seems to fizzle in the air between you. He turns towards you and plasters on a brighter smile. “Thank you for your participation; I believe that’s all the time we have.” 

You murmur a word of gratitude and practically storm off the set, shoving your hands in your pockets and striding to the backstage area. You’re walking so fast that you don’t notice Finnick attempting to beckon your attention, until he’s falling in step next to you. 

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you. You continue walking quickly, forcing him to quicken his pace. 

“I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless. 

“Don’t say that,” Finnick chastises you. The two of you have consistently clashed on how you’re supposed to present yourself. While you don’t particularly care enough to maintain pretense, Finnick has been adamant that you appear charismatic to gain the Capitol’s approval and boost their interest. 

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” You frown, confused by the troubled expression on his face. Finnick isn’t new to this song and dance: he’s lost tributes before. You’re not sure why this time would be any different; if anything, you’re just preparing him for what’s to come. 

Finnick is silent for a moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he seems to grit his teeth. “You won’t get any sponsorships by being so grim,” he eventually says after several seconds. Somehow, you get the feeling that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. You grit your teeth. 

“Sponsorships only prolong the inevitable,” you murmur, stepping into the quarters allocated to District 4. Finnick closes the door behind the two of you, and you can see the moment he truly processes the gravity of your remark. 

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” he snaps furiously. The juxtaposition between his public persona and what you see now is… startling. Suddenly emotions are warring across Finnick’s face, and he looks genuinely frustrated. “Why do I even fucking bother?! I’ve had difficult tributes before, but none were so morbid!” 

“It’s not morbid to acknowledge the hopelessness of this situation,” you try to defend yourself. “I can only do so much! I’ll try my fucking best, but there’s a good chance it just won’t be enough. There’s no use in pretending otherwise.” 

“Right, because why would you try to capitalize on the time you do have left?” Finnick hisses sarcastically. There’s a stark silence drawn across the needlessly luxurious living space. The ornate silverware remains neglected on the dining table. “Why would you try to actually change that, when you can just roll over and accept your fate?” 

You storm off to your bedroom, not intent on fighting a losing battle any longer. For whatever reason, Finnick is ignoring the realities of the situation. That’s his prerogative, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. But you don’t have the luxury to pretend as if your survival is guaranteed. That notion is what will keep you alive in the arena. Because if you’re not wary or paranoid, you’re complacent. 

That night, things between you and Finnick are tense, to say the least. He doesn’t offer any more advice on being charismatic and approachable, as if he senses it’s a lost cause. In return, you’ve stopped making such “morbid” remarks. The two of you barely even speak to one another. You go to meals and pretend everything is fine, despite the voice in the back of your head berating you for pushing away your only ally. 

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Because Finnick may be an ally in terms of sponsorships, but he won’t be in the arena with you. You’ll be entirely alone. If anything, it’s better to get used to that feeling now. Right? 

From the moment you wake the next morning, though, your heart is thrumming quickly. It’s the day you’ve been dreading: when you’ll be loaded into a glass capsule and transported to an unknown arena, where you’ll spend your remaining days fighting for your life and survival. For a long moment, you contemplate staying under the covers. It’s an illusion of choice, a fleeting glimpse at power. But you know you can’t do that. The Capitol and the Gamekeepers don’t care don’t care. They will force you to be a tribute in these Games, regardless of how much you may try to fight it. That’s your fate, after all.

There’s a knock on your door. You blink away traces of sleep and get to your feet, walking over to the door and opening it to find Finnick standing there. He looks sheepish for a moment, before resolve passes over his face and he nods at you. “Ready?” he asks. 

“No,” you admit in a huff. Finnick frowns in sympathy and you’re forced to remember that he just may be the only person who truly understands how you feel right now. The tense argument from yesterday seems to fade into obscurity, as you both seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Together, the two of you make your way to the train—which takes you to the Launch Room. Your heart is steadily thudding in your chest, your hands unable to stop restlessly fidgeting.

When you arrive, you’re dressed in black clothing—a small number 4 emblazoned on the left side of your chest. You try to scrutinize the fabric to get a hint of what’s to come, but it’s frustratingly nondescript. Finnick senses what you’re doing, evidently remembering when he was in your position. 

A monotone, pre-recorded message explains that you have five minutes until you’ll step on the pedestal and rise into the arena. Five minutes of normalcy, until your life will change forever. You take a shuddering breath, feeling your hands trembling at your sides. You can feel Finnick’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you pretend not to notice. This moment right here, shared between the two of you, will be the last fleeting glimpse you’ll have at privacy—before millions of people watch your every move in the arena. 

Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. You drag your eyes towards him, despite every nerve in your body wanting to shrivel up into a ball on the floor. His grip is strong, anchoring you to this horrid reality. 

There is nothing to say. No condolences, no apologies, no words of affirmation, no motivating speech. Instead, there is only the grating hum of the fluorescent lights above and the measured breaths of your mentor, interspersed with your significantly less collected breaths. Your eyes meet and before you can attempt to break the silence, Finnick is pulling you into a hug. His hand rises to cradle your head and you hesitantly embrace him back, knowing this is likely the last friendly human contact you’ll have. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there—all you know is that, at some point, the automated voice announces you have one minute to get on the pod. Finnick releases his grip after several seconds, looking torn for a split second before maintaining a calm façade. You step over to the pod and helplessly look up, seeing nothing but darkness. 

The countdown is beginning. In ten seconds, your pod will rise to the arena. You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, your heart thundering in your chest and roaring in your ears. Finnick locks eyes with you. “You’re not alone,” he says, his gaze intense. “Remember that.”

The most you can manage is a silent nod, before the pod is careening upwards and transporting you to the arena. You feel tears building in your eyes and you quickly wipe them away, summoning some composure for the arena. You will not show the other tributes your distress. 

The pod finally shudders to a stop and the pedestal beneath your feet rises. The harsh sunlight burns into your eyes and you blink dazedly. It takes a moment for your vision to clear, revealing the tributes arranged in a circle around a massive rock formation crawling through the air and evidently digging deep into the ground below. There’s the mouth of a cave right in front of you, and you can see two or three tributes on each side of you. It appears this formation is a lot more spread out than the ones in the past. This arena must be huge. That doesn’t necessarily help the nerves stewing in your chest. 

You then realize that the cornucopia isn’t right in front of you, like you expected. In every Games, the cornucopia is located right in the middle of the tributes. Frowning, you drag your eyes up, up, up, and your ears start ringing at what you find. The cornucopia isn’t just far away—it’s also pretty high up, dangling precariously on the rock formation that stretches into the sky. You estimate it would take nearly an hour to get all the way up there; plus, falling would promise an instant death. The more you look at the cornucopia, the less convinced you are that you should even run for it. 

The mouth of the cave in front of you looks increasingly enticing. As the countdown continues, you try to plan your first move. The cornucopia doesn’t feel like a practical option, which leaves you with no choice but to go for the cave in front of you. The darkness will help you—if you’re quiet enough, you can avoid confrontation. You glance behind you to make sure you didn’t miss anything, only to find impossibly high rock walls enclosing the tributes in the elaborate rock formation and attached cave system. It seems the entrance to the cave is your only real option. 

When the countdown reaches ten, you hear a loud explosion and your chest starts to hurt. One of the tributes must’ve left their platform too early and triggered the mine system beneath it. The unmistakable sound of a cannon firing confirms your suspicions. Your stomach churns at the thought, but the ensuing countdown quickly recaptures your attention. Five… four… three… two… one. 

Let the Games begin. 

You sprint for the opening of the cave and nearly sigh in relief as the cool darkness gives you a reprieve from the boiling hot sun. You’re immediately sure that what you’ve just entered is far more than a single cave, but instead an interconnected system of hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of caverns. You can just barely make out your surroundings, and you immediately decide to go as far in as possible. There’s nothing back at the pedestals that would make the starting area worth returning to, so you can only hope this cave system has pockets of sunlight and air above ground. You have to think that’s the case, unless the Gamemakers want everyone to die of suffocation. 

A backpack on the ground immediately catches your eye. You quickly grab it and duck down a corner, your hands practically shaking as you open it to find water, a few nutrient blocks, and a flashlight. It’s not much, but it’s certainly a helpful start. You throw the backpack on and are about to keep going when you hear footsteps in the distance. Immediately, you freeze and hold a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing. 

The footsteps draw ever closer and, for a horrible moment, you think you’ll be spotted. But the tribute seems to turn down another path, taking them further into the cave and away from you. You’re not sure how long you stand there paralyzed, before shaking yourself out of it with the realization that you need to keep looking for supplies. 

One thing’s for sure: you need a weapon to defend yourself with. It takes you a painfully long time to look at the stalactites above and rip one from the ceiling. You look for the sharpest one before reaching out and giving it a harsh tug, freeing it from its confines. You look down at it in your hand, testing the point of the fashioned weapon and confirming that it’s rather sharp. It’ll have to do for now. 

As you continue exploring, you find supplies scattered about: water bottles; bits of food, just barely big enough to count as a snack; and some sort of jacket, tucked behind a pillar of rock. You fold it and place it in your bag, suspecting it’ll get cold at night. You’ve been walking for hours and haven’t come across sunlight or a water source, which concerns you. Moreover, you’re suspicious of the cave’s oxygen supply—your head has already started to pound, which isn’t a good sign.

You sleep fitfully that night, unable to let your guard down enough to truly rest. Every minute noise sinks into your mind. You’re constantly torn from slumber by the slightest of sensations: a brief chill, a rock crumbling down the wall. It’s torturous. You know you need rest if you want to survive, but you can’t quite seem to suppress your paranoia. You’re a quiet sleeper, fortunately—but still. Nothing can rid you of the knowledge that there are nearly twenty other tributes scattered throughout this cave system, willing to do whatever it takes to survive. 

You slowly manage to build a routine as the days pass. You spend most of the day moving, descending deeper into the cave and searching for supplies. Each night, the Capitol broadcast seems to buzz and hum through the rocky walls. You suspect there to be holograms painted over the night sky, but you haven’t gotten a breath of fresh air since the Games first started. A few tributes die each night. You’re not sure if you should feel grateful for your survival or envious that they escaped from this whole mess. 

This year’s Hunger Games is different from the others: you can tell that much. The arena was designed for long periods of solitude. This will take much longer than the other years. You’ll be here for several days—maybe even weeks. Why is the Capitol suddenly so patient? Why are the Gamemakers so insistent on broadcasting your every waking moment, regardless of how boring or mundane it may seem? 

You quickly learn that you’ve grown complacent in your solitude, as you catch a flicker of movement across your vision. You’re not alone anymore, it seems. Before you can even begin to contemplate your next move, you’re being roughly thrown to the ground. You hiss and kick at the other tribute, but the other tribute is big and brutish—they’re quick to throw you back down, their hands gripping your throat and tearing the breath from your chest. You’re writhing in their grip, attempting to knee them in the gut or scratch at their eyes or do something—

But your vision is sputtering and morphing around you. You can’t even see the tribute’s face, but you can still sense the anger and righteous fear pushing them to rip your life away from you. You don’t have much longer. Your hands fall from their wrists and you desperately explore the ground around you. For a moment, you genuinely think you aren’t going to make it—and you’re forced to accept your demise at the hands of this faceless assailant. 

Then, your hand finds the sharpened stalactite you fashioned on the first day… and you strike. Your makeshift knife finds their neck and you stab them, finally throwing their grip as they scream in pain and release you. You quickly scramble to embrace air greeting your lungs, maneuvering into a sort of kneeling position as you suck in air. Your hand shakes around your weapon as you try to fight off the dizziness threatening to send you toppling. 

But, of course, because things are never easy, you recognize the tribute moving out of the corner of your eye. Against all odds, they survived that deadly blow. Their hand is pressed to their neck and they’re glaring at you furiously. Pure fear runs through your bones, prickling down your skin as you try to come to terms with the situation you’re in. It’s either you or them. Only one of you will survive. 

You stumble to your feet and just barely throw yourself to the side as they barrel at you. The tribute only whips around and reaches out, punching you in the face and sending you staggering. Their movements are sluggish—and as they reach out again, you manage to yank them forward with your free hand and bury your stalactite into their neck once more. They yowl and kick a leg out as they fall, tripping you and sending you to ground with them. Their free hand finds a blunt stalactite and they strike at you, puncturing skin and digging into your ribs. You just barely hide a scream, letting out a frustrated and helpless sound as your arm reels back and you stab them yet again. A third time, a fourth, a fifth. Until they stop heaving, until their form falls limp. Until all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own labored breaths.

Your hands are shaking as you mechanically bend down and dig through their pack, looking for anything that could be useful. You take their rations and the bundled up jacket they had, stuffing it into your own backpack before pushing yourself to your feet unsteadily. Your hand finds your aching side and blood drips across your skin, confirming your suspicions that they had inflicted a sizable wound.

You stare down at the tribute, an undignified sound crawling from your lips when you hear the distant sound of a cannon. They’re dead now—and you were the one to kill them. You swallow hard as you look down at them, your neck aching from their attempts to strangle you. They tried to kill you. You shouldn’t pity them. But… you would’ve done the same. 

This tribute has a family—or friends—waiting for them back home, you’re sure. And that family just saw you snuff the life from their eyes. That district just watched as their neighbor, friend, met their end in this dark and dank cave system. 

You’re not sure what compels you to do it, but you bend down and close their eyes. It’s a small mercy, hardly worth anything given the fact that the entire Capitol just witnessed their death. There is nothing resembling dignity in these Games. And yet… you feel compelled to give them this small gesture, this tiny allowance. 

Then you’re thrown back into reality as pain ripples through your side, dripping up your back and across your ribs. You need to get moving now. You tear your eyes away from the victim—your victim—and start to walk away. The effort is painful and slower than usual. Your free hand finds the wall of the cave system and you brace yourself as you walk, your breaths still not nearly as calm as you want them to be. You’re not sure how you get yourself to keep moving. You almost just want to sink down to the ground and give up right there. None of this is worth it. You’re not sure you even want to live anymore.  

You don’t know how long you traverse the cave system. You just know that, at some point, your legs start to wobble under you and you have to accept that you need to rest. There’s a stretch of winding tunnels now, and you follow one of them until you find a corner with enough rocks and stalagmites to keep you hidden. You’re trembling as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, your body giving out as you lean against the wall and finally stop moving. Your heart is still racing; your head is pounding and pulsing; and your throat is very dry. But the pain is ushering in a whole new sense of exhaustion and fatigue; and soon, a tear slips down your face as you finally surrender to unconsciousness. 

Unsurprisingly, when you wake to the Capitol broadcast, you find that the pain has barely gone away. You’re going to have to treat the wound to ensure it doesn't get infected. The dead tribute’s name is announced as you’re digging through your backpack to find the alcohol wipes you swiped off of their corpse. You finally convince yourself to look down at your wound, and you suck in a startled breath at just how bad it looks. There’s blood everywhere, coloring the surrounding fabric of your shirt and staining a murky crimson across your hands. It takes you a few moments to convince yourself to bring the wipe down to your skin, and you have to put the collar of your shirt in your mouth to stifle your pained screams. The alcohol wipe is a necessary evil, but damn it, it’s causing some of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced. Your vision is greying as you wipe at your wound. 

It takes you a long time to finish cleaning the wound, as you’re forced to take intermittent breaks to keep yourself from passing out. When you’re finally done, you’re left feeling… helpless. You’ve cleaned the wound. Now what? You don’t have any other supplies save for bandages. Is this really the best you can do? 

A fluttering sound breaks you out of your thoughts. A short distance away, there’s a parcel with a parachute attached to it. It’s stuck between a few stalagmites, the parachute occasionally fluttering as it evidently settles. You stare at the parcel for a long moment, half-convinced you’re seeing things. Eventually, you manage to push yourself up and walk over to it. This must be a sponsor gift. 

But how in the hell did it get here? Usually the gifts fall through the air with parachutes. But this one almost appears as if someone placed it here. You frown and look up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find a conveniently placed hole. But there’s only rock. You reach down to grab the parcel, realizing you need to focus on treating your wound. Upon closer examination, it appears to be a metal capsule. With quivering hands, you hesitantly peel it open to find a tube of ointment. After a moment’s contemplation, you press the ointment to your wound, wincing at the cool temperature before leaning your head back at the relief it gives you. Thanks, Finnick, you think to yourself. His last words to you ring in your ears: “You’re not alone. Remember that.” That reassures you far more than you’d like it to. 

You idly wonder what he’s doing now. Well, he’s getting you sponsorships, apparently. Finnick is probably watching the broadcast just as everyone else. Perhaps he’s even attending parties and social events, if only to give you a fighting chance. You feel uncharacteristically thankful for his efforts. And the air in the caves must be getting to your head, because you swear you almost miss him. You shake off the thought. 

The next few days, against all odds, are unremarkable. You explore the cave system and routinely treat your wound, slowly returning to your normal pace. You manage to find a cave with a water source in it, which proves to be a lifesaver. After some more exploration, you find a water treatment device and return to the cave to get yourself some drinkable water. Aside from that, you mostly spend the time divvying up your resources and exploring the surrounding tunnels. You develop a marking system of sorts, notching the walls that you pass by. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t do something so loud and risky—but more tributes have been dying each night, leaving you with less competitors. More importantly, you can’t lose your way back to the small spring you found. You will not die of malnourishment or dehydration—you refuse. 

As you slowly recuperate, you think back to your time at the Capitol preparing for the Games. You wonder how Finnick will react when you inevitably die. The odds are still against you, after all. He got you a good chunk of the way through the Games, though. There are, what, seven or eight tributes left aside from you? That’s a lot better than you thought you’d do. Four of those tributes are the Careers, and you can only hope you never run into them. Hopefully, they’ll begin to fracture as time passes. 

You’re finally starting to feel better, though. Your side barely hurts anymore—that ointment must be pretty powerful. You have some scarring along your ribs, but you’re not particularly bothered by that. You’re just thankful that Finnick got you what you needed. If you make it out of here alive, you’ll thank him, you think. Maybe. 

A few more days pass and you’re soon one of four tributes remaining. And it seems the Gamemakers are growing impatient, because you can hear the walls shifting and collapsing around you as the arena begins to shift and shrink. They’re forcing you all towards the center of the cave system for a final conflict, you suspect. 

You don’t want to fight, as selfish and naive as it may sound. Your plan is a bit different: just hide in the shadows until they eliminate themselves. Is it cowardly? Sure. But you don’t want to participate in the bloodbath unless you absolutely have to. Finnick’s voice echoes in your mind: Don’t engage. Stay alive at all costs.  

You hear a commotion and immediately realize there are at least two tributes in the tunnel ahead. Something like clarity passes over you as you hear them fighting. You feel like a bystander, an observer—which just reminds you of how many people are watching across the Capitol and Districts. And you are nothing more than entertainment to them: a deer encircled by hungry lions. They are waiting for your demise with salivating maws. 

You’re so frustrated. You think of the Capitol citizens, cozied up in their sharp buildings of glass and metal… draped in fine, bright fabrics… eating decadent bites of food and discussing your fates as if you’re horses in some sort of race. It makes you sick to your stomach. You don’t want to participate in this at all—don’t want to give them the satisfaction of a good show. 

But that’s the dilemma: you have to participate if you want to survive. Giving up won’t give you your life back. It won’t bring back all of the tributes who died. You’ve made it this far—there’s no choice but to keep going. With that in mind, you slowly sneak down the tunnel, peeking around the corners as you continue.

You soon find yourself hiding near the mouth of the tunnel, which opens up into a large enclosed clearing of rock. There are two tributes fighting, and a third attempting to enter the fray. You frown and try to give yourself a moment to think. You stand no chance of surviving if you have to fight more than one person: you know your limits. That single fight with that tribute from before is proof of that—you barely even survived. If you get stuck in a hand-to-hand fight, you’re screwed. 

You need to find a way around that, then. The tributes are too distracted right now to notice you lurking near the mouth of the cave, which gives you just a little time to think. It’s not nearly enough, but you’ll have to make it work.

There has to be some way for you to hurt them at a distance like this. You don’t have a bow and arrow or any long-distance weapon, but there’s got to be something you can do. You frown at the pressure building in your temples, a dull ache radiating down your face and sliding through your cheekbones. Maybe you weren’t as healed as you thought you were, because that dizziness and vertigo from earlier is returning. You bring your shirt collar to your mouth, uncomfortable with the thickness that almost seems to permeate the air. 

The other tributes seem too busy to notice, but you can tell by their labored breathing that they’re also affected. The pieces of this particular puzzle suddenly slam together. It’s a cave system—there’s natural gas. The Gamemakers purposely led you all into an area that was volatile and ready to collapse at any moment, to ensure that the Games would have a swift end. 

You explore the walls of the cave system, suddenly coming to an idea. If you can find a way to sway the uneasy structure of this space even more, then the ceiling will cave in. You can already see the telltale signs of stress: the cracks spreading through the walls, the small chunks of rock occasionally falling from the ceiling. If you can just find a weak spot, you can eliminate your opponents from here. 

The ground is practically shaking. The Gamemakers must be having fun with this, you think wryly. You feel that familiar fury rising in your chest again, but you refocus your thoughts and survey the area around you.

In your distraction, you forget to keep yourself hidden—and one of the tributes sees you. Shit, they’re running at you now. You manage to duck to the side and run past them before they can hit you, looking around at the rock walls for a sizable crack or unsteady area. Unfortunately, the other tribute is faster than you expect, and they’re soon shoving you to the ground and reeling their arm back to stab you in the head. You manage to block the blow but the knife grows through your hand. You scream and try to shove them off, but they only tug their grip down and exert force to send the knife even closer to your skin. The blade is almost kissing the skin between your eyebrows. It takes all of your effort to keep them from sinking the knife into you, and with a harsh tug, they manage to slice down your face. It’s a shallow cut but it stings and burns in the dense air. 

You can’t even contemplate your next move before the tribute’s grip is slackening and the knife is slipping from their hands. Suddenly the energy and resistance seems to leave their body and they fall onto you, their eyes almost empty as a knife protrudes from the back of their head. You look up to find another tribute standing over you, and quickly shove the corpse off of you and scramble to your feet. You glance around the space once more, realizing that it’s just the two of you now. 

“I need to win,” the tribute says, breaking through the tense silence. He’s standing a little unsteadily and there’s blood splattered across his skin, but you get the feeling it isn’t his. He looks largely unharmed. That’s not good. 

“I do too,” you say, if only to keep him talking as you study the cave walls. There’s a crack here, a crevice there… You’re about to give up on the ceiling collapse idea when you suddenly find a large rift on the edge of the wall near one of the branching tunnels. 

Everything seems to freeze as you catalogue your next steps in your head. The other tribute is clearly losing patience, as he starts for you. You take action and whip around, running away from him and heading towards the fissure. The stalactite in your hand should be enough to upend the cave system, if you strike at the weak area hard enough.  

Every muscle in your body is burning as you sprint towards the far tunnel, the other tribute hot on your heels. You lunge forward, using all of your momentum to pull your arm back and digging your sharpened stalactite into the wall of the cave. You rip it out and yank at the crack a few more times, before turning around and just barely dodging the other tribute’s assault. The ground beneath your feet is almost roaring now and you race for the tunnel, picking at the interior wall near the space for good measure. The tribute is running for you, and for an awful moment, you think he’s going to make it to the tunnel and survive to kill you. 

But then the ceiling caves in, and rocks of all sizes rain down on him. You suck in a startled breath as you hear his pained scream, knowing he’s being crushed under the debris. The other tributes must be dead too, as the cannon fires three times in short succession. For what feels like far too long, you’re just standing there, warm blood trickling down your face as you stare at the pile of boulders currently blocking off the mouth of the tunnel. You’re breathing hard and wavering on your feet, your headache insistent. 

May I present… the winner of the Hunger Games.

The Capitol broadcast echoes through the walls of the cave, nearly ringing in your ears. It takes you several moments to come to terms with what you just heard: …you won. Your adrenaline is quickly fading at the confirmation that you’ve survived. Your vision is spiraling as you lean against the wall. Exhaustion and relief are quickly winning the battle against your fear and dread, making your balance uneasy as you struggle to keep conscious. You don’t want to be vulnerable. But your body doesn’t care—and you’re soon falling to the ground, your vision fading to black as you try to come to terms with your survival. 

From there, you catch glimpses through bleary eyes. The rocks are crumbling and shattering around you, breaking away to reveal the blinding sun. You’re picked up by some sort of helicopter, with medics waiting for you. There’s a pricking sensation on your arm. Some shouting. And then… nothing. 

You wake to aches and pains all across your body. There’s an oxygen mask fixed to your face, an IV dripping at your side, and bandages across your arms. You’re reclined on what feels like a hospital bed, in a space that is blindingly white. You try to shift and sit up a bit, the movement hurting far more than it should. A tired exhale leaves your lips and, somehow, that seems to be enough to inform the person at your bedside of your consciousness. 

“Don’t do that to me ever again,” a familiar voice says. You squint as your vision slowly starts to adjust to the brightness of the room, revealing a presence at your bedside. Finnick is sitting next to you, his hands shaking as he studiously wipes the blood from your fingers. In an impromptu move, you clasp his hand weakly. The strength of his returning grip is nearly enough to bruise, as if he needs the physical reminder of your presence. 

Your mentor looks… well. As close to horrible as a person like him can look. Finnick just appears so terribly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messier than usual and his gaze shoots about the room impatiently. His entire body seems to thrum in restlessness. 

“You look tired.” You frown. Your voice is a bit raspy—likely from neglect. How long have you been unconscious? 

Finnick stares at you in complete disbelief. “Me?” he asks incredulously. “Look at you,” he scoffs, the strength of his grip on your hand betraying his concern. 

He’s right, of course. You’re so incredibly exhausted. It takes every ounce of energy you have to keep your eyes open and meet his gaze. Finnick scrutinizes your form, taking in the dirt and blood scattered across your skin. “Thanks,” you remember to respond sarcastically. 

Finnick rolls his eyes, interlacing your fingers. “That was smart,” he says a few moments later, his eye contact firm and unrelenting. “Collapsing the caves. Reckless, but smart.” There seems to be something unspoken in the gleam of his eyes and the rapt attention with which he studies you, searching for injuries. 

“Thanks,” you manage to choke out, when you realize he’s waiting for a response. 

“It was quite the ending,” Finnick admits, a strained smile on his face. It’s like he’s trying to poke fun at the situation, but can’t quite bear to do it. You understand the feeling. “Very dramatic.” He nods. He looks weirdly fidgety and restless now. 

“That’s what I was going for,” you huff wryly. Both of you know that’s not the truth. Finnick recognizes that—recognizes that you despise the Capitol’s commodification of life and survival. He shakes his head. You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry. He’s quick to press a glass of water into your hand and you drink it, the liquid soothing your throat. “I didn’t want to fight,” you eventually say, after the silence starts to drag on for too long. 

“I don’t blame you.” Finnick nods. “Your fight with the District 6 tribute was…” 

“Rough,” you supply. You bring a tired hand up to rub your face. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a second there.” You don’t quite notice the distressed expression that passes over Finnick’s face as you continue. “But thanks for the ointment.”

“No need to thank me,” Finnick says easily. “I’m glad it helped.” 

You just nod in agreement. It’s growing more and more difficult for you to keep yourself awake. You feel incredibly stiff and dazed—you must be on a few painkillers. When you blink, Finnick’s face blurs and the walls almost seem to curve towards him. You blink again, wetting your dry eyes.  

Finnick’s hand is still on yours. When you notice and look at his hand, he still doesn’t remove it. Instead he briefly squeezes your hand. Your eyes are drawn to your joined hands and you realize there’s still blood under your fingernails. It sickens you. “You should rest,” Finnick suggests, successfully distracting you from the blood on your hands (both literal and metaphorical). “I’ll be here.” 

“You don’t have to be,” you hum, leaning back against the pillow again. Finnick’s hand is still on yours. You must’ve given him quite the scare. You would attempt to reassure him if you weren’t so fatigued. And you’re sure you don’t paint a great picture now: somewhat malnourished, bruised and scratched up, vulnerable. The thought discomfits you. 

Finnick doesn’t budge. You don’t have the energy to say anything more, instead surrendering to the exhaustion creeping into the edges of your vision. 

It takes a few days for you to return to anything resembling normal strength. For a while there, you’re relegated to bland meals—bananas, rice—as you regain your stamina. The medications you’re on must be helping, in addition to the attentive medical care you’ve received since the end of the Games. But slowly but surely, you start to recuperate. You can soon walk around the room, albeit slowly. When you’re feeling a bit stir-crazy, Finnick will stop by and walk around the facility with you. He’s never quite far from you, which you secretly appreciate. You’d never admit it, but his presence is comforting. 

Unfortunately, once you’re healed, you’re forced to participate in the “victory tour”: where the victor visits every District and undergoes several interviews with Caesar Flickerman. The entire thing bothers you. You don’t want to visit the Districts who lost tributes—don’t want to have to look the parents of your victims in the eyes. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. The Capitol is painting you out to be some kind of hero. But you’re only a survivor.

Fortunately, you’re not alone—as Finnick accompanies you on the tour. He’s pretty popular with the Capitol population, and since he was your mentor, he shares a part of your victory. Supposedly. You won’t deny that the ointment he got for you likely saved your life. It’s helpful to have someone else there with you, someone who understands the unfortunate mix of survivor’s guilt, dread, and frustration running through you. 

Throughout your tour, you have many taxing individual interviews—and a few joint ones with Finnick. Finnick is his typically charismatic self, albeit with a withdrawn sense of uncharacteristic quiet. It’s not until he’s faced with the question of how he felt watching the Games… that his façade begins to crack. 

“I could hardly sleep,” Finnick admits. “I— I didn’t want to think about what could happen if I wasn’t watching.” You raise your brows from your position backstage, squinting at him on stage. He’s a pretty good actor—he looks genuinely unnerved. But it’s got to be an act, right? There’s no way he actually felt worried for you. You’re taken back to the look on his face when you first woke—the relief flickering in his eyes, the way his hand found yours and never let go. 

Caesar Flickerman nods in sympathy. “And the final battle…” he says, breaking you from your thoughts. You tune back into the conversation. 

Finnick shakes his head for a moment in a wordless gesture. “I felt like I was going to throw up.” The only tangible sign of his torment is the tightness with which he’s clenching his fists—a gesture that is only visible from where you’re standing backstage. 

Thankfully, Caesar soon moves onto lighter subjects. You watch as the conversation slowly wraps up. When Finnick walks off stage, he seems lost in his thoughts. You can’t tell if you should approach him or not, and by the time you attempt to make a decision, he’s already retreating. 

After a few more minutes of contemplation, you decide to check up on him. It’s not like Finnick to walk off without any warning or explanation. He’s a seasoned professional when it comes to these interviews, after all. Typically he can go through them with ease. But something about this one seemed to bother him. “Finnick?” you ask as you knock on his dressing room door. 

The door falls open and Finnick’s standing on the other side. “What are you doing here?” He blinks. 

“Checking on you,” you decide to answer truthfully, studying him. He looks a little frazzled. “Are you alright?”

A plethora of emotions flicker across Finnick’s face, none of them remaining long enough for you to identify them. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” you question lightly. “That was unlike you.” Finnick’s gaze snaps up to you and he almost looks offended. You quickly try to elaborate. “I just mean… you’re usually pretty private on camera.” A muscle works in his jaw and you watch as his gaze flits about your form, before settling on your eyes. 

“You concealed it well,” you say helplessly, trying to reassure him. You just know him well enough to know when he’s suppressing his emotions. “The audience didn’t notice that you seemed…” you just trail off, not quite sure what to say. 

Finnick gets up silently, inexplicably breaking the distance between you until he’s standing rather close. His gaze flits about your face, before settling on the jagged scar carving a path through the side of your face. It’s a testament to your trust in Finnick that you don’t flinch when he reaches out and runs a finger along your cheek. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“The medics offered to heal it,” you choke out, desperate to dissipate the tension settling in the air. “But I wanted the reminder.” You don’t want to forget how you felt during the Games. You don’t want to forget the Capitol’s brutality and manipulations. You will never forget that bone-deep desperation.

There’s a whisper of a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re far more suited to this than I am,” Finnick remarks. His gaze explores your face for a long moment, his finger running down the length of the scar and ending near your jaw. 

You frown at the statement. “That’s not true.”

“You are,” Finnick continues. “You’re honest. You didn’t conform to the Capitol’s pressures, and you have the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not a fair comparison to make,” you say, catching on to what he’s trying to say. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“I’ve spent this entire time pretending,” Finnick states, his hand slipping from your face. “Pretending to be this— this heartthrob,” he breaks off, his voice dripping with venom as he recounts the title the Capitol has given him. “Pretending to be unaffected by the Games and the suffering they inflict.”

“I was jealous of you,” Finnick continues, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fist. “Envious that you could acknowledge the truth, and still keep fighting. That you could stand firm and unrelenting… That you could scorn the Capitol’s citizens and still force them to pay attention to you.” 

You’re surprised at the admission. There’s nothing for him to be jealous of. And, more importantly… “You were just a kid, Finnick,” you remind him. “Don’t fault yourself for that.” 

Finnick just shakes his head, looking tortured. He takes a deep breath and continues. “As I grew to know you, I realized it was more than jealousy,” he says, averting his eyes briefly. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I knew it would be selfish. It would be a distraction.” You stare at him in silence, patiently waiting for him to continue. Truthfully, you really have no idea what he’s going to say next. But whatever it is, it seems to be troubling him greatly. “I—” 

Whatever he means to say falls to silence, as Caesar Flickerman bursts through the door with perfectly unfortunate timing. You immediately step away from Finnick, but Caesar is perceptive. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.” You shoot a helpless glance at Finnick, who looks irritated for a moment. Caesar continues speaking, although his eyes keep shooting between the two of you with interest. “The audience is just ravenous, and I was wondering if the two of you would be willing to come out together for a quick final interview.” His eyes are glittering and there’s a warm smile on his face. Despite his manners, it’s clear Finnick and you have no choice in the matter. 

The two of you soon find yourselves back to the stage, where you’re both seated on matching armchairs. Finnick looks entirely at ease—or, at least, to the untrained eye. But you’d venture to think he’s a bit frustrated from being interrupted. Admittedly, you’re a bit irritated too—if only because whatever Finnick had to say seemed important to him. 

It’s immediately clear that this last interview is solely for the audience. And while you’d done a rather excellent job at avoiding gossip and rumors during your interviews before the Games, you now find yourself faced with rather uncomfortable personal questions. Caesar is relentless, as if scrambling for some sort of secret that will capture the citizens’ attention. In particular, he seems particularly interested in your romantic pursuits. The Capitol always seems to want a love story. You will never give them one. 

“Surely you have someone to go home to,” he continues to press you, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You can’t help but be annoyed with him, despite knowing that he’s just doing his job. This dogged persistence is uncharacteristic of him—he’s usually a bit more subtle. “We’re just dying to know. An eligible young victor such as yourself has suitors lined up around the block, surely!” He shares a smile with the audience and cheers resound. 

Before you can respond, there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance over to find Finnick standing up and promptly walking off the set. You stare after him in perplexment, a bit worried for his sudden departure. You thought you caught a pained expression on his face, but that could’ve just been your imagination. 

The crowd seems disappointed that Finnick left, but their whispers are effectively silenced by Caesar. “Oh, I’m afraid I pushed the lad too hard,” the host says with a click of his tongue. He shares a conspiring smile with the audience. “Terribly sorry.” 

“Finnick isn’t feeling well,” you immediately fib, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any speculation about the cause of his departure. 

“I’m sure,” Caesar responds with a wink. You blink at him, wondering what he knows that you don’t. You’re about to elaborate—conjure up a story about Finnick being sick—when Caesar continues. “Regardless, that’s all the time we have. Thank you!” he chirps. Finally, you’re dismissed and you can go backstage. 

You don’t see Finnick for the rest of the day. He’s uncharacteristically quiet at dinner, and once you’re all released to enjoy your evenings, you find yourself looking for your mentor. He’s been acting a bit strangely, ever since that interview earlier today.

Your first inclination is to look in his room, but he isn’t there. He isn’t standing on the balcony outside or sitting in the common area. After checking the usual areas and coming up with nothing, you realize you’ve been neglecting one easy answer: the training room. Finnick could be working with his trident, letting off some steam. 

The first thing that strikes you upon entering the space is its unsettling resemblance to the training grounds from the beginning of the Games. You hear the harsh sound of fists colliding against something and frown, exploring the area before your eyes land on Finnick in the corner. He’s going at the punching bag rather fiercely. For a moment, you’re just stuck staring—both impressed with his forms and concerned by his focus.

After a few seconds, you decide to approach him. “Hey, Finnick,” you greet him as you head over. You watch the relentless way he’s assaulting the punching bag and you’re unable to hold back a teasing remark. “What’d that punching bag ever do to you?” you say with a lopsided smile, trying to get rid of the tension settling in the air. 

Finnick quietly grabs it and straightens up, evidently finished with his workout. He doesn’t respond to the jab, or to your initial greeting. You scrutinize him for several moments, taking note of the tension drawing his shoulders together and the firm pull to his lips. “Are you okay?” you ask, concerned by the uncharacteristic silence. 

He takes a slow breath. “We need to talk,” Finnick then says, his heated gaze falling to you. He looks a little breathless and his hair is plastered to his forehead. “I didn’t get to finish what I was saying earlier.”

“Right,” you remember, looking at him expectantly. 

You watch as Finnick glances about the space, as if making sure there’s no one nearby to interrupt. “It’s been driving me crazy,” he admits breathlessly. He waits a moment to catch his breath. “I feel like I just need to get it out.” You patiently wait for him to continue, admittedly a bit worried by the sheer apprehension on his face. Finnick looks genuinely nervous. “To put it simply… I care about you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“I think Caesar picked up on it earlier,” Finnick says, something like frustration pulling his lips together. “He kept asking you those questions to get a reaction out of me. And it worked. Because… I want to be the one you return home to.” 

You’re staring at him in disbelief and bewilderment. What did he just say?

“You don’t believe me,” Finnick realizes with a frown. 

“I just don’t understand,” you clarify, squinting at him and studying his expression. He looks perfectly sincere. “Why me?” you nearly sputter. 

“What do you mean?” He squints at you, looking at you like you’re crazy.  

“I just mean…” you trail off, your eyes flitting about the room restlessly as you try to comprehend what you just heard. “I’m me. And you’re… you know, you.” Finnick is outgoing, charismatic, and popular. And you’re nothing of the sort.   

“I’m not following.” He frowns again. 

“I don’t think I’m the kind of person you’re looking for,” you settle for saying. The reality of the situation, from your eyes, is that Finnick is way out of your league. You thought that would be obvious. 

“Of course you’re the person I’m looking for.” Finnick asserts, squinting at you disbelievingly. “I’ve always wanted you.” Always?  He takes a step forward and the distance between you is slowly shrinking.

“Why do you think I reacted the way I did, after your first interview with Caesar?” Finnick continues. “Because I didn’t want to think about you dying. I couldn’t stomach it. I still can’t.” You’re staring at him with wide eyes, searching his face for a hint of dishonesty or amusement. But there’s nothing to be found. Still, Finnick notices your doubt. “Let me prove it to you,” he says. 

“You don’t need to prove anything,” you say with a shake of your head, realizing your mistake. “I trust you, I believe you. And… I care about you too,” you choke out, feeling restless and nervous as you admit your feelings. 

“You do?” It’s Finnick’s turn to be surprised. 

“Of course,” you blink at him. His cool green eyes find yours and you suddenly feel as if everything around you fades to black. You blink again and try to sort your thoughts into a more comprehensible statement. “When I was in the arena, I kept thinking about what you said to me. And it was… nice… to know I wasn’t alone. That someone was looking out for me.”

“I was hoping…” you choke out, feeling awkward and embarrassed and nervous all at once. “…that interaction, in the transport facility, wouldn’t be our last.” 

Finnick’s pulling you into a hug before you can say anything more, his grasp strong but comforting. “I hoped it wouldn’t be, either,” he admits quietly. You both remain there for a while, nearly tangled in each other’s holds. Two victims of the Capitol’s vicious entertainment, victims of circumstance—but victors nonetheless.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

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author's notes: The reader is written to be androgynous and they wear masculine-leaning clothing. (Here's a version with a masculine reader. It should be open to both guests and AO3 users!)

Also, they have a sister, so… congrats, you now have a sister named Eve. Lol. She’s marrying Joe.

This is canon divergent/non-compliant. I haven’t watched the show aside from the first few episodes.

Warnings: canon-typical blood/violence/injury/murder. stalking, possessive behavior, abduction. also non-consensual kissing (more of a 'spur of the moment' gesture than forced, but still flagging it.)

When your sister Eve announces that she’s getting married to her boyfriend of two months, you’re suspicious. No one should get married that quickly. But she seems really happy about it, and you know it’s not quite your business to pry too much. You’ve already tried to tell her that she should wait a little bit instead of jumping into a long-term commitment, but she doesn’t listen—she never does. She’s always been the reckless one of the two of you—leaving you forced to play the role of responsible older sibling. 

Somehow, it’s as if you’re the only one in the family concerned about the brevity of their relationship—and the speed with which Eve gets married to this guy. His name is Joe, she tells you. Joe Goldberg, age 32. He works as a manager at the local bookstore, and he loves literature. You try to find him on social media, but you can’t. That’s not a red flag or anything: it’s perfectly acceptable to avoid social media in this day and age. But the utter lack of information about him doesn’t exactly make you feel any better. 

You’re not sure why you’re so concerned about this guy. Your sister can fend for herself, and is more than old enough to make her own decisions. You suppose you’re just wary—you don’t want to see her get hurt, like she has been in the past. But, as you’re quickly learning, it’s past the point of contention now. Eve and Joe have their wedding date set, so your focus shifts to supporting your sister. The two of you are supposed to meet for coffee soon, and you’re eager to hear how she’s doing with everything. It’ll be an interesting conversation for sure. 

Truthfully, this is the most fun Joe’s had in years. And to think, it all started with a plan to kill your sister. 

Well, not exactly. But sort of. Your sister Eve was a good friend of his recent girlfriend, Sophie. Sophie was perfect. Everything went well for a few months, until your sister appeared and began to plant doubts in Sophie’s head. She was getting too close to learning the truth. Eve was too skeptical of him, too suspicious. And this suspicion spread to Sophie too, until she was breaking up with him.

So, naturally, Joe adjusts his plans and proposes to your sister Eve. Two months later, he’s meeting the family—and seamlessly fitting in, as if he was always meant to be a part of it. He’s met Eve’s parents and made a great impression; the same goes for her aunt and uncle, her grandmother and grandfather. There’s only one person he hasn’t met yet: you, her older sibling. 

Eve talks about you frequently, but Joe has never met or even seen you. Supposedly, you’re a bit more closed-off than the other family members he’s met so far. You don’t go to most of the family gatherings, and you tend to keep to yourself. You’re very important to Eve, though—which is why Joe finds himself sitting at this small table in the corner of a modest coffee shop, waiting for you. Eve is getting a bit nervous, evidently, as her fingers jitter on her leg. Joe reaches out and squeezes her hand reassuringly; she calms a little bit and glances down at her phone.

“They just parked,” she informs him. She’s practically fidgeting in anticipation. One thing is clear: Eve thinks you hang the moon. Which means Joe will have to begrudgingly get through this conversation with an overprotective sibling… 

Ugh. He’s going to need something stronger than coffee. 

The bell above the door sounds and Joe looks up from the table, watching another person enter the shop. He’s been watching for you for a few minutes now, despite having virtually no idea what to look for. Eve talks about you all the time, but she’s never shown him any pictures or described your appearance. Joe isn’t sure who he expects. Perhaps someone closer to Eve’s appearance: unassuming, modest, attractive in a friendly, “next door neighbor” kind of way. 

Safe to say, when he sees a somewhat alternative person practically dripping in androgyny enter the room, he assumes them to be a stranger. Imagine his surprise, then, when Eve waves to this person and their lips quirk at the edges, their expression ever so slightly brightening and the tension slowly fading from their shoulders…

“Finally,” Eve says jokingly, placing a hand on his thigh briefly before getting up to greet her sibling. Joe watches her approach you, observing the interaction with interest. Despite your slightly intimidating appearance and blank expression, he can sense that you care about your sister. You embrace her and he watches you, scrutinizing your outfit. A muted green sweatshirt, jeans cuffed at the ankles, sneakers. There’s some sort of lanyard—probably attached to your keys—sneaking out of your pocket, a keychain of some character just barely noticeable. 

Eve points back to their table and Joe watches with barely-restrained delight as you stiffen, annoyance and frustration warring across your face. You’re barely trying to hide it. You drag your gaze over to him and Joe’s heart honestly jumps as your eyes meet. 

Well, well, well. You don’t like him. You don’t trust him. 

Interesting. 

He watches as Eve leads you back to their table. “Sorry,” she says to you as she returns to her seat, looking up at you. Eve didn’t tell you that Joe would be here, after all. Your reaction to him just now was entirely genuine and unfiltered. “This was the only way to get you to meet Joe.”

“Probably,” you relent shamelessly, considering them for a moment before taking a seat across from them. Joe watches you fidget restlessly for a moment, before you shove your hands in your pockets. Your gaze keeps flitting about the room. Your knee is bouncing, jittering in an unconscious twitch. 

It seems like he’ll have to make the first move. “Hello,” he says with a polite smile, extending a hand. “Joe Goldberg; nice to meet you.” 

“Hey,” you respond briefly, shaking his proffered hand quickly. You don’t even introduce yourself—although, Joe supposes that isn’t necessary, since he already knows who you are. Eve sends you a pointed look at your brief greeting; you just seem to ignore it. There’s an awkward silence for a few moments before your sister clears her throat. 

“How are things with you?” she asks you nicely. “It’s been a while.” Joe looks over at you expectantly, curious to learn more about this person who has seemed to subvert all of his expectations. Despite how often Eve talks about you, he had an entirely different idea of you in his head. He’s curious to see just how far off he may have been. 

“Everything’s good,” you say with a slight nod. You’re clearly not comfortable being honest in front of Joe. That makes him want to smile, for some reason. He decides to get up to fetch the drinks—leaving you and your sister alone at the table. He’s making it seem as if he’s giving you two some space. Of course, Joe can still eavesdrop on your conversation from here—it’s a small coffee shop, after all. 

“So,” Eve says, cutting right to the chase, “what do you think?” 

“Of Joe?” you ask. She nods. “He’s nice,” you say. Joe resists a laugh at how flat and apathetic the remark is. 

“Yeah?” Eve huffs, clearly both amused and a bit irritated. 

“Come on, Eve,” you sigh in exasperation. “I’m trying, I swear. You didn’t even warn me he was going to be here. And we just met two seconds ago.” All fair points.

Joe lets his eyes wander the menu as he continues to listen. “I know,” Eve responds, “but this is happening. He’s going to be a part of my life, which means he’ll probably be a part of yours, too.” 

“I know,” you acknowledge, clearly sensing this is important to her. “It just seems sudden, okay? The last time we spoke, you really weren’t doing well. And now you’re getting married?” You’re good at wording it delicately, expressing your concern without being too skeptical or unsupportive. 

“You’ll still be at the wedding, right?” Eve asks slowly. Joe thinks back to Eve’s admission late last night, her fear that you weren’t going to be there for her because you didn’t support their relationship. Joe had murmured and nodded at all the right times, his hand playing with her hair as he thought of other things. 

“I— Yeah, of course,” you respond, staring at her in bewilderment and disbelief. Joe is quickly brought back to the present moment. “Did you really think I wouldn’t go?” you ask with a slight frown. Ah. You’re a good sibling above all, it seems. That may prove to be a problem later on. 

Eve nods. “Okay,” your sister says, something like relief in her voice. “Good.” 

Joe has stalled for long enough; he returns with the drinks, placing them on the table before taking his seat again. Eve had ordered for the three of you, since she knows what each of you like. 

“Thanks,” you say after a moment, sliding your drink closer to you. Joe nods, watches you take a sip and look at your sister expectantly. 

“Joe works at that bookstore, Mooney’s,” Eve starts. “He’s a literature enthusiast. Not unlike someone else at this table…” 

Joe raises a brow, watches as you huff in amusement at your sister’s unsubtle remark. “You read?” he asks. You nod. “What genre?” 

“Depends,” you answer. “Right now, I’m kind of oscillating between horror and gothic stuff… and classics. Poetry too, when I’m in the mood.” 

“Nice,” he replies with a nod. Very nice. No sappy romances, troubling self-help guides, or autobiographical ego trips by famous people. He’s curious to know exactly what you’re reading. He adds Goodreads to the list of applications he’ll look for you on. 

The ensuing conversation is a bit stilted, but Eve is clearly trying her best. You only really talk to Eve, scarcely acknowledging Joe unless absolutely necessary. It’s a bit irritating, but soon enough, Eve needs to step away to go to the bathroom—leaving Joe alone with you at the table. The two of you just sit there in tense silence for a bit, before you’re the one to break through it.

“This isn’t some protective, pseudo-incest bullshit,” you mutter, your finger tracing the spirals in the wooden surface of the table. You look back over at him. His next breath gets stuck in his chest. Your eyes wander past him as you take in the shop around you, unaware of the fervency of Joe’s quickly growing interest. “I just don’t really like you.” 

Joe blinks in surprise. A laugh wrenches its way from his lips before he can stop it. He can’t remember the last time he felt such genuine amusement.

“Fair enough,” he acquiesces. 

Joe catches himself quite literally leaning forward, as if trying to break the distance between you. When Eve returns, he has to remind himself to put an arm around her waist for the performance. But he can’t take his eyes off of you. He’s digesting every word you utter, drinking in the sight of you. You’re everything. Sarcastic and blunt, clever and utterly fascinating. 

It’s a shame the outing has to come to an end. Truly. You’re the first one to get up, unsurprisingly. You seem seconds away from bolting out the door and disappearing forever. Unfortunately for you, it wouldn’t accomplish anything. You’re already in Joe’s sights now. 

“It was nice to meet you,” Joe says to you, surprised by how authentic the remark is. He genuinely enjoyed your company, which is more than can be said for nearly everyone he meets. Eve gets to her feet and he begrudgingly does the same.

“You too,” you say with a stiff nod, turning to your sister. “Bye, Eve,” you respond, reaching out and giving her a hug. 

“Where’s my hug?” Joe blurts out jokingly before he can help it. 

You just scoff, shoving your hands in your pockets. Before Joe can laugh, Eve wraps an arm around his shoulders and another around yours, before tugging you together. “My two favorite people,” she grins. Joe watches as you get pulled closer to her—and him, by proxy. He catches the flicker of irritation that passes over your face, the tension written in the harsh line of your shoulders and the way you resolutely avoid looking at him or even acknowledging his existence. 

You still hold the door open for him and Eve as they leave after you. Joe thanks you, watching you look away as if he hadn’t even spoken. He should be offended, but for some reason, he’s amused. 

“Drive safe,” Joe adds. He’s having fun now. 

“You too,” you say flatly. A slight smile. It’s not for him—he takes it anyway. “Eve’s a nightmare behind the wheel.”

“No, I’m not!” Eve huffs from his side, looking at you indignantly. Joe knows better than to get involved, even though you’re absolutely right. He just presses a kiss to Eve’s temple in a swift distraction. Soon enough they’re parting with you and heading to their car. 

The question comes sooner than he expects—practically the moment their seatbelts are fastened. “So, what’d you think?” Eve asks him as she starts the car. It’s obvious what’s—or, more accurately, who—she’s inquiring about. 

“They’re…” Joe breaks off. Witty, with a dry and occasionally dark sense of humor. Smart. And attractive. Very attractive. “...cool,” he finishes slowly, not trusting himself to say more.

“Yeah, they are,” Eve agrees, something like pride in her voice as she reverses and heads out onto the road. “Pretty career-driven. They were a really good student in school—made it hard for me to follow in their footsteps.”

Normally, Joe would be tuning her out. But he finds himself listening with rapt attention, desperate for any more information about you. “Career-driven?” he echoes, pretending to be confused about the meaning of the phrase. In reality, Joe just needs to know exactly how far that goes. Are you so focused on your career that you neglect other things? Like… romantic relationships, perhaps?

“Yeah,” Eve nods, unaware of the ugly anticipation twisting in Joe’s chest. “They’ve been working full-time since the moment they left college. They’re not really the social type, don’t hang out with friends too often. That’s why I was surprised when they agreed to meet.” 

Damn it, so close. 

“They’re worried about their little sister,” Joe says jokingly, placing a hand on Eve’s forearm. Eve looks amused. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” she huffs. “I’m the reckless one, compared to them. Jumping into relationships, as they say.”

So you’re more careful. Joe files that to the back of his mind. Even as Eve drives them home and the day carries on, he can’t take his mind off of you. 

As time passes, Joe is pleased to recognize that everything is going just as he planned. There’s only one problem. It’s a minor hiccup, really: he doesn’t feel anything for your sister. 

Well, Joe doesn’t necessarily view that as the problem. This is a sham marriage, anyways. He’s just going through with it so that he can tear her apart—shatter Eve’s heart on the ground before watching the life leave her eyes. 

The problem is that he’s finding himself actually developing feelings for someone else: you. The sibling of the woman he’s supposed to take down the aisle. The sibling of the woman he plans to kill.

This is unprecedented for Joe on several accounts. His schemes are never this messy; not to mention, he’s only had feelings for women in the past. But he can’t deny that strange jump in his chest whenever he sees you—the constant desire to be close to you, to have your unwavering attention. 

Joe has looked in a mirror before: he knows he’s attractive. Many people consider him charming. But you? You’re not affected: you’re wary of him, you don’t like him. You almost seem to hate his guts. Somehow, in his twisted and nonexistent logic, this only makes you more attractive. 

He finds himself replaying that conversation in the coffee shop in his head, turning over each and every response. Joe fixates on the slight smile on your face when you saw your sister… and the way it promptly dripped off your lips when you saw him. There’s something so fascinating about you. He can’t put a finger on it. 

When Eve brings up the idea of a family dinner at your parents’ house, Joe almost starts to believe in miracles. The timing is just too perfect. This will be a great opportunity to learn more about you, assuming you attend. He can only hope you do. 

When he arrives with Eve, he’s pleasantly surprised to find you in the corner of the room, engrossed in conversation with someone. Eventually, you must feel him staring—because you look over before looking away. The tension in your shoulders betrays you. 

Joe doesn’t really get a chance to talk to you until he nearly crashes into you in the hall an hour later. When you run into him, you blink, startle. Joe reaches out to put a hand on your shoulder, under the pretense of stopping himself from crashing into you. 

“Easy there,” he says jokingly, something of a smile on his face. You just scowl, which only makes Joe more intrigued and entertained. “I’m surprised you’re here,” he admits. 

“At my parents’ house?” you ask skeptically. 

“Eve said you don’t typically go to these things,” he responds smoothly. 

You just stare at him, not giving him a response. Joe scrambles to find something else to talk about, something to keep you in this tight hallway with him. 

“How’s that new project going for you at work?” he asks.

If you were wary before, you’re outright suspicious now. “How do you know about that?” you frown. 

“Eve was telling me,” Joe says, plastering a confused smile on his face. His heart is starting to race in his chest, especially as he realizes your suspicions are still thriving. 

“I never told Eve,” you argue with complete certainty. 

“You must’ve,” Joe suggests. 

“I didn’t,” you maintain, still entirely sure of yourself despite his pressure. 

Oh, you’re a tough customer. 

Joe eventually gives up on arguing and just shrugs. Your eyes narrow; he decides to take advantage of your momentary silence. “Where’s your date?” he hums. The question jumps from his lips before he can contemplate the consequences. 

Your eyebrows furrow. “What date?” 

“Family dinner?” he continues. “Good time to bring the partner.” Joe’s waiting for you to explain yourself, deny the assumption, do anything. Instead, you just remain quiet, as if sensing exactly what he’s looking for and refusing to give it to him. 

And then you brush past him.

Joe stands frozen in the hall for a while longer, completely reeling.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” you pipe up, your hands shoved in your pockets and that characteristic grumpy expression on your face. It’s cute. Joe wants to tell you that. Instead, he just looks over at Eve and raises an eyebrow, imploring her for an explanation as to why the three of them are now standing in the bridal shop. Isn’t it taboo for the groom to see the bride’s dress before the wedding? 

Then again, since when did he care about taboos—or even the success of this wedding? Joe reminds himself of the thought. Planning this wedding has been stressful, even though he doesn’t even care about it. It’s kind of ironic. 

“Because I need a second opinion,” Eve explains, breaking Joe out of his thoughts. She turns to him with a sympathetic smile, before looking at you with a playful smirk, “and Joe doesn’t have much fashion sense.” 

Ouch. 

You laugh slightly at your sister’s remark, before turning to look him up and down. “Yeah, I guess so,” you concede after a moment. That’s practically an insult, so why does it make Joe’s heart nearly stop? “Mom would be better for this, though,” you continue. 

“You know she’d take hours,” Eve says, “and she’d be crying the whole time.” 

“True,” you relent. 

“Although, she would’ve dressed nicer,” Eve says, looking at your clothes critically. 

“You get what you get,” you say with a shrug, entirely unbothered by the jab. Joe is a little surprised by the casual outfit you’re wearing: a long-sleeved shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. He wonders why you pull it off so well, why he keeps catching himself looking at you when he should be looking at his elegantly-dressed bride. “Besides, I’m not trying anything on.” 

Eve shakes her head at you in disbelief, a smile on her lips. Then she walks away, leaving Joe and you waiting for her. You move to sit on one of the armchairs near the fitting area and Joe follows you. 

“I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to be here for these things,” you realize aloud, looking over at him and blinking. Joe shrugs, unwilling to admit he was thinking the exact same thing. You seem to accept this nonexistent explanation. 

Your sister emerges soon enough. Seeing her in any white dress, let alone a wedding one, should be enough to take his breath away. But Joe’s too distracted with you next to him, your lackadaisical sprawl burning into his peripheral vision. 

“What do you think?” Eve asks you both self-consciously, staring at the dress in the mirror before looking back. 

“Looks great,” Joe says, clearing his throat. Remembering the part he’s supposed to play. 

You just flash a thumbs-up. Your sister looks at you imploringly. 

“Come on, I brought you here to be honest,” she says. Joe follows her gaze to you, curious. 

“Fine, fine,” you sigh. You study the dress for a moment, a slight frown on your face. “It looks like a tablecloth.” 

The dress does look like a tablecloth, now that Joe thinks about it. It’s too frilly and lacy. 

“And the sleeves are too short,” you continue. Correct again. “Also, it doesn’t even have any shape to it—”

“Okay, okay, got it,” Eve interjects. “Thanks; that’s what I needed.” She returns to the fitting room. You stare after her for all of two seconds, before pulling out your phone and scrolling. Joe watches as you pretend to have something to do, just to avoid conversation with him. You’re refreshing your email, checking your weather app. Joe hides a laugh, eventually deciding to take pity on you. 

“So, how’s work?” Joe says smoothly, glancing over at you. Work is a safe topic. 

You just raise an eyebrow, sensing how flimsy his attempt at conversation is. “Is that the best you can do?” you ask, seeming amused.

“Come on, I’m really trying here,” he sighs, putting a somewhat helpless inflection in his voice. 

“Really?” you blink. “Because you don’t have to.”  

Joe bites. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you nod. You pay him a fleeting glance. Maybe one or two seconds, maximum. Honestly, you look at him like he’s a piece of furniture. It’s kind of annoying. He doesn’t ever have to put effort into getting someone’s attention and keeping it. Joe prides himself on being charming. Are you just immune or something? “We can just… coexist.” 

No. Joe isn’t satisfied with that—he’ll never be satisfied with that. “We’re going to be family soon.” It sounds like a weak justification, even to him. And he’s the one who made it. 

“So?” you ask. 

“So,” he says pointedly, “we should at least get along.”

“We are getting along,” you point out. 

“Hey, stop antagonizing Joe,” Eve interjects, appearing from the dressing room in a new dress. Joe is equally thankful for and annoyed by the interruption. 

“I’m not antagonizing him,” you huff. 

“Yes, you are,” Eve says, stepping up to the mirror to look at herself in the dress. She smooths it out, then frowns slightly. “You only get like this when Joe’s around.”

Joe glances over at you curiously. Your reaction to that statement is telling. Your face tenses. Your fingers jitter against your leg. You frown at your sister, who is too busy looking in the mirror at her dress to notice. 

“Yeah, give a guy a break,” Joe says playfully, if only to see your jaw clench in annoyance. This is kind of fun. He’s not used to playing the game like this—he’s used to being perceived as handsome or charismatic, not irritating. But that’s what makes this interesting.

You mutter something under your breath, a dark expression passing across your face before you’re pulling out your phone and finding a convenient excuse to avoid Joe’s eyes. You’re playing a Pokémon card game now. He stifles a laugh. 

“It’s okay,” Eve says, shooting him a reassuring look. He raises an eyebrow at the mischievous smile on her face. “This one right here plays tough, but they cried when we watched Luca.”

“—Hey!” you exclaim, eyes snapping up from your phone to glare at your sister. “Rude and uncalled for.” 

“You’re not denying it,” Joe realizes aloud. A grin twists his lips, closer to genuine than he’d like. “That animated Disney movie about the boys who were fish?” 

“Shut up,” you huff. “And they were sea monsters, not fish.” 

Joe actually laughs at that. You proceed to talk about the queer themes in the movie while Joe watches on in interest. Eve just rolls her eyes, accustomed to hearing your media analysis rants. 

The rest of the try-on process is slightly more relaxed, but still a bit tense. You’re resolutely pretending that he doesn’t exist, while Joe is just openly staring at you. Eve keeps emerging in dress after dress after dress, and Joe doesn’t even care to provide fake compliments anymore. 

It eventually gets to the point when Eve returns in her normal clothing. Finally, freedom from this torture. Joe suppresses a flinch as she moves to sit on the edge of the armchair next to him, practically in his lap. 

“Ready for the wedding planner?” Eve asks, raising her eyebrows with an excited smile. 

“I was born ready,” Joe responds smoothly. He swears he can see your face contort in revulsion out of the corner of his eye. He resists the urge to laugh. 

“You coming?” Eve asks you. 

“Uh… no,” you say with a frown, clearly confused as to why you’re even being asked at all. At your sister’s pout, you just double down. “Why would I?”

“Come on,” Eve says pleadingly. 

“This is your wedding, not mine,” you frown. “I really don’t care what flavor the cake is, or what color the flowers are, or what shitty straight people music is played.” You huff, making a nonchalant hand motion before getting to your feet and shrugging your jacket on. 

Joe’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. It’s not exactly easy to forget how straightforward you are, but times like this only serve to remind him of just how blunt you can be. It’s a weirdly attractive quality. Joe is so accustomed to pulling teeth, to people saying the opposite of what they mean. He’s grown complacent in his techniques, relying on the same lines to get a person’s attention and keep it on him. But you… you’re an antithesis to his tried and true methods. It unnerves him a bit, if he’s being honest. 

“That’s exactly why I need you there,” your sister says, breaking Joe out of his thoughts. “I want it to be unique.” 

“No wedding’s ever unique,” you scoff, shoving your hands in your pockets. “It’s an antiquated concept, why even bother? Extremely misogynistic too.” You roll your eyes. Joe feels an amused smile tugging at his lips, which he has to disguise with a pointed cough. 

“We’re not getting into your anti-matrimony speech right now,” Eve remarks, evidently familiar with the turn this conversation has taken. “Besides, it’s too late for that.” 

“Doesn’t matter; I have to go now, sorry,” you say. 

“No, you don’t,” Joe utters the words before he can stop himself. Damn it. Fuck. Shit. He didn’t mean to say that aloud.

“Yes, I do,” you argue with a perplexed frown. 

“No, you don’t,” Joe maintains. He’s seen your schedule. You have nothing to do for the rest of the day.  

Your sister is glancing between the two of you, clearly sensing something’s off. “You can just say you don’t want to go,” Eve hums, ever the mediator. 

“I thought I just implied it,” you say with a frown, confusion seeping into your voice. You blink, sending your sister a sympathetic look. “Yeah, I want to go home. Sorry.” 

“Fine, fine,” Eve says, waving you off. “But I don’t want to hear your complaints if the decorations are an eyesore.” 

You just raise your hands in mock surrender. Eve gives you a hug and you promptly head out the door, not even acknowledging Joe’s existence long enough to say goodbye. Eve watches you leave with a slight frown, before turning to him and grimacing. 

“Sorry about them,” she sighs.

“It’s fine,” Joe says. And he really does mean it. Your behavior is only making things more interesting. “I can handle a little frostiness.”  

“Lucky for you,” Eve starts, leaning into him more, “you’re marrying me.” 

“Lucky me,” Joe repeats, struggling to imbue genuine emotion in his voice. The truth of the matter? He’d choose you over Eve in a heartbeat. Any day, every day. But that’s not something he can really speak on, so he stays quiet and lets Eve drape herself over him before they head off to the wedding planner. 

When their wedding day finally arrives, Joe is preoccupied. Not with thoughts of his new fiancée, but with thoughts of you. As he’s putting on his suit, he’s not thinking about the beautiful white dress Eve will be wearing—he’s thinking of what you’ll wear, where you’ll sit, how you’ll act. He half expects you to sneak out of the ceremony itself, wandering the halls of the venue instead of sitting with everyone else.

Joe finds you within moments of entering the venue. You’re sitting in a seat at the edge of the front row, one leg crossed over the other as you scroll on your phone with a bored expression on your face. You’re wearing a well-tailored dark grey suit and black dress shoes. 

Joe stares for a while. He can’t take his eyes off of you.

The bridesmaids walk down the aisle. Two of them are whispering about him—the third valiantly pretending not to drool over him. Classic. The maid of honor proceeds after, barely sparing him a glance. He looks at you. You look so fucking bored. It’s amusing, honestly. As if a wedding is the worst possible situation you could find yourself in. 

Well, maybe to you, it is. But you’re showing up for your sister, supporting her even though you clearly don’t like him. Just another of the many things I’m starting to like about you. You’re a good person, even though you don’t want to be. You paint that scowl on your face and pretend to be prickly, but I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you help people pick things up when they drop them; I’ve seen you stop to help wayward tourists with directions. I’ve seen you thank the barista at your favorite coffee shop every single time, without fail. I’ve seen you swallow your objections when you don’t get the food you ordered; constantly apologize for things that are never your fault. 

You are a good person. And, somehow, that annoys you. 

It’s almost cute, really. That you think you can push everyone away. Because, let’s be real, you can’t even commit to that, can you? You hate me, but you still greet me with that stiff nod when I enter the room. You still keep your true thoughts hidden behind lock and key, all for your sister. 

In this contemplation, Joe nearly misses Eve walking down the aisle. Fuck. He’s supposed to be looking, he thinks. He turns to the side, manifests an expression of awe and adoration. It seems to fool the masses—although, the scowl on your face only looks deeper when he takes another look. Funny.

The wedding itself is a blur. And not because it’s particularly enjoyable or eventful. No. Joe just… tunes most of it out. Vows, rings, kiss, adoring smile, another kiss, walk back down the aisle, bright smile, sparkling eyes. 

God. This game is exhausting. 

He doesn’t really come back to himself until he’s at the venue of the reception. The second you walk through the doors, it’s like the world around him just… clarifies. Joe’s eyes rake across your form almost greedily, taking in the sharp lines of your suit and the reluctant smile on your face when someone approaches you. When they leave, Joe watches your eyes lock with your sister—watches as a genuine smile rises on your lips, and he thinks he actually forgets to breathe. 

You’ve never given me anything remotely close to that kind of emotion. 

He struggles not to show his irritation at the thought—it helps that you’re soon approaching your sister (and him, by proxy). Joe’s grip on your sister’s hand tightens; if she notices, she doesn’t comment, just squeezing his hand in a gesture that is supposed to be reassuring. It just makes his skin crawl. 

“Congrats,” you say with an easy smile, eyes on your sister. Eve’s hand leaves Joe’s as she slips away to embrace you, giving you a tight hug. 

“So,” Joe says casually, after the two of you have broken apart, “guess we’re siblings now.” He extends a hand. A truce. 

You’re staring at his hand like it’s going to bite you. God, you’re not even trying to be funny, but you are. Whether you realize it or not. 

You reluctantly return the handshake. 

The reception is just as blurry (read: insignificant and mind-numbing) as the wedding itself. And of course, the groom’s role is one of the most important. He can barely step away from Eve for more than a moment, before they’re being accosted by a family member or friend. It’s frustrating. Joe is honestly grateful that this wedding is fake—a real one sounds like a complete nightmare. He’s exhausted enough already, and he’s only pretending to care.

Joe finally gets his chance for a breather when Eve gets up to go to the bathroom. He wastes no time in scanning the space, looking for a familiar scowling figure. You’re not on the dance floor—although, honestly, Joe would’ve been more surprised if you were. He eyes the balconies overlooking the space… and there you are. Almost hiding behind one of the pillars, scrolling on your phone. 

Perfect. 

Joe heads up the stairs, shoving his hands in his pockets and upping the whole “breathless groom” act a little bit. As he approaches, he’s both amused and annoyed to see that you aren’t even looking up from your phone. He has to actually clear his throat for you to even notice his presence. But then those tired eyes are on him, and everything falls into place. 

“Hey,” Joe says with a nod.

“...Hey,” you respond after a moment. 

“Taking a breather?” Joe hums. 

“Yeah,” you say. A frown. “Why are you up here?” 

“Same thing,” Joe responds. 

“You’re supposed to be down there,” you say, nodding to the reception downstairs. Joe hums. 

“I guess so,” he says. “It’s just all so… overwhelming.” He plasters an apprehensive, anxious expression on his face. 

You just blink at him, almost seeming annoyed by his comment. “Right,” you stare at him skeptically. “It’s not like this is completely voluntary.” The sardonic remark should probably offend him, but it only makes Joe smile. He has to hide the gesture by taking a sip of his drink. 

“I like your suit,” he blurts out. 

You stare at him in bewilderment, before laughing slightly. Joe is suddenly entranced. You’re laughing at him. He knows it. And yet… 

“Thanks,” you say skeptically. 

“It was a genuine compliment,” Joe feels the need to clarify. You have no idea just how genuine it was—the breath he choked on when he saw you walk in with that characteristic annoyed look on your face, your hands shoved in your pockets… how he had to put genuine effort into looking at his wife, not you… 

“Sure,” you just say, not seeming very convinced.

Joe gives up on trying to persuade you. “Want to dance?” he offers instead, nodding down at the dance floor. 

“You should be dancing with my sister,” you say, your arms crossed over your chest as if shielding yourself from him, “and no.” 

“Shame,” Joe says with a hum. “I suppose you’re just going to lurk in this corner, looking miserable?” 

“I suppose,” you respond noncommittally. Damn, you’re being particularly stubborn today. Usually, he can get a few words out of you. But you’re just repeating his own words like some kind of parrot. He finds himself uncharacteristically frustrated. It takes him a moment to reign in the negative emotions. 

“Well, have fun with that,” Joe settles for saying, turning his back on you before returning downstairs to look for his fiancée. He finds Eve easily enough, and they dance. It isn’t awful. That’s all he has to say on the matter, really. 

Truthfully, he does find his attention wandering far too frequently. He glances up at that balcony more times than he can count. You’re still alone. Always alone, aren’t you? And not in the typical, ‘nice people finish last’ kind of way. More the disinterested, ‘get away from me’ kind of way.

…Although, perhaps he spoke too soon. Because when Joe remembers to look back up at the balcony a few minutes later, you’re gone. He frowns and keeps spinning Eve across the dance floor, ignoring her irritating laughs and exploring the room. It’s kind of hard to see, but he knows you well enough to know you’re probably against one of the walls or in one of the corners. 

Indeed, that is where he finds you: in the far corner, in conversation with some random guy in an ill-fitting suit. The man must know your family, Joe suspects. You’re listening to him intently, giving him your full attention. 

Hell, you’re laughing. 

Pure, unadulterated fury runs through him. Joe has never seen you smile at him, laugh with him. There’s no trace of that contempt in your eyes, that wariness that draws your shoulders tight and furrows your brows. And somehow, this guy, with his shitty suit and even shittier haircut, is getting your attention. 

Within an hour, Joe is dragging the guy’s dead body into a nearby storage closet. Joe’s blood is thrumming beneath his skin, his hands almost shaking after the strength he exerted to strangle the man. It was satisfying, invigorating. 

And it’s all too easy to lead you to the storage closet inadvertently. You’ll stumble upon the corpse, while Joe will be spinning your sister around the dance floor. It’s the perfect alibi, really. 

He doesn’t intend to frame you, of course. That murder was a bit impulsive, even for Joe. All it took was one glimpse at the slight smile working its way onto your lips as you spoke with the man… and Joe snapped. 

Ah well. He did everything smoothly. In twenty minutes or so, he’ll check on you. From there… well. He’ll see where things go. 

“Are you all right?” Joe asks you, manifesting an air of concern. He’s not genuinely concerned, because he knows exactly what you’re distressed about. He planted the guy’s body perfectly, he has to admit. You stumbled upon it very quickly. Of course, Joe’s using your compassion for your sister to manipulate you here—you won’t report the body just yet, because you don’t want to ruin the wedding. That allows for this little encounter in the rather large gender-neutral restroom, with stalls from floor to ceiling and elegant marble counters. 

You’re standing at one of the sinks, head bent and hands gripping the edge of the counter. At his remark, you glance up slightly. “Yeah, why?” you respond. 

“You look distressed,” Joe remembers to say. 

“It’s been a weird day,” you huff. It’s almost funny—if he didn’t have a hand in things… if he had no knowledge of what just occurred, Joe would probably believe that excuse. But, of course, he did kill the guy and practically dump his body on you. So, he presses you a bit harder. 

“How so?” he hums innocently. Joe nearly smiles at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. Still, you’re persistent—and you just keep silent. 

Joe feels weirdly restless. It’s clear he isn’t going to get any more details out of you—he’ll have to be the one to set things into motion. That’s something of a change for him. Usually, his victim—obsession, fixation, whatever—is a bit more oblivious. But not you. 

He’s fine with taking the lead—if only to get things moving. “It’s a shame about that Brian fellow,” Joe drawls pointedly, staring at you in the mirror. Brian. Such a common name. Fit for a boring man. Joe watches as your eyes rise from the counter, squinting at him warily. “Such a brutal way to go.” He clicks his tongue in faux sympathy. 

“Yeah,” you respond emptily. And Joe can see the exact moment it hits you, when comprehension dawns across your face while you try to hide it. (Because you’re supposed to be the only one who knows about the guy’s corpse. Yet here Joe is, casually commenting on it.) Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your shoulders tense. Your gaze explores the room quickly, frantically. Then, to Joe’s satisfaction, you look at him. 

And you see. 

Joe strikes. 

You twist to the side, dodge and run. 

You’re reaching for the door to the bathroom. Joe fists a hand in the back of your collar and yanks you back. You kick out at him, punch him; he punches you in response. For a moment, he thinks he may have underestimated you. Of course, Joe has several contingency plans. And while he hadn’t planned on threatening you too explicitly, it seems the situation requires it. 

Besides, it’s exhilarating to watch your resistance bend and break as he presses a knife to your throat. You fall still. The air hums and buzzes. 

“You waited to pull that out,” you realize aloud, something like disbelief in your voice. Your clothing is rumpled from the fight; you’re both breathing hard. There’s finally a hint of emotion in your eyes: fear. It’s entrancing. Joe wants to see it more. He wants to see other emotions play across your face too—confusion, irritation, helplessness. Perhaps even grief. Adoration. 

…He’s getting sidetracked. 

“Why are you doing this?” you murmur. 

Why indeed. Because I want to. Because this feeling in my chest won’t go away. Because I want your eyes on me. Because… 

Joe watches the line of your throat as you swallow, then presses the blade to it tightly. You tilt your neck up slightly, trying to evade his grasp. There’s blood dripping from your nose, slipping down to your lips. Joe watches it in mute fascination, resisting the strangely compelling urge to touch it, let it stain his fingers. 

The bathroom door swings open. You look to the doorway, clearly hoping for some intervention. But Joe is faster, subtly pressing his knife to the small of your back and grabbing a paper towel in his other hand. 

“Look down a bit,” he says to you, pretending as if the two of you entered the bathroom to handle your unrelated bloody nose. Joe presses the towel to your nose and guides your head down slightly, pressing the blade to your spine as a reminder.  

You’re glaring at him furiously, even as you tilt your head.  

Joe suddenly wants to kiss you. Very, very badly. 

The stranger walks past, heads into a stall. Time seems to drag on for far too long, leaving Joe trapped in this damn bathroom. Finally, they’re gone and the two of you are alone again. 

There’s still some blood on your lips. Your shirt is stained slightly. 

Even as the adrenaline finally begins to wear off, Joe feels privileged to see you this vulnerable—and proud of himself for causing it. He’s moving before he can convince himself otherwise. Joe loops an arm around you, pressing the knife to the nape of your neck and tugging you into him. 

In that luxurious bathroom, you expect Joe Goldberg to flay you, to bury that knife between your ribs and yank. You don’t expect him to use it to drag you closer, into a kiss. And the irony of it all… is that once you break apart, breathless, he’s just regarding you calmly. As if you’re the crazy one. 

“Now,” Joe says, his voice calm. “I have a present for you.” 

“I don’t want it,” you say quickly, still struggling to comprehend what’s going on. He just kissed you. And killed someone. Somehow, the former is more shocking. 

“I know,” Joe responds with amusement, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit and extracting a Ziploc bag of pills. Shit. Fuck. Shit. You’re really screwed now. “Here,” he says, leaving it on the sink counter. Joe’s looking at you expectantly. Does he really think you’re going to take these mysterious drugs—and from him of all people?

You shake your head. You have a bad feeling about those pills. 

“Take them,” Joe urges you impatiently. He jabs at your ribs lightly with the knife, just hard enough for you to remember he’s armed. You take a slow breath before placing the pills in your mouth and swallowing them. It’s difficult to keep them down without water, but you manage. “They’re not roofies, don’t worry.” 

“Right,” you scoff. You’re not sure if you can even take those words at face value. Besides, they don’t have to be roofies to knock you unconscious. And you suspect that’s exactly what Joe intends to do. As for what happens after that, you can only guess. “So, we’re just going to stand here?” you huff, trying to find some bravado despite the powerless position you’re in. You have a bad feeling you’re going to die tonight. 

“Yes,” Joe responds calmly. “They’ll kick in soon.” 

And that just makes your heart drop to your stomach. A shiver runs up your spine at the patient expression on his face. You’re standing there at the counter, trying to manifest some sense of resistance despite the inevitability of it all. The world is starting to swirl and spin around you, and you don’t think you can put that down to your imagination. The drugs are beginning to kick in already, just as Joe said. You want to be sick. 

A hysterical, broken laugh crawls up your throat. “I knew I didn’t like you for a reason,” you murmur. Your words slur together a bit as your vision blurs. Joe laughs, a piercing sound that reverberates in your ears. He places a hand on your shoulder. You want to shove him away, but your body isn’t cooperating. It’s taking all of your strength to keep yourself standing. 

“Fuck—” you choke out, tripping over your words as your balance tilts, “—you.” The lights are flickering around you. Except… wait. No, that’s just your vision. Your eyes are burning from fatigue and it’s growing difficult to fight off the exhaustion. Your knees give out and you fall to the ground, half-hoping to just crack your head open on the marble counter and escape the situation. But Joe’s there to catch you, lowering you to the ground gently. He’s hovering over you, eyes glittering with an emotion you don’t want to name. And you’re desperately trying to push him away, bringing a hand to his chest and summoning even a single ounce of strength—

But there’s no force behind the gesture, as your eyes slip shut and your hand promptly falls to your side. From there, you get glimpses and traces of sensations as you slip into an inescapable void. Hands under your legs. You’re a tangle of limbs being taken… somewhere. A thumb across your cheek, almost reverent. A stickiness on your lips—probably blood. A persistent ache in your bones. Nausea climbing up your dry throat. 

You wake to find yourself on a makeshift futon with a blanket thrown over you, surrounded by glass walls on all sides. Your head aches, your dry eyes burn. The memories come back in an ungraceful assault, robbing you of your breath. The wedding, the corpse, that encounter in the bathroom. It dawns on you

You were right about Joe Goldberg. 

And, for maybe the first time in your life, you wish your intuition was wrong instead. 

endnotes: FINALLY got this out of my drafts, holy shit. i'm happy with it, tho.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! <3

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Sigh. I have a weakness for charismatic and popular characters being frustrated and intrigued by the one person who isn’t affected by them. (cough cough, Felix fic, cough couch, Finnick fic, cough cough, this one…)

This fic is Joe/Reader centric. Again, the reader is either masculine/male or nonbinary. They’re written to not be a woman, basically. I especially love the idea of Joe breaking his pattern and falling for a super queer-presenting person and falling HARD. Come on, we knew this was coming.

I have almost zero canon knowledge. I’ve never actually watched this series—I’ve only seen Trixie and Katya watch it. Canon does not exist to me.

Joe has finally escaped his past. He’s creating something of a life for himself in London. Here, he isn’t Joe Goldberg, obsessive stalker and murderer; instead, he’s Jonathan Moore, literature professor at Darcy College. It’s a humble life, compared to what he had before. Surprisingly, he’s starting to enjoy it.

Except… his students aren’t the brightest. Joe isn’t sure what it is—if he’s distracting them, or if he just isn’t that great of a professor. (The mere thought amuses him. He knows he isn’t the problem.) Ultimately, though, no one seems very engaged in his class. And, even worse, hardly anyone has a grade above a C. 

Joe sighs as he reads through another mediocre essay, red ink littered across the margins. He shakes his head in annoyance and writes “D” in the top right corner, before adding it to the pile of graded papers. It’s abundantly clear to him that this semester’s batch of students are just like the last group: unmotivated and incompetent. 

Joe grabs the next paper, taking a deep breath and preparing himself for more mediocrity. He’s so accustomed to skipping over the introduction that he nearly neglects the thesis. Joe thinks he’s seeing things at first, but there it is: a well-constructed thesis. He reads through it once, twice. It’s not bad.

But Joe’s not going to get his hopes up, so he continues reading skeptically. It only takes him another paragraph to acknowledge that this student is a good writer. Perhaps even a great one. He only feels more satisfied with each additional page he reads. By the time he gets to the end of the paper, his heart is nearly racing. He’d been waiting for something to ruin it, but nothing happened. That essay was… quite good. 

Joe goes back to the first page and stares at the heading, scrutinizing your name at the top of the paper. It bounces around his mind even after he grades the paper and attempts to put it back in the pile; even as he takes it back in a few minutes to read it again. 

He soon finds himself looking forward to his next class. You haven’t left his mind, despite the fact that he has no idea what you look or sound like. Regardless, your name lingers in the back of his mind as he carries on with his day, crafting lesson plans and responding to the occasional email. And he finds himself distracted with contemplating just what you could look like. 

During his next class, he finds himself actually paying attention during attendance, if only to put a face to the name. You’re near the end of the list, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to speed through the list and just call out your name. 

Finally, he gets to you and says your name. You raise your hand. His chest lurches as he looks at you, everything clarifying and blurring around you. It’s such a nonchalant gesture. Hell, you didn’t even care to speak. “Welcome,” Joe says before he can stop himself. Your lips are pulled into an awkward, completely ingenuine smile and you nod. You seem confused at the thought of him welcoming you when he didn’t do the same for the other students; and annoyed at the brief attention the remark garners you. Joe updates the attendance, fighting off the urge to smile for some reason. 

He can’t fight off his curiosity for long. Twenty, then thirty minutes pass. And he reaches the brink of his patience. His lectures are meant to be interactive, but the majority of the class doesn’t care to participate. You aren’t necessarily vocal, but you’re clearly listening, at the very least. And Joe finds himself eager to hear what you have to say. He asks a question. No one answers. And he lets the room descend into a tense and uncomfortable silence. 

Joe looks at you, sharing something of an apologetic grimace. You stare for a moment, before slowly raising your hand. It’s hard for Joe not to acknowledge you within the millisecond, but he waits a few moments before calling on you to make things seem more authentic. 

Your answer is nearly perfect. You cite direct evidence from the text in your assertion, referencing multiple implicit themes present from the beginning of the book. Joe nods and thanks you for your answer, internally satiated with the knowledge that his preconceptions about you were correct. You’re brilliant. This class is probably too easy for you. 

He manages to exercise inordinate patience and stop himself from keeping you after class. Instead, he resigns himself to a night spent searching for anything and everything he can find on you. Joe’s actually looking forward to it. He wants to learn more about you. You’re clever; you’re undeniably attractive; and you’re entirely unaffected by his machinations. (Joe wants to eat you alive.)

He’s never felt this way about someone before. And his previous infatuations had all been women. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, does it? The feeling he gets in his chest when he looks at you is undeniable. And within the next few classes, he’s surrendering to the urge to get you in a room alone with him. 

“Stay behind for a moment?” Joe asks you near the end of one class. He allows his eyes to wander across the room as he asks, making sure his voice is just loud enough for the other students to hear.  

“...Sure,” you agree hesitantly. Joe knows he’s left you virtually no choice—asking you in front of the entire group. He did that on purpose, of course. You almost seem to recognize that, as your eyes flit about in recognition of the spotlight he placed you under. 

The end of class doesn’t seem to come fast enough. But finally, finally, everyone files out of the classroom. A few of the students send Joe lovelorn gazes, but he only has eyes for you. And you only have eyes for… the bookshelves around the room, apparently. 

It’s horribly ironic, Joe thinks, that you’re so blatantly restless and disinterested. You’re barely even looking at him. 

He thinks he loves it. 

Joe takes the proffered opportunity to study you, amused to find that you’re wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. A lot of his students dress up—probably to impress him, he thinks to himself wryly—but here you are, wearing what he can only imagine to be comfortable clothing that you practically threw on. Your hands fidget ever so slightly in your pockets as you explore the room around you, showing no indication of even noticing his presence. Joe studies you for a while longer before finally saying your name to catch your attention. 

It’s gratifying to see the way you almost force yourself to drag your gaze towards him. Your eyes meet his and, for a moment, Joe just stands there. Every word he means to say falls to dust on his tongue as he looks at you. You look so fucking bored, as if you’d quite literally rather be anywhere else. 

Finally, Joe thinks to himself. A challenge. 

He taps his fingers against his desk a few times in faux restlessness, seeing your eyes track the movement. “How’d you like the book?” Joe asks after a few moments. He doesn’t even really need to ask—he knows exactly what you thought of it, because you had written about it rather transparently. Somehow, he still wants to hear your answer anyways. 

“It was a book,” you respond vaguely. And Joe feels a genuine laugh crawl out of his throat. He’s just as startled by it as you are. 

“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, yes,” he agrees. You were the only one to genuinely analyze the rhetorical style and consider how it impacted the story. You were the only one to find fault with the author’s pretentious language and shitty metaphors. “I must admit, I was impressed with your essay,” Joe continues. He reread it several times. He closed his eyes and imagined you sitting in the library—or perhaps even in your apartment—writing the paper, a concentrated expression on your face. He stood outside of your building and stared up at your drawn curtains, envisioning you typing away on your laptop. But you don’t need to know that.

Truthfully, when Joe began looking into you, he was annoyed to find that you have little to no social media presence. The few accounts you have are private. Joe had to do a bit of work—and, even then, he doesn’t have nearly as much information as he should. He’s forced to actually pay attention to your answers now. 

“Thanks," you say, seeming surprised as you blink at his compliment. He’s broken out of his thoughts.  

Joe doesn’t bother responding to your gratitude. “You’re doing well in this class,” he states instead. You’re the only person with an A. Joe has earned himself something of a reputation on campus for being the strict and exacting American professor with rigorous standards. Yet here you are, passing his class with ease. He would be annoyed, if he didn’t find you so intriguing. 

You don’t seem to know what to say to him. Joe continues speaking. “What program are you in?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer. Communication. Transfer student. Perfect GPA. Peer tutor at the writing center on campus.  

“Communication,” you respond, unknowing of his internal dialogue. Joe hums, pretending that information is new. 

“And how do you like the program?” he continues, secretly a bit entertained by your short answers. 

“It’s good," you respond. And wow, you’re giving him absolutely nothing to work with. It’s almost amusing. Joe feels his lips quirking at the edges. You’re not even trying to hide your disinterest. It’s fascinating. 

“Just good?” Joe prompts you. 

“I’m enjoying it,” you answer. There’s an awkward, tense silence for several long moments. Joe doesn’t make a move to break it, and neither do you. Then, just as he begins to think he’ll have to keep it going, you continue speaking. “Did you need me for something, Professor?” you eventually ask. 

Joe’s almost impressed that you had the courage to say that to his face. He was convinced he would have you trapped in conversation for a few minutes longer. It appears he’s underestimated you. 

“I was just curious about you,” Joe admits. You have no idea how dangerous his curiosity is. He is going to pick you apart. (And, if he’s feeling particularly merciful, he’ll even put you back together.) “Your writing is quite well-developed. I wanted to inquire about your career goals, see if there was anything I could do to assist you.” 

“Oh,” you say. You’re shifting your balance ever so slightly as if uneasy. Your backpack’s on your shoulders still, as if you’re going to just bolt out of the room at a moment’s notice. You really don’t want to be here, do you? “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I don’t think I’m going to be pursuing literature, necessarily, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Damn it, you are good. You buried your disinterest in faux gratitude. Joe was almost fooled for a moment. He’s suddenly scrambling to find something to say, something to force you to stay in this room, if only so he can pick you apart more—

But you’re already walking away, taking the opportunity you’ve created for yourself to escape. Joe stares after you for a moment, almost in disbelief. He hardly got anything out of you. You pretty much brushed him off and continued on about your day. You threw him off for a fraction of a second, long enough for you to get away. 

Did that really just happen?

Joe must be getting rusty.  

Joe is quickly learning that you’re a bit of an interesting case. You’re a lot different from the people he would usually go after. He’d almost venture to call you reclusive, because you’re not one to go to parties on campus or hang out with friends very often. You’re independent, which he would ordinarily appreciate—if it didn’t make tracking you down so damn difficult. You’re an unobtrusive presence on campus, clearly content with fading into the background. And your efforts work rather well for you, it seems. Of course, you can’t fool Joe. He would never be bored by you. Anything and everything you do just fascinates him. You’ve been fixed in his sights since that first paper you submitted to him weeks ago. 

This fascination is how he finds himself walking into one of the humble coffee shops on campus, pretending to look at the menu when he’s really tracking you down. He knows you tend to come here after your Intercultural Communication class on Wednesdays—and, after a few moments, he finally spots you. You’re nestled in one of the booths in the corner of the room, typing away on your laptop as usual. That’s one of the least surprising things he’s learned about you: you’re rather studious. He didn’t even need to glimpse into your apartment window to learn that, although he did anyway. 

Joe feels himself moving before he can stop himself. A few steps and he’s standing at the edge of your table, waiting for you to tear your attention away from your busywork. It takes a few seconds longer than he’d like, and he eventually abandons his patience. “Fancy seeing you here,” he remarks. 

You finally look up from your laptop screen, your eyes briefly finding him. “Professor Moore,” you say, momentarily startled by his presence. “What brings you here?”

“Just stopping by for some coffee before my office hours,” he answers with a slight smile. 

“…Well, I should leave you to it, then," you say smoothly. You predictably don’t take the bait—the reminder of his office hours—and instead practically dismiss him. His hand twitches at his side. “It was good to see you.” Liar. You look so uncomfortable. It only makes Joe more persistent. 

“Nonsense, I can spare some time for my best student.” Joe waves off your concern, before promptly leaning down and taking a seat in the booth across from you. You’re stoic for the most part, but a flicker of surprise and bewilderment passes across your face. Joe resists the urge to smile at the sight, instead focusing on you. 

“How’s your paper coming along?” he asks. You look suspicious and wary. Damn it, that’s right. Joe’s not supposed to know that you started that, is he? Finding the password to your school account had been far too easy, though. From there, he was free to browse your many assignments. And Joe devoured them all—especially the ones for his class. (God, that sounds pathetic, even for him.) “Don’t tell me you haven’t started it yet,” he adds jokingly, jabbing at your quick work pace. You’re at least a few weeks ahead of the course schedule. He can’t bring himself to be irritated by it. 

“I have some ideas, but nothing concrete yet," you answer.

“Good, good,” Joe says. “And what are you working on now, may I ask?”  

“Something for my Digital Activism class,” you respond. Joe looks at you expectantly and you continue. “We have to pick a digital activism movement and use content analysis to determine its efficacy.”

He sits for a bit, watching you continue to ignore him. He’ll occasionally take a sip of his drink but, otherwise, he’s unabashedly staring. Either you’re particularly good at ignoring him, or you just haven’t noticed. Joe gets the feeling it’s the former. 

“I have to get to class,” you announce at some point, closing your laptop and slipping it into your backpack. Joe almost laughs. You’re not getting out of this that easily. Absolutely not. Not again.

“Are you going to Winslow Hall?” Joe asks. He knows you are. Even if he hadn’t checked your schedule—which he did—he would be able to come to that conclusion. The college isn’t huge, so a lot of the liberal arts classes are in the same collection of buildings. “I can walk you there,” he offers politely.

“...Okay.” You’re clearly displeased with this turn of events, and confused by the gesture. Joe doesn’t give you any time to retract the remark, instead putting his jacket on and waiting for you to do the same. You’re sneaking suspicious glances at him every few moments. Usually his charismatic attitude isn’t met with such disregard and wariness. It’s a strange departure from the past. Then again, he’s sort of reinventing himself here in London. (Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.) 

Joe heads out of the coffee shop with you, walking at your side and taking note of how you almost seem to shrink on yourself as passersby stare at the both of you. No doubt they’re wondering just who you are—Joe hasn’t earned a reputation for being particularly social. And he has quite a few admirers across campus. You’re almost wilting under everyone’s gazes, your hands fidgeting with the straps of your backpack restlessly. You probably haven’t realized, but your somewhat alternative appearance is only making you stand out more when next to him. It’s kind of funny. 

“Here we are,” Joe announces after your rather uneventful walk. “See you in class tomorrow,” he says, letting a charming smile slip onto his face. 

“Bye,” you say with an awkward, strained smile. He’s caught your genuine smile from afar—this tense pull to your lips is the furthest thing from it. It’s like you’re determined not to let your guard down in front of him. And within moments, you’ve already entered the classroom—as if you’re fleeing from him. 

In the coming weeks, as the semester starts to wind down, Joe decides to adjust his curriculum slightly to make the final assignment a partner project. It’ll boost some of the slackers’ grades—assuming they actually put in the work. But he knows that’s not the real reason why he’s giving the class this work. The real reason is sitting in the back of the class: you. Inexplicably, Joe wants to observe you speaking to someone else. He wants to see how you act when you’re forced to speak to someone else, to a peer. How will it differ from how you speak to him? Are you naturally wary, or is he special? He’s smirking at the thought. 

This partner project is how Joe currently finds himself in between the bookshelves of the campus library, subtly peeking through the gaps in the books to look at you and your partner. He’s hanging on to your every word, regardless of how mundane or unassuming it may be. There’s something positively captivating about you. (And this feels like it should be a blow to his pride, somehow. Joe has watched people before, many times. He’s never sunk to such depths: watching you do virtually nothing as you complete your schoolwork.) 

Then again, you’re not a particularly scandalous or public person. This is the best he can do. You like to keep to yourself, after all—spending hours in your apartment with your eyes glued to your laptop, or your phone, or a book. Joe shakes his head in annoyance, forgetting himself for a moment.

“What do you think of Professor Moore?” your classmate asks curiously. Joe suddenly snaps back to attention, feeling himself lean forward and peek through the gaps in the bookshelves to study the look on your face. That was rather fortuitous. 

You’re frowning at the question. “I’m not sure,” you say after a moment. The fluorescent lights of the library hum in impatience. Joe breathes slowly. “He kind of gives off serial killer vibes.” 

Joe is sure there’s a huge chunk of context he’s missing, but he still has to duck below the shelves to hide himself as he laughs. Oh, you have no idea. His shoulders are shaking with mirth. It takes concerted effort for him to reel himself back in. 

“How?” your classmate asks, clearly thrown by your honesty. 

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. You’re acting a bit uncertain, but Joe gets the feeling you’re just pretending for your classmate’s benefit. After all, you’ve made little effort to hide your skepticism whenever he speaks to you individually. “He fits the demographic. White man, conventionally attractive. Kind of emotionless.” Conventionally attractive. That’s not even a compliment—it’s just the truth. But it somehow satisfies Joe anyways. 

“I guess," the woman responds, clearly unconvinced. 

“Why do you ask?” you question her. 

“Just wondering,” she shrugs. “He seems to talk to you a lot.” 

Joe can see your eyebrows furrow from his position behind the bookshelves. You don’t exactly look pleased at the thought. “I don’t think so,” you say to your classmate. You don’t have anything else to say on the matter, supposedly, because you turn your attention back to the project.

This is fun, Joe thinks. Surprisingly so. 

Unfortunately, you soon part ways with your classmate to return to your apartment. Joe follows you on the way back, annoyed at the knowledge that he’ll never get another chance like that again: one to hear your honest, unfiltered opinion on him. At least, not without asking you directly. Your words ring in his ears, even after he returns home that night and gets ready for bed. 

The next few weeks are par for the course. Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite seem to get you alone—save for your regular visits to the coffee shop. But that’s not enough for Joe, and he knows it. He needs so much more. He needs to sink his claws into you, rip your rib cage apart until he can finally see that damn heart of yours. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally understand you. 

He’s… not doing well with this whole “reinvention” thing. Ah well. 

It isn’t until one early afternoon that his resolve finally starts to weaken. Joe’s sitting in his office, scrolling through his inbox when he finds an email from you—buried between the bureaucratic nonsense sent from the university and automated notifications from the grading system. His heart jumps unpleasantly, until he sees the headline of the email: “Class Tomorrow.” That doesn’t bode well. You’re probably not going. 

Indeed, as he opens the message and skims through it, his eyes find the important parts: “sick” and “absence”; and then, “apologies for the inconvenience.” Despite it all, you’re formal and polite. He appreciates the fact that you notified him of your absence: so many of his students will ditch class without warning. It’s nothing more than a common courtesy, but somehow, it’s still rather rare. He has an attendance policy on his syllabus, but it is often ignored. Joe shakes his head and returns his attention to your email. Then he reads it again. And a third time. 

He scoffs at himself. What the hell is he doing, reading a simple email over and over again? Is that really the best he can do? Joe sighs and refocuses his thoughts on the remaining emails sitting in his inbox, fighting off thoughts of you. 

As it turns out, rereading your email is far from the best thing Joe can do. He can do much better, like stand outside of your apartment and look through your windows. His eyes explore the scene: the tissue box and unusually cluttered table near your couch, the somewhat exhausted look on your face, the uncharacteristic lethargy to your movements. You look kind of miserable. 

You must have a fever, because you’re only wearing a tank top and shorts. Joe doesn’t think he’s seen this much of your skin before—this fall hasn’t been a particularly warm one, so he’s used to seeing you in sweatpants, jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters… He is absolutely not used to this—was not prepared to feel this uncomfortable stirring in his gut, this horrible restlessness and urge to get moving, to do something to distract himself from whatever this is—

Joe rubs a hand over his face and takes a slow breath. Get a hold of yourself, he admonishes himself. He continues studying your apartment from his vantage point, finding that, even in the throes of your sickness, you’ve still kept it relatively clean. That’s admirable, if a bit foolish. You head to your couch and throw a blanket over yourself. Joe watches as you drift off, checking his watch. It’s not very late yet—you usually go to bed later. You must be rather fatigued. 

Joe eventually leaves, if only because the night air is getting uncomfortably chilly. He spends the rest of the night grading and preparing for his next lesson. He wonders when you’ll get better, when you’ll return to his classroom. You’re not the type to miss lectures, Joe can already tell. So the fact that you’re absent is… a bit worrying. Or, it would be worrying, if he were the type to get stressed about things like that.  

Days pass, and Joe is forced to settle for your occasional emails—and the glimpses of you he catches from outside your apartment building. You’ve missed three classes at this point, interspersed across a week and a half. He isn’t sure whether to expect you today. You didn’t send an email like normal, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

The universe almost seems to be poking fun at him, because as he settles at his desk and muses, you walk through the door. “Back in the land of the living, hm?” Joe asks in lieu of a greeting. You sigh and place your backpack down, getting to your seat. He takes in your appearance, finding that you look worn out but still marginally better than before. He hopes you took those antibiotics your doctor prescribed. 

“For now,” you respond with a tired smile. You look exhausted. Joe doesn’t realize he utters that thought aloud until he hears you respond. “I know,” you say. Another student would be embarrassed at the thought, but you don’t seem to care. 

“Well, don’t go falling asleep on me,” Joe says teasingly, if only because social etiquette demands it of him. Secretly, he wouldn’t mind if you fell asleep. The thought of your wariness and skepticism slipping away, leaving you entirely vulnerable… 

“No promises,” you huff as you get your laptop out, entirely unaware of the dark turn his thoughts have taken. 

“Let me know if you need any assistance with catching up,” he offers. You both know you won’t need it. 

“I will, thanks,” you respond amicably. Your attention is focused on your screen for a moment, your eyes shifting ever so slightly as you read something. Then you blink and look back up at him. “I watched the lectures, so hopefully I’ll be okay.” 

“Ah, very good,” he smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine, then.” 

Soon enough, the other students begin to file into the room. He allows them a few moments to get settled, before diving into today’s shorter lecture. Joe had allocated some time at the end of class for the partner projects, if only to make things easier on himself. Now, he won’t have to sneak around in the library to hear your conversation with your classmate. (Although, last time was certainly interesting in its own right.) 

Joe fights with the urge to stare at you the entire time, instead letting his eyes wander across the room as he subtly eavesdrops on your conversation. 

“Are you feeling better?” your classmate asks.

“Yeah, sort of," you answer her. “Just tired. I got the analysis done before I got sick, though.” Of course you did, Joe thinks. Of course you did. 

“Well, let me know if you need anything," she says, in a voice dripping with concern and something more… intimate. Joe feels an ugly feeling settle at the pit of his stomach. 

“Okay, thanks,” you say blankly. Jesus, you’re a brick fucking wall. She’s clearly flirting with you. Either you’re oblivious—which Joe somewhat doubts, given the perceptiveness you’ve exhibited in the past—or you’re just uninterested. It’s intriguing. Almost impressive, actually.  

As the two of you continue to work on your project, Joe catches bits and pieces of your conversation—interspersed between his unfortunate lapses in attention as he’s forced to answer a few students’ questions. But then the class is ending and you’re leaving. He can’t quite stop himself from staring after you as you go, nor can he convince himself to stop going to that coffee shop every time you go. 

He finds you there the next day, in the same booth you’re always in. Joe is almost ready to think you’re doing this on purpose. You’re not even making it difficult. The same time, the same place, the same day of the week… Come on. He thought you were a bit of a challenge. Joe slides into the booth across from you, settling into the seat that is starting to become his. 

“Hey, Professor,” you say, not even looking up from your screen.

“You can call me Jonathan, you know,” Joe says with a bit of friendly inflection. He very nearly slips and introduces himself as Joe. Something about you makes him want to be honest with you, if only to provoke you into some sort of reaction. 

“I’d rather not,” you respond seamlessly, a pinched expression on your face. Usually, that would be more than enough for a student to fall at his feet. He almost frowns, but manages to resist the urge. Perhaps he needs to try a different tactic. 

“Is your schedule settled for next semester?” he asks instead. 

“Yeah,” you confirm casually. 

“What classes are you taking?” he asks. It’s like pulling teeth. Are you doing this on purpose?

“Just communication classes,” you answer. “And a history class, I think. Some gen-ed, I don’t remember the name of it.”

“Exciting.” He raises his brows, willing you to look at him. You spare him a momentary glance, before returning your attention to your schoolwork. Is whatever you’re doing really more intriguing than he is? He almost wants to be offended. Almost.  

“Not really,” you dismiss the remark. 

He sits with you silently for a while, just watching you write. Joe has to admit, he’s stewing a little bit. You’re not even giving him the time of day. But his patience starts to pay off, as he catches you sending him confused glances. 

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, finally addressing him. You close your laptop screen and give him your full attention; and Joe gets a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

“Pardon?” he manages to ask, his tongue feeling slightly thick in his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” you repeat yourself, gesturing to the two of you and the coffee shop around you. “Sitting here, asking me these questions.” 

“I want to get to know you," he answers immediately. That is the complete truth, for once. Unfortunately for you, that desire is far from harmless. 

“Why?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?” Joe counters instead, tactfully avoiding the question. He lets a charming smile rise on his lips. The gesture only seems to disconcert you. 

“Yes, it is,” you answer flatly. “What’s your endgame?”

Bold of you to assume he has an endgame. You’re absolutely right, of course. He absolutely has an endgame. He always does. “I’m just making conversation,” Joe says innocently. 

“Okay.” You’re clearly unconvinced. 

“It’s getting late,” Joe observes, casting a pointed glance through the dark windows at the front of the shop. “I’ll walk you home,” he offers. 

“No, it’s okay,” you deny him. You’re too smart for your own good. “I’ll be fine,” you say. And oh, you really, really would be. You would be so much better off walking home alone. But that’s just not in the cards for you tonight. 

“I insist,” Joe says firmly. You’re silent, clearly annoyed but sensing he isn’t going to relent. You know he’s got you trapped now. He shrugs his jacket on and watches you do the same, waiting for you to gather up your things before heading out of the coffee shop. 

The two of you are quiet for a few minutes. Joe has his hands shoved in his pockets and he’s walking ahead of you, anticipating what’s to come. He can’t say he’s been this excited before. But you’re different from the others. 

“You seem like you know where you’re going,” you say suspiciously.

Shit. That’s a harsh reality check. “I assume you live in one of the residence halls on campus." Joe thinks quickly. “Am I incorrect?”

“The dorms are back there,” you point out, glancing behind you momentarily before returning your attention to him. “And you’ve been walking ahead of me.”

“I take long strides; I’m tall," Joe justifies. 

“You’re not that tall.” You roll your eyes. “And I can walk quickly, so it’s not that.” You seem completely convinced, confident. You’re difficult to throw off, almost unshakeable even as you unknowingly approach a line you can’t come back from.  

“You don’t seem to trust me,” Joe eventually remarks, after sensing that your doubt is still very much present. 

“I don’t,” you agree. 

“Why not?”

“You don’t make sense to me," you admit. “You’re… I don’t know.” Joe waits patiently. He’s curious to hear how far you’ll go. “You’re elusive. You’re constantly acting, pretending. I’ve never seen you look authentic.”  

“A professor has to act a certain way, you understand,” Joe says somewhat dryly, secretly a bit annoyed by your stubbornness. You’re treading on thin ice and you don’t even realize it. His hand is twitching at his side. 

“Sure,” you acquiesce. “But you’re always acting. Even when you think you aren’t.” That’s… more accurate than you could ever know. 

“I see,” Joe says. 

“You act like… you want something from me,” you continue, studying him for a moment. “And I have no idea what it is.” 

“Maybe I just want your company,” Joe replies. 

“That’s not enough,” you respond far too quickly.

“Why not?” He asks. 

“Don’t pretend to be offended now,” you scoff, shoving your hands in your pockets. You look very restless and apprehensive, your eyes flitting around him as if waiting for him to make a move of some sort. 

You both walk in silence for a few more minutes. 

“I don’t know anything about you, you realize,” you continue. Joe’s so surprised to hear that remark that he just stares in disbelief. “You’re hard to track down. Practically nonexistent on university websites. It’s like you just… appeared.” 

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on Joe, but it will certainly be lost on you. Because you’re just as difficult to track down. Getting to this point—spending time with you, alone and unguarded—took him practically the entire semester.

“What do you want to know?” Joe asks, because he’s nothing if not charitable. His heart is roaring in his ears. Things don’t typically go like this. He’s not supposed to be the one being interrogated. 

You shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. Something, I guess. Something to prove you’re an actual human being, not just an empty husk.”

Damn. Damn. 

“Did I hit a nerve?” you ask. Joe blinks and there’s an entertained quirk to your lips. Another blink and it vanishes. “Whoops,” you say carelessly, clearly not very bothered by it. 

“You don’t seem very apologetic,” Joe notes calmly. 

“I get the feeling you’re not that great of a person,” you say. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Joe genuinely freezes for a moment, forgetting to walk alongside you. This entire interaction is giving him whiplash. Joe is so used to dominating the conversation—steering it at his will, until he gets exactly what he wants. But here you are, casually demolishing his plans and laying him out to dry in the same breath. Is he really so predictable, for you to take a simple glance at him and break through all of his defenses? Surely not. 

Joe shakes his head and catches up to you. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone,” he eventually says. That’s about what a normal person would say in this situation, right? Sure. 

“Yeah, you’re probably not used to hearing that, are you?” you huff. You’re smiling now—honest to God, smiling. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile so genuinely before. What the fuck?

“You realize I have control over your grades,” Joe says, the statement leaving his lips before he can think it through. It’s… not the best response he’s crafted, but he supposes it’ll do. 

You don’t seem the least bit affected by the implicit threat. “Are you really threatening me?” you ask, clearly amused. “Everyone else in your class is failing. Tanking my grades would only reflect poorly on you.”

You’re perceptive. Super perceptive. And yet you have no idea just how much danger you’re in right now. And yet you’ve never even noticed the persistent shadow following you across campus, lurking outside your apartment. “You’ve thought this through,” Joe remembers to say. 

“Not really,” you dismiss the thought. “Just saying. Besides, it’s near the end of the semester.”

“It is,” he agrees. Somehow that remark is what ushers in the finality for him. You’re right: finals are next week. His class doesn’t have a final. With the end of the semester, Joe won’t have an excuse to see you regularly anymore. He’ll track you down at that one coffee shop, lurk near your apartment, sure. But that’s not enough for him. 

“You almost sound disappointed,” you notice. Because of course you do.

“Competence is increasingly rare these days,” Joe says. The night air almost seems to warn him after that comment, rustling through his hair and sending a persistent chill through his bones. 

“You do have something of a reputation for being a stickler, don’t you?” you murmur. 

“No one here knows how to write,” he huffs. 

At that, the air between you falls silent once more—complete with a tangible, stifling tension. Your eyes flit about restlessly, never seeming to settle on any one thing for long. You’re steadily avoiding his gaze, as if meeting his eyes will confirm your suspicions. (It certainly will.) Joe allows it, if only because the sight amuses him. 

“This is me,” you then say, as the two of you stop in front of a nondescript building. It’s not you—you don’t live here. Your building is down a block or two. Joe just arches a brow. 

“You don’t want me to know where you live?” he asks casually, before he can stop himself. Joe’s getting closer and closer to crossing that same line he knows he can’t come back from. But damn it, what else is there to do? Moving to London, adopting this new identity… none of it quelled that visceral, manipulative desire in his chest. 

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Joe has a choice to make. He can play dumb, let the conversation fall to silence and allow you to walk into that building you certainly don’t live in. He can turn his back, pretending not to see you sneak out of the building minutes later and head to where you actually live. He can give you that small mercy. 

…or… 

“You don’t live here,” Joe asserts. You’re frozen in front of him. He finds himself satisfied to know he provoked a reaction in you, no matter how small. He can’t quite give up the game now—he’s just getting started. “Come on, then,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder and steering you away from the building. 

“Where are we going?” you question. 

“To your apartment,” Joe answers. 

You look unsettled, genuinely nervous. Joe feels a smirk rising on his lips before he can hide it. He grabs your forearm and leads you out of this building, heading down the sidewalk and towards your apartment building. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” you say at some point. 

You’re going to wish you did. “Not exactly,” Joe settles for saying, when he senses you’re still waiting for an answer. 

You stare at him for a moment, before stiffening. You almost seem to find something in his eyes. “I can walk without your assistance,” you snap, trying to break out of his grip. Joe just tightens his hold on your arm. He’s never been this close to you before: close enough to see the streetlights reflecting in your eyes, the unnerved pull to your lips, the tension stretching across your shoulders. 

“Don’t be difficult,” Joe says patronizingly, if only to irritate you a bit more. You look furious at the remark and he smiles, continuing to lead you towards your building.  

“Should’ve trusted my gut,” you mutter quietly, talking to yourself. 

“You should’ve,” Joe agrees, ushering you into the lobby and guiding you to the elevators. With the elevator’s arrival, he leads you into the elevator before finally, regretfully, removing his grip. Upon pressing the button for your floor, he’s satisfied to find fear flickering across your face—as you evidently realize he knows exactly where your apartment is. Joe wants to burn that memory into his mind forever, watching your reaction over and over again to pick it apart. 

The elevator ride is quick and painless. At least, it is for him. Joe notices that you’re getting fidgety, though. And when the doors slide open to reveal your floor, you hover in the doorway. Joe just sighs, putting a hand on your back and leading you to your apartment. You only seem to be more disturbed as he does so. 

“Well?” he demands somewhat impatiently, after a few moments pass and you don’t say anything. You haven’t made a move to unlock your door yet. 

“I don’t have my keys,” you answer. He huffs at the attempted lie.

“Left pocket of your jacket,” Joe hums, looking at you expectantly. He watches as your hand explores your left pocket, emerging with your keys in your palm. “There you go,” he says with a nod. And if you looked afraid before, you look completely terrified now. 

“Go on, then,” he urges you. After a few seconds pass and you don’t move, he takes the keys from your hand and swiftly unlocks the door. “After you,” Joe says, gently pushing you into the room and following after you. 

He takes in the space greedily, connecting the objects to how they looked from outside. “Nice place,” Joe eventually says. You’re silent. 

Truthfully, things don’t usually go this quickly. Usually he gets into a relationship first, then manipulates the other person until he’s satisfied. But Joe can’t discredit you—he knows you’re not foolish enough to fall for that. You were suspicious from the outset, so he had to abandon his typical methods. It’s a nice change of pace, though: you know exactly how dangerous he is. 

And he doesn’t realize he’s uttered that first sentence aloud until he sees the look on your face. “You do this frequently, then?” you ask. “What, did you do this in America before you got here?” 

Joe keeps silent, knowing you’ll decipher the truth. Indeed, your face falls and you bury your head in your hands for a moment—clearly sensing the gravity of the situation. He gives you a moment to yourself, instead directing his attention to the space around him. It does remind him of you, somehow. And isn’t that a frightening thought? 

“What happens now, then?” you ask quietly. You don’t appear nearly as confident, now that you’re pinned under his gaze. “Will you kill me?”

“No,” Joe responds far too easily. He doesn’t ever want this game to end. No one has challenged him quite like you do. And he’s certain that, even when he seems to have you under his thumb now, you’ll find a way to make things interesting. 

“Why not?” you whisper. 

You’re too interesting. Joe keeps the thought to himself, his hand exploring the adjacent wall and running over the various posters and photographs you have hung up. He’s seen your apartment from the outside, but this is the first time he’s actually been inside it. 

“This apartment isn’t big enough for two people,” you state, as if that’s your most pressing concern. Joe chuckles. 

“Mine is,” he remarks, watching in delight as you process the implications of that statement. Several emotions pass across your face: dread, fear, anger. Then something like resolve gleams in your eyes and you move to get up. But Joe’s standing in front of you before you can even begin to head for the door. “Don’t bother. You won’t escape me.”

And you wouldn’t know, but you lost your chance at escape from the very moment you turned in that first essay. You surrendered yourself to his surveillance as soon as you walked into the classroom the next day. And your efforts at subverting his attention have only drawn him closer. 

Joe stands in front of you for a while, before guiding you to sit on your couch. He bustles about the room, grabbing an empty backpack and beginning to explore the room. He goes to your closet first, taking a few outfits and folding them up before placing them in your bag. 

“What are you doing?” you eventually ask, clearly unnerved by his silence. 

“Gathering your things,” he answers easily, grabbing a few things from your bathroom and stuffing them into the bag. “You won’t be back here for a while.” 

Joe knows he’s only unnerving you more, with the way he’s mechanically making his way through your apartment as if he knows it like the back of his hand. He hears a startled inhale of breath as he grabs your medications and fights off a smile. Yes, you have no idea just how much he knows about you. You’re only beginning to grasp it, because he wants to unsettle you. 

“Shall we?” Joe hums a few minutes later, slinging the bag he prepared for you over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to wait for your response before latching his hand on your wrist and tugging you along after him. 

The elevator ride is silent. Joe realizes you’re finally looking at him. To think… all this time, all it took was a few drastic measures to thoroughly ensnare you. It doesn’t quite matter that you look disturbed—the fact of the matter is that you’re staring at him, trying to pick him apart the same way he’s been dissecting you. 

When the elevator reaches the first floor and the doors slide open, Joe’s hand finds your wrist again and he leads you after him. The cool night air meets you once more. There are only a few people out this late at night, but he’s brutally aware of how uncomfortable you must look. Coming to an idea, Joe’s hand slips down to your hand and he interlaces your fingers. He can nearly feel your hand trembling in his. Your discomfort can now be interpreted as uneasiness being spotted on the street, holding hands with him. No one will understand just how much danger you’re in as you walk alongside him, pliant in his grip as he leads you towards your new cage. 

Joe looks up to the polluted night sky, entirely void of stars, and smiles. 

Reader, chuckling: I'm in danger.

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! <3

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author’s notes: This is focused on eventual Hannibal/Reader, through the lens of the fans! You’re both actors working on a popular TV series together. 

This has been in my drafts for so damn long. I’m finally setting it free. (And am I at work right now? Maybe. Shut up.) I first got inspo from a Jonathan Bailey interview clip—that man could have chemistry with a brick, I swear—and then this quickly turned into a beast. Pls ignore the shitty low-effort title, because I need to get this outtttt haha. It’s a light-hearted read, and I hope you enjoy it!

WARNINGS: suggestive humor, unwanted physical contact from a fan

IMDB

Breaking Apart TV Series | 2023– | TV-14 | 50m

Fiction | Dark Fantasy | Psychological Drama | Tragedy

Breaking Apart follows enemies Mikael and Ezra through a dizzying mix of dystopian cities, elegant ballrooms, crumbling towers, and much more. The two men have opposing missions, but after Mikael’s hesitation allows Ezra to escape his grasp, they’re fated to keep crossing paths. 

Season 2 is out now. 

Stars: Hannibal Lecter ❘ You

Twitter

breakingapart

Looking for Season 2? Breaking Apart is now streaming on select platforms. Eye contact not included. (Or is it?) 👁️

[eyecolor.mp4: A clip from an interview with Hannibal and you. The two of you sit next to each other in well-tailored suits, slight smiles on your faces as the interviewer continues with their next question.

Interviewer So, in keeping on theme with the questions so far, what color are his eyes, Hannibal? 

You adjust the flip-sign that you were given, which reads “True” on the front and “False” on the back. You use it to obstruct your face, so that he can’t see your eyes. 

Hannibal (amused) Ah. A trick question. One that can’t be answered with this sign. 

Of course, it doesn’t seem to matter that you’ve hidden your face. Hannibal still answers correctly. With almost no hesitation. 

Interviewer All right, and let’s see the reveal… 

You let the sign fall to your side and blink exaggeratedly. 

You He got it. (looking over at Hannibal) Nice job. 

Hannibal It wasn’t difficult.]

189k likes | 90.8k retweets

Replies: greatdient: they’re so in love, idc what anyone says

seleneyer: feels like we’re interrupting something → bloopdooptroop: right? like do y’all need a room? 😭😭😭

seokjinniestan: hannibal could have chemistry with a brick → roliviaodrigo: seriously tho

nickthegrapez: idk who i want to be more → purplenurple3: THIS

YouTube universalstudios

Breaking Apart: Season 2 recap

After discussing some of the general themes of the show’s second season, the interviewer changes tracks. 

Interviewer And what do we think about a third season?

You Morally… no. I’m against it. 

I don’t think everything needs to have a third and fourth and fifth season, you know? Everyone always wants a happy ending, or just an ending that gives them closure. But when something ends in uncertainty, that’s even better—at least to me. It allows for unique interpretation; it challenges the viewer to come to their own conclusions.

Hannibal …Very well put.

You Thanks. (smiling after a brief pause) But, y’know, depending on how much money they offer…

You all laugh. 

You I’m sorry, I completely stole that question. What do you think, Hannibal?

Hannibal No apologies necessary.

I agree with you. However, I would be very curious to see my character more fleshed out in another season. We didn’t really get a chance to explore Mikael’s whole backstory in Season 2. 

You That’s true. It would be interesting to see a character-driven narrative, especially since the large-scale conflict has seemingly died down. Seemingly. 

YouTube

@buzzfeed The Lead Actors of ‘Breaking Apart’ read Thirst Tweets

Hannibal and you sit next to one another, a white background cast behind you. You exchange an amused look.

You (turning to the camera) This should be interesting. I’m sure there’s no shortage of Hannibal thirst tweets out there, but I’m hoping you had to go digging for mine. Hopefully. (crossing fingers)

Hannibal There will be plenty for you, I am certain. Shall I start us off? 

You Go for it. 

Hannibal puts his hand in a blue patterned jar, pulling out a long slip of paper with a Tweet printed out on it. 

Hannibal (eyes flitting about the paper, before he turns to look at you) Ah. The first one reads: ‘I want to bite you so bad’

You Uh… what? Why are you looking at me?

Hannibal Because it’s for you. See?

He holds the paper out to you. You read it. 

You Jesus. And hey, you missed some. Can’t forget the “plsplsplsplpls” at the end. That’s censorship.

Hannibal Of course, my apologies. 

You reach for a slip of paper in the jar. 

You This one says: ‘Hannibal Lecter is so fking fine i hope his Cheetos are FLAMING HOT like him’

Hannibal (looking at you with a slight smile) Well. Thank you, I think. 

You Don’t thank me, thank them. (motioning at the camera) 

And I feel like Hannibal has probably never even tried Cheetos, let alone the flaming hot ones. 

Hannibal (eyes glimmering with amusement) It’s true. 

You His delicate European taste buds would crumble into bits. 

You pull the next slip of paper. 

‘Step on me.’

Hannibal (blinking owlishly) Pardon? 

You Step on me. That’s all it says. 

Hannibal Oh.

…No thank you. 

You smile and pull another paper. 

Next one… ‘No, because you don’t understand. You don’t understand. You don’t UNDERSTAND. I need Hannibal Lecter like I need water, like I need air, like I need caffeine, like I need food and sunlight and and and and’

…Looks like it ends there. 

Hannibal Lecter That is… flattering, I suppose. Thank you. 

You Yeah, just take it as a compliment. Okay, I feel like we’re on a roll here, so I’m just going to keep going. These aren’t that bad so far— 

You pull another slip of paper and start reading it, your eyes widening. 

Hannibal Care to share with the audience? 

You (fighting off laughter) This one’s crazy. Just a fair warning. Very suggestive. Explicit. 

Kids, if you’re watching this… Well, don’t. Go away. Plug your ears. 

Hannibal Don’t leave us in suspense. 

You (taking a deep breath) Alright. Hannibal Lecter can— 

You promptly break into laughter. Hannibal tries to peek at the card but you tilt it away from him. 

Whew. Okay. I’m good. I can do this. 

‘Hannibal Lecter can get it any hour of the day, any day of the week, any month of the year, any way, sideways, up and down, left to right—’

You promptly duck your head, laughing so hard it feels like you’re choking. The blank expression on Hannibal’s face isn’t helping. 

Hannibal Shall I finish it for you?

Hannibal leaves you no choice in the matter, taking the paper from your hand. He holds it up and recites the rest, while you’re struggling to keep it together. By the end, you’re practically in tears and Hannibal is just smirking slightly. 

You I need to take a lap. 

You get to your feet and circle the film space. Hannibal watches you do this; you don’t seem to notice. Eventually, you return to your seat. 

Okay. Wow. That was a lot. 

Hannibal (with a restrained smile) Now it’s your turn. 

You No, just reading yours has been more than enough—!!

Hannibal turns in his chair so that he’s facing you. He makes eye contact even as he draws a slip of paper. 

Oh no. I don’t like this… 

Hannibal (smirking, before looking up from the paper at you) ‘Make out with me in front of a church. And other ungodly things that I’d rather not leave on my digital footprint.’

You (laughing) That is what I went to Catholic school for. 

Hannibal (amused) To make out with someone in front of a church? And other ungodly things?

You Exactly. 

You turn to the camera. 

But seriously, sign me up. I want to give a priest an aneurysm. 

Hannibal I’m afraid they’ll have to get in line. (raises eyebrows at camera) 

Next… ‘Ezra and Mikael are my dream threesome.’

You That’s… mildly concerning. 

Hannibal Right. Probably more indicative of their mental state than they realize. 

Hannibal pulls out another paper. 

‘Who plays Ezra from Breaking Apart and where can I find boyfriend aesthetic pictures of him?’

You Well, that’s me. And Pinterest, probably. You can find anything there. I don’t think I have many pictures like that, though…

Hannibal (with unshakeable certainty) You definitely do.

Next… ‘You made me realize I was gay’.

You (wryly) That was definitely written by a lesbian. As in, “you’re so vile that you turned me off the male gender entirely.” 

Hannibal No, but nice try. 

You exchange a helpless glance with the camera. 

Hannibal This was written by a man. As in, “you’re so handsome you made me realize I’m attracted to men romantically.”

Hannibal pulls out another slip of paper. His eyes skin it for a moment before he throws it somewhere behind him. You blink. 

I am not reading that one. 

He pulls another. 

Oh, this one has both of us. ‘I would pay real money to see you kiss.’

You (playfully) How much money are we talking? 

Hannibal (immediately) How much money would it take?

You I mean, our characters almost kissed in that one scene. 

Hannibal Almost being the key word in that sentence. 

You Yes, almost. 

Hannibal (glancing at the camera) You’ll have to take that up with our agents, it seems. 

You Yes. Ooh, last one. 

You pull out one last slip of paper. 

‘Hannibal Lecter could punch me in the face and I’d give him both of my kidneys.’

Hannibal Lecter I will not be punching anyone in the face, then. 

You Yeah, both kidneys is a bit crazy. You need at least one! But I guess that’s the whole point. 

You sigh in relief. 

Hannibal, we did it. We survived. How do you feel?

Hannibal Objectified. 

You Ahaha. Same. But! (turning towards the camera)

We appreciate all your love and support! And if you haven’t already, go watch Breaking Apart on select streaming services now. 

Hannibal Thank you. Goodbye. 

Twitter

Trending #BreakingApart Related tags: #HannibalLecter, #ThirstTweets

googoogagged “I’m afraid they’ll have to get in line” are you JOKING?????? #ThirstTweets → leothelioner: i’m dumb what does this mean → tzuyusolosurfaves: ur not dumb! & this implies that there are other people waiting who want to do that, like Hannibal himself. That’s how it sounded to me, anyway → leothelioner: Oh SHIT THANKSSS

sportsladdy was there some tension there or am i crazy #ThirstTweets

ezrakael69 Hannibal fully turning in his chair and looking INTO HIS CO-STAR’S EYES as he read those #ThirstTweets… goodbye

apartbreakingggEvery time Ezra’s actor tried to be self-deprecating, #HannibalLecter didn’t let it happen 😭 → gratepaers: “that was probably written by a lesbian” and hannibal just going “no.” LOL

justlikekiki so we’re just supposed to believe they’re not dating…? #ThirstTweets #BreakingApart[buzzfeed.jpgs: Four photos of Hannibal and you looking at one another.]

chillycheese “I am not reading that one” ok but WHAT DID IT SAYYYYY → channibalchuckster: i bet my life it wasn’t about hannibal. → chillycheese: omg like… he couldn’t read it abt his costar??? sobs he’s so in LOVE → channibalchuckster: this is so true and so real → purplepanther: genuinely think you’re onto something there. Because he had no qualms reading that explicit one about himself 😭

YouTube spotify Make a playlist: Leading Men of Breaking Apart

Hannibal and you sit on camera, a whiteboard with ten slots between you. 

You Why we were chosen for this, I haven’t the faintest idea. 

Hannibal That’s neither here nor there. 

You I guess. This shouldn’t be as bad as the thirst Tweets, at least. 

Hannibal True. Now, I believe we each choose… five songs? 

You Yeah, about that… (looking somewhere off-camera) Do we just pick songs we like? Or is this supposed to be a certain vibe? 

Producer (from off-screen) Just songs you’ve been enjoying recently. They don’t have to match one another. 

You Okay, good. Because Hannibal’s are all going to be classical pieces. 

Hannibal You know me so well. 

The two of you are silent for a while as you write on your whiteboards. 

You (murmuring to yourself) Wow, I am really chronically online. Damn. 

Hannibal Hm?

You Oh, nothing. Just… about to make a fool of myself. 

Hannibal Just choose songs you like. 

You Easy for you to say. Yours are all sophisticated and whatnot. 

Hannibal So? I’m sure the fans would rather hear your honest choices. 

You (slightly unconvinced) I guess… 

The two of you finish up with your selections. 

Producer (from off-camera) Perfect. Now if you could both take turns with revealing a song you’ve chosen and why you’ve chosen it. You can then write it in one of the slots on the board between you. 

You Cool, thanks. 

Hannibal I can go first, if you’d like. 

You Sure, go for it. 

Hannibal My first choice… is Bach’s Goldberg Variations. 

You Great. 

Hannibal You would probably know it if you heard it. 

You Eh… Maybe. I don’t want to make any promises. 

Hannibal I often listen to music while I’m cooking. I find it helps alleviate stress. 

You Oh yeah! Hannibal is a really good cook, guys. Chef. Whatever the fanciest word is. 

Hannibal Thank you. 

You He’s being humble about it, but he’s seriously really good. Like, his dishes take hours of preparation. Lots of patience. 

Hannibal I believe it’s your turn to pick a song. 

You Fine, fine. Just saying!

Okay. So this is going to be an absolutely incoherent playlist, but it’s fine. 

My first song is The Moon Will Sing by the Crane Wives. I’ve been really into their music lately, and I love their lyrics. It’s got kind of a flowy vibe to it. Like… it’s happy, but melancholic too. I think their music always strikes that balance really well. 

Hannibal is just staring at you silently. He doesn’t speak. You clear your throat. 

Anyways. That’s my first pick. 

You write it on the whiteboard between you before turning to Hannibal expectantly. 

Hannibal Right. My second choice is The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. I don’t have much more to say than that, I’m afraid. 

You It’s okay. We don’t have to go into rhetorical analysis for each one if we don’t want to. Right? 

(You look at the producer off-camera, who evidently nods in agreement.)

Hannibal Good. The piece doesn’t necessarily need explaining, either. It’s a classic. 

You Seems like most of yours are. Do you have a musical background? 

Hannibal Somewhat. I can play the piano, but my preferred instrument is the harpsichord. 

You Huh. I don’t think I’ve even heard of that one. 

Hannibal I’ll have to play for you some time. 

You Yeah, that would be great!

Hannibal Your turn.

You My second pick is My Iron Lung by Radiohead. It’s gritty, scratchy. 

Hannibal Scratchy?

You Yeah. Kind of alternative… I guess? The song has an earthy feel to it. That’s the best way I can describe it. 

You write it on the #4 slot.

Hannibal My third choice is Mozart’s Apollo et Hyacinthus. 

You (squinting as if trying to remember something) When Hyacinthus was dying, Apollo turned him into a flower. That’s where the hyacinth flower’s name came from, right? 

There’s a long pause. 

I know that’s, like, the Sparknotes version, but… 

Hannibal Yes. That’s correct. 

You (smirking at the camera) See, I do know things. Sometimes. Very rarely. 

Hannibal Don’t sell yourself short. 

You …Okay. 

Well, my third choice is Back to Me by the Marías. Again, not much explanation needed. I like the song; it’s dreamy and mellow, but also has a bit of yearning and longing in it. Your next choice, Hannibal? 

Hannibal Clair de Lune by Debussy. 

You Ooh, I really like that one. 

Hannibal Me too. Next?

You My fourth choice is I Am The Dog by Sir Chloe. I’ve been digging her music lately. 

Hannibal Can’t say I’ve heard of her. 

You I would be very surprised if you had. She has around… one million monthly listeners or so? Technically it’s both the band’s name but also the singer’s name? I don’t know—I just know I love the music. 

Hannibal I will have to listen.

My final song choice is Dance of the Damned. 

You (eyes widening) Wait. That song was used for Ezra and Mikael’s first encounter, wasn’t it? The ballroom scene? 

Hannibal Yes. 

You Oooh, the fans are going to go crazy for that. Why’d you choose it? 

Hannibal I like it. It was a great choice to accompany the scene. Plus, that was when we—our characters—first met. 

You Oh, wow, that’s true. That feels like forever ago, doesn’t it? 

Hannibal Yes. It does feel as if we’ve known each other for far longer than that. 

You I remember nearly knocking into one of the extras—they were posing as a servant, I think, so they were carrying drinks. That scene was actually difficult! It’s hard enough to navigate a crowded space like that, let alone while keeping your eyes glued to someone else the whole time. 

Hannibal Yes, that scene did require a few attempts, didn’t it?

You Hey, easy for you to say. You just had to stand there. I had to keep weaving through the crowd. 

Hannibal True enough. 

And what will be your final choice? 

You Ah, right. Rounding things off… is Tonight You are Mine by the Technicolors. I remember the first time I listened to this song. It was so magical. It’s dreamy, and it makes me want to stick my head out of the sunroof in a speeding car in a dark tunnel like a movie protagonist. You know? 

You write it on the last slot of the whiteboard. The camera briefly zooms in to show the entire whiteboard, before panning back to the two of you again. 

All right. And there’s our playlist. It will be a nightmare on shuffle. 

Hannibal That it will be. But I’m sure it has charm.

You Yeah! Rough around the edges. She’s multi-faceted, you could say. 

Hannibal huffs in amusement. The video fades out and muted footage of Hannibal and you idly chatting provides the background for the network’s ending card, which has links to other videos and a link to the show’s various social media accounts.

Comments: 

Pinned comment | sevenmedia Listen to their playlist here!

maamplsstawp when he knew the story of Apollo and Hyacinthus… Hannibal looked like he wanted to jump him → hardyharrharr: LMAOOO → gratatata: Jump him?? Like fight??? → anneioop: no, jump him like make out w him → gratatata: OHHHH that makes more sense yeah

madamsir: Ezra’s picks were based. → hashtagstressed: ezra?? you mean his actor?? → giggityjiggitygoo: same thing bitch just different shapes → hashtagstressed: ahaha family guy reference, i see what you did there. also nice username lmao

sevenatenineThis feels strangely romantic. Just me? → hellsbrethren: nope i think so too → livrodrigobecryin: same

rihannawhere Hannibal tried to be humble about his cooking… bahahaha → callyournamebyme: ahaha that was so cute when he was praising him

girlkeepgateboss “That was when we—our characters—first met.” THAT WASN’T SLICK → diningwithlectre: LOL hannibal you aren’t smooth → asrathemagician: that was actually so sweet 😭

INT. – A Comic Con panel with Hannibal and you. The two of you are situated next to each other with microphones. There’s a moderator off to the side and another crew member finding fans in the audience for questions. A few questions have been asked already, and the crew member has just found another fan with their hand raised. 

Fan 5 So, as I’m sure you both know, many viewers resonated with Mikael and Ezra’s dynamic. Not in a literal sense, necessarily. But their dynamic is kind of… open-ended, I guess. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on that. 

You (looking to Hannibal for a second, who seems to be waiting for you to answer) Sure. Well, I understand how many people see it as romantic. I think it can be—and it is—romantic to know a person so intimately, regardless of the exact nature of your dynamic. That’s why enemies-to-lovers type dynamics are so popular. Because if you know another person so deeply, and you recognize all of their faults, and you’re still staying… that says a lot. 

With that in mind, I feel like we have to acknowledge the fact that queerness often relies on ambiguity in mainstream media, even these days. To be considered palatable to a general audience, queer identities are swept aside or unwritten altogether. And that’s very frustrating. 

So, while Mikael and Ezra aren’t ever explicitly stated to be queer, I feel like it’s implied. 

Besides, there’s absolutely an argument for, like… Heterosexual characters never have to “come out” and state their preferences for their sexuality to be validated. So just because these characters haven’t outright said “I’m gay,” or “I only like men,” or anything like that… That doesn’t mean they’re automatically straight. 

It’s silent for a bit. 

Moderator That’s… Wow. Hannibal, anything to add?

Hannibal I don’t believe so. I couldn’t have said it better myself. 

Moderator I agree. And I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we appreciate your transparency. 

There are assorted whoops and bursts of applause around the room. 

Now, how about another fan question?

Fan 6 I have one! Have either of you ever read Ezra/Mikael fanfic? 

You and Hannibal (accidentally in-sync) Yes. 

The audience goes crazy, screams and cheers echoing throughout the room. You look over at Hannibal helplessly, only to find he’s already staring at you. You quickly look away, pretending you didn’t notice. The fans seem to need a moment to calm down, before the moderator is getting things back on track. 

You Absolutely. I love fanfiction. 

Hannibal I also enjoy reading it. I enjoy learning more about what people take from the story, and how fans interpret the characters. Because there are a lot of qualities about these two—Ezra and Mikael—that can be carried over into other settings, that can be challenged or even eradicated under pressure. I appreciate when fanfiction explores that. 

You Yeah. I read a really great one that had Ezra as a priest and Mikael as a skeptical parishioner. Things like that go so far past two characters. I mean, it was about so much more: organized religion and its antipathy to queerness, growing up in faith, grief… It was beautiful.

Hannibal I think I read that one too. There was a more lighthearted piece recently with the two of them as rival medical students, and it was a fun read. 

You So long story short: yes, we read the fanfics, and yes, we see the fanart. And we greatly, greatly appreciate it. You all are so talented. 

Twitter Trending

Breaking Apart Related tags: #Ezrakael, #Fanfic

bjwritez tell me why i wake up to a million notifs only to find that EZRA AND MIKAEL’S ACTORS HAVE READ MY FIC #Ezrakael → ezraining: cONGRATS OMG → hannibalcannibal: and you thought i was pranking you 🙄 congrats <3333

ezrakael4l And people wonder why these two are the only actors I can trust. [comiccon.mp4: A recording of the ComicCon panel, trimmed to the part where you’re asked about Mikael and Ezra’s relationship dynamic.] #BreakingApart

drhouseapologist “I feel like we have to acknowledge the fact that queerness often relies on ambiguity in mainstream media, even these days. To be considered palatable to a general audience, queer identities are swept aside or unwritten altogether. And that’s very frustrating. So, while Mikael and Ezra aren’t ever explicitly stated to be queer, I feel like it’s implied.”

WHEN I TELL Y’ALL I LOVE THIS MAN #BreakingApart #Fanfic → mikalechips: me too 😭 it’s sad that so many actors are quick to glance over things like this, to invalidate fans and their art forms. but he not only acknowledges us, but respects us and what we do. hell, he encourages us to find ourselves in the characters: to see ourselves in Ezra. DAMN i’m gonna go cry now → drhouseapologist: wait me too :’( sobs

INT. — ComicCon fan signing. 

Fan Hey, guys! You were so great in Breaking Apart, oh my God. I loved it so much!

You Thanks. 

You try to keep your energy up, despite wanting nothing more than to collapse in exhaustion. 

Fan You’re my favorite. 

You almost tune her out before you realize she’s speaking to you, not Hannibal. 

You (huffing good-naturedly) Hey, Hannibal’s right there. 

Fan (far too quickly) I know. I like you better.

You (starting to grow uncomfortable) I— um… okay. You want a picture with us?

Fan Yeah! But just with you.

You (frowning) We’re a package deal, Hannibal and I. 

It’s rude of her to be ignoring him like he’s not standing right there. You lock eyes with him over her shoulder and share a helpless look. 

Fan (imploringly) Aw, come on. 

She leans towards you in a way that almost seems suggestive. You’re not sure if you can control your expression anymore, if the complete discomfort and revulsion you’re feeling is showing on your face.

Kidding. Come on, you have to get closer! I don’t bite.

Then she latches her hand on your wrist. And you freeze. 

Hannibal (firmly) That’s enough.

He removes her hand from your wrist. 

Please ask before doing that. 

Fan (chastised) Oh, right. I’m so sorry! Here, let’s just do… back-to-back, the three of us?

INT. — One of the rooms in the back of the ComicCon venue, after your fan signing is complete.

Hannibal and you entered silently, both needing a moment to compress.  

You (sighing) I’m not made for this, Hannibal. I barely tolerate people touching me normally, let alone… 

Hannibal Strangers. 

You just nod. 

You Thanks for saving me there, though. I appreciate it. 

Hannibal Anytime. 

It’s not rude to assert your boundaries.

You I know. 

You do know that, but you can’t quite get yourself to feel that way at the moment. You rub your hands over your face. It’s been a long day. 

You (blurting out before you can stop yourself) I think I’d go insane if you weren’t here. 

Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t immediately laugh at you for the remark. Instead, he just hums, his hand finding your shoulder. 

Hannibal Then I’ll make sure to stay.

That makes you smile, even in your distress. But it’s a flickering amusement, disappearing far too quickly. Leaving you empty again. You feel annoyed at yourself for not speaking up, sad for some reason. 

Hannibal is standing in front of you now. You’ve been hiding your face from him, your head bowed a bit. But the way your hands are shaking is probably betraying your distress. There’s a quiet moment that drags on for eternity, with you hiding from Hannibal. 

He squeezes your shoulder reassuringly and you drag your eyes up to him. You feel kind of pathetic, looking up at him from where you’re seated. 

Hannibal has a sympathetic quirk to his lips. His hand slips away from you; his gaze remains fixed on you. It should make you nervous, but it’s weirdly comforting. After hours spent feeling as if you were masquerading as someone else, this is grounding. Hannibal’s next words are quiet but sure. 

Hannibal If you need me, I’m here.

Any feeble attempts at resistance quickly fall to dust in your chest. You’re moving before you can quite understand it yourself. But it doesn’t seem like you need to, because Hannibal is extending his arms and hugging you back. 

You (murmuring into his shoulder) Sorry.

Hannibal You have nothing to apologize for.

Hannibal’s grip is loose but firm enough for you to feel comforted, protected. As you stand there, the stress starts to seep out of you. You take another breath; it feels more measured than before. You want to stand there forever. 

But life is not that generous, and you both have things to do and places to be. 

Until then, you stay. 

Instagram Story

lecterhannibal [espresso.jpg: A quick video of a carefully made espresso sitting on an elegant wooden table. Several books rest on the nearby surface, and a window overlooking city buildings can be seen. There’s a faint sound of music playing in the background.]

Twitter

namjoonismygod HANNIBAL’S NEWEST ISNGATAGNMA SOTYR → bitchnothankyou: ahaha… what? → namjoonismygod: HANNIBAL’S NEWEST INSTAGRAM STORY → bitchnothankyou: what about it? → namjoonismygod: watch it on full volume and you’ll understand → bitchnothankyou: OH MY GOD → namjoonismygod: there you go. That’s the energy you should’ve had from the beginning.

→ willowtreez: wait i don’t get it → namjoonismygod: if you turn it up all the way, you can hear the song playing in the background. it’s “the moon will sing” by the crane wives. WHICH ezra’s actor listed as one of his favorite songs in the playlist video with hannibal. → willowtreez: HOLY SHIT → namjoonismygod: I KNEOW

YouTube

betweentwoferns Between Two Ferns: Lead Actors of Breaking Apart

Interviewer Hannibal, first things first. Your name rhymes with cannibal. 

I guess that’s why this series ate itself alive.

You burst out laughing. It shouldn’t be that funny. But the straightforward nature of the remark, coupled with this foolish setup and the completely blank expression on Hannibal’s face… 

You (wiping at your eyes) Whew. 

Interviewer Low-hanging fruit there… On a more serious note, Hannibal, if you didn’t have an accent, do you think people would be able to tell that you’re not a very good actor?

Silence. Icy. You shoot a glance at Hannibal. He doesn’t even look frustrated or annoyed, just… pensive. Blank. 

Interviewer I also notice that there’s no blood on your face today. Is everything okay?

Hannibal …

…

No. 

Interviewer As I thought. 

Sensing you’re the easier target, the interviewer moves to you. 

Interviewer And you. 

You Oh God. 

At that, Hannibal does crack a smile. 

Interviewer I mean, let’s address the elephant in the room. 

You Okay. Hi. 

Interviewer … 

You Get it? You’re the elephant. 

A few seconds of quiet. 

Interviewer What kind of potion did you give Hannibal, to ensure he’s always with you at these things? Hannibal, blink twice if you’re in need of assistance.

You look over at Hannibal with a grin, finding that he’s just staring dead-on without blinking. You laugh. 

You Yeah, I have a leash for him. And an ankle monitor.

Hannibal nods sincerely, playing along. 

Interviewer Speaking of Breaking Apart… I mean, seriously. When are you guys gonna break apart? This little duo has been everywhere. We’re all sick of you.

A few seconds of silence. 

And if you’re not going the break-up route, then you might want to get a move on before gay marriage is criminalized again.

That one actually makes you choke on a breath. 

You (jokingly) The clock is ticking.

Interviewer Hannibal, some people have it all. Looks… talent… How does it feel to only have looks?

Hannibal doesn’t respond. 

You (without missing a beat) How does it feel to have neither?

Sorry. I just wanted to get that out, before you said it to me. Stole your line.

Silence. 

Interviewer Who are you again?

You Sorry, please, go on. We’d love to hear what you have to say, through your small microphone.

Interviewer Average-sized microphone.

You I’m sure you think so. (looking around the room) I mean, how long has this show been on? Ten years? And white duct tape over clothing is the best you could do? 

Interviewer Seventeen years, thank you very much.

You You haven’t aged a day. 

Hannibal seems to be fighting a smile. 

Although I guess that’s just because you started as an old man. Nice trick there.

Interviewer Are you going to let Hannibal get a word in edgewise? Or is the editor going to have to cut around your sparkling personality? 

You (silently motioning for them to continue)

Interviewer Finally. Now, Hannibal, can I borrow one or two of your sperms?

Hannibal No, you may not. 

Interviewer All right. It’s just what was written on the card, I have to read it. 

…Just for research purposes. 

Hannibal I believe you’re thinking of stem cells. 

Not sperm.

It’s dead silent. 

Hannibal It’s an amateur mistake. 

Interviewer And that is all the time we have. I have. Sorry, I just can’t listen to you speak without thinking that you’re gargling marbles. 

He looks at the camera with a grimace. The video ends. 

Replies: 

user1983975: they were such good sports 😭😭

sableyez: hannibal looked so done,,, meanwhile ezra’s actor was laughing his ass off 

heypizzazz: “Let’s address the elephant in the room.” “Hi.” Ezra’s actor was a bit too quick with that one LOL

darth.hater: ezra’s actor ate him tf up i fear 😭😭😭

channibaleclecter: hannibal seemed a bit too excited about a leash LMFAO

Twitter 

elle When you try to prank call your costar and it backfires… 

[elleinterview.mp4: A short clip of one of your interviews. Transcript:

Interviewer Prank call the last person you texted.

You (defeatedly) …It’s definitely Hannibal. Damn it. 

Okay. I can do this. 

You tap on your phone a few times and put the phone on speaker, briefly showing the camera before holding it face-up. The tone rings once, before it ends. 

Hannibal (from over the phone) Hello. To what do I owe the pleasure?

You (visibly panicking) Hello, Mr. Lecter. We’re calling about your car’s extended warranty— 

Hannibal No thank you.

You Wait, wait, wait! It’s me.

Hannibal I know. I have your contact saved. 

You Oh. Right. Damn it. 

Well, answer a question for me, then.

Hannibal Sure.

You Is a hot dog a sandwich?

Hannibal Is that what you called me to ask? 

You (sighing in defeat) No. I’m prank calling you. Well, I was supposed to be. For ELLE. 

Hannibal I figured as much. You never call me. 

You (looking at the camera with a wide-eyed expression) Oh! Well, now this is just embarrassing. 

Hannibal It’s all right. I know you don’t like phone calls.

You God, how did this turn into me being the victim? Stop it, Hannibal, you’re making me look pathetic.

Hannibal (joking) That is not very hard to do. 

You Okay, that’s more than enough from you. Bye, Hannibal.

You hang up the phone before looking at the camera. It’s quiet for a moment before you just hide your face in your hands. ]

Replies:

user185732: “you never call me” PLSSSSS sir 

godsplanwutwashetakin: hannibal hit him with the uno reverse 😭😭

krakenscove: ejmarie unfortunately us

BREAKING APART SEASON 3 EPISODE 8 TITLE: BEGINNING TO END

P. 26 (cont’d)

MIKAEL You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?

EZRA No, that’s not— 

MIKAEL throws the bottle in his hand. It hits the wall near EZRA’S head and he flinches. 

EZRA I can’t keep doing this. I’m not your punching bag.

EZRA drags his foot back slightly, reluctant to leave but willing to do so anyway. His shoe scuffs against the ground, making a slight screeching sound. MIKAEL’S eyes track the movement, but he remains in place.

EZRA leaves. 

“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” Hannibal says furiously. Each and every scene you do with him is just another reminder of how talented he is. He fully becomes Mikael, embodies him in every single moment he’s on screen. The audience will love it, you’re sure. 

“No, that’s not—” you say helplessly, channeling all of the frustration and helplessness Ezra would be feeling in the situation. Hannibal is supposed to throw the bottle now, and it takes all of your resistance not to flinch before it hits the wall. 

There’s a harsh snap and a sudden pain on the side of your face. The bottle must’ve hit you. From what you can guess, the majority of it still hit the wall behind you—but some of it grazed past your cheekbone. You think there’s a slight gash on your cheek, maybe a scratch on the edge of your ear. It’s prickling and stinging. 

Stay in character, you say to yourself internally. For the love of everything, stay in fucking character. 

You stare ahead at Hannibal. Your ears are ringing. You can feel the blood dripping down the side of your face. “You said you’d never hurt me,” you say gravely. The words cling to the air. Your character has finally reached his breaking point. “You promised.” 

Hannibal looks lost for words. “I—” he breaks off, evidently thrown by the ad-lib and the impromptu turn this scene has taken. Even amidst this unpredictability, he channels all of Mikael’s irritation and remorse. 

Your boot scuffs against the ground behind you. You turn in a harsh jerk and take a few steps to walk away. 

“Cut!” the director yells. 

You can’t so much as bring a hand to your cheek before there’s a hand on your wrist, turning you around. Hannibal’s eyes are wide with panic. This may just be the most emotion you’ve ever seen him possess off-screen. He looks remorseful, almost frantic. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, his hands rising to cradle your jaw. Hannibal is not the type to look flustered or affected by anything, but you swear his hands are almost trembling. His eyes rove over your face. “Are you all right?” 

“Yeah, I’m good—” you try to say. 

“I practiced that throw countless times; that never should have hit you,” he continues, clearly frustrated with himself. “I apologize.” 

“Hannibal, it’s fine,” you reassure him quickly. You don’t blame him—things like this happen all the time. But you are touched by his concern, you have to admit. “I know it was an accident,” you continue. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Hannibal asserts. His hand remains on your jaw, his thumb gliding across your cheekbone. You almost choke on your next breath. The fervency of his gaze really isn’t helping. “Let me see,” he urges you, tilting your head to the side. 

You don’t need to be able to see the wound to know there’s blood dripping down your cheek. Hannibal inhales sharply, his other hand curling as his fingers test the skin near the gash. “Does it hurt?”

“A bit,” you admit. Hannibal is standing very close. “It’s just a scratch.” It stings a bit, but you’ll live. It’s hardly a mortal wound. 

A crew member bustles over, a first aid kit in hand. Hannibal’s hands remain on your face, even as he turns towards them. “Thank you,” he says politely, with a slight nod. “I’ll do it.” Hannibal takes the first aid kit from the crew member and thanks them once more, before turning towards you. 

“You should sit,” he suggests. An objection is lodged in your throat. You let it die, too overwhelmed and unsure in the face of Hannibal’s commanding certainty. He leads you to the corner nearby, guiding you to sit before tilting your head to the side again and studying the wound. “It’s not too deep, fortunately.”

“I told you, it’s fine,” you try to maintain. He just shoots you a disbelieving look and you fall silent as he patches you up. 

Twitter cigaretteahegao wait wait wait bc,,, doesn’t hannibal look genuinely surprised here??? #BreakingApart

→ coldbrewnt: hear me out: i think that’s acting. → cigaretteahegao: I KNOW NO but still!!! Like, he looks *actually* surprised. → coldbrewnt: sureeeee whatever → cigaretteahegao: YOU’LL LEARN. ONE DAY YOU’LL LEARN> >>!

breakingapart

In honor of Breaking Apart’s birthday, here’s some never-before-seen footage! 

[bts.mp4: Behind-the-scenes footage of Hannibal and you filming the interaction between Ezra and Mikael. You can be seen running through it once smoothly, before the director asks for it once more. This time, the bottle hits the wall but grazes you instead. Your ad-libbed lines surprise Hannibal but he stays in character. Then, just as you leave, the director yells “Cut!” Hannibal rushes towards you.]

→ rodrigobecryin: Oh my fucking god are you serious → odearfinnick: THIS WASN”T SCRPTED???? OFMMDGJDFLKGBDFHKJGHDFDJGH → lawlightagenda: GUYS WAITIWIAWIIIWIAIIAIIAIAIIAIAIT → anneioop: WHAT AHWHWAHTHA WHAWT HWOHWOW HWO HWHWA T

Twitter

Trending

Bottle Scene Related tags: #Ezrakael, #HannibalLecter, #BreakingApart

cigaretteahegaoAnd what did i say. And what did i say. What. did . i. Say. #BottleScene [twt.jpg: A screenshot of a Tweet from the user a few months prior, reading: “wait wait wait bc,,, doesn’t hannibal look genuinely surprised here?]

missstevenuniverseSo you’re telling me that Hannibal accidentally threw the bottle at his co-star. Then immediately rushed over to ensure he was okay. CRADLING his FACE in his HANDS. Fingers across the cheekbones, at the edge of the jaw. You’re telling me… GODDDDDDDDDD #BreakingApart #HannibalLecter → thworppp: the way his eyes were shining in the scene too. he looked moments away from ending the scene himself → gratatatat: THIS

lollipoppedoff the moment i saw that bts footage, i knew what i had to do. 

[ezrakael.jpg: A long strip of fanart in comic form, depicting Ezra and Mikael as actors rehearsing a scene just as Hannibal and you were. The moment the director ends the scene, Mikael is surging forward and checking on Ezra.]

isuglbttttttq #HannibalLecter taking the first aid kit from the crew member so he could patch it up himself 😭 → tmntluvr: ushering him away like he’s mortally wounded… sigh… when is it my turn

mamacomehereee me to my grandkids when i’m 80: i was there when the bottle hit his face. i was there. #BottleScene

Variety Magazine

The Breaking Apart Interview: Bottles and Birthdays

[Transcript from 06:15: 

I mean, I have to ask. Everyone wants to know: was that bottle throw really unscripted?

You: Well, sort of. It was written in the script: Mikael throws it at the wall. 

Hannibal: I was supposed to throw it at the wall. I’d practiced dozens of times before even filming the scene, because I didn’t want to hurt him. 

It wasn’t meant to hit him, you’re saying? 

Hannibal: Correct. That part was not scripted. And I nearly ruined it after. 

You: You did seem shocked. I felt kind of bad, honestly. I didn’t want you to think I was mad or something. 

H: You would’ve had a right to be mad. But I get the feeling you’re too forgiving for that. 

Y: You’re making me sound like a saint. In reality, I just had this moment of clarity, where I was like: oh. This could change everything. I was pretty much screaming at myself to stay in character, to pretend like I didn’t even notice. 

Did it hurt? 

Y: Not really.

H: You can tell the truth. 

Y: I mean, it didn’t feel good. But it was hardly unbearable. If I was well and truly hurt, if the pain ever got that bad, I wouldn’t have kept going. 

Ah. Well, it sounds like it was… I don’t want to say a happy accident. Maybe the better way to phrase it is that you two capitalized on the moment. 

H: Yes, I suppose so. The credit really goes to my costar here. I would’ve probably stopped filming. 

Y: Hannibal keeps beating himself up about it, but I’ve told him it’s fine. 

H: It was very close to your eye. It could’ve scarred, caused permanent damage— 

You just sigh. The interviewer laughs. 

Regardless, that scene was just breathtaking. Kudos to the both of you, and everyone who has worked on the show. It seems like your hard work really paid off. 

Y: I hope so. 

Thank you both for taking the time to speak with me today. It was nice to meet you, and best of luck in your future projects. 

Y: Thanks! It was nice to meet you too. 

H: Thank you. It was a pleasure.]

_____________

Ah. The airport. Your least favorite place. It always feels like you shouldn’t be able to complain—not with the way you get private security checks to accompany your status as an actor. But still, the airport is the airport—crowds are the norm. And when you’re with Hannibal, the two of you always seem to draw wandering eyes. While you’re usually happy to know that Breaking Apart is getting the recognition you feel it deserves, you’re running on too little sleep and energy today. Not to mention, you’re not exactly looking your best. You’re wearing a simple sweatshirt and sweatpants with sneakers; a face mask covering the bottom half of your face and headphones resting on your ears. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, looks like some sort of business god. He’s wearing a cardigan and slacks; his hair is perfectly styled, as always. He has a patient smile on his face as he nods at fans. 

You feel like you’re a decomposing corpse next to him. And maybe you are. It feels like you’re decaying, at this point. 

To make matters worse, Hannibal doesn’t even seem to care—hell, he has a hand on your upper arm as he guides you through the hall—your bodyguards ensuring no fans get too close. When you finally make it to your gate, you feel like melting into a puddle on the ground. It doesn’t help that you can feel people looking at you. You sigh and lean to rest your forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder for a selfish moment. 

Hannibal (unbothered by the physical contact) Tired?

You Yeah. 

Your vision briefly turns grainy when you tilt your head back up too fast. 

You?

Hannibal (diplomatically) A bit. 

You You don’t look it. (muttering darkly) Lucky.

Hannibal You do look tired. It’s endearing.

You (scoffing defensively) Shut up.

You try to look annoyed, but you suspect it doesn’t work, because Hannibal just lets out an amused exhale. 

And also, you’re welcome.

Hannibal (with a hum) Why should I be grateful? 

You Well, I look like a zombie next to you, which makes you look marginally better. So, y’know, you’re welcome. Seriously, why are you wearing formal clothes?” 

Hannibal (correcting you smoothly) You do not look like a zombie, nor would I keep you around for such a foolish and incorrect notion.

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. You nearly forget what you were even talking about. Your head feels a bit fuzzy, and you’re anxious for the flight. 

You (somewhat speechless) Oh. 

Hannibal As for my clothing, this is what I always wear.

You (teasingly) You don’t have sweatpants, huh? 

Hannibal (with a slight smile) Of course not.

You (jokingly) Of course not; how plebian.

Hannibal rolls his eyes. 

INT. – The first-class section of the airplane. 

You’ve since taken your face mask off and settled into your seat next to Hannibal on the plane. Fortunately, since the two of you are in first class, you only have to share space with each other. It’s relatively quiet now that all of the passengers have boarded. 

The plane starts to take off, and your hand is moving to grasp Hannibal’s before you can contemplate the consequences. Fortunately, he only squeezes your hand reassuringly—evidently unbothered by the sudden physical contact. Though he does seem to frown for a moment.

Hannibal You’re freezing. 

His thumb glides across your knuckles and you try to fight off a shiver.

You I run cold. 

Hannibal doesn’t seem satisfied by this explanation and presses a hand to your forehead. Then he withdraws with a hum. 

See? Told you.

For a while, the flight is fine. You read the book you brought, you try to watch some TV episodes you downloaded before the flight. But it’s only so long before the decongestant you took starts to wear off, and the pressure migraine begins. You eat the protein bar you packed and take some ibuprofen, but you know it’s going to take some time to kick in. And right now, your head is practically pulsing. You can feel your jaw aching, bolts of pain sliding through your teeth. 

Something about your behavior must give your symptoms away, because Hannibal is staring. You’re practically sideways in your seat now, back awkwardly draped against the wall near the window. Trying to get comfortable is absolutely impossible. Absolutely impossible. 

You’re certain you’d keep rustling around, if not for Hannibal’s gentle hand on your shoulder. His hand finds the nape of your neck, until he’s guiding you to rest your head against his shoulder. You blink and go with the gesture, surprised by how comfortable it is. 

You Thanks.

Sorry. You’re— You’re fine with this, right?

Hannibal (shamelessly) Absolutely.

The fondness in his voice pierces through the fatigue and exhaustion settling over you. 

You’ll have to talk about that later. But right now, you’re close to nodding off. 

You Okay. If you change your mind— 

Hannibal I’m not changing my mind, sweetheart. 

In fact, he only brings you closer, a hand on your waist as he guides you to rest against him. 

You Sweetheart? That’s new. 

Not to mention, Hannibal has never been a particularly physical person. You’ve always been careful to respect his space and keep your distance. Until now.

Hannibal looks at you. He’s been looking at you a lot recently. Somehow, you’re only realizing that right now. 

Hannibal It doesn’t have to be. 

And you have absolutely no rebuttal for that, so you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you just lean closer and allow your eyes to slip shut—resolving yourself to think about it when you wake. And if there’s a smile teasing your lips, well… he’s the only one to see it.

©2026, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don’t steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

endnotes: I just really needed to get this 43 page monster out of my drafts, it’s been cramping my style. Lol.

Writing Hannibal in these modern aus is always such a struggle… Because I want to keep him in character without making him too prickly or closed-off… I hope I threaded that line well here. 

my aroace ass: is one pet name at the very end still too much...

lol anyways, thanks for reading! <3

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