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The weight of his balls hits your clit with every hard, unyielding smack of his damp hips meeting your equally wet flesh; a combination of his arousal, your slick, his saliva, and the sweat that had dripped down your bodies reverberates obscenely in the chamber.

The most depraved part had not been the way he forced you to spread your slit apart for him to lap languidly at you, it was the large mirror he had propped up in front of the bed and had, at the very start, ordered you to maintain his gaze through.

Of course, you had obliged, but soon enough you were struggling to keep your drooping eyelids up, let alone unblurry and focused on his reflection.

Baelor tilts his head, “My sweet girl,” he’s cooing–a drawl that enters your ears and leaves a syrupy trail as it slinks down the length of your body to settle in the heated pit of your lower abdomen, “Gods, you’re dripping.”

A loud whine escapes your throat and, as though spellbound, you’re hypnotized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you only to reappear even more soaked than it was before.

“Good girl, so good,” he’s always been generous when it came to offering praise, however, this time there’s a sharper edge that accompanies every sweet word he bites out. 

“So good,” is followed by a raspy, “so eager, my lovely girl.”

Mewls fill the room when his pace slows, the hair across his chest tickling your damp spine when he lowers to nibble on the plump flesh of your ear.

“Look at yourself,” Baelor practically purrs, the hand he had wrapped around your nape moving to hold your jaw, the tips of his fingers creating harsh indents in the plush of your cheeks, “soaking an old man’s cock.”

Immediately, a bolt of arousal shoots up your spine; your walls tighten around him until he can no longer leave your passage as your release engulfs every inch of your being, sending another flood of slick that smears between your bodies.

There’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he pauses to loom over your spasming form, caging you in the sweltering temperature of his body and the shrouded depth of his gaze.

Baelor had not meant to intrude on the private conversation you were having with your maid when he had entered the adjoining room of your shared quarters. 

You were immersed in the discussion, the unusually hushed tone in which you spoke arousing his curiosity, beckoning him nearer to the door.

“The prince is kind, is he not?” 

“Yes–oh, yes, of course,” you hurried to confirm, sounding guilt-ridden.

“Then, I don’t understand, princess.”

You remained quiet; for a long moment, the repetitive movement of a brush combing through hair was the only sound that filled the chamber.

Then, finally, you confessed, “I only wish that he would not be so kind in our marital bed.”

A beat of silence.

“Well,” your maid’s voice was low, “his grace is not as young as he once was.”

“I did not–,” you sob through gritted teeth, only to be cut off by the piercing movement of his cock pulling entirely out before it slammed back in, all the way to the hilt.

“Does this old man’s cock not please you?” 

His hips are moving in slow, circular motions, it has him reaching a deeper depth–one that has your unrestrained keening bouncing off the stone walls.

“Baelor,” his name leaves your mouth like a plea. He ignores it, along with the sputtering attempts you make to explain yourself.

His arm slides around your waist to hold your back firmly against his torso just as the hand on your jaw tightens, and then, he’s hoisting you up.

From this angle, you can see everything.

The way your mouth hangs open and eyes roll back as he lifts you until you’re, quite literally, speared on his cock, how the lines between his brows deepen as he remains transfixed on your expression, to the lewd way your swollen folds hug his girth.

As though he were in a trance, his hold and pace becomes even less forgiving when your head lolls forward and another release plagues your body.

“Perhaps, I will keep you bound and spread for my pleasure,” Baelor’s nips along your shoulders are sharp, courtesy of his canines.

“Please, I did not–,” the explanation is smothered by a guttural moan, which is followed by a mantra of yeses and a repetition of pleas.

From the slits of your eyes, you can see that his pupils are blown, swallowing the entirety of the blue and brown that resides alongside it, giving him the appearance of a ravenous beast in the midst of a long-awaited feast.

Until, finally, he’s releasing inside of you. 

With a shuddering breath, you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill you, continuing even as it drips down to pool in the bedding below.

Baelor immediately loosens the restraints around your wrists once he’s caught his breath, gentle hands moving you onto your back as he presses an apologetic kiss to your forehead.

“Are you in pain?” he asks quietly, shoulders tense with concern.

Your head shakes to assure him that you’re fine but your eyes are glossy and you’re unable to meet his gaze; Baelor realizes with a ragged exhale that he may have crossed a threshold you had not been prepared to venture past.

In your dazed state you do not notice that he leaves before the bed is dipping with his return, a tray of fruit having suddenly appeared beside your head. 

Baelor cleans between your thighs with the damp cloth that he had also retrieved, removing all traces of your shared fluids before he reaches for another cloth that he uses to wipe the accumulated perspiration from your body.

“Forgive me,” Baelor murmurs, eyes downcast as his fingers lightly brush over the areas he had unintentionally dug his fingers into to maintain his hold on your slippery form.

Your mouth instinctively opens when he holds a berry to your lips, chewing slowly when your jaw clicks, throbbing from the bruising force he had grasped it with.

“Mm,” you hum after a moment, turning to lay on your side.

“I’m sorry, sweetling.”

Once he finishes, he feeds you until you confess you’re full, then slides his hands around your torso, trapping your limp arms between your bodies.

“Forgive me, sweet girl, I do not know what came over me,” he sounds painfully remorseful, mortified of his behaviour despite the look of satiated bliss on your face.

“There may be a way you can make it up to me,” the words are muffled against his chest, a teasing lilt following them.

“Anything you want–absolutely anything, my dear,” is Baelor’s eager response, “consider it already done.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. 

You were Targaryens. Cousins. Dragon to dragon. The realm had swallowed stranger unions from your house and named them sacred once crowns were set upon the right brows. No one gasped merely because Aerion’s eyes followed the line of your throat when you turned your head, or because his hand lingered too long when he took a cup from your fingers, or because the sight of another man standing near you made his beautiful mouth go cruel. These were old customs in an old house. Old flames. Old songs. The blood of Valyria did not run in straight lines, it circled itself like a serpent eating its own tail.

But even serpents knew when to stop swallowing.

Aerion did not.

You had grown into the full terror of your beauty by then. Girlhood had not left you so much as been crowned. The soft wonder of childhood had sharpened into command. Your face, once praised as pretty by indulgent women, had become the sort of face that altered rooms. You entered, and conversation learned humility. Men forgot which cup was theirs. Ladies watched the fall of your hair with resentment disguised as admiration. Knights stared as if songs had lied all their lives and then, at last, been proven true in flesh.

Your gowns became matters of state.

If you wore red, lords whispered that Baelor meant to remind the realm whose blood ran nearest the throne. If you wore white, septas sighed over your purity, blind to the amusement in your eyes. If you wore black, Aerion stared as though you had dressed yourself in his own thought. If you wore jewels from Dorne, men remembered Baelor’s mother and spoke of alliances. If you wore pearls, suitors doubled.

They came now not in trickles, but in floods.

Ravens flew. Fathers requested audiences. Mothers sent compliments folded in silk. Younger sons dreamed beyond their station, elder sons dreamed within it. Great houses offered horses, ships, relics, ancient swords, promises, flatteries, songs composed badly and performed worse. A lord of the Reach compared you to the Maiden and the morning star in the same sentence, which made Valarr cough into his wine and you smile so sweetly the poor man mistook mockery for mercy. A storm lord swore that no rain would touch you beneath his roof. A river lord said your beauty had haunted him since a tourney three years before, though you could not remember his face. A Westerlander sent a necklace of yellow diamonds, gaudy as pride.

Baelor returned it.

He returned many things.

Your father’s desk became a battlefield of parchment. Every morning brought new petitions, new offers, new careful suggestions from men who believed themselves subtle because they did not write the word marriage too early. Baelor read each letter with a stillness that frightened his attendants more than anger would have. He burned some. He answered others. He delayed most. And when you came to him in his solar, trailing silk and sunlight, he would cover the papers with one hand as though shielding you from arrows.

“You know I can read,” you told him once.

“I have long suspected it,” he said.

“You cannot hide every proposal from me.”

“I can try. A father must have his hobbies.”

You laughed, and his face softened as it always did when your laughter sounded young. Then your gaze fell to the seal half hidden beneath his palm. A black boar upon green wax.

“Crakehall?” you asked.

Baelor sighed.

“Is he hideous?”

“He is ambitious.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the answer that matters.”

You came around the desk and plucked the letter from under his fingers before he could stop you. Not because you cared for Lord Crakehall, whose face you vaguely remembered as square, red, and damp with effort, but because you liked watching even Baelor Breakspear fail to command you sometimes. Your father leaned back in his chair, resigned and fond and troubled.

You read enough to learn that Lord Crakehall praised your grace, your lineage, your father’s honor, and the womb you might lend to his house, though he dressed the last in phrases soft enough for court.

Your mouth curved.

“Ah,” you said. “He admires my soul.”

Baelor took the letter back. “He admires proximity.”

“To me?”

“To power.”

“Same thing, in this case.”

Your father’s eyes lifted to yours then, and there it was again...the grief of being seen by someone good.

“Do not let them teach you that,” he said.

“They did not teach me. They only confirmed it.”

Baelor folded the letter slowly. “Power is not the same as worth.”

“No. But men kneel to both if the light is dim enough.”

For a moment he only looked at you.

Then he smiled sadly. “You have your mother’s face when you are being wicked.”

“And yours when I pretend not to be.”

That won him. It always did, though never completely. He laughed, but the worry did not leave his eyes. It had lived there longer now, deepening each season, taking root each time Aerion’s name passed too close to yours.

“You are receiving more attention,” Baelor said.

“I had noticed.”

“You encourage some of it.”

“I am courteous.”

“You are lethal.”

That pleased you. You tried not to let it show. Failed, perhaps. Baelor saw. Baelor always saw.

Before he could speak again, a voice came from the doorway.

“She is bored,” Aerion said. “That is why she does it.”

You did not turn at once.

You had known he was there. Not by sound, for Aerion could move softly when he chose, not by sight, for you had your back to him...but by the tightening of the air, the old animal knowledge in your blood. Aerion entered rooms the way fire entered curtains, first as heat, then as inevitability.

Baelor’s face became courteous stone. “Nephew.”

“Uncle.”

Aerion stepped into the solar without waiting to be invited. He wore black that day, severe and lovely, the red at his throat dark as clotted rubies. There was no mark upon his cheek anymore, but sometimes you still saw your own handprint there in memory, bright as a banner.

His eyes went first to you. They always did. Then to the letters on Baelor’s desk.

“How many today?” he asked.

“That is not your concern,” Baelor said.

Aerion smiled. “Everything concerning her eventually becomes mine.”

Your father rose.

It was not dramatic. Baelor did not need drama. He merely stood, and suddenly the room remembered that he was the better prince, the truer knight, the man the realm would have followed into fire because he would never ask them to burn alone.

“Careful, Aerion,” Baelor said.

Aerion’s smile did not falter, but something sharpened behind it.

You moved between them before either man could name the thing already standing there.

“Lord Crakehall offers admiration,” you said lightly. “And presumably pigs.”

Aerion looked at you. “Do you want pigs?”

“I might. They are loyal creatures.”

“They root in filth.”

“So do princes.”

Baelor closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

Aerion laughed. Not pleasantly. He almost never laughed pleasantly. His amusement was a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

“There you are,” he said.

Baelor’s eyes opened. The words were nothing, to anyone else. To your father, they were a key turning in a lock he had hoped remained hidden. You saw his fear before he could bury it. Aerion saw it too, and loved it.

That was another of Aerion’s sins...he enjoyed frightening men who were hard to frighten. Servants, stableboys, squires, little lordlings, girls too low in rank to defend themselves, those were sport. But Baelor Breakspear’s fear was a feast. Aerion did not want your father dead. Not then. Perhaps not ever, in any simple sense. He wanted him defeated. He wanted Baelor to understand that all his honor, all his love, all his patient discipline could not reach the part of you Aerion touched with two words.

There you are. As if you had been lost before him. As if your father had loved only the wrong shape of you.

After that day, Baelor began arranging your days with a care that looked accidental only to fools.

You were invited to ride with ladies when Aerion had sword practice. You were sent to visit the queen’s apartments when Aerion dined with Maekar. You were asked to accompany your father to small councils where no one had thought to include you before. You sat beside Baelor while men spoke of roads, levies, harvests, disputed boundaries, Dornish tempers, Ironborn petitions, and the endless trembling web of rule. You listened more than you spoke. When you did speak, men turned toward you in surprise, then interest, then caution.

That was how power tasted best...when others noticed too late you had already swallowed it.

Baelor watched you in those meetings with pride and pain together.

“You learn quickly,” he said afterward.

“I listen.”

“You listen like a spider.”

“Would you prefer a dove?”

“I would prefer my daughter.”

You paused beside him in the corridor, where late afternoon light fell in long golden bars across the floor.

“You have her,” you said.

Baelor touched your cheek, and for a moment the court, the proposals, Aerion, all of it seemed distant. He looked tired. Not weak, never that, but tired in the way honorable men became tired when they were made to guard what they loved from dangers with familiar faces.

“Do I?” he asked softly.

You had no answer worthy of him. So you kissed his hand and smiled as though that could mend it.

But Aerion hated being managed.

He noticed every closed door. Every changed hour. Every walk you took without him. He noticed when your horse was saddled and his was not. He noticed when your ladies lied badly. He noticed when servants glanced away too quickly. He noticed when Baelor’s guards appeared at the end of corridors where once only shadows had stood.

Most of all, he noticed absence.

One morning, you rode beyond the city with your father’s men, Valarr, two ladies, and a little train of attendants. It was innocent enough. A hawking party. A bright sky. A temporary escape from stone walls and hungry eyes. Baelor had meant to come, then been detained by a dispute between two crownland lords who had both perfected the art of being intolerable. Aerion had not been told.

That was the insult. Not that you rode. Not that Valarr rode beside you. Not even that a young knight of House Mooton held your stirrup and looked up at you as though you had descended from the heavens to ruin him.

No. The unforgivable thing was that Aerion learned of it secondhand. From your maidservant. Her name was Jeyne, a soft eyed girl with nimble fingers who knew how to lace your gowns tightly without pinching and how to keep silence without looking afraid of it.

Aerion caught her in the passage outside your chambers with a bundle of pale riding gloves in her arms.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Jeyne curtsied too quickly. “Princess?”

Aerion smiled.

The girl went white.

“There are many princesses in this keep,” he said. “Do you think I ask after all of them?”

“She has gone riding, my prince.”

“With whom?”

“My prince, I—”

His hand moved. Not to strike. That would have been too easy, too crude in a hallway where witnesses might multiply. He only took one of the gloves from the top of the bundle and examined the pearl buttons at the wrist.

“With whom?” he repeated.

Jeyne told him.

You learned later that he laughed when she said Valarr’s name. That laugh followed him all the way to the stables.

The boy he found there was named Tommen, though no one of rank had troubled to remember it until Aerion made the name dangerous. He was freckled, quick handed, and kind to nervous horses. He had been your favorite stableboy since you were young enough to sneak sugared apples in your sleeves and too proud to admit you were afraid of a new mare’s teeth. Tommen never spoke to you improperly. He never stared too long. He knew the names of your horses, the moods of your palfrey, the way you preferred your saddle checked twice but not fussed over. You liked competence. You liked quiet devotion. Tommen had both.

Aerion knew this. Of course he knew. That was why he chose him.

No one ever told you precisely what was said. Servants stories came in fragments, as frightened stories do. Aerion asking who had saddled your horse. Tommen answering that he had, my prince. Aerion asking whether the boy had touched your boot when helping you mount. Tommen stammering. Aerion smiling. A riding crop lifted from the wall. The horses screaming in their stalls when the first blow cracked not against wood, but flesh.

By the time you returned, the stable yard had been washed, poorly. Blood diluted by water leaves a pink memory. You saw it before anyone spoke.

Valarr dismounted beside you, his laughter fading. Your ladies went quiet. The groom who came for your reins would not meet your eyes.

“Where is Tommen?” you asked.

No one answered.

Then Aerion emerged from the shadowed stable door. He had changed his gloves. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was the riding crop in his hand. The third was the speck of blood he had missed near the cuff of his sleeve, small and dark, nearly hidden by black fabric.

The world became very still.

“What did you do?” you asked.

Aerion looked at Valarr, then at the young knight of House Mooton, then back to you.

“You rode without telling me.”

A lady gasped.

Valarr took one step forward. “Aerion.”

Aerion ignored him. “You took my morning and gave it to dogs.”

“You hurt him because I went riding?”

“I hurt him because he touched what was mine and thought himself alive enough afterward to continue breathing easily.”

The silence that followed was different from court silence. Court silence was silk. This was iron.

Everyone heard it. Everyone understood something then, though not yet all of it. The grooms, the ladies, the guards, Valarr, the pale knight still holding his reins, they understood that Aerion’s jealousy was not a lover’s foolishness, not a cousin’s temper, not a pretty scandal to be whispered over wine. It was ownership made visible. It was punishment by proxy. It was a prince placing his hand around the throat of the world because he could not place it around yours in public.

You dismounted without help. Aerion watched, eyes bright.

“Where is he?” you asked.

“In the straw, if he has not crawled elsewhere.”

Valarr swore and pushed past him into the stable. One of your ladies began to cry. The Mooton knight looked as if he wanted to draw steel and remembered just in time that princes were not obstacles ordinary men survived.

You walked to Aerion. Not quickly. You would not give him haste. Haste was confession. When you reached him, he tilted his head, studying your face like a man reading scripture in a language only he knew.

“You are angry,” he said.

“You wanted me angry.”

“Yes.”

“You hurt someone I favored.”

“Yes.”

“You wanted me to know you knew.”

His smile deepened. There you are, his face said, though his mouth did not.

You lifted your hand. He did not flinch. That infuriated you more than fear would have. So you did not slap him. Instead, you took the riding crop from his hand as gently as though accepting a flower. He let you. Then you struck him across the face with it. The crack rang through the yard. A thin red line opened along his cheek, lower than the old mark from your palm. One of the horses screamed again. Someone behind you whispered a prayer.

Aerion’s head had turned with the blow. Slowly, he looked back. His eyes were fever bright.

“You should not leave me behind,” he said.

“You are not my keeper.”

“No,” he said. “I am worse.”

You stepped closer. “If Tommen dies, I will never speak to you again.”

Aerion’s smile vanished. There. At last. Not guilt. Not remorse. Not pity for the broken boy in the straw. But fear of deprivation. Fear of silence from you, which to Aerion was worse than any wound.

“He will live,” Aerion said.

“You had better pray he does.”

“I do not pray.”

“Then learn.”

You turned from him before he could answer and entered the stable.

Tommen lived.

He was carried to the maester with his back torn, one eye swollen shut, and three fingers broken where he had raised his hand against the crop. Baelor heard before sunset.

Your father came to your chambers that evening with no guards, no herald, no softening smile. He found you seated by the window, still in your riding gown, hands folded in your lap. You had not cried. That seemed to hurt him too.

“Tell me,” he said.

So you did. Not all. Never all. But enough. Baelor stood through the telling like a man being carved in stone.

When you finished, he turned away and looked out over the city. The sun was setting behind him, turning his profile dark against fire. For one wild moment you thought he looked like the sort of prince singers believed Aerion wished to be...a dragon made noble by restraint.

“He cannot be permitted to continue,” Baelor said.

“No.”

“You say that as though agreement costs you.”

“It does.”

He turned back. You hated how sorrow moved through his face. You hated that he knew before you knew what you would say.

“He did it because of me,” you said.

“He did it because of himself.”

“He chose Tommen because of me.”

“Yes.”

“So I am not absent from it.”

Baelor came to you then. He knelt before your chair, though princes did not kneel to daughters. He took your hands in his. His were warm. Yours were cold.

“My star,” he said, “do not mistake being desired by cruelty for causing cruelty. Aerion would make the sun guilty for casting his shadow.”

“But he does not look at the sun the way he looks at me.”

“No.” Baelor’s voice lowered. “He does not.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

“He sees me,” you whispered.

Your father closed his eyes. That was confession enough.

The days after Tommen’s beating changed the court.

Not openly. Nothing in courts changed openly until blood forced it. But servants moved differently around Aerion now. Ladies ceased smiling behind fans when he entered beside you. Knights watched him with the careful hatred men reserved for princes they could not challenge. The story spread, as all stories did, acquiring embellishment and losing none of its truth. Some said the stableboy had died. Some said Aerion had ordered his tongue cut out, though Tommen still had his tongue and, once the swelling receded, used it to curse beautifully when the maester changed his bandages. Some said you had struck Aerion hard enough to draw bone. Some said Aerion had laughed.

That last was almost true. He did not laugh in the yard. But later, when he found the bloody line on his cheek in a mirror, he smiled. You knew because he told you.

He found you two nights later in the old queen’s gallery, where portraits of dead Targaryen women watched from dim walls with the patient disappointment of ancestors. You had gone there because the court below was too loud, because Baelor had begun placing more men near your chambers, because Valarr kept looking at you as if he wanted to say something brotherly and impossible, because Tommen’s injuries had become a weight you could not set down.

Aerion came from the darkness as if made by it.

“You have been avoiding me,” he said.

“I have been enjoying peace.”

“You lie better when you care less.”

“You overestimate your importance.”

“No.” He came closer. “I estimate it exactly.”

The cut on his cheek had darkened, a narrow line beneath one eye. It made him look even more like something from a doomed song, all beauty marred by violence and improved by it. You hated that your gaze went there.

He noticed.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“You are very proud of being struck.”

“By you? Yes.”

You turned away, but he caught your sleeve. Not your wrist this time. Your sleeve. Silk between his fingers. A concession so small another woman might have missed it. You did not.

“Tommen lives,” he said.

“No thanks to you.”

“He will heal.”

“And if he does not?”

“Then you will be angry longer.”

You looked at him with revulsion so sharp it nearly became wonder. “Is that all it is to you?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

His fingers tightened in the silk. “Proof.”

“Of what?”

“That even your pity can be made to turn toward me.”

For a moment, the gallery seemed full of ghosts listening. You should have been horrified. You were horrified. But beneath horror, beneath fury, beneath the moral shape your father had tried so carefully to give you, something cold and honest understood him. Aerion had not wanted Tommen’s pain. Not truly. The boy was nothing to him. A cup broken after drinking. A door slammed for sound. What Aerion wanted was your attention dragged back by the hair. Your anger, your disgust, your threat never to speak again...all of it was still yours. All of it meant he had reached into your day and seized the center of it.

“You are a child,” you said.

“I am a dragon.”

“You are a child with prettier delusions.”

His mouth twitched. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Say something cruel.”

“You are begging for me.”

That struck him. For a heartbeat, rage flashed across his face so nakedly that you thought he might forget where he stood. Then he laughed under his breath.

“You were made for me,” he said.

“I was made by my mother and father.”

“You were made by blood older than both.”

There it was again. Blood. That sacred obscenity. That inheritance Aerion wore like a crown and wielded like a knife.

He stepped nearer, and this time you did not retreat.

“Look at them,” he said, nodding toward the portraits. “Our grandmothers. Our great grandmothers. Queens who married brothers, nieces who married uncles, cousins joined to cousins so the dragon would not thin itself into mud. They knew.”

“They knew duty.”

“They knew purity.”

“They knew loneliness.”

He smiled. “So do you. ”

That was the danger of him. Not that he lied. Lies you could have dismissed. Aerion’s horror was that he found truths and dragged them through blood until they looked like permission.

“You think every hunger holy if it has a Targaryen name,” you said.

“And you think every hunger can be dressed in silk until your father blesses it.”

You slapped him then. Not because he was wrong. Because he had come too close.

His face turned, then returned. The mark joined the cut, red over red. He smiled with his mouth closed, as though keeping something precious behind his teeth.

“There,” he whispered.

“Do not say it.”

“There you are.”

You hated him. You hated the heat that moved through you when he said it. So you punished him the only way that mattered.

At the next feast, you gave your favor to someone else.

Not a boy this time. Not a harmless courtling whose hope could be crushed beneath your heel by morning. You chose Ser Jon Wylde, a stormlands knight with a scar through one brow and shoulders broad enough to carry his own arrogance comfortably. He had asked for your favor twice before and been denied with courtesy. On the third attempt, before half the court and beneath Aerion’s watching eyes, you removed a ribbon from your sleeve and tied it around his arm yourself.

Ser Jon went crimson with triumph.

Aerion went still.

You did not look at him afterward. That was the art of it. Any fool could provoke openly. Real cruelty required restraint. You smiled at Ser Jon. You asked him whether he meant to win. You let him say something gallant and foolish about victory being worthless unless laid at your feet. You lowered your lashes at exactly the right moment.

Across the hall, a silver cup bent in Aerion’s hand.

By midnight, Ser Jon Wylde was drunk on hope.

By dawn, he was found in an alley below the Street of Silk, alive but ruined for tourney glory, his sword hand broken in two places and three teeth missing from his handsome mouth. He swore he had been set upon by men in cloaks. He swore one of them laughed like a prince.

No proof was found. None was needed.

You received the news while your ladies dressed your hair.

One gasped. Another crossed herself. Jeyne, pale as milk now whenever Aerion’s name hovered near the room, dropped a comb.

You looked into the mirror. Your reflection looked serene.

“Poor Ser Jon,” you said.

The ladies stared. You selected a ruby pin and slid it into your hair.

That afternoon, you found Aerion in the training yard. He was watching two squires beat each other bloody with blunted swords, though his attention was elsewhere. It was always elsewhere when you were near. He stood with his arms folded, black doublet unfastened at the throat, sunlight turning his hair into white flame. When you approached, the squires faltered.

“Continue,” Aerion snapped.

They did, badly.

“You are predictable,” you said.

“I am constant.”

“You broke his hand.”

“He touched your ribbon.”

“I tied it there.”

“I know.”

“Then perhaps you should break my hand.”

The squires stopped entirely.

Aerion turned to them slowly. “Did I tell you to stop?”

They resumed with panic. Then he looked back at you.

“You would like that,” he said.

“You think you know what I like.”

“I know you better than your suitors.”

“My suitors do not leave men in ditches.”

“Only because they lack imagination.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “One day you will do this to the wrong man.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “Then he will become the right warning.”

“You are not invincible.”

“No,” he said. “I am royal. It is better.”

“Dunk a prince in enough blood and he looks like any other butcher.”

His smile thinned. You liked that. You liked finding the seam.

Then, as if sensing the pleasure in you, Aerion leaned nearer.

“You are angry for him?”

“No.”

“You are angry because I answered.”

“I am angry because you think every man who looks at me owes you pain.”

“They do.”

“And what do I owe you?”

His gaze moved over your face slowly, with terrible reverence and terrible greed.

“Truth,” he said.

Before you could answer, Valarr entered the yard.

Aerion stepped back at once, not from shame but strategy. Valarr looked between you, handsome face tightening. The prince and the monstrous one shared a moment of silent hatred bright enough to light the yard.

“Cousin,” Valarr said.

“Cousin,” Aerion returned, making the word sound like an insult carved in silver.

Valarr offered you his arm. “Father asks for you.”

Aerion laughed softly. “Of course he does.”

You took Valarr’s arm without looking away from Aerion.

That night, Aerion made you jealous. He did it with the exactness of a man placing poison in a cup.

Her name was Lady Helicent, a narrow waisted girl from a proud but nervous house that had learned to survive by attaching itself to greater flames. She had pale brown hair, quick eyes, and the kind of beauty that became sharper when reflected near someone more beautiful. She had spent months pretending admiration for you while hating you with all the quiet devotion of a lesser star orbiting a sun.

Aerion chose her because she had once said your beauty was “almost unnatural” in a tone that made almost do all the work.

You found them in the gardens. Or rather, he arranged to be found.

The moon was thin above the cypress trees. The fountains whispered. You had gone there after supper with only Jeyne trailing at a distance, your mind full of Baelor’s warnings and Aerion’s latest violence and the strange suffocation of being guarded by love on one side and hunted by obsession on the other.

Then you heard laughter. A girl’s laugh. Breathless, flattered, false.

You turned the corner.

Aerion stood beneath an arbor of white roses, one hand braced against the stone beside Lady Helicent’s head. He was close enough to ruin her reputation if anyone kinder than you had found them. He wore indolence like a cloak, but his eyes flicked to you the instant you appeared.

He had been waiting.

Helicent’s mouth was flushed. Aerion’s smile was lazy. The girl saw you and stiffened.

“Princess,” she said, curtsying too late.

You looked at Aerion. He looked back. No shame. No apology. Only challenge. It was almost funny, how badly he wanted to hurt you and be punished for it.

“Lady Helicent,” you said. “How brave.”

Her eyes narrowed before she could stop them. “My princess?”

You smiled.

Aerion’s expression sharpened faintly. Warning, perhaps. Interest, certainly.

“To walk alone in gardens where princes wander hungry,” you said.

Helicent recovered enough to smile. “Prince Aerion has been perfect courtesy.”

You nearly laughed. Aerion did.

“Has he?” you asked.

“To me,” she said, and there was the little blade. The foolish little blade. “Though perhaps some ladies do not inspire gentleness.”

The garden went silent.

Jeyne, behind you, stopped breathing. Aerion’s smile vanished.

It was a small thing. A court girl’s spite, sharpened by jealousy and ignorance. But Lady Helicent had misread the entire world. She had mistaken being used by Aerion for being favored by him. She had mistaken his cruelty toward you for permission to be cruel herself.

Only Aerion could do that.

The thought crossed his face before he moved.

He took Helicent’s chin in his hand. Not tenderly. The girl froze, confusion blooming into fear as his fingers pressed just enough to make her understand the difference between being touched and being handled.

“Apologize,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “My prince?”

“To her.”

“Aerion,” you said.

He did not look at you. “Apologize.”

Helicent’s lips trembled. “I meant no offense.”

“That is not an apology.”

You watched her realize, too late, that she had never been standing beside a man. She had been standing beside a beautiful cliff edge and calling the fall romantic.

“My princess,” she whispered, “forgive me.”

You regarded her for a long moment. Then you smiled with all the sweetness court had ever taught you.

“No.”

Aerion looked at you then. The delight in his eyes was immediate and terrible. Helicent fled before either of you could decide what else she deserved.

When she was gone, the roses seemed whiter.

“You used her poorly,” you said.

“She was useful.”

“You kissed her.”

“I wanted to see if you would bleed.”

“Did I?”

His gaze lowered, then rose. “Not where others could see.”

You stepped toward him. “You chose a stupid girl.”

“I chose a jealous one.”

“You chose a mirror with cracks and hoped I would hate my reflection.”

“And did you?”

You reached up and touched the place on his cheek where the crop had marked him. He went still at once, every line of him tightening under your fingers.

“No,” you said. “I hated that she thought you gentle.”

Aerion’s breath changed.

There were moments when his arrogance fell away not into humility, never that, but into something more naked and more dangerous. Want without performance. Hunger without theatre. He caught your wrist and turned his mouth against your palm, pressing a kiss there like a brand.

“You are jealous,” he said.

You curled your fingers against his cheek, nails biting lightly.

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“Lie better.”

“You first.”

He kissed you then, beneath the white roses, while Lady Helicent’s apology still trembled somewhere in the dark.

This kiss was colder than the first and worse because neither of you could pretend surprise. You knew the shape of him now. The violence in his grip. The worship hidden inside command. The way he seemed always to be punishing you for having power over him. You kissed him back because you wanted to win, because you wanted to wound him with wanting, because part of you had been waiting since the terrace and hated him for making that true.

When you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, he made a sound almost like laughter.

“There you are,” he breathed against your mouth.

You pushed him away.

“Say that again and I will give your next scar somewhere less convenient.”

His eyes burned. “Promise?”

You left him there smiling.

Your revenge upon Helicent came three days later. Not with blood. Blood was Aerion’s crude instrument. You preferred ruin with clean hands.

Lady Helicent had a brother seeking appointment among Valarr’s companions, a cousin hoping for a marriage in the Reach, and a mother desperate to appear nearer the royal women than she was. All three ambitions rested upon perception, and perception was a silk thread...beautiful, useful, easily cut.

At the queen’s embroidery circle, you praised Helicent.

That was the beginning of the end.

You praised her discretion in such careful tones that the older ladies glanced up. You mentioned, with sympathetic vagueness, that young women could hardly be blamed for losing judgment when princes made games of them. You said nothing directly. You never needed to. By evening, half the court believed Helicent had been caught in the gardens with Aerion. By morning, the other half believed worse. By the next feast, her mother’s smile had gone brittle, her brother’s appointment had quietly vanished, and the Reach cousin’s family had begun remembering urgent reservations.

Helicent passed you in the corridor with red eyes.

You stopped her. She curtsied. Poor thing. She had learned.

“My lady,” you said, and adjusted the fall of her veil yourself, a gesture so kind that every watching woman softened. “You must be more careful where you place your trust.”

Her eyes filled with tears of hatred.

“Yes, princess.”

You kissed her cheek. The court saw mercy. Aerion, watching from the far end of the corridor, saw the corpse beneath the flowers.

Later, he found you in the sept.

That amused you. Aerion in a sept always looked like blasphemy had dressed itself for court. He moved beneath the painted eyes of the Seven with no reverence whatsoever, boots quiet against stone, face lit by devotional candles. You were kneeling before the Maiden, though not praying. Prayer had never come naturally to you unless you wanted something badly enough to be dishonest with gods.

“You destroyed her,” he said.

You did not turn. “She destroyed herself.”

“You smiled while doing it.”

“I smiled while forgiving her.”

“You are monstrous.”

Now you looked back. Aerion stood in the aisle, silver hair bright in candlelight, expression almost reverent. The word monstrous should have sounded like accusation. From him, it sounded like beloved.

“Careful,” you said. “Only you may call me that?”

“Yes.”

“How proprietary.”

“Yes.”

You rose. “You say that too easily.”

“I say true things easily.”

“No. You say ugly things easily and hope truth will admire it”

He came closer, stopping beneath the gaze of the Father. “You enjoyed it.”

“I did.”

“You are not sorry.”

“No.”

“Good.”

That word moved through you like a hand along a locked door.

Good.

Baelor would have asked whether justice had required cruelty. He would have asked whether mercy might have served better. He would have looked at you with that terrible tender disappointment and made you feel, somehow, both loved and summoned upward. Aerion looked at your revenge and approved. Not despite its coldness. Because of it.

That was the seduction.

Not his beauty. Not only his blood. Not only the shared past, the childhood violence, the kisses that felt like wounds learning to speak. The seduction was this...Aerion never asked you to be better. He asked you to be more. More proud. More vicious. More honest. More dragon. And dragons, in all the old songs, were never asked to apologize for flame.

The weeks that followed became a courtship made of shadows.

No one named it. Naming would have made it vulnerable to judgment. Instead it lived in glances, absences, sudden cruelties, and the quiet rearrangement of other people’s lives around Aerion’s desire.

A young knight from the Vale who wrote you three poems found his lute floating broken in a fishpond. A Tyrell cousin who asked you to dance twice in one evening was challenged by Aerion to a sword practice bout the next morning and left the yard with his pride bleeding worse than his nose. A page who delivered you a love letter from his master vanished from court service and reappeared months later in Maidenpool, refusing to say why the sight of dragon banners made him shake. A lordling who cornered you beneath a stair and spoke too warmly of your mouth was discovered before dawn tied to the same stair by his own belt, gagged with his own love token, his face swollen purple.

No one saw Aerion do it. Everyone knew. That was how power worked best...when proof was unnecessary because fear had already testified.

Baelor knew too. His patience began to thin.

Your father summoned Aerion after the stair incident. You were not meant to hear, but you had learned from court that doors were only suggestions and servants only obstacles when treated kindly enough. You stood in the passage behind a tapestry, still as a carved saint, while Baelor’s voice came through the wood.

“You shame your house.”

Aerion answered lightly. “Men shame themselves. I only assist.”

“You terrorize boys who cannot answer you.”

“I instruct them in distance.”

“You injure men for looking at my daughter.”

A pause.

Then Aerion said, “They should look elsewhere.”

The silence after that was colder than winter.

“She is not yours,” Baelor said.

Aerion’s reply came softer, “No?”

“No.”

“She is Targaryen.”

“So are many.”

“She is my blood.”

“She is mine.”

You closed your eyes.

Inside the room, Aerion laughed once.

“There,” he said. “At last, we are honest.”

Baelor’s voice lowered. “Do not confuse my love for weakness, boy.”

“Do not confuse my wanting for a boy’s game.”

“She is not a prize to be taken because you desire her.”

“No,” Aerion said. “She is a dragon pretending to be a prize because it pleases court to bid.”

Your heart struck hard. Baelor said nothing.

Aerion continued, each word quieter and more poisonous than the last. “You dress her in honor. They dress her in songs. I know what she is beneath both.”

You had to press your hand over your mouth.

The door opened so suddenly you nearly failed to move. Aerion stepped into the passage and looked directly at the tapestry. Directly at you. He had known. Of course he had known. He walked away smiling. Baelor did not come after him.

That night, your father found you in the dragon gallery.

It was always the dragons you returned to when torn between men. The skulls rested beneath the Keep like old crimes too large to bury, black and vast and silent. Balerion’s skull loomed above all others, a darkness shaped like memory. Torchlight crawled along his teeth. You stood before him with your arms wrapped around yourself, feeling very small and not small at all.

Baelor approached without speaking.

For a while, the two of you stood together beneath the dead dragon.

“Were you listening?” he asked at last.

“Yes.”

“I should reprimand you.”

“You may.”

“I am too tired.”

That hurt.

You looked at him then. “Father.”

He turned to you, and whatever speech he had prepared seemed to die when he saw your face. He reached for you, then stopped, as if uncertain whether you would permit comfort. You hated that uncertainty. You stepped into his arms before pride could stop you.

Baelor held you tightly.

Not as court held you. Not as suitors imagined holding you. Not as Aerion seized you, with hunger disguised as destiny. Your father held you as though you were alive and breakable and beloved beyond usefulness.

“My star,” he murmured into your hair.

You shut your eyes.

“I am not what they think,” you said.

“I know.”

The words should have soothed. Instead they terrified.

“I am not gentle.”

“I know.”

“I wanted Ser Jon punished.”

His arms tightened, but he did not release you.

“I know.”

“I ruined Helicent because she angered me. Not because she deserved it.”

A long breath. “I know.”

“Then why do you still look at me as if I can be saved?”

Baelor drew back enough to hold your face between his hands, as he had when you were a child with blood on your palms.

“Because needing discipline is not the same as being damned,” he said. “Because darkness in the blood is not commandment. Because you are mine, and I will not surrender you to the worst thing that recognizes you.”

You looked away. “Aerion says you love a star.”

“I love my daughter.”

“He says he sees me.”

Baelor’s eyes shone then, not with tears quite, but with something too deep for pride to bear.

“He sees what flatters his own hunger,” he said. “And perhaps he sees some true part of you, yes. I will not lie. That is why he is dangerous. Lies are weaker than truth. But he would take that true part and feed it until it consumed every other thing you are.”

You thought of Aerion’s mouth stained with his own blood beneath the roses. Aerion’s voice in the sept calling you monstrous as though laying a crown at your feet. Aerion telling Baelor that he knew what you were beneath honor and songs.

“And if I want to be consumed?” you whispered.

Baelor’s face broke.

Not fully. Baelor Breakspear was made of stronger stuff than that. But something in him flinched, and you felt crueler than you had with Helicent, crueler than with Ser Jon, crueler than any time you had smiled while men destroyed themselves hoping for you.

“Then I will stand in the fire as long as I can,” he said.

You could not answer. Far above you, the dead dragon grinned.

After that, Baelor tried to send you away. Not far. Not cruelly. He suggested Dragonstone first, with companions and guards, under the pretense of visiting old household shrines and taking sea air. When you refused, he suggested Summerhall. When you refused that, he spoke of Dorne, of your kin, of sun and distance, of court growing too crowded and your name too often on unworthy tongues.

“You mean Aerion,” you said.

“I mean danger.”

“You mean Aerion.”

Baelor did not deny it.

Aerion heard by nightfall.

You had begun to suspect the walls loved him more than you. They carried him every secret. Or perhaps secrets, like lesser creatures, feared what he would do if kept from him.

He came to your chamber door after midnight.

Jeyne tried to bar him. Poor brave Jeyne, who still trembled when he entered a room yet stood before him with one hand on the latch because she loved you in her small mortal way. You heard his voice from within.

“Move.”

“My prince, the princess is retired.”

“Move.”

“She cannot receive—”

The door opened.

Not violently. That was almost worse. Aerion had not broken it. He had simply made the guard open it. Your guard. Baelor’s guard. The man stood outside looking sick with shame.

Aerion entered.

You were by the window in a silver robe, hair unbound, the moon making you look like something already dead and sung about. Jeyne remained near the door, pale and shaking.

“Leave,” Aerion said.

She looked to you. You nodded once. Jeyne fled.

Aerion closed the door.

“You are not coming into my chamber at night like some sellsword in a bad song,” you said.

“I am already here.”

“Leave.”

“No.”

You almost smiled despite yourself. “You do enjoy being simple.”

He crossed the room. “Baelor means to send you away.”

“My father means to protect me.”

“From me.”

“Yes.”

He stopped before you. The moonlight loved him too, traitorous thing. It silvered his hair, hollowed his cheeks, turned his eyes into dark violet flame. He looked less like a man than a curse dressed in royal skin.

“You would go?” he asked.

“If I wished.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you deserve.”

His hand closed on the window ledge beside you. Stone scraped beneath his ring.

“You will not leave me behind.”

“You keep saying that as though the world obeys repetition.”

“It obeys blood.”

“No. You obey blood because it tells you what you want to hear.”

“You want it too.”

You looked at him sharply.

Aerion leaned closer. “Do you think I do not feel it? When we are in a hall and every lesser creature vanishes? When some lord speaks and you smile like a painted idol, but your eyes are empty until I make you angry? When your father calls you star and you soften, yes, but some part of you looks past him for fire?”

“You are vile.”

“I am right.”

“You are vile because you are right only often enough to make your wrongness dangerous.”

His smile came then, sudden and brilliant.

“You should have been born my sister.”

The words struck the room like a dropped torch.

Not because they were impossible. In your house, impossibility had long ago been made subject to royal will. But because he spoke them not as jest, not as scandal, not as wicked flirtation. He spoke them with envy. As though cousinhood were too weak a chain. As though he resented even the small distance blood had placed between you. As though he wished the old dragonlords had bound you closer before either of you drew breath.

“You are mad,” you said.

“No. I am devout.”

“To yourself.”

“To us.”

“There is no us.”

Aerion touched your hair then.

You should have stopped him. Instead, you watched his fingers move through silver gold strands as though handling a holy relic he intended to steal from its shrine.

“There has always been us,” he said. “Before words. Before shame. Before Baelor tried to make you good and court tried to make you harmless.”

“I am not harmless.”

“I know.”

“You do not make me powerful.”

“No.” His hand tightened slightly in your hair. “I make you honest.”

You caught his wrist.

For a moment, you were children again over a dying beetle, over a broken horse, over blood in a rosebush. For a moment, there were no proposals, no guards, no fathers, no dead dragons beneath the Keep, no future tourney waiting to open its jaws. Only Aerion looking at you as if you were the only altar he had ever approached without mockery.

Then he kissed you.

This time, it was almost gentle at the start, which made it more frightening. His mouth touched yours like a question he would punish you for answering incorrectly. His hand remained in your hair. Yours remained around his wrist. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Then you bit him again. He laughed into the kiss, and gentleness died.

You pushed him back first. Not far. Enough to make refusal plausible. Enough to make wanting deniable.

“You do not come here again,” you said.

“I will come wherever you are.”

“My father will kill you.”

“No,” Aerion said, touching his bleeding lip with his thumb. “Your father is too honorable to kill what he fears before it sins publicly.”

You went cold.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he will wait. Good men always wait. They call it justice while the world catches fire.”

You stared at him. Perhaps some god leaned close then. Perhaps some dead dragon stirred in whatever hell housed old Valyria. Perhaps fate, bored of subtlety, placed its hand upon the board. Because for a moment you saw it. Not clearly. Not enough to name. But something...a tourney field, shouting, bright armor, Baelor’s face beneath a helm, Aerion laughing somewhere beyond reach, blood on ground.

Then it was gone. Aerion saw the change in you.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Lie better.”

You turned away. “Go.”

This time, after a long silence, he did.

At the door, he paused.

“If Baelor sends you away,” he said, “I will follow.”

You did not look back.

“If he locks you in a tower, I will climb it. If he gives you to a lord, I will make you a widow before you learn to sign your new name. If he sends you across the sea, I will teach the sea to burn.”

“You cannot burn water.”

Aerion smiled faintly.

“Then I will become the first dragon who can.”

The door closed behind him. You stood alone in moonlight with your heart beating like wings trapped beneath bone.

The next morning, you told Baelor you would not leave court.

He looked at you for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded, as though you had confirmed something he had prayed to be wrong about.

That evening, the court gathered for another feast, because courts do not cease feasting merely because ruin has taken a seat among them. Musicians played. Lords drank. Ladies glittered. Valarr laughed too loudly with friends. Maekar sat stern and unsmiling beside men who feared him. Baelor watched you from the high table with love sharpened into vigilance.

Aerion stood across the hall in black and red. He did not approach you at first. He let others do so. That was worse.

He watched a young lord from the riverlands bow over your hand. Watched a Reachman praise your gown. Watched a knight ask whether you would honor the lists at the next tourney. Watched you smile, answer, withdraw, grant nothing while seeming to grant warmth enough to keep them alive another day.

Then a lordling too drunk on wine and courage leaned close and said something no man should have said to Baelor Breakspear’s daughter. You did not flinch. You smiled. The lordling smiled back, relieved, stupid, doomed.

Across the hall, Aerion began to move. You lifted one finger. Barely. A command so small no one else saw it. Aerion stopped.

The lordling continued speaking, unaware that his life had just passed through your hand like thread through a needle. You leaned nearer, listening as though amused. Then you answered him softly enough that no one else heard. Whatever you said drained the color from his face. He bowed. Stumbled. Left the hall before the next song began.

Aerion watched him go. Then he looked at you. For the first time all evening, you smiled at him. Not sweetly. Not gently. Not as the perfect princess. His face changed. There you are, his eyes said.

But this time, beneath the dragon banners, with Baelor’s gaze upon you and half the realm unknowingly gathered around the mouth of a tragedy, you did not look away.

You raised your cup. Aerion raised his. Blood calling to blood. Fire answering fire.

And somewhere beyond the walls, beyond court and candlelight and all the fragile laws men made to keep princes from becoming monsters, Ashford waited.

He also remembers it being the first moment he'd registered how much disdain you have truly held for people like that investor. Rich pricks who thought themselves to rule the world just because of a few off-shore accounts. People who never had to worry over anything, because the whole world went out of its way to make their existance more comfortable. The kind of person you thought him to be.

The investor had regarded you for a long while. It felt like the short hand of the clock had ran its course around it multiple times. Then, the investor had cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

"You are a very brave girl to say such things." The investor had pondered. A girl. Not professional, not 'miss'. Even if the investor hadn't been angry, he found a way to diminish you with his words as men of his position often did, "But I do have a certain appreciation for it, because you may very well be right."

Valarr had felt the whole room breathe out a collective sigh of relief. Like the walls themselves had stopped trying to close in. The investor nodded once, then twice. Smoothed over the lapels of his suit that surely cost more than what you earned in a year. He turned towards Valarr. Not towards you. A gaze Valarr understood as a command. A command to make a command. To not allow the leash to slip out of his grasp.

"See to it that it does not happen again." The investor had cleared his throat. A subconscious thing. "Let us continue."

It's another late night at the office. The fluorescent lights are dimmed and the light pollution reflected from below the top floor slips in through the large windows hugging the walls of the room. His father had went home a while ago. Valarr had stayed precisely because of that. You had stayed because Valarr had asked you to stay and paid overtime when the territory of am and pm eventually blended together,.

He's looking over the documents for the next merger and his fingers are caressing paper in a way you're not even sure he's aware of. You're typing away on your laptop, scheduling meetings and emails in his name. Valarr sighs, looks over the words on the page again like they owe him a clear answer. Then, you feel his eyes on you and pull your own gaze away from the screen to meet his. An animal instinct, a response to being watched.

"Do you think that there is right way and a wrong way to feel things?" He asks, calm and just a little too sharp where you're sure he's trying to go for nonchalant.

And it's so sudden after hours spent in the quiet, that you have to clear your throat to make sure your voice still works.

"I don't... I'm not sure that feelings can be sorted into right and wrong. They just are. As many things in life just are."

"People used to say I was supposed to mourn my mother when she died." Valarr’s jaw works over the syllables like biting through something particularly sharp, "And I didn’t. And the guilt of not doing so ate away at me for a long time."

"I don’t think you can command people to mourn." You answer after a long pause. Because his dual-toned eyes are looking at you and his mouth is moving slightly like he’s already preparing to speak for you. Like you’re supposed to follow a script he’s written out and that it pisses him off when you don’t.

"Elaborate, please."

"Grief has teeth. Grief bites, it drags you under like a tide and refuses to let go. It’s… I wouldn’t classify it as a feeling. More so a state. Because there’s sadness in it, of course there is. But there’s also anger, there’s guilt. There’s this whole complicated mess of emotions that can’t be sorted into little shelves to be dusted off when it’s deemed an appropriate time for them to surface."

"So you think that when I’ve been asked to mourn, I managed to somehow mess that up, too." His voice hitches slightly on the word ‘too’, like a scratch on a record. Something heavy rests beneath it, like there’s parentheses he refuses to elaborate on.

You're not sure why he's chosen you to talk to about this. You're not good with mourning. There's no time for it - for the complicated, tangled mess that it usually is. Easier to push down. Easier to squeeze it into some jagged shape and cut yourself on it each time you remember.

"I’m saying that it’s not grief if you can make it flat and categorize it only into sadness. It’s simply not how grief works."

"I think I was sad." Valarr says, pausing, "When my mom died."

The word 'mother' is replaced by its diminutive in a way you're sure is purposeful. He hangs onto the least important words in your answer, missing your point in the way that has to be deliberate. Because Valarr doesn’t do accidental. It’s not in his programming, it’s not part of the manual he has for the neat, perfect heir.

"I remember being sad, but I also remember that sadness being dull." Valarr continues after you fail to answer his last revalation, "I’ve watched my mom waste away in that hospital bed for months before she died. Perhaps that’s why my mourning wasn’t deemed appropriate."

You look at him, then. Drag your eyes away from the urgent emails pinging and demanding your attention. Valarr’s face is calm, not sullied by any ounce of emotion - negative or positive. His heterochromatic eyes zero in on yours in a way that’s supposed to imitate openness but only serves to make it look like he’s counting the seconds of your silence and deeming it unsatisfactory.

"Was it sadness," You choose your words carefully, "or did you put on another mask because it was expected of you to be sad in the face of a great tragedy?"

You watch something flicker beneath Valarr’s expression. A predator getting ready to pounce only for him to tug on the leash. The mask of delicate softness slips for just a moment, obvious in the way the corner of his lips tugs. It’s not soft like when he’s talking to you over the documents late in the evening, nor is it surprised like when he catches himself finding one of your sharp, sarcastic quips funny despite himself.

"You’d actually believe that I wasn’t sad watching my mom die?"

"I don’t know you that well, Valarr." You answer, drawing an invisible line between you, "I’m merely engaging in conversation."

Valarr stands and then stills for a moment. After just a blink, he steps closer, just the tiniest breath of space closing between you. Then, his arms shift and he clasps his hands behind his back, posture straightening out. The mask slips and then it’s back with renowned perfection.

"I want you to explain." Valarr speaks, voice falling to a register that’s softer than you’ve ever heard before. A blade wrapped in the finest of silks, "Because that is quite an accusation to make when you have no grounds to do so."

"Did you hold your mother’s hand. Before. Before she died? While she was dying?" You side-step the conversation instead, just like he did moments ago.

"I did. So did my father. So did my brother."

"Then was the action truly your own or were you merely mimicking?" The silence between you rings out, sharp and final. You lay your head under the executioner’s blade when your mouth opens again, "Because the way you speak of grief, the way you speak of even sadness, is calculated."

"It’s expected of me to calculate emotions. They have no place in my field of work." Valarr’s answer is clipped and his eyes narrow despite the way he tries to keep them trusting and open. My field of work. Not ours.

"It’s not sadness if you can calculate it, Valarr."

You watch him swallow. Watch the way his Adam’s apple presses to the pale, freckled skin of his throat razor-sharp. Watch the thoughts dancing beneath his eyes and the way he bites down every answer that’s instinct and not strategy.

"I cried. I actually cried despite trying not to when her grip on my hand went slack." His voice gains a certain note of rawness, but you see the threads of the tale he’s spinning around you. You wonder if he’s trying to convince you or himself.

"Why?" You don’t offer him more. Because offering more would mean he’d have something to hang onto, something to leverage, something else to answer to.

"Because I was sad-" Valarr starts. Swallows again. Then, a short, sharp laugh bubbles past his lips, "That’s not it, is it? You’re not buying it. I can see it. Like when you see an investor actively pulling back from the deal right in front of you."

"What was it that you were feeling? Not as Valarr Targaryen. Not as Valarr the heir. Just Valarr. What were you feeling, then?"

"Relief."

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. You can only manage to hold his gaze for a moment before it trails down to his perfectly polished designer loafers. You bite back one answer, then swallow another. Your hands run over your hair, then fixate on your dress shirt. Anxiety, sharp and biting and cloying, thrums in your pores, presses deeper, settles into the very bones.

Valarr's hand, cold and certain, catches yours in a way that breaks every personal and professional boundary the two of you have built. His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

"It seems that I have made you worry. I can assure you that nothing you have said for the duration of this conversation will be held against you." Valarr lets go as abruptly as he had grabbed. He turns his back to you and walks back to his own desk, "You can go, now. We've done enough for one day."

You're quick to gather your things; uncaring on wether he sees your anxiety for what it is. You bid Valarr goodbye without looking over your shoulder. You can feel his gaze still on you as the door of his office shuts behind you.

Valarr doesn't even pretend to look over the documents. They're just words on a page he can't be bothered to actually understand. He yearns. For the very first time in his life, Valarr Targaryen actually yearns. It’s laughable, it’s absolutely and utterly pathetic and he can’t even put this feeling into words. His well-versed vocabulary, honed by years of studies, of listening to his father dismantle people with a carefully chosen sentence alone, fails him. So Valarr yearns, because there is nothing else to do. As many things in life just are, you had said. He yearns and he waits.

“It’s just a mug,” your best friend, Lana, had laughed, nudging you. “Don’t be so intense.”

Lana was gone now. Off to a study group for her art history midterm. She’d been anxious all week, picking at her nails, because Aerion had been distant. “He’s just like that,” she’d said, more to herself than to you. “He’s got a lot on his mind.” Before she left, she’d paused at the door, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. “You’ll keep an eye on him, right? Don’t let him burn the place down. And try not to kill each other.” She’d smiled, a nervous, fluttering thing, and then she was gone, leaving the apartment heavy with the silence she’d filled with chatter.

The silence didn’t last. You heard the sink run, then stop. Footsteps, unhurried, crossed the short hallway from the kitchen to the living room. He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, your blue mug in his hand. He wore a worn black t-shirt, grease stained jeans from his diner shift, and the scent of old coffee, and cigarette smoke.

“She thinks I’m a stray cat,” he said, his voice a low, rough scrape. He didn’t smile. He never really smiled. His mouth just did something, a twist that was more threat than expression. “Don’t let him burn the place down. Like I’m some fucking hazard she’s leaving in your care.”

You didn’t look up from your book. “Aren’t you?”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the secondhand couch. The springs groaned under his weight. He set your mug on the scarred coffee table, right on top of your highlighted notes.

“You tell me. You’re the one with the moral compass. The better student.” He lit a cigarette, the match hissing to life. He didn’t ask. He blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Nietzsche. Appropriate. Rereading the parts about how morality is a fiction for the weak?”

“I’m reading the parts about how resentment poisons the soul,” you said, finally looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, the blue of them almost violent in their clarity. “You should try it.”

He took a drag, held it, let the smoke curl from his nostrils. “I don’t have resentment. You rejected me. That was your choice. I accepted it. I just…restructured the playing field.” He gestured loosely with the cigarette, ash falling on the carpet. “Lana wanted to be chosen. You wanted to be wanted without the inconvenience of admitting it. I just gave you both what you wanted. It’s practically altruism.”

Your fingers tightened on the paperback. “You’re dating my best friend to punish me. To get close to me. That’s not a playing field. That’s a pathology.”

“Is it?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “You knew what I was doing the moment I asked her out. You saw right through it. And you let it happen. You watched me sit on this shitty couch with my arm around her. You watched me kiss her goodnight. You listened through that thin fucking wall when I fucked her in her room. And you never said a word. Not to protect her. You just sat there, in your righteous silence, watching me watch you.” His voice dropped, became intimate, venomous. “So who’s the pathological one? The guy who acts on his desires, or the girl who gets off on being the secret center of the universe?”

Heat flooded your face, a mix of shame and fury so acute it felt like nausea. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m honest.” He crushed the cigarette in your mug, the hiss of the ember dying in the dregs of coffee. “You hate me because I’m a mirror. And you don’t like what you see.”

“I hate you because you’re using a vulnerable person as a tactical maneuver.”

“She’s using me, too!” he snapped, the first real crack in his controlled, sleazy demeanor. His eyes flashed. “She wants the badge of dating someone dangerous. She wants to feel special because someone like me would choose someone like her. She doesn’t see me. She sees a fucking accessory. So don’t paint her as some innocent victim. She’s a selfish, shallow little bitch who’s happy to have you clean up her messes as long as she gets to feel chosen.” He leaned back, the anger receding into a colder, more deliberate malice. “Just like you’re happy to feel wanted as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty by saying yes.”

You stood up, the book falling to the floor. “Get out.”

He didn’t move. He just looked up at you, a slow, appraising look that traveled from your face down your body and back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was an assessment. A philosopher considering a proof. “No.”

“Get out of my apartment, Aerion.”

“It’s Lana’s apartment, too. And I’m her guest.” He spread his arms along the back of the couch. “She asked you to keep an eye on me. So do your duty.”

The air was too thick to breathe. The rattling heater, the smell of his smoke, the weight of his gaze. All the arguments, all the needling comments, the stolen mugs, the notes in your books, ‘naive,’ ‘sentimental bullshit,’ ‘try harder’, it had all been winding tighter and tighter, a spring coiling in the pit of your stomach. This was the tension he lived for. This was the game.

“You love this, don’t you?” you whispered, the anger turning into something else, something bleak and recognizing. “You love that I’m stuck here with you. You love that I can’t make you leave without causing a scene she’ll never forgive me for. You engineered this whole pathetic scenario just so you could have me trapped.”

For the first time, something like real pleasure touched his expression. Not happiness. Triumph. “Finally,” he breathed. “There she is. The girl who sees the board. The girl who understands the move.” He stood up, slowly, closing the distance between you. He was taller, and he used it, looking down at you with that intense, grimy beauty. “You think I’m cruel? You’re right. You think I’m using her? You’re right. You think this is all about you?” He brought a hand up, but didn’t touch you. He just hovered it near your cheek, letting you feel the heat of his skin. “You have no idea how right you are.”

His other hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch was shockingly gentle, at odds with everything about him. It made your breath catch.

“You rejected me,” he said, his voice now a low, private thing, just for the space between your mouths. “You looked at me and you said no. You humiliated me. So I made a world where your no didn’t matter. I walked right into your life through a door you left open. I sat at your table. I drank from your cup. I fucked your friend in the next room thinking about you. And you let me. Because part of you wanted to see how far I’d go. How badly I wanted it. How badly you wanted it.”

His fingers finally touched your jaw, a firm, claiming pressure. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You couldn’t. The words were ash in your mouth. All the moral high ground, all the justified anger, it crumbled because he was right. You had watched. You had felt a thrill, dark and shameful, every time his eyes slid from Lana to you. You had treasured his insults because they were a form of attention no one else gave you. You were complicit. You were corrupt.

He saw the admission in your eyes. The victory in his was blinding, and ugly, and hungry.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t an exploration. It was a claim. His mouth was hard and demanding, tasting of nicotine and bitter coffee. His hand on your jaw held you still, his other arm snaking around your waist to yank you flush against him. You made a sound, a muffled gasp of protest, and he swallowed it, h is tongue pushing into your mouth, deep and possessive. It was filthy. It was a violation and a confession all at once. You didn’t kiss him back at first. You stood there, rigid, letting him take. But your body betrayed you. A shiver ran through you. Your hands, which had come up to push at his chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He broke the kiss, breathing harshly against your lips. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you choked out.

“Good.” He kissed you again, more brutally, biting your lower lip until you whimpered. “Now show me.”

He turned you, pushing you back toward the couch. You stumbled, your calves hitting the edge, and you fell backward onto the cushions. He was on you before you could right yourself, his knees bracketing your hips, his weight pinning you down. The cold from the window was gone, replaced by the scorching heat of him. He looked down at you, his brown hair falling into his eyes, his sharp features etched with a frantic need.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said, his hands going to the hem of your sweater. “Watching me play her boyfriend. Watching me pretend. It made you wet, didn’t it? Knowing it was all for you. Knowing every time I touched her, I was thinking about my hands on you.”

He yanked the sweater up and over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, covered by a simple bra. There was no reverence in his gaze. It was pure, avaricious hunger. “Fuck. Look at you.” He palmed you through the fabric, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple until it peaked painfully. “You’re so fucking tense. All that morality, all that judgment, locked up tight in this perfect little body. I’m gonna ruin it.”

He unsnapped your bra with a quick, practiced twist of his fingers. The air hit your skin, and then his mouth did. He didn’t kiss your breast. He devoured it. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue laving, then his teeth grazing, then biting down just enough to make you cry out. You arched off the couch, a jolt of pure, electric sensation shooting straight to your core. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same brutal attention, his hand squeezing and kneading the flesh he wasn’t mouthing.

“Aerion—” you gasped.

He lifted his head, his lips swollen, his chin wet. “What? Gonna tell me to stop? Gonna tell me this is wrong?” He rocked his hips down, and you felt the hard, insistent length of him pressed against your thigh through both your jeans. A low groan rattled out of his chest. “You feel that? That’s for you. That’s been for you since the first day you argued with me about Kant in seminar. While I was fucking her, this is what I was thinking about. Pinning you down. Making you admit it. Making you come on my cock while your best friend’s scent is still on my sheets.”

His words were filthy, deliberate, designed to degrade and arouse in equal measure. And they worked. A hot, shameful pulse of desire throbbed between your legs. You were wet. Soaked. He could probably feel it through the denim.

He saw it in your face. His grin was feral. “Yeah. That’s it. No more hiding.” He shifted back, his hands going to the button of your jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and your panties and pulled them down your legs in one rough motion. The cold air hit your bare skin, and you were exposed, sprawled on the couch under his ravenous gaze.

“God,” he breathed, not a prayer but a curse. He ran a hand up your inner thigh, his fingers rough with calluses from the diner work. He didn’t tease. He went straight to your cunt, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a filthy, wet sound. “Fuck. You’re dripping. You’re fucking dripping for me. For this. After all that shit you talked.” He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, deep and curling, and you cried out, your back bowing off the couch. “You’re so tight. Clenching around me like a little bitch who’s been waiting for it.”

He fucked you with his fingers, a ruthless, punishing rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with harsh, unrelenting pressure. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built in your belly. It was too much. It was crude and nasty and it stripped you of every pretense. You were panting, your hips moving against his hand, chasing the feeling.

“That’s it,” he snarled, watching you fall apart. “Let go. Be the greedy, jealous, hypocritical cunt I know you are. Come on my fingers. Show me how much you wanted this.”

His words, the crude, relentless stimulation, the sheer wrongness of it...it tipped you over. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and shuddering, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, his fingers pumping, until you were oversensitive and twitching, tears of overwhelm and shame pricking your eyes.

He pulled his fingers out, glistening, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and the sight was so profoundly debauched it made your spent body clench again. “You taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice guttural.

He stood up from the couch, unbuckling his belt, the metal clinking. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was hard, thick, flushed an angry red, the tip wet. He was big, and he looked it, stroking himself slowly as he looked down at you, a nasty, possessive pride on his face.

“You see this?” he said. “This is what you said no to. This is what you made me work for. Now you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He didn’t give you time to prepare. He knelt on the couch again, pushed your thighs apart wider, and notched the head of his cock at your entrance. He was still slick from your arousal. He pushed in.

The stretch was intense, burning. You gasped, your nails digging into the couch cushions. He didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by relentless inch, his jaw clenched, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he was fully seated, buried inside you to the hilt, he paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He was so deep it felt like he was in your throat.

“Fuck,” he moaned, the arrogance momentarily shattered by raw sensation. “Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. I’m so deep in you.” He dropped his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s where I belong. In your tight, traitorous little cunt.”

Then he started to move.

There was no gentle rhythm. It was fucking, pure and simple. A hard, driving, nasty piston of his hips, slamming into you with a force that shook the old couch, the springs screeching in protest. Each thrust punched a choked sound from your lungs. Uh. Uh. Uh. The slap of skin on skin was loud, lewd, echoing in the shabby apartment. He fucked you like he hated you, like he wanted to break you apart and remake you in his image.

“You like that?” he grunted, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You like getting fucked by your best friend’s boyfriend? You like being the other woman? The secret? The dirty little secret?”

You couldn’t answer. Pleasure was building again, a tighter, darker coil this time, fed by the sheer physical brutality of it, by the venom in his voice, by the devastating truth of his words.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his pace never faltering. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

You forced your eyes open. His face was a mask of fierce, unhinged concentration. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest. His blue eyes were black with pupil, fixed on yours, drinking in every flicker of shame and pleasure.

“I knew it,” he panted. “I knew you were this. Under all the books, all the arguments. A nasty, beautiful bitch who gets off on betrayal.” He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and you saw stars. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I’m inside you. I want to feel you come. I want to feel you give up.”

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast, rough circles. The dual assault was too much. The pressure broke. Your second orgasm tore through you, a silent, seizing convulsion that clamped down on his cock like a vise. A raw, guttural cry was ripped from your throat: “Ah! Fuck!” as you shattered, your vision whiting out.

The sensation of you pulsing around him broke his control. With a ragged, broken shout, “Yes! Take it, baby!” he slammed into you one last, brutal time and came. His shout wasn’t a release...it was a detonation. A raw, guttural “Fuck!” that tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his body locking into a rigid, shuddering arc.

You could feel it, the hot, pulsing rush of his come flooding you in thick, relentless spurts. It was an obscene, intimate violation, a physical claim that went deeper than skin. He kept thrusting through it, shallow, desperate jerks of his hips, milking his own orgasm as he watched your face with a kind of glazed, triumphant horror.

The air reeked of sex, sweat, and cheap tobacco. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your shared breathing and the wet, sticky sound of him still moving inside you, slowly now, as the last tremors subsided. He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, slumped over you, his weight crushing, his forehead damp against your collarbone. His breath was hot and uneven on your skin.

For a long moment, there was just the aftermath. The brutal clarity of what you’d done.

Then he laughed. It was a low, shaky, nasty sound, devoid of humor. “God,” he breathed into your skin. “Look at us.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows, his cock still lodged inside you, softening but present. He looked down at the mess between your bodies. Your thighs were slick, a mixture of your arousal and his spend already starting to cool. His gaze was fascinated.

“Ruined,” he murmured, dragging a finger through the mess on your lower belly. He brought it to his lips, tasting it, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re ruined. And you love it.”

You tried to summon the anger, the shame. It was there, a cold knot in your stomach. But it was smothered under a heavier, more terrifying weight...a satiation so profound it felt like dying. You didn’t push him off. You laid there, letting him look, letting him own the devastation.

He finally pulled out. The sensation was a slow, wet drag, followed by a hot trickle down your thigh. The physical evidence of the betrayal. He stood up, his movements loose limbed with satisfaction. He looked down at his own cock, glistening, spent, and gave it a lazy, proprietary stroke before tucking it back into his jeans. He didn’t zip them up. He left them hanging open, the denim dark with cum.

“Get up,” he said, his voice back to that rough, commanding scrape.

You didn’t move. You felt hollowed out, boneless.

“I said get up.” He reached down, his fingers closing around your wrist. His grip was iron. He hauled you off the couch. Your legs buckled, and you stumbled against him. He caught you, his arm banding around your waist, holding you upright against his solid, heated body. “You don’t get to check out now. We’re not done.”

He half walked, half dragged you the short distance down the hallway, past Lana’s closed door with its stupid, cheerful “Live, Laugh, Love” decal, and into the cramped, cold bathroom. He flicked the switch. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed to life, exposing everything...the chipped tile, the mold in the grout, the damp towels on the floor. And the two of you in the mirror above the sink.

You looked wrecked. Your hair was a wild tangle. Your lips were swollen and bitten. Your eyes were wide, dark, shell shocked. There were red marks blooming on your hips, your breasts. You were naked, shivering in the chill. He stood behind you, still mostly dressed, his chin resting on your shoulder, his blue eyes meeting yours in the glass. He looked like a predator who’d cornered its prize. Arrogant. Sated. Malicious.

“Look,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at what we did. Look at what you are now.”

You tried to look away. His hand came up, fingers tangling in your hair, holding your head still. “Look.”

You stared at your reflection. At the stranger who had let this happen. Who had come apart under him.

“You’re mine,” he said, the words a soft, venomous promise. “You said no, but your body said yes. Your cunt said yes. Every time you argued with me, every time you pretended to be disgusted, you were just begging for this.” His other hand slid around your front, palm flattening low on your belly. “You think this is just sex? This is a fucking philosophy. I proved my thesis. You are not better than me. You are not cleaner. You are right here in the mud with me. And you like the mud.”

He turned on the faucet with his elbow. The water ran cold, then grudgingly warm. He wet a hand towel, wrung it out. Then, with a shocking, intimate gentleness, he began to clean you. He started between your legs, wiping away the sticky evidence of him with slow, deliberate strokes. The rough fabric against your oversensitive flesh made you flinch.

“Sensitive?” he mocked softly, continuing his task. “Good. You should feel it. You should remember every fucking second of this every time you sit down.” He moved the cloth up your thighs, over your belly, wiping his spend from your skin. It was a perverse act of caretaking, a way of extending the possession. He was marking you, then cleaning the mark, only to leave the memory of the stain.

He rinsed the cloth, the water turning cloudy. He wiped your chest, your neck. He was thorough. Degrading. When he was done, he dropped the wet towel on the floor. He kept his hand on your belly, his other still fisted in your hair.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, filthy whisper. “You’re going to get on your knees.”

Your eyes flew to his in the mirror. You saw the challenge there. The test. This wasn’t about pleasure. This was about submission. About finishing the corruption.

“No,” you whispered, the first word of protest since it began.

His grip in your hair tightened, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to promise he could. “Yes.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t get to be the victim now, baby. You participated. You came. Twice. You’re a willing accomplice. So get on your fucking knees and taste what you did. Taste your betrayal. Or I walk out that door, and you can explain to Lana why you’re shaking and why my smell is all over you.”

It was the cruelest possible choice. A final, ugly layer to the act. He was forcing you to make it active. To choose the degradation.

A sob caught in your throat. You were breaking, and he was watching it happen in the mirror, his eyes alight with a feverish, intellectual hunger. This was the moment he’d wanted all along. Not just the sex. The shattering.

Your knees gave out. You didn’t have to be forced. You sank down onto the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. The position was profoundly exposing, kneeling naked at his feet while he stood over you, his jeans still open.

He looked down at you, a god of grime and spite. He freed his cock again. It was half hard, wet, glistening with your combined fluids. He stroked it slowly, watching your face. “Open your mouth.”

You did. You hated yourself. You hated him. And a deep, sick, undeniable part of you was more aroused in this moment than you had ever been in your life.

He guided himself to your lips. The smell was musky, intimate, brutally sexual. “Lick it clean,” he commanded. “Clean your mess off me.”

You closed your eyes. You couldn’t look at him. You extended your tongue, tentatively touching the slick, salty head. The taste was bitter, primal, unmistakably him. A low groan rumbled in his chest.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Taste it. Taste where you’ve been. Taste what you let me do.”

You took him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling, cleaning him with a slow, mortifying thoroughness. You could taste yourself on him, the tang of your own arousal mixed with the bitter salt of his release. It was the most debasing thing you had ever done. It was also, perversely, an intimacy more profound than the sex. This was acceptance. This was consumption of the sin.

He let you work, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. His breathing grew ragged. “Fuck. Your mouth. So fucking good. You’re a natural at this. A natural little cocksucker. All that smart talk…and you were born to kneel.”

His words should have killed the arousal. They fed it. A hot, shameful pulse throbbed between your own legs, and you were horrified to feel fresh wetness there. You were getting off on this. On the humiliation. On being reduced to this by him.

He felt the subtle shift in your posture, the way your shoulders slumped in surrender. He saw everything.

“You’re getting wet again,” he stated, awed and vicious. “Right now. On your knees. You’re dripping for me again.” He pulled himself from your mouth with a wet pop. “Stand up.”

You swayed as you got to your feet, your legs trembling. He turned you roughly to face the sink, bending you over it. The porcelain was icy against your feverish stomach. He kicked your feet apart. In the mirror, you saw him drop to his knees behind you.

You felt his breath, hot, against the back of your thigh. Then his mouth.

He didn’t kiss you. He ate you. Like a man starving. His tongue was a flat, ruthless stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit, lapping up the new arousal he’d drawn out. You cried out, your fingers scrambling against the slick sink. He hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you back against his face, holding you open. He fucked you with his tongue, deep, then focused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, nibbling, lashing it with a relentless, expert precision.

“Aerion—!” His name was a shattered plea.

He didn’t let up. He was punishing you with pleasure. Rewarding you for your depravity. His tongue worked you over, crude and perfect, until you were sobbing, pushing back against his face, your hips moving of their own volition. The orgasm he wrung from you this time was silent, a total systemic collapse that left you shuddering and weak, held upright only by his grip under your thighs.

As the last tremors faded, he stood. You heard the tear of foil, a condom this time, pulled from his wallet. He sheathed himself. He was hard again, fully, impressively. He didn’t ask. He just positioned himself and pushed back inside you from behind.

You were oversensitive and utterly spent. The stretch was a sweet, burning ache. He fucked you like this, bent over the sink, with a slower, deeper, more possessive rhythm. Each thrust was a statement. Mine. Mine. Mine. He watched in the mirror, his eyes glued to where your bodies joined, to the helpless expression on your face.

“This is it,” he panted, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts gaining speed. “This is the truth. No more books. No more arguments. Just this. You. Me. This filthy, nasty, perfect thing.” He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to come again.”

You were beyond words. Beyond thought. You nodded, a frantic, desperate movement.

“Say it.”

“I want it,” you gasped, the admission tearing from a place of pure, ruined id. “I want you to come. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. That final surrender. With a choked off roar, he slammed into you, his body locking as he emptied himself into the condom deep inside you. His hips jerked through the pulses, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

He stayed there for a long time, slumped over you, both of you breathing in ragged unison, reflected in the cruel fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror: a portrait of mutual destruction.

Slowly, he pulled out. He disposed of the condom. He zipped his jeans. He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair. He looked at you, still bent over the sink, utterly broken open.

He didn’t help you up. He didn’t offer comfort. He walked to the door and paused, looking back. His expression was unreadable. The arrogance was there, but it was tempered by something darker, more complicated. A recognition.

“She’ll be back in an hour,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Clean up. The couch. The bathroom. Yourself.” He nodded toward the towel on the floor. “Get rid of that.”

He was leaving you with the mess. Literal and metaphorical. It was his final lesson.

“This changes nothing with her,” he added, his blue eyes cold and clear. “I’m still her boyfriend. I’ll still be here tomorrow. On your couch. Drinking from your mug.” A nasty, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “And you’ll still be watching. Knowing.”

He turned and walked out of the bathroom. You heard his footsteps cross the living room. You heard the front door open, then click shut. Silence.

You slid down the cabinet onto the cold tile floor, pulling your knees to your chest. The apartment was freezing. The heater rattled. In the other room, on the couch, the evidence of what you’d done was slowly cooling.

You had never felt more sober, or more completely ruined. He was right. It changed nothing. And it changed everything. He had proven his point, down to the last, nasty detail. And you, the better student, had finally understood the lesson.

It had started, as many of the best evenings did, with you wanting something and deciding to negotiate for it.

The three of you were in your shared chamber — the large one, the one that had been yours collectively for long enough that it had stopped feeling like any one person's room and had become simply yours, the furniture arranged around three people's habits, the books stacked in three different systems, the bed large enough to be almost architectural. Baelor was at the window. Maekar was on the bed, back against the headboard, reading something with the focused severity he brought to everything including leisure. You were sitting in the chair watching both of them and thinking.

"I think I want something," you said.

Maekar turned a page. "You always want something."

"And I usually get it."

"Debatable," he scoffed.

Baelor turned from the window. He read your face with those mismatched eyes — the specific quality of his attention when he had registered that this was not ordinary — and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. "What do you want?"

You looked at both of them. Took a moment to appreciate the specific sight of them — Baelor at the window with the evening light catching the dark hair threaded with white, broad and certain and composed; Maekar on the bed with the white hair loose and those violet eyes now lifted from the book and doing their assessment, the old scars visible above his open collar, the sheer presence of him.

"I was thinking on having both of you," you said as simply as stating the weather of the day. "At once."

A pause in which the room processed this.

Maekar's eyes moved to Baelor. Baelor's moved to Maekar. A communication passed between them that had no words.

"That is not," Maekar said carefully, "an unusual request, coming from you."

"The specifics are unusual." You held his gaze. "I want one of you in my cunt." A beat. "And one of you in my arse."

The quality of silence that followed was entirely different from the one before it.

Baelor's composure remained intact, which cost him something — you could see it in the slight tension at his jaw, the specific effort of a man receiving information that has gone directly to his body and is being managed upward. "That is," he said, "a very specific request."

"It is."

"We have not—" Maekar started.

"In some time," you agreed. "I know. That is rather the point." You settled back in the chair. "I find I miss the feeling and I am offering it. The question is how you earn it."

Another silence, this one with a different texture entirely — the specific charged quality of two men who have just been told there is something rare on the table and are beginning to calculate.

"Earn it," Maekar repeated.

"There are terms," you said pleasantly.

Baelor, who had been watching your face with the full and undivided attention of a man who had decided this conversation required it, moved from the window. He came to stand a few feet from you with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression doing something complicated. "What terms."

"Whoever impresses me most," you said, "gets to choose their position."

The look that passed between them this time was different from the first. Still communicative, still the language of two men who had been in each other's orbit their entire lives — but with something new in it. The competitive edge. The specific quality of Maekar when he has been told there is a prize and someone else might get it first.

"Define impresses," Maekar said.

"I'll know it when I see it."

"That is not a useful metric."

"It's the only one I feel inclined to offer," you amusely completed.

He looked at you. At Baelor. Back at you. Something moving through his expression that was equal parts calculation and the specific anticipatory quality of a man who had already decided he was going to win this and was working out the method.

Baelor, meanwhile, was looking at Maekar with an expression you had not entirely seen before.

"Come here," Baelor said.

Maekar looked at him. "I'm reading."

"I am aware." Baelor crossed to the bed. Stood at the edge of it, looking down at his brother with those mismatched eyes and the composed certainty of a man who has made a decision and is past the point of reconsidering it. "Come here, Maekar."

Something shifted in Maekar's expression. The book was no longer relevant — it had been set aside without his appearing to notice. Those violet eyes reading Baelor's face with the thoroughness he gave everything, arriving at a conclusion that moved through his expression in stages.

"You cannot be serious," he said.

"Have I ever said anything I didn't mean."

A pause. "What exactly are you—"

"The terms," Baelor said, with the mildness of a man discussing logistics, "did not specify what would constitute impression. I have a proposal." His eyes did not leave Maekar's face. "Unless you are not interested in winning."

The specific effect of that sentence on Maekar was immediate and visible — the jaw, the slight straightening, the competitive instinct locating the challenge and responding to it before the rest of him had fully processed what was being proposed.

He moved to the edge of the bed.

They were close now — close in the way they had always been close, the physical proximity of a lifetime of shared space, but with a different quality to it tonight. Baelor looking at Maekar with the careful attention he gave to everything he was about to do. Maekar looking back with the expression of a man who had run out of certain ground and was standing at the edge of something he had not mapped.

"I do not—" Maekar started.

"I know," Baelor said. Quiet. "Tell me to stop and I will."

A silence. Maekar said nothing.

Baelor moved slowly — the same careful quality he brought to everything, nothing sudden, nothing that didn't give Maekar time to register and respond — and closed the remaining distance between them, and pressed his mouth to his brother's.

It was soft. Almost tentative — which was not a word that applied to Baelor in most contexts, but here it did, the specific care of a man who was attending to something delicate. His hand came up to Maekar's jaw, barely touching, a question rather than a hold.

Maekar went very still.

You made a sound.

You hadn't planned to. It left you entirely without consultation — something immediate and involuntary at the sight of them, of Baelor's hand at Maekar's jaw and the specific frozen quality of Maekar receiving the kiss with the expression of a man whose system had encountered something it had not been built to process.

Maekar heard it.

His eyes, which had been closed, opened. They found you across the room — dark and violet and reading your face with the focused assessment that missed nothing — and what he found there moved through his expression in real time. The flush. The way you were gripping the arms of the chair. The specific quality of you watching them with your lips slightly parted and your breathing already changed.

Something shifted in him. He turned back to Baelor and kissed him back.

Not tentative. Maekar had processed the available information — this is what she wants, this is what it does to her — and had arrived at a conclusion and committed to it with the same decisiveness he gave everything. His hand found the back of Baelor's neck. The kiss moved from chaste to something considerably less chaste with a speed that suggested Maekar had decided that if he was doing this he was doing it properly, and properly for Maekar had always meant thoroughly and without half measures.

Baelor made a sound against his mouth.

You gripped the chair harder.

They were extraordinary. The specific sight of them, the dark hair and the white, Baelor's hand still at Maekar's jaw now with more certainty and Maekar's at the back of his neck pulling him closer, the kiss deepening with the specific quality of two people who knew each other completely and were discovering that knowing someone completely translated even here. Maekar's other hand finding Baelor's shoulder. Baelor's moving to his brother's hair.

You stood up from the chair. You crossed the room.

You sat on the bed beside them and said nothing because there was nothing that needed saying — just your hand at Maekar's back, just your presence, just the specific thing of being close enough to feel the warmth of both of them and watch from this proximity and feel the sound building in you again that had started everything.

They broke apart. Both of them were looking at you. Both of them flushed. Baelor's composure present but reduced to its foundations. Maekar's entirely absent, replaced by the expression of a man who has done something he did not anticipate doing and found the data surprising.

"Well," you said. Your voice was not steady. "That was very impressive."

Maekar's eyes moved over your face. Reading the flush of it, the quality of your breathing, the very obvious effect. The competitive certainty assembling itself in his expression with a speed that was almost amusing.

"We are not finished," he said.

And reached for Baelor again. What followed was less tentative.

Maekar, having decided, was Maekar — the competition had located its footing and was proceeding with the focused dedication of a man who intended to win something specific. He kissed Baelor with the thoroughness you recognised from other contexts, his hands certain now, and Baelor responded with equal certainty, and you sat beside them and watched with your hands moving over both of them and the sound you were making had gone past the occasional involuntary to something more sustained.

"Tell me," you managed against Maekar's ear, "what you want."

"You know what I want," Maekar answered, against Baelor's mouth, which was frankly an extraordinary sentence to hear from him.

"Say it," you bit his lobe.

He drew back from Baelor. Those violet eyes finding yours from close range, dark and certain and carrying the specific quality of Maekar who has won something and knows it. "I want your arse," he said, with the flat directness of a man placing an order. "I've earned it."

You looked at Baelor.

Baelor, who was flushed from jaw to chest and whose composure was somewhere in the vicinity of the floor, looked back at you with those mismatched eyes and something that was not quite a smile. "I find," he said, with the remnants of his diplomatic voice, "that I am entirely content with the alternative."

"Entirely content," you repeated.

"Enthusiastically content." A pause. "Urgently content."

You laughed. It came out somewhat wrecked.

The logistics of three people were not, after years of practice, a mystery — but they required attention, and you gave them attention, and Baelor gave everything attention as a matter of principle, and even Maekar — who was not patient in most contexts — was patient in this one because the prize was specific and he intended to arrive at it correctly.

You took your time. There was oil on the cabinet in the bathroom — Baelor, who thought of everything, had ensured this somehow some moment in the past without raising the matter as something relevant — and hands that knew you, and the specific luxury of two people attending to your comfort simultaneously with entirely different qualities of attention. Baelor's careful and thorough and narrating quietly in that wrecked precise voice. Maekar's focused and purposeful and punctuated by the occasional sound that suggested his patience was finite but holding.

By the time you were ready you were beyond ready.

Baelor had seen to that with his usual thoroughness — the oil warm from his hands, his fingers careful and patient and attentive to every sound you made, reading you the way he read everything until he was certain, and then continuing past certain because Baelor's standard was not the minimum required but the best possible. His mouth at your jaw, your throat, murmuring things against your skin in that precise wrecked voice — you're perfect, you're so good, tell me if you need me to stop — and the specific quality of being attended to by Baelor while Maekar's hands moved over you from behind, less patient and more purposeful, the heat of him against your back and the low sounds he was making into your hair that suggested his finite patience was approaching its limit.

"She is ready," Maekar said. Not to you. A conclusion delivered to the room.

"I think I will determine that," your tone nowhere near a reprimand with the shaky voice you managed.

A sound from behind you that was almost a laugh. Almost. His mouth at your neck. "Are you ready."

"Yes," you said. "I've been ready since the chair."

The sound Maekar made at that resonated through his chest and into your back.

Baelor lay back against the covers — unhurried, because Baelor was always unhurried, because Baelor's patience was the kind that had almost no bottom to it — and looked up at you with those mismatched eyes dark and attending and his cock flushed and hard against his stomach and waiting with the same quality of composed certainty as the rest of him.

You swung your leg over him. Reached down, positioned him with your hand and sank.

The sound you made — and the sound he made simultaneously, the specific harmony of two people arriving at the same overwhelming fact from opposite directions — belonged to no public occasion. His cock filling your cunt completely, the familiar stretch of him, the specific completeness that made your eyes close briefly and your hands press flat to his chest.

"Gods," Baelor said. Low. His hands at your hips, steadying, the grip of them careful. "You feel — every time — you feel—"

"I know," you said.

"You don't — you can't possibly know what you—"

"Baelor." Maekar, behind you. His hands finding your waist. "Later."

Baelor exhaled. His hands tightened on your hips. Those mismatched eyes finding yours with the specific quality of a man tabling a conversation he intends to finish. "Later," he agreed.

Maekar's hand found the back of your neck — not gripping, steadying, the specific pressure of him orienting you forward, and you went, leaning into Baelor's chest, changing the angle, and felt Maekar shift behind you.

"Breathe," Maekar said, against your hair and pressing a kiss against your temple. The word quiet and direct and carrying none of his usual severity — just the specific instruction of a man who was paying attention to you and intended to keep paying attention.

You breathed. He pressed forward.

The sound you made this time was entirely different — lower, longer, pulled from somewhere that had nothing to do with thought, the specific overwhelming sensation of him breaching that tight ring and pressing inward, slow and relentless and impossibly careful for a man of his general approach. The stretch of it — the specific fullness of Baelor in your cunt and Maekar pressing into your arse simultaneously, the thin wall between them meaning you felt both of them with a clarity that was almost unbearable — made your hands scrabble at Baelor's chest and your breath come in short intervals.

"Still," Maekar almost hissed. His hands at your waist, anchoring. "I have you. Stay still."

"I'm — gods — I'm trying—"

"I know." His mouth at the back of your neck. The tenderness of it, from him, in this moment — extraordinary. "You're doing perfectly. Stay still."

He pressed deeper.

Baelor's hands on your hips tightened. His eyes on your face — reading every flicker of expression, the composure entirely absent, replaced by something that was raw attention and barely managed wanting and the specific effort of a man holding himself completely motionless while everything in him wanted to move. "Tell us," he said. Careful. "Tell us if—"

"Don't stop," you said. "Please don't stop."

The exhale Baelor released. The sound Maekar made above you.

Maekar pressed forward the last remaining distance and seated himself fully and the sound you made at the completion of it — at the specific overwhelming fact of both of them, buried in you simultaneously, the fullness of it beyond any single word you had available — echoed off the walls of the chamber and neither of your husbands looked remotely apologetic about having caused it.

You felt everything — the specific heat of both of them, the way they filled you from different angles with different qualities of pressure, the thin wall between them meaning every slight shift of one was felt by the other, meaning the three of you were connected in a way that was almost absurdly complete. Baelor's chest beneath your hands, rising and falling. Maekar's chest against your back, the old scars warm against your skin.

"Move," you said. "Please — I need you to —move."

They did.

Not in unison — that was not how it worked between three people, not how it had ever worked, and the lack of unison was precisely what made it extraordinary. Baelor's hips rolling upward in the deep certain motion that was specific to him, the full deliberate stroke of a man who had decided to be thorough about this, his cock dragging against the walls of your cunt with a precision that suggested he was attending to this with the same focused care he gave everything. And Maekar pulling back and driving forward with the controlled urgency that was always him, the possessive deep thrust of a man occupying territory he has won and intends to hold, his cock filling your arse with the specific relentless certainty of Maekar doing anything he had decided to do well.

The counterpoint of them.

Baelor rolling deep and slow when Maekar thrust forward, the two rhythms creating something that hit you from both directions simultaneously, that built something with no single source and no single peak but a sustained overwhelming accumulation of sensation that made coherent thought increasingly theoretical.

"Fuck," you said. The word arriving without consultation.

Maekar made a sound against your hair that was not entirely dignified.

"Tell me—" Baelor, beneath you, his voice demolished, his hips finding their rhythm and holding it. "Tell me how it feels."

"Full," you managed. "I feel — gods — I feel both of you — I can feel you both so—"

"Yes," Baelor said. The word rough and immediate, the composure entirely gone. "Yes — I can feel him — I can feel Maekar through you — you feel—"

"Don't," Maekar said, above you. His rhythm stuttering for a fraction of a second. "Don't say that."

"Why," Baelor said, with a somewhat playful breathlessness that had no diplomatic quality left in it, "does it bother you."

"It doesn't—" Maekar's thrust landing harder than the previous ones, the specific response of a man whose composure has been prodded— "it doesn't bother me, it's simply—"

"You can feel him too," you said. The words coming out wrecked and certain. "Can't you. Through me. You can feel him."

The sound Maekar made was not a word. His rhythm intensified as Baelor's thumb found your clit.

The specific arrival of that — the pad of his thumb working in slow deliberate circles while his cock drove upward into your cunt and Maekar's drove into your arse from behind — collapsed whatever remaining composure had been holding you. Your head dropped to Baelor's shoulder. Your hands gripping him. Maekar's hands at your waist pulling you back to meet every thrust and the sounds you were making had gone past language entirely, just the raw physical fact of being completely, totally, overwhelmingly full of both of them and Baelor's thumb and the specific counterpoint rhythm that was hitting you from every possible direction.

"She's close," Maekar said. Above you, directed at Baelor, the two of them communicating over your head with the specific language of men who had been in each other's orbit their entire lives and had added a new vocabulary tonight. "I can feel her — fuck she's—"

"I know," Baelor said through gritted teeth. His thumb moving faster. His hips finding a deeper angle. "You are taking us so fucking well, my heart."

"Don't stop," the words barely words. "Whatever you do don't — please — both of you — please don't—"

"We have you," Baelor said. Certain. Warm. Even now, even this undone, the specific quality of Baelor present and attending. "We have you."

Maekar's hand moved from your waist to the front of you — finding where Baelor's thumb was working and joining it, not replacing, the two of them together — and the specific fact of both their hands on you simultaneously while both their cocks filled you was the thing that finished it entirely.

You came apart.

Not the sharp clean peak of bilateral sex — something longer than that, more sustained, rolling through you in waves that kept arriving because there were two of them, two sources of sensation, and every tremor that moved through you was felt by both of them and responded to by both of them and the feedback of it was extraordinary and endless and you were saying things that were not words and gripping Baelor like he was the only solid thing and feeling Maekar's forehead press to the back of your neck with a tenderness that undid you as thoroughly as everything physical.

"Perfect," Baelor said. Into your hair. His voice entirely wrecked. "You're perfect — you're so — gods, you feel—"

"Again," Maekar said, against your neck. The word rough and wondering. "She's — Baelor — she's going again—"

You were going again.

The second one arrived before the first had finished, the overstimulation of both of them still moving — Maekar's rhythm gone from controlled to urgent, Baelor's thumb still working despite the shaking of his own hands — and this time you were louder and less coherent and heard both of them respond to the sounds you were making in real time, felt both of them tipping toward their own edges, the specific tension of two men who had been building to this all evening finally arriving at the point of no return.

Baelor first.

His hips losing their rhythm entirely, his hands gripping you with both arms suddenly, pulling you down hard against him as his cock pulsed in your cunt and his voice broke open against your throat with your name in it, said the private way, the specific way that had no public version.

Maekar mere seconds behind him.

Which was also Maekar — competitive to the last, holding on for the seconds that meant he did not finish first, the seconds that cost him visibly and enormously — and then the composure gave out completely, his hips driving forward one last time and holding there, buried as deep as he could go in your arse, his face pressed hard into your hair and a sound leaving him that was rougher and more private than anything he had produced all evening.

The three of you shook. Then stilled. Then breathed. The chamber was very quiet except for three people's hearts returning to their usual business. Your brain did not entirely register just how you disentangled from each other. Not that it did matter, after all.

Maekar's forehead was against the back of your neck. Baelor's arms around you from your front. The specific warmth of being completely surrounded — pressed between them, held by both, the evidence of the evening present and warm and thorough.

"Both of you," you said, eventually, against Baelor's chest. The words arriving from somewhere underwater. "Simultaneously. I want it on record."

"Noted," Baelor said. His voice demolished against the crown of your hair. "To be revised in the near future, I should hope."

A pause in which you did not find the strength to laugh.

"I won," Maekar said, smugness clear in his voice.

"Technically," you teased.

He lifted his head. "What the fuck does technically mean."

"It means the terms were most freaky and I'm not certain the kissing qualified on its own merits."

"I kissed my brother."

"You kissed your brother adequately and then fucked my arse, yes."

"Which was exceptional."

"Which was very good," you agreed. "Not quite the same thing."

Maekar stared at the back of your head. You did not need to turn around to know exactly the type of face he was sporting.

Baelor made a sound. "She's doing it again," he said. To Maekar. The tone of a man reporting a known weather pattern to someone who should have prepared for it.

"I can hear you," you said.

"I know." Baelor's hand found your back. Patted it once, twice, with the specific quality of someone soothing an animal they find both troublesome and dear. "I'm speaking to Maekar."

"And exactly what am I doing?" you asked in a playful voice.

"Poking the bear," Baelor said. "You always poke the bear when you've gotten what you wanted. It's a victory lap."

"It's not a—"

"She does this," Baelor said to Maekar. Conversationally. "You know she does this."

"I know she does this," Maekar said, with the flat resignation of a man who knows he is about to rise to something and cannot stop himself. "It was exceptional," he said to you, directly. "You said my name four times in a row."

"I usually say Baelor's name frequently."

"You said mine four times."

"I was being polite."

The sound Maekar made. "You were screaming."

"Enthusiastically polite," you raised your pointer finger in defence.

"Four times—"

"All right," Baelor said. With the composure of a man managing a room that has gotten away from him. "Both of you." A pause. "I was not aware this counted as a game, but Maekar won. The evidence is extensive and I was present for all of it." Another pause. "You are both catastrophic and I am going to need everyone to be still for approximately ten minutes because I am held together with goodwill and I would like to keep it that way."

You laughed softly against Baelor's chest. Maekar's arm came around you and his hand settled on your sternum, your own covering his and interlacing your fingers together.

"I know you won," you finally conceded to Maekar. You could almost sense his smile through the back of your head.

"She knows I won," Maekar said.

"I know," Baelor said, smiling. "Quiet."

A.N.: i am not gonna comment on how long this idea has been plaguing my mind. i think i cannot blame ovulation anymore, i think this is the real me

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @sacha1slytherin @faithfullyvigilantsliver @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff @a-sunflower-in-bloom @heieufh @karakatitsa-sonya @eleventhboi

Aerion was completely integrated into your life. His jackets were a permanent fixture draped over the back of your kitchen chairs, and a spare phone charger that definitely wasn’t yours was always laying by the table in the living room.

You’d find yourself lying in bed late at night, your eyes burning from the glare of the screen in your dark room, staring at his face on FaceTime while he complained about a boring lecture or his annoying family.

Whenever he would come over, you two would often argue over what stupid movie to put on just for you both to ignore it.

It was wild how naturally you adapted to being with him in real life. On campus, the shift was just as obvious. It was no longer just you and Tanselle in Davis's class. Aerion would consistently leave his friends baffled as he walked past his usual row just to slide into the seat beside yours.

He’d steal your pens just to draw in the margins of your notebook, his shoulder brushing yours every time he leaned in to whisper a mocking comment about anyone that was bothering him.

He was still the same to everyone else, completely aloof and dismissive, but with you, he was different. He’d steal your drinks without asking, take a sip, and complain it was way too sweet before drinking the entire thing anyway.

When the air conditioning in the class got too cold, he’d blindly throw his jacket over your lap, his arm lingering on the back of your chair.

You grew used to the constant scent of his expensive cologne and the way the side of his thigh always pressed firmly against yours under the desk.

You talked about everything. You knew his habits and he knew yours. You knew his humour and the specific way his jaw set when he was frustrated. You were hanging out constantly, sharing every little detail of your life to one another.

Your chat history was an endless loop filled with a lot of bickering.

Aerion 🎱: where are you

YOU: At the library studying???

YOU: Like i said i would be??

Aerion 🎱: stop studying come out

Aerion 🎱: im by the fountain

YOU: Noo i have a quiz tmrw go away

Aerion 🎱: i brought your usual from the cafe

YOU: Ru srs

Aerion 🎱: im holding it right now

Aerion 🎱: you have 2 minutes before i finish it

YOU: OK CHILL

YOU: Omw dont finish it pls

But through all of it, you never actually talked about what this was. There was no label. You had just slipped into this comfortable routine without a single thought.

Until tuesday night.

You were sitting across from him at a dimly lit pasta place a few blocks away from your apartment. It was a crowded spot, the kind of place where the tables were small and forced you close together.

You were mid laugh, reaching over the table to stab a piece of chicken from his plate with your fork, while he watched you with an amused smirk.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” a voice suddenly broke your bubble.

You blinked, your fork hovering in the air as a guy from a nearby table stepped up to your booth. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking a little nervous, oblivious to the way Aerion’s smirk instantly vanished.

The guy looked directly at you. “I just saw you from over there and thought you were really pretty. I was wondering if I could maybe get your number?”

Your fingers froze around your fork. Your brain went blank for a second, and your usual response started sliding out of your mouth before you could even think.

“Oh, no, sorry, I have a–”

The word boyfriend died right in your throat.

A sudden wave of realisation hit you. Did you have a boyfriend? You and Aerion text all day, you call each other every night, you eat dinner together... but he had never actually asked you out properly. He had never said the words.

Technically, you guys weren’t even dating. He wasn’t your boyfriend.

The silence stretched between the three of you, turning incredibly heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Aerion lean back slowly in his seat. His posture went rigid, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

Shaking off the sudden thought, you forced a tight, polite smile and shook your head at the guy. “Sorry, I’m just… yeah. But thank you.”

The guy caught the terrifying form radiating from Aerion, and mumbled a quick “oh, okay, my bad,” before bolting back to his friends.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs. You swallowed hard, slowly lowering your fork back to your plate, trying your best to act normal. But when you finally gathered the courage to look back across the table, Aerion’s eyes were locked dead onto your face.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The background noise of clinking glasses and chatter was drowned out by the heavy atmosphere hanging over your table. Aerion picked up his drink, taking a slow sip, his gaze never once wavering from your face.

“What were you going to tell him?” he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone.

You moved your fork around your plate, trying your best to look unbothered. “What do you mean? I told him no.”

“Before that,” Aerion corrected, “you started saying ‘I have a…’ and then you choked. What was the rest of that sentence?"

A flush of heat crawled up your neck. You couldn't tell if you were embarrassed or just annoyed that he was backing you into a corner. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he countered, a stubborn edge bleeding into his tone. He tilted his head, studying the way you purposely avoided his eyes. “Were you going to say you had a boyfriend?”

You finally snapped your gaze up, meeting his head-on. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say that, could I? Because I don’t.”

Aerion blinked. The bluntness of your response caught him off guard.

“You’ve never actually asked me out,” you pointed out, mumbling slightly. “Technically, I’m single. So I couldn’t use you as an excuse.”

The silence that followed was weighed down by a sudden realisation on his part. Aerion sat back, processing your words.

He was so used to having your undivided attention, so accustomed to the seamless way you had a space in his routine, that he hadn't even realised he left a massive hole for any random guy to step through. And clearly, the mere thought of anyone else having a claim on you made him feel sick.

He licked his lower lip, his expression hardening profound determination. “Fine.”

“Fine?” you repeated, raising a brow.

“This saturday” he paused, the casual drawl returning to his voice, though his eyes remained focused on yours. “I’m picking you up at eight. We’re going on a proper date.”

You tried to suppress a smile, biting down on your inner cheek. “Are you asking me or ordering me?”

“I’m telling you,” Aerion said, a familiar smirk finally returning to his lips. He reached across the small table, his fingers lightly brushing against your wrist. “Because I’m not dealing with another dumbass trying his luck with you.”

Your heart gave a soft, fluttery jump against your ribs. You looked down at his hand resting against your skin, the warmth of his touch sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Even when he was being demanding, it was impossible to ignore the warmth hidden beneath his pride.

“Okay,” you murmured, looking back up to meet his gaze, a small smile breaking through. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” he promised.

Saturday arrived, and you spent the entire afternoon vibrating with a mix of excitement and nerves. You had spent way too long picking out a dress, styling your hair perfectly, and checking your reflection in the mirror until you were completely satisfied with your makeup.

By 7:55 PM, you were sitting on your living room sofa, your purse resting on your lap, ready to go.

Right on cue, your phone buzzed in your palm. You scrambled to open it, expecting a text from Aerion saying he was outside, but it was a message from Tanselle.

Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: let me see the fitttt

You smiled, typing back quickly.

YOU: [IMAGE ATTACHED]

YOU: Waiting for him to get heree

Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: and just like that im gay

YOU: LMAO pls

Then the clock struck 8:00 PM.

Five minutes passed. You figured he was probably stuck at a red light. You checked your phone, but the screen remained completely blank.

Ten minutes. Sitting back against the cushions, the minutes began to tick away, and the excitement began to fade. You unlocked your phone and opened his chat, typing out a quick message.

YOU: ru here yett?

Twenty minutes. Your text didn’t even get a response. You tried calling him, but it didn’t ring.

A sickening mix of disappointment and fury flared up in your chest. The memory of him standing at your booth just a week ago, arrogantly demanding to be your boyfriend, suddenly felt like a joke. You had actually trusted him to show up, and he was ghosting you.

“Fuck this,” you muttered to yourself, powering off your phone.

You weren’t going to sit around waiting for him. You were already fully dressed up. You were going to get food, with or without him.

Slamming the apartment door behind you, you walked down the hallway and took the stairs down to the complex parking lot. You did a slow, sweeping scan of the rows, half hoping to spot his car pulling in, but the asphalt was completely empty of any familiar vehicles.

Your jaw clenched. That was the final straw.

Your favorite diner was only about a ten minute walk down the main street, and a giant plate of comfort food sounded infinitely better than dealing with Aerion right now.

The air was cooling down, but your skin was boiling. Every step you took on the sidewalk felt like an exclamation point to your rage. The sheer humiliation of it was what burned the most—you had spent hours getting ready, only to be left sitting on your sofa like you were nothing.

You had barely made it two blocks from your complex when the distinct, low purr of an engine sounded right behind you.

A sleek car slowly crept up to the curb, matching your exact walking pace. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Aerion gripping the steering wheel.

He called your name out, “get in,” he said, his voice laced with a frantic edge. “Please. Just get in the car.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning on your heel to glare at him. “Go away.”

“I’m sorry, just let me explain,” he pleaded, leaning across the center console so his face was closer to the open window, keeping his foot lightly on the brake to match your steps as you started walking again. “Don’t do this. Just hear me out.”

“Hear you out?” you snapped, your voice rising as the frustration boiled over. “You’re twenty minutes late! I sat there like an idiot while you ghosted me. You don’t get to–” you let out a furious exhale. “Just go back home.”

Aerion licked his lips, looking seriously desperate. Because he was driving slowly along the busy street, the cars behind him were struggling to pass through. Within seconds, a line of blinding headlights began to stack up. A loud horn echoed through the street.

Aerion didn’t look back, unbothered by the massive traffic he was single handedly creating.

“Aerion, you’re blocking the road,” you hissed, your cheeks flushing at the mortification as several people on the sidewalk turned to stare at the scene.

“I don’t give a shit,” he shot back, slamming the car into park, completely ignoring a barrage of angry honks. His unyielding eyes locked onto yours. “I’m not moving the car until you get in. Let them honk.”

Realizing his stubbornness was boundless and that your public humiliation was only going to get worse if you stayed on the sidewalk, you let out a livid growl. You tore the passenger door open, slid into the leather seat, and slammed it shut.

“You are an unbelievable prick,” you muttered, instantly turning your body toward the window, folding your arms tightly over your waist.

Aerion didn’t say a word. He immediately stepped on the gas, turning sharp left into a parking lot a block away. He pulled into a secluded space beneath a large tree.

Before he could even open his mouth, you turned on him, your brows furrowed. “You have a phone, Aerion! It takes exactly two seconds to type a text that says ‘I’m running late.’ But you couldn't even do that. You clearly didn’t–no, don't care about how long I sat there waiting for you.”

“I do care,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly with raw vulnerability. He held up his phone, tapping the screen before shoving it into your hands. “But my dad called. Look at the screen.”

You looked down at the glowing display. Open on his phone was a text thread from his dad. Your eyes scanned the messages stretching across the last hour.

It was a brutal barrage of stern texts, culminating in a string of missed calls and direct orders demanding Aerion handle his brother Daeron's latest legal mess immediately.

Aerion was stuck on a group call with his father and some legal person all the way from 7:28 to 8:02 PM.

“I couldn’t hang up on him,” Aerion murmured, his eyes searching your face, begging you for forgiveness. “The second he let me off the phone, I didn’t look at my notifications. I just went straight to my car and drove to your place. When I saw you weren’t there, I tried calling back but you didn’t pick up.”

Looking at the undeniable proof on his screen, the knot in your chest slowly began to deflate. He wasn't lying. He looked exhausted and terrified that his family problems had ruined his chances with you.

You slowly handed the phone back to him, letting out a long, shaky breath, though you kept your posture guarded. “I’m sorry your dad’s putting you through this. But I wish you spared at least a second to tell me.”

“I know,” he said softly, leaning in a fraction closer, his gaze fixed entirely on your eyes. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say. Glancing down at the dashboard clock, it was already creeping past 8:30 PM.

“What about the restaurant?” you asked, shifting in your seat and breaking the quiet. “We’re late. They probably gave our table away to someone else.”

Hearing the softer tone in your voice, Aerion reached forward and turned the ignition on. The engine roared back to life and he shifted the car into drive.

“What about it?” He casted a brief glance your way as he turned the steering wheel to pull out of the lot. “They know my family. That table isn’t going anywhere.”

As it turned out, he wasn’t exaggerating. When the two of you arrived, the hostess didn’t even look at the clock. The moment Aerion stepped in, her eyes widened slightly, and she immediately gathered two menus.

“Right this way, please.”

She led you both past the main dining area to a secluded table in the back, tucked away and bathed in the warm, golden glow of a low hanging chandelier.

But the moment you slid onto the plush velvet seat, Aerion stopped before sitting down across from you. He patted his pocket, his brows drawing together as if he just remembered something urgent.

“Wait,” he murmured, “I have to go back to the car. I left something in the console.”

Before you could even reply, he turned around and disappeared back through the restaurant lobby.

Your stomach instantly dropped, another wave of disappointment washing over you. You sat alone at the table, feeling completely out of place.

You automatically assumed Maekar had called him the second he stepped out of the vehicle, and now Aerion was going to stand in the parking lot for another twenty minutes handling it while you sat here by yourself.

A few minutes passed, each second stretching like an eternity. You were about to go look for him when a shadow fell over the table.

You snapped your head up, about to question him but the words died on your lips.

Aerion was standing there, holding an absurdly large bouquet of fresh white roses mixed with your favorite delicate florals. He looked slightly flushed, a rare hint of self consciousness in his eyes as he carefully placed the massive arrangement on the seat right beside you. The sweet, rich scent of the flowers immediately engulfing you.

You were going to speak but he slid into the seat across from you and reached into his pocket, placing a small, sleek black velvet box onto the table. He pushed it forward until it tapped gently against your water glass.

“Did you think I was making another call?” he asked gently as he read the lingering tension on your face. “I had to hide them in the trunk so you wouldn’t see them on the drive over.”

Your heart did a brutal flip against your ribs. You reached out, picked up the box, and opened it. Resting inside was a gorgeous, delicate gold ring, its band intricately designed to perfectly match the silver rings he always wore on his own hands.

“To make it official,” Aerion explained, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto yours intensely, making your breath hitch. “No more confusion. I’m yours, you’re mine.”

A massive, sweet smile broke across your face. You tried your absolute best to bite your lower lip and fight it down, wanting to contain your excitement, but it was pointless.

“A massive bouquet and a ring?” you giggled, lifting the delicate band out of the box and slipping it onto your finger. It fit flawlessly. You held your hand up, admiring the way it caught the warm candlelight before looking back at him.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend or trying to marry me, Aerion? You are so extra.” You teased, though your heart was beating with a dizzying speed.

Aerion let out a low laugh, the last of the tension shattering as he reached across the table, wrapping his hand firmly over yours. “It suits you.” He spun the ring around your finger, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and softness that was reserved just for you.

The drive back to your apartment was filled with anticipation. The sweet scent of the white roses filled the car, resting safely in your lap as you kept twisting the new ring around your finger.

Aerion drove with one hand on the wheel, his other hand resting firmly on the center console, palm up. You slid your fingers into his, and he immediately locked them together, his thumb tracing slow strokes over your skin all the way to your apartment.

When he parked, he didn’t give you a chance to reach for the flowers. He grabbed the massive bouquet himself, keeping his other hand anchored to the small of your back as he guided you up the stairs and down the quiet hallway to your front door.

You unlocked the door, stepping into your apartment. You turned around to finally take the arrangement from him, but Aerion simply bypassed you, setting the heavy bundle down on the table in the living room.

The front door clicked shut behind him, locking you both in.

The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, thick with magnetic tension that made your pulse hitch.

Aerion stepped right in front of you, crowding you until your back met the cool wood of the door. He rested one hand flat against the wood beside your head, trapping you in.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, searching your face. His gaze traveled deliberately down your dress before snapping back up to lock onto your eyes. “It took everything in me to sit through dinner without doing this.”

A breathless smile formed on your face, your heart doing a violent thud. “Really? Thought you were just staring at the menu.”

“I wasn’t looking at the menu,” he muttered, a soft gleam in his eyes. His free hand reached up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb tilting your chin up.

He leaned down, closing the remaining distance to capture your lips in a deep kiss.

Heat shot through your entire body. Your hands instantly flew up, tangling desperately into his soft hair, pulling him closer. Aerion let out a low groan against your mouth, his hand leaving the door to wrap tightly around your waist.

He pulled you flush, removing any space left between you until you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own.

The kiss quickly escalated. His tongue slid past your parted lips, tasting you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

Without breaking contact, his hands slid down to hook firmly under your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up from the floor.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you across the short distance of the room, seamlessly setting you down onto the cushions of the sofa.

He hovered over you, his forearms bracing his weight on either side of your shoulders. The sheer happiness of the night finally overtook you. You let out a muffled giggle against his lips.

Aerion paused, backing up just a fraction. He looked down at you, a massive, soft smile breaking across his own face.

“What?” he whispered, his chest heaving as he laughed softly against your mouth, his nose playfully nuzzling yours. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” you gasped out, laughing properly now as you wrapped your arms securely around his neck, pulling him down a little closer.

He chuckled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you again.

This time, it was different. It was sweet and messy. You both kept laughing in between kisses, your lips bumping together clumsily as Aerion peppered them all over your face.

“Stop, I can’t breathe,” you giggled, pressing your hands flat on his chest, though your fingers were still gripping his shirt.

“It’s just a mug,” your best friend, Lana, had laughed, nudging you. “Don’t be so intense.”

Lana was gone now. Off to a study group for her art history midterm. She’d been anxious all week, picking at her nails, because Aerion had been distant. “He’s just like that,” she’d said, more to herself than to you. “He’s got a lot on his mind.” Before she left, she’d paused at the door, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. “You’ll keep an eye on him, right? Don’t let him burn the place down. And try not to kill each other.” She’d smiled, a nervous, fluttering thing, and then she was gone, leaving the apartment heavy with the silence she’d filled with chatter.

The silence didn’t last. You heard the sink run, then stop. Footsteps, unhurried, crossed the short hallway from the kitchen to the living room. He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, your blue mug in his hand. He wore a worn black t-shirt, grease stained jeans from his diner shift, and the scent of old coffee, and cigarette smoke.

“She thinks I’m a stray cat,” he said, his voice a low, rough scrape. He didn’t smile. He never really smiled. His mouth just did something, a twist that was more threat than expression. “Don’t let him burn the place down. Like I’m some fucking hazard she’s leaving in your care.”

You didn’t look up from your book. “Aren’t you?”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the secondhand couch. The springs groaned under his weight. He set your mug on the scarred coffee table, right on top of your highlighted notes.

“You tell me. You’re the one with the moral compass. The better student.” He lit a cigarette, the match hissing to life. He didn’t ask. He blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Nietzsche. Appropriate. Rereading the parts about how morality is a fiction for the weak?”

“I’m reading the parts about how resentment poisons the soul,” you said, finally looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, the blue of them almost violent in their clarity. “You should try it.”

He took a drag, held it, let the smoke curl from his nostrils. “I don’t have resentment. You rejected me. That was your choice. I accepted it. I just…restructured the playing field.” He gestured loosely with the cigarette, ash falling on the carpet. “Lana wanted to be chosen. You wanted to be wanted without the inconvenience of admitting it. I just gave you both what you wanted. It’s practically altruism.”

Your fingers tightened on the paperback. “You’re dating my best friend to punish me. To get close to me. That’s not a playing field. That’s a pathology.”

“Is it?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “You knew what I was doing the moment I asked her out. You saw right through it. And you let it happen. You watched me sit on this shitty couch with my arm around her. You watched me kiss her goodnight. You listened through that thin fucking wall when I fucked her in her room. And you never said a word. Not to protect her. You just sat there, in your righteous silence, watching me watch you.” His voice dropped, became intimate, venomous. “So who’s the pathological one? The guy who acts on his desires, or the girl who gets off on being the secret center of the universe?”

Heat flooded your face, a mix of shame and fury so acute it felt like nausea. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m honest.” He crushed the cigarette in your mug, the hiss of the ember dying in the dregs of coffee. “You hate me because I’m a mirror. And you don’t like what you see.”

“I hate you because you’re using a vulnerable person as a tactical maneuver.”

“She’s using me, too!” he snapped, the first real crack in his controlled, sleazy demeanor. His eyes flashed. “She wants the badge of dating someone dangerous. She wants to feel special because someone like me would choose someone like her. She doesn’t see me. She sees a fucking accessory. So don’t paint her as some innocent victim. She’s a selfish, shallow little bitch who’s happy to have you clean up her messes as long as she gets to feel chosen.” He leaned back, the anger receding into a colder, more deliberate malice. “Just like you’re happy to feel wanted as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty by saying yes.”

You stood up, the book falling to the floor. “Get out.”

He didn’t move. He just looked up at you, a slow, appraising look that traveled from your face down your body and back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was an assessment. A philosopher considering a proof. “No.”

“Get out of my apartment, Aerion.”

“It’s Lana’s apartment, too. And I’m her guest.” He spread his arms along the back of the couch. “She asked you to keep an eye on me. So do your duty.”

The air was too thick to breathe. The rattling heater, the smell of his smoke, the weight of his gaze. All the arguments, all the needling comments, the stolen mugs, the notes in your books, ‘naive,’ ‘sentimental bullshit,’ ‘try harder’, it had all been winding tighter and tighter, a spring coiling in the pit of your stomach. This was the tension he lived for. This was the game.

“You love this, don’t you?” you whispered, the anger turning into something else, something bleak and recognizing. “You love that I’m stuck here with you. You love that I can’t make you leave without causing a scene she’ll never forgive me for. You engineered this whole pathetic scenario just so you could have me trapped.”

For the first time, something like real pleasure touched his expression. Not happiness. Triumph. “Finally,” he breathed. “There she is. The girl who sees the board. The girl who understands the move.” He stood up, slowly, closing the distance between you. He was taller, and he used it, looking down at you with that intense, grimy beauty. “You think I’m cruel? You’re right. You think I’m using her? You’re right. You think this is all about you?” He brought a hand up, but didn’t touch you. He just hovered it near your cheek, letting you feel the heat of his skin. “You have no idea how right you are.”

His other hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch was shockingly gentle, at odds with everything about him. It made your breath catch.

“You rejected me,” he said, his voice now a low, private thing, just for the space between your mouths. “You looked at me and you said no. You humiliated me. So I made a world where your no didn’t matter. I walked right into your life through a door you left open. I sat at your table. I drank from your cup. I fucked your friend in the next room thinking about you. And you let me. Because part of you wanted to see how far I’d go. How badly I wanted it. How badly you wanted it.”

His fingers finally touched your jaw, a firm, claiming pressure. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You couldn’t. The words were ash in your mouth. All the moral high ground, all the justified anger, it crumbled because he was right. You had watched. You had felt a thrill, dark and shameful, every time his eyes slid from Lana to you. You had treasured his insults because they were a form of attention no one else gave you. You were complicit. You were corrupt.

He saw the admission in your eyes. The victory in his was blinding, and ugly, and hungry.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t an exploration. It was a claim. His mouth was hard and demanding, tasting of nicotine and bitter coffee. His hand on your jaw held you still, his other arm snaking around your waist to yank you flush against him. You made a sound, a muffled gasp of protest, and he swallowed it, h is tongue pushing into your mouth, deep and possessive. It was filthy. It was a violation and a confession all at once. You didn’t kiss him back at first. You stood there, rigid, letting him take. But your body betrayed you. A shiver ran through you. Your hands, which had come up to push at his chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He broke the kiss, breathing harshly against your lips. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you choked out.

“Good.” He kissed you again, more brutally, biting your lower lip until you whimpered. “Now show me.”

He turned you, pushing you back toward the couch. You stumbled, your calves hitting the edge, and you fell backward onto the cushions. He was on you before you could right yourself, his knees bracketing your hips, his weight pinning you down. The cold from the window was gone, replaced by the scorching heat of him. He looked down at you, his brown hair falling into his eyes, his sharp features etched with a frantic need.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said, his hands going to the hem of your sweater. “Watching me play her boyfriend. Watching me pretend. It made you wet, didn’t it? Knowing it was all for you. Knowing every time I touched her, I was thinking about my hands on you.”

He yanked the sweater up and over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, covered by a simple bra. There was no reverence in his gaze. It was pure, avaricious hunger. “Fuck. Look at you.” He palmed you through the fabric, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple until it peaked painfully. “You’re so fucking tense. All that morality, all that judgment, locked up tight in this perfect little body. I’m gonna ruin it.”

He unsnapped your bra with a quick, practiced twist of his fingers. The air hit your skin, and then his mouth did. He didn’t kiss your breast. He devoured it. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue laving, then his teeth grazing, then biting down just enough to make you cry out. You arched off the couch, a jolt of pure, electric sensation shooting straight to your core. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same brutal attention, his hand squeezing and kneading the flesh he wasn’t mouthing.

“Aerion—” you gasped.

He lifted his head, his lips swollen, his chin wet. “What? Gonna tell me to stop? Gonna tell me this is wrong?” He rocked his hips down, and you felt the hard, insistent length of him pressed against your thigh through both your jeans. A low groan rattled out of his chest. “You feel that? That’s for you. That’s been for you since the first day you argued with me about Kant in seminar. While I was fucking her, this is what I was thinking about. Pinning you down. Making you admit it. Making you come on my cock while your best friend’s scent is still on my sheets.”

His words were filthy, deliberate, designed to degrade and arouse in equal measure. And they worked. A hot, shameful pulse of desire throbbed between your legs. You were wet. Soaked. He could probably feel it through the denim.

He saw it in your face. His grin was feral. “Yeah. That’s it. No more hiding.” He shifted back, his hands going to the button of your jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and your panties and pulled them down your legs in one rough motion. The cold air hit your bare skin, and you were exposed, sprawled on the couch under his ravenous gaze.

“God,” he breathed, not a prayer but a curse. He ran a hand up your inner thigh, his fingers rough with calluses from the diner work. He didn’t tease. He went straight to your cunt, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a filthy, wet sound. “Fuck. You’re dripping. You’re fucking dripping for me. For this. After all that shit you talked.” He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, deep and curling, and you cried out, your back bowing off the couch. “You’re so tight. Clenching around me like a little bitch who’s been waiting for it.”

He fucked you with his fingers, a ruthless, punishing rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with harsh, unrelenting pressure. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built in your belly. It was too much. It was crude and nasty and it stripped you of every pretense. You were panting, your hips moving against his hand, chasing the feeling.

“That’s it,” he snarled, watching you fall apart. “Let go. Be the greedy, jealous, hypocritical cunt I know you are. Come on my fingers. Show me how much you wanted this.”

His words, the crude, relentless stimulation, the sheer wrongness of it...it tipped you over. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and shuddering, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, his fingers pumping, until you were oversensitive and twitching, tears of overwhelm and shame pricking your eyes.

He pulled his fingers out, glistening, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and the sight was so profoundly debauched it made your spent body clench again. “You taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice guttural.

He stood up from the couch, unbuckling his belt, the metal clinking. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was hard, thick, flushed an angry red, the tip wet. He was big, and he looked it, stroking himself slowly as he looked down at you, a nasty, possessive pride on his face.

“You see this?” he said. “This is what you said no to. This is what you made me work for. Now you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He didn’t give you time to prepare. He knelt on the couch again, pushed your thighs apart wider, and notched the head of his cock at your entrance. He was still slick from your arousal. He pushed in.

The stretch was intense, burning. You gasped, your nails digging into the couch cushions. He didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by relentless inch, his jaw clenched, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he was fully seated, buried inside you to the hilt, he paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He was so deep it felt like he was in your throat.

“Fuck,” he moaned, the arrogance momentarily shattered by raw sensation. “Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. I’m so deep in you.” He dropped his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s where I belong. In your tight, traitorous little cunt.”

Then he started to move.

There was no gentle rhythm. It was fucking, pure and simple. A hard, driving, nasty piston of his hips, slamming into you with a force that shook the old couch, the springs screeching in protest. Each thrust punched a choked sound from your lungs. Uh. Uh. Uh. The slap of skin on skin was loud, lewd, echoing in the shabby apartment. He fucked you like he hated you, like he wanted to break you apart and remake you in his image.

“You like that?” he grunted, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You like getting fucked by your best friend’s boyfriend? You like being the other woman? The secret? The dirty little secret?”

You couldn’t answer. Pleasure was building again, a tighter, darker coil this time, fed by the sheer physical brutality of it, by the venom in his voice, by the devastating truth of his words.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his pace never faltering. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

You forced your eyes open. His face was a mask of fierce, unhinged concentration. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest. His blue eyes were black with pupil, fixed on yours, drinking in every flicker of shame and pleasure.

“I knew it,” he panted. “I knew you were this. Under all the books, all the arguments. A nasty, beautiful bitch who gets off on betrayal.” He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and you saw stars. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I’m inside you. I want to feel you come. I want to feel you give up.”

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast, rough circles. The dual assault was too much. The pressure broke. Your second orgasm tore through you, a silent, seizing convulsion that clamped down on his cock like a vise. A raw, guttural cry was ripped from your throat: “Ah! Fuck!” as you shattered, your vision whiting out.

The sensation of you pulsing around him broke his control. With a ragged, broken shout, “Yes! Take it, baby!” he slammed into you one last, brutal time and came. His shout wasn’t a release...it was a detonation. A raw, guttural “Fuck!” that tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his body locking into a rigid, shuddering arc.

You could feel it, the hot, pulsing rush of his come flooding you in thick, relentless spurts. It was an obscene, intimate violation, a physical claim that went deeper than skin. He kept thrusting through it, shallow, desperate jerks of his hips, milking his own orgasm as he watched your face with a kind of glazed, triumphant horror.

The air reeked of sex, sweat, and cheap tobacco. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your shared breathing and the wet, sticky sound of him still moving inside you, slowly now, as the last tremors subsided. He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, slumped over you, his weight crushing, his forehead damp against your collarbone. His breath was hot and uneven on your skin.

For a long moment, there was just the aftermath. The brutal clarity of what you’d done.

Then he laughed. It was a low, shaky, nasty sound, devoid of humor. “God,” he breathed into your skin. “Look at us.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows, his cock still lodged inside you, softening but present. He looked down at the mess between your bodies. Your thighs were slick, a mixture of your arousal and his spend already starting to cool. His gaze was fascinated.

“Ruined,” he murmured, dragging a finger through the mess on your lower belly. He brought it to his lips, tasting it, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re ruined. And you love it.”

You tried to summon the anger, the shame. It was there, a cold knot in your stomach. But it was smothered under a heavier, more terrifying weight...a satiation so profound it felt like dying. You didn’t push him off. You laid there, letting him look, letting him own the devastation.

He finally pulled out. The sensation was a slow, wet drag, followed by a hot trickle down your thigh. The physical evidence of the betrayal. He stood up, his movements loose limbed with satisfaction. He looked down at his own cock, glistening, spent, and gave it a lazy, proprietary stroke before tucking it back into his jeans. He didn’t zip them up. He left them hanging open, the denim dark with cum.

“Get up,” he said, his voice back to that rough, commanding scrape.

You didn’t move. You felt hollowed out, boneless.

“I said get up.” He reached down, his fingers closing around your wrist. His grip was iron. He hauled you off the couch. Your legs buckled, and you stumbled against him. He caught you, his arm banding around your waist, holding you upright against his solid, heated body. “You don’t get to check out now. We’re not done.”

He half walked, half dragged you the short distance down the hallway, past Lana’s closed door with its stupid, cheerful “Live, Laugh, Love” decal, and into the cramped, cold bathroom. He flicked the switch. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed to life, exposing everything...the chipped tile, the mold in the grout, the damp towels on the floor. And the two of you in the mirror above the sink.

You looked wrecked. Your hair was a wild tangle. Your lips were swollen and bitten. Your eyes were wide, dark, shell shocked. There were red marks blooming on your hips, your breasts. You were naked, shivering in the chill. He stood behind you, still mostly dressed, his chin resting on your shoulder, his blue eyes meeting yours in the glass. He looked like a predator who’d cornered its prize. Arrogant. Sated. Malicious.

“Look,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at what we did. Look at what you are now.”

You tried to look away. His hand came up, fingers tangling in your hair, holding your head still. “Look.”

You stared at your reflection. At the stranger who had let this happen. Who had come apart under him.

“You’re mine,” he said, the words a soft, venomous promise. “You said no, but your body said yes. Your cunt said yes. Every time you argued with me, every time you pretended to be disgusted, you were just begging for this.” His other hand slid around your front, palm flattening low on your belly. “You think this is just sex? This is a fucking philosophy. I proved my thesis. You are not better than me. You are not cleaner. You are right here in the mud with me. And you like the mud.”

He turned on the faucet with his elbow. The water ran cold, then grudgingly warm. He wet a hand towel, wrung it out. Then, with a shocking, intimate gentleness, he began to clean you. He started between your legs, wiping away the sticky evidence of him with slow, deliberate strokes. The rough fabric against your oversensitive flesh made you flinch.

“Sensitive?” he mocked softly, continuing his task. “Good. You should feel it. You should remember every fucking second of this every time you sit down.” He moved the cloth up your thighs, over your belly, wiping his spend from your skin. It was a perverse act of caretaking, a way of extending the possession. He was marking you, then cleaning the mark, only to leave the memory of the stain.

He rinsed the cloth, the water turning cloudy. He wiped your chest, your neck. He was thorough. Degrading. When he was done, he dropped the wet towel on the floor. He kept his hand on your belly, his other still fisted in your hair.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, filthy whisper. “You’re going to get on your knees.”

Your eyes flew to his in the mirror. You saw the challenge there. The test. This wasn’t about pleasure. This was about submission. About finishing the corruption.

“No,” you whispered, the first word of protest since it began.

His grip in your hair tightened, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to promise he could. “Yes.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t get to be the victim now, baby. You participated. You came. Twice. You’re a willing accomplice. So get on your fucking knees and taste what you did. Taste your betrayal. Or I walk out that door, and you can explain to Lana why you’re shaking and why my smell is all over you.”

It was the cruelest possible choice. A final, ugly layer to the act. He was forcing you to make it active. To choose the degradation.

A sob caught in your throat. You were breaking, and he was watching it happen in the mirror, his eyes alight with a feverish, intellectual hunger. This was the moment he’d wanted all along. Not just the sex. The shattering.

Your knees gave out. You didn’t have to be forced. You sank down onto the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. The position was profoundly exposing, kneeling naked at his feet while he stood over you, his jeans still open.

He looked down at you, a god of grime and spite. He freed his cock again. It was half hard, wet, glistening with your combined fluids. He stroked it slowly, watching your face. “Open your mouth.”

You did. You hated yourself. You hated him. And a deep, sick, undeniable part of you was more aroused in this moment than you had ever been in your life.

He guided himself to your lips. The smell was musky, intimate, brutally sexual. “Lick it clean,” he commanded. “Clean your mess off me.”

You closed your eyes. You couldn’t look at him. You extended your tongue, tentatively touching the slick, salty head. The taste was bitter, primal, unmistakably him. A low groan rumbled in his chest.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Taste it. Taste where you’ve been. Taste what you let me do.”

You took him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling, cleaning him with a slow, mortifying thoroughness. You could taste yourself on him, the tang of your own arousal mixed with the bitter salt of his release. It was the most debasing thing you had ever done. It was also, perversely, an intimacy more profound than the sex. This was acceptance. This was consumption of the sin.

He let you work, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. His breathing grew ragged. “Fuck. Your mouth. So fucking good. You’re a natural at this. A natural little cocksucker. All that smart talk…and you were born to kneel.”

His words should have killed the arousal. They fed it. A hot, shameful pulse throbbed between your own legs, and you were horrified to feel fresh wetness there. You were getting off on this. On the humiliation. On being reduced to this by him.

He felt the subtle shift in your posture, the way your shoulders slumped in surrender. He saw everything.

“You’re getting wet again,” he stated, awed and vicious. “Right now. On your knees. You’re dripping for me again.” He pulled himself from your mouth with a wet pop. “Stand up.”

You swayed as you got to your feet, your legs trembling. He turned you roughly to face the sink, bending you over it. The porcelain was icy against your feverish stomach. He kicked your feet apart. In the mirror, you saw him drop to his knees behind you.

You felt his breath, hot, against the back of your thigh. Then his mouth.

He didn’t kiss you. He ate you. Like a man starving. His tongue was a flat, ruthless stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit, lapping up the new arousal he’d drawn out. You cried out, your fingers scrambling against the slick sink. He hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you back against his face, holding you open. He fucked you with his tongue, deep, then focused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, nibbling, lashing it with a relentless, expert precision.

“Aerion—!” His name was a shattered plea.

He didn’t let up. He was punishing you with pleasure. Rewarding you for your depravity. His tongue worked you over, crude and perfect, until you were sobbing, pushing back against his face, your hips moving of their own volition. The orgasm he wrung from you this time was silent, a total systemic collapse that left you shuddering and weak, held upright only by his grip under your thighs.

As the last tremors faded, he stood. You heard the tear of foil, a condom this time, pulled from his wallet. He sheathed himself. He was hard again, fully, impressively. He didn’t ask. He just positioned himself and pushed back inside you from behind.

You were oversensitive and utterly spent. The stretch was a sweet, burning ache. He fucked you like this, bent over the sink, with a slower, deeper, more possessive rhythm. Each thrust was a statement. Mine. Mine. Mine. He watched in the mirror, his eyes glued to where your bodies joined, to the helpless expression on your face.

“This is it,” he panted, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts gaining speed. “This is the truth. No more books. No more arguments. Just this. You. Me. This filthy, nasty, perfect thing.” He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to come again.”

You were beyond words. Beyond thought. You nodded, a frantic, desperate movement.

“Say it.”

“I want it,” you gasped, the admission tearing from a place of pure, ruined id. “I want you to come. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. That final surrender. With a choked off roar, he slammed into you, his body locking as he emptied himself into the condom deep inside you. His hips jerked through the pulses, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

He stayed there for a long time, slumped over you, both of you breathing in ragged unison, reflected in the cruel fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror: a portrait of mutual destruction.

Slowly, he pulled out. He disposed of the condom. He zipped his jeans. He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair. He looked at you, still bent over the sink, utterly broken open.

He didn’t help you up. He didn’t offer comfort. He walked to the door and paused, looking back. His expression was unreadable. The arrogance was there, but it was tempered by something darker, more complicated. A recognition.

“She’ll be back in an hour,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Clean up. The couch. The bathroom. Yourself.” He nodded toward the towel on the floor. “Get rid of that.”

He was leaving you with the mess. Literal and metaphorical. It was his final lesson.

“This changes nothing with her,” he added, his blue eyes cold and clear. “I’m still her boyfriend. I’ll still be here tomorrow. On your couch. Drinking from your mug.” A nasty, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “And you’ll still be watching. Knowing.”

He turned and walked out of the bathroom. You heard his footsteps cross the living room. You heard the front door open, then click shut. Silence.

You slid down the cabinet onto the cold tile floor, pulling your knees to your chest. The apartment was freezing. The heater rattled. In the other room, on the couch, the evidence of what you’d done was slowly cooling.

You had never felt more sober, or more completely ruined. He was right. It changed nothing. And it changed everything. He had proven his point, down to the last, nasty detail. And you, the better student, had finally understood the lesson.

the way he would stroke your cheek so so so so lightly, almost making you wonder if he’s touching you at all while also driving you absolutely mad, wanting more more more… his ring sticking out touches just a tad more, reassuring you that it is real. he does this with his eyes eagerly eating your every little reaction. the parting of your lips, the dilation your pupils, the rising of your chest as you inhale. “do you like that, my sweet?”

and the sick fuckerrrrrr— he would have this ghostly trail down your entire body, the corner of his lips quirking into a smile every time your body wriggles beneath him. you try to lift yourself to his hand, and he’s quick to pull away. “ah, ah… patience, wife. you are usually such a splendid listener. be good, perhaps there will be a reward.” perhaps my ass, you know it is a guarantee.

you convince your body to calm down, relaxing beneath him again. as much as you can with him being a tease. but then he brings his mouth into the equation. kissing along your soft, plush, bare skin. his tongue flattens against your inner thigh before his lips seal to the skin. and those damn fingers, still ghosting along. they work on the thigh opposite of his lips, coming close to where you most need him, but never quite touching. not yet. he’d take his time, sucking a mark onto your thigh and then soothing it with his tongue. then he’d tried sides.

his teeth graze your skin too, mapping where his next mark should be left. he lands somewhere higher than the previous one. still plush, and much closer to your growing desire. it’s here that your body betrays you again. his mouth his working to leave another mark, fingertips hovering down your stomach as he makes his way back to your thigh. the second you feel just one of his fingers touch the closest it has to your cunt, your hips raise. for just a moment you have just what you want. his palm pressed flat against your cunt, your own body moving from friction. then you hear a pop—

You awake to being in a comfortable suite, the bed and sheets feel so comfortable you didn't want to get out of the bed. "You've awaken," A voice spoke. A Targaryen stood at the door. "Who are you?" You asked."I don't understand."

"You will," He said."My name's Aegon. Egg, if you prefer that." He didn't look older than twenty or twenty one. Your age range. "Please, I just want to go home," you begged. "This is your home now," He says. 

You let out a sigh."Because I'm Aerion's mate?" He nods."You woke him and all of us up. We owe you a debt." Part of you is filled with desire for your mate, your heart pulling to him. You don't want to admit it. You won't. But the feeling is there, which confirms you two are definitely mates. 

At least they owe you now. 

"Did he bring me here?" You ask. Aegon nodded."Aerion's grown obsessed. It isn't a good thing, he's not… okay, at times, but you're more protected now." You have to get used to that. A little while later, as you get used to the idea of being here, You get out of the bed. You've changed. It was a white dress.

You wonder who changed you. 

"There you are, my mate," Aerion smirked, approaching you. Your heart's pounding, but not from fear. You've sort of accepted this as you had a lot of time to think. Besides, the Targaryens were beautiful. 

Maybe it's just the instincts that comes from being his mate that make you think this way, but you can't help it.

"Yes.." You say, breathing heavily."We're mates." "I need your blood," He says, inches from your face and is scenting you, his hot breath on your neck.

"Then take it. Feast on me."

The words just slipped out of your mouth. "I'm not gentle," Aerion warns."I'd never kill you, but I like the pain. I enjoy having life on my fingertips." "Then risk it," You insist.

He begins kissing your neck, and you let out a soft moan as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he leads you back into the bedroom. All you wanted now was to feel pleasure. 

Then, his teeth sink into your neck, and you tilt your head up, his fangs seem to just turn you on. You let out a louder moan, arching your back as he continues feeding on you. The blood spilling a little from your neck. He leaves your neck and a moan slips from his lips. Blood on his fingertips as he licks his fingers.

"Such sweet blood. But now, I'll give you what you crave."

He spreads your legs and lifts up the dress, before pulling it off completely, and now you're naked. 

You wince as he bites your thighs, and you know he loves the pain that you get inflicted with, but it doesn't matter. Maybe you do too. 

You're definitely soaked when you feel his tongue on your clit. "More, Please," You begged. He licks stripes up your clit. You've never felt like this before. But it felt right, it was your mate. You were right where you belonged now, and you wouldn't go anywhere. Aerion will make sure of that. 

He'd kill anyone who stood in the way of taking you away from him. For now, though, it felt as if you were in heaven. 

You let out a cry as your release came, the orgasm hitting you hard. You've never came like this before. Nothing was even comparable to this.

He flips you over, moving your hips to the direction he likes. Your head's in the pillow, your moans would be muffled but at this point, everyone in the castle probably knew what the two of you would be doing. 

You hadn't heard him undress but he must've when the tip met your entrance, pushing in as he began thrusting into you, hard. 

Fuck. It hurt a little, before the pleasure overcame the pain. "Mine," He says, gripping your hips so hard there would be bruises, maybe some blood, Vampire strength was something else completely.

Your cunt welcomed him completely, you were waiting for him. 

"If anyone tries touching you," Aerion grunted."I'm ripping their throats off, maybe even their head as well."

"Aerion!" You scream out. It didn't even occur to you about protection in between the high, but you wouldn't get pregnant. He's a vampire.

You could feel it coming already, but your vision was getting blurry and as the two of you both came, it wore you out completely and you went limp, turned over and passed out. 

You were his completely now.

“What if war comes?”

It was a cunning question, asked with something vicious in the lord’s eyes. It was a spark that could start a ruinous fire, and it all seemed like the man would enjoy its heat.

You could feel your cheeks burning too, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction so easily. Anyway, you always thought about yourself as a composed woman; you never expected your nerves to be brought so close to their end, especially after all the horrors that you’ve been through.

“What then?” You answered like you would to an unruly child, but trying to sound respectful at the same time. It was a hilarious matter to speak of, too hypothetical to approach seriously. “We have remarkable generals and strategists, my lord. If, as you imply, the council will suggest against his grace leading the army, I’m sure he will choose someone equally suitable as himself. Perhaps his brother, Prince Maekar.” You nodded at the youngest of King Daeron’s sons, who grunted under his breath.

Your brother-in-law refused to look up, apparently biting his tongue and fighting to remain silent. You preferred it that way too. The king asked you directly to watch over the peace of the dinner that you were sharing with a significant guest. It would be much more challenging if you had Maekar running his mouth, unable to control his building fury.

As much as you liked him silent right now, you wouldn’t blame him if he snapped. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even mind if he stood up to drag the lord out of the room… The man stabbed the cake on his plate with unnecessary force. You could see Maekar’s grip on his goblet tighten. The faces of his children were warmed with small grins that they tried to hide. The little menaces awaited some action: perhaps someone being yelled at, punched if they were lucky.

You would mutely cheer on that too if you weren’t the main person responsible for the conversation with the guest. A man who was speaking against your husband ever since the meal was served. He balanced on the line of fake concern for the realm and open objection to Baelor being his father’s heir.

After the events of Ashford, he was intrusive enough with his letters that the king finally agreed to hear him out. He expressed his worry that the prince, who recently recovered from his life-threatening injury, wasn’t the right choice. It boiled your blood, truly. Not out of hunger for power, the crown… You couldn’t care less for that. It was the audacity and rudeness of the man that made you furious.

The accident clearly and visibly affected your husband’s health and life; there was no question about that. He spent long weeks in bed under the watchful eyes of maesters, with you and his sons by his side. Even longer until he was finally able to sit or walk on his own. He sometimes complained about his eyesight failing him, and his hearing in one ear almost disappeared. He spoke of it like it was his own fault, with embarrassment and distress that you assured him were unnecessary. A grimace appeared on his face whenever he became too aware of his limping walk. Something that was connected to the damage of his spine that the injury caused. Yet, he recovered.

The long path of coming back to health earned him many silver strands in his hair and beard, and he felt overwhelmingly lightheaded when tired, but except for that, you couldn’t tell that the man almost faced death. You sometimes still teared up, watching him during normal daily duties. There was no sight more beautiful than Baelor sitting at his desk, back straightened like you would expect from a prince, doing his work while humming under his breath from time to time. You always pointed out he worked too hard and too much, but now you couldn’t even forbid him that. On some days you spent hours sitting with him, watching the view that you missed so greatly despite hating it before.

And now this—this fucking cunt dared to ramble against Baelor while looking you deep in the eyes. Audacious bastard, you thought probably for the sixth time during this damn dinner.

“Fine…” he muttered as an answer to your words, making you want to stand up and slap him. Then he smiled again in that planned way, fakely respectful and expressing the worry he held. “And what if our friends, an ally country, send their proxy here one day? Let us say that the prince – then king – has one of his worse days. Because you admitted, your grace, that he has ‘worse days,’ am I correct? How will that make us look if he passes out or feels too weak to attend the council?

You clenched your jaw and cursed your father-in-law, the old king, for being too tired today to join you. None of this would happen if he were here, listening to the lord. On the other hand, you weren’t surprised that he needed more time to prepare himself before he would call for the audience that the guest could express his thoughts on. Baelor was currently attending to his urgent duties. His absence was better for the situation, actually. Better for the world. You were sure you would stab him with your fork if he dared to speak like that in the prince’s presence.

“It’s not me you should speak about this to,” you said sharply, and yet still more calmly than you would like to. “I am not in a position to make those choices, and to put it simply, your words cannot make me think differently of his grace.”

You always referred to Baelor as ‘your husband’ or ‘the prince,’ but now you felt the need to mark his superiority over rascals like the man. It made the air around the room heavier. Even Maekar’s kids stopped in their hushed bickering, sensing the built-up tension to finally break.

“They will simply think we are ruled by a cripple,” he said, like you didn’t hear your words at all.

That was when the first person at the feasting table broke. Maekar’s hand  hit the table, making the plates clatter. “You will be a cripple by the end of your visit here if you don’t start watching your tongue,” he said from between his clenched teeth.

“My prince, I just…” he tried, silenced by you but only for a moment.

“Not another word from you, my lord.”

But you had enough. The expectation, Baelor’s tendency to work himself to death, Maekar’s moods, the king’s demands, and the memory of the maester’s words that your husband’s condition is fatal… All of it. The bastard was just one more pull to the thin string that held your composed nature in check.

“My lady…” he tried, making you stand up from your seat abruptly.

He was lucky he sat away from your place at the top of the table. He was also lucky that you had some mercy left in you, because the thrown goblet of wine crashing nearby him and not on him certainly wasn’t your bad aim.

A deep breath sounded between everyone, making you more aware of what you have done. There was not even one bone in your body that would regret it, though. Daeron moved from his seat with painfully little grace to reach the pitcher of wine that stood in the middle of the table and keep it close to him as if you would come for it next.

“You have been insulting and speaking against our house ever since you showed up in the Keep,” you said in a hoarse grunt that surprised even you.

“Princess,” he spoke up again, reconsidering how he should address you. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement with calmness, my princess,” he muttered, but you could hear his voice growing more and more unsure.

“You will achieve no agreement with me,” you announced firmly. “Perhaps the king will be more understanding of your vituperations.”

He nodded and looked at his lap for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. “I have no doubt that he will hear me out with fairness and will be able to acknowledge the truth. It would mean a lot to me, though, princess, if I could call you my friend in this matter.”

“You fucking can not.” The yell was the final thing that made him drop the sure face he tried to keep. You pushed your chair away and leaned more over the table, pointing him out with a finger. “I almost lost my husband to The Stranger, and look at him now. He’s fine. Not unaffected, yes, but healthy and in good spirits. He’s a victorious survivor, not a victim as you put him.”

“Not unaffected, that’s my point…”

You had to stop yourself from stealing Maekar’s cup and also throwing him at the man. This time  pointing it straight at him. Luckily for your dignity, you were able to hold back from the fantasy of his bloodied face.

“Shut up, bastard,” you ordered harshly.

It was his turn to stand up with anger. He could handle even the worst scolding from a royal, but a woman? Oh, that’s something he was very unused to and never planned to change. “Gods, woman! You are blinded by your desire for a higher position!”

Prince Maekar’s deep voice broke the silence that rang in your ears after the lord’s scream.

“Insult the princess once more, I dare you,” he warned. “Then you won’t walk away as a cripple. You will be carried out.”

He was never very fond of you, you imagined, but when it came to protecting the good name of his family, he knew no measures.

This calmed the lord, scared him enough that he sat again.

“I am merely a simple man concerned for the future of his land and country,” he muttered under his breath.

You scoffed in irritation.

“A blithering idiot is what you are.”

It was a loud remark that made him sit back in his chair. Daeron snorted in his drunken state, quickly being hit with his father’s murderous gaze.

But you acted upon your frustration and turned to him at once. “Shut the fuck up, Daeron.”

The loud thud of the doors sounded in the room long after you left.

All that you felt bad for was screaming at your husband’s nephew and doing it not only in front of a guest but also his siblings. If you were honest, you wished to banish the memory from your mind, even if worse words escaped your throat that day. You didn’t regret anything said to the lord.

With your husband busied by his duties, you were left to linger around your room, unable to focus on anything. After seeing the hours pass with no mercy and being left with no choice, you walked out of your chambers to find Daeron. He was probably too drunk to be bothered by your scream. All that caused him was a headache, but even for that you felt wrong.

You found him with his young siblings outside the castle, lying in the grass. He threw a hand behind his head to make the hard ground more comfortable and let out quiet snores while the others played around. Daella and Aegon stayed on their backs too, pointing out certain clouds and giggling about their shapes, while Rhae tangled the grass into numerous braids before connecting it together. Pretty convenient for Daeron, you thought. If only they could always be so well-behaved when he was ordered by his father to watch over them.

Rhae smacked her eldest brother straight in the face when she saw you approaching. “Wake up!” She demanded in a pitched voice.

“Wha–” Daeron almost sat up before his back hit the ground again. He had hair all over his forehead, and he looked up at you, upside down, before letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I’ve come to apologize,” you said after clearing your throat but weren't given a chance to speak more.

Daeron waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes again. “That’s nothing, aunt. No offense taken. It was… rather entertaining, anyway.”

“It was,” Egg agreed loudly. “Especially when you threw that gobble his way!”

The siblings agreed in a mutual, excited hum. You felt the need to massage the aching space between your eyebrows.

“Come, watch the sky with us,” invited Daella.

“Yes, auntie!” Rhae was quick to grab your hand and drag you down to the grass, putting all of her little body’s strength into it. “Sit with us!”

Well, how could you say no to them? Sometimes it felt like the children were the only genuine creatures in this castle, even if they could also be the most cruel ones.

You laughed out loud, forgetting about the awful feeling left in you after the dinner. Just before you approached the kids, it struck you that the news would eventually reach Baelor’s ears, and you would have to face him. The mere thought made you dizzy. Now you could abandon the worry for a while, almost choking on your giggle when you noticed that Daeron was making up the shapes he ‘saw’ in clouds at the demands of his sisters, while his eyes were still closed.

“That one looks like Uncle Baelor,” claimed Rhae, nudging her brother’s shoulder.

Her sister deeply disagreed, snorting under her breath. “Perhaps when his head was all swollen,” he mocked.

You knew she was a child who probably only meant to hurt her sibling a bit, but you couldn’t feel your breath stop for a while. You stayed still, not very trustful of your own reactions today. Thankfully little Egg, the kindest boy you knew, sat up immediately and threw his sister a look of utter disappointment.

“Daella!” He screamed at her, making her blush and look your way as if she just realized you were there.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry,” she said to you, looking at her feet.

“It is alright,” you said quickly, certainly not wanting to cry in front of them. “I must go back to my occupations now. Have fun and… try not to walk away far from your brother.”

You looked at Daeron, snoring and asleep again, for the final time before getting up.

It wasn’t alright, not at all. The memory of Baelor’s suffering was a horror you would never forget. All the moments when his sons woke up at night were engraved in your mind. When you didn’t keep watch over your husband, you often sat by their side, holding them in your arms when they needed it. They were almost men, and yet they called for their father like children because of the worry for his life.

Ashford was about to stay with the four of you forever, and you knew it was better to accept it. Just sometimes, in moments like this, when your husband was locked in his room, you felt the overwhelming burden of it. It was like a force that could break your shoulders, your spine, and bend you in half just so you could hide your aching head between your knees.

When you reached your bedroom again, you gripped the goblet of wine like it was your only salvation in life. Gods, you really couldn’t handle it sober today. It made you feel even more pathetic when Baelor came in the evening, forcing you to turn around to hide your face reddened from crying and drinking. You banished the memory as much as you could when he left, forced by your desperate please.

If only you knew how much it broke his heart to leave you with all of it alone.

The pain was unbearable when you stood in front of his study the next day. It was midday, and you could still feel like sleep didn’t free you from its paws.

You entered slowly, recalling all the words you had prepared. The door didn’t squeak; your steps didn’t betray you.

“I pray…” you spoke without proper greeting, but your voice broke. It was so pitiful you wanted to scream. “All I can hope for is that you see my behavior as humiliating only for myself and not for you too.”

Baelor's head snapped up, and his expression turned from surprise to something gentle.

“My wife…” he whispered like he didn't hear your words at all, just taken aback by your presence itself. You knew he had problems with hearing, but you also knew he did that deliberately now. “How do you feel, heart?” He asked, rising from his chair, not daring to step closer to you.

That was the worst; you screamed at him too last night, and now he resented you. He must have. You were almost scared of yourself too, especially after how you behaved towards him when drunk.

Moments after your fury and your vulgar, uncontrolled speech, you were partially proud of it. With time came the questioning. You decided you couldn't bear the embarrassment.

You refused to open the door when Baelor sought you, but he entered anyway.

“Please, please…” you sobbed in your drunken state. “Leave me alone. I am deeply sorry, husband, but I cannot– Scold me all you like… all I deserve, but tomorrow. Let me have tonight…”

“Are you certain you are good to stay on your own?”

“Fuck, just leave!”

He had awful remorse for leaving you alone, but you also never looked at him with such fright. He didn't know how to react and fled, feeling more like a coward than ever.

“Baelor…” you whispered, making him return his thoughts to now.

You didn't answer his question, but he saw you were swaying on your feet. It wasn't something he would ever blame you for. He remembered his youth well; he had drunken nights with his brothers and tried to drown his sorrows in wine as well in the past.

He wished to take you in his arms and rock you calmly but didn't wish to overstep. There was deep doubt in him that your wish from last night would ever leave his memory. To him it wasn’t about your behaviour, though. It was about how much he failed as a husband, which made you feel like you had to hide.

Left with no choice, straightened his back and took a deep breath. “I could never think of your acts as humiliating. To neither of us, never.”

It made your breath hitch.

“But I…”

“It was… unexpected, I admit.” He nodded his head and stood up slowly, allowing you to step away if you wished to.

He prayed you wouldn’t. It would be unbearable if you backed away to the wall, fleeing from him like that. His fists tightened and loosened as a way to distract himself from the need to have you close.

You teared up again, trying to fight it, but your head ached, blood buzzed in your ears, and you felt like collapsing in front of your husband.

Baelor broke his promise to not do anything against your wish. He ignored it and closed the distance between you, pulling you to his chest.

“Do not cry, my love,” he said softly, brushing the top of your head with his lips. “Shhh… I'm so sorry it happened to you.”

You allowed your hands to move up and grip the material of his clothing over his chest.

“I let him provoke me,” you explained, trying not to sound hysterical. “It's my fault…”

You could hear it in Baelor’s voice that he smirked. “Even if you're not the first and not the last.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He moved away just to have a proper look at you. With his thumb, he brushed your tears away. Then it collided with your shivering lower lip and pressed a little. When he leaned in and you felt his warm breath all over your neck, you couldn’t help but think that some part of him enjoyed all of it. You decided to ignore it, not wanting to leave things unsettled.

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweet?”

“I never meant to rush you outside our bedroom,” you explained, ignoring his question. “I didn’t want you to see me looking so pitiful. Certainly not when I expected you to be ashamed of me.”

“I could never be ashamed of you,” he assured you without the need to think about it. “And besides, from what Maekar told me, there is nothing I or you should feel bad about.”

You smothered the material over his chest from the crumples your grip left. You looked up at him again with worry. “Did he tell you what caused it?”

“He refused to, but don’t take me for a fool, my wife. I know this lordling’s belief better than I would like to,” he muttered with a grimace.

Not wishing to see him like that, you moved onto your tiptoes and tugged at the collar of his shirt. Your lips merely brushed over his, but you felt him smile and chase you chastely when you meant to pull away. His touch was warm, and a big hand placed over your back made you shiver.

“What he did mention, though,” he spoke up, parting from your lips swollen from your own biting, “was that you fought like a true dragon. It’s a grand compliment from my brother.”

“I am no dragon…”

“Well, I guess you take from people you surround yourself with.” He played with your hair before brushing it behind your shoulder. The path of his finger that traced your face made you realize he missed you as much as you missed him. “Now answer my question, wife. How are you feeling?”

The tension suddenly left you, making you sigh deeply. You were happy to lean into Baelor’s strong arms more, supported by him.

“Awful,” you admitted. “Disgusting…”

That's what he figured. A night like that couldn’t leave you with anything good, especially when the remorse that caused it was unnecessary.

“Will you allow me to take care of you?”

“I don't want to be a bother,” you murmured quietly, hiding your face in his chest, but he gently made you look at him again.

“Nonsense. And when you feel better, perhaps tomorrow, I would like to take you for a ride. Would that be appealing to you?”

You hesitated for a while, knowing how much worse Baelor’s anger could make the situation. Still, you placed his good name above everything, and it felt like your chore to remind him of that.

“Baelor, I think it would be better if I stayed out of sight for some time. I certainly shouldn't show up next to you anywhere. At least for a few days. I…”

Baelor's eyes darkened dangerously. You felt him cupping your face tighter. Still gentle enough to call it sweet, but it was slowly turning into a touch of urgency. Made from the need to keep you close even against the wishes of others.

“Are those your thoughts, or did someone suggest that to you?” His voice turned lower and quieter. He always spoke his warnings like that. But it wasn’t meant to intimidate you, certainly not.

“They are mine,” you promised. “I only meant what's good for you…”

Baelor stared at you, his face barely over yours, and you would swear he didn’t even breathe. You could no longer recognize if his expression was a grimace or a smile, but there was something wicked in it. Something that you could only see on Baelor when he was furious or led by desire. It made you feel warm.

With thrill settling in the base of your spine, you wrapped your arms around Baelor, settling yourself more comfortably against him.

“Husband?”

“Say it again,” he dared. “Say that your wish is to stay away from me.”

“Oh, you know that it's not like that.”

“Say it,” he repeated, placing his big hand at the nape of your neck like he needed to support your head. He forced you to look up and throw your head back a little.

You watched him eye your bare neck like a man starved for what was his to take.

“I don't want to say it.”

He brushed another strand of hair out of the way. Your noses almost touched before he leaned in closer. A lazy kiss was placed on the side of your neck, dragged on for too long to consider it proper. Baelor’s warm lips traveled up to your ear, settling there for a while and playing with your earlobe before he spoke up again.

“If anyone says something about it again,” he spoke up in a serious, quiet voice that sent shivers down your body, “tries to pursue you into staying in the shadows…”

“Baelor,” you didn’t want him to end that sentence, even if your less rational part was thrilled with it. Enough harm was done already.

But would Baelor think the same if he were there with you, hearing the lord speak all of those sick words? For now he looked shaken only by the idea that you could be pushed away from your place by his side.

“Whoever tries to keep you away from me will have to face something much worse than your screams. Not that they weren’t scary enough, from what I’ve heard.”

a/n: this was such a pleasure to write. just me, wine and my dear friend baelor break-my-back… oh i mean–

The conference room is already full by the time you arrive.

Nick Fury stands at the head of the table, one hand braced against the surface while holographic files flicker blue across the glass. 

A few of the Avengers are scattered around the room, quiet in the way people get when the situation is bad enough that nobody feels like joking.

You stop near the back wall, and Fury doesn’t waste time.

“Three separate HYDRA channels intercepted chatter about Franklin Richards,” he says. “Two mentions of latent reality manipulation. One mention of Doom.”

That gets everyone’s attention. A holographic image of Doctor Doom appears over the table.

“Victor Von Doom’s been searching for ways to increase his hold over interdimensional energy,” Fury continues. “If he gets his hands on that kid, best case scenario is a planetary incident.”

“Comforting,” someone mutters.

Fury ignores it.

“The Fantastic Four already have building security, but that’s not enough. Doom doesn’t do frontal assaults unless he’s making a statement.”

You cross your arms loosely. “So what’s the ask?”

Fury finally looks at you. “You’re going to the Baxter Building.”

You stare at him. “You’re assigning me protection detail?”

“You’re the best close-quarters operative SHIELD’s got access to.”

“I’m not a nanny.”

“And Franklin Richards isn’t a normal kid.”

The room goes quiet for a second. Fury taps the table, pulling up more files.

“Doom’s people are already in New York,” he says. “I need someone who can identify a threat before it happens.”

You glance at the file again before exhaling slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”

The Baxter Building scanner flags you before the elevator even reaches the top floor. You hear the security system shift immediately.

Threat detection.

You barely step into the penthouse before a streak of fire comes flying toward your head, and you duck on instinct.

The blast scorches the wall behind you. Seriously?

“Little aggressive for a greeting,” you call out.

Johnny Storm drops from above a second later in a flare of heat, landing hard in front of you. And annoyingly enough, he’s hot. 

Like, offensively hot. Which, paired with the fact he’s currently trying to light you on fire, feels unfair.

“Hands where I can see them,” he says.

You glance around the massive apartment. “You always attack guests before asking questions?”

“Usually only the ones that trip every security alarm in the building.”

Fair.

Before you can answer, movement flashes from your left, and an invisible force slams toward you. You twist sideways just before Susan Storm tries to pin you against the wall with a force field.

Johnny launches forward again. You catch his wrist before he can grab you, using his momentum to yank him forward and slam him directly onto the floor.

Hard. The breath leaves him in a rough oof. Okay, maybe a little harder than necessary. Johnny stares up at the ceiling for half a second in genuine shock.

Did this random woman just body him in his own living room?

And unfortunately, his first coherent thought is:

Of course, the insanely hot girl breaking into our apartment is evil. 

He twists quickly, flames sparking up his arms again, but you’re already moving. You duck under another burst of fire, grab the back of the couch, and vault over it smoothly.

Johnny actually loses sight of you for a second, which should not be possible.

“What the hell—”

You appear behind him. A sharp kick to the back of his knee sends him stumbling.

“Director Fury sent me,” you say flatly.

Johnny turns quickly enough to catch your next strike, but the impact still rattles up his arm.

Strong. Very strong. Susan throws another invisible field toward you, trying to trap you between the kitchen island and the wall.

You plant one boot against the counter and push off, flipping cleanly over it before the field can close.

Johnny actually blinks. Okay, that was kinda cool, he thought. 

“You could’ve opened with that!” he says.

“You attacked me before I got the chance!”

“You looked suspicious!”

“You set me on fire!”

“A little!”

You grab his arm again when he lunges, twisting sharply enough to send him crashing face-first into the couch cushions.

“Mmph—”

Susan stops abruptly, because now she’s trying very hard not to laugh. Johnny lifts his head slowly from the couch, hair a mess.

“…Suze, seriously?”

You finally pull a SHIELD badge from your jacket and toss it onto the coffee table.

“I’m here because there’s a credible threat against Franklin Richards.”

That gets their attention immediately. Johnny pushes himself upright more seriously this time while Susan steps closer to the badge.

“Fury sent you?” she asks.

You nod once. “He believes Doctor Doom has taken an interest in Franklin.”

Johnny’s expression shifts immediately, and a tiny voice pipes up from the hallway.

“Mommy says no fighting in the house.”

All three of you look over. Franklin stands there in little dinosaur pajamas holding a stuffed triceratops, completely unimpressed.

Johnny points vaguely toward you from the couch. “She started it.”

Franklin looks at the scorch marks on the wall. Then at Johnny, then back at you.

“And she beat you.”

Johnny’s still halfway draped over the couch when heavier footsteps echo from down the hall. 

“Why does it smell like smoke?”

Ben rounds the corner first, stopping short at the sight of: the scorched wall, overturned cushions, Johnny looking personally victimized, and you standing calmly in the middle of the living room like none of it happened. 

Ben looks at Johnny. “…You lose another fight, hotshot?”

Johnny points at you immediately. “She’s freakishly fast.”

“I heard yelling,” another voice says distractedly from farther back.

Reed appears next, tablet still in hand, like he was working up until the exact second he walked into the room. He barely glances up at first, then he sees you.

“You’re a Widow,” he says plainly.

Johnny looks between the two of you. “A what now?”

You cross your arms. “Former.”

Reed nods once, already understanding more than he says out loud.

“Red Room training,” he explains to the others. “Espionage. Close-quarters combat. Psychological conditioning.”

Johnny slowly turns back toward you. “…Oh.”

That suddenly explains why he got his ass kicked in under two minutes.

Ben lets out a low whistle. “And Fury sent her?”

“He did,” you answer.

Reed finally sets the tablet down fully, expression sharpening into something more serious.

“If Victor is targeting Franklin, this is exactly the kind of protection we need.”

Susan folds her arms loosely. “You knew about her?”

“Not personally,” Reed says. “But I know the program.”

You hate the way people always say that. The program, as if there weren’t real people inside it. Franklin, meanwhile, has wandered closer completely unnoticed. He stares up at you curiously from beside the couch, dinosaur plush still tucked under one arm.

“You flipped Johnny.”

Johnny groans. “Why is everyone focused on that part?”

You glance down at Franklin finally. Up close, he looks impossibly small for someone apparently capable of rewriting reality.

“…He attacked me first,” you tell him.

Franklin considers this very seriously, then nods once like that’s perfectly reasonable.

“Okay.”

Ben barks out a laugh.

Johnny throws his hands up. “Oh, so we’re ALL against me tonight?”

And despite yourself, just briefly, the corner of your mouth twitches, and Johnny notices immediately. And oh, he is absolutely screwed now.

“Alright,” Sue says after a moment, breaking the tension. “If Fury assigned you here, we should probably get you settled in.”

You nod once, professionally and simply. Like you haven’t just physically humbled one of New York's most recognizable superheroes in front of his family.

Johnny pushes himself fully off the couch with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll show her around.”

Susan gives him a look immediately. “Johnny—”

“What?” he says defensively. “I live here too.”

Ben snorts loudly from the kitchen. You almost decline on principle alone, but Johnny’s already walking backward toward the hallway.

“C’mon, Spy Girl.”

You stare at him. “…Spy Girl?”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna stick,” Ben says instantly.

Johnny ignores him. “Unless you’ve got a cooler nickname.”

You brush past him into the hallway. “I don’t.”

“See? Spy Girl it is.”

The Baxter Building is quieter away from the main living area. Modern and expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Manhattan. Johnny walks beside you with his hands shoved in his pockets while you silently clock any exits, blind spots, camera placements, and potential entry points.

“You do that all the time?” he asks.

You glance over. “Do what?”

“The weird assassin scanning thing.”

“Security assessment.”

“That sounds less cool.”

“It’s not supposed to sound cool.”

Johnny grins slightly. You’re pretty sure he grins at literally everything.

He points down another hallway. “Labs are Reed’s territory unless you like hearing the phrase ‘quantum fluctuation’ for six hours straight.”

“I don’t.”

“Smart woman.”

You ignore that, but he keeps trying anyway.

“This is the east wing. Kitchen’s back there, game room downstairs, Franklin’s room is closest to Sue and Reed’s—”

You stop walking briefly near one of the windows. “Too exposed.”

Johnny pauses. “What?”

“The glass.”

He looks around. “Bulletproof.”

“Still exposed.”

There’s no judgment in your tone, and Johnny studies you for a second. You really do see everything. Not casually either, but constantly. Like your brain never shuts off.

He gestures farther down the hall instead. “Your room’s over here.”

The guest room is bigger than most apartments in Manhattan.

You step inside, automatically checking the window locks, vent access, sightlines, and distances to adjoining rooms. Johnny leans against the doorway, watching you do it. “You always this friendly?”

You don’t look at him. “You always this talkative?”

“Yes, actually.”

That finally gets a tiny reaction. Not quite a smile, but close enough that he catches it. Victory.

“You know,” he says, “most people introduce themselves before throwing me into furniture.”

You unzip your duffel bag and start removing weapons without any warning. Johnny watches a knife hit the dresser. Then another, then a handgun. Then somehow, another knife.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You finally glance at him. “You asked.”

He lets out a laugh before he can stop himself.

“You know, this whole cold, mysterious thing would work better if you weren’t secretly funny.”

“I’m not funny.”

“You kinda are.”

You slide open the bedside drawer, automatically checking its depth. Johnny watches you for another second before speaking again. 

“What should I call you then?”

There’s a pause, and you almost tell him not to bother. Instead, you give him your name quietly.

Johnny repeats it once like he’s testing it. Then smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Way better than Spy Girl.”

A second later, Franklin appears, clutching his dinosaur plush to his chest. He looks between the two of you curiously, then directly at Johnny.

“Mommy said you’re not allowed to fight the security lady anymore.”

Johnny places a hand over his chest. “First of all, rude.”

Franklin ignores him completely and walks right into your room like he’s known you for years. You straighten slightly on instinct, watching as he studies the knives laid out on the dresser with intense four-year-old seriousness.

“Are those real?”

“Yes.”

Johnny immediately cuts in. “No touching.”

Franklin sighs dramatically like he’s heard this speech a thousand times.

You crouch slightly instead of towering over him. “Good listening skills keep people alive,” you tell him evenly.

Franklin nods once, very seriously.  Then he points at one of the smaller blades. “That one’s pretty.”

Johnny blinks. Most adults react to your weapons with fear, but Franklin reacts like he’s looking at cool rocks.

“You should see her fight,” Johnny mutters. “Humiliating experience for me personally.”

Franklin gasps softly. “Did she really throw you?”

“Oh my God,” Johnny groans. 

You look down at Franklin. “He started it.”

Franklin thinks about this carefully before nodding.

“Okay.”

Johnny points accusingly at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Franklin climbs up onto the edge of the bed beside your duffel bag, as he belongs there. And weirdly, you don’t mind.

“You staying here forever?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard for half a second. “Just until things are safe.”

Franklin accepts that answer easily.

Then: “Will you cook for me? Uncle Ben is busy, and Uncle Johnny burns my grilled cheeses all the time.”

Johnny narrows his eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

A tiny smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

Dinner is louder than you expected. Ben and Johnny argue over something stupid within the first five minutes.

Reed gets distracted halfway through explaining something scientific and starts talking to himself absentmindedly. Susan keeps the entire table functioning through sheer force of will.

And Franklin sits beside you like that decision had been made without consulting anyone. You’re halfway through the meal when Ben gestures toward you with his fork.

“So what kinda missions did Fury have ya doin’ before this?”

Susan gives him a look. “Ben.”

“What? I’m curious.”

You take a sip of water calmly. “Mostly extraction. Intelligence recovery, threat elimination.”

Johnny nearly chokes on his drink. “Threat elimination?” he repeats.

You glance at him. “You say that like you didn’t try to light me on fire three hours ago.”

Ben laughs loudly.

Johnny points at you. “In my defense, you looked evil.”

You deadpan: “And now?”

Johnny opens his mouth, then stops. Because honestly, still, a little, just in a different way. Susan hides a smile behind her wine glass.

Franklin leans toward you conspiratorially. “Uncle Johnny likes pretty girls.”

Johnny nearly drops his fork. “Franklin!”

“What?” Franklin asks innocently. “You said it.”

Johnny points across the table. “Okay, nobody talk to the child anymore.”

Franklin turns back toward you. “One time, he spent two hours doing his hair before a date.”

“DUDE!”

You finally laugh softly under your breath. Actual laughter this time, and the entire table goes weirdly quiet for a second. Because it’s the first genuinely relaxed thing they’ve seen from you all night. Johnny stares a little too long, then grins slowly.

And somehow, against all logic, you’re almost comfortable. Then every alarm in the Baxter Building starts screaming at once. The sound cuts through the room immediately, and red emergency lights flash across the walls.

Franklin startles beside you. Johnny’s already on his feet before the system voice even speaks.

“Threat detected in Midtown Manhattan. Multiple casualties reported.”

Reed’s tablet lights up instantly.

Susan stands so quickly her chair nearly tips over. “What happened?”

Reed scans the incoming data, expression tightening fast. “…Energy signatures match Latverian tech.”

Johnny’s joking expression disappears as flames flicker faintly beneath his skin. Ben’s already moving toward the equipment hall.

“Doom?” he asks.

“Possibly,” Reed answers grimly.

Another alert flashes across the screens. Civilian evacuation failure. Structural collapse risk. Hostile entities confirmed.

Johnny curses under his breath. Franklin grabs onto your sleeve instinctively at the sudden tension. You look down at him briefly before standing.

“What’s protocol?” you ask.

Sue’s eyes immediately go to Franklin, then to you.

“Protect him.” Simple as that.

The others are already moving. Johnny pauses only long enough to look back at you while pulling on part of his suit.

“Security system’ll lock once we leave,” he says quickly. “Nobody gets in without Reed’s clearance.”

You nod once. “Go.”

Another explosion rattles faintly through the distant city outside the windows, then they’re gone.

Franklin presses closer to your side, and you crouch slightly in front of him.

“Hey,” you say evenly. “You know where the safe room is?”

He nods once, smaller now than he was earlier. You move quickly after that, checking windows, securing entry points, loading your weapons, and muting unnecessary alarms

Outside, flashes of orange and blue light flicker against the skyline. Too far away to assess clearly, but too close for comfort. Franklin sits curled into the corner of the couch, hugging his dinosaur while you monitor the security feeds.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Then, the balcony doors burst open in a rush of heat. You’re on your feet instantly, gun already raised, before you recognize Johnny landing hard against the floor.

His suit’s scorched, and there’s blood near his lip, not all of it looks like his.

“Easy,” he says quickly, hands raising slightly. “It’s me.”

You lower the gun immediately. “What happened?”

Johnny runs a hand through smoke-singed hair, breathing harder than before.

“There’s more of them than we thought,” he says. “Doom sent Doombots all over Midtown as a distraction.”

Your expression sharpens immediately. “For Franklin.”

Johnny nods once. Another explosion rumbles faintly somewhere outside.

“We need you out there,” he says. “Ben and Sue are handling evacuation, Reed’s trying to stop whatever Doom’s actually building, and these things just keep coming.”

Your brain’s already moving ahead of the conversation, and you turn towards Franklin immediately 

“Hey, buddy,” you say, kneeling in front of him. “Need you to do something important for me.”

Franklin looks up from the couch, dinosaur plush tucked under his arm. “Like a mission?”

“Exactly like a mission.”

That gets his full attention instantly. You guide him quickly through the hallway toward the panic room while Johnny follows behind you.

The reinforced door slides open with a mechanical hiss. Franklin steps inside before turning back toward you.

“You’re coming too?”

Your chest tightens slightly.

“No,” you say gently. “You stay here until we come get you.”

Franklin frowns immediately. “But the bad guys are outside.”

“I know.”

“Then you should stay too.”

Johnny goes quiet behind you.

You crouch fully in front of Franklin, smoothing back a piece of hair from his forehead before you even realize you’re doing it.

“The whole reason I’m here,” you tell him softly, “is to make sure nothing happens to you.”

Franklin stares at you seriously for a second.

Then, “What if something happens to you?”

Something in your expression flickers. Before you can answer, Johnny leans lightly against the doorway.

“Then I punch the bad guys for her,” he says.

Franklin considers that, then nods once. “Okay.”

You hold your pinky out automatically.

“Stay in here until one of us comes back. Promise?”

Franklin hooks his pinky with yours immediately.

“Promise.”

The panic room seals shut a second later. Then Johnny looks toward the balcony doors.

“We gotta move.”

You follow him quickly back into the main living area, already checking the ammo in one of your handguns.

“Closest access point?” you ask.

“Forty-third and Lexington.”

You nod once. Johnny moves toward the balcony before pausing. Right, flying.  He turns back toward you, holding his hand out. You hesitate, giving him a once-over. 

“I won’t burn you,” he says quietly.

And annoyingly enough, you believe him. You slip your hand into his, and his fingers close around yours carefully. Warmer than a normal person should be, but nonetheless gentle. Then flames burst around him as he pulls you close and launches both of you into the night sky.

The city rushes beneath you in streaks of gold and red. Wind tears past as Johnny flies fast enough to make most people panic, one arm secured tightly around your waist while flames trail behind him across the sky.

You, somehow, stay perfectly calm. Johnny glances down at you briefly. “You do this often?”

“Fly through Manhattan with human torches?”

A grin flickers across his face despite everything. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes, but your grip tightens slightly when he drops altitude sharply between buildings. Below you, Midtown is chaos: smoke, fire, screaming, metal tearing through streets. And moving through all of it, Doombots. At least twenty, from what you can see immediately.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters.

Your eyes track the street instantly. “Too organized.”

“What?”

“They’re herding civilians.”

Johnny looks again. The Doombots aren’t attacking randomly; they’re funneling people into specific streets.

“Reed was right,” Johnny says darkly. “This whole thing’s coordinated.”

A blast of green energy suddenly shoots toward you from below, and Johnny jerks sideways instantly. The shot narrowly misses.

“Okay!” he shouts. “Guess they noticed us!”

You’re already pulling a handgun from your thigh holster.

“…You carry that while flying?”

You fire twice before answering. Both shots hit the same Doombot directly in the faceplate, and it stumbles backward into a parked car. “Yes.”

Johnny laughs once in disbelief before diving. The landing nearly cracks the pavement. Heat explodes outward around him as civilians scatter away from the intersection. Three Doombots turn immediately. 

You barely hit the ground before the first one charges. You duck under a metal swing aimed directly at your head, sliding across the hood of a destroyed taxi before driving a knife straight into the gap beneath its jaw plating. Electricity sparks violently, and the bot collapses.

Johnny whistles low. “That was hot.”

“Focus.”

“Trying to.”

Another Doombot lunges toward him from behind; you see it first. “Johnny!”

Too late. The machine slams into him hard enough to send him crashing through a bus stop. You move instantly; gunfire rings through the street as you unload into the Doombot’s exposed spine joints.

Then Johnny erupts out of the wreckage in a burst of flame so bright it forces you to shield your eyes briefly.

“Okay,” he says, voice echoing slightly with heat. “Now I’m annoyed.”

Fire tears across the street. Three Doombots melt almost instantly. The fourth survives long enough to aim directly at you.

Your stomach drops. The blast fires, and suddenly, heat wraps around you as Johnny grabs you around the waist and yanks you backward against his chest. The energy blast misses your face by inches. You both hit the pavement hard behind an overturned car.

Johnny’s breathing heavier now. “You good?” he asks quickly.

You stare at him for half a second. “…You saved me.”

Johnny blinks. “Yeah? That generally tends to happen during teamwork.”

Another explosion shakes the block nearby. You start to move again, but a sharp metallic cable suddenly snaps around your ankle from behind. Your body slams hard onto the pavement, pain shooting through your ribs instantly.

Before you can react, another Doombot pins you down. Its arm shifts mechanically into a weapon, charging.

Johnny sees it. “HEY!”

The street erupts into white-hot flame. It’s not controlled anymore; his anger takes over instead of strategy. The Doombot barely has time to turn before Johnny hits it full-force, tackling it clean through the side of a building. The explosion rattles the entire block.

You shove yourself upright roughly, breathing harder now. Then Johnny comes flying back out through the smoke and debris, landing in front of you.

“You hurt?” he asks immediately.

You shake your head once despite the pain. Johnny looks at the blood running down your arm.

“…That’s a lie.”

You glance down briefly. Huh, didn’t even notice that.

Johnny grabs your wrist before you can brush it off. “You have GOT to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like almost dying is mildly inconvenient!”

Another explosion shakes the street hard enough to rattle the windows above you. Then a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “Johnny!”

A massive orange shape crashes through two Doombots like a freight train. Ben lands in the middle of the intersection, grabbing one machine by the head and slamming it directly into the pavement.

“Kid, you look awful.”

Johnny points toward you while catching his breath. “She got stabbed by a robot.”

“I did not get stabbed.”

“You are literally bleeding.”

Before you can argue further, an invisible force field snaps around the remaining civilians nearby as Sue lands beside you.

“You’re hurt,” she says immediately.

“It’s superficial.”

Susan gives you a look that clearly says, "I don’t believe you for a second."

Then Reed Richards speaks through the comms in Johnny’s suit. “Johnny, get her back to the Baxter Building.”

You straighten immediately. “I can still fight.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Reed replies calmly. “We’ve identified Doom’s signal source. We can handle the rest from here.”

Johnny crosses his arms instantly. “See? Science Dad said go home.”

You glare at him and he grins despite the soot covering half his face. Sue steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “Franklin needs you.”

And that, annoyingly, is what finally gets you moving. Johnny keeps one arm around you as he flies, noticeably steadier this time. Probably because there’s blood on your sleeve now.

You try ignoring the ache in your ribs as Johnny keeps glancing down at you anyway.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That is not comforting.”

The Baxter Building balcony comes into view a few minutes later. The second you land, the apartment security unlocks automatically. And before you can even fully step inside, small footsteps sprint across the floor.

Franklin Richards crashes directly into your legs. “You came back!”

You steady yourself carefully so you don’t fall over from the impact. “Told you I would.”

Franklin pulls back just enough to look up at you properly. “You’re hurt.”

Johnny shuts the balcony doors behind you. “Yeah, because she’s apparently allergic to taking cover.”

“I was taking cover.”

“You were standing in front of laser fire!”

Before the argument can continue, a robotic voice chirps from the hallway. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls quickly into the room, carrying a medical kit almost half his size.

Franklin points dramatically at you. “She got attacked by robots.”

“Thank you, buddy,” Johnny says dryly. “We gathered that.”

You sit reluctantly on the edge of the couch while H.E.R.B.I.E. starts scanning your injuries with a series of concerned electronic noises. Franklin immediately climbs up beside you, close enough that his little shoulder presses against your arm.

Johnny crouches in front of you while H.E.R.B.I.E. disinfects the cut along your arm. You don’t even flinch.

“You seriously don’t feel pain normally, do you?”

“I feel it.”

“You just ignore it.”

“That too.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. sprays something cold against your ribs, and you tense slightly this time.

Franklin gasps softly. “Did that hurt?”

You glance down at him. “…A little.”

Franklin thinks about that carefully before holding his dinosaur plush out toward you. “This helps me when I get scared.”

Johnny watches your expression soften almost imperceptibly as you carefully take the stuffed dinosaur from him, like you’re handling something fragile.

“Thanks, buddy,” you say quietly.

Franklin nods once, satisfied. Then curls against your side while H.E.R.B.I.E. continues patching you up. And Johnny, completely exhausted, covered in soot, adrenaline still running through him, looks at the two of you sitting there together and realizes he’s in serious trouble.

The Baxter Building is quieter by the time you leave your room. Most of the damage downtown has been handled. Reed and Sue still aren’t back yet, but Ben’s somewhere downstairs with H.E.R.B.I.E., loudly complaining about “tin can dictators.”

You’ve showered, scrubbed the blood off your skin, and washed smoke out of your hair. Still, your ribs ache.

You towel-dry your hair absentmindedly as you step out onto the balcony connected to the upper rooftop access. The city stretches endlessly around you, lights flickering against the dark sky. Helicopters still move in the distance.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop ledge, elbows resting on your knees. For the first time all day, it’s quiet. Then heat settles nearby, you don’t even need to look over.

“You know,” Johnny says, “most people say thank you after I heroically save their lives.”

“You tackled me into a car.”

“It was a protective tackle.”

You snort softly despite yourself, and Johnny grins immediately at the sound. He sits beside you, one knee bent up toward his chest, while the wind pushes loose strands of damp hair away from your face.

“You feeling okay?” he asks after a second.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s your answer to everything.”

“Usually works.”

Johnny studies you quietly for a moment. “You scared me back there.”

That gets your attention. You glance over at him. Johnny shrugs a little awkwardly under the weight of your stare. “Robot almost blew you in half. Kinda killed the mood.”

“The mood?”

“Yeah. We had a whole thing going.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “We did not.”

“We absolutely did.” There’s that grin again, the one that should annoy you more than it does.

Johnny leans back on his hands slightly. “Franklin really likes you, by the way.”

Your shoulders tense almost invisibly. “He’s a good kid,” you say shortly.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t warm up to people fast.” Johnny bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “You’re good with him.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

Johnny frowns slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

“Like what?”

You stand abruptly, gripping the towel tighter in your hands as you move a few steps away toward the railing. Johnny watches the entire change happen in real time. The walls going back up, the distance.

“You’d make a really good mom.”

The words hit harder this time, because now he means them. You let out a humorless laugh under your breath. “There it is.”

Johnny stands too, confused now more than anything. “Okay, clearly I missed something.”

“You did.”

You stare out over the city instead of at him. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“No,” you say sharply. “You like the version of me you made up in your head.”

Johnny’s expression shifts immediately. “That’s not fair.”

“You flirt with anything that breathes.”

“Wow.”

“You don’t like me, Johnny.”

The words come out colder than you mean them to. But once they start, they don’t stop. “You like the fighting and the attitude and whatever fantasy you’ve built around me in your head, but you don’t actually know what I am.”

Johnny steps closer slowly. “Then tell me.”

You laugh again quietly, but there’s nothing amused about it. “The Red Room sterilized us.”

Silence.

The city noise suddenly feels very far away. Johnny blinks once. “What?”

“When we graduated,” you say flatly. “They made sure none of us could have children. No attachments. No families. Nothing that could interfere with missions.”

Johnny just stares at you. When you finally look at him, there’s no pity on his face. Just pure horror.

“They took that choice from us before we were old enough to understand what it meant.”

Your throat feels tighter than you want it to.

“So when you say things like I’d be a good mother…” You shake your head once. “You’re talking about someone that doesn’t exist.”

Johnny’s quiet for a second. “That’s bullshit.”

“They hurt you,” he says firmly. “That’s what happened here.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It literally is.”

You look away again immediately. Johnny steps closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. “You think that makes you unlovable or something?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough. Johnny exhales sharply through his nose before gently taking the towel from your hands and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

Then he looks back at you. “No one hears that story and thinks there’s something wrong with you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“You want kids someday.”

Johnny blinks. “Did I say that?”

“You’re normal, Johnny.”

He actually laughs softly at that. “Baby, there is nothing normal about me.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly. Johnny’s expression softens immediately when he sees it. “You really think I only want you because you’re hot and mysterious?”

“You said it. Not me.”

“I mean, you ARE hot and mysterious.”

You groan quietly, covering your eyes for half a second.

Johnny smiles a little before lowering your hand carefully away from your face. “I like you,” he says simply. “Like… a lot.”

“You’re mean to me constantly, you almost broke my shoulder earlier, and you scare me a little if I’m being honest.” He tilts his head slightly. “Still like you.”

Your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

His voice softens. “C’mere.”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because that’s the problem. You’ve wanted to since he smiled at you in the living room after you threw him through a couch. Johnny gives you an out when you don’t move right away. His hand loosens slightly against your face.

But then you lean in first, barely. And Johnny’s restraint snaps almost immediately.

His hand slides fully against your jaw as he kisses you properly, warm and firm and entirely too easy to melt into. The rooftop wind pushes through your still-damp hair while he steps closer instinctively, one hand settling carefully at your waist like he’s worried you’ll disappear if he lets go. You kiss him back before you can overthink it.

Johnny makes a quiet sound against your mouth when your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, and suddenly the kiss deepens without either of you really meaning for it to. Heat radiates off him in waves, not enough to burn, just warm enough that you can feel it through the thin fabric of your shirt.

One of his hands slides up your spine slowly before stopping at the base of your neck. If anything, you kiss him harder. Johnny lets out a breathless laugh into your mouth at that.

“Oh, so this is why you keep threatening me,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You huff out the smallest laugh against his lips. “You’re unbelievably annoying.”

“And yet—”

He kisses you again before you can finish the sentence. When you finally pull back, Johnny rests his forehead lightly against yours for a second, both of you still catching your breath a little.

Then he grins. “So…” he says. “Think this means I win?”

You stare at him flatly. “I literally beat your ass this morning.”

Johnny nods once thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he says. “But emotionally? Huge comeback for me tonight.”

okieeee hope you all enjoyed!!! I wasn't sure with the tag list if you guys want to be tagged in content not related to Eddie, so I didn't put one this time.

k bye love you guys.

It had been nothing. That was the thing he could not explain, even to himself — it had been nothing, a moment of no particular significance, something that would not have registered to anyone observing it from outside.

You and Baelor in the solar. Evening light. You had fallen asleep over a book with your feet tucked beneath you and your head listing sideways, and Baelor had come in and found you like that and had done nothing more remarkable than sit beside you and draw the book from your hands without waking you and set it aside, and then stayed. Simply stayed. His shoulder against yours, his attention moving to his own correspondence, the two of you sharing the quiet of the room with the ease of people who had been doing exactly this for decades and needed nothing more from the evening.

Maekar had been in the doorway.

He had not announced himself. He had looked at the scene — the low gold light, the particular quality of your sleeping face, Baelor's hand resting near yours on the cushion without quite touching, the whole atmosphere of uncomplicated domesticity — and had felt something move through him that he did not examine and turned and walked away.

He came to your chambers two hours later.

You had been awake when he arrived — the book finished, the solar long vacated, the evening settled into its quieter hours. He came in without particular announcement, the way he always did, and you looked up from the window and read him the way you always did and found something slightly off in the quality of his stillness.

Not anger. Not the charged pre-argument tension that had its own recognisable signature. Something quieter than that, and less legible.

"Maekar," you said in a somewhat pleading tone, sensing that something was clearly amiss.

"Come to bed," he requested. You obliged.

He undressed you with his usual efficiency — not rough, not ceremony, the systematic approach of a man who has done this many times and knows the geography. His hands were certain. His mouth found your throat and your collarbone and the curve of your shoulder with the focused attention of someone who had mapped the places that worked and went directly to them, no preamble, no patience wasted on territory that didn't require it.

It worked. It always worked — that was the thing about Maekar, the directness of him, the complete absence of uncertainty in how he touched you. You arched into his hands and felt the familiar heat of him and the slightly unfamiliar texture underneath and filed the texture away for later.

He settled between your thighs and pushed into you without particular prelude and the sound you made was immediate and unguarded — the specific completeness of him, the stretch and heat of it, and his answering groan low against your neck.

He began to move.

Hard. Purposeful. The driving rhythm that you knew and wanted, each thrust full and deep and carrying the weight of him, his cock ramming into you with the relentless focused certainty that was his particular register. His hands on your hips. His mouth at your throat. The mechanics of it were exactly right — exactly the way you liked it, exactly the way he knew you liked it, calibrated with the accuracy of years.

And something was still off.

You felt it in him — not in the physical, which was precisely what it always was, but in the quality of his attention. Something slightly removed. Something doing the motions with the competence of a man whose body knew its work and whose mind was somewhere adjacent to it, not absent but not entirely present either. A texture you had felt in the yard when he was working through something difficult. The texture of a man fulfilling a function he has assigned himself.

His hips drove forward. Your breath left you. Your hands found his shoulders.

"Maekar," you caressed them through a moan.

"Mm." Not stopping.

"Stop."

He stopped. Lifted his head. Those violet eyes finding yours from close range — dark, pupils blown, his cock buried in your cunt and his breathing uneven and his expression doing the complicated thing it did when he was caught between the body and the mind and couldn't locate a clean resolution.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked somewhat worried.

You shook your head slightly, a frown appearing on your brow. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is—"

"My love."

His jaw tightened. He held himself very still, and you felt the specific effort of that — all of him suspended, the wanting and the discipline both present simultaneously. "I'm in the middle of—"

"I know where you are." You held his gaze. "Tell me."

A long pause. His weight over you, his cock still buried deep, the intimacy of the position making the conversation simultaneously more difficult and more necessary. You watched him locate and discard several responses.

"It's nothing," he said. "It's—"

"It's not nothing. You've been somewhere else since you walked in."

His eyes moved away from yours. The tell — Maekar, who held eye contact through everything, looking at the middle distance with the specific quality of a man who has been asked to account for something he has not prepared an accounting for.

"I saw you," he said finally. "Earlier. With Baelor."

You waited.

"In the solar." His voice carefully even. "It was — nothing. You were asleep. He was just—" The sentence didn't finish. His jaw worked. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing to you."

Silence.

"Maekar." Your hand finding his face. He let you turn it back toward yours, which was itself information — Maekar permitting redirection. "Tell me."

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn't. Long enough that he began to move again, slightly, as though the motion might serve as substitution — his hips beginning their rhythm and his eyes finding the middle distance and the whole managed machinery of him reassembling.

"I want—" He stopped. His hips stilled again. The words seeming to cost him in some specific way that the physical had not. "I don't know how to—"

"Try."

Another long pause. His forehead dropped to yours. His cock still buried in you, motionless, and the specific quality of Maekar suspended between the body and something more frightening than the body.

"I want to make you feel—" Rough. Halting. Nothing like his usual speech. "The way he makes you feel. When he—" He stopped again. "I know what I am. To you. I know what this is. What I'm — useful for." The word arriving with a flatness that had something painful underneath it. "I know it isn't—"

"Stop." Your hands cradling his face. Both of them. Holding him where he was, close range, no looking away permitted. "Stop right there."

His eyes — violet and dark and stripped of their usual armour, the severity entirely absent, something younger and more uncertain looking out of them.

"You think," you said carefully, "that you are something practical. That Baelor gives me something and you give me something else and the something else is this." Your thumb across his jaw. "That you are useful in bed and he is useful everywhere else?"

He said nothing. Which was confirmation.

"Oh, my heart." The fondness in your voice was not something you tried to manage. "You absolute idiot."

Something shifted in his expression.

"You already make me feel cared for." Holding his gaze. "Every time you end the sparring session when my shoulder is hurting before I ask you to. Every time you put yourself between me and a door when we walk into a room with people you don't trust. Every time you wake up before I do and stay anyway because you know I sleep better with your weight there." Your thumbs against his cheekbones. "That is care. That is you, caring for me, in the language you have."

His throat worked.

"And this—" a slight movement of your hips, deliberate, feeling him twitch in response and a sigh coming from his mouth— "does not have to be only one thing. You do not have to ram into me like you're making a point every time." A pause in which you smiled teasingly. "Unless I want that. In which case, please continue."

The breath that left him was almost a laugh. Almost.

"You can be careful," you said. "You can be slow. It will not make you less — it will not make you anything less. Do you understand me?"

He looked at you for a long time. The violet eyes doing their reading, the assessing quality of them turned entirely inward, arriving somewhere that cost him to arrive at.

"Show me," he said quietly. Not a command. Something considerably less certain than a command. "How to — show me, please."

Your hands still cradling his face.

"Move," you said softly. "Slowly."

He moved.

The difference was immediate — not the driving rhythm but something else, his hips drawing back and returning in a long rolling motion, deep and full, his cock pressing into you in a way that was less about friction and more about presence, about the specific completeness of him seated in you and the slow deliberate drag of each stroke. A sound left you that was different from the sounds before — lower, less urgent, the sound of someone being thoroughly and unhurriedly filled.

He made a sound against your forehead that had nothing controlled in it.

"Again," you moaned, eyes already closing in pleasure.

He did it again. And again. The rolling depth of it building something that had no urgency to it, only accumulation — his cock moving in you with the slow certain weight of a man discovering a different kind of intention, his hands shifting from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer rather than holding you in place. His mouth finding your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Small careful things, landed without announcement, the vocabulary of tenderness accessed clumsily and therefore more honestly than if he'd known what he was doing.

His thumb found your clit. Not with the urgent efficiency of earlier — slowly, tracing, learning it in this register the way he had learned everything else about you, with the thoroughness that was always his even when everything else changed.

"Maekar." His name in your mouth on an exhale.

The sound he made at the sound of his own name said was undone and immediate. His face pressed to your hair. His hips rolling deeper, finding the angle that made your breath catch and staying there, working it with patient repetition, the focused attention of Maekar directed entirely at this — not at the end of it but at the thing itself, the sustained specific fact of your bodies together, the warmth of it.

"I've got you," he said. Into your hair. Rough and quiet and sounding faintly surprised by the words, as though they had arrived without being summoned.

Something in your chest cracked open cleanly.

"I know," you said. "You always have."

His arms tightened around you.

The thing building in you had none of the sharp competitive urgency of other nights — it was slower than that, deeper, a tide rather than a wave, and when it finally broke it moved through you in long sustained pulses that had you gripping his shoulders and saying his name with your face against his neck and he held you through every second of it with both arms and his cock still moving in those slow rolling strokes, drawing it out, thorough even in this.

He followed you with his face buried in your hair — quieter than usual, his whole body shuddering once and then settling, the sound he made low and sustained and nothing like triumph. Nothing like a point won.

Something else entirely.

For a long time he didn't move. His weight against you, his arms still around you, his breathing slowing against your neck. The silence had a different quality than the silences that usually followed — not the satisfied stillness of a man who has won something but something more open than that. Something that had been set down.

His arms tightened once, briefly, before relaxing back to their usual looseness. The closest thing to thank you in his vocabulary. You received it as it was meant.

At your throat, the mark from earlier had darkened to something unmistakable — the specific evidence of Maekar, who had come to you tonight trying to be useful and had ended up, without entirely meaning to, being known.

You held him in the quiet and let him have it.

It had started, as these things sometimes did, with Maekar's mouth.

Not directly. Not in the room. But the evidence of it was there when Baelor found you — the mark at the join of your neck and shoulder, dark and unmistakable, the specific calling card of a man who did not think twice about leaving them because it had never once occurred to Maekar that thinking twice about this specific fact was ever required.

Baelor thought twice about everything. In fact, he had been thinking about that mark for days.

You came to find him in his study at the evening hour, when the castle had quieted and the correspondence had thinned to its final pages, and he looked up from his desk and took you in — the looseness of you, the specific quality of ease that you carried, the way you moved through the doorway with the unhurried certainty you possessed — and his eyes found the mark and stayed there for a moment before returning to his correspondence.

The quill continued its work.

You settled into the chair across from him and reached for the wine and watched him not react with the particular attention of someone who knew exactly what not-reacting cost him.

"You are quiet," you said.

"I am working."

"You are always working." You tilted your head. "You are also quiet in a specific way."

The quill paused. Resumed. "I do not know what you mean."

You looked at him. At the careful composed line of him behind the desk — the dark hair with its threads of white, the mismatched eyes tracking the correspondence with the focused attention of the Crown Prince who always had something requiring his focus, the set of his jaw which was slightly more deliberate than usual, the controlled quality of a man who has decided something is not worth his attention and is finding that the decision requires more maintenance than anticipated.

"Baelor."

He set the quill down. Aligned it with the inkwell. Looked up.

The mismatched eyes — one brown, one pale blue — found yours and then, with the slight deliberateness of a choice being made, moved to the mark on your neck.

He looked at it for a moment.

"That has been there for days," he said. Mild. Observational. The tone of a man noting weather.

"You know he does that."

"Yes." A pause in which something moved beneath the composure, briefly, before being managed back into order. "I am aware."

"Baelor—"

"I am fine." The words precise and immediate and carrying the specific quality of a statement that is technically accurate and entirely beside the point.

You looked at him across the desk. At the careful patient man who had been told since childhood that his gift was his composure, his diplomacy, his capacity for reason — the man who had built an entire identity around the architecture of thinking before acting, of attending carefully, of being the one in any room who kept his head. The man who was currently keeping his head with visible effort while looking at his brother's mark on your neck.

"Say it," you said.

"There is nothing—"

"Baelor." You held his gaze. "Say it."

The composure held for another moment. His hands flat on the desk. The mismatched eyes doing their reading — of your face, of the mark, of the specific distance between you that suddenly seemed to require addressing.

"I heard you," he said quietly. "With him."

The room went still.

"Through walls," he continued, with the even tone of a man delivering a report he has not enjoyed compiling. "On more than one occasion. The sounds you make." A pause. "The sounds I do not — that I have not—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I know what I am. I know what he is. I know that we give you different things and I have never — I am not a man who begrudges—"

"Baelor."

"The mark," the word arriving with more weight than the mild tone had prepared for. "He marks you and you come to me wearing it and I am supposed to — I am looking at it and I cannot—" Another stop. The composure making a final effort and failing quietly. "I want to know," he finally said, "what it sounds like. When he does that. I want you to tell me what he does that I don't."

The silence that followed had considerable texture.

You stood.

He tracked you with his eyes as you came around the desk — those mismatched eyes doing something that was not their usual quality of attention, something with more heat and less management in it — and you stopped in front of him and looked down at him where he sat and the expression on his face was the one he kept for private rooms and private hours, the one that had no diplomatic function whatsoever.

"Lock the door," you said.

He rose and walked to it. Locked it. Turned back.

You were already undoing the lacing of your gown. He watched you with those eyes and the composure was present but costing him now, visibly, the effort of it written in the slight tension of his shoulders and the deliberate quality of his stillness — a man holding himself in place through the application of will.

When the gown fell his breath left him audibly.

He crossed to you. His hands found your face — both of them, the grip of them more urgent than his usual careful touch — and he kissed you with none of his customary patience, none of the reverent architecture he usually brought to this. The kiss was searching and immediate and had the weight of carefully managed feeling behind it, the composure finally stepping aside, and you kissed him back and felt the shape of what had been sitting behind his eyes all evening.

When he drew back his breathing had changed.

"Tell me," he said. Close range. His hands still framing your face. "What does he do."

"Baelor—"

"Tell me." Not a plea. Not yet. The quiet command of a man who has decided he wants something and is done negotiating around the wanting. "I want to know. Everything he does that makes you—" his eyes moving to the mark, back to your face— "that makes that sound."

You held his gaze. "He doesn't ask."

Something moved through his expression. "He doesn't—"

"He does not ask what I want or how I want it. He reads me and takes what he finds and—" You watched Baelor's jaw tighten— "he doesn't stop to check."

"I check because—"

"I know why you check." Your hand at his chest. "I am not criticising it. I am answering your question."

His hands dropped from your face to your hips. The grip of them different from usual — more certain, less asking. "What else."

"He's rough."

A breath, his voice almost a growl. "How rough."

"Rougher than you've ever let yourself be."

The flush that moved through him was slow and complete, throat to jaw to the tips of his ears, and the mismatched eyes darkened in a way that had nothing diplomatic left in them. His hands tightened on your hips. "And that's what makes that sound."

"Part of it."

"What's the other part."

You looked at him. "That he doesn't think about whether he should."

The silence.

"Turn around," he said.

Your breath caught.

His voice had changed register entirely — not raised, Baelor never raised his voice, but stripped of every careful softness, carrying the quiet certainty of a man who has located something he has been looking for and intends to stop being tentative about it.

"Turn. Around," he insisted.

You did. His hands found your hips from behind and the grip of them was nothing like his usual touch — both hands, certain and possessive, pulling you back against him, and the evidence of how the conversation had been going for him was immediate and considerable against your back.

His mouth found the unmarked side of your neck.

Not gently. His teeth, deliberate, the scrape of them followed by his mouth working at the skin with a focused intent that was going to leave something — was already leaving something, you could feel it, the specific heat of it — and you made a sound that surprised you slightly and felt him exhale hard against your throat at the sound.

"He marks you," Baelor said. His voice against your neck, low and stripped of its usual considered quality. "So will I."

His hands moved — one spread flat across your stomach holding you against him, one sliding lower, finding you without preamble, and the sound he made when his fingers met slick heat was almost reverent before it became something else entirely.

"You're already—" He stopped. His fingers moving with a purpose that had abandoned his usual thoroughness for something more direct. "How long have you been—"

"Since you started talking," you said.

The groan that left him resonated through his chest and into yours.

"Tell me more." His fingers working, two of them now, curling in a way that found something immediately useful and stayed there. "Tell me what else he does."

"He—" The words unsteady. "He doesn't build up to it. He finds what works and he—"

Two of his long digits entered you without warning, the metal of his rings cool against your core. "Like this?"

"Harder."

The sharp intake of his breath. His fingers adjusting — harder, deeper, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit in a way that made your knees want to do something unhelpful — and the specific quality of Baelor asking and then executing the answer with perfect attention was its own devastating thing, different from Maekar's wordless reading but no less effective.

"And then," he said, his free hand working at his own laces with the focused efficiency of a man who has decided — "he doesn't wait."

"No," it came almost as a breath rather than a word.

"He just—"

He pushed into you in one deep, smooth thrust.

The sound you made echoed off the walls of the study and Baelor groaned against your shoulder — low and long and entirely stripped of composure — and for a moment neither of you moved, the fullness of it, the specific thickness of him seated in you completely, his hands gripping your hips and his mouth at your neck and the whole careful architecture of Baelor Targaryen temporarily and thoroughly dismantled.

Then he began to move and every remaining fragment of careful was gone.

He fucked you against his desk with a single-mindedness that had nothing diplomatic in it — deep driving thrusts that walked you forward against the wood, that made the inkwell migrate across the surface, that forced sounds from you with the mechanical certainty of someone who has identified the objective and intends to pursue it without deviation. His cock ramming into you hard and certain and relentless, each stroke full, nothing tentative about any of it, and you braced against the desk and gave him everything he was taking and felt the specific revelation of Baelor without his composure, Baelor wanting something badly enough to stop being careful about the wanting.

You moved a hand to your back to steady yourself by gripping him while the other one was set firmly against the opposite edge of the desk. Baelor, instead, caught your wrist and pressed it to your lower back, immobilizing it. The rough action drew a high-pitched moan from you.

His free hand found your clit.

Not tentatively. Directly, with the accuracy of a man who knew exactly where to go and had decided that patience was no longer a virtue he was interested in, his thumb working in a rough insistent rhythm while his cock drove into you from behind and the combination of it built something immediate and non-negotiable.

"Tell me—" His voice against your ear, wrecked, the careful diction entirely gone— "that he does this better."

The laugh that left you was genuine — and then his hips rammed against yours with sudden force, as if he almost wanted to reprimand you, and the laugh became a sound entirely unlike laughter.

"Tell me." Harder now, his hips snapping forward with an urgency that was new on him, that had none of the patience he usually rationed himself to. His cock buried in your cunt to the hilt and his thumb on your clit and his mouth at the mark he'd been leaving on your neck. "Tell me I am as good as him. I need to hear you say it."

"That is—" the sentence losing its shape entirely— "that sounds like competition—"

"I know how it sounds like." A thrust that punched the breath from your lungs. "Fuck what it sounds like." Another. "Tell me."

"You—" the words coming apart, reassembling, coming apart again— "Gods, Baelor, you are— you're—"

"Say it properly." His voice demolished and demanding and still, underneath it all, precisely him, the exactness of Baelor present even in this, even here, wanting the specific words and nothing approximate.

"You are as good as him!" You cried out. Each word punctuated by his cock driving into you, by your hand scrabbling at the desk's edge, by the thing building in you that had passed the point of no return some time ago and was now simply a matter of when. "T-too much— Baelor— please."

The sound he made when you said it resonated through his chest and into yours — not Maekar's triumphant certainty but something rawer than that, something that had needed the words badly enough to ask for them directly, the composed careful Crown Prince entirely absent and something more fundamental in his place, something that had been sitting beneath a decade of patience and management waiting for permission to exist.

His thumb moved faster. His cock drove into you harder. His mouth at your neck worked at the mark with an intent that had abandoned subtlety entirely, and the thing building in you crested and broke open completely — your nails against the wood, his name leaving your mouth in the specific register he had been working toward, and it was different from the sound he'd heard through walls, it was not that sound, it was its own thing entirely, Baelor's sound, the one he had earned specifically and no one else had — and you felt him understand that in real time, felt it move through him.

He followed you over with his face pressed to your neck and his hips losing their rhythm entirely, burying himself as deep as he would go and holding there while he spent himself in long shuddering pulses, a sound against your skin that was nothing like anything you had ever heard from him — cracked open, and human, and entirely specific to this room and you and this evening.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

His breathing slowed against your neck. His hands released you by degrees — the grip easing, the gentleness returning in increments, the composure beginning its quiet reconstruction.

He pressed his lips to the mark he'd left. Held them there for a moment. Then, with great deliberateness, he turned his head and pressed them to Maekar's mark as well.

Both. Acknowledged. Claimed.

You turned in his arms. Looked at his face — flushed and thoroughly undone, the mismatched eyes still dark but softening now, the whole of him coming back to himself by careful degrees.

"Well," you said, a faint smile creeping up your face.

A pause in which Baelor conducted a quiet internal search for his dignity and located it somewhat mislaid. "Well."

You looked at him. At the inkwell, which had reached the far edge of the desk. Back at him.

"You've been thinking about that," you said, "for considerably longer than this evening."

He redid the lace of his breeches in silence. Smoothed his doublet and ran a hand through his hair backwards. The gestures of a man restoring order to a room that had seen some weather. "I have absolutely no idea," he said, with the measured composure of the Hand of the King, "what you are referring to."

"Baelor."

A pause.

"Some time," he admitted.

You laughed — the unguarded kind, the easy kind — and watched something move through his expression at the sound of it, something warm and private and specifically responsive to that laugh in a way that had nothing to do with the last half hour and everything to do with the more than twenty years before it.

His hand found your face. His thumb at your jaw. Those mismatched eyes finding yours with the quality they kept for private hours — undivided and specific and entirely his.

"Both of them," he said quietly, looking at the marks on your neck. "Mine and his."

"Both of you," you said.

The expression that settled over his face was not triumph. It was something quieter and more lasting than triumph — the particular peace of a man who has, for once, stopped being careful about something, and found that the thing he was being careful around was never going anywhere.

He pressed his lips to your forehead. Slow. Deliberate. Entirely, specifically Baelor.

"Don't tell him," he said against your skin, "that I asked you for that."

You laughed again, knowing exactly what he was referring to.

"You know he will eventually find out," you teased.

"I know." A pause, and the warmth of him fully restored. "I will deny it comprehensively."

A.N.: I am obviously not well in the head and have a complete ted talk about the psychology of how and why these men are jealous while entirely sure about themselves (within this AU, of course). I will probably upload that too next to this work, because I need to get it out of my brain and put it into words.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @mongrelcryptid @sacha1slytherin @faithfullyvigilantsliver @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff @a-sunflower-in-bloom @heieufh @karakatitsa-sonya @eleventhboi

maekar's jealousy is quiet and it is devastating precisely because he would never call it that.

maekar has organised his entire interior life around not needing things. he is practical. he is useful. he is the one who notices when your shoulder is bothering you before you says so, who positions himself between you and an unfamiliar room, who stays when he wakes early because he knows you sleep better with his weight there. he has constructed a very thorough case for his own indispensability and the case is built entirely on function because function is the vocabulary he has and tenderness is the vocabulary he has been pretending not to speak for forty-odd years.

and then there is baelor. baelor who makes you laugh the unguarded way. baelor whose hand rests near yours on a cushion in a quiet solar and whose presence in a room with you has the quality of two people who have never once needed to perform ease because ease is simply what they are together. baelor who gets the softness. the looseness. the specific quality of a woman completely and uncomplicated held.

maekar watches this and files it under irrelevant and the filing does not take.

what makes his jealousy so interesting to write is that it is not about the sex. maekar is not lying awake wondering if baelor is better in bed — he knows the answer to that question with the serene confidence of a man who has conducted extensive empirical research. what he is lying awake about is the after. the quiet. the staying. the version of you that exists in those low-lit domestic moments that he does not know how to inhabit without feeling like he is doing it wrong.

he wants to be soft with you. he has no idea how to want that without it feeling like defeat.

so his jealousy comes out sideways — in the set of his jaw across a room, in the way he comes to you afterward with his hands already certain and his intentions already physical, trying to be useful in the register where he knows he is useful, trying to give you something so undeniably good that the question of the other thing doesn't need to be asked.

it sometimes comes out in tell me he does this better — a line that sounds like competitive arrogance and is, underneath, a man asking am I enough in the only language he currently has access to.

and when you finally crack him open — slowly, with your hands on his face and your patience and the specific tenderness of a woman who has known him long enough to see through every defence he has ever constructed — what comes out is not the soldier or the prince or the man who wins almost every sparring match.

what comes out is someone who just wanted to be held.

and did not know he was allowed to ask.

baelor's jealousy is louder, which surprises people, because baelor is not a loud man.

here is the thing about baelor: he has always been the brain. the diplomat. the one who thinks before he acts, who attends carefully, who is reasonable in rooms that are becoming unreasonable. he has an entire identity built around the composure, and the composure is genuine — it is not performance, it is not repression, it is simply who he is.

but underneath the composure there is a man who has heard, through walls, the sounds his wife makes with his brother (also her husband). and has noted, with the careful attention he gives everything, that he does not get those sounds. not those specific ones. not with that frequency or that particular quality of abandon.

and he has filed this under not requiring attention with the thoroughness of a man who knows that what he is feeling is not rational and has therefore decided not to feel it, and the filing, like maekar's, does not entirely take.

baelor's jealousy is the jealousy of a man who has always thought of himself as the mind to maekar's body — the one who makes you feel known, attended to, completely seen, while maekar makes you feel something more physical and immediate. he has accepted this division without ever consciously accepting it. it has simply been the way things are. and then maekar leaves a mark on your neck and you walk into his study wearing it and something underneath all the reason and composure says: why not me.

not instead of him. that is important. baelor does not want to replace anything. he wants to add something. he wants to discover whether the careful patient architecture of how he loves you has been, in some specific register, a limitation he imposed on himself rather than an accurate reflection of what he is capable of.

he wants to be rough. he wants to leave marks. he wants to hear the sound.

and what is so compelling about baelor's jealousy is that it makes him ask for it. maekar would never ask — maekar works around the asking, approaches the wanting from the side, gets there through competition and provocation and the specific dynamics that let him have things without technically requesting them. baelor looks you in the eye and says I've heard you through walls and I want to know what he does that I don't and the vulnerability of that — the specific exposure of the most composed man in the room admitting that he has been keeping score and the score has been bothering him — is extraordinary.

and then, having asked, he executes. because baelor is always going to execute. the patience turned inside out is still baelor — still precise, still attending, still the man who wanted the exact words and nothing approximate even while his cock was buried in your cunt and his composure was in pieces on the floor. he is rough in a way that is entirely his own, not an imitation of maekar, not brawl mistaken for brain — just baelor, finally, with the careful removed.

the line of confirmation — tell me I am as good as him — is the funniest and most revealing thing he does in any of these situations. because maekar sometimes uses something similar from a position of near-certainty, daring you to contradict him, already knowing you can't. baelor uses it from genuine need. he needs to hear it. he has constructed a very reasonable case for why he should not need to hear it and the case has not held and he is asking anyway, directly, with the specificity that is always his.

and what you gives him in return is not just the words. it is a different sound. not the one he heard through walls. something new. something that belongs only to this room and this version of him and this specific evening of him finally, briefly, letting himself be something other than careful.

he presses his lips to both marks afterward. his and maekar's (because of course he also leaves a mark of his own). both acknowledged. both claimed.

that gesture is the whole of baelor in one movement: the man who thinks about everything, who attends to everything, who would not in a thousand years leave maekar's mark unacknowledged because leaving it unacknowledged would mean that his jealousy is something visceral and real and dangerous rather than some twisted, dragon-esque kind of brotherly competition, and he has been loving maekar and you his whole life for that to crack the relationship.

even in the wreckage of his composure, he is still the most deliberate man in the room.

the thing that makes this dynamic work is that their jealousies are mirrors.

maekar wants the softness baelor gives you. baelor wants the abandon maekar draws from you. each of them is looking across the architecture of this relationship at the thing the other one has and feeling the specific ache of its absence, and neither of them would ever say so directly, and you know, because you always know, and you give them both what they're reaching for in the moments when they finally, reluctantly, let you.

they are not jealous of each other in the way of men competing for a woman. they are jealous of each other in the way of men who love the same woman completely and have each, in their own register, been given access to something the other hasn't — and cannot quite stop noticing the door they're standing outside of.

the good news is that you have the key to both.

the better news is that you know exactly when to use it.